She’d intervened then, unwilling to accept Laurel’s sacrifice. Assuming Nadia’s voice had been easy. But after Laurel had responded to her commands, recognized her as other-than-Nadia and submitted willingly, Catherine had not been able to resist.
She had reveled in the sensations of Laurel’s bath, as she had directed her to prepare for bed. Catherine had drowned in her submission and the sensations of Laurel’s fingers over her pale flesh as she bathed. The warmth of the shower on Laurel’s skin and then the slick slide of her clit as she had displayed herself for Catherine had been a decadent pleasure. Instead of slaking Catherine’s thirst for Laurel it had unleashed a flood of longing.
Catherine had left her alone then. Withdrawn. She had sensed Laurel’s sadness, her despondency when she realized that Catherine had not stayed for aftercare, that she had simply taken what she wanted and left Laurel to pick up the psychological pieces of her surrender.
She replayed the vision of Laurel’s final offering. Laurel had stroked herself to orgasm, displaying herself and offering her shuddering climax in tribute. Catherine had not revealed herself but had relished her gift and the seductive lassitude of Laurel as she fell asleep.
A dark wave of guilt slithered over her. Catherine had taken without giving, left a submissive hurting as no good Mistress would do. At first when Laurel had responded to her commands believing her to be Nadia, Catherine had justified it as a way of saving Laurel from herself. But then Laurel realized she was not Nadia and had reached out to Catherine, not even demanding her name, surrendered to her, been intimate with her, with no thought to her own care and safety, so desperate was she for a Mistress’s touch. Catherine had been more than willing to accept her submission.
What does it say about her? Or me for that matter, that we both could be so accepting of an anonymous encounter, so desperate to be with each other, we gave neither care nor thought of the future or the reality of our situation. Would she be like that with anyone? Or did she truly fancy me? Desire my touch and control? Or would anyone do?
Catherine experienced Laurel’s wanton desire to know her flesh. The way she burned for her, her desperation to kiss Catherine’s feet, to worship her with her mouth. Laurel’s obsessive desire to kiss and lick and suck Catherine’s most intimate parts while she begged for Catherine to spill her pleasure over her face had been intoxicating. And so overwhelming she had withdrawn from Laurel.
A bitter laugh erupted from Catherine’s throat. Flesh. She had not been flesh for years, and yet her spirit knew the aching reality of flesh denied. She longed to suffer the sweet bliss of denial, have her clit thicken and swell between a lover’s lips. To know the burning need of hot flesh, pleasure bordering on pain, and the ecstasy of a lover’s touch. No matter. That would never be Catherine’s privilege again.
After experiencing Laurel, she would never ask her to release her. Too fraught. For both of them. Even though Laurel possessed the box, it was not her destiny to free Catherine. She would not, could not ask Laurel. She would give it if Catherine asked. Laurel would willingly offer her blood, body, and soul to Catherine if she asked her. Laurel’s willingness to suffer the pain of the ward vines and risk her life to show Catherine how much she wanted to serve her was hard evidence of her devotion.
Catherine lay back and rested her form on the bed. A fat mouse skittered across the floor and she stared at it, not bothering to destroy it. Disgustingly innocent, it wanted to live, eat, and reproduce. A simple life. A life Laurel craved. Catherine had seen into her fantasies. Laurel wanted to be owned, desired a total power exchange. She wanted to be loved. And she wanted a child, but not a man.
Catherine had seen other things too. Her aching loss when her parents died. Laurel’s fear of being kidnapped. Her abject terror of being forced into breeding a new generation of supers. Laurel kept the extent of her power hidden away, displaying it only when she was certain no one would know, able to keep her true self hidden from everyone. Laurel lived a lie out of fear.
Bits and pieces fit into place as Catherine sorted through her experience of Laurel. Their intimate encounter reinforced her decision to never ever ask Laurel for what she wanted. Bigger things lay before Laurel and being tied to Catherine would interfere with that. No matter how willing Laurel would be, especially if she knew Catherine offered a way out of her responsibilities. Catherine would find another way to achieve her resurrection.
