She drew back the curtain of reality and showed Laurel images of herself bound with intricate ropes, her head bowed as she lapped at Catherine’s center. Images of Laurel’s wet thighs, swollen clit, her desperate urgency to please slammed into Catherine as Laurel willingly engaged with the fantasy Catherine projected into her mind.
Laurel’s engagement with Catherine morphed as they became more enmeshed in each other’s minds. The sensation of Laurel suckling Catherine’s clit sent a wave of pleasure through Catherine as she indulged herself in Laurel’s carnal thoughts. Catherine’s control slipped and her form, her essence knit together against her will, her dark fingers visible, stark against Laurel’s pale skin. She collared the smooth column of her throat and bent her head, pressing her lips to the pulse that hammered under her touch.
Laurel’s head jerked up. Eyes wide, she scooted away from Catherine, breaking their connection, and stood. Laurel clutched the box to her chest as she stumbled back. Catherine withdrew, dissolved her form.
A deep scowl spoiled Laurel’s face as she searched the room with her gaze. “I don’t know who you are, but I know you’re here. Leave me alone for fuck’s sake. I can’t deal with anymore today.”
Fear and exhaustion rolled off Laurel, and her untrained wild psychic energy flailed toward Catherine. She blocked Laurel’s energy and retreated to safety behind her shields. If Laurel had been human, Catherine would have stayed, toyed with her, stoking her terror and then sipping her fear until she was drunk with it. But Laurel’s dark eyes and desperate pleading made Catherine want to comfort her, gather her in her arms and hold her, drink in her pain, savor it, and leave peace behind.
Laurel glanced around the room, her pupils blown wide. A wave of want speared Catherine. The heady taste of Laurel’s fear and sexual energy remained, and unquenchable desire seared her soul. She fled the space, fearful of her feelings and of driving Laurel away.
Chapter Seven
Following the flow of air, Catherine moved to the safety of her attic space. She coalesced into her form. Her body glowed with heat and energy. Catherine cloaked herself in the pent-up energy of her wants.
The first year of her imprisonment Catherine had allowed herself to feel, to remember what it was like to hate, to love, and to want. And then it had become too painful, her hope of ever being restored to her bodily form and being reunited with her lover had faded and she had tucked her feelings away into the back corner of her mind.
Laurel had shattered her control, given her a sip of desire, and now she wanted to drown in it, as she had once drowned in her lover’s eyes when Catherine dangled her over the edge between fear and passion. Terror sprung up. Catherine cared. She cared what happened to Laurel. Feelings. Messy inconvenient feelings rose in her, unbidden, unwanted, unwelcome.
Catherine wanted. In the sixty years since her death, she had wanted very little other than revenge, but now she wanted Laurel. She paced the small room and savored the desire Laurel had stirred in her. Cupping her breasts, she rolled her nipples and shivered at the sensations that flowed through her.
“Catherine?”
She yanked her hands away from her breasts as fear replaced lust and she lashed out in the direction of the voice.
“Ow, stop! It’s me, Catherine.” Manny’s voice slid into her consciousness. “Are we safe?”
“I’m sorry, Manny.”
“It’s okay. You mad?”
“No. I just—I wanted some privacy. I should have set wards. Sorry.” She swept her hair back from her forehead before she crossed her arms over her chest. “Did you need something?”
“Are we safe?”
“Yes. I don’t think she’ll stay long.”
“You’re sad?” Manny’s child’s curiosity seeped into her mind.
“Yes.” Catherine moved carefully in the attic as she sat at her desk, unwilling to make noises that might scare Laurel away. She had spent years perfecting how to frighten people from the townhouse. For the first time, she wanted someone to stay.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” Catherine lied, unwilling to explain her desires to the boy, unsure she understood them herself.
Chapter Eight
Laurel tugged at the disgusting bedroom carpet. With both hands she gripped the edge of the rug and yanked. The worn carpet pulled free of the tack strips, scattering dust. The rank smell of animal urine floated on the air and Laurel pulled the neck of her T-shirt over her face as a makeshift mask.
