“I wasn’t hiding, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that you had your Withinner reflexes, you’d still be bloody singing soprano.” Cade tightened his grip.
Quinn took a deep breath as he fidgeted to get free of his lover’s rather demanding grasp. “If you plan on using that anytime soon, you might like to let go. It’s feeling decidedly threatened with that mean grip you have.”
Cade regarded him with sultry eyes but didn’t let go. He chuckled softly, making Quinn’s skin tingle with the sheer sexiness of the sound. The fact that Cade’s tongue was now trailing itself down the side of Quinn’s throat certainly helped the sensation intensify.
“Did your big, bad witch do this?” Cade whispered as his hands released their grip and now softly stroked the front of Quinn’s pants, causing him to groan softly. “Or this?”
There was a rasp as Quinn’s zip was pulled down and he gasped as Cade reached in, stroking him with teasing fingers. Instinctively his hips curved up toward the source of his pleasure. Cade laughed softly and stood up, removing his clothes with a sleight of hand Quinn thought might make him a magician too. He stood before Quinn, all lean male lines and strong limbs, and Quinn thought he’d never seen anything so blatantly sexy.
He hungered for Cade, wanted his body so close to him that they melded into one. “Big, bad witch be damned,” he whispered. “There’s only you, only ever you.”
Cade smiled as he proceeded to strip Quinn of both his clothes and all rational sense. Making love with Cade was always a journey, one that involved every body part, every slick, wet, heated movement the man could conjure up, every flick of a greedy tongue that assailed Quinn’s skin and most intimate places and left him gasping for breath and what remained of his sanity. If Quinn was a lion, tawny and majestic, Cade was a panther—lithe, limber and more than a little dangerous. Finally Quinn was spent and lay back against the couch as Cade smiled down from above him, still impaled on Quinn’s spent and tender, raw cock, both men sticky with their fluids.
“Christ!” Quinn gasped. “I still don’t believe it feels this way every time we make love. It’s always such bloody fun.”
Cade laughed quietly as he moved off Quinn’s body, reaching for his tee shirt and cleaning them both up as best he could. “It must be that Warlock-Fey attraction.” He murmured as he gently cleaned the semen from their bodies. “No matter what you tell me about the feelings getting less every time we do it, it still sometimes feels like the first time we made love. Rather, when you seduced me.” He grinned and tossed the rather sticky tee shirt to the floor as he curled, naked and cat-like next to Quinn on the couch.
“You’ll never let me forget that, will you?” Quinn drawled as he lay on his side, looking across at his lover. “I’ll always be the big, bad ravager of men to you, won’t I? Even though you wanted to do me just as badly from the first time you saw me.”
Quinn yelped in pain as Cade tweaked his chest hair fiercely. “Get over yourself. You had an unfair advantage. You know exactly why my insides turned to mush when I met you. Me, I just thought I was a total man whore.”
Quinn mock frowned as he reached over and trailed his fingers down Cade’s arm. “You are exactly that. I don’t have a moment’s peace with your rabid addiction to having sex with me. Not that I’m complaining.”
He forestalled Cade’s indignant response by claiming his mouth with his, pulling his warm body over on top of him, his soft hair falling across Quinn’s face, tickling his nose. For a while there was silence, broken only by the sound of a cat’s soft purr in the corner of the room.
Chapter 9
Jeremy Payton stood on the vast expanse of a flat Essex marshland in the village of Mistley. Shivers wracked his stocky frame and he pulled his grey duffel coat tighter around his body. The dwindling twilight made everything look colder. In the distance, boats anchored in mud stood stark against the skyline, looking like splintered skeletons, unloved and uncared for. Rowan Kirkpatrick, Jeremy’s companion, had permitted himself a quiet chuckle when he’d seen the boat wreck nearest to where they were standing, so aptly called “Magic.”
The swans sat immersed in the marsh whilst the seagulls and terns made raucous sounds and scrabbled for food.
