by Josh Lanyon
He nuzzled me beneath the ear, his mouth trailing burning kisses down the length of my throat. I moaned, letting my head fall back.
“Oui?” John muttered.
I laughed breathlessly, “Mais oui. Certainement.”
He continued on, lingering only to lick and kiss before his mouth returned to my own. His tongue thrust into mine, and I pushed hungrily back, sucked. French kiss.
This was one thing that had not changed. Our own personal, private magic. We could still set each other alight with just a touch, just a kiss. It had been there from the first night. An instant, instinctive sexual compatibility that enabled each of us to answer the unspoken wish in the other’s heart.
I ran my fingers through his hair, those short silky strands the color of fire, pressed my face to his throat and licked him, licked at the little pulse beating above his collarbone.
John groaned, “I swore I wasn’t going to do this…”
I ignored that, nuzzled him, and his mouth latched on to mine. His kiss deepened. I let myself sink back into the downy nest of pillows and comforter, and he lowered himself onto me, warm and solid. I liked his weight on me, liked the roughness of his jaw against my own, liked his taste and scent and the feel of his fingers against my cheek—and the insistent prod of his cock in my belly.
Our naked bodies rubbed against each other, starting to find that rhythm, my own cock rock hard and requiring attention, jutting up, nestling against his.
A sultry, snapping energy started at the base of my spine, tingling and sparkling up through cartilage, blood vessels, and nerves.
“Ne t’arrête pas,” I pleaded. “Ne t’arrête pas.” Not that I really thought he would stop. He was as lost in the moment as me.
One final jerk, one final thrust, and climax came tumbling like a shower of stars falling from heaven, glittering hot release.
John was still thrusting against me, and I gathered my dazed wits, arching my back, trying to give him the force and friction required.
“Uh…uh…uh…” Choky little animal noises tore from my throat.
He surged against me, spilling out all the heat and hunger and heartache of the past few days.
Another couple of tight jerks, and he collapsed on top of me, breathing harshly.
I closed my arms around his wide back, closed my eyes, waiting—braced—for whatever came next. I thought he would resent giving into this and was liable to say something hurtful. Or maybe he would say nothing, just get up and go.
He didn’t speak, though, only shook his head once as if in disbelief, and lowered his head to the curve of my shoulder. I closed my eyes.
I woke stiff, sticky, and despite the fact that I was wrapped in John’s arms, chilled. The room was dark, and through the half-open window I could see stars in the blue-black sky.
I didn’t move. Didn’t want to wake John, but he was already awake. He said, “I should go.”
I said nothing.
I could feel his erection prodding my belly. Tit for tat. My own cock was stirring, pointing in accusation.
He said, “I didn’t dislike you.”
I turned my head. “What?”
He said quietly, “The night before the wedding, you said I disliked you when we first met. I didn’t dislike you. I thought you looked like a guy who had never been told no. It put my back up. But I didn’t dislike you.”
That was probably true. It’s one of the rules about casting love spells. True love cannot be kindled where it can’t survive.
Granted, it was unlikely John’s feelings for me had ever been true love.
But the point is, it takes more than a love spell to change hate to love. Or hate to infatuation.
I said, “Thank you for telling me.”
We lay there for another minute or two, and then John sat up. He winced and felt his back. “Jesus. I’m getting old.”
I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to watch him walk away again.
He stood up, said, “Lift up. Let’s get under the blankets.”
It was lovely, the two of us cocooned together in that comfortable gloom, and I squirmed pleasurably, surrendering to the finger stroking that delicate pucker of skin and muscle.
“Oh Goddess. Touch me again there…”
“Where? Here?” John whispered.
My breath hitched, words temporarily failing me. I pushed my hips down, trying to get more. And more he gave me.
I writhed, breathless, helpless, shivering with a kind of electrical overload at the feel of that long, sturdy finger probing me, pushing in and out past the guardian ring of muscle.
“How’s that?”
I nodded. John’s lightly haired legs brushed my own, his breath hot against the back of my neck, his arm resting warmly, possessively over my waist as he began that delicate caress of fingertip to anus once more, trailing up and down the cleft of my ass. My breath caught.
“Okay?”
“Yes.” Stupid to get emotional, but I’d thought this forever lost, something relegated to dreams, or a memory to comfort myself with on winter nights.
John kissed my shoulder. One finger became two, and then he replaced the fingers with his cock, pushing slowly, with piercing sweetness, into my body. A tight fit, a very tight fit. John was taking great pains not to ram into me, which I appreciated, my body instinctively bracing, resisting…
“Oh Goddess. Yes. Please, John.”
An earthly act that somehow crossed into another realm. So much more than physical.
I’d have liked to lie on my back, liked to have the lights on so I could stare up into John’s face as he made those huffs of anguished pleasure, liked to have seen John’s cock sliding in and out of my body, the better to remember him by, the better to remember every treasured moment of this night by, but it was safer this way, easier on my pride for sure that John not see my face, not know how much it meant.
Almost at once we began to move, at first off-kilter, but then finding the meter, sliding into it, gliding into the push…pull.
