Carnal Magic

by Christine McKay

Standing, she padded across the room to stare at her reflection in the dresser mirror.

  Cinderella’s high-heeled shoe waited for her in the center of her dressing table.

  Chapter Three

  Victoria Ramlin wasn’t available at The Coven. The gum-popping Goth teenager behind the cash register informed Elaine that yesterday had been Samhain. After a night of celebrating, no self-respecting witch would be up before noon.

  Elaine left a note.

  She desperately needed to talk to someone. The rational part of her—conveniently ignored when she decided to dabble in the occult—insisted last night never happened. The irrational part of her was still frozen in an Edward Munch version of a scream of horror.

  With the exception of the shoe, she could easily dismiss last night as a hallucination, a bad combination of migraine and anti-depressant drugs. She was pining for her lover. She’d conjured up another, instead. Only she didn’t remember taking either prescription. The curls were just rumpled bed head, the result of going to bed with wet hair, a lazy habit acquired from Tom. The beads and sequins and whatnot that trailed through her entire house, from her front door to her bedroom…well, she was working on a theory for them.

  She did not summon a demon lover on Samhain. She did not agree to any sort of deal with it. And she most definitely did not have the best sex of her entire existence with it.

  On her way home, she swung past St. Beatrice’s cemetery. The presence of cars in the parking lot surprised her. Though she’d never given it much thought, she supposed even cemeteries got their share of visitors. Especially graveyards as old as St. Beatrice’s. When Tom died, she’d taken to stopping by at night, when the only car sharing the lot with hers was either filled with necking teenagers or broken-down…or both.

  She made an unconscious decision, pulling into the lot and getting out before her brain kicked in and halted her. The graveyard’s gates guarded the entrance, crystal clear in the midmorning sunlight. There was the streetlight she’d seen last night, blessedly normal-looking. Her feet moved, propelling her toward the gates. Snow crunched underfoot.

  This was insane. What did she hope to find by coming here?

  She crossed through the gates unscathed. No lightning strike by the Almighty was a good sign, wasn’t it? But the people congregating near Tom’s grave couldn’t be. She stopped. The nearly silver blonde hair, carefully pulled into a chignon, belonged to Victoria Ramlin. What was she doing here? Elaine backed away, tucking herself behind a crumbling old stone with a one-armed angel tottering at its tip.

  Her back pressed against the granite. Think, damn it, think!

  Azrael said she’d summoned him. That meant she’d screwed up her spell. Conclusion? Either she missed a step or Victoria had given her the wrong information. The perfectionist side of her immediately pointed a finger at Victoria. But that wasn’t fair. Granted, Elaine had consulted her whenever she was stumped, but she’d never given Victoria the whole picture. Bits and pieces gleaned from conversations over the year did not translate into a smoothly working spell, nor could it point to sabotage.

  However, Victoria standing at Tom’s gravesite wasn’t just a coincidence. It meant Elaine had failed to disguise her intentions.

  She hopscotched from stone to stone until she was close enough to hear them. She didn’t recognize the three men Victoria was with, but then, she didn’t know all the members of the witch queen’s coven.

  Victoria held a red rose in one hand. Elaine’s heart skipped a beat. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She should have made this her first stop and made sure she hadn’t left anything behind. Then again, it wasn’t like it was uncommon to leave flowers on a gravesite.

  “Passion is as individual as palate. Until we meet tonight,” Victoria said, reading from a bit of paper. “What do you think it means?”

  Her companion’s voice was a low rumble.

  Elaine shivered. She hadn’t left Tom any sort of note.

  “It’s certainly not part of any lingering spell, although the rose…” Victoria tucked the note in her coat pocket. “The rose is vibrating with power.” Her elegant forehead wrinkled. “It feels masculine. Do you think she really succeeded? Duped us all with her presumed naivety?” The rose twirled between her fingers. “Let’s give her a call, shall we? Just a concerned queen checking on a local solitary. Samhain can be a lonely time of year.” Her words held no hint of kindness.