The teenager muttered to himself as he stood stomping his feet to keep him warm. “It’s a fucking joke, that’s what it is.” Jeremy scowled fiercely at the older man standing next to him. “He’s got us out here at the arse end of the world just to perform a ceremony that could have bloody been done somewhere a fucking lot warmer! Just because he doesn’t feel the bloody cold, he thinks it means we don’t either.”
Rowan regarded the boy without pity, his cold grey eyes flat. “Jeremy, firstly, don’t talk so disparagingly about the man you sustain. Remember what happened last time. Secondly, this particular place had great significance to Matthew when he was mortal. This part of Manningtree on the River Stour was where he had his base of operations. Some people believe his earthly body is buried around here.” He grinned nastily. “But we know better, don’t we? So please do me the kindness of stopping your whining and let Matthew tell you what he wants you to do next.”
Rowan Kirkpatrick regarded the young man with a sense of distaste. How the mighty Witchfinder General had ever had the bad luck to reside in this short, obtuse excuse for a young man was a mystery to him. He knew the boy was blood, but it was certainly an unfortunate circumstance that had led Matthew to where he currently resided.
Rowan was a self-professed expert on the works of the infamous Witchfinder General. He had a master’s in Religion in Contemporary Society from King’s College in London and had gone on to study further to the point where he certainly thought his studies and expertise allowed him to make such a claim. He’d been studying his subject matter for more than ten years. He was now thirty-five years old and wanting to move onto the next level. He’d never expected, however, to be contacted by this adolescent boy with an attitude and asked whether he wanted to be the new vessel for the reincarnated spirit of Matthew Hopkins himself. Rowan had to admit in his wildest dreams he’d never seen that coming. But after his initial scepticism that he was being trifled with, and a few very convincing displays of magyck and power, Rowan had accepted the honour with alacrity. He had few friends, little family and none that he really cared about, and his teachings were his passion.
Jeremy had been extremely aggressive at their first meeting, resenting the fact that his extra powers were going to be taken from him. But Hopkins had far greater ambitions that living inside a teenage body with all the angst and strife associated with it, blood descendant or not. He’d appeared to make that quite clear when he’d caused Jeremy’s ears to bleed and afflicted the youngster with such severe muscle cramps that he’d almost been bent backwards. After that little show of power, Jeremy had toed the party line with more grace.
Rowan had apparently been chosen because of his in-depth knowledge of the man himself and the fact he was “the right human vessel.” He didn’t really care how he’d got to this point, only that he had. Rowan was content to commit himself to the rituals Hopkins wanted to purify his body and prepare the vessel that was Rowan Kirkpatrick.
Since the beginning of October, nearly five months ago, Rowan Kirkpatrick had been leading a life of chastity, abstinence and, in his opinion, downright boredom. He’d been expected to abstain from sex, excesses of alcohol, smoking—all right, he wasn’t a smoker, but if he had been, he’d have had to give it up—and he had to make sure he was eating the right diet. Hopkins had been quite specific about the amount of red meat he had to eat—a lot—coupled with what in Rowan’s opinion was a really unhealthy obsession with cucumbers and quinces, both of which he heartily disliked. He’d also been given instructions to drink daily tinctures of the herb elecampane and eringus roots.
Rowan had been sick when he tasted them for the first time. He’d looked up their properties on the internet and stifled an expletive when he saw what they were used for in the seventeen
th century. Eringus root was something used to prevent scurvy, which Rowan knew he didn’t and never intended to have. It was also a mild laxative and sometimes used as an aphrodisiac, which given his current state of celibacy was not a good idea. Elecampane was an overall tonic and stimulant that appeared only to be used in veterinary practices now. All in all, between running to the toilet half the day to relieve himself in all aspects, and having a case of blue balls due to the lack of sex—exacerbated, in Rowan’s opinion, by the Eringus herb—he’d lost weight. He also had a permanent heavy feeling in his groin which no amount of careful and intimate attention to his genitals when he was alone could permanently cure. He was looking forward to the day soon when he’d be able to put this all behind him and absorb the Witchfinder into his new bodily temple and perhaps get back to normal.
He stood now, watching Jeremy in his silent communion, feeling a prickle of fear for the first time. The special Mannacrux incantation they were about to recite on this day, the twentieth of March, had to be done just right for the start of his transition to begin.
