“I know, and I’ve decided what I want.”
“Please say it’s a leprechaun,” said Bianca. “I’m actually getting quite good at them. I think it might be my new specialty.”
Elinor laughed. “No leprechauns. I want a pair of beautiful wings, spreading out from my shoulders down my back, ready to unfurl and fly away at any time. Because I feel as if this house has allowed me to fly away from the things that were holding me back. Finally, I feel free.”
“We’ll start first thing tomorrow,” said Bianca, licking icing off her fingers.
“Not so fast,” I grabbed her. “Ever since I met you, I’ve been yearning to feel your skin against mine, and my yearning has not yet been sated. I don’t think we’re planning to leave the bedroom for at least a month.”
“A month?” Elinor gave me a breathtaking smile. “I’d better limber up then.” And with that, she broke away from me and ran across the lawn, heading down to the crooked path heading into the forest, her voluminous skirt billowing out behind her. I grinned and chased after her, enjoying the way the wind whipped my hair around my face and the long grass shifted against my black pants. God, it feels good to be alive.
At the gate Elinor paused and waited for me, her brilliant eyes gleaming. The red shirt swirled around her legs, accentuating her foxy curves. She had never looked more beautiful, or more like herself.
“Did I tell you how gorgeous you look in that dress?” I said, my eyes wandering over her body.
Elinor leaned in closer, pressing herself against me, enjoying the heat of my flesh against her bare shoulders. “This is a ghost story, remember. I needed my voluminous gothic gown.”
Beautiful, unpredictable Elinor. I loved her already, more than she could ever know. I bent down and placed my lips against hers, relishing the flicker of hot energy—a remnant of the afterlife she had saved me from—that passed between us as my mouth devoured hers.
THE END
Want another story from the world of Crookshollow? Bakery owner Belinda Wu saves an injured raven, who turns out to be a shapeshifter on the run. Is Cole just the man she needs to save her from her own problems? Read Watcher now
What’s new from Steffanie Holmes?
Witch Hunter
Europe – 1351. Centuries ago a curse was placed on Ada's family; every seven days a woman from her line must sleep with a man – any man – or the entire coven will lose their powers forever. As a fledgling witch, it is Ada's turn to continue the seven-day cycle, but with the plague wiping out more men every day, who will she find to take into her bed? BBW Ada goes to a sacred grove to perform a ritual to bring a man to her, and a man appears. But he is as dangerous as he is handsome ...
Ulrich of Donau-Ries is a battle-scarred witch hunter, tired of the stranglehold the church has over his destiny. His heart hardened by violence and the woman who betrayed him, Ulrich is determined to never again fall in love. But that all changes when he finds Ada, naked and waiting for him. She is the first woman to loosen the chains around his black heart.
When Ada is accused of witchcraft, Ulrich seizes his chance to be close to her once more. In Ulrich's dungeon, they find solace in each other, and innocent Ada learns to embrace her lover's dark fantasies. But will Ulrich's heart thaw in time to save Ada from being burned alive at the stake?
Witch Hunter is a full-length novel by USA Today bestselling author Steffanie Holmes. It's part 1 of a 3-part steamy romance series exploring Ada and Ulrich's forbidden love, and ends on a cliffhanger. The story contains elements of BDSM and dungeon play. If you like dark, brooding heroes, magical forces, and fearless heroines who know what they want, then this novel will have you shivering all over.
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Excerpt from Witch Hunter
Enjoy a preview of Steffanie Holmes's new medieval paranormal romance series, Witches of the Woods. Witch Hunter is the first book in this sizzling series. A dark plague, a forbidden love, an ancient curse so powerful it threatens to tear them apart.
That night, I tossed and turned in my bed. I could not sleep, thinking about everything my aunts had told me.
We're cursed.
