Accidental Magic

by P. C. Cast

  “Would it help if I made my voice crack and stared, slack-jawed, at your boobs?”

  “Only if your intention is to scare me out of the forest.”

  His smile was intimate. “That is not my intention.”

  She almost asked what his intentions were…but she didn’t want to know. What if he gave her a blank look and said, “I thought we’d be friends”? She’d fucking die. But whether it’d be from relief or disappointment, she wasn’t sure. She only realized that she’d been standing there silently staring at him when his smile faded and his tone became more serious.

  “Candice, if you don’t want to go off into the woods with me, all you have to do is say the word. I’ll understand. I just thought that you might like exploring a hiking path I know about. That way we could get our exercise and still be able to talk. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never mastered the talent of jogging and talking at the same time.”

  She met his eyes. His gaze was open and honest—vulnerable, even. Could he be as nervous as she felt? And then came the startling revelation—he had to be more nervous. She was almost fifteen years his senior and his ex-teacher. She was more experienced and more confident. She could reject him with a neatly turned phrase and a patronizing, disdainful look. She definitely had the high ground, even if she wasn’t perfectly coiffed and perched on a posh chair at an elegant restaurant. Disregarding the rather ridiculous question of whether or not this was a real date, Justin had put himself in a position where he could be thoroughly humiliated and ultimately rejected by her, yet here he was, with a sweet smile on his handsome face, looking for all the world like a man who was doing his best to woo a woman.

  “Do you remember the rest of the quote?” she asked, smiling softly at him.

  “The Frost quote? No—I just memorized that far.” His cheeks flushed a little with the admission.

  “Frost concluded it, ‘I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.’ How about we take your path—the one less traveled by?”

  Refreshingly, he didn’t attempt to hide his relief with a suave turn of phrase or a knowing look. Instead he just smiled and said, “I promise that it will make all the difference.”

  Justin took her hand and led her into the forest.

  5

  “All this time I’ve been jogging by the creek, and I had no idea a hiking path like this was so close.”

  “That’s one good thing about being a werewolf. I have definitely gotten to know these woods.”

  He’d spoken nonchalantly, but she could feel his look and the expectant silence that screamed, “I’m waiting for you to freak out because I’m a wolf!” So she didn’t respond right away. Instead she picked her way carefully over a large log that had fallen across the trail.

  “You’re right. Knowing the secret paths in the woods is one good thing about being a werewolf. What’s another?” she asked, matching his nonchalant tone.

  He hesitated only a moment. “The physical power.”

  “You mean when you’re in your wolf form?”

  Justin slowed down and studied her face. “Do you really want to know, or are you just making polite conversation?”

  “I’m intrigued,” she said honestly.

  “There’s physical power in both forms, and in both I can tap into the magic in these hills pretty easily. In this form I’m stronger than a human man. And not just physically. My senses are more acute. My memory is better.” He grinned a little sheepishly. “I guess that means I should have made better than a C in your class.”

  “Nah,” she said. “You weren’t a man then. You probably hadn’t attained all of your”—she paused and made a vague, fluttery gesture at him with her hand—“uh, Spidey senses yet.”

  His infectious laugh rolled around them. “Spidey senses? On a werewolf? Are you thinking I might be a hairy Peter Parker?”

  “Oh, God, no!” she said with mock horror. “If I was going to fantasize about walking through the woods with a superhero it wouldn’t be one that was really just a dorky kid. Let’s try Bruce Wayne, shall we?”

  “How about a happy medium? How about walking through the woods with a grown-up superhero who is modestly employed—I don’t exactly have Batman’s resources.” The trail took a sharp upward turn and Justin stopped, pulling her gently back to his side when she started to climb ahead of him. “Want to test my superhuman powers?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Does this involve either: one, me being unattractively carried away by any type of a creature who has more than two arms, or two, your having the ability to see through any article of my clothing?”

  He rubbed his chin, considering. “No and no.”

  “Then fine. I agree to the test.”

  “Okay. You have to hold totally still.”

  He walked a tight circle around her and Candice instantly noticed the difference in the way he moved. His body language was once again that of the man who had entered the clearing the day before—the warrior god who had not known who she was. He positioned himself behind her, standing so close that she could feel him draw in a deep breath. Then he bent, and whispered huskily into her ear.

  “You don’t wear real perfume.”

  She started to turn to answer him, but his words, which were spoken hot against her neck, stopped her.

  “You must hold totally still.”

  She froze, whispering back. “What do you mean by not real perfume?”

  “You don’t buy that packaged and bottled stuff other women like so much and spray too much of on their bodies. Not you. Instead, you put drops of pure lavender oil behind your ears, on your wrists”—he drew another breath, then exhaled the warmth of his words against her neck—“and between your breasts. Am I right?”

