Mind Games

by Cecilia Tan

  He stilled himself again, or tried to, for no force of will could stop the trembling in his shoulders, the all-over quivering that wracked his entire body. She took a deep breath, visualizing her target: a hard slash across his shoulders where the skin was already primed from the flogging. She wanted to lick that skin, to love and caress it, to cherish and possess it. She promised herself she would: after.

  She swished the whip lightly, preparing for the final strike, synchronizing her breathing with the rhythm of her arm. Watching, she saw that he had begun to rock in time with her. It had to be an illusion or a coincidence, since in his position he could not see her. Crack—the strike burned across his back like lightning and this time he loosed the scream that had failed to emerge earlier. Seizing the desire she’d been holding back, Mira pressed against his back and licked across the streak of the blow—tasting blood, feeling him tremble. Mine!

  When she raised her head, she found him slumped forward, his head hanging. Those shoulders rose and fell gorgeously as he rode through the aftermath. She sank her fingers into his hair once more, turning his head for the kiss she had denied herself earlier, and found his lips utterly pliant. Not an ounce of resistance remained in him, and she plundered his mouth gleefully, savoring his surrender.

  The kiss over, she looked into his face. He bit his lip and showed a hint of...shame?

  “How are you, angel?” she asked him.

  “I...had a bit of an...unexpected reaction,” he said, as if the large words were a challenge to say.

  “Can you be more specific?” she probed, her hand slipping down to his neck and massaging possessively.

  “I came,” he said, the blush on his cheeks coming up as sudden and bright as any welt. “My lady.”

  Oh, you treasure. She kissed him again, harder than before. When she let his mouth free, she said, “Did you expect me to be disappointed by that?”

  “Well, you didn’t give me permission.”

  “I also didn’t say you couldn’t,” she pointed out. Clive was turning out to be more compelling than she’d expected, so compelling that she decided against caution. “I’ll only be disappointed if you can’t come home with me and give me another.”

  Now he couldn’t meet her gaze. “Um. Actually, I’m sorry. I...have to be somewhere tonight.”

  The bubble that had enclosed them since she’d first mentioned the whip burst, letting in a cold wave of laughter from clubgoers by the bar. More of the regulars were arriving now and the place was filling up. How nice of him to stick to euphemism rather than say he already had a date. “Oh. You didn’t mention.”

  He kept his gaze lowered. “I know. I...didn’t expect we’d, um, connect like that. I mean, most of the women I meet here...well, none of them have ever asked me home before...” He seemed to realize he was digging the hole deeper and deeper. “I’m sorry. I really would like to...serve you, do whatever I can for you! Just not tonight?”

  Mira tried to impose some order on her jumbled thoughts and feelings. After all, she hadn’t planned to take anyone home tonight in the first place. You didn’t bring home a random dude just because he came in his pants when you whipped him. You met for coffee in daylight before you did something like that. Maybe Clive’s previous plans were the universe’s way of looking out for her.

  Or for him. The grain of possibility that he had said it as a self-preservation measure, as if he knew the damage she could do—had done—grated under her skin.

  “All right.” She kissed him on the cheek to try to show she wasn’t angry at him. She undid the restraints around his wrists and rubbed his arms as he lowered them to his sides, then unlatched his ankles.

  He went down to all fours, touched his head to the floor, and kissed the toe of each of her boots. Not the actions of a man who wanted to run away. Her heart ached a little when he stayed on his knees to accept her business card. He was perfect. Exactly what she wanted—what she needed, if she’d let herself admit it.

  Time to prove she wasn’t a predator and that he wasn’t just a good actor.

  “I do not chase men,” Mira said, trying to sound firm but not angry. “So I expect you to call me. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, my lady. I’ll call,” he said. And he sounded so sincere when he said it, too.