The carpet was only marginally attached to the floor and Laurel pried the few staples that remained in the flooring free with her knife. With a flick of her wrist, she cut through the carpet with her blade, creating manageable strips to carry through the townhouse. After dragging the grimy carpet to the rear of the house, she piled the narrow rolls of carpet on the back patio.
The tack strips came up easily and she carried them outside. She stacked them on the bricks next to the carpet. A ragged excuse for a broom stood propped against the wall in the pantry and she carried it back to the bedroom. With firm strokes she swept the bedroom floor free of loose dust and carpet tacks.
The narrow board hardwood floor was dull gray with dirt. She located a bucket in the bathroom and filled it with her favorite all-purpose cleaner. Starting in the far corner, she washed the floor. Her knees ached from kneeling on the unyielding hardwood. The pain was comforting and grounding as she wiped the sponge over the wood, careful to not soak the boards. The fresh scent of the orange soap she used to clean the floor filled the room.
A darker area in the middle of the floor, a subtle burgundy splotch, stood out against the light oak floor. Laurel sat back on her heels and studied the stain. Water? Wine? She shivered and knelt to examine it more closely. She traced her fingers over the stained wood. Blood. She sensed it. So much blood. She rose to her feet and swiped her hand down the front of her jeans.
Laurel followed the path of blood. The faint outline of a handprint and a smear appeared as her inner vision sharpened. Smaller stains, droplet shapes led away from the larger stain. Reading the flow of the bloodstains, Laurel imagined the person had fallen, pushed themselves to their knees, stood, and then staggered from the room.
Laurel relaxed her mind, summoned her power, and focused her energy on the drops and splatters leading away from the larger bloodstain. The trail of drops morphed as her vision sharpened. The faint stains glistened bright red against the wood and she followed them to the doorway. Laurel followed the trail, unable to look away. The droplets grew smaller and more scattered as they came to the door of the attic.
Laurel clasped the glass doorknob and turned it. Locked. She reached above the door and swept her hand along the frame, finding only a thick layer of dust. She swiped her dirty fingers on her jeans as she patted her pockets. After drawing the clump of keys Nadia had given her from her back pocket, she studied them. The brass faceplate of the lock was greenish with the dull patina of time. Original to the townhouse, the attic door required a skeleton key. None of the keys Nadia had given her fit the lock. Laurel leaned her head against the cool wood of the door.
Nadia’s warning of not engaging with any spirits filtered into her consciousness. Laurel shivered as memories of her earlier encounter shot through her. The sensation of the spirit under her skin and in her mind had been exhilarating. The way her fingers had circled Laurel’s neck as a knowing lover would had been comforting. Her touch had roused Laurel’s longing to belong to a Mistress who would cherish her, protect her, and who would torment her with unfathomable pleasure and pain.
And then I freaked, shoved her away. Will she return? The spirit had wanted her, wanted what Laurel wanted. The current of her desire as she connected with Laurel had been heady and intoxicating. Laurel had sensed no malice from the spirit, only longing as deep and as wide as her own.
This was her lair. Laurel stared at the trail of blood that disappeared under the door leading to the attic. The short hairs rose on Laurel’s neck. Was it her bl
ood that had marred the floors? Or her victim’s?
Unable to suppress her curiosity, Laurel laid her cheek against the cool wood and melded her body against the door panels in an attempt to project herself through the door. A surge of raw power shot through her body, her nipples and clit reacting to the sweet pain.
Jolted, she panted and stepped back, vision hazy as purple arcs of light flashed from around the edges of the door, visible evidence of the wards protecting the passage. The scent of pine resin and cedar floated on the air and surrounded her. Ancient magic warded the door, creating a powerful fortress of protection Laurel was unable to penetrate.
Laurel blinked away the sting of suppressed tears as a tidal wave of sadness and longing pulled her down. She had lost her chance to connect with the spirit. The message was clear. She did not desire Laurel’s presence. Laurel covered her mouth as she recalled the ugly words she had shouted, her blunt rejection and request to be left alone. The spirit had left her then, her withdrawal profound.
