And you liked every bit of it, in your dreams. Those weren't exactly dreams. Those were Dougal. He didn't hurt you. He didn't even really wake you up. You aren't ten anymore. Your body knows something your brain doesn't. You're a woman now. Most women enjoy sex. We're programmed that way. It's how the species survives.
She wiped cold sweat off her forehead. Give me time, she whimpered.
You don't have time, the surly voices muttered. Fiona will be back here, soon. Once she's here, you've lost him. Lost him forever. If you want him, you'll have to fight for him. You'll have to break her spell.
You’re going to have to bed him.
She stood up and peeled off unbleached toilet paper and searched for a flush lever before noticing it was a composting toilet. Maureen shook her head, unable to visualize tres elegant Fiona shoveling out a year's load of composted shit. The Old One probably witched it directly to her rose beds.
Shut up and quit stalling!
"If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly," she quoted. "But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we'll not fail." And then she shuddered at the unintended pun.
How did a woman seduce a man?
Do what Jo would do, her voices nudged her. You've called her a whore often enough. You've seen her at her work. Learn from the pro. Turn into your evil twin. Let her possess you.
Maureen studied herself in the mirror. How would Jo wear those clothes? You've tried to imitate her all your life, worshiped her, even learned to talk like her, hoping it would help. What would she do, fishing for a man?
First thing she'd do, she'd show a lot more skin. Maureen gritted her teeth and unbuttoned her blouse, top and bottom, until it was barely decent and then one button further, and tied the shirttails across her belly. She tugged her bra down an inch beyond her comfort limit. She unsnapped her jeans and slipped the zipper and settled them on her hips, until white lace showed below her belly-button in an open invitation.
Jo looked back at her from the mirror, Jo in her tomboy temptress phase. They matched except for the hair. Maureen borrowed Fiona's brush and flipped hair forward until curls half-covered one eye.
That took care of the outside. What the hell could she do about the inside? Last time she checked, you still had to get close to a man to screw him. If she tried that, she'd go catatonic or grab for that knife.
She gagged at what she did remember of Dougal, his arms enfolding her naked body, his kisses on her breasts, his hand between her legs. She felt filthy again.
Think of some other man, the voices prodded. Think of a man you aren't afraid of. Think of a man who gave you joy instead of sorrow.
A tune floated through her head, and she started singing softly to herself, remembering a child's nonsense song learned from her grandfather long before Buddy Johnson clouded her horizon. It was the only bit of Gaelic she'd ever learned, and she didn't know the meaning of half the words--if they even had meanings other than mouth-music and a lilting rhyme. She did remember dúlamán was a kind of seaweed.
"Dúlamán na Binne Buí, Dúlamán Gaelach,
"Dúlamán na farraige, 's é b'fhearr a bhí in Éirinn."
Grandfather O'Brian was always warm and gentle and friendly, even when he reeked of Irish whiskey. She'd loved him. She still did. He'd never hurt her. She tried to visualize him as the handsome charmer he must have been when he was young. She'd marry a man like that in an instant, booze and all. She'd bed him without the blessing of the priest and to hell with contraception.
Maureen stepped out of the toilet and met Brian's stare. He looked at her, not at the table, and she saw something in his face no man had ever aimed at her before. It was the way men looked at Jo. The look punched her in the gut, and she stopped singing. His eyes lost their focus. She forced herself to start again.
"A 'níon mhín ó, sin anall ne fir shúirí,
"A mháthair mhín ó! cuir na roithlé go dtí mé."
Gentle warmth flushed her face and hands, not a blush but a reminder of her sexual dreams. She washed up at the sink, his gaze on her back again, and she remembered her vision of Fiona in the forest. The dark witch had been singing as part of her spell.
So this is magic. How can it feel so natural?
Now came the hard part. She had to retreat into her padded cell and let Jo take control. She walked over to Brian, conscious of a different sway to her hips. His eyes focused on the top of her zipper and the lacy cloth showing there.
