Another part of me thought: That was like something out of a storybook. Except a knight in shining armor didn’t save the day; a lady knight in shaggy coat and paws came to my rescue...
The first part of me countered: That is the most unfeminist thought I've ever thought.
The second part only laughed: Yeah, but you have to admit—it was ridiculously hot.
But how did Morgan know we were in trouble?
“I hope that thing doesn't come back,” said Burt, edging to the rim again and peering into the hole the mermaid had disappeared within.
“Yeah,” I said, only half-listening. I brushed my fingers against my cheek where Morgan had kissed me.
Dear goddess, I had it bad.
Chapter 9: The Date
“So, you had the situation under control and could have dealt with it by yourself, but a Sapphic lady-love saved you... Hmm. Yes, that's still feminist,” said Winnie nodding.
I almost snorted coffee out of my nose. “Did you really just say ‘Sapphic lady-love?’” I chuckled and shook my head as I set my coffee cup down on the edge of the bathroom sink. “Honestly, Miss Ghost, I don't know how much credibilty you have on this subject,” I teased her. “Didn't you wear corsets in your day?” I asked, putting mascara on my lashes.
“I didn’t wear a corset,” said Winnie primly. “I promise you,” she said with a wink then, “there were many of us who did not. We were, after all, the first feminists!”
“Such a rebel,” I chuckled with a shake of my head. I screwed the cap back on the mascara and studied my makeup job in the mirror.
I hadn't known Morgan for that long, but during the time that I had, I'd come to realize... Well. There's no delicate way to say this, so I should just go ahead and say it: I was fairly certain that I was falling in love with Morgan. She was kind, generous, unspeakably attractive, thoughtful, intelligent beyond belief, had the most ridiculous (and wonderful) sense of humor, liked many of the same things I did…and, let's not forget that most important of all things: she was fine with the fact that I was a witch. That…had never happened to me before.
She was, of course, fine with the fact that I was a witch because she, herself, was a werewolf. But other than the likely necessity of extra vacuuming (because I assumed she shed a little), I hadn’t gathered any drawbacks to that yet.
“How do I look?” I asked Winnie, turning before my ghost companion.
She cocked her head to the side, sized me up with her burning, fiery eyes and sighed. “I guess you'll do. It wouldn't be my first choice.”
I chuckled again and shrugged, turning this way and that in the mirror. I was wearing a long-sleeved black dress over black leggings. Definitely skimpy by Victorian standards but pretty modest by today’s mode of dress. I winked at her. “Be honest: it’s not your favorite because this outfit doesn’t include five different layers of Victorian underwear.”
“Very funny,” she huffed primly. “I'll have you know it was all very practical and comfortable.”
“Admittedly, it was probably a bit more comfy than those corsets.” I winked, dabbing a bit of perfume oil on my pulse points. The rush of scent made me smile; it was patchouli and rose, a blend I'd mixed myself a few new moons ago. The perfume was aging nicely, I decided, sniffing my wrist. If I closed my eyes, it made me think of…
A knock at the door. Morgan.
I almost tripped over my shoes in my haste to answer it. I could hear Winnie giggling behind me.
“Hi,” I said, breathless when I opened the door. Morgan stood there, hands in her jean pockets, one hip out to the side, curving dangerously toward me, so that my breath immediately started coming a little shorter. Morgan’s long, red hair was wind-ruffled and brilliantly gleaming around her face, like a halo. She wore a black leather jacket over a tight red t-shirt, and if I hadn’t been leaning on the doorframe at the moment she smiled at me, her lips curling up at the corners like she was about to share a secret…I probably would have fallen to the floor, given my weakened knees.
I leaned forward, brazely wrapped my fingers in the leather jacket’s collar, drawing her close to me. Her smile deepened as she glided her hands around my waist, bringing me tightly to her, so that we pressed against one another as I lifted my chin up and kissed her hello with a fierceness that rose within me.
Winnie cleared her throat, chuckled a little and adjourned to my bedroom, leaving us alone in the doorway.
Morgan took one step back, holding me out at arm’s length as she whistled lowly, her bright gaze raking up and down my length. “You look good, Amy,” she murmured then, her voice a soft growl. “Very good.”
