More Than Magic (Books of the Kindling)

by Donna June Cooper

  “Nan always says that when we die we become stars in the sky.” His voice sounded strange and disembodied, floating above her.

  Something in his voice disrupted the rhythm of the dance above her. He was thinking of his own death, sensing the malignant darkness still lurking inside him. Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, she reached. The side of his leg was barely touching her arm. Even through her jacket and his jeans, she could sense it. The heat of his skin, the throb of the blood in his veins, the—

  Inky black nothingness, waiting, lurking—

  The song, pulsing in the stars, throbbing beneath her back—

  “Hey!”

  She sat up and bounced off something very solid. Two equally solid hands grabbed her arms. When she opened her eyes, she was inches from brown leather.

  “What?” she yelled. “What happened?”

  He let go as if she had scalded him. “What did you just do?”

  “What do you mean? You yelled.”

  “You—” He looked around, then up. “Something—”

  “That happens sometimes. You get disoriented looking up at…well, infinity really.”

  “Don’t make it worse.” His hand went to his head.

  “I’m sorry.” I really am. “Perhaps star-gazing isn’t your thing.”

  “Mmmm.” He just kept staring at her.

  “Maybe we should head back.”

  “Let your hair down out of that,” he said, oddly quiet and reasonable.

  “What?”

  “Your hair. I can’t hear you with your hair up like that.”

  Grace tilted her head sideways. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be drunk here.”

  He tilted his own head, then shook it. “That doesn’t help. It just makes it worse.”

  “What are you—”

  “Take that thing out of your hair,” he said firmly, then looked embarrassed. “If you don’t mind?”

  She tugged the clasp out of her hair and it tumbled down into her face.

  “So, can you hear me now?” Grace pushed what she could out of her eyes and smiled at him.

  He nodded.

  “Trust me. It’ll gradually grow into this huge red fur—”

  Oh. His hands were in it. She couldn’t breathe anymore.

  “Copper silk. I was right.”

  It’s the furthest thing from copper silk you can imagine, but don’t stop.

  He combed his hand slowly out through her hair, watching its progress as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. And she realized that she was leaning into his touch, following his fingers. Shivering. Melting.

  It seemed so natural, so completely predictable that his fingers would stroke back to cup her face, that his thumb would stroke her cheekbone, that she would fall into those gray eyes and get lost.

  And then he slanted his mouth across hers and she was lost. Something warm and effervescent bubbled through her, reaching all the way to her toes. When he cupped his hand around her nape beneath the crackling chaos of her hair and pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, sliding his tongue gently across her lips, she gasped. Then he planted a kiss on the very edge of her mouth and pulled away.

  She jumped at the sparkle of static electricity as he pulled his fingers out of her hair.

  “Sorry. I—I’ve wanted to do that all night,” he said.

  Grace just tried to breathe.

  “Blame the champagne, or the stars, or—”

  She picked up the bottle, scooped Nick’s glass out of the grass, and filled it, holding it out to him.

  The apologetic look on his face became a smile, with dimples, then slid into something much more intense. His pupils dilated until his eyes were nearly black in the moonlight, making her shudder in anticipation. She took a quick drink of the champagne herself, knowing it wouldn’t help in the least.

  “Don’t swallow.” He leaned forward. “I’ve always wanted to try this.”

  Oh.

  He kissed her once more. This time his tongue was more insistent, dipping into the champagne fizzing in her mouth, drinking it, licking at the drops that spilled down her chin, then kissing her again.

  His hands were in her hair, firmer now. He held her close as if he was going to devour her, but all she could feel was the effervescence bubbling through her, the heat coiling inside her. Then his lips slid across her cheek, and then into her hair, where he took a deep shaky breath and laid a kiss behind her ear.

  “Do you know how amazing you are?” he asked, then kissed the tender skin underneath her jaw as she gasped.