  “Yes, you’re right.”

  Slowly, his hand rose to lightly, lightly caress her hair before he gently fisted it and pressed his face into it, taking a deep, hot breath. She focused on not trembling, and thought how glad she was that she’d conveniently “forgotten” to pull it up in a ponytail.

  “You never blow-dry your hair. You let the air dry it. And you prefer the night air to the warmer, daylight breeze.”

  This time she was truly amazed. How the hell could he know that?

  “Am I right?” he asked again.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “How did you know?”

  “Your hair smells like moonlight and shadows, and I know those scents intimately.” His hands were still in her hair. “Why do you prefer the night air?”

  “It’s something that started when I was a little girl. In the summer I’d wash my hair at night and then sit on the porch with a flashlight and read. My dad used to laugh and say that the moonlight made my hair wavy like the tide. I guess it’s a habit that stuck.”

  “I’m glad. I like moon wavy hair,” he said.

  “Do you?”

  Justin gently nuzzled the ear he was whispering into. “Yes.”

  His breath sent chills down her body that lodged in her thighs, making her legs feel wobbly and semidrunk. She was relieved when he took his mouth from her ear and moved back around in front of her. Smiling, he was once more just a handsome young man.

  “Impressed by my superpowers?”

  “Very.”

  “Good. You’ll love my next display of EWP.”

  “EWP?”

  “Extrawerewolfory perception,” he said, with only a slight glint in his eyes. “So. Are you hungry?”

  “If I say yes are you going to grow fur and chase down some poor helpless rabbit?”

  “Maybe another time. Right now if you said you were hungry I’d simply clap my hands twice and then help you climb up the rise in the path so I could show you that I made your wish come true.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. I’m hungry.”

  He waggled his eyebrows and leered at her. “Be careful, Ms. Cox—mine is the species that bites.”

  Before she could respond with the pithy reply she was formulating, he grabbed
her hand and pulled her up the incline. Candice glanced around, surprised that the dense woods had suddenly given way to a lovely meadow of soft grass that was dotted with blue wildflowers. Fireflies flitted in the dim evening light, looking like miniature fairies. (Candice squinted her eyes and made certain that they weren’t actually fairies. God, she hated fairies.) And then her surprise doubled. Not far from the path someone had spread a large plaid blanket, on which sat a huge wicker picnic basket and a bucket filled with ice and a bottle of white wine.

  “You see what happens when you date a superhero?” he said.

  “This isn’t a date. It’s an appointment,” she said automatically.

  “Well, I think that depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On the good-night kiss.”

  Smiling, he led her over to the picnic dinner he had so meticulously chosen, packed, and then brought out into the forest just for her.

  6

  The dinner was scrumptious. Candice was amazed by the obvious care he’d taken with everything. From the excellent dry white wine from Venice and the real crystal goblets he served it in, to the decadently tender prime rib sandwiches and fresh fruit—everything was better than perfect. And that included the conversation. She couldn’t believe how easy he was to talk to. He was actually smart! A closet history buff, he told her stories about the settlers who had founded the various cities in Colorado—something she knew little about because she’d always focused on European instead of American lit.

  And he noticed everything. Not just the details of the meal, but he noticed when the inflection of her voice changed, when she was distracted by the beauty of the blue wildflowers (which he promptly picked for her), and when she talked about her new passion—finishing her master’s and moving to Denver. He discussed the aspects of her new future animatedly. Unlike Godiva, he didn’t try to talk her into staying or dissuade her from following her dream. Justin honestly seemed to understand her need to move on.

  But what surprised Candice most was how easy it was for her to forget he was so young. She wasn’t sure when it happened—somewhere between their discussion of the stupidity of the underfunded state education initiatives, and their mu-tual (and, on her part, rather blasphemous) agreement that the Lord of the Rings movies were actually better than the books—but Candice Cox totally stopped thinking of him as ohmygodhe’ssofuckingyoung Justin, and started seeing him as the man she was out on a date with.

  “So, how’s the poetry assignment coming?” he asked.

  “Better, I think. At least I got a little written last night.” She sipped her wine. Maybe it was the third glass of wine, or the intimate silence that surrounded them, but it felt easy for her to speak half-formed dreams aloud. “You know what’s weird? I’m doing this whole master’s thing so I can get a job reading other people’s writing, but I think I’m finding out that I actually like doing the writing part myself.”

  “You want to write a book?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Right now all I know is that I’d like to write something that—” she broke off, suddenly embarrassed.

  “That what?” he prompted.

  She met his amber gaze. He was so sincere. Rarely had she known a man who listened as well as he did. There was something about the way he looked at her, and spoke to her—as if he thought she was interesting and smart and he honestly cared about what she had to say.