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and tried to take the compliment coolly, tried not to turn bright red from head to toe—and failed. “Oh, this old thing,” I murmured, glancing coyly into her eyes.
There was a fire burning behind her gaze. A fire that was answered deep inside of me.
She took my breath away.
Morgan held up a dark blue knapsack, tilting her head to the side a little as she said, “So, I was thinking… It’s a little wild and crazy, I know, but I thought… I mean, would you like to go on a picnic with me?”
“Sounds wild and crazy,” I told her with a smile, leaning forward so that I could hook the back belt loops of her jeans in my thumbs. I drew her to me so that we pressed together again. “I like wild and crazy,” I told her softly.
“Good,” she growled, and kissed me again.
I grabbed my hoodie on the way out of the apartment. We trotted down the stairs, and I was about to flick off the lights in the café when Morgan paused, reaching forward and taking my hand in hers. Only a small backlight behind the café counter was still on, but she still surveyed the place, eyes wide in the dark.
“The café looks beautiful,” she told me, as she took in the new paint job, the way I’d rearrarranged everything. “You've done a really great job—you know that?” Her soft fingertips traced up my arm, making me shiver. “Your aunt’s going to love this. You've done wonders in such little time. It’s like you cast a spell over the place.” The way she spoke those words, as if she were tasting the word “spell,” made me shiver again. She was so close I could smell her skin, the orange soap she was using, the little bit of clove oil she'd dabbed on her wrists before she came to get me. It was the scent of sunshine and warmth and intoxicating possibility.
“I…” I cleared my throat a little, shifted my weight, looked up at her squarely. “You were…really wonderful earlier today. The way you came and saved us? Just…thank you, Morgan. I'm…not sure what that creature wanted, but I'm glad it didn't get it. Whatever it was…” I was sounding like a complete idiot, talking fast, but I could see her face outlined in the remaining low sunshine in the western sky and that one lone bulb behind the counter. The way she watched me, the curve of her lips, that smile…she was positively glowing.
She shrugged nonchalantly, eyebrows up. “I mean, it was no big deal,” she said, her head to the side as her smile turned impish. We both knew that it was, in fact, a very, very big deal. “I was just close by and smelled something nasty—kinda like something rotting, with salt added to it. Totally unnatural for the factory site, so I came investigating. I knew Burt was distressed about the water situation again, anyway, the way those pipes were always getting clogged. It was just happy serendipity that I came when I did. I’m glad I could help out.” Her brow was furrowed now as she gazed at me. “I’m glad it didn’t hurt you,” she said in a husky whisper, emotion making the words tense.
I shifted, felt my blood rise again. “Was it…was it really a mermaid?” I managed.
“Well…” She rocked back on her heels, shrugged a little. “I’m not sure, but if I’d have to guess, I’d say yes.” She reached around me and flicked off the light, brushing past my shoulder. She kept her arm around me and gently pulled me closer to her as we walked toward the front door. “We've had lots of…odd stuff come through here lately,” she said thoughtf
ully. “Which shouldn’t be the case. Wolf Town has protections in place to ward off anything or anyone with negative intentions. Burt's worried that the town is getting lax on its protections. The energies feel a little weaker to me, but I don't know why. I’ve got to talk to Dad about it.”
We went out into the soft, purple twilight, the clouds drifting along the edge of the horizon a myriad of colors that blended beautifuly with the brilliant red maple trees lining the main street of Wolf Town. The sun drifted low, ready to sink below the edge of the world, and the air was filled with the symphony of autumn insects. It was much too warm for an October evening, was, in fact, a bit like an Indian Summer. I remembered those from when I was a kid, when it was hot in October, when I ran around outside in my t-shirt and little witchy skirts, trying to spot fairies.
“See? It was far too nice to stay indoors,” said Morgan companionably. But the way that she looked at me, her grin almost wolfish, made me shiver again, in the best possible way.
“Okay, wait a minute, though,” I said, one brow raised as I smiled devilishly at her. “I’ve read all of my fairy tales. Should I really be going into the woods with a wolf?” I asked her, laughing a little as we began to walk behind the Witch’s Way Cafe, towards the bordering forest. The leaves were the perfect, burning color, and they crunched beneath our feet like music.