  The champagne flute slipped out of her fingers as she leaned back in his arms. His mouth slid down her throat to kiss her collarbone, then lingered in the hollow of her throat, before brushing back up to lick one last drop of champagne from her chin.

  Grace felt his hand on her as if the skin was bare, sliding down her side like a hot brand—skimming across her stomach, pushing her jacket open to slip underneath and caress her breast. Only a fleeting touch through the wool of her sweater, but she made a needy sound before his mouth took hers again, and he pulled her up to push at the jacket. He paused for just a moment while it was tangled around her arms to pull her toward him, push her hair aside, and kiss her nape—again and again.

  “Wanted to do that for a while, too,” he said into her ear as she lay helpless against his chest, feeling his heart pound hard against hers. He pulled the jacket loose and threw it behind her on the grass.

  Then it was her turn to slip her hands under his leather jacket, under his arms, sliding up his back across his ribs and feeling him shiver beneath her fingers as she buried her face in his throat. He smelled like—

  Nick tugged at his jacket and shoved it off, and she fell back onto her hands, startled. He took a deep breath and shoved his hand through his own hair.

  All she could think was how much she wanted to do that too.

  All Nick could think was that he was damn lucky that he had taken off his gun and left it in the SUV. Beyond that, he knew he wasn’t thinking straight. Actually, he wasn’t thinking at all. Not with that brain, anyway.

  Grace leaned back on her hands, looking at him through that hair, her expression dazed and dreamy.

  He tried to form a coherent thought that didn’t involve Grace’s body, but then she sat up and pushed her fingers up the back of his neck and into his hair, sliding her other hand around his neck and pulling him toward her.

  “I’ve wanted to do that for a while myself,” she murmured. And then she kissed him.

  He decided coherence was overrated as she pulled him by his collar back down to the blanket. Then he was lost in the taste of champagne and Grace, the smell of the grass around them and her perfume, the feel of her silky skin and the texture of the wool blanket against the cold ground under his back—

  Under his back? When did that happen? She hung over him, hair glinting copper in the moonlight as it curtained her face. A backdrop of velvet blue pierced through with thousands of stars, but all he could see were the two that were glittering green as she smiled down at him.

  She traced his eyebrow with her finger. Then his cheekbone. Then down his jaw to his chin. She leaned in closer and enclosed him with her hair, as she traced her finger next to his mouth, then along his lower lip.

  “I adore your dimple.” She leaned in to kiss it, sliding over to his mouth.

  Nick groaned, trying not to roll her beneath him right at that moment. Instead, he wove his fingers into hers where they rested on his chest as she leaned in to plunder his mouth. He slipped his other hand around her lower back, sliding down to press her toward him.

  Her response wasn’t at all what he expected, because now she was straddling him, and her mouth had never left his, and other parts of her were—

  It was a good thing the ground was hard and cold beneath the blanket. Otherwise, things would’ve moved a lot faster than she intended.

  She leaned in to kiss his ear and her breasts pressed against his ch
est. Even through the sweater and the shirt he could feel them, silky and heavy, brushing against his skin.

  “I imagine you’ve been told how amazing you are,” she said, then licked the skin below his ear.

  She sat back on his hips then sliding her hands up, pushing his sweater up with them. Her fingers crept up the silky cotton of his shirt until she rested her hands on his chest over his heart.

  Against his will, his hips moved beneath hers and he watched her eyes darken until only a rim of green remained. But he was completely lost when she threw back her head and closed her eyes. Her face glowed in the moonlight, and all that hair streamed back around her as she breathed his name.

  Unable to keep his hands away, he sat up, running them up her neck until his hands were lost in her hair once more, and his mouth could reach hers.

  “Grace,” he breathed her name as he kissed her. “Grace,” he said to her chin. “Grace,” he sighed to her neck. “Grace,” he begged in her ear. Then back to begin the litany again at her mouth as she sat wrapped around him.