I could not believe it. Every seven days for the past nineteen years, my aunts had been sleeping with a man, in order to keep our powers. I thought of Aunt Bernadine in her younger days, before the arthritis had clawed at her hands, when she would entertain the woodsmen while Aunt Aubrey took me fishing at the lake. I thought of Hans, the young farmhand not much older than I, who showed up at the doorway every week last summer with a bowl of fresh roots from his garden, and Aunt Aubrey made me go to the river to wash them, even if they'd already been washed. I thought of Andreas, sauntering down the path with a big grin on his dopey face …
For nineteen years they'd kept this curse – and their men – secret from me. And now it was my turn to use my body in order to preserve our powers. This was not the way I imagined losing my virginity.
I had to find a man, and sleep with him. All within three days. When all the most eligible candidates were either dying of the plague or skinning their knees in the church praying for salvation, and the greatest witchfinder in all the land was making his way to our village to destroy my coven?
But I didn't know anything about sex.
I'd heard other girls in the village talk about it, but they said it hurt. They seemed to regard it as something you did for men so they'd give you money or food or attention. My aunts were both quiet on the subject. In fact, it was impossible to imagine Aunt Bernadine even kissing a man, let alone lying with one with enough regularity to keep her powers all these years.
My sexual education was limited to Rebekah's spirited retellings of what happened behind the public house, and a couple of forbidden lithographs Waltraud once brought to Sunday school.
Even with the help of the ritual, the chances of me finding a man to have me seemed slim. How was I going to seduce a man within four days?
I woke the next morning in a cold sweat, jolted from my bed by a nightmare. I dreamed I'd gone into the forest to perform the rite, only instead of conjuring a man, great buboes grew all over my body, and the skin on my hands grew black and flaked away. It was just a dream. You don't have the plague.
I clutched my chest, waiting for my pounding heart to return to normal. My wool blanket was dripping with my sweat. With shaking hands, I lit my candle and checked every inch of my body – running my hands over my curves, feeling every inch of my skin, searching for the buboes or rash that announced the arrived of death. Nothing.
It was only a dream, I told myself again. But I couldn't stop my hands from shaking. My aunts, as seasoned witches, placed much importance on the contents of dreams. Was my dream a prediction, or a warning? Is it telling me that death waits for me in the grove?
I sat down at the table as Aunt Aubrey cut thick chunks of bread, and gave me a wooden bowl containing a foul-smelling tea. "Drink that," she patted my shoulder. "And do not fear, Ada. I have mixed it perfectly. It is not dangerous."
"How long until it takes effect?" I lifted the bowl to my lips with shaking hands, steeling myself to gulp down to foul liquid.
"A few hours. Are you ready? You will need to hurry to the grove."
The grove was a long distance from the village – nearly a full day's hike, even from someone as young and fit as me. The women in my family had used it for centuries as a safe and secret place to perform rituals. The last time I had visited the grove had been for my ritual of initiation into the family coven – two summers ago. Now I had to return on my own to ask the goddess for a man.
I nodded, threw my head back, and drowned the bowl in one gulp. My stomach twisted in protest as the foul concoction wound its way through my body, but I managed to keep it down. Aunt Aubrey handed me a walking staff and a pouch with some food, a knife, and the other implements for the ritual. She wrapped her warmest fur cloak around my shoulders, and strapped my bow and a quiver of arrows across my back.
"Where's Aunt Bernadine
?" I demanded, my voice hoarse from the burning tea.
"She's by the stream, performing a ritual of her own." Aunt Aubrey hugged my shoulders. "Do not mind her – she cares for you deeply, in her own way. May the goddess protect you, Ada." She kissed my forehead, and pushed me out the door.
The morning air was crisp, and a light pattern of snow dotted the forest floor. As I walked I kept my eyes on the ground, searching for the herbs and ingredients I would need to complete the spell. Patchouli, juniper, myrtle, white oak bark … Aunt Aubrey assured me the walk to the grove and the searching out of the herbs were an important part of the ritual – my movements now would help the magic become stronger.
If I wanted a man, I needed all the help I could get.
Minutes turned into hours, and I covered the ground quickly, unhindered by my elderly aunts and their weak bones. I found the patchouli easily – it grew wild in this part of the forest. I knew there were juniper bushes near the edge of the grove. Now all I needed was some white oak bark. I scanned the forest for the right tree, twisting my neck one way, then the other, searching for the familiar thick trunk and rugged branches.