And now Laurel had no hope of connecting with her. Of finding out who She was, or if it was Her blood splattered on the bedroom floor. Laurel touched her throat. As her fingers settled over the spot where the Entity’s fingers had collared her a tingle shot through her body. Laurel stepped forward and pressed her body full against the door, pushing against the wards.
Energy crackled and flowed through her, sharp and unyielding, taking her breath away. A searing pain shot through her brain and lights flashed before her closed eyes. She clasped the doorframe, standing bracing herself as she would against a St. Andrew’s cross to welcome a lover’s whip.
Intoxicating desire and longing kept her there, pressed against the old wood. The burning energy cords of the door wrapped around her body, arms, and legs, cutting into her flesh. She willed herself to stay centered in the pain, surrendering to the blissful peace of suffering.
Laurel reveled in the desperate sharp pain of the wards as the thorny purple vines bit into her flesh and contracted, pulling her body taut. Her blood flowed around the wounds and pattered to the floor. A deep rich ache grew in her joints and she cried out as the vines tightened, sending the burning hooks deeper into her flesh and threatening to tear her in two. Laurel closed her eyes and let her head rest between her shoulders, ready and willing to sacrifice herself, to offer all that she was to the spirit on the other side of the door.
A surge of energy cut the vines and pulled her free from the door. Her flesh closed around her wounds. Laurel’s hands burned and ached, glowed where they had grasped the doorframe. She stumbled back and rubbed her forehead. A roaring filled her ears, the world tilted, and she sat down hard in the hallway. Laurel hung her head between her knees, panting.
A sharp voice filled her mind, commanded her to stand up, to back away from the door. Nadia? She had not reached out to the centurion, nor called for her assistance. A tangle of resentment rose, and anger twined with gratitude. Laurel sat back on her heels and chewed her lip. Nadia was pledged to keep Laurel safe, even from her own self-destructive desires, but Laurel was unaccustomed to sharing her thoughts and experiences with anyone uninvited.
Come away. You’ll hurt yourself. Come here.
The dulcet tones flowed through her mind, cajoling her to move. Laurel stood and braced herself against the wall with one hand and moved away from the door. A familiar energy signature brushed over her shoulder, as if someone had trailed their fingers over her skin, and the small hairs on her neck rose. “You’re not Nadia.”
No. Don’t be frightened. Come here. Aware and curious, Laurel gave in and followed the soft commands, backed away from the door, and walked to her room. The space had transformed, the floors shone with polish, and a wide bed with clean white sheets occupied the middle of the room. The walls glowed with yellow light and the bright smell of lemon surrounded her. In soothing tones, the voice directed her to undress. Laurel shed her clothes and stood naked next to the bed. The low timbred voice caressed her, touched her as a lover’s voice would. Her heart stuttered. A lover. A lover who understood what Laurel needed. What she craved. A lover who craved it themselves.
Laurel let herself be guided by not-Nadia’s voice, submitting to her as she imagined submitting to the Mistress of her dreams and secret fantasies. Laurel supposed this was the way a Mistress would be if she were truly Laurel’s lover, not someone she had paid to act as such. A Mistress who would command her, cherish her, keep her safe the way a Mistress should. At least what a Mistress did in Laurel’s dreams.
Chapter Nine
In the bathroom, water splashed from the shower head. Laurel stepped into the warm spray and ran her hands over her wet skin. Cupping her palm, she squirted lavender scented shower gel into her hand. Making a lather, she smoothed the soap over her wet skin.
Dulcet tones filled her mind. “Don’t rush. You’re beautiful. Slow down. I want to enjoy this.”
Laurel lingered over her breasts, cupping them. With finger and thumbs she tweaked her nipples, teasing them into hard points. She gasped and closed her eyes against the ripple of pleasure spreading over her body.
“Very nice. You have sublime breasts. Touch yourself for me. I want to watch you come.”