"Tá cosa dubha dúbailte ar an dúlamán gaelach
"Tá dhá chulais mhaol ar an dúlamán gaelach."
Her hands, Jo's hands, caressed his cheek and slipped inside his shirt. The heat of his body felt scorching to her, and his warm male smell twisted her nostrils. She took his hand and pulled him out of his chair, led him to the next room, pushed him to the floor where there was a rug and room to work.
He moved like a putty doll--pliable, inert and yet living. Zombie was the word.
His attention was riveted to her body, but he wasn't aroused. She knew enough about men to know that. Her hands, Jo's hands working without command, unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it off, slid her zipper fully open, performed the rest of a slow striptease. Her magic controlled her as much as it did him.
"Rachaimid go Doire leis an dúlamán gaelach,
"Is ceannóimid bróga daora ar an dúlamán gaelach."
The voices in her head echoed Fiona's words in the frozen forest. He smells you, they said. You lead men around by the nose. You can make a man do anything you want.
Her hands, Jo's hands, slipped down her body and probed the moisture between her legs. She brought a finger to Brian's nose and his nostrils flared. His body stirred against the spell that bound him, and she pushed him back to the floor.
Jo's fingers deftly opened buttons and buckles, slid cloth over skin, laid his body bare on the rug. Maureen's stomach clenched at the sight, and she forced herself back into the song.
"Bróga breaca dubha ar an dúlamán gaelach,
"Tá bearéad agus triús ar an dúlamán gaelach."
He groaned. It came out as a word, "Maureen," and he reached for her.
"Shut up and lie still," she hissed. "The only way I'm going to get through this is if I do everything. Be a goddamned crash-test dummy."
His eyes widened but he obeyed. Of course he obeyed, the voices muttered. You're making him your slave, just like Fiona did.
She straddled him, forcing herself to look only at his eyes. His eyes lived now. They saw her. A mind sat behind them.
Memory forced itself forward, pain and exhaustion and slick sweat and the stench of blood. The last time she was in this position, she was chopping a man's head off while his dying reflexes vainly tried to screw her. She fought the image back and reached down beneath her, concentrating on the simple mechanics of alignment rather than exactly what she actually was doing.
'twere well it were done quickly . . .
She lowered herself on him, and she felt the Power of the Summer Country throbbing through her blood to focus on the fire growing beneath her belly. She moved on golden light and wept.
* * *
She stood at a window in Fiona's parlor, naked, with her back to Brian. Their mingled fluids chilled her thighs and she ought to wipe herself, but she couldn't care. Enough of the magic still glowed in her body.
I'll fucking kill Buddy if I ever see him again, she swore. He stole at least ten years of this from me.
You're not out of the woods yet, her critic muttered. What are you going to do when Brian comes to you? What are you going to do when he wants to be on top?
That, she answered, depends on Brian. Right now, I'm in a mood to negotiate.
She heard him stir behind her. She continued to stare out the window without seeing. The orange cat appeared out of nowhere and settled on the sill. She rubbed his shoulder, and he sprawled into her kneading fingers.
"Someone hurt you very badly, a long time ago." Brian spoke just above a w
hisper, as if he was allowing her some space even in her ears. "Someone long before Dougal."
"Eighteen years ago."
He stood up. She felt the movement more than heard it, and he didn't come any closer.
"Is he still alive?"
"He's still alive. I'll kill him myself, thank you. How did you know?"
"That night in your apartment, the things you said in The Cave, watching you just now. Few women regard sex as torture. At worst, they are indifferent. You forced yourself into this like it was surgery for cancer. Something, somebody, had hurt you deeply enough to scar you to the bottom of your soul. Logic said it was a man, when you were still a child."
He wasn't getting dressed. Her old fears stirred, as if she'd stunned them but not yet killed them dead. There was going to be a problem in another minute or so, if she didn't get dressed. She couldn't clean up, with him between her and the door. She couldn't turn around. He had her trapped, as much as if she was back in chains.
