Spell of Love: Lust Upon Roses

by Alyssa Brooks

  Edmund did not leave the next day or the next. Occasionally she’d lie on his bed of silk and hear him on the phone in the office, canceling appointments and lunches. He’d even called the maid and told her not to come in the rest of the week.

  He made her his slave.

  She couldn’t tell him no. She didn’t want to. She craved his every touch like her life depended on it. She wanted him constantly. So much, it tortured her.

  The more he fucked her, the more she wanted him. She never got tired or dry. She was worse than an animal, and she loved it. Not because he held her hostage, but that she held herself hostage.

  But it was always in the back of her mind. She wanted to get out of here. And she couldn’t.

  Grace’s mind was such a mush of desire and lust. Lying back on the sheets, she wrapped them around her fingers. This was her sixth day with him. Would there be a sixth and different way he would make love to her? She licked her lips. He was in the shower now. Maybe she should join him.

  Rising from the bed, she promised herself ‑‑ tomorrow she would ask him to take her home. Tomorrow she would have had enough. But today, she just wanted to be with him.

  She padded over the heated marble with bare feet. As she walked into the bathroom, she slid his robe from her shoulders.

  Yes, tomorrow. Not today. Always tomorrow, because tomorrow was all her mind could hang on to. It was all she could believe, even when, deep down, she knew it was a lie.

  * * * * *

  The alertness, the very clearness of her mind, woke Grace. She snapped her head from the silk sheets, glancing around the master bedroom. Her lust had vanished. A very normal, very worried feeling over took her.

  Where was Edmund? He must have left. It was the only explanation.

  Then a sudden deep humming came from down the hall. He was still here? In his office? But she ...

  Wait.

  Why had the strange, lusty power vanished from her mind and her body? It didn’t make sense. If it were his presence, as it had been the past six days, why did she not experience it now?

  Could she have been right on day one? Had he drugged her with something? Was he even capable of such a thing?

  She didn’t want to think so. But she had to find out. Something had happened to her. She wanted to know what; then she wanted her life back. Or rather, what was left of it.

  Sliding from the bed, she landed barefoot on the marble floor. She slipped on his thick, heavy white cotton robe and headed down the hall. The door to his office was shut. Jiggling the knob, she discovered it locked. Why would he lock it?

  What was going on here?

  With a knotted fist, she banged on the door. “Edmund, let me in!”

  “Just a moment.” The murmur of his voice barely sounded through the door. As if he were very caught up in something.

  “Now,” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Now!”

  The door flew open. “What’s the ma‑‑” Disappointment flooded his gaze as he leaned against the jam. “The spell is over.” Flat, and riddled with despair, his words sent chills down her spine.

  Dropping his arms to his side, he turned and stalked into the room. Suddenly, his arm shot out, his fist slamming into the bookcase. “I hate you!” he screamed, the rage turning his face beet-red. “I hate this! Take me and let this life be over if I cannot have her!”

  He glared at the heavens, as if he were screaming at God. “Why?”

  Grace did not know whether to run and hide, or scream at him. Biting her lip, she took a step back and tried to figure out what to say.

  Blood trickled into her mouth before she came to any sort of decision.

  She licked the salty liquid from her mouth as she watched him sink to his knees.

  Whatever he had done, he had done to have her. He did it only because he wanted her so very much.

  She couldn’t deny the same feelings.

  She could not deny the passion she felt for him. The strange power had vanished, but she still needed him. Still wanted him. Drugs, spell, whatever, it was gone, but her desire still brewed deep inside her.

  Yet, she could not help but be angry.

  She understood nothing even of what he spoke. She needed answers. Maybe if she had them, she could drive herself to walk out of here.

  Because right now she still couldn’t do it.

  She trembled as she stepped into the long, bookshelf-lined room. “Tell me why. What. Tell me, or I cannot forgive you.”