The honeyed voice flowed through her mind and set her nerve endings on fire. Desire welled up, leaving her skin tingling. Laurel rinsed her hands under the warm spray. She closed her eyes and smoothed her hands over her belly.
Show me how you touch yourself when you’re alone.
A surge of wetness spread out and coated Laurel’s thighs. The image of a voluptuous woman, reclining in a chair, her long legs stretched out in front of her crossed at the ankles filled Laurel’s mind. Black strapped pumps set off delicate ankles, and shapely calves lead to thick thighs.
Her simple tan sweater set over a dark wool skirt, and her face, framed by flat ironed hair, primly styled, lent an air of clandestine wickedness to their scene as She watched Laurel. The dark eyes set deep in the woman’s face glowed with a banked fire, her slash of a mouth pulled into a tight smile as the woman commanded Laurel’s pleasure. Laurel braced herself with one hand against the slick tiles and feathered her fingers over her clit. She spread her legs wide, showing herself. With small strokes she circled and pressed her clit.
Fuck yourself for me. The full-throated command issued from the voice ignited Laurel’s flesh.
Aching with longing and seeking solace, Laurel stroked herself to completion, fingers flicking over her fat clit, before she thrust her fingers deep. With firm strokes, the heel of her hand ground against her clit as she fucked herself wantonly. The sharp edge of the voice when She commanded her to come for her, sent Laurel over the edge and she cried out, came hard, her body clasping around her fingers. Laurel slowed her thrusts and brought herself off again. Her groans reverberated in the small space. Laurel leaned her forehead against the wet tiles as the spiral of pleasure spun out from her center. The hot water faded as the shower spray ran cold. Laurel shivered.
“Such a good girl.” The voice, rich in praise, faded from Laurel’s mind.
Stepping away from the spray, she wrenched the tap closed. She snatched her clothes from the floor and chided herself for lingering in the shower. The voice was gone now, abruptly leaving Laurel, and she shivered at the loss. The presence was silent, no aftercare, no way to offer her thanks to the voice.
Laurel had no opportunity to crawl to Her, to press her lips to the toes of those gorgeous shoes, and then perhaps be granted the privilege of worshiping Her with her lips and tongue, and if found worthy to be granted a taste of Her pleasure. No. The spirit had chosen to gift Laurel her attention, and now she was done. Laurel had no right to expect more. She must have others to care for, or something more pressing than aftercare for Laurel.
Tears hovered at the thought. Laurel swore and stomped to her bedroom. The glamor from before was gone, the room bare and half clean once more. Her bucket and sponge just as she had abandoned them. After locating her sleeping bag from her
duffel, she placed it on the side of the room she had cleaned. She wrapped herself inside the warm silk cocoon of her bed sack and lay down on her sleeping bag.
A flaming heat covered her, filling her with warmth. A flash of recognition swept over her, a blaze of understanding and a driving need for more. Her thighs grew slick as she contemplated the lewd nature of her behavior. Laurel had willingly given herself to the spirit, allowed herself to be used by a stranger.
Burning need flared and her clit thickened again as the memories of the pain of the vines resurfaced. She pressed her fingers deep inside and slowly fucked herself, the heel of her hand rubbing against her clit as she reached out with her mind and called to the spirit, begging her to accept her gift.
“For you.” Eyes wide open, Laurel spread her legs wide and fucked herself as she jacked her clit. She came with a jerk, her shoulders lifting as she curled into the sensation of her tribute to the Entity. Sated and exhausted, she rolled to her side and slept.
*
Catherine stood on the opposite side of the door and absorbed the impact of Laurel’s attempt to enter the attic. Raw energy undirected was delicious and Catherine sipped Laurel’s desperation as she would a fine wine. The way she reacted to the pain of the wards confirmed all of Catherine’s intuition about Laurel. But then Laurel had pressed harder, risking herself to get to Catherine, offering herself, pleading with Catherine to open the door as she absorbed the energy of the ward, wallowing in the pain, promising to obey, to do anything if Catherine allowed it.
Love, Blood, and Sanctuary Page 4