Death's Courtship

by Jory Strong

  Mortal death was beyond him, but the sway and give, the perilous dipping as wood yielded underneath his weight, the sheer drop to the ground beneath him gave Atticus a moment of fear. Images of Bryn crowded in, turning his grip white with the realization he didn’t want to experience an accident that might cast him from the physical into the spectral. Adrenaline spiked through him, a jolt of energy and excitement that made everything around him seem more vibrant.

  He’d often wondered at the enjoyment humans found in roller coaster rides and bungee jumping, in daredevil antics no sane man would attempt. Now he suspected he knew the answer.

  The rush could be quite addictive. And as he pushed through the screen and levered himself through the upstairs window, he understood how exhilarating risk rewarded by victory could be.

  Neat as a pin came to mind as Atticus surveyed the bedroom. He himself enjoyed order in his personal quarters and insisted on tidiness around the house, but comfort didn’t go by the wayside in favor of military precision.

  Not a speck of dust dared land on the polished wood of the desk or the Ouija board positioned an equal distance from each corner. The bed was wrinkle-free, its sheets and blankets stretched tight and tucked, giving the impression a coin would indeed bounce if dropped on the mattress. Computer reference books filled a bookcase, their spines lined up perfectly.

  Down the hall he would find the ghost, not yet aware its sanctuary had been breached. Its energy was calm as it held to the schedule of mortality and slept.

  No time like the present, Atticus thought, ready to get the whole business behind him so he could return to Bryn.

  He left the bedroom, the sound of his footsteps muffled by carpet but still loud enough to alert the sleeping ghost. A woman with cropped salt-and-pepper hair and jowls that would do a bulldog proud barreled out of the bedroom in a gust of wind.

  An olive green bathrobe morphed into Army fatigues as she kept coming toward Atticus, passing through him with such fury that had he been fully mortal, the instinct to flee would have overwhelmed him.

  Like a bull charging a cape she turned at the end of the hall and rushed toward him again, this time yelling, “Get out of my house!”

  Picture frames pulled from the wall, her anger enough to make them weapons. Atticus ducked as they spun toward him like demon-possessed Frisbees.

  “It’s time to move on,” he intoned, having little hope she’d listen to him and even less that he’d be able to reason with her before her energy level diminished.

  “That woman sent you to get rid of me!” the ghost yelled. “It’s not good enough she’s taken my son from me, she wants my house, too!”

  Atticus grunted when the woman crashed through him with enough force to put him on his back. Jagged pieces of glass from the trashed picture frames swirled upward in a deadly funnel of twisting, moving air as he got to his feet.

  Next to him Sammael took form, this time wearing a football jersey. His presence generated a wind that forced the glassy threat backward, toward the end of the hall and the stairway.

  “No!” the ghost screamed, understanding immediately the nature of Atticus’ ally.

  The rest of their brothers arrived, their appearance sending the ghost shrieking down the stairs in retreat, yelling, ironically enough, that she wouldn’t be taken alive.

  “Shall we?” Sammael asked.

  Because of Bryn, Atticus heard a deeper question than the two words conveyed on the surface. He heard the desire to be treated as an equal, to be viewed as capable, the need to do something on behalf of a brother who’d served as a father.

  “Go to it,” Atticus said. “This is a matter best left to the five of you. I’ll endeavor to stay out of your way though I insist on staying for the show.”

  “All right!” the youngest of his brothers shouted, bringing a smile to Atticus’ heart.

  “Okay, team,” Sammael said, drawing the other four—also in football jerseys—into a huddle. “We go in fast. We go in hard. Got it?”

  “Got it!”

  Hands went to the middle of their huddle, one on top of another.

  “One. Two. Three. Let’s do it!” they shouted together before charging down the hall with Atticus behind them.

  While they’d lingered upstairs, the ghost had used emotion-fueled energy to turn the kitchen table and chairs into a barricade. Sharp knives and assorted silverware greeted his brothers, moving through them to clatter against linoleum floor and hallway walls. They forged ahead, leaving Atticus in the doorway ducking kitchen appliances and dishware.