  One of her companions murmured a response and Victoria laughed, a tinkling sound like a crystal vase shattering.

  Setting the rose on top of the gravestone, Victoria pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. Elaine’s phone started vibrating. She retraced her route from stone to stone until she was almost to the gate. Then she answered. “Hello?”

  “Elaine? I’m sorry for disturbing you. I didn’t get you out of bed, did I?” Victoria’s voice was appropriately worried.

  “No. Is there something wrong?”

  “My sixth sense told me you were going to perform powerful magic last night. I was just calling to make sure all went well.”

  Liar, Elaine thought. “Ah, yes. I feel much more at peace.” Two could play Victoria’s game. Technically she did feel better. Sated. Focused. Senses alert. Completely insane.

  Victoria was silent on the other end of the line.

  “Thank you so much for helping me,” Elaine added.

  “Of course,” Victoria replied, smoothly recovering. “Blessed New Year to you.”

  “And you. Oh, Victoria? I ran across a name while I was reading an old book. Do you know who Azrael is?”

  “Azrael? Of course.” Victoria laughed, the same tinkling sound. “I would have thought you’d have heard his name sooner, but then, a solitary’s study is not as structured as one’s in a coven.” The subtle dig struck its mark. “He’s the Angel of Death.”

  How did one dress for a date with Death? All black? Her hair wasn’t the ethereal shade of blonde Victoria’s was. Pulling black off without looking like death-warmed-over wasn’t in her bag of tricks. She held a red strapless dress up and looked at herself in the mirror. Her friend Kirsten had convinced her to buy it. Ick, was all she could think. Tossing it on the bed with the growing mound of rejects, she burrowed in the closet for something else. A tiny part of her wondered why she cared what she looked like. She shoved the thought away, along with a puce sweater dress her mother had bought her.

  “You look lovely this evening, Elaine.”

  She spun around, sweater clutched to her chest. She was in nothing but jeans and a plain white bra.

  Azrael leaned in her doorway, arms folded across his chest. He was dressed in all black from his crisp shirt to his butt-hugging black jeans.

  “Don’t you knock?” she exclaimed.

  “I didn’t come through the door.”

  “Well, go back and knock.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You cannot be serious.”

  She clutched the sweater to her more tightly. “At least get out while I dress,” she pleaded.

  His eyes gleamed. “I like watching a woman dress.”

  “If you don’t get out, I’ll put on that!” She stabbed her finger at the discarded red dress.

  He eyed it critically. “Nice, but not exactly flattering. How about this?” He held up a delicate bit of black lace and satin between his thumb and forefinger.

  She colored. The garment had been a victim of the underwear toss, held just prior to the in-progress rummage-through-the-closet drama. “That isn’t a dress. That’s an invitation to be fucked.”

  His eyebrows rose.

  She raised her chin. “I’d like at least the semblance of propriety.”

  “Why bother?”

  Since that brought up all sorts of disturbing thoughts, notably the she-liked-him-too-much-for-her-own-good card, she shrugged and settled for a lie. “Call me old-fashioned.” Clothes were as good a defense as any. She should be wearing snow pants and a down jacket.

  “Fine.” He bunched the fabric in his
hand and turned around.

  “Hey! Where are you going with that?”

  “Think of it as a battle casualty.” And with that, he shut the bedroom door behind him.

  Dropping the sweater, she gritted her teeth. “You haven’t been exactly honest, either!” she yelled at him.

  The door opened just far enough for him to poke his head in. “Explain.”

  She didn’t bother picking up her sweater this time. “You didn’t tell me you were the Angel of Death.”

  He looked momentarily startled, but he didn’t deny it. “You did not ask. Is it important?”

  “Of course it is!”

  The door creaked open wide enough for her to see him cross his arms. “Very well. I am Azrael, Angel of Death.” Her overhead lights flickered at his announcement. “Satisfied?”

  “No!” On second thought, the sweater she dropped wasn’t that bad. She plucked an ivory cami off her mound of clothes and pulled it on. The caramel-colored sweater followed. “You know how many questions that raises?”