Chapter Ten
In her attic space, Catherine studied the puzzle box Laurel had brought with her. The container of Catherine and Nora’s precious dreams of a life together for eternity and undying love had somehow ended up in Laurel’s keeping. Catherine laid her hand on the box and was back in the shop in Italy where they had purchased it. Morpheus, the cabinet maker, had taken their money before he showed them the secrets of the box and its power. They had spent an hour with him learning the ways to set the hidden blade and practicing with the box’s magical locks, committing the lock pattern and incantations to memory before they left his workshop.
A vision of Nora’s flushed face as they hurried through the streets to return to their hotel surfaced. Catherine’s thoughts spun faster as she relived their afternoon making love in their small hotel room. Her palm twitched, a visceral memory of her hand over Nora’s mouth to muffle her screams as she came under Catherine’s touch.
Naked and sated, the room heavy with the scent of their lovemaking, they had spent the evening writing their pledges to each other on the hotel’s cream-colored stationery. The blade from the box had tasted their blood as it mingled and joined, soaking into the paper. Catherine’s power and Nora’s had merged.
Bonded, they sealed their future in the box, knowing when they returned from their trip their trysts would be few and far between until they could execute their plan. The chest would hold their truth until it was safe to reveal their love. They had slept, confident their secret would be safe. But even their combined magic had not protected them from betrayal.
A few scratches marred the front of the box, harsh evidence someone had tried to pry it open at least once. Catherine pushed the front frame of the wooden casket, sliding it to the left, and manipulated the sequence of panels in order, avoiding the one that deployed the blade, as memories swamped her mind. She pushed back against her dark thoughts, the burn of betrayal and memories of her last time with Nora.
The box opened and the scent of cedar rose from it. Catherine pressed a second set of tabs inside the box and then lifted its false bottom. After plucking the folded paper from the box, Catherine smoothed it flat on the desk. Nora’s delicate handwriting crawled across the page, next to Catherine’s bold copperplate script.
Written in blood aged to a light brown, they had signed their pledge together. A promise to love, to honor, and in Nora’s case to obey. She had pledged to serve Catherine, to be her submissive. Catherine had pledged in return to honor Nora’s gift, to cherish her, and to protect her.
Catherine wished for the first time in many years that she could cry as she read their vows. A second sheet of paper, the edge brittle with time, contained the words of the resurrection spell copied from The Book. Complete except for the words they had purposely left out to keep the spell useless to the unknowing.
Catherine crumpled the paper. Protect Nora. No. She had failed, spectacularly, not even able to protect herself, and had lost Nora to time and a brother’s wish to protect his sister from Catherine and what he considered unnatural desires. In the years of her imprisonment Catherine had grown more powerful, able to do things she had only read of, everything except free herself from the prison of the house.
And now the key to her release lay sleeping below her. And Catherine was loath to sacrifice Laurel to free herself. She had no doubt Laurel would surrender to her if she asked, that she would lay her head in Catherine’s lap and expose her neck to provide the final ingredient Catherine needed to free her spirit. But would Laurel be willing to become that which fed on humans?
Deni
ed the release of tears, Catherine closed the box and held the paper in her hands and traveled back to that day, using her power to weave and bend time until images and sensations wrapped around her, became real. Nora’s touch flowed over her skin, and then her mouth followed, taking Catherine to the dark abyss of pleasure. Real and yet not, a fever dream of desire and longing. In Catherine’s daydream, Nora was real, her smile, Catherine’s world, her laugh, and her kisses all that Catherine lived for until the end.
Catherine held tight to the edges of her visions, fought to hold on to what had been, to keep herself immersed in the glamour. The image of Nora kneeling before her, her declaration of love and submission on her lips, rose in her mind. A half smile played over Nora’s face as she pushed back and teased Catherine. Not a bratty sub, but strong in her own desires, Nora had been willing to turn the table when she thought Catherine needed to be reminded she was strong in her own right.