  “No!” the woman screamed in frustration as five jersey-clad men plowed into her barricade, scattering furniture and landing on top of her in a tackle. There were masculine curses and grunts. The youngest rolled to his back, clutching his genitals. The middle of the five reared up, blood streaming from his nose.

  At Sammael’s command an opening appeared at the base of the nearest wall, a gray, swirling doorway to whatever lay beyond.

  More grunts and curses ensued as inch by inch they wrestled the determined woman toward the ghostway, finally getting her across the threshold, finishing it.

  Approval filled Atticus as his brothers got to their feet. Jerseys ripped, lips and noses bleeding, he hadn’t done so badly with them after all.

  Chapter Ten

  Bryn stirred, slowly woke with the sense of being alone. “Atty?” she called, knowing even as she did it that he was gone.

  She sat up on the couch, eyes searching the room, the clock on her nightstand telling her it was after midnight. Confusion had her leaning against the back of the couch, replaying the events since they’d gotten home for a clue as to where he might have gone.

  The roses.

  She was on her feet in an instant and hurrying through her apartment and office to the front door. The flowers were gone.

  Bryn shivered as she remembered Atticus’ expression at the estate, when he’d promised to deal with Mark, then earlier tonight when they’d gotten back to find the roses. She glanced at the phone and worried her bottom lip, wondered if she should go over to Mark’s house.

  But what if she was wrong and he saw her there? It’d only serve as encouragement.

  She thought about Sheri. Maybe she’d be willing to do a drive-by.

  Bryn returned to her desk and opened the drawer where she’d put Sheri’s contact information. She glanced down at the numbers and reached for the phone, only to realize she didn’t know Mark’s address.

  She knew the street and she’d recognize the house, but she didn’t know the number. So how would Atticus?

  Mark wasn’t in the phone book. In fact, his number was unlisted—his mother’s choice and one he hadn’t changed since she’d passed away.

  Bryn thought back to the conversation she’d had with Atticus the night Mark showed up with flowers and chocolates. She hadn’t mentioned Mark’s workplace, which given the time was probably where he was at the moment anyway.

  Relief poured into Bryn with the realization she was worried over nothing. She opened the laptop on her desk because she knew there was no way she’d be able to go to sleep until Atticus returned.

  “You’ve got it bad,” she muttered, but hearing the truth spoken out loud didn’t diminish how she felt about him, didn’t make her regret feeling it.

  On a whim she did an Internet search on Death’s manifestations. She had to tweak her search, to follow several related links, but finally she came to a site about the personification of death.

  Seker was listed, as were Charon the Coachman and Suriel the Trumpeter, also known as Sauriel the Releaser. But it was another name that caught Bryn’s eye. Sammael, the first of Atticus’ five brothers.

  Bryn didn’t know whether to laugh or be horrified. Undoubtedly Atticus’ parents were unconventional and interesting, but to give their son a name which represented the Angel of Death and was translated poison of God…

  “They won’t be naming any of my children,” Bryn muttered, opening the
door to a fantasy she knew she should stop but couldn’t, not for long moments as the movie of a future with Atticus played out in her mind, complete with little black-haired sons racing around their doting father.

  “This is bad,” Bryn said, finally pulling out of the daydream. “I only just met him.” But how likely was it that she’d be able to share her work with another man the same way she could with him?

  She turned her attention to the meaning of the Death tarot and was relieved to find almost every site said the same thing, namely that it rarely represented actual physical death. It could, especially when it was used in a reading involving someone elderly or gravely ill, but it more often stood for endings, transitions.

  Makes sense, she thought, and it’s especially fitting when applied to spirits entering the ghostways.

  Bryn remembered her earlier idea, to go by Ava’s shop with the cards. Having a psychic she trusted handle them would make her feel more comfortable, especially if they were going to keep appearing after each manifestation of Death.