  (Initiates of the Blood is forthcoming from Tor Books in 2019! To receive updates on when and where you can get it, hop on the newsletter at http://bit.ly/ctannews)

  Magic University Book One: The Siren and the Sword

  Prologue

  THE ELWYN LIBRARY HAD a special kind of quiet. In the high stone spaces of the reading room, the echoes of nothing mixed with the stifling hush of the mass of paper that was the library collection. During the day, the sound of a footfall or of a page turning would be swallowed up. At night, the hush was hypnotic, like the steady sound of rainfall or wind rushing through the trees.

  The student’s head began to nod. He jerked awake, once, twice... but there was nothing to keep him awake. He was alone in the library, after hours, all the lights doused except for the reading light he’d brought with him to illuminate his cubby. He’d stayed hidden until after the building had closed, eager to spend the entire night with the precious texts he needed for his term paper.

  But in the darkest hours of the night he was beginning to feel the pull of sleep, of dreams. His head sank once again toward the page.

  He jerked upward again. Was that a noise? Had he heard something after all?

  He turned off the light. Could it be a security guard? Or another student with the same idea as him? He crept away from his desk deep in the stacks, past shelf after shelf of ancient texts, tiptoeing as he went.

  There, a soft sound like a sigh! He froze. Just on the other side of the bookshelf he was standing in front of!

  He felt her before he saw her, a warm hand reaching around his middle, startling him at first. But he could smell her perfume, feel the softness of her lips across the back of his neck. “Sarah?” he whispered. It must be her; his girlfriend was the only one who knew where he had gone, and she must have planned this little surprise.

  “Shhhhhh,” came the reply, and it turned him on that she was being so secretive. Her hands opened his fly and pushed down his pants. He could feel her fingernails scratching lightly at his balls and he leaned his arms against the shelf in front of him while her fingers wrapped around his lengthening erection.

  He moaned as she stroked him, then gasped as she raked the nails of her other hand down his back while she dropped to her knees. Her wet mouth replaced her hand on his cock and he bit his lip, trying to keep quiet. Sarah had never been like this, so forward, so eager. They still hadn’t had intercourse yet, just heavy petting, and she had only gone down on him once, but...

  Maybe she had been waiting for the right opportunity? he wondered, as her tongue did wicked things to his cock. Maybe she felt they were finally close enough. Taking things so slowly had been frustrating but rewarding at the same time, as they'd had ample time to learn each other hearts while learning how to touch and pleasure each other.

  She must have read up on blow-jobs or something, though, he thought. She seemed to have perfected some truly expert techniques if how close he was to coming was any indication.

  But when he was nearly there, she pulled back. “Sarah?” he tried to ask again, looking down in the dark, but he could not make out her face in the shadows. The library building had almost no windows in the stacks and very little ambient light seeped in from outside. Quite suddenly she leaped up, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. He gasped as he felt the velvet wetness engulfing his prick that had to mean she had impaled herself on him. I thought we were going to wait! he thought, but he wasn’t about to interrupt her when she was so very determined. His arms went around her reflexively, and his hands slid down to her buttocks to support her weight.

  She felt like she hardly weighed anything as she rocked against him, milking his cock with her body and
grinding herself against him while digging her nails into his shoulders. He helped her to move as best he could, as she seemed to bring herself off, much to his amazement, and then keep going. I’m not wearing a condom! he thought suddenly, but she was the type who would have planned everything out. If she had waited in here, snuck in, to surprise him like this, then surely she had taken precautions...

  He had no choice anyway. She was wringing his orgasm out of him before he knew it, clinging hard to him until his softening cock slipped wetly from her. Then she sprang back, leaving his arms suddenly empty and cold. “Sarah?” He took a step forward...

  And jerked awake. He was lying with his face in a book. Man, what an intense erotic dream! Maybe he was more frustrated about Sarah than he thought? He went back to studying, hoping he hadn’t drooled in the book he was using.

  It wasn’t until he went to the restroom an hour or so later that he realized his pubic hair was damp and matted. Had it been a wet dream? But his underwear was dry...

