Perching in a hemlock, he watched the man leave the store carrying two bags of groceries. He was nothing special: an average guy in his late twenties, though his features were masked by a beard and the low slung ball cap that shaded his eyes. One thing was clear. He planned to shack up somewhere for a while.
Abandoning his raven guise, Estrada returned to his body; astounded at how easily he had mastered this new trick.
As they drove, he heard the river on his right and assumed the driver was heading north. After speeding along for, perhaps, an hour, he veered off the highway onto a gravel road. The van bounced slowly over potholes, until at last, the driver braked and shut off the ignition. For a moment, silence. Then, the driver’s door opened and slammed shut.
When the side door slid open, heavy morning air, laden with the stench of river silt, whipped across his face. Breathing deeply, Estrada filled his lungs. Fingers brushed his face below the blindfold, and then he was yanked out. When his feet touched the ground, he stood and took another deep breath. The air smelled fresh and green. They must be somewhere in the country north of Hope. When the man grasped his arm and pulled him forward, he stumbled, his legs stiff from hours of confinement. Steadied by his captor, he shuffled along.
I could run right now. Rip off this straitjacket and run like a wolf into the trees. But no, I gave my word. If I break it, what kind of man am I? And what vengeance will follow? This man could come after every witch in the coven, everyone I love.
Metal jangled, hinges creaked, and then there were new smells: mould, dust and decay, the odours of abandonment. Once inside, he stood waiting while the man shut and barred the cabin door. He heard the screech of a stove opening. Wood was tossed inside and a match struck. The scent of smoke provided strange comfort. Then he was spun around and the man’s mouth was so close he could feel warm breath against his neck. The salty scent of beef jerky made his empty stomach growl.
“Take it off,” the man said, his voice dry and distorted. Unrecognizable. He wanted a show. Was he from the club? Had he seen his act before? Was this the reason for the straitjacket?
Twisting, Estrada dropped his shoulders and rearranged his bones and muscles, flexing and relaxing in the dance of escape; exaggerating his movements as he did onstage. After unleashing the knotted strap between his legs, he caught the bottom of the straitjacket with his freed hands and prepared for the final flourish. But, when he tried to yank it over his head it caught in his hair. Reaching back to entangle it, he realized that his hair had been pulled back and twisted into a tight bun at the nape of his neck. The blindfold, still firmly in place, was tied directly above it.
Finally, free of the straitjacket, he stretched and revelled in the rush of blood through his veins. Then palms touched his chest and he was walked slowly backwards, until his calves caught a soft edge. Grasping the shoulders of his leather jacket, the man slid it off.
Bound by his promise, Estrada did not fight or resist. Even when the man began unbuttoning his shirt. He caught the scent of nervous sweat. Perhaps, his captor was not as confident as he appeared. Clammy hands touched his flesh beneath the silk. Fingers stroked his naked shoulders, and then, it too slipped away. Feeling space between them, Estrada felt certain he was being appraised. Then fingers unclasped his trousers and he heard the slow chink of his zipper. As they fell around his ankles, the cool air pricked his naked flesh and he grew aroused. Pressing one palm against his breast, the man ran his fingers along his neck and chest; and then down his belly, stopping just shy of his genitals. Grasping his shoulders, he pushed him down. Perched on the edge of the bed, Estrada waited, as boots, trousers, and socks were peeled off.
For a moment nothing happened, and he breathed in the pause, feeling how good it was to be alive and free of constraints. He complied, even when the man wrapped a rope around each wrist and bound him hand and foot to the bedposts. When something cold and metallic touched his thigh and his scant underwear were sliced off, a slight moan escaped his lips. Like so many men and women into bondage who came to Pegasus, he wondered if this man was only after power. Yet, he did not seem like a sadist and Estrada had run across many of them over the years, given Michael’s reputation in the community. This man was different: gentle, reverent even.
I do not fear him, he thought, surprised. And I cannot call this rape.