  He sighed. “I omitted my job title for just that reason.”

  “Oh.” He looked as if he was waiting for the firing squad. Damn him. It took the fight out of her. She turned in a small circle. “Is this all right?”

  “Since I plan on getting you naked shortly, yes.” He raked his fingers through his hair, unconsciously spiking it. He hesitated. “You aren’t going to bombard me with questions?”

  Stepping forward, she pulled the door open all the way and took his hand. “No. I’m going to give you a break.”

  His delighted grin made her heart splinter.

  Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed the back of it. “Thank you.”

  “So what do you have in store for me?”

  Tucking her arm in his, he led her toward the front room. “I thought we might enjoy a meal together.”

  “You eat?”

  A pained look crossed his face.

  “Sorry, no questions,” she said.

  “Eating is not necessary, but I can take pleasure in the act.”

  She froze in the doorway. Her condo was small, the kitchen, dining and living rooms rolled into one open space, bedroom and bath connected by a narrow hallway. Every flat surface in the shared area was covered with white candles. Squat, pillar, pencil—all sizes and shapes jostled for space. Her coffee table had been pushed to one side, couch shoved to the wall and rug rolled up. The removal of the rug revealed the large white circle she’d painted on the floor for spell-working. A miniature version of a cauldron was perched on clawed legs in the center of the circle. Something bubbled and chattered in its depths. She inhaled. Chocolate? What spell involved chocolate?

  Twisted shadow versions of her furniture and doodads climbed the walls. Classical musical was generally not on her playlist, but she heard strains of what she thought was Beethoven. She stepped into the circle.

  Stumped, she looked back at him. “Are we performing magic?”

  “Every act of intercourse freely shared is magic.”

  Her brows furrowed. “To what end?”

  “Life.”

  At her confused look, he continued, “Every act of love, of pursuing life, is a slap in the face to the dark forces.” Taking her hand, he joined her in the circle. “Sit.” He sank into a cross-legged pose.

  She copied him, wishing she’d worn looser jeans. “But aren’t you…?” If he was the incarnation of Death, she could no longer view it as evil.

  “One of the dark forces? No, Death is a mirror of life.” His hands closed as if he was praying, then swung open, hinged by his thumbs. “Two halves.” Behind him, she saw the shadow of a butterfly made by his fingers. She smiled, understanding. “I like your smile,” he added.

  “Yours isn’t bad, either.”

  Leaning over the pot, he stirred its contents.

  “What’s in the cauldron?”

  “Supper.” Sitting back, he started undoing the buttons on his shirt.

  She had an instant hot flash. Torn between fanning herself and stopping him, she decided on the latter. She seized his wrists and asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Undressing.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You can’t just get naked. Where’s the seduction?”

  His hands folded in his lap. “Very well. Undress me.”

  Her jaw dropped.

  He continued to patiently stare at her, an angel of shadow and mist.

  “O-kay.” On her hands and knees now, she started on the middle button of his shirt, ignoring the glimpse of tensed stomach muscle peeking through the already parted folds of cloth.

  “But when you remove one of my garments, you must remove one of your own.”

  “You’re making the rules up as you go.”

  “My wager. My right.”

  She was going to make certain he regretted that decision. Her hands slipped beneath his shirt, circling his waist and meeting in the center of his back. Her fingers played up his spine. He sucked in a breath. She smiled, a predatory gleam in her eye. One hand rested on his breastbone while the other toyed with the next button. Undoing a button with one hand was harder than it looked. The pained expression on Azrael’s face was worth the effort.

  “I can help,” he whispered.

  “Not a chance.” She nosed the fabric apart. Beneath her palm, his heart stuttered. Two buttons left.

  She worked on the second-last button with her teeth, one hand still on his chest, the other supporting her weight. Clever placement of her hand between his crossed legs made his misty eyes swirl black.

  The button sprang free, thread nipped by her teeth. She heard it strike the floor. Their eyes met. “Oops,” she whispered. God, there was so much heat there. Passion, her mind traitorously whispered. His head dipped. She shifted just enough for his lips to brush her forehead, instead of their intended destination.

