“But why?”
“The spell he requested was the smallest part of what he learned today.” Michael shook his head, looking with rueful admiration at the man he’d felled. “We had to collaborate, and in the process he learned more than anyone in your world has known in several hundred years. Which he was counting on, of course. Did you not think he gave in too easily?”
I sighed. I’d been too relieved to be suspicious.
“I will give him what we agreed upon,” Michael said, “but must take away the rest.” He settled, cross-legged, beside Cullen’s body, and touched his forehead.
I didn’t interfere. Should I have? I’ve never been sure.
It didn’t take long. After a few moments Michael shook himself like a dog come in from the rain, and stood. “It’s done.” Regret rang through his voice like a low, sad bell. “I left him a gift.”
“What kind?”
“Shields. No one will be able to do to him again what I have done this day.”
I sighed. “He wants to learn so much.”
“And I understand his need, better than he knows. But he is too hungry.” Michael looked at me. “I’ve dealt with seekers like him for a very long time. Their hunger can’t be sated, like yours can. Better if he forgets. It would be unkind to let him remember only a little, knowing that so much more was somewhere in his world.”
“Not kind, no,” I said quietly. “And maybe not safe for us, either. Michael?”
“Yes?”
“Just how old are you?”
His eyes crinkled as amusement banished the shadows. “You have been determined to see me as very young, haven’t you? Though you claimed not to be fooled by my body. My delicious body?” He quirked an eyebrow at me.
I laughed and held out my hand. “Male vanity crosses all realms. You didn’t answer my question.”
“Soon,” he said, taking my hand, “you will know that, and more. But we had best hurry. Cullen was counting on my unwillingness to use magic and draw the goddess’s attention.”
I swallowed. “She has to work through human agents, and we’re pretty remote. Even if she spotted you, it will take them awhile to get here.”
“Yes. But I am unsure how long we will be . . . occupied.”
I tried for a cocky smile. “Doesn’t usually take that long.”
“This will not be as usual, Molly.”
THE node lay just east of the shack, its perimeter less than ten feet from the wall Cullen had gone sailing through. In another land it would have been called a fairy circle. The San Diego hills—I refuse to call them mountains, they lack the stature for that—are arid, though, so the grass was scruffy, bleached, and brownish. But though sparse, it grew in the distinctive spiral pattern common to nodes.
The two men had set wards earlier, using four black pillar candles, one at each of the cardinal points. Michael used a gesture rather than an athame to open the circle so we could enter. A quilt awaited us.
We were to enter sky-clad—nude, in other words. This was both ritually necessary and convenient, considering why we were there. I stripped, stepped into the circle, and knelt on the quilt.
Michael left his clothes in a neat pile and joined me. With another gesture, he set flames on the candles’ wicks. He knelt in front of me, taking my hands. “You’re nervous. You know what to do?”
I nodded. They’d briefed me on my part—which was, basically, to control my appetite, not letting myself dine until Michael told me to. And to set the sexual pace. Most of the time, simultaneous orgasm is overrated. This once, though, it was essential. “One of these days we’ll have to try this in a bed,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. Mine, mostly.
“I count on that. Molly? Time is short.”
I nodded again, leaned forward, and brushed my lips across Michael’s—and sprang to my feet. “I’m sorry.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”
Silence. Except for the wind and a distant locust, I heard nothing at all. I opened my eyes. Michael just sat there, his face nearly as frozen as the state cop’s had been.
“It’s wrong,” I said, miserable. “You were worried I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for. Well, I knew. I was thrilled, if you want the truth. You couldn’t leave me once it was done, could you?” Everyone left—over and over, they grew old and died . . . “I wanted to keep you. Because you won’t die.” The wind lifted my hair, pushing it in my face. I shoved it back.
He tilted his head back so he could look at me. His voice was dead level. “And is that the only reason you want to keep me? Because I won’t age and die on you?”
“Well, I love you, of course. But—”
“Holy fuck.”
I blinked at him.
“You said the word was not offensive when one is about to do it.” He rose to his feet and gripped my shoulders. “Didn’t you wonder? Of all the nodes in the world, didn’t you wonder how I happened to land on yours?”
“I—I supposed it was the closest, or something like that.”
“I’ve been watching you. What you call the Great Storm was the physical expression of a realms-wide disturbance. It opened a small . . . call it a viewing spot. I saw you save Erin’s great-great-grandmother. I bent several rules to watch you raising her. Then you left Galveston, for years and years. I was so happy when you came back.” His fingers tightened. “So happy.”
“Watching me?” I couldn’t take it in. “You’ve been watching me since 1900?”
“Only when you were in Galveston. I couldn’t follow when you left. You were so beautiful. I watched, and I fell in love.”
My mouth was hanging open like a fish’s. I closed it, then said, stupidly, “But I’ve been fifty years old all that time.”
“Molly.” His smile was tender. “You shine. I wish you could see your own colors.”
Something tight and small inside me was unfurling. “You love me. It isn’t just the sex. You loved me before that.”
