And if I went to a hell-plane alone, Oeilett would walk the world, sowing greed and oath-breaking until men slaughtered themselves out of existence over it.
I couldn’t do anything until the conference. Well, nothing constructive. I could have hunted down the servant trying to bring the beast into the world and killed him, but that would only end with me in prison, again, and Oeilett finding another servant and another city, again. Can’t kill or magic humans in the normal course of things, that’s the first piece of black-letter law there is for wizards.
I’d already done seven hard years for killing one of Oeilett’s human servants, long ago. I’d never regretted doing in the greedy little rat who’d nearly destroyed the world, but the state had made an example of me. Prison had been hell as a young man, I couldn’t imagine doing it again as an old one. I only got paroled because the Witan pushed for it.
Evening was falling and I didn’t want to be out and about in this neighborhood after dark. I could see some grand houses, but I also saw too many layabouts roaming. And the shop across the way had misspelled most of the things it was advertising on its painted side. That didn’t bode well for the merchandise quality.
I wiped up and pulled my vest and boots back on. Time for a bite and then the last good night’s sleep I’d be getting. I crossed the street careful-like, noticing the traffic signals were taken as suggestions instead of law.
I’d not eaten at the little drive-up chain stand before, but I looked over the menu. Hamburgers and hotdogs and that sort of shit. No place to eat indoors, just some tables with metal umbrellas over them. I walked up to the pedestrian window.
“A number two,” I said, as clearly as I could manage. Many Americans had trouble understanding me.
“Whut?” the woman asked. I looked her over from straightened hair to silver eyeshadow on her dark face to the long plastic nails. I wondered if she could work the register with them. “You want sumthin?”
“A number two, please,” I said holding up two fingers.
“Speak American,” she mumbled, slurring half the sounds. “A two? Large?”
“Aye,” I nodded. “Large, with a Coke.” I missed the chip shops back home where I could get a decent burger and a pint. Then again, the workers there were about as unintelligible and scowly as this one.
She mumbled a number, at least I believed it to be a number, and I stole a glance at her machine. I paid her and waited. She shoved a sack and a vat-sized cup of soda out the window, her sullenness, common to fast-food workers worldwide, never changing.
I carried it back to my room and the wheeze of the air conditioner.
Chapter Three
D.J.
I paced my office, mad enough to chew nails and spit barbed wire. I knew exactly what had happened today, even if the big lug in the skirt didn’t. The mana had decided. After all these years of being celibate, not even wanting a vibrator, the fucking all-knowing, all-seeing mana had chosen me a mate. And what a mate!
A goddamn combat mage of all things! Worse, one on his last mission before retirement. How very clichéd, my dear Watson. Most of that sort didn’t see forty, let alone fifty or more. Not one in ten thousand retired. Hell, Admire, why don’t you just get involved with a snowman at the height of summer? He’d have the same life expectancy.
Bran had walked into my office like he owned the place, made himself comfortable and drunk my booze. Then he’d fucked me mind-to-mind. Well, not quite fucked, but I would just bet anything from a good ash stake to a silver bullet that the fucking, mind and body both, was coming. And I would be too, unable to help it and begging for more.
I really didn’t want that. I liked my life as it was, most of the time. A few cases, one room, and no complications, just the Captain and me sailing on about our appointed rounds.
I felt a little flare in me, as if something was protesting. I had a sudden suspicion that if I didn’t go with this, I would lose the mana. I couldn’t afford that. I wasn’t any great shakes, and certainly not a mage, but I used what little I had.
I liked being able to see two extra seconds ahead in combat. I liked being able to use talismans and spells from the talismonger down the street. I liked the Nightside.
The thought startled me. I’d spent most of my adult life protesting that I hated the Nightside, hated this city and hated my name. But as I paced, it dawned on me how much I’d miss the Nightside. I liked Chet, the werewolf trolley driver, and his wife, who taught handicapped kids. I would miss the pixie Mag, head of the Spyder gang, and all his buddies who were my extra eyes and ears for a pittance of cola and candy.
