by Ann Macela
“Bent gained the ability to see the aura around me when I have cast a spell on myself. I can now spell him for healing and defense. That was the extent of our enhancement. No one has any idea what the First Mating will do, what talents it might increase, or by what magnitude. In some cases, the practitioner gains nothing, and in others, completely new abilities. Therefore we don’t know what will happen to you. According to my mother’s sources, however, as far as we know, the SMI has never granted spell-casting abilities to a nonpractitioner in the First Mating.”
“Oh.” Francie immediately felt deflated and disappointed. She laughed at herself as she realized the cause. When both sisters raised their eyebrows in question, she explained, “I had a sudden vision of being able to cast a spell. Paradoxical, isn’t it? One minute I deny the existence of magic, and the next I want to use it. What a turnaround.”
“One thing we all have to get used to,” Gloriana said, “is that each and every one of us has his or her own brand of magic, his or her individual talents. This is no different from nonpractitioners and their non-magic talents. All we can do is be true to our own natures and abilities.” She grinned. “Thus endeth the lesson for today.”
“What else do I need to know?” Francie asked.
“Well,” Daria answered, “we witches are always virgins at our First Matings, mostly because the imperative turns us off to any man except our soul mates, but the situation doesn’t apply to nonpractitioners, from what we’ve been able to find out. Warlocks are seldom virgins—because of all their testosterone, according to Mother.”
Francie forced herself to keep her mouth closed at the implications of Daria’s statement, but she felt herself turning red. No way was she going to tell these two anything about her lack of virginity, especially anything about Walt. It was bad enough that she remembered what she had said to Clay about the bastard, how she had compared the two men. She shut off her memories to concentrate on what Daria said next.
“There’s one more thing, and it’s very important,” Daria said. “The First Mating must be totally without physical or artificial barriers. No condom, no diaphragm, no pills.”
“But . . .” Francie sputtered. Not in this day and age did one consider such a thing.
“It has to do with making the bond a secure one,” Daria said with an earnest look.
“Don’t worry, Clay’s healthy,” Gloriana interjected. “Mother makes sure we all have thorough physicals by practitioner doctors, and I know Daddy preached condoms to Clay even before his first girlfriend.” She gazed intently at Francie for a moment. “The subject of the First Mating brings us to the birth-control issue. Practitioners don’t have children unless both of them want to. We witches have our own spells to ensure it, and they don’t count as a barrier. You can’t conjure your own, but I can cast a contraceptive spell on you. They last about a year, and we usually renew them every six months to be certain. Would you like me to conjure the enchantment?”
Here it was, Francie said to herself. Decision time.
She had accepted the existence of magic. By agreeing to Gloriana’s spell, she would be agreeing Clay was her soul mate, agreeing the two of them belonged together, agreeing they would make love.
Daria leaned across the space between the couch and Francie’s chair and put a hand on Francie’s arm. “We’re not asking you to make a decision about Clay right this moment,” she said, “or even to tell us what it is, although I think you know how we would like you to decide. But the spell can’t hurt you, and it does protect you. We can always remove it later or simply let it wear off, whatever you like.”
If she took the spell, she couldn’t use the fear of pregnancy as a reason to reject him, Francie thought. She dithered for a moment, then took the leap. “Oh, what the heck,” she said with a sigh. “I might as well have it. Just in case. Not that I know what I’m going to do yet.” Her qualifications sounded hollow, even to her own ears. Her center gave a little lurch, and she could almost hear it say, “Liar.”
“Let me cast the spell, and then we’ll get out and you can think about all this without our influence,” Gloriana said as she rose and came over to stand beside Francie’s chair.
“What do I do?” Francie’s center was tingling again, and she could feel excitement beginning to bubble in her veins. She might be procrastinating, but the good old SMI seemed to have made up its mind about her decision.
“Just relax,” Gloriana said. She concentrated for a moment and reached over to lay her left hand on Francie’s abdomen. She made a complicated gesture with her right hand and then covered the left with it. Francie sensed a warmth settling in her core, and she blinked as a shimmer of light came and went on the periphery of her vision.
Gloriana stepped back. “There. That should take care of things for a while.”
“What did you feel?” Daria asked.
“Like I had a heating pad on my stomach for a moment,” Francie answered. “And there was a flicker like far-off lightning at the edge of my sight.”
“Good,” Gloriana said. “It means the spell took.”
“I want to try something,” Daria said. “I’m going to put one of my spells on myself. Tell me what you see, Francie.”
“Okay,” Francie agreed. She watched Daria closely. At first nothing at all happened; Daria didn’t even wiggle a finger. Then . . . “Oh.”
“What happened?” Daria asked.
“First a tiny, dim flash of blue light surrounded you, and then suddenly I had the absolute feeling I could trust you and should tell you the truth. What does that mean?”
“I think it means you’re extremely sensitive to magic,” Daria replied. “I put only a minuscule amount of power into the spell. Even the vast majority of practitioners would have been unaffected. As a nonpractitioner, you shouldn’t have seen the light or had any ‘sudden,’ or definable feeling at all.”