A powerful super, Nora gave over to Catherine, dared to expose her neck, offered her blood, dared to bond with her and defy her clan’s wishes. Nora had kissed Catherine’s feet, and given her everything. They were equals in their relationship, the differences of their births of no consequence because the heart wants what it wants, family be dammed.
Catherine held the image for as long as she could, reliving it over and over until she was spent. The papers fell from her hand to the floor, and she collapsed in on herself, her spirit chiding her for her indulgence. The vision faded, replaced by the reality of open attic beams, a rotted blood-stained mattress, and a longing so deep it crushed Catherine.
She traced her fingers over the box that held the key to her existence and release. Let go? Enter oblivion willingly? She could exit the house, step into the vast wasteland of nothingness, her spirit scattered on the winds of the abyss. Catherine lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. No. She would not let sixty years of imprisonment define her four-thousand-year existence. She would escape. And then vengeance would be her joy. Her thoughts twisted back to Laurel. And perhaps love, or what might pass for it again.
Chapter Eleven
Laurel rolled the last of the living room rug to the balcony and dropped it onto the pile of dirty carpet below. Her cell phone buzzed on the table and she snatched it up when Nadia’s number scrolled across the screen.
“How are you?” Nadia’s voice was clipped.
“Fine.” Laurel tucked her hand in her back pocket. “Why’d you call? Can’t you just connect with me to see how I’m doing?” Laurel did nothing to hide her annoyance over their bond.
“I don’t enter anyone’s mind unless invited. Unless of course it’s an emergency. I assume you slept well?”
Laurel flushed at the memory. “You tell me. Did you enjoy the show?”
“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t have time to play games. I don’t like you shutting me out. I’m not your enemy.” An edge of frustration crept into Nadia’s voice.
“I slept fine.”
“You’re very odd this morning, Laurel. I’m not trying to pry. But I can’t do my job if you insist on blocking me as you did last night.”
Laurel chewed her lip. Nadia had not even a hint Laurel had been in a tenuous position, that had she been ready to sacrifice herself for an unknown spirit.
“Sorry, not sorry. I am entitled to privacy. And if I need you, I’ll call you.”
“Marcus will not be pleased. He asked me personally to be your centurion, to protect you.”
“That’s your problem.” Laurel disconnected the call.
*
The morning dragged into afternoon as Laurel continued to clean and organize her space. Her thoughts circled back to the spirit. She had kept Laurel from destroying herself, protected her, soothed her, and given to Laurel, helped Laurel find the release she had craved.
Illusion or no it had seemed real to her. As Laurel drifted off to sleep the spirit had let her psychic mask slip. She had a glimpse then, of the spirit in the attic, the soul trapped in the townhouse.
The spirit had to know, to sense Laurel’s desperation, her fantasy of serving a severe Mistress, one who would push her, train her, help her in the ways a good Mistress did. Laurel needed it, needed to be someone’s only submissive. She had no luck with vanilla relationships, unable to connect in a meaningful way for any length of time. She had tried, believing she would never find what she was looking for, and now, in this house, an ancient spirit was able to give her what she craved.
She called to the spirit, shouted her need, told her of the darkest of her fantasies. She had pleaded with her to return, to come back, to let Laurel in, to take control again. Laurel chewed her lip, her longing a psychic ache, mirrored by the ache in her body and throb in her clit.
As she spoke the words, she pleaded for Her to return. Laurel lowered herself to her knees, sat back on her heels, palms up resting on her thighs, and waited. A waft of cedar and pine resin filtered into her senses and Laurel sensed She observed her. Encouraged, Laurel lowered her head to the floor and begged the spirit to show herself.
*
Catherine hovered, her shields in place, keeping herself from Laurel as she watched her lithe form unload and organize her art supplies. She had been so tempted to sneak a touch again as Laurel worked. Her thin ribbed tank top stretched tight across her shoulders, and the way her jeans moved and flexed with her as she worked to tear up the living room carpet and shove it over the balcony into the alley behind the house tested Catherine’s resolve.