  The sound of a car’s engine had Bryn turning off the computer and going to the window. She smiled at the sight of the Aston Martin, hesitated for only a second before deciding to greet Atticus outside.

  “You’re okay?” she said.

  Elegant masculine eyebrows lifted, male ego answering silently, Was there any doubt?

  She wrapped her arms around his waist in a hug, noticed for the first time the plastic grocery bag holding the distinctive shape of a carton of ice cream. “I was afraid you’d gone after Mark.”

  “Mark is fortunate I didn’t encounter him.”

  Bryn sighed. Tomorrow…no, later today she was going to have to do something about Mark. She shivered. She wasn’t really afraid of him, but it was hard not to be a little worried thanks to sensational news stories about men who’d escalated to physical violence and murder once the authorities had become involved and a restraining order put into place.

  Atticus’ hand stroked her spine. “Don’t worry,” he murmured as if reading her mind. “I think your suitor will soon discover his fixation on you is unnecessary.”

  Warm masculine lips covered Bryn’s. A wonderfully talented tongue teased its way into her mouth, turned her thoughts away from his curiously worded reassurance.

  Bryn pressed more tightly against him and wasn’t surprised to find him hard. His hands cupped her buttocks, held her steady as he ground the thick ridge of his erection into her.

  “Your door key was on the counter,” he murmured against her lips. “Forgive me for borrowing it without asking?”

  “Convince me I should.”

  His husky laugh sent heat cascading through her. “With pleasure.”

  For long moments they kissed, clung together as though they’d been parted for months. “Let’s go inside,” Atticus finally said, one of his hands leaving her buttocks and pushing under her tank top to claim her breast.

  A spike of need shot to her clit when his palm pressed against her nipple. A moan escaped. “That sounds like a good idea.”

  They detoured past the refrigerator in order to put the ice cream in the freezer, then past the coffee table where Atticus picked up the brown box, making Bryn realize it must have held more than the lubricant he’d pulled out of it earlier.

  Atticus placed the box on the nightstand before taking her in his arms. “I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

  “I feel the same way about you,” Bryn said, knowing it should be too soon to feel that way, but feeling it anyway. She’d always accepted the possibility of soul mates, of couples destined to be together, in one life as well as in the next, but she’d never truly believed it would happen for her.

  Her hands went to the front of his shirt, unbuttoned it. His went to the hem of her tank top, pulled it upward and off, both of them needing the touch of skin against skin.

  “You’re beautiful, Bryn, as beautiful as any woman who ever graced the temples on Mt. Olympus or the halls of Valhalla.”

  His eyes went from her face to her breasts to her waist, lingered, made her feel beautiful, desirable.

  She pushed his shirt off his shoulders and down so it fell to the floor. “You’re like an ancient god brought to life,” she whispered, “so perfectly formed that I’m afraid you’re a manifestation that’s going to disappear into thin air the same way as Suriel and Charon and Seker did.”

  “Never without you,” he said, pulling her against him so her breasts pressed to his chest and they both moaned at the pleasure to be found just holding each other.

  He captured her lips again, teased her with the thrust and retreat of his tongue until her hands slid down his muscled back and around to open his jeans then free his cock. Satin smoothness over hardened desire, he shuddered at her touch, made her feel lightheaded with feminine power as she stroked his thick shaft.

  Arousal beaded on the tip of his penis. He bucked when she found it with her thumb, spread it over the mushroom-shaped head. He groaned when she explored the tiny opening, coaxed more arousal from it.

  “Bryn,” he panted, hands going to her sweatpants, pushing them down along with her panties so he could slip his fingers between her thighs, run them through her slit.

  She moaned, wanted to lie on the bed and feel him inside her but didn’t want to part long enough to do it. She pushed at his jeans, thought to free the rest of him so she could fondle the heavy sac between his thighs.

  Atticus had more willpower than she. With a grunt he stepped back and hastily shed his shoes and the rest of his clothing while she stepped out of her fallen sweats and panties.