  And it wasn’t until the next night, when he got undressed in front of his roommate, who commented on the pattern of fingernail marks on his shoulders, that he believed it hadn’t been a dream.

  September

  Kyle looked at the map in his hand, then at the red brick buildings in front of him, standing like sentinels all around a grassy courtyard crisscrossed with pedestrian paths. The map was artfully done in cheery colors, with helpful tips and descriptions in word bubbles, as if each building were a cartoon character describing itself to the visitor. But the buildings he was looking at didn’t match the map. For one thing, there were too many of them.

  Maybe this is all a test to see if you’re REALLY smart enough to go to Harvard? he wondered.

  He quashed that thought quickly. Kyle Wadsworth hadn’t always led a privileged or easy life, but the scholarship he was slated to receive proved he was good enough for Harvard. The interview was merely a formality, they said. The scholarship was as good as his, and with it, a new life could begin. He shifted his tie nervously. Now if only he could arrive on time, he might be getting somewhere. He’d been looking forward to this trip East desperately. Once the interview was out of the way, he would have the whole weekend to explore the city and the campus and—and whatever. Kyle didn’t even know what exactly he wanted to do, only that his blood had sung when he’d realized it meant a chance to get away from the house, away from Great-Aunt Agatha, away from the life he couldn’t wait to leave behind.

  He was already eighteen, a high school senior, and desperately ready to start his adult life. Or, at least, college student life.

  But adults and students alike were supposed to be able to read maps.

  Perhaps the map was merely an artist’s rendition and not to scale. He checked the printed e-mail he had folded in his jacket pocket. Enter through the gate and then third building on your right, it said.

  One, two, three. The third building looked older than the one next to it, with its archway of solid stone and double doors of heavy wood. But when he pushed on the brass handle, the door swung inward easily.

  Kyle found himself in a carpeted hallway, which was a good sign. Jove had told him once that at universities the administrative buildings had carpets, and classroom buildings didn’t, so he must be on the right track. At the very least, there was bound to be a secretary here who could tell him if he was in the right place. The first door on the left was open, and he was about to step through it when a raised voice stopped him.

  “Miss Torralva! You know perfectly well I do not believe these vile rumors, which are clearly nothing more than an attempt to undermine our authority and create hysteria.”

  It was a man's voice, speaking in clipped tones. He didn’t have an accent, but the way he spoke reminded Kyle of British actors on TV.

  A woman answered him. “Come now, Quilian, there’s no need to be so harsh on the girl.”

  “Mistress Finch, I would appreciate if you would stay out of these matters...”

  “And I would appreciate if you would not shout at my students.”

  Then a younger woman's voice. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Dean Bell. Never mind, Ms. Finch. It was a waste of time to come here.”

  “See that you don’t do it again,” the man said, and strode forcefully from the room, colliding with Kyle outside the door. Kyle found himself on his ass, looking up at a blond man in graduation robes. He scrabbled backward as if the man were about to kick him.

  The man frowned and demanded, "Who are you?”

  “Er, Kyle Wadsworth,” he said, climbing to his feet and straightening his jacket. “I’m here for an admission interview?”

  The two women he had heard were now standing in the doorway, too, looking at him curiously. “Interview?” said the older of the two, who looked to be perhaps forty. She’s a librarian, Kyle thought, taking in a quick impression of her hair in a bun and glasses perched on her nose.

  The librarian called behind her, "Helena, was a prospective student scheduled to come in today?”

  Kyle looked back and forth between the imposing, angry man and the younger woman in the door, who was presumably a student. She had wavy black hair, pinned back with barrettes, and eyes such a dark brown, they were almost black. No, maybe they were black, but her expression was warm. She was looking at him with a mix of sympathy and curiosity, stifling a smile.

  “Um, hi,” Kyle said in her direction, then turned back to the man still staring at him. “I’m the Pollock Scholarship recipient?” he ventured, hoping this might ring a bell. “I’m sure the e-mail said my interview was today, two o'clock...”