If I lost the mana, I lost everyone I knew, except Jinx. And for someone as alone as I was, that was a frightening thought.
I sat down and emptied the last of my rum into the sooky coffee cup. I drank and I could taste him all over the ceramic. I stopped licking the cup and set it down, staring like it had licked me back.
It was time to work. Mental sex hadn’t helped the distraction. If anything, I was even hornier. I hated it. Hated the urge to stick my hand back in my jeans, to go into the shower and let water gush over my clit until I screamed.
I poured out the end of my Captain Morgan. Might be time for a refill. I drank the end just to clear my head. It helped a little. I wondered if staying drunk would fight the power of the mana.
I powered up the cranky old box. My vintage computer had its own issues, but it worked when I really needed it. Today, Google opened right up and gave me the info I needed without arguing much.
Oeilett. Tough name, meant little eye, and was really close to the French word for carnation. Took me three tries to spell it right. Small eyes. Carnation. How threatening. I was just shaking in my worn-out sneakers.
It took about ten minutes worth of reading until I really was shaking. I knew I had to work with my leather chew toy, much as I wanted to tell him to blow town and go back to buggering sheep amid the blooming heather. Letting Eyeball get his corporeality on in my town was going to make the zombie uprising of ‘07 look like a Sunday school picnic.
The vow-breaker stuff worried me more than the greed. This thing could stoke people’s greed all he wanted, hell, television did that. But the vow-breaking meant they would cross any and every promise they had made, anything from a child’s “I’ll be good, Mama” to “I solemnly swear upon my honor and conscience” that the police said to “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States”.
The old monks who had originally codified the demons claimed he only tempted men to break vows of poverty. Later documentation showed he was in charge of all vow-breaking, especially when it led to gain.
Horrific visions of institutionalized mayhem, cops carrying out private vendettas, U.S. troops firing on American citizens, all the worst conspiracy ideas sprang fully formed into my head in vivid Technicolor. That meant less of an imagining and more of a foresight. I hated being vaguely precognitive, just enough to see the bad, but not enough to know if I could prevent it.
Shaking, I leaned forward, reached for more of the Captain and came up empty. Time to head down to the corner. I really needed to sit still and digest the information.
I looked out my window. Why is there never an enterprising street urchin when you need one? I made sure I had remembered to put my bra on, checked my shoelaces and went downstairs to the liquor store on the corner.
I came back with four bottles of Captain Morgan and set them in a line like glass soldiers. It was going to be a four-bottle weekend. Especially if skirt-boy decided he needed to see me in person again.
That thought made me shift in my seat. The comfort ridge in the middle of the chair felt very comforting as I rubbed against it. The seam on my jeans fit in between just right. I quit moving when I realized I was humping the wooden chair seat. Stupid carbonated hormones.
My phone rang, a number it didn’t recognize.
“Evening, lass, have you had a bite yet?” The accent went rig
ht through me.
Oh dear God. The places my mind went with that statement weren’t fit to discuss. We had a rapid tour of about four of the outer hell-planes, including the succubi home dimension. I squirmed in my chair because the seam of my jeans was cutting me just almost right. One good shift and it landed perfectly. After the fireworks behind my eyelids cleared, I realized he meant dinner. Brilliant, Admire. Keep this up and you’ll be mooning over him and doing stupid shit that will get us both killed.
“Not really.”
“I spent seven dollars on inedible shite from a stand. They said it was a burger and chips, but I doubt it. Is there good food in this town?” I heard a squashy thud, as if he’d tossed something away in disgust.
“Sure. You like barbecue?”
“I’m willing.”
“Where are you staying? I’ll pick you up. We split the tab, though.” He told me and I shook my head. Like the Witan couldn’t afford a Motel 6. The Lamplighter changed hands every six months because the owner got shot. “Give me ten minutes.” I checked my breath, touched the tip of my index fingers to my nose and frowned.