  “I am a monster,” he moaned. He picked a Rolodex from his massive cherry desk and threw it. The plastic shattered with a loud crack against the wall. “I cannot die. Not ever. If I can die, I cannot love.” He whirled, desperateness flooding his blue eyes. “But hell’s mercy, I love you.”

  His words made no sense. How could he not die? He spoke as if he were a vampire or something. She shook her head, unable to make sense of it all. “Why could you not love?”

  “Because I will live forever. You will not. I cannot carry this pain.” Voice cracking, he look at her with tears in his eyes. He leaned against the bookshelf, his head resting against the many plain, leather-bound volumes that were marked by no title, but instead dates. Her eyes skimmed them, reading years going back for centuries.

  Why?

  What was he saying? So many questions raced through her mind, but she had to know one thing first. It would tell her if she should run or hug him.

  “Then why did you bring me here?” She gulped. “What did you do to me?”

  His head jerked suddenly, his ice blue eyes exuding pain. “In the year 1434, my father, King Edmund, had a wizard cast a spell down upon me and my five brothers. Since then, I have lived with my paid whores, alone on this Godforsaken earth. But then you ... you!”

  Grace started to step backward, fear twisting inside her.

  “You turned me inside out, Grace. I had to have you, like a drug addict needs a fix.” He stalked toward her, desperation in his face. “I thought I could satisfy myself. But there is no satisfaction when it comes to you.”

  She stepped through the doorframe, her heart racing. “Edmund ...”

  “I’m sorry, Grace. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “What did you do?” she asked again, all too aware that she should be running, not asking questions. Yet she had to know. “What?”

  “I had the wizard Rane cast a spell on you to make you lust for me.” He bent, his face inches from her. As he spoke, his breath caressed her. “I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

  A chill ran down her spine. Every word he spoke she could not doubt. The spell had been real. She was sure. After all, it had attacked her body. And if that were true, then the wizard was real. And if the wizard were real, then Edmund was a prince from the fifteenth century. And if that were true, she needed to get the hell out of here.

  Her guts twisted into so many knots, she was sure she’d puke. Bile rose in her throat. She took a step back from him, then two, then three. When he did not start after her, she turned and ran.

  Unfortunately, she went in the wrong direction.

  Edmund stood between her and the elevator now, and she could not turn back. Instead she ran into the master suite and slammed the door behind her. She locked it, then leaned against it. She did not hear him coming.

  In a rage of terror, anger, and plain disbelief, she looked around, her eyes settling on an ornate cherry chest. Gripping the side, she pushed it toward the door. Heavy as it was, she had to use all her force and lots of grunting and groaning. Finally she had it blocking the door.

  There. He could not force his way in.

  Grace began to pace, her bare feet padding against the warm marble. What should she do? Think!

  It was all so insane.

  The whole story, what he had done to her this week, the concept of him living forever.

  But worse, the hard reality that something drew her to him. Deep inside her, the strangest need made her want to stay with him. Forever.

&nb
sp; Chapter Nine

  Edmund paced the stone patio, his fingers slowly tearing apart a white rose. Underneath his feet, thousands of torn, silken petals lay were he’d dropped them in an unconscious effort to destroy the vines of roses covering the porch. His weight crushed them into the rock, and their perfume wafted through the air.

  Evening summer breezes whipped around his bare chest, carrying the scent. His hair tossed around his shoulders, cutting through the humidity of the heavy air.

  What had he done? Hell’s mercy! What had he done?

  His fingers tore at the flower. Searching the blue-and-pink-striped sunset, his eyes glared against the glowing ball of brilliant sun. If heaven did exist, he would never know. Never taste it. Never feel its pleasures or its relief.

  The closest he’d ever come, or ever would, was Grace.

  She was his heaven, his escape from reality.

  Pain burned in his eyes. Going to the ledge, he yanked another rose from the prickly vine. Despite the thorns jabbing his skin, no pain attacked him. No blood fell.

  The curse protected his body. But it laid his soul open for attack.