Jeremy turned to him with the usual scowl on his face. “Right, Ichabod. He says to stand in front of me whilst I repeat the words he tells me. It has to be exactly seven p.m. when the chant starts.” He looked up at the sky. “Everything is in place.”
Rowan hated the nickname the teenage had given him, in his view an insult to his tall, crooked, spare frame, which, in Jeremy’s opinion, resembling the unfortunate Ichabod Crane of Sleepy Hollow fame.
“What exactly does this chant do?” Rowan asked, ignoring the sneer in Jeremy’s voice.
“It prepares the body you’ve been nourishing for the eventual psychic take-on of his spirit. That will only be done exactly forty-nine days from now, seven times seven, a very powerful number for the Witchfinder.”
Rowan narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “For a being that professes to hate witches and everything they stand for, there seems to be an incredible Wiccan significance to what we’re doing.”
Today was Ostara, Lady Day, the day of rebirth. Rowan still didn’t quite know why the Witchfinder General had planned this for a despised Wiccan sabbat, a sacred day for the very people he’d pledged to destroy, but he’d been assured that the magyck of the day was needed to make it work, to work against the witches. Hopkins had called it symbolic.
Jeremy glared at him. “The number seven is a powerful number in the Bible too. God created the world in seven days, remember? The seven deadly sins. The seven contrary virtues. The seven sacraments. The list of biblical references is endless. And anyway, March 20 is the feast day for various saints. Matthew knows what he’s doing. So don’t be all po-faced, Rowan. We’re doing this with reference to our beliefs, not those dirty witches’ ones.”
It was probably the most educated and impassioned speech Rowan had ever heard from the young teenager, and he looked at him in surprise. Jeremy stared back impassively.
Rowan shrugged. “Well said. I apologise for doubting you or Matthew.” He looked at his watch. “We have ten minutes before seven o’clock. Are we ready for this then?” He regarded Jeremy carefully. “What can I expect when this chant starts? Will it hurt, will I need to say anything myself?”
Jeremy nodded, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “It will hurt. But you need to stay silent through the chant. He says to stay calm, accept whatever happens and keep your mouth shut.” He grinned wolfishly. “Matthew says you can open your mouth to scream if the pain gets too much but he’d prefer it if you didn’t.”
Rowan’s heart beat faster. This wasn’t something he was looking forward to. He took a deep breath as he readied himself for what lay ahead.
“Stand before me.” Jeremy commanded. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”
Rowan stood, towering over the younger man. Jeremy laid his hands on the other man’s and waited patiently for seven p.m. They stood in silence until finally Rowan’s hands tingled as Jeremy started the incantation. His voice was low, making no sense and Rowan didn’t recognise the words or the language. The tingle intensified, spreading up his arms, into his chest, making it tight as he struggled to breathe. His jaw ached as if he’d been hit hard. But the worst pain of all was in his head. He envisaged it like a thousand nanobots so often seen in the movies, invading his brain, circling aimlessly inside, their sharpened teeth bared to shred his brain to pieces.
He wanted to scream but the pain was too intense to even do that. All he could do was stand there like a marionette being pulled by invisible strings, his head jerking and his hands shaking. Jeremy kept up his chant, his words growing louder and more guttural.
Rowan knew he couldn’t stand much more of this. Dimly, he heard the younger man’s tones soften and finally fade away and then there was nothing more than a blinding whiteness, searing his eyeballs like looking into a nuclear explosion. Then there was blessed darkness and the pain disappeared; his chest opened up and he was finally able to breathe.
“It’s finished.” Jeremy’s curt words cut into the silence of the marsh, overshadowed by the cries of seagulls as they flew above. Rowan opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t. They were terribly sensitive, prickling like pins and needles, and he saw nothing but darkness. He reached up a hand to touch them to find them wet with something. He gave a strangled cry, and reached out blindly to Jeremy.
Jeremy grasped his hands. “Relax. Your vision will come back. Give it a while.” Rowan nodded, gasping with anxiety and Jeremy let go of his hands and reached up to his face. The teenager used what a handkerchief to wipe the wetness from his eyes.