I was too drunk to drive. Shit. Three deep breaths and I focused on raising my body temperature. With a wince at the waste, I imagined the alcohol evaporating out of my bloodstream and could smell it come out through my pores. Now I had to take a shower, but the breathalyzer wouldn’t get me. I couldn’t afford a DUI.
I was a No-Talent, a person with just enough mana to do the simplest of spells, but not enough to train. The nice talismonger down the street had taught me the sobering-up trick one day when I’d wandered into her shop, needing something but too drunk to fish or even tell her what it was. Took me five tries to learn it. I didn’t use spells often. Using the mana tended to make my very limited precognition act up more. And like Bran had said, I drew the uncanny. In simple terms, I was a weirdness magnet. Actually using mana made that worse too, and the last thing I needed was a talking dog using me as his personal psychiatrist. Been there, done that, burned the t-shirt for warmth during an ice storm.
I ran through the shower, threw on some of the least rumpled stuff I could find and went to pick him up. It was only polite to show the visitor the best food in town that I could afford.
The weird electricity left us alone long enough to eat and I enjoyed listening to him talk about where he’d been recently. But on the drive back to my place, it kicked in again, until I could smell him, sitting there all leather and man and yumminess. I wondered why I was taking him back home and remembered that my sheets had at least been washed this month…well, this quarter. I couldn’t say the same for the motel.
I managed to get him up to my office without actually tearing the kilt off him. How, I will never know.
We settled on my fourth-hand sofa and worked out who was sitting in which saggy spot. Bran wrapped his arms around my waist and for once I didn’t want to pull away, hit him or shoot him.
His eyes were deep brown, the color of really good dark rum. I shook my head. That was not an image I needed right now or I’d be drinking instead of canoodling. He stared into my eyes like some cheesy romance hero and just like those books said, about a dozen butterflies banged around in my stomach, trying to escape. I felt ridiculous.
“Gonna bite me again, are ye?” he asked, one hand coming up to stroke my chin. I rubbed against it like a cat.
“No,” I whispered. “The quicker we get this out of the way, the better we’ll work together. Stupid distractions.” The words didn’t even feel like mine. Too real and sincere by half.
“Least said, soonest mended,” he agreed.
His mouth covered mine, the goatee silkier on my face than I’d expected. I liked the feel of it there, liked the feel of his lips on me. He tasted nice, a little smoky from the barbecue. He touched my lips with his tongue and it wasn’t slick and awful like the few fumbling kisses I’d had in my teens before I gave up on kissing.
I hesitated, and then opened up for him. He came in gentle, like a visitor looking around instead of trying to gag me by shoving in all at once. I liked the sweetness. His tongue tasted even smokier and I sucked on it just a little as he ran it along mine.
I heard some soft moans that might have been mine and the hard breathing that definitely was. I pressed closer, needing to feel more of him against me, the leather and the skin both.
He snorted a chuckle and broke the kiss.
I smiled as I realized I was practically in his lap. Blame the mana, because D.J. Admire had never sat astride a man’s lap. “Again?”
“Aye and as many as you want.” One of his hands slid around to cup my breast. “And anywhere you’re wanting them.” He tugged me up to kneel up over his lap and pulled me down for another kiss.
This time I got his vest open, the little hooks on the front working just like the ones on the wicker chest I kept my few photos in, and he tugged my shirt out of my jeans. I rubbed against the chains on his kilt, sensitive enough to feel every link through the soft denim.
“And where are you wanting to kiss me?” I asked as I licked his scar out to his earlobe and the other all the way up to his eyebrow.
He undid my bra and I realized I was topless, in the lap of a near-stranger, dry-humping him through leather and denim.
“Oh lovely,” he sighed and planted a soft kiss on each nipple. I shuddered as my whole skin broke out in goose bumps. He looked up and gave me a smile which went wicked with mischief. That made those stupid butterflies feel like they were the size of bats and everything down below went gooshy.