  He tore at the flower like a madman.

  It wasn’t that he’d lost her. No, he’d never had her. Had he been a man, a better one, he would have swallowed his fear and wooed her. Instead, he’d taken her in a way that wasn’t his right.

  Now, despite it all, he loved her. And he was losing her.

  No, he’d never had her.

  He yanked free another flower. Damn his pride! He’d had no right to tell her their secret. No right to torture her mind or tease her soul like that. Hell’s mercy.

  Well-enough should be left alone.

  A knot formed in his throat. Over the years, many a thing had brought tears to his eyes. He had watched his wife, his children, and so many generations pass on. He’d watched as his mother wandered the earth a lonely, unsatisfied woman. He’d seen so much hurt and devastation over time.

  But nothing had ever come close to this pain.

  Deep down, he knew nothing ever would. And it would never go away. Never lessen. Never release him.

  Hell’s mercy. He loved her. There could not be any worse thing.

  She would go now. He could not stop her. Would not try. But this was one wench he would never, ever forget. Forever she would stay in his heart.

  * * * * *

  Grace sat on the side of the huge master bed, the strong scent of roses wafting through the open window. Gripping the silk sheets, she wrapped them about her fingers. Her circulation nearly cut off, she listened to him pace, and wondered if he’d heard her cry.

  Inhaling deeply, she fought the images of poor Matt. The way he’d suffered in that hospital bed after the accident, all those wires and machines hooked up to him. How she had sat there helplessly and held his hand as the love of her life died.

  Death. It was a pain she never wanted to experience again.

  But with Edmund, she would never feel such pain. Never would she even need to worry. He would always come home. Always be safe.

  Always be young.

  She, on the other hand, would grow old and gray before him. She would wrinkle and become sick. She would die. She would be free from that awful pain, but he would have to suffer it twofold for eternity.

  The decision never to love on his part had been a smart one. He should have stuck with it.

  Grace knotted the sheets around her fingers tighter, her blood thumping. Realization hit her like a strong bolt, a sudden bang to her heart. Her tongue ran along her lips as they quivered, leaving her jaw open. In a slow, almost dazed motion, she stood and untangled her hands. The wizard was still alive and casting spells.

  Could he not cast her one?

  The question got the best of her. Curiosity yanked her up and sent her skidding across the marble floor in but a few wide steps. With all her might, she slid the ornate cherry chest from in front of the door, just far enough to get out.

  She raced down the hall to his office. The usually locked door hung open, the room empty. Stepping in, she clicked the door behind her and locked it. Instinct told her Edmund did not want her in here.

  But at this point, she didn’t care.

  Her eyes fell on the rows of leather journals lining the top of the bookshelf. There appeared to be one for every year. She searched for what looked like the earliest one, squinting to read the faded white lettering. MCDXXXIV. Hell. What year was that? She paused, her mind computing the Roman numerals. 1434.

  Trembling, she reached up and pulled a different one free. Dust fluttered down on her from the aged cover. Holding it in hand, she blew aside a thick layer and read the front.

  She traced the numerals with her finger, again translating the years. 1452.

  Cracking it open, she scanned the heavy cursive writing on the aged, yellowed paper. The language was foreign to her as she flipped through the pages. She nearly flopped the book closed, frustrated, but came upon a folded piece of paper. Opening it, she saw he had begun to translate the entries.

  On the top, a note explained. My life is once again shifting into another future. Nothing can ever remain, or my secret would be revealed. I have moved into a new home in America and have begun to unpack. But my mind cannot leave the words in these books. I have decided to translate my journals. The Anglo-Saxon language has begun to fail me, and I wish not to forget the many fond memories of my wife and children.

  Her gaze scanned down to the first translation.

  On this day, my queen begs for my affection. But I cannot provide it. I married her because I felt no passion for her, no start or hope for love. I needed her to bear my heirs. She has my faithfulness, my liege, but I cannot grace her with more. No woman will ever steal my heart, for if I allow it, my painful existence will swallow me alive. Ye who may die know not how truly blessed ye are.