  It was more intoxicating than the Venetian wine.

  “I’d like to write something that would have the ability to make people feel. It could be a book, or short stories, or maybe even poetry. What it is isn’t important. What is important is that what I write evokes feelings in those who read it.”

  His gaze was hot and intense on hers as Justin leaned toward her, resting his hand on her knee. “I know exactly what you mean. That’s how I always felt about my art. I didn’t care if I was painting or sculpting or just sketching with plain charcoal. I wanted people to feel what I felt.”

  “Why did you stop, Justin?” she asked softly.

  “I don’t really know.…” His eyes dropped from hers. “One day I was a college freshman at the Art Institute—the next I’d washed out. I’m pretty sure it had something to do with me changing my major from art to beer and women.” His lips twisted in self-mockery. “A double major actually. I made stupid choices—a string of stupid choices—and then I was back in Mysteria working at the restaurant.”

  She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t too late for him to go to college, that he could get a portfolio together and get back into the Art Institute, but she hesitated. Did he really need her to turn into a teacher and lecture him? She didn’t think so, and she also didn’t want to. She liked being his date and not his mentor. Candice put her hand on top of his.

  “Sometimes it’s easy to get lost. You let your art get lost when you dropped out of college. I let good sense get lost when I committed serial matrimony. I suppose all either of us can do is to learn from our mistakes.”

  “I’m glad you’re divorced.” He smiled and added, “Again.”

  “Well, I’m with you on that one.”

  “Do you mind if I ask why none of your marriages worked?”

  “I don’t mind you asking, but I’m not sure I have an answer for you, even though I should because the ending of each of them felt the same—so you’d think I’d learn how to define the problem, if not fix it.” She sighed. “I stopped loving them. Each one. Actually, it’s more accurate to say that I stopped liking each of them first, then I couldn’t love them anymore. They were five different kinds of men, and, as much as I kid around about it, none of them were bad men. I wouldn’t have married a bad man. Still, it didn’t work out with any of them, which, naturally, points to the one common denominator—me.” She glanced up at him. He was watching her intently, and not in that patronizing “I’ll just let the woman talk so I can get into her panties” kind of way. His amber eyes were interested—his expression plainly said he was involved in what she was saying. Candice drew a deep breath. “I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone. I think I fail at relationships because I don’t have any magic.”

  His brow wrinkled. “But most places aren’t like Mysteria. Outside of here lots of people don’t have magic and they manage to have happy marriages.”

  “Nope. I don’t think so. I don’t think you have to live in totally bizarre Mysteria to have magic. See, I think the ability to have a successful, happy marriage is a special kind of magic, and that special magic exists all over the world. The problem with me is that I’m doomed because I have nonmagic, just like I have nonmarriages and nonrelationships.”

  “Maybe”—he reached up and cupped the side of her cheek with his hand—“you just need to quit trying so hard.”

  Then, amazingly, Justin leaned forward and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss, not accompanied by any intrusive thrustings of tongue and teeth. She’d worried about that when she’d allowed herself to think about kissing him. Would a twenty-something be a bully kisser? Would he blindly stick his mouth on hers and proceed to grind any and all available body parts against her? It’d been too damn long since she’d kissed a man this young—she couldn’t remember how they did it. But she needn’t have worried. The boy/man/wolf kissed like a dream…a deliciously erotic dream. His mouth was a warm caress against hers—not a demand, but a seductive question.

  “You taste like lavender and wine,” he murmured, his lips lingering near hers.

  “You taste like sex,” she whispered back before her better sense could stop the words. “Erotic and decadent, and very, very male.”

  He chuckled and his lips moved to her neck. “That’s because I’m still using my superpowers on you.” His tongue flicked out to tease the gentle slope of smooth flesh where her neck met her shoulder. “But maybe you don’t believe me. Maybe you need more proof first.”

  “If I say I do, does that mean you won’t stop?” she said breathlessly.

  “I won’t stop unle
ss you tell me to.”

  “Then we may be here all night,” she moaned.

  He pressed her down into the blanket and slid his hand under her T-shirt. “I’m good with all night.”

  She let her hands travel up his arms to his chest. God, his body was hard! And more than just between his legs (although it was already decidedly obvious that he didn’t suffer from the same unfortunate and very flaccid problem her last ex-husband had). Utterly fascinated, she tugged at his shirt until he took his hands from her long enough to pull it over his head.

  Dear sweet Lord—she’d died and, despite her numerous sins and bad language, gone straight to heaven. He looked better unclothed—and that was one hell of a compliment because he had looked scrumptious with his shirt on. He was truly a beautiful man.