  “You’re in the wrong building,” the man said, and pointed at the wall in the direction of the next building over.

  “But Dean Bell,” the girl piped up, "how could he even find...?”

  “Silence.” Bell's glare was as sharp as his voice. “Mr. Wadsworth, was it?” When Kyle nodded he went on slowly, as if Kyle might be too stupid to understand if he spoke any faster. “You. Do not. Belong. Here.”

  “Um, okay, sorry, I was just following the directions, third building and all,” Kyle stammered. “I guess I wasn’t supposed to count the one on the corner? Or maybe I was supposed to—”

  “Mr. Wadsworth.” It was the librarian again, and she and Dean Bell glared daggers at each other for a moment. “Before you move on, would you sign our visitor register? Our department doesn’t get very many, you see, and our funding for tea and cookies will be cut if we can’t prove a certain amount of interest. Right through here.” She stepped aside and indicated the open doorway.

  “Oh, sure. Anything to help...?” He dared a smile at the girl, who was watching him with that same open curiosity and a hint of a smile. She was wearing brown corduroy jeans with a flower embroidered on the pocket and he wasn’t sure why he noticed little details like that, but he tucked it away in his head for later. Maybe he’d get a chance to run into her again.

  Inside the office was a large, wooden reception desk which, like much of Harvard, was either from pre-1800 or at least made to look that old. Behind the desk sat a pretty blond woman whose lipstick was rather bright. She set a large, leatherbound book on the desk, facing Kyle. The leather creaked as she opened it and she pointed to a cup of pens next to it.

  They were all watching quite closely while Kyle took a step forward. Maybe this was the psychology department and this was all some kind of experiment on him? He reached into the pens and pulled one out, hissing sharply as he felt something prick his finger. Great. Now I’ve cut myself and I'll be bleeding all through the interview. Way to make an impression. He decided he had best just sign his name and get out of there as soon as possible. Maybe he could hurry next door and stop the bleeding in the men's room or something.

  He touched the pen to the first empty line in the ledger and felt a curious shock go through his arm. This has got to be some kind of weird experiment! Or maybe a reality TV show. But he signed his name in flowing letters, hoping the reddi
sh tinge to the ink didn’t mean he’d bled onto the page, or at least hoping they didn’t notice.

  As he lifted the pen, he heard a bell tolling. Was he late? He whirled around to find they were all staring at him still. “Um, I...um...better be going...”

  That bell kept ringing though, so loud it was as if it were right in this building. What was going on? None of them moved until the bell ceased to ring, the women sighing in relief and Dean Bell crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Well, thank you very much, Kyle Wadsworth,” the librarian said. “I’m Madeleine Finch.” She held out her hand to be shaken, and Kyle reluctantly set down the pen, but he didn’t seem to get any blood on her hand as he shook it. “Welcome to Veritas. It would appear there’s been a bit of a mix-up in your matriculation papers?”

  Kyle stared at her. “Wait a second. That’s it? I’m in? I only just sent the application. I thought I wouldn’t hear until March...”

  Dean Bell made a disgusted noise. “He’s your stray puppy to deal with now, Mistress Finch. If anyone needs me, I shall be in my office.” His tone of voice made it clear that anyone who needed him had best take a leap into the Charles River. He stalked out, robes fluttering behind him.

  The receptionist immediately began digging in a file cabinet behind her, while the other two women kept looking at him with growing curiosity.

  Kyle tried again. “Look, I’m supposed to have this interview today. I guess maybe I’m already pre-approved because I had to apply early in order to qualify for the scholarship, except I’m supposed to have this interview to, um, make sure I’m not an idiot in person, I guess, because Harvard doesn’t admit idiots, or at least, that’s the theory...uh...” He trailed off, realizing how much like an idiot he sounded. The student hid her smile behind her hand.