“You’re almost as sensitive as I am,” Gloriana put in. “I could barely see the aura. But wait a minute.” She turned to Daria. “The spell affected Francie. If this were one of your interviews, she would have told you the truth without any questions. But if Francie and Clay are soul mates, and the members of a practitioner family are not affected by each other’s spells, how can she be feeling the enchantment?”
“Probably because they haven’t mated yet,” Daria answered and rose. “Come on, Glori, let’s get out of here and leave Francie in peace.”
“But I still have more questions,” Francie protested. “How does this all work in practice, and what happens . . .”
“I’m sure you do, but we’re not the ones to answer them,” Daria said with a kind smile. “Clay is.”
The sisters had their things together and were heading for the door before Francie could think of anything to say except a weak, “Thanks for all your help.”
Daria and Gloriana both gave Francie a hug. “We’ll get together later,” Daria promised.
“Don’t let him off the hook too easily,” Glori counseled.
“Don’t mind her, her mission in life has always been to give Clay a hard time,” was Daria’s rejoinder. “You’ll know what to do.” And then they were gone.
Francie shut the door and looked blankly around her apartment. “Magic. Soul mates,” she said aloud. “What am I going to do now?”
Her answer came in a stab of pain in the solar plexus so sharp, it robbed her of breath and almost bent her double.
“All right, I get the message,” she grumbled toward her middle. “Go to him.”
She staggered toward the bedroom to find her shoes, and the pain subsided. Should she call him first? What if he wasn’t home?
A needlelike twinge told her the SMI obviously wanted her moving, not on the phone.
“Okay, okay,” she told it as she sat down to put on her socks and sneakers. “That’s enough out of you.”
The spot subsided to its normal itchy condition.
Francie put her elbows on her knees and leaned her head on her h
ands. She had to be going crazy. First she was seeing dragons and panthers and balls of light in her own living room. Then she was agreeing she believed in magic. Now she was talking out loud to some implausible, invisible “concept,” an “imperative,” that had teeth and didn’t hesitate to bite. Next she would probably be trying to cast spells herself. She shook her head at the unreality of the situation.
Well, unreal or not, a significant transformation was happening to her, and she had to come to terms with it.
“It” had a name: soul mate. Clay’s soul mate. The concept did explain the intense, immediate attraction they felt for each other, the reaction each drew from the other. And the result, the culmination of all this confusion and craving and frustration and lust was a lifelong commitment to each other.
What had Daria said? Soul mates were “bound together.”
“Not complete without the other.”
And the clincher: “They are as in love with each other as it is possible for two people to be.”
Yes, she was in love with Clay Morgan. She might as well admit it. She lusted after his body, she craved his attention, she enjoyed his conversation, she longed for his companionship. She wanted his children.
She needed to be with him, no matter what, forever.
She felt a great calm settle over her as these last conclusions filtered through her mind, permeated her body, and settled in her bones. All her anxieties vanished, and the spot under her sternum hummed. Exhilarating excitement, fiery desire, and almost overwhelming joy mixed into a frothy brew that bubbled in her veins more than the most expensive champagne ever could. She realized she was hugging herself, holding on as if to stop from blasting off into space from sheer delirium.
She had to see Clay. He had said he wouldn’t come to her, so she had to go to him. She had to explain how she felt. She had to . . .
Forget her pride.
Apologize.
Beg his forgiveness.
Oh, God, this was going to be painful.
But he was her soul mate, wasn’t he? It meant he had to forgive her, didn’t it?
She took a deep breath to gird herself for battle. She could do nothing except go find out.
She looked at herself in the mirror as she rose to grab her purse. All she had on were old jeans and a ragged sweatshirt. Her hair was a tangled mess, and she had on no makeup. His sisters must have thought she looked like a bag lady.
She ran a brush through her hair, but when she contemplated taking the time to make up her face, the damn spot in the middle of her chest started itching like crazy.
“All right! I’m going!” She gave it a rap with her knuckles as she walked out the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It seemed like only seconds before she was pulling up in front of Clay’s home. Wherever her mind had been during the drive, she would probably never know. She looked around before climbing out of her car. The house, the yard, the block, the neighborhood, all looked quiet and serene in the noonday sun. The little norther had left the sky a bright blue and given the air a crispness not usually found in humid Houston.
Francie shivered as she approached the front door. “You can do it,” she muttered to bolster her courage, but she rang the doorbell with a not-quite-steady finger.
Nothing happened. No sounds emanated from within, no shadow appeared at the front window, no click signaled the locks disengaging.
Disappointment close to despair speared through her, but she refused to give up. He had to be there.
As she reached for the button again, the door abruptly opened. The man who was her soul mate stood in the door frame.
He didn’t say a word. His face betrayed no emotion. He just looked at her with eyes of molten silver.
Francie’s mouth went dry. He was so gorgeous, standing there barefoot in jeans worn white with use, an old Renaissance Festival T-shirt stretched tightly over his muscular chest, and his black hair all mussed up. It was all she could do not to hurl herself into his arms, but the stiffness in his posture, the wariness rolling off him in waves, told her they had to talk first. Wasn’t that what the basketball game had been all about—his wanting to talk to her?