We were fucking hard now, losing the last inhibitions, letting go. The sheet gusted over us like an inquisitive ghost. John was thrusting fiercely, satisfyingly, and I was shoving back to meet him. We urged each other on with groans and inarticulate words over the excited squeak of the bedsprings.
“Does the bed speak English?” John muttered, and I laughed. It was such an unJohn comment, but then I hadn’t known him long enough to know.
John’s hand smoothed over my flank, found my cock, and worked me with that deliberate skill. I moaned and frantically rocked my hips.
“John…”
John’s thrusts punctuated his words. “I miss you so…fucking…much…”
Heat and pressure built with an almost unbearable pleasure until it seemed that something had to give…and then it did. I stiffened head-to-toe as release crashed through, sweeping me dizzily along. I began to come in great, glittery gushes, only dimly aware when John grabbed me, losing his own rhythm, losing control at last and crying out as he toppled off the edge after me…
Soft greenish light, like sunlight, filtered through spring’s first unfurled leaves… My eyelids flickered, lifted. I raised my head.
A pair of green eyes blinked at me from the bottom of the four-poster. A cat was softly purring.
The little black cat of the afternoon. The calling card of the Société du Sortilège.
Sur mon chemin, I thought.
The cat’s mouth opened in a soundless meow.
John slept on, silent and motionless as a monolith—and just as inscrutable—his arm wrapped possessively around my waist.
I denied myself the pleasure of a final kiss—I couldn’t risk waking him—and eased out from under his hold. I slid out of the bed and began to dress hurriedly.
When I was ready, I soundlessly inched open the door. The cat slipped through, and I followed her out into the gloomy chill of the hallway. I finessed the door closed and waved my hand before the lock. I whispered, “Sw
eet deep sleep, my love shall keep.”
The spell was unlikely to work on John but would hopefully keep anyone else from disturbing him.
I turned and followed my guide down the stairs, through the shadowy lobby, out the twin doors of wood and glass.
The night air was cool, scented with the smells of damp flowers and old stone. If possible, Paris by night is even more beautiful and intoxicating than Paris by day. And once the stars come up, the crooked alleyways and shrouded side streets of St. Germain are a little quieter, a little more magical than other parts of the city. Though I heard laughter or the occasional melody drift from open doorways, I saw no one as I followed my silent guide.
The Familiar trotted down another narrow street, and I strode after her. Once I heard a scritch, and spun around. The pavement was empty.
Or was it?
About half a block down, I thought I saw motion in the shadows of a lamppost.
The back of my neck prickled. Was someone really there, or were my eyes playing tricks on me?
The cat meowed. I turned and saw her standing half in and half out of a postern beneath the awning of the back entrance of a closed bookstore.
I raised my hands, spoke the words, and followed her through.
I stumbled out into a large antechamber deep underground. A small torch illuminated a room lined floor-to-ceiling with skulls and bones.
Yes, for reasons I have never understood, the Société du Sortilège convenes in a secret chamber of the Empire of Death, also known as the Catacombs of Paris. Two hundred miles of ossuaries running five stories below the City of Lights. The bones of six million Parisians lie in a labyrinth of tunnels so long and complicated, there are large unmapped—even undiscovered—sections (and that’s without the benefit of obfuscation spells).
It’s a little creepy, no denying, but as places of power go, the Catacombs can’t be topped. Some of the oldest skeletons date back to the Merovingian era, more than 1,200 years ago.
I shivered. The tunnels are always chilly, and the scent…the scent is hard to describe: something reminiscent of dusty incense, moldy churches, and mushrooms. I glanced around for my guide, but she was gone. That was all right. I knew where I was. The waiting room to The Sorcerer’s Chamber.
A ghostly voice whispered, “Cosmo Aurelius Saville, Duc des Westlands…”
I stiffened my spine and entered the adjoining chamber, which was larger and brightly lit by four braziers. A portrait of my aunt Laure in her youth hung on one wall.
Three men and four women sat at a long curving table. Two of the members were new to me, but I recognized my Great-great-aunt Oreguen, Countess of Rennes, and my cousin Gilbert, Viscount of Eyskens, as well as Lord Snowvale, Head Librarian Gertrude Smith, and Oliver Sandhurst.
I did a double take at the sight of Oliver. He didn’t bat an eye.
There are always 137 active members of the Society, but only seven top-ranking members sit upon le Conseil Savant. Their number does not include the Crone or (occasionally) the Hermit. In fact, the council’s original purpose was merely to advise and assist the queen or king. But over time they have become a kind of governing body.
“Your Grace,” Madame de Darrieux began as I knelt before the council. “You have requested this emergency convening of the Société du Sortilège. What is it that brings you before us?”
She spoke in French, of course. The whole meeting took place in French, but to make things easier, I’ll just give you the rundown in English.
I rose and explained that I was there on behalf of Ciara, who, as the lawful consort of Seamus Reitherman, a witch of the Abracadantès tradition, was entitled to claim protection from the Society. And I gave my reasons for believing Ciara was innocent of the charges filed against her and why I felt the Society should come to Ciara’s aid.
My cousin Gilbert said, “Pierre Sjoberg is handling her case, isn’t he? He’s the best there is when it comes to navigating the mortal judicial system.” He glanced at Madame de Darrieux. “The Society can pick up her legal expenses, I imagine?”