  Bryn lay down on the bed, her pose wanton, inviting, thighs spread and hands cupping her breasts. She’d never felt so confident, so alluring, so sexual with any other man, but the look on his face, the way his cock seemed to pulse in hungry appreciation made her daring, spontaneous, free of inhibitions.

  He joined her, took an offered nipple between his lips and suckled as his fingers returned to her slit. She was wet, needy, unashamedly anxious to have his cock push into her channel.

  Her hips lifted. She was reduced to whimpering when he began fucking her with his fingers, his palm glancing over the tiny head of her clit with each thrust. So close, she was so close.

  “Come for me,” Atticus said, leaving one nipple to capture the other, the feel of his teeth giving bite to the command as the touch between her thighs became more demanding.

  Her hands went to his shoulders, his hair, held him to her breast as her hips thrust upward and her channel clenched desperately on his fingers. It felt so good, too good.

  With a cry she let herself go, let the heated tide of ecstasy swamp her, take her strength until she felt boneless, utterly relaxed against the sheets. “Your turn,” she murmured as Atticus slid upward so his face was only inches away from hers, his hard cock pressed against her hip as his thigh crossed hers, trapping her against the mattress.

  “I have a confession to make,” he said, the glint in his eyes hinting it was a confession she just might enjoy hearing.

  “Tell me.”

  His gaze flickered to the nightstand and back. “I skimmed through your romance books. I acted on what I found there.” Atticus lowered his mouth to hers. “What happened on the couch earlier was part one. Part two has to do with bondage. Am I wrong in thinking you’d like to try it?”

  Electric surprise rippled through Bryn, a curiosity that made her shiver involuntarily with erotic fear. Somehow she managed to ask, “Is that what’s in the box? Restraints?”

  “Yes.” He dipped his head to nibble on her lips. “But we can save them for another time if you prefer. I love being with you. Anything we do together satisfies me.”

  “Anything?” Bryn asked, a wicked idea forming.

  He didn’t hesitate. “Anything.”

  She stroked his nipple, thrilled at the way his cock pulsed against her hip. “You first.”

  His eyes widened, filled with dark hunger and carnal heat.
“You want to tie me to the bed?”

  “You didn’t get to that scene in the book?” she teased, not sure there was in fact such a scene in the erotic romance books on her nightstand.

  “My time was limited.”

  She took his nipple between her fingers and applied just the right amount of pressure to make his face grow taut and his eyes close. “I think we can probably figure it out as we go. What do you think?”

  His cock pressed more firmly against her, the tip touched her side in a wet kiss.

  “Yes.”

  Bryn used her grip on his nipple to push him onto his back. Then she straddled him as she’d done the first time, when he gave her his virginity.

  The thought flooded her channel with arousal, as did the sight of him, a bronzed Greek god in her bed, soon to be totally at her mercy. She’d fantasized about bondage, about trusting a lover enough to give him complete control. She hadn’t made it as far as imagining the reverse, but she felt sure she could improvise.

  Bryn reached for the box on the nightstand and took out the restraints. They were soft, strong.

  Atticus raised his arms without being commanded. She secured the tethers to the bedposts first then leaned down, offered him her breast as she fitted the restraints around his wrists.

  Bryn moaned as he took advantage of what she offered. He laved and bit and suckled, made her cunt clench and unclench as pleasure was pulled upward through her nipples until it took considerable willpower to leave him long enough to tether his ankles.

  It was wildly erotic, more so than she would have imagined, to have him spread-eagled on the bed awaiting her attention. His cock bobbed and strained when her gaze settled on it, seemed to grow even fuller. He didn’t tug at the bonds, didn’t seemed to be afraid at all of being helpless.

  Trust. Intellectually she knew that was what bondage games were all about. Now she understood it viscerally. And looking at Atticus, she knew she trusted him enough to give him the same control—next time.

  She placed her hands on his thighs, loved the way his hips bucked and a moan escaped. “You’re gorgeous, Atty,” she said gliding her palms upward, over his muscles, until her fingers framed his thick penis and full sac.