  In response, her hands slid up around his neck, her fingers in his hair, her hips moving over his—he could almost feel the heat and satin and slick despite the layers of clothing between them.

  He wouldn’t last. It had been far too long since he’d felt this mad heated rush building inside him. Too long since he had felt anything at all.

  “Nick.” Her fingers drifted to the buttons on his jeans.

  He was breathing hard as he wrapped his fingers around hers. “Are you sure this is what you want?” Or is this just the champagne and the stars?

  Grace brought his hands up to her chest and moved herself sensuously over him, her expression defiant. He groaned and gritted his teeth, his fingers closing hard around hers.

  Nick saw stars. Literal stars. He vaguely remembered an odd snapping sound in his head, and now he was on his back, on the cold ground, looking up at the stars again. Any remnants of arousal were fading fast.

  Had he had some kind of fit? Or fallen asleep? Had he dreamed—? No.

  He heard someone retching and raised his head off the blanket.

  Grace stood off in the grass, throwing up. Pooka was circling her anxiously. Nick tried to sit up himself and wondered once again what the hell had just happened because he could’ve sworn he was only slightly tipsy. Now he felt…strange. Sure, he hadn’t had any alcohol in a long time, but he had been certain most of his lightheadedness was because of Grace.

  Grace. Shaking his head, he managed to get to his feet and aim himself in her direction. Grace waved him back. “Bring the bottle.”

  “The champagne?”

  “Yes. Please?”

  He went to the blanket and scooped up the champagne and a glass. There was barely any left.

  “Not enough in here for the hair of the dog.” He reached her and held out the glass.

  Grace grabbed the bottle, upended it, and rinsed out her mouth, spitting onto the grass.

  “Expensive mouthwash,” he quipped.

  As she stood there in the grass staring at him, the empty bottle in one hand, her hair held back with the other, he realized that he was in trouble. She had thrown up and used expensive champagne as mouthwash. Her face was blotchy and her eyes were filled with tears. She was looking at him as if she wished he would disappear. And he was falling in love with her. One of these things was not like the others.

  “What just happened?” he asked. He remembered asking that before, somewhere.

  “Nothing. I—I had too much to drink, that’s all.” She groped in her pockets for something.

  Nick reached into his back pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, handing it to her.

  She opened it slowly, almost in disbelief.

  His Nan always told him to carry an old-fashioned folded handkerchief for occasions like this. And, since she persisted in giving him a stack every Christmas with his initials embroidered on them, he always had.

  “Sorry,” she said, wiping at her eyes then blowing her nose. Looking at the handkerchief, she folded it carefully and put it in her pocket.

  Nick added “blowing her nose” to the list, decided he was still in trouble, and took a step closer. “No, I’m sorry—”

  “You didn’t do anything,” she snapped.

  He looked back at the blanket. “I didn’t?”

  “No, I mean you didn’t— I’m the one who— Oh, never mind.” She marched past him.

  “Grace? I didn’t mean—”

  She spun around. “It’s okay. I’m the one who should apologize for—for dragging you out to my family cemetery, for goodness sake, and—and practically seducing you. Today of all days. What was I thinking? Obviously, I wasn’t thinking—” She dropped the champagne bottle next to the blanket where Pooka nosed at it.

  “I suppose I was just along for the ride? Helpless to resist? Under your spell or something?”

  Grace didn’t react to that, just leaned down and folded up the blanket. Nick managed to grab her jacket off the ground and held it up to help her into it.

  She glared at him for a moment, then sighed and turned to shrug it on. Somehow his hands got tangled in her hair when she jerked away from his touch on her shoulders.

  “Don’t touch me. Please?”

  Oh boy. He had apparently blown it, big time. But he had said “Are you sure this is what you want?” He remembered saying that. Everything after that got a little fuzzy. But his clothes were still intact. Her clothes were still intact. That was good. Well not good—

  “Sorry.”