“That depends, Little Red Riding Hood,” said Morgan, arching a brow. “After all,” she said mildly, “isn’t it true that most of the wolves in fairy stories are easily outsmarted?”
I snorted. “You're smart.”
“They're not fast enough,” she said, her voice going lower, into a playful growl.
“I have a feeling you're very fast,” I told her, my heartbeat quickening.
“But, according to fairy tales, bad wolves never win,” she said, spreading her hands, looking up as the branches arched over our heads, swallowing us into the golden woods. She cast a backward glance at me, her lips turned up at the corners as she held out her hand. I placed my hand in her warm palm, and when our skin touched, I shivered again.
“Okay—but what about good wolves?” I asked her, as she helped me over a fallen tree limb. I paused, looked up into her eyes, feeling my pulse pounding at our little teases.
“I've never read a good wolf story,” said Morgan, voice low as she drew me closer, one warm arm wrapped about my waist. “But I suppose they end like all good fairy tales do: with a happily ever after.”
Heatbeat pounding through me, I leaned forward against her, capturing her mouth with my own.
She gripped me tighter, and need began to race through me. We were on the edge of the woods, still in sight of the town, and how naughty was I really feeling? I didn’t want our first time to be against a tree.
(Or did I totally want it to be against a tree?)
(And, wow, I was thinking about our first time. Because, at this rate, it was going to be happening very, very soon.)
Morgan had such a wildness to her, a great grace and beauty that made me feel, when I was in her company, as if anything was possible. She wanted me, and I wanted her, and that attraction between us was like fire, eating the both of us up, consuming us utterly.
When Morgan broke away, I felt a little disappointed…until I realized that there was a woman walking her dog along the sidewalk not that far from us. If it was, in fact, even a dog. The thing was about as big as…well, a wolf.
We cleared our throats, held hands and began to enter the woods. As I put my other hand (still tingling from how hard I’d gripped her) in my hoodie pocket, I realized my hoodie was, in fact, red.
As if she’d heard my thoughts, Morgan grinned sidelong at me. “You really are Little Red Riding Hood,” she said with a low chuckle, drawing me close to her as we walked together. As we ventured further along the broad, well-groomed path, a leaf fell in front of us, settling in a mosaic of reds and golds on the forest floor. It was such a perfect, autumn evening, and my heart was practically bursting with gratitude.
Again, just as if she could hear what I was thnking, Morgan brushed her shoulder against mine. “This makes me happy,” she said, squeezing my hand, looking up at the colorful treetops that waved back and forth, back and forth, in the warm October wind. “You make me happy,” she added after a long moment, and she looked down at me when she said it, eyes greener for being surrounded by the red of the forest, the bright red of her hair. Her gaze flashed with a deep intensity that my entire body answered.
“Me, too,” I whispered, squeezing her hand.
We walked along the path, crunching through small piles of leaves that had gathered along the edges of the path, until we found a small clearing at the side of the pathway, perfectly carved into the tall, surrounding pines like it was meant for walkers to sit here and have a rest.
“Let's picnic here!” Morgan said, gesturing to the leaf pile on the edge of the clearing. It looked pretty comfy to me, and I smiled, nodding. Morgan drew a loud fleecy blanket out of the knapsack (it had about every color you could ever imagine in a joyful, non-matching plaid print), and together we spread it on the ground. I sank down on one edge of it, and she on the other, and together we devoured the blocks of cheese, crackers and grapes she’d packed, sharing two metal containers of a surprisingly sweet tea.
“How much sugar did you put in this?” I chuckled, taking another sip.
“About a cup,” she said thoughtfully, then deepened her smile, her eyes flashing. She leaned forward a little as she lowered her voice: “I happen to like sweet things,” she practically purred.
My heartbeat roared through me, along with a chuckle. “Oh, you didn't!” I laughed, giggling. “That's so cheesy!”