Finally, I saw a white oak tree, down at the bottom of the gully. I descended the slope slowly, gathering my skirts in my hands so they would not drag in the mud. As I stepped around a fallen trunk, my foot slipped on a pile of wet leaves and I fell forward, sliding on my hands and knees, drenching my clothing and satchel in mud and snow. I sighed, pulling myself to my feet. "Just look at yourself," I muttered. "You're a mess. No wonder you need magic to find a man."
At least I was only a mile or so from the grove, and could soon wash away the filth under the waterfall.
I reached the base of the oak tree. Taking my knife from my pocket, I began to scrape away a section of bark. As I scraped, I heard a noise behind me. Just a bird. Or a deer. I kept cutting.
No. It wasn't a deer. It was a larger animal, its steps heavy in the crunching snow. There was a road – not often travelled – not far away. It might be a horse and rider perhaps? Or it could be a wolf, stalking the foolish girl who'd entered his territory? Either could be dangerous. I swirled around, scanning the forest for any sign of life. It wouldn't do to be caught out here by myself, clutching a satchel laden with magical implements. I squinted through the trees around the gully, but could see nothing.
A twig snapped. My heart leapt to my chest.
As silently as possible, I pulled the small bow from my back and removed an arrow from my quiver. Although most women in the village are forbidden the use of weapons, my aunts taught me to use a bow to hunt animals in the forest. There's many a winter we wouldn't have survived if it hadn't been for the rabbits and roe deer I brought home for the stew pot.
Again I searched the undergrowth, listening for the familiar tread of a wolf's paw, or the faint whiff of rotten flesh that often accompanied them.
I waited for several moments, steadying my breathing, my senses poised for an attack. But there was nothing. It is nothing. My stomach twisted again, Aunt Aubrey's potion working its foul magic. My imagination was getting the better of me. I replaced the bow and arrow and moved toward the grove.
I moved silently now, as if I were approaching an animal. If there was something out there, I didn't want it to follow me. I entered the grove through a line of fir saplings, several of their branches bent or broken from last week's storm. The rain had raised the level of the lagoon, which lapped at the edges of the firs, the stones on the bank submerged under clear water. It was not yet cold enough for the water to turn to ice. I remembered the lagoon being fed by a peaceful, trickling waterfall, but the recent rains had turned it into a torrent, churning the water around it into white froth.
The grove was empty, and even the birds fell silent as I walked to the edge of the lagoon. Nothing would disturb my ritual today.
Humming to myself, I shrugged off the heavy cloak and arranged my implements. The walk had warmed my body, causing me to sweat through my thick layers. I was looking forward to cooling down in the water. Using the knife on my belt, I traced a faint circle in the dirt, and sat inside, placing the mortar and pestle, the scrap of parchment containing the spell, the leather thong, and my herbs and bark in a semi-circle in front of me. I dumped the herbs into the bowl and worked them into a paste, speaking an incantation aloud, my tongue slipping easily over the ancient words.
My voice carried great power in the silence of the grove – I could feel the magic tingling in the air. The goddess is listening.
I set down the pestle, satisfied I had created a fine paste. I stood and lifted my sheath over my head. Naked now, I dipped my fingers into the paste and drew the sigils across my voluptuous body, my skin tingling under my touch as I traced the lines across my bare breasts and belly.
The magic is working. The goddess will bring me a man, so that my aunts and I can continue to use our magic.
I twirled around three times, laughing at my giddiness. Now it was time to wash. Speaking a final prayer, I stepped across the circle, moving slowly into the lagoon. I shivered as the water lapped against my toes, inched up my calves, and splashed against the downy triangle between my legs. When I was waist-deep I dived, enjoying the shock as my body penetrated the coolness. Laughing, I emerged again, lying back and floating on the skin of the water.
Divine Goddess, I prayed, closing my eyes and imagining my prayer being carried away on the breeze. Bring me a man to cool my fires as this water cools me, and to restore to my family the powers you have bestowed upon us.