  “Are you listening? It was my fault. I’m the one who should be apologizing, not you.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  She tugged her hair back into a ponytail. “I don’t normally— I never—” She made some inarticulate noise and picked up the other glass, shoving it into her pocket. “Just accept my apologies, please? And forget it happened.”

  Nick knew he should, but as he watched her grab the blanket and flashlight, then head toward the lights of the house at a fast clip, he shook his head.

  Forget her above him with a backdrop of stars, her hair streaming around her? Forget her face glowing in the moonlight, as she closed her eyes and breathed his name?

  “I don’t think I can,” he whispered.

  Foolish. Stupid. Reckless.

  Grace had never thrown up in her entire life. But she would be lucky if that was the worst thing that happened. She glanced over her shoulder to see Nick plodding behind her like a whipped puppy.

  Well, throwing up was preferable to blacking out, although things had really gone sideways and fuzzy for a while. Perhaps it was because she had started the process yesterday, or perhaps it was because Tink had been so much closer to dying.

  However she had escaped fainting again, she hadn’t shown much control at all. She had been so thoroughly and completely aroused that she had wanted to crawl inside him at that moment and there wasn’t much she could’ve done to stop herself. But the one thing she was certain of was that his lymphoma was gone. Eradicated. And since he seemed so determined to ignore the fact that he had it, to lie about having it, and to nearly kill himself pretending he didn’t have it, perhaps he wouldn’t notice.

  Right.

  She could only hope that he wouldn’t think too much about what had happened—that he would just accept it as the gift it was and remember her as a harebrained idiot and a horrible tease.

  She could only hope.

  Glancing back, she realized that Pooka had dropped back to walk alongside Nick.

  Nick.

  Nick who was going to live. Nick who was going to go back to his cabin and write his stupid book and leave. Nick who was going to take part of her with him.

  You weren’t supposed to fall in love with him. Not in a day.

  But he would live. And he would go back to being normal Nick Crowe, the glib and urbane Mr. City Man. Writing his novels about drug dealers and addicts. Cooking Italian food for someone else. Charming
children and dogs and giving hand embroidered handkerchiefs to silly moonstruck women. Touching some other woman’s hair, whispering her name, making her feel as if she were the center of the universe.

  Foolish. Stupid. Reckless.

  You are going to send Nick on his way none the wiser. Remember the way that Tink was obsessed with you. Remember he’s showing signs of the same thing. Remember that any desire he has to be with you is a side effect of the magic and nothing else.

  And maybe in a month or two, she wouldn’t ache for him and want to feel as if she were filled with stars and moonlight and magic fairy dust all the time. Maybe that was just a side effect as well. When Grace had fled to the mountain, it had taken every bit of her willpower not to track down Tink and make sure she was all right. The photo they had sent was next to her refrigerator for a reason.

  Maybe he would leave tonight, so she wouldn’t have to see him ever again.

  “Grace?”

  So she wouldn’t have to hear him say her name like that ever again.

  Perhaps she could make him leave. Offend him so much that he would write a scathing review of the place online and ruin their business for gorgeous gray-eyed authors of books about drug dealers.

  “Grace?”

  She took a deep breath. She couldn’t keep ignoring him. “Yes?”

  Nick came to a halt behind her with Pooka panting beside him. “I—”

  “Please do not say you are sorry again.”

  He seemed to think about that for a moment. “Okay.”

  He wasn’t angry, he was confused. She would have preferred angry. “Good. Can I help you?”

  His eyes searched hers for a moment. He was probing for some answer that wouldn’t be there, because she was working very hard to keep her face void of anything. But inside she was shaking.

  She watched as his eyes narrowed. He looked back toward the meadow, then at her and sighed.

  “I need to get started on my research, and I wondered—can you introduce me to your neighbors?”

  Grace hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. “My— The Taggarts? Why?”

  “Well, they sound like a good model for the family in my book. The family impacted by meth.”