Coercion perhaps, but not rape. Rapists derived their power from forcing their victims and he had not only given consent, he was aroused by the game. There was something about this man that thrilled him. Still, he was confused. If all his captor wanted was sex, why not approach him at the club? Did he fear rejection? And why such an elaborate ruse? Why disguises? Straitjackets and drugs? Why kidnap Sensara and then release her? Was it all just meant to heighten the experience?
“What do you want from me?”
His captor threw a blanket over his naked body, but remained silent. And, when he curled up beside him and laid his cheek against his breast, Estrada was baffled by this tender show of affection. Within minutes, his breathing deepened into a slow relaxed rhythm, and Estrada, weary from the whole ordeal, closed his eyes, and joined the man in sleep.
When he awoke his captor was spreading a balm over his dry lips. He was still blindfolded and bound, but the cabin was warm and the blanket gone. A familiar scent brought comfort.
“Cinnamon.” A tiny hard candy was wedged between his lips. As the hot spice burnt his tongue, he remembered red valentine hearts from a time long past; as well as, Sensara’s recent comment. His friends knew about his passion for cinnamon, but how did the man? Had he been stalking him? “Tastes good, but it’s hot. Could I have some water?” He felt the man rise, and then a plastic bottle was pushed between his lips. Tilting his head back, he drank.
After removing the bottle, the man straddled his pelvis, and with the touch of a blind painter, explored his body. He too was naked. Though the dalliance grew slowly, the damp weight wedged against his groin left no doubt what was desired. And Estrada had no qualm with that, was aroused himself. Gentle fingertips stroked the smooth skin of his cheekbones below the blindfold; then drifted along each ridge and hollow of his ears, his neck, his throat, and finally across his stubbled chin, to his lips.
He opened his mouth and kissed the fingertips, explored with his tongue, the smooth rippled flesh and manicured nails. Leaning forward, the man grasped his cheeks and replaced his fingers with his own cinnamon tongue. The kissing went on and on, fading to flickering brush strokes, and then, growing in intensity, as the two men rode the same ragged breath.
Drifting down his body, the exploration continued, and Estrada grew harder fueled by the man’s skillful passion; until he could think of nothing but the quick heat, the soft tongue and mouth dampening his flesh, the fingers everywhere, tantalizing, stroking, probing to their own distinct rhythm, as the man’s growls merged with his own.
It was as if this man, this lover, was inside his mind giving him exactly what he wanted, moment by moment; the teasing relentless, as always in control, he would bring him to the edge, and then pull away completely, leaving him wet and shivering, pushing against the ropes that bound him and begging for release. When at his pleading, the man began to drain him, Estrada met him stroke for stroke, needing to give everything his earnest lover could take. He could not help himself.
Finally, assuming he was too satiated to consider escape, the man untied the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles, and in a surprising gesture of trust, collapsed on the bed beside him. Time passed as Estrada basked in the afterglow.
Then, he sat up and rubbed his wrists. Reaching back, he unbound his hair and ruffled it with his fingers. It felt good to be naked and unfettered. Falling forward the thick curls brushed the flesh below his nipples and they grew rigid. He flicked one with his fingernail and felt the spark as a wave of fire ignited in his belly. Turning, he hovered on his knees. Fully erect again, he wanted to take his lover where he had been and beyond. Possess him. Still blindfolded, yet sensin
g the man beneath him, he fell upon his body. Catching the soft open mouth with his, he filled it with his eager tongue.
Groaning suddenly like an angry bear, the man thrust his palms against Estrada’s chest and shoved him with such force he flew backwards against the wall.
Estrada gasped. “What the fuck?”
Reaching up to rip off the blindfold—wanting to know, needing to know—he was stopped by a vice-like grip and a sharp jab in the arm. As the vile fluid surged through his veins, he felt as if he were falling through a cascade of stars into a deep black hole.
≈
Estrada awoke in the gravel beside the highway. Somewhere. Nowhere. Rain was falling in torrents. Sprawled on his back, head cradled in his hands, he felt the cold drops pelt his face. Poets said that rain could cleanse a man’s soul. He needed to believe that. His was dirty. Not because he’d been with a man, but because of the man he’d been with. The violence that followed sex negated any tenderness that came before. The man was mad, unpredictable, and more than capable of murder.