“It’s blood,” Jeremy said disinterestedly. “It looks like you’re crying tears of the stuff. Matthew says it will get better. He says you need a different perspective on things, to see what he sees, in order to be him. So he’s changed your eyes a little. They won’t look the same anymore.”
“What the hell has he done to them?” Rowan whispered, squinting his eyes against the glare even though it was night.
“You’ll see. I wish I had them.” Jeremy sounded envious. “They look pretty cool, like one of those vampire people with totally black eyes. The ladies will love you.”
He laughed softly and Rowan finally managed to open his eyes without too much pain. He blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He could focus now and he saw the young Witchfinder in front of him, his silhouette emitting a strange orange glow, almost like an aura. Rowan gazed in wonder around him, seeing light where he’d never seen light before, noting the light around the trees, on the grass, on his own hands. He felt a sense of awe.
Jeremy turned and strode off toward the car. “Come on. I want to get home and you’re the driver.” He looked a little worried. “I hadn’t thought of that. Can you still see to drive back to London?”
Rowan nodded. “I think so. It all looks very different but I can still see.”
The two men got into the blue Rover and drove away, leaving a trail of exhaust fumes behind them.
Chapter 10
Quinn turned off the water in the shower, stepping out of the wet room and wrapping a towel around his waist. He frowned as he heard his mobile ringing downstairs.
It’s Sunday. They can leave a message.
He finished dressing into comfortable chinos and an open-neck grey shirt, pulled on his loafers and went downstairs to wait for Cade to get back from his daily swim. Cade had been practicing holding his breath underwater and seemed to be pleased at the fact he could now reach almost seven minutes without coming up for air. Quinn had even found Cade disconcertingly immersed in his bathwater once or twice while he did the same thing, his hair floating around his face as he grinned up at him. He’d smirked and said he was getting his Sprite on. He hadn’t been contacted again in the pond by any fellow Sprites and was a little disappointed.
Quinn switched on the coffee machine and sat down to check his mobile. The missed call had been from Percy. He knew he wouldn’t have called this early unless it had be
en urgent, so he called his Marshall back. Percy answered almost immediately.
“Morning, sorry to call so early, but I have some good news to give you. We get so little of that nowadays, I thought you’d want to know.”
“You got that right. What’s up?” Quinn stood watching over the heath to see if he could spot Cade returning.
“I think those clever lads and lasses in the Reponosium have figured out whose Book of Shadows you have.”
Quinn was all ears and he turned away from the window in anticipation. “That is good news. Tell me.”
“Do you remember a witch named Elizabeth Clarke?”
Quinn nodded as he paced lion like around the living room. “Yes. She was the poor one-legged woman accused of being a witch by Matthew Hopkins and hanged at Chelmsford Crown Court in 1645.” He frowned. “Are you telling me we have possession of her book?”
“I am,” Percy said grimly. “She was a witch, a fairly powerful one from what we’ve found in the old texts. Matthew Hopkins set his cap at her for doing something bad to a tailor in the town. After that, there was no escaping the man. Elizabeth Clarke was taken to the cells, tortured and held prisoner until finally she confessed to anything that the Witchfinder General wanted.”
Quinn frowned. “Is that what the initials are on the book then? I thought they were an M and a strange triangular symbol. How does that equate to E.C.?”
Percy chuckled down the line. “I had no idea either until the clever clogs at the research arm told me that they thought the symbols were old Elder Futhark runes, an ancient Germanic text. The M apparently symbolises the letter E and the smaller symbol is a K, which was also used for the letter C. So, the initials E and C. It fits in with the rest of the book contents, as there are various runes of the same language scattered throughout the book.”
Quinn was impressed. “They’re sure about this?”
Percy laughed. “Quinn, even you wouldn’t want to go down and challenge Stephen Moreson on his interpretation of the hidden language of the book. Stephen’s really passionate about his knowledge and his research and he’s one of the world’s experts on ancient languages. He’s a really brilliant man and even you wouldn’t be able to scare him.”
Double Alchemy: Climax Page 8