Laurel had scrubbed the wood floor on her hands and knees. Catherine was mesmerized by her determination to clean the space. A phone call had interrupted her, and Catherine had struggled to make sense of Laurel’s clipped answers to Nadia as she eavesdropped.
Laurel tossed the phone aside before she kneeled and launched into an elaborate plea for Catherine to show herself. Fear, sharp and stinging, filled Catherine. Laurel was powerful, unschooled, and wild; she had no idea of the extent of her powers but should Laurel decide to end Catherine’s existence she would be hard pressed to defend against her.
What would it be like to have someone like Laurel? Catherine had known the joy of having someone as giving, as caring, as ready to submit as Laurel appeared to be. She had not dared hope to find that again, but would Laurel be willing? To be hers? To give to Catherine what she needed to live again? To breathe and love and touch, and to feel with all her senses and not just her mind?
Minutes passed into an hour. Laurel lifted her head from the floor. Fire and frustration raged in her dark gaze. Catherine observed her as she set up her easel and then with eyes closed executed a perfect sketch of the image Catherine had projected into her mind the night before. An image she had fashioned from Laurel’s subconscious desires and vivid fantasies.
Laurel stood and stared at the corner Catherine occupied. Her voice strong, she hugged her arms around herself. “Are you here? Show yourself.” And then softer. “Please.”
Catherine withdrew, fearful of Laurel’s power, pulling away from the vortex of Laurel’s plea.
“Please. I know it was you last night. Come to me. Please.” Laurel placed her hand on the sketch and suffused it with her energy as she continued to plead.
*
Unable to resist the vortex of Laurel’s soft plea and the pull of her power, Catherine focused her energy and formed herself, allowing Laurel to see her, allowing herself to be seen. Not as Laurel imagined her but as she had been, presenting herself as a tall woman, dressed in a tailored, teal-blue, three-quarter sleeve shirtwaist dress. Cream-colored four-inch stiletto heels, curly shoulder length black hair. Her signature blood-red lipstick, perfectly applied, contrasted with her bronze skin and completed her image. She sifted through the other details from Laurel’s fantasies and filled them in, morphing into a replica of the Mistress of Laurel’s dreams and fantasies.
*
Laurel rose from her position of supplication. The pain in her knees fueled her anger and frustration at the spir
it’s refusal to return to her. She propped her largest sketch pad up, flipped open her box of charcoal, and picked out a thick piece. The vision of the woman watching and commanding her in the shower flooded her brain. Eyes closed, she applied the charcoal to the paper, the rub and scratch of the burnt wood comforting as she worked. She let her power guide her hand. A face formed, the jaw strong, a plush and deliciously cruel mouth following. She smudged the drawing with the side of her hand and softened the lines.
Laurel lingered as she drew Her shoulders and breasts, tracing the charcoal over the shapes that formed in her mind and translating them to paper. The music on her favorite soundtrack faded as she worked. Her world became the paper and image she created, as her power flowed and ebbed, guiding her hand. A trickle of desire wet her boy shorts while she worked as she relived her experience in thrall to the spirit who had guided her to an amazing orgasm without even touching her.
Laurel stepped back, opened her eyes, and studied the sketch. Was this truly the image of the entity she had interacted with? Or was it what she wanted her to look like? Laurel lifted her hand and rested the tips of her fingers on the page. She infused her command with her power. Blue light flowed from her fingertips and saturated the paper. “Show yourself. Let me see you as you are,” she whispered.
A soft rustling behind her made her start and the charcoal snapped in her hand.
“No. Don’t turn around. Not yet.”
The voice filled her mind and she swallowed on a dry throat as the scent of cedar and pine swirled around her. The room glowed with a soft purple light.
“Please.” Laurel grimaced at the whine in her voice.
“Why? You have an image of me you chose. Why spoil it?”
“You don’t look like my drawing, do you?”
“Unless I’m mistaken you have drawn an image you like to fantasize about, a ready-made Mistress to get you off. A picture to hold on to while you fuck yourself to sleep.”
Love, Blood, and Sanctuary Page 5