Madame de Darrieux nodded graciously. “I think we can all agree to that.”
“I’m sure she’ll be very grateful, but I think she’s hoping—I’m hoping—that we can do something more.”
“Such as?” Gertrude Smith inquired crisply.
“Such as finding out who actually murdered Seamus.”
“He was murdered by a jealous lover,” Gilbert said. “We all know that.” The others nodded, glancing at each other.
“But that’s just it. I don’t think he was. I think he may have been killed by an agent of the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm. And I think it’s possible his death is tied into the murders of several local Wiccans.”
I expected them to be shocked by this news, but they seemed only politely interested.
“Why should you think so?” Madame de Darrieux inquired curiously.
I proceeded to detail why I thought so, and I’ll be the first to admit that I probably didn’t explain as well as I could have. I didn’t have much to go on—fewer facts than feelings—but I suppose I’m used to having my feelings taken more seriously.
“It seems very unlikely, old boy,” Gilbert said at the end of my narrative. His smile was kind, his tone avuncular. Gilbert’s only ten years older than me, but he acts like it’s forty.
“SPMMR is nonviolent,” Madame de Darrieux said.
“But I thought—”
She cut in. “Yes, there has been the occasional punch-up—is that how you say it? A few bloody noses, the odd concussion, a broken arm in Rome. No one has died. The idea that one of their members would stab Seamus to death…why?”
“For the Grimorium Primus.”
“But he had sent the Grimorium Primus to you, no? So that makes no sense.”
“They obviously didn’t know he’d already sent the Grimorium Primus to me.”
She shook her head. “No. No, this seems quite impossible. There must be another explanation.”
“Okay, but then that’s my point. Shouldn’t we—the Society—discover what that explanation might be?”
They exchanged startled looks, which then grew amused or indulgent, depending on the face.
“Dear child, we are not detectives. We are not investigators,” my Great-great-aunt Oreguen protested in her tiny creaky voice.
“No, those of us in this room aren’t, but we do have detectives and investigators within our tradition. We could surely call upon—”
Madame de Darrieux said briskly, “Your Grace, your compassion becomes you, but these are mortal matters. You’ve said yourself that Seamus’s death seems to be tied into that of these Wiccans; therefore, it follows that he had involved himself in the affairs of mortals—and paid the price. This is not a matter for the Société du Sortilège.”
“But these women are dying.”
“And that is a tragedy. But it is a mortal tragedy. We cannot involve ourselves in the affairs of mortals.”
“You say that as though it were one of the Ten Precepts, but it’s not. It’s not a-a thing. Wiccans are…they’re our sisters and brothers.”
That did not go over well.
Even Gertrude Smith, who had been listening intently through my exchange with Madam Chairman, looked startled at my assertion.
Madame de Darrieux took a moment before saying, “Your Grace, your divided loyalties are understandable, and as the son of the heiress to trône de sorcière, your wishes are of importance to all of us, but we cannot accommodate you in this matter. There is nothing more to be said.”
Gertrude Smith spoke up. “Unless there’s another matter you wish to address?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. But it was clear from their expressions that I was not going to win them over. The matter was closed.
It was tempting to walk away then and there, but just because they were not, in my opinion, fulfilling their duties did not excuse me from fulfilling mine.
; “There is one other matter.”
“Yes?” Madame de Darrieux prodded.
“My… It seems my marriage is…may be coming to a close.”
This got a reaction. It was as though a wind swept through the chamber, stirring papers, sending hats flying—even though there were no hats or papers present. The relief in the room was palpable.
“You are divorcing the mortal John Galbraith? The marriage is over?”
I tried to speak steadily, ignoring the pain it gave to say the words, “It seems so.”
“Well!” Madame de Darrieux’s eyes were shining. “This is unexpected news.”
“Praise be to the Goddess,” Great-great-aunt Oreguen exclaimed. “How I have prayed for this.”
I said nothing. In fact, for a second or two, words would only have been embarrassing.
“Thank you for bringing this to our attention,” Madame de Darrieux said. “You have the sympathies of us all.”
Yeah, sure.
But I nodded.
“That’s not the extent of it,” Oliver exclaimed. “You must tell all of it. The mortal knows you’re a witch!”
“What? Is this true?” Madame de Darrieux was on her feet.
I ignored her, staring at Oliver. He too was on his feet, pointing at me, as though he was in a Vincent Price film, denouncing me to a tribunal. His eyes seemed to glow with a fanatical light.
What. The. Heck?
How could Oliver possibly know that?
“How is this possible?” Madame de Darrieux demanded.
“It’s true,” I admitted. “He found out…through a series of unfortunate events.”
“You told him!” Oliver cried.
“Did you tell him?” Gilbert questioned.
“That was one of the unfortunate events, yes.”
That was not the end of it, I assure you. And even after I had promised them multiple times that John posed no threat to anyone in the Craft, they were unconvinced and seething.
No threats were put into words, but by the time I left the Catacombs, the sun was up and the church bells were chiming. I could not help but wonder uneasily for whom those bells tolled.