He nodded, solemn again. “I didn’t think you could love me. Not this fast, maybe not at all. But I could feed you, I knew that. Only, of course, I forgot. Forgot everything—you, me, why I’d fled.” He shook his head. “I really am bad at creating spells. In my defense, I can only say that I was in a hurry. They’d broken into my place.”
“They?”
“They shouldn’t have been able to. Even Old Ones have limits. But two of them cooperated with—with—it’s gone.” The familiar frustration roughened his voice. “Something has changed in the realms, but I don’t know what. Not anymore.”
“Never mind,” I said, and the unfurling reached my face, bringing a smile. “This isn’t the time for talk, is it?” I put my arms around his neck. “Make love with me, Michael.”
In the end it was simple, after all.
We sank to the quilt together, kissing and touching as if we had all the time in the world. This time I could be patient, thrill myself with his body, because the other hunger wasn’t so great. This time, I could share a little of what I’d learned in the last three hundred years.
I explored him. His toes. The backs of his knees. His scrotum—oh, he was sensitive there, no surprise, but his response nearly tipped me over. I sat back on my heels, breathing heavily. “Give me a moment.”
“No,” he said, and pulled me over him like a blanket.
“I think you’ve forgotten who’s in charge,” I said as he licked my nipple. He smiled and blew on it. I shivered.
Passion was no less strong, but it built more slowly. Maybe because he and I both had to keep track of other things—he was watching the energies I couldn’t see, manipulating them in ways I couldn’t guess. But I could feel them, oh, yes, feel the power rising, swirling between us, yet I had to keep us paced to each other.
Finally I rose over him, guided myself down and sighed with pleasure at the fullness. I ran my fingernails over his chest. “I am very happy with the body you chose,” I said, leaning forward and all but purring. “If you se
e your friend again, give him my compliments.”
Michael laughed. He gripped my hips and thrust up. And undid all my care. The fall towards climax hit so fast I couldn’t stop it. “Michael!” He thrust again and the swirls seemed to reach for me. “Wait!”
“No, Molly, it’s now. Now! Reach for me, go deep—”
I reached. Gripped him tight with my inner muscles even as I bore down, drank deep—convulsed. And screamed.
It wasn’t pain, though something ripped me open. It wasn’t pleasure, though I spun on the wheel of a climax, caught in a vortex that was intensely physical, and not physical at all. It wasn’t dark or light, warm or cold, or anything I have names for.
And then, for a timeless period, it wasn’t me anymore.
Not just me.
Then I was myself again, the only one in my body. Which ached all over, and not just in the usual places. Michael was a warm, lumpy mattress beneath me. His breath was warm and moist against my cheek.
It was dark. The candles had burned down. One was flickering, nearly out. “Well, sailor,” I whispered, “you do know how to show a girl a good time.”
“Ahh,” he said. “I don’t think I have the breath to laugh.” He paused. “I can’t feel my left hand.”
I realized I was lying on it. I moved. “It’s asleep. Be prepared for some fierce pins and needles.”
“Pins and . . . ow!” He held it up, glaring at it. “Bizarre.”
“Returning circulation.” I managed to roll off him. “Whew.” I turned my head to smile at him. “About eight hundred, if I’ve figured it right.”
His brow creased. “What?”
“You. You’re something over eight hundred years old. Though you weren’t entirely there for the first three or four centuries, were you?”
I hadn’t experienced all of Michael, nor had he, I think, blended with all of me. Partly because, as he’d said, he was still in pieces, with large gaps in his memories. Partly because some of what he’d lived I had no context for, so it hadn’t stuck.
I had enough. “Poor Cullen. If he’d known he was entertaining the—”
“Shh.” He laid a hand over my lips. “Not even in teasing, Molly. Not even here. It isn’t safe.”
I nodded, understanding. Understanding so much more than I’d expected to. My lover, my mystery man really was a myth of sorts.
Michael was the missing Codex Arcanum. The Book of All Magic.
His creator . . . I had only shadowy images of the one who’d conceived him. An adept? One of the Old Ones? I didn’t know, nor did I understand why he’d done it. Perhaps the same desire that led humans to build libraries, the need to keep knowledge from being scattered or destroyed. For centuries, whatever the sorcerers and magicians of many realms had written in their spell books—which weren’t always books, nor was the recording always writing—had also been “written” into Michael.
He’d been created here, though. Here on Earth, that is. Not on this continent, but somewhere in my world. Shortly after being made, he’d been sent to another realm, a place where magic ran wild.
Later, he’d developed a sort of homesickness for this world. At the time, though, he hadn’t cared. He wasn’t alive then.
Had his creator planned for him to come to consciousness? Michael himself didn’t know, and I wasn’t about to guess. But the place where he’d been stashed was much smaller than our universe, with magic spilling all over itself. Anything that held on to a stable form there for long achieved life. Anything living and sufficiently complex become sentient.
Michael had been built to last. And he certainly wasn’t simple.
He shifted beside me, propping himself up to look down on my face. He traced my lip with a finger. “You are well, Molly? You are all right?”