He ducked his head and flickered his tongue over each nipple, back and forth, right, left and right again. I bucked against his lap, against the growing bulge I could feel under the kilt. I finally got it into the right place, and rubbing along the seam of my jeans and I rode it hard.
“More, please, more!” Well damn, even my dialogue was being written by Harlequin instead of Raymond Chandler now. Fucking mana. I wondered if the mana would make the fucking better, because I wanted him inside me, all of that nice, thick cock I’d seen during our little mental mutual masturbation session.
He just chuckled again. “All you need, lass.” He took a firmer grip on me and started to move us both.
For a second, I went into combat mode getting my leverage and ready to fight against being thrown, but he just laid me back on the sofa very gently and opened my jeans. I didn’t want to be fucked on my back, but somehow, I couldn’t get my protest out around his mouth.
My jeans were gone and so were my panties. His kilt stayed between us and I rubbed up against that ridge, wanting it, not wanting it, and needing to have him in me before I went off like a bottle rocket.
He was down to my tits again, but not lingering. Then it was all soft beard and softer lips on my belly. It should have tickled, but instead I just wanted him to keep going. Each one of the kisses tingled and burned almost as sweetly as my Captain did.
He kept going, right on down. He hovered for a moment, taking deep breaths like he was smelling the most delicious dessert in the world. I wondered if I should have at least trimmed my bush. Bran, lovely man, didn’t seem to care that I was completely au naturel. He plunged right in, fingers, teeth, tongue and lips everywhere until I screamed.
Big mistake, Admire. Shouldn’t lose control like that, especially when you’re not the only office-cum-apartment on the floor. I giggled at that, since my office-cum-apartment really was full of the second item.
Two loud pounds on the door didn’t give me time to realize I was being intruded upon, before my landlady, Frau Blucher—name withheld to protect the psychopathic— barged in.
I glanced around, glad the sofa blocked most of us from view.
“Admire! What the hell? You sounded like you were being murdered. Just you and your dyke girlfriend, huh?”
Bran hadn’t stopped. He hadn’t even noticed the intrusion and was still flicking his tongue over my clit and running two long fingers in and out of me. I pounded my fist
on the back of the couch as I came again and swatted his shoulder. “I’m fine, ma’am,” I managed.
“Tell the bitch that combat boots with a skirt are so last season. Your rent is due in three days, Admire. Be on time for once in your life and maybe I’ll forget this little lesbian scene. It’s illegal in Tennessee, you know.”
Bran chose that moment to pop his head up and look around. “Lesbians? Where?” he asked Frau Blucher, his burr thicker than ever. I looked at him, his hair mussed and sweaty, his face glistening, yet earnestly hopeful, and burst out laughing.
Frau Blucher stared at him, then me, and shook her head. “Rent, Admire. Six hundred dollars, three days.” She slammed the door behind her.
The serious need and tension was gone now. He grinned back at me and I pulled him up by his vest to kiss me. I tasted myself on his face and it wasn’t awful. Kinda nice. Maybe he could have his lesbian after all. Nah, still wasn’t hot for girls, just him.
“On your back, wizard,” I ordered. “I think it’s time I gave my virginity to someone worthwhile.” I had no idea why I had just told him that. He would either turn all soft and sweet, acting like I was made of glass, or say something rude about my age.
He sat up with a bigger smile. I scooted off the couch and got the condoms out of the bag on the end table. We’d made a quick stop on the way home from dinner.
He lay down on the couch. “Then have yourself that ride, darlin’.”
It made me feel good that he wasn’t making a big deal of my age and status. I knelt over his knees and flipped the kilt up, looking for a minute. Nice, about average and a little thick, his cock lay up against his belly, hard and ready. I reached out and touched it, running one finger along the vein on the bottom.
“Think you’d see clear to a taste of it?” he asked.
“Not now.” I opened the unfamiliar package and pinched the tip of the condom before rolling it on, just like the directions said. Once he was covered in the latex, I covered him in me, sliding up and kissing him.
Spellbound Desire Page 3