I lifted my head out of the water, and felt a scream catch in my throat. On the edge of the lagoon stood a man, clothed in only a tunic and trousers. He was watching me.
The Goddess works fast.
I shut my eyes and opened them again. He was still there. A man – a real man – stood before me in the sacred grove. My spell brought him here. I can perform magic after all!
And what magic! I licked my lips as I regarded my gift from the Goddess. He was more handsome then I ever could have wished. Tall, with long hair as black as night, held back from his face with plaits and leather thongs. Beneath his thin tunic, his shoulders bulged – a man didn't get muscles like that working in the village. He was a warrior. The skin on his arms was rough, criss-crossed with the white scars of battle. He had shaved recently, and a thin line of stubble darkened his square, proud jaw. He wore dark trousers and thick leather boots, and leather braces encircled his forearms.
Our eyes met, and he did not look away. His sharp features betrayed nothing, just high cheekbones framing a smouldering gaze. This was the man the goddess has chosen for me? I could hardly believe my good fortune.
"Why have you come here?" I managed to choke out.
He did not answer.
Mesmerised, I rolled onto my stomach and drifted across the water toward him. A waterskin bobbed in the water in front of him. The sun caught the glint of metal on the rocks beside him – he had laid aside a sword. He was a warrior. I would have a warrior. When Aunt Bernadine hears about this–
"Have you come for me?"
Again, he said nothing. I stopped a few feet from him, unsettled by his silence and that stony, unfaltering gaze. I drew up, my full height only reaching his broad shoulders, revealing the full length of my nakedness. That disarmed him at last, and he glanced away, stepping back across the rocks.
"Have you come for me?" I asked again, suddenly feeling very exposed and nervous.
He took another step back, glancing at me and looking away again. "You must … clothe yourself."
"Why?" I felt confused. Being naked was an important part of the ritual. "Do I not please you?"
"You …" he turned toward me again, and this time his gaze fell on the two sigils above my breasts. They hadn't completely washed away in the water. He seemed to trace the design in the air with his pupils. "You are … I know what you are."
"I am yours." What is happening? Why does he not want me? I tried to fight the tears that clutched
at the corners of my eyes. Why can I not even convince this man, whom the goddess has given me, to lay with me?
The man nodded, still not meeting my gaze. When he spoke again, his voice was tinged with sadness. "Yes, you are. I have come for you, but it could be your doom."
I took a step back, more unsure than ever. Is this how it is supposed to go? Goddess, help me understand what to do next.
"I don't understand." My heel caught the edge of a rock, and I staggered forward to regain my balance. Warm, rough hands grabbed me by the shoulders, pulling me upright. I stood, panting, gazing up at him. His eyes bore into mine, deep pools of brown with a flicker of orange flame around the iris. The eyes of a fire god.
He broke our gaze and scanned the horizon, his eyes darting from tree to tree before focusing intently on the rock ledge above the waterfall.
"It is safe here," I said. "The nearest village is a day’s hike from the grove. This is why I have come–"
He held his finger to his lips. "You're not safe here," he whispered. "Not while you're with me."
I did not know what to say, or if I should say anything at all. He could break me in two with his bare hands. His gaze was so hard, so cruel. Were the men the goddess sent always this fearsome? Is it some kind of test? His grip against my shoulder tightened, his fingers digging into my skin. I whimpered.
"You are beautiful," he whispered. He said it with venom, as though it were an accusation. He released my shoulder and raised his hand toward me. I sucked in a breath, half expecting him to slap me, but instead he stroked the edge of my breast, just above my nipple.
My reaction to that simple touch surprised me. Far from frightening me, when he touched my skin it sent a shiver through me, as if every hair on my body stood on end. My stomach contracted at his touch, and my nipple swelled before him. He stroked it again, and my stomach clenched further, my skin like fire beneath his finger. I let out a low moan.
The Man in Black: A Gothic Romance (Crookshollow Ghosts) Page 33