Her SMI spot was totally quiet, no help at all in indicating her best approach.
She drew herself together, a little surprised to find her pride had returned. They’d meet as equals. She’d apologize, but she wasn’t going to grovel. “Can I come in?” she asked, thankful when her voice remained steady.
Clay stared at her. He’d been fidgeting all morning, expecting his sisters. Daria had told him they’d be over after seeing Francie. Neither sister had called, and he’d been unable to concentrate on anything beyond conjuring up scenarios about how their mission was going. He’d pictured every possibility from Francie throwing them out to all three becoming such buddies they tried to teach Francie how to cast spells. As if a nonpractitioner who didn’t believe in magic could enchant so much as a match to burst into flame.
Now here she was on his doorstep. She looked wonderful, with those tight jeans and the thin sweatshirt hugging her luscious curves, her blond hair loose on her shoulders and shining in the sun. He wanted to haul her into his arms and hold her until they fused together.
But they had to talk first. Up to and including that damned basketball game, he’d been assuming too much, been overconfident. No more. She was here. It had to mean she had decided something, but what? At least she had the guts to tell him face to face.
She didn’t look angry. She didn’t look sad. Her brown eyes were smokier than usual, and there was a sense of anticipation about her. A spark of hope flared in his chest. Everything would be all right. She was his soul mate, wasn’t she?
Hold on, Morgan, he told himself. You can’t jump to any conclusions with this woman. Look where it’s gotten you in the past. After all you’ve been through, you need to hear her say the words clearly, unambiguously, unprompted. He stepped back from the door and waved her in.
She seemed nervous as she walked stiffly into the living room. She put her purse on the couch and moved to stand in the open area before the fireplace—where he had stood when he tried to explain magic to her. She turned to face him.
Clay stopped at the end of the couch. His hands itched with the need to touch her, so he slid them into his back pockets to anchor them. His magic center, which had been quiet all morning, vibrated for a few seconds, then fell still. The only part of his body that was aching was his heart. It would just have to wait. He’d humbled himself the last time she was here; he wouldn’t do it again. He waited for her to speak.
Francie licked her lips, noticing how his gaze followed the motion before returning to look into her eyes. Why wasn’t he saying anything? He didn’t look angry, thank goodness, just intent. He certainly wasn’t making it easy for her, but then she couldn’t exactly blame him, not after all she’d put them through. She clasped her hands—in back of her so he couldn’t see how tightly she was holding on to herself—and took the plunge.
“Clay,” she started, then had to stop to clear her throat. “Daria and Gloriana came to see me this morning. They showed me some . . . spells . . . some magic.” There, she’d said the word. Maybe it would get easier if she just kept talking. “They turned themselves into a panther and a dragon, and Gloriana made one of my plants grow. I think I was finally convinced when Glori cured my headache.”
She stopped. She felt like she was babbling. She started again. “What I’m trying to say is . . . I do believe now you all can do magic, you are magic practitioners.”
Clay didn’t say a word, didn’t change expression, just looked at her.
“I’m sorry I didn’t give you the chance to show me how you cast spells on the computer. I’ve always prided myself on my open mind, my willingness to investigate new ideas, and my caution not to jump to a conclusion. I did that with you—jumped, I mean—and I apologize for it. Some ancient mental baggage and fears clogged my thought processes and got in the way of what y
ou were trying to tell me. I listened to those old liars instead of you. I know deep in my heart you would never do the things I accused you of. Can you forgive me?”
Clay nodded, a quick jerk of his head up and down. His mouth remained shut.
Francie could feel her hands twisting each other behind her back. Stay calm, she ordered herself. He hasn’t thrown you out. He’s just waiting for you to say the words. The SMI spot tingled—an encouraging stimulation, she hoped.
“Daria and Glori also explained about soul mates,” she continued. “About how Daria and Bent are mates, about what it really means, how some of it works. They wouldn’t answer all of my questions, however. They said I had to talk to you.” She paused, but he still said nothing, although she thought she could see a distinct gleam in his eyes, a hot flame burning in the silver. The SMI gave another flutter, and she knew exactly what she had to say.
“I’ve done some thinking, Clay, even before your sisters came to visit. I’ve been ‘helped’ by what I understand now is our mutual tormentor, the imperative,” she said with what she hoped was a smile, but felt more like a grimace of pain. She tried to keep her voice steady, but she could hear the anguish, the pleading in it. “A lot of thinking and a lot of feeling. I’ve been miserable since we’ve been apart, and not just because of the imperative. I miss you. I want you. I won’t fight it or you any longer. I don’t want to be without you ever again.”
He didn’t say a word.
She took a deep breath. Now or nothing. “To answer your question from the last time we were in this room, yes, I will be your soul mate. Will you be mine?”
A tidal wave of relief flowed over Clay as he growled, “It’s about damned time.” He closed the distance between them in a nanosecond, hauled Francie into his arms, and took her mouth, delving deep, demanding, devouring. When she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back, it felt like coming home, Christmas morning, his birthday, and his first successful spell-casting on a computer—altogether, only infinitely better.