  She was in over her head. She needed a distraction: a life preserver, a boat, some sort of supernatural flotation device, cold water, an ice bath. Hell, even a shot of tequila wouldn’t be out of line. That brought images of licking salt off his stomach to mind. She shuddered.

  The last button fell off before she could touch it with teeth or fingers.

  “Cheater.” The word ground out, hoarse. She was panting.

  His eyebrows raised. “Never.” The rapid flicker of his pulse at the base of his throat belied that irritatingly calm voice.

  Nosing open the shirt, she licked a path from his bellybutton to the hollow at his throat. She pressed her lips there, inhaling. He smelled like apple pie. If his cooking tasted as good as he smelled, she was a goner.

  Her hands crept to his shoulders, slipping the shirt down his arms.

  “Your turn,” he whispered.

  Sitting back, she pulled her sweater over her head and tossed it aside. She stared at him defiantly. The thin cami and her bra weren’t enough to camouflage her nipples’ interest. Hell, the sweater had had a hard time hiding them.

  His gaze flicked to her chest and back to her face. He licked his lips.

  “You’re going to lose,” she said. “I have more clothes on.”

  “That can be remedied.” He moved so fast she had little time to do anything but squeak. His hands closed around her wrists, his momentum tipping her backward and taking him with her.

  When they crashed on the floor, the cauldron shuddered in its iron cage. She felt the heat of his skin burning through her thin layers of silk. He pressed his lips to her hair, her forehead, her cheeks, her neck, any bit of flesh he could reach, leaving a trail of heated kisses and flushed skin.

  She whimpered.

  His fingers skimmed her sides as the cami was tugged over her breasts. When he drew it across her face, he kissed her. Blindfolded and mute, she could only lie there. Her lips parted. He dipped a silk-wrapped tongue into her mouth. He continued kissing her face, the silk separating their skin but doing nothing to repel the heat of their touch. His hands worked on the button of her jeans. Waist
band loosened, he slid his hands into her pants, stroking her ass, pausing when his fingers met bare skin.

  It didn’t take much to surprise Death. Just a simple thong.

  He tossed aside the cami. She met his fevered look while his hands cupped her ass, pressing their bodies together.

  When he gave her a chance to breathe, she murmured, “Are we skipping supper?”

  He shook his head in mute denial.

  “Then you better slow down.”

  With a growl, he jerked down her pants. She heard fabric rip. He’d snagged her panties with the denim. He lowered his face to her curls. Eyes watched her from between her swell of breasts. “You smell like cinnamon.”

  Apple pie and cinnamon. Oh, they made a great combination. Who was more delusional?

  He dipped lower, planting kisses on her inner thighs.

  “I think your chocolate’s boiling over.”

  Cursing, he sat back, redirecting his attention to the foaming pot. It gave her a moment to catch her breath and marshal her thoughts.

  Thoughts? What thoughts?

  He turned to her, chocolate-covered strawberry in one hand, a wicked grin on his face.

  “Oh, dear Lord.”

  “I am told the way to a woman’s heart is paved in chocolate.”

  “It’s a helluva good start.” She opened her mouth, taking the strawberry’s chocolate tip between her lips. The sweet fruit exploded on her tongue. Her eyes rolled back in her head. “This is supper?”

  “Yours,” he agreed. Warmth spattered her skin. Her eyes flicked open. He was drizzling chocolate over her breasts. His gaze met hers. “And mine.”

  His lips lowered to her breasts and he lapped at a patch of chocolate. Every muscle in her body tightened as his tongue scrubbed her skin.

  He looked up. He knew exactly what he was doing to her. The sneaky bastard.

  “Would you like another?”

  “Yes.”

  A silver tray heaped with slices of fruit manifested itself beside the cauldron. “I can’t eat all that.” She glanced from tray to cauldron. She was looking at Death’s version of a fondue pot. Clutching her stomach, she doubled over with laughter.