  The words stole her breath away.

  She did not want to love, because she could not bear to lose. Edmund shared the same sentiment. Except his pain would carry on forever.

  It was too late. Edmund already loved her. He could never escape it in death. Never hope to meet her in heaven.

  Unless ...

  She had to find the wizard. She didn’t want to die. To cause Edward such pain. She wanted to live forever with him. Needed to.

  Her gaze flashed across the room, searching for a clue. The Rolodex laid damaged, its edges chipped. A crack sliced through the thick plastic. It hung open, the papers full of numbers inviting her.

  She walked over slowly, one step at a time. It was the year 2005. Would a wizard have a telephone? Hell, why not?

  Kneeling, she sifted through the numbers. Each card she flipped through and futilely read, she flung forward and continued her search more frantically. What had Edmund called him? Rane. The wizard, Rane. She kept flipping, working her way to the very back. He had to be here somewhere. Her eyes scanned for anything similar, afraid she’d missed it. Or worse, it wasn’t here.

  Ah-ha! There!

  It was too easy.

  * * * * *

  Leaning on his twisted wooden cane, Rane felt his bones creak and fought against the prospect of standing much longer. He stirred the sticky, red, bubbling potion in the crock-pot on his kitchen counter.

  A flat smile curled his lazy, aged cheeks. Almost six hundred years ago, he vowed to King Edmund he’d never cast such a spell again.

  He grumbled under his breath. The man had had no appreciation for magic.

  His smiled broadened. Whereas he had no appreciation for a promise.

  Rane shook his head with an ornery chuckle. Edmund would learn. Perhaps it would take thousands of years, but he would. Magic could be good or bad, but it was as you took it. Edmund never saw the wonders brought to his life from the forever spell. Only groaned about how alone and miserable he was, stuck here.

  At some point, he needed to begin to enjoy the life given to him.

  Besides, Edmund was king no longer. His threats to bar him from
the kingdom were no longer applicable. Now Rane wanted a touch of fun to tickle his old bones.

  What could be better than riling a king?

  The jangling ring of the telephone cut through the silence of the house. Long ago, when the phones became quieter and more modern, he cast some magic to his ring and made it loud enough to hear no matter where his head was. The portable phone over the white microwave nearly shook right off the hook as he grabbed for it.

  Rane cleared his throat and spoke. “Hello, my dear Grace.” The greeting danced from his tongue, creaky like an old door, but happy nonetheless.

  The lady needed no introduction. He’d been waiting for this call ever since he’d cast the lust spell.

  “How did you ...? Never mind.” She sucked in a deep breath. “I suppose you know what I want, as well.”

  He went back to stirring the bubbling liquid with his wooden spoon. His old hands moved slowly, with meticulous attention. “You want to live forever, my dear. With your Edward.”

  Her gentle laugh warmed him. “Oh, you’re good.”

  Rane tapped the spoon against the white ceramic and laid it on the counter. “23 Whitehorse Street, Wulfhere, England. And do hurry; this potion is a bitch to keep stirred.”

  “But ...” Absolute puzzlement danced in her sweet voice.

  “Edmund keeps some money in his top right drawer. Hurry along, dear.” Rane hung up the phone and leaned on his cane, limping toward the refrigerator. He needed some dragon hairs and the potion would be set.

  Chapter Ten

  Hell’s mercy!

  Edmund stared at the phone number on the Rolodex card lying on his cherry desk next to the telephone. The drawer where his spare cash was hidden hung open. Empty.

  The evidence was overwhelming.

  Grace had taken his money and gone to Rane. There could only be one reason why she would.

  So that she, too, could live forever.

  Hell’s mercy! Panic swallowed him whole. His heart turned into a racing train. Sweat began to drip from his forehead. With shaking hands, he ran his fingers through his hair. Rage overpowered him.