“I’m well.” I kissed his finger. “Unbelievably tired, but well. Um . . . shouldn’t we be getting out of here?” I glanced around. “No sign of ninjas yet, but—”
“We can leave in a hurry if we need to. Of course, I only know one place to go.” He smiled. “Back to Galveston.”
“In that case, I want my clothes. I’m not arriving there naked again.”
The two of us creaked to our feet. I was giddy with exhaustion . . . and happiness. “What about Cullen?”
“They won’t bother him if we are gone. Why should they?” Michael lifted his hand to clear the wards, but paused. “One more thing before we go. I have been giving your name some thought.”
I leaned against him, smothering a yawn. “I’m not sure I can give your suggestions the proper attention right now.”
“I was hoping you would let me name you, as you did me.”
I straightened, looked him in the eye. After a moment I said softly, “All right.”
“Then I would like you to remain Molly. And I will give you a new last name.”
I nodded solemnly. “That’s traditional. What did you have in mind?”
He kissed the tip of my nose. “You are my gift of grace. I name you Molly Grace.”
I closed my eyes, checking the fit. And smiled, and opened my eyes. “All right . . . Michael Grace.”
His eyes lit. “You gift me with a last name, too.”
“It is the twenty-first century.” Another yawn overtook me. “Michael? Can we go home now?” Because that’s what Galveston was, I realized. I might leave it again, maybe many times. But I’d go back. And I wouldn’t go alone.
Michael lifted the wards, banished the guttering flames on the candles, then swung me up into his arms to carry me out of the circle. I found that very funny, especially when he stumbled and nearly dropped me.
“Is this not tradition? The carrying over the threshold?” he asked.
“Close enough.” I handed him his jeans and stepped into my panties. “I love you.”
“Good.” He said that with great satisfaction, then fumbled his way into his clothes while I pulled mine on. I finished first, and told him I wanted to check on Cullen. “Just to be sure.”
His brows twitched down, but he nodded. “I will wait for you.”
It was a leave-taking I needed, I realized as I tossed a blanket over Cullen’s sleeping body. Something new had begun, but other things had ended. I folded up a jacket and placed it under his head for a pillow, then knelt beside him and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Good-bye,” I said softly.
It wasn’t really Cullen I was bidding farewell to, of course.
Michael was waiting by the node, as he’d said he would be. I walked into his arms. “You are happy?” He whispered it, as if the question was too large to say out loud. “You do not regret giving up all the beautiful young men like Cullen?”
Oh, he did know me. That was going to take some getting used to, but . . . “I’m happy,” I told him, and grinned. “Besides, sometimes all a woman my age really wants is to curl up in bed with a good book.”
Michael grinned, too. And took us home.
BURNING MOON
Rebecca York
Prologue
SOME people glory in the warmth of the afternoon sun. Antonia Delarosa had learned to seek the shadows of the night.
On this November evening, she sat in the midnight-dark lounge of the old Victorian where she lived, her narrow hands not quite steady as she shuffled and cut the tarot cards, then laid them on the table in front of her.
No light illuminated the images. But she didn’t need to fix her gaze on them. As she laid each one on the table and ran her finger over the upper left-hand corner, a familiar picture came to her.
“The Empress,” she murmured, seeing in her mind a woman wearing flowing robes and a twelve-star crown, seated on lush red pillows.
The next card she turned over was the Knight of Cups—coming to save the day, no doubt.
As a teenager, she had been drawn to the tarot, and she had worked with the cards for more than fifteen years, using many different decks.
Tonight, she held her old favorites, the Rider-Waite. The one that most people thoug
ht of when they pictured the cards whose origins went back to ancient legends and religions.
As always, she felt herself tapping into a combination of memory and awareness—her own unconscious.
Shuffling through the deck, she turned over one more card. It showed a man and a woman standing naked under the arms of Raphael, the angel of air, who was giving them his blessing.
“The Lovers,” she breathed. That card had come up for her again and again over the past few months. Of course, it didn’t always refer to a romantic relationship. Maybe she was going to mend her fences with Mom.
“Right. And hippos will fly,” she muttered.
Her hand went back to the Empress, touching the surface lightly, and she uttered a small sound that was part distress and part wonder.
There was another image intruding into the picture now—something that didn’t belong. To the left of the woman, an animal sat ramrod straight, his mouth slightly open, his tongue lolling out between white, pointed teeth.
“The wolf.” Antonia felt a prickle of sensation travel down the back of her neck. The animal’s fierce eyes stared from the card, challenging anyone who dared question his right to be there.
She had first become aware of him weeks ago on the Magician card, his outline hazy among the greenery that festooned the underside of the sorcerer’s table. She had doubted her vision then. And when she had focused her inner eye more closely, the wolf had vanished.
But he came back the next night—on the five of Pentacles, in front of the two homeless people. The card represented bad luck or loss, but it had been upside down, which wasn’t quite as bad—because it might indicate a reversal of bad fortune.
The wolf had refused to relinquish his position under the church window, even when she had muttered “begone,” and lain the card facedown on the table.
Cravings Page 22