"Tell me about it, sometime. Wait until it comes naturally. I've heard a lot of pain in seventy years. I think you'll feel better if someone else knows what happened to you."
That was one of the basic principals of psychotherapy or the Confessional, she remembered. Pain shared was pain diluted.
"Maureen, is Dougal really dead?"
"I cut his head off. I burned his tower with his body in it. If that isn't enough, I don't want to hear about it."
"I love you, Maureen."
Oh, God. "Of course you love me. You don't have any fucking choice. Ten minutes ago, you loved Fiona for the same reasons."
"No. I've loved you since the night we met. You just wouldn't have listened if I told you. Besides, Fiona used a different spell than you did. I obeyed her. I didn't love her. You broke her spell and left me free. You ripped your own soul apart to do it. I love you."
"I did the same things she did. The forest showed me."
"Maureen, magic power is not a cookbook. You had a different intent in your heart, so the spell changed to meet your needs. You bound yourself to me more than me to you."
He stepped closer, slowly, as if he was approaching a hurt and frightened animal. She felt the heat of his body on her back. The muscles along her spine crawled.
"Men and women don't have to hurt each other. You set the rules. You set the limits. I promise you, I'll stop. No means no."
She smelled him--smelled his musk, smelled her own sweat on his body, smelled the mingling of his semen with her mucus where their bodies had joined. She gritted her teeth against the urge to vomit.
Maureen's hands clamped the windowsill, bracing herself to spin and flee or fight. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to hold her. She shouldn't give control to Jo this time. But it was too soon . . . .
Don't live in the past. Don't live in the future. Do it now, while you still remember how good it can be.
Brian loves me. I love Brian. What he is offering me is a sacrament between a man and a woman. He wants to give me joy, not pain. He is sharing his body, not using mine.
Bullshit. He just wants to fuck you again. Once isn't enough for him. Buddy was like that. Goddamn rabbit, one afternoon he had you twice and still screwed Jo when she got home. At least he used a rubber for her: he never wasted one on you. You weren't old enough for sperm to hurt you.
But his prick could. I bled after the second time. Bled for three days. It hurt to pee.
She swallowed a scream and forced herself to hold still, sweating, trembling, eyes scrunched shut. She couldn't breathe.
Brian loves me. I love Brian.
His hands touched her waist, and she felt his hips snuggle against her bottom. She leaned forward and pushed back against him, and her world caught fire again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
"Marmalade cat, marmalade cat, how do we leave?"
Maureen stared down at the orange tom sprawled across her lap. She scratched his ears and repeated the question silently in her mind. How the hell could she get them out of this trap?
She closed her eyes and slumped back against the smooth bark of the rowan by Fiona's kitchen door. Just doing nothing felt so damned good. The day had drained her, and it wasn't done yet. They had to get out of here. They had to find Jo and David. Somewhere out there Fiona and Sean waited for her.
Especially Sean.
The cat answered both her questions with a rumbling purr she felt deep in her belly. He was comfortable. If she left, who would provide a lap, scratch his ears, pour out cream on demand? Why should he help her leave?
His paws kneaded the fabric of her jeans, claws slipping and catching gently. Possessive little beast. Everybody in the whole damn world thought they owned her lap, and all the appurtenances thereto.
She wondered how long human sperm remained viable in the female body. Was Dougal waging a posthumous war with Brian for her womb?
She shook her head. That would have been part of Freshman Health in high school, sex-education for hormone-ravaged ninth graders. Mom and Dad wouldn't sign the permission forms for either of the girls. They seemed to think Jo and Maureen would stay virgins forever if nobody mentioned the fact that men had penises and women had vaginas.
Odd idea, and a little late in either case.
The cat shifted on her lap, redirecting her hand to his left shoulder blade. She wished she could be that simple and straightforward. Cats didn't have any of those body hang-ups. If a cat wanted something, either food or sex or a warm sunbeam on his belly, he went out and got it. If he wanted his shoulder scratched, he told you which one and how long. Hedonist. Mister Marmalade had his harem and his windowsill and his milk; all was right with his world.