He laid there so long a puddle formed around the edges of his body. Images tormented him as he recalled the events of the previous night: Sensara’s bizarre behaviour at Pegasus, the scuffle in the back alley, the killer’s keen perception. Was it physical? Chemical? Or something else? Another facet of the spell? A lover conjured from his fantasies? God. The memory of his touch aroused him still. But that was insane. He couldn’t go on thinking like this. He had to find Sensara. She was sick. What if he hadn’t persuaded the man to let her go? What would he have done to her? What had he done to Jade?
“Good god, Estrada.” Michael’s arrival in Crimson brought no relief. The top step of a ghost shop along the highway afforded some protection from the storm, but not from his disparaging thoughts. Hunched over, face buried in his hands, he shuddered and sighed as his friend hunkered down beside him.
“What did he do to you?” The question, asked with such tender pity, provoked tears. Estrada had never realized just how much he hated being alone, and this night of all nights, rife with demons and self-abuse, had pushed him over the edge.
Glancing up, he saw another man in the passenger seat of the car. If it had only been the two of them, he would have told all in great detail, just puked it up like so much poison. There was nothing he couldn’t share with Michael. But, for some bizarre reason, he’d responded to Estrada’s summons with his younger brother—the same brother who’d been stalking him and blackened his eye only days before. The bruise still lurked beneath his pirate patch.
Michael touched his shoulder and winced. “Ah god. Your jacket’s ruined. The leather’s soaked.”
Estrada swiped a hand across his tear-streaked face, erasing his weakness from Clive’s prying eyes.
“You look like hell. Sorry compadre, but—”
“Keep it up. You’re saying all the right things.”
Michael smiled pitifully and reached inside the car. “Here’s a blanket. Take off your wet clothes and wrap up before you get sick.”
“You just don’t want me to wreck the interior.” When he peeled off his leather jacket, the charcoal calfskin, once soft as butter, felt hard and heavy. “You’re right. It’s ruined.” He saw a garbage can beside the steps and decided to put the jacket out of its misery. Sensara would be glad to see it gone; at least the old Sensara. A supporter of animal rights, she was a natural hemp girl all the way. Checking his inside pockets, he pulled out his cell phone from the right and his wallet from the left.
“Anything missing?” Estrada checked quickly and shook his head. Michael shrugged. “Why didn’t he take your phone or credit cards?”
“The man’s no thief.” Though he rarely put anything in the outside pockets, he checked them. When he pulled his hand out of the right pocket, his fingers were stained red.
“What’s that? Blood?”
Estrada smelled his fingers. “Cinnamon.”
“Cinnamon?”
“You know those valentine hearts?”
“God, how long has that been in there?”
Estrada shrugged, stuck his fingers in the pocket and extracted the tiny red heart. The man had left him a memento. “I used to love these.” Grimacing, he flicked it into the brush.
As he walked toward the garbage can, he wondered how the man had known about his fondness for cinnamon. He must know him. If he’d only seen his face. He thought of the hundreds of people that frequented the club. Fans often sent gifts and notes backstage: propositions, love letters, sometimes complaints. He lifted the lid and shoved the leather jacket inside the metal can.
“You can’t do that!”
Estrada froze, momentarily stunned by this new authoritative voice. Clive. “It’s evidence. The police need it.” He thrust a plastic bag out the window of the car. “Put it in here.”
Ignoring the proffered bag, Estrada rammed the lid down on the can. “Why is he here?” It wasn’t a question so much as an accusation.
“We called a truce. Leave it. Please.” Michael shrugged and took the bag. “Come on. Take the rest of your wet things off and put them in here. I’ll have you home in no time.”
Estrada shook his head. “I need to see Sensara. Where is she?”
“She’s safe. She’s in the hospital—”
“Take me there.” He took the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders.
“But, you’re all—”
“Please, man. I have to see her.”