She flopped down on her stomach, stretching out and lying on the blanket, pillowing her head easily in my lap. The gesture was so intimate that I bit my lip, didn’t even think: I reached out and gently began to stroke her fiery hair. We were still learning the comforts of being together, the little ways we could touch, the warmth of having each other close. Her hair was so soft, smelling of coconut today. I wanted to put my nose to it, my mouth, touching my skin to the soft place on her neck, just beneath her ear, kissing her there...
She sighed contentedly, her eyes closed. “This is nice,” she said.
“Yeah,” I murmured, brushing my thumb along the side of her cheek. Her skin was so soft, so warm, and there was something building inside of me, something that was lit and wouldn’t burn out, a need that was rising.
She felt it, too. I know she did. Her voice cracked a little as she cleared her throat and said, “You know, people outside of Wolf Town considered these woods to be haunted, long ago. Some still think they are.”
I paused, my palm against her cheek as I felt my mood darken, shuddering a little, remembering the fairy court. I hoped she didn’t notice the shift. “It doesn't feel haunted,” I said quietly, which was the truth, and she nodded, opened her eyes and gazed up at me.
“Yeah, it's not haunted. I think people said it was because we went hunting in these woods so much. As wolves. And, I mean, Wolf Town has a weird reputation. A lot of people avoid it because of what they say lives here.”
“Oh, really?” I asked, raising a brow as I gazed down at her. “And what, exactly, do they say lives here?”
“Oh, the usual suspects,” she said, rolling her eyes with a small, tight shrug. “Fairies and witches and warlocks and representatives of the devil. You know good old New England and its preoccupation with the devil,” she said, with a sigh. “Surprisingly, the people who rail on and on about the evil residents of Wolf Town don’t mention wolves all that often. Wolf Town is a small town surrounded by many small towns that are prone to gossip.”
I sighed, sat back on my hands as she rolled back over onto her stomach, resting her chin on her palm beside me, the full length of her body pressing against my right thigh.
“Your mention of witches reminds me of something, actually,” I told her, frowning a little. “The full moon
esbat is coming up, and I don’t have anything planned for it. I’ve been too busy.”
“Esbat?” she asked, brow furrowed. “What’s that?”
“Oh…” I tilted my head. “Witches call the full and new moon days Esbats. They're like Sabbats, the witches' high holy days, but a bit smaller. We normally perform rituals on them. When I was back home, my mom always invited over her coven, and everyone danced around in the living room and then drank margaritas afterward. It was a spiritual, wonderful party. A really great time.” I shrugged a little. “Witches typically do either group work or solitary work in their spiritual lives. I always thought I loved solitary work, but now I have to be solitary and...” I sighed. “Anyway, it’s not a big deal. I’ll come up with something simple to do.”
Morgan thought for a long moment before she asked, her voice low, “What do you do at a witch's ritual?”
I drew up my knees, clasped my hands around my legs, tucking my skirt under my toes as I pressed my thigh against her shoulder. She was so warm, and as her arm curled around me, drawing me even closer, I melted against her side, her laying on her stomach on the ground, me seated beside her, so naturally, as if we did this all the time. “Well,” I said quietly, taking her hand in my own and turning it over so that her palm was open to the sky. I placed my index finger against the skin of her palm and slowly traced a circle there as I held her eyes. “The first thing you do,” I whispered, “is you cast the circle.”
“Cast the circle…” she said, voice low and strained as she held my gaze, her eyes burning. I continued to trace the circle on her palm.
“You draw a circle about yourself for protection. That means you visualize a circle made of glowing white light around you. You call to the four directions and their elements to come and help you—north is earth, et cetera. And then, you ask the Goddess to come and help you in the rite, too. You meditate, sometimes, or you raise energy. You usually do all of this for a specific reason. Like, for a full moon esbat, you usually go along with what the moon stands for.” I pressed my palm down against hers as I smiled. “October's full moon is called the Blood Moon. So, blood is a metaphor for the waning life and the world drifting toward winter. You do a ritual to honor that, honor the turning of the wheel of the year…” I drifted off, reached down and gently tucked a stray curl of red behind her ear, letting my fingertips brush over her cheek. I was rewarded with a hitch of breath, and her gazing at me with impassioned eyes.
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