Brian appeared around the corner of the house. He saw her and shook his head.
"Nothing?"
"The hedge is a solid wall. Fiona tells it to open when she wants to leave. Right now, it isn't even playing dead-end maze with me."
Shit.
"Can't you cut a way out with that knife of yours?"
"That wouldn't be wise. The hedge has defenses."
"Can't you magic it open?"
"It's my sister's pet." He grinned down at the cat. "You seem to have better luck seducing them than I do."
She blushed. Her quick smile faded as fast as it came. "What happens when she gets back?"
"I don't know. Fiona's a wild card. She might say she's bored with me and let us go, or she might turn you into a toad. You'd make a very lovely toad."
Somehow, she didn't think he was joking. Maureen shuddered.
"Isn't there any way we can fight her?"
Brian chewed on his lip for a moment. "Again, I don't know. She drained my power. My mana, if you will. It'll be days before I build up anything worth mentioning. I have no idea what your strength may be. It's obviously greater than Dougal thought, or you wouldn't be here."
She closed her eyes. "I'm tired. Don't expect much from me. If this tree wasn't behind me, I don't think I could even sit up straight. Last night was just about the first sleep I've had since I left our apartment. You don't want to ask how I got it. And I haven't been eating much, either."
"I know how you got it." His voice was gentle. "What I don't know is how you held out as long as you did. How did you escape?"
She decided to put it in the simplest possible terms. He deserved to know.
"I'm crazy, Brian. I'm schizophrenic. I turned him into a delusion and stepped aside into one of my private little worlds. I've had plenty of practice. Anyway, it fooled him into thinking he'd won. This morning, I just unchained the paranoia and let my own personal Doberman have him for breakfast." She opened her eyes, and met his glance, and held it. "Still interested in sleeping next to me?"
He waited long enough for her to know he understood.
"Yes." He grinned. "You'll keep me from getting bored." Then his expression sobered. "Maureen, you never told anyone about the rape, did you? Not even a priest or therapist?"
Cold fire shot through her like a lightning
bolt. "I didn't say it," she whispered, too quiet for him to hear. "Jo, I swear I never said it. God as my witness, I didn't break my promise. I never told."
"No," she added, aloud.
She shook her head. She had to learn to be honest with herself, even about this. Jo would skin me alive if she knew what I've covered up. She was just scared of Daddy, scared of what he would do if he ever found out about her and Buddy.
But I couldn't say what he did to me without Daddy finding out about the rest . . . .
Brian squatted down so she wouldn't have to squint up at him against the sky, and spoke softly. "There's something you ought to think about, something the psych-boffins are always sniffing after, in combat veterans like you and me. It's called 'Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.' Some of the symptoms are damned close to schizophrenia. I've walked that road myself. As you Yanks would say, 'Been there, done that.'"
Maureen froze. She knew about PTSD. They'd had months on it, in her various psych courses back in college. But that hadn't applied to her. That hadn't explained the voices, hadn't explained the things she saw that no one else could see--hadn't explained the ways she had been "different" long before Buddy Johnson stalked into her nightmares.
Her mind filled the gaps with its own added diagnosis. That's the Blood, magic, a whole world the shrinks won't admit exists. A lot of "crazy Maureen" has always been the power in my blood struggling with a world that doesn't believe in magic. Advice from trees was a strength, not a symptom.
Brian seemed to read her thoughts. "Nobody here would call you crazy. You deceived Dougal by using your power. You killed him by using your power. In this world, you're not schizophrenic. You're a witch."
She felt calm washing through her, the cool relief of a lanced boil draining pus. She hadn't told Brian, but he knew. The years of hiding were over. She'd never dared admit the true problem, even to herself.
"My delusions are real?"
"They aren't delusions."
"I really was talking to the trees?"
"How do you think Fiona controls her hedge?"
Her glance dropped to the cat in her lap. Her hands had switched to rubbing his cheeks, pulling his eyes shut in an ecstasy of attention.
The Summer Country Page 29