“You should go directly to the police,” interjected Clive. “You’re a piece of evidence. That man’s a criminal—”
Estrada opened the car door and jerked Clive out. Shoving him against the wet metal, he held his jacket in his fists and braced his torso so tightly, he could feel the skinny kid’s belt buckle through his wet shirt. “Mind your own fucking business or the next body the police find will be yours.” Clive averted his gaze like a submissive dog. “What? You’re not going to box me in the eye?”
“Come on, compadre. I’ll take you to her.” Michael grinned slyly, then opened the driver’s door, slipped inside, and revved the engine.
“Crimson’s a two-seater. Looks like you’re hitching, kid.” With a violent shove, Estrada sent Clive reeling several feet into the parking lot, his rage easing his despair. After climbing into the car, he shut and locked the door. “Drive amigo.”
≈
Sensara’s loose hair fell like black silken threads against the bleached bed sheets. Like Snow White she slumbered, beautifully poisoned, while her dwarfish coven huddled outside the door awaiting word of her awakening. Estrada savoured the stolen moment, while the drama of the past few weeks hovered just beyond him like a bad dream. Leaning over, he inhaled the fruit of her perfectly glossed lips, thinking how Snow White, once awakened by the prince’s kiss, lived happily ever after. He paused, basking, gathering courage, while she inhaled deeply and sighed, her eyelids riffling in drowsy dream.
As his lovesick lips brushed hers, he closed his eyes, feeling her warm lips thicken, quivering in response, opening, allowing, wanting. He gazed down. Had his princely kiss awakened her or was she merely dreaming?
“Am I dreaming?” she asked, startling him with her uncanny ability to read his thoughts even in her sleep. Her brown eyes flickered with a smile and then she grimaced. “Oh Lord. I’ll never drink again as long as I live. I feel like death.”
“You look as enchanting as a princess in a faerie tale.”
Smiling, she touched his cheek. “Storyman. I’ve missed you.”
“You’re not mad at me anymore?” Whatever insanity possessed her during the last few weeks appeared to have abated.
“How can I be mad? You saved my life.” He cocked his head like a raven and she answered his question, her voice softening conspiratorially. “I heard you in the van. I know what you did.”
Brow furling, he pulled up a chair and perched alongside the bed. “What do you mean?”
“You offered yourself in exchange for me. You sa
id: ‘I’ll do anything you want.’ I heard you.” She took his hands in hers and ran her fingers over each knuckle. “I hope the price was not too great. Did he hurt you? What did he do to you? How did you get away?”
“Too many questions for now.”
They stared into each other’s eyes for some time. Then she said, “Yes.”
“Yes?”
“You want to know if you can kiss me again. The answer is yes.”
Leaning forward he caught her lips with his. He liked the soft caress of her tongue in his mouth, the feel of her warm sleepy hands in his hair. She was sweet and gentle and nothing like the man.
“You’re right,” she whispered, stroking his hair. “There’s plenty of time for talking later. I know you’re cold and tired, but will you lie beside me for a while?”
“I’d love to, but you knew that, didn’t you?” Kicking off his boots, he crawled beneath the soft blue hospital blanket. She turned to face him, ran her fingers through his curls and buried her lips in the flesh of his neck.
He shivered when he remembered her gifts. Could she sense the last face buried there? Why on earth hadn’t he gone home first, showered and changed and washed away all traces of him? Clive was right. He was a piece of fucking evidence, his flesh stained with the man’s DNA. Tainted. Desecrated. Sensara would never understand. She must never know.
To distract her, he caught her chin with his fingertips and kissed her hard and deep, resurrecting the night at Buntzen Lake when it all began. Aroused, her pupils dilated and she slid her leg over his, squeezing in hard against him. Why did she want him now? Was it love or gratitude, or did Ecstasy still surge through her veins?
“You’re my hero. My very own knight.” She kissed him tenderly. “Now I know you’d do anything for me.”
Yes, I would. Anything. But would you still want me if you knew what I did? And, how much I liked it? How I crave him still?
7: Hecate
To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1) Page 10
