by Shara Lanel
“I believe you.” But a betraying grin touched his lips.
“Ever!”
“Got it. Never. So my innate sexiness just overcame your inhibitions?”
She dropped her chin to her chest again and angled her knees toward the window that overlooked the graveyard. “I seem to have left my mind and my common sense in Norfolk,” she mumbled. “Or else…”
“Or else what?”
Or else, what, indeed? It was true she’d never acted so wantonly. Why it had happened—how it had happened—was a mystery. Or magick. No! There was no such thing, and even if there were, she didn’t want to think about it. She wanted to think about Holt and how she felt her life was about to turn a corner.
His body had been so yummy and tempting, drawing her to him. Her curiosity had overpowered her, and mixed in had been some crazy emotions about all she’d missed all these years by living in fear and bitterness, and wasn’t it about damn time she found out more about men and sex?
And her fingers had had a will of their own. Completely possessed. Completely forgetting that just moments before she’d been upset by her old scars. They’d had to experience the velvety softness of skin stretched over an oaken rod. She bit her lips to keep from smiling at the memory of dangly testicles, so delicate and sensitive.
She finally glanced up. “I’m sorry for taking advantage of you.”
Holt eyes widened, then he laughed … and laughed. Loud and full. He clutched his stomach and laughed some more. “Not at you,” he muttered between guffaws. “With you.” He flung his arm around her shoulders, so that she could feel his chest shaking with humor. Even when he calmed down, another chuckle erupted and he forced it to subside.
“Are you quite through?”
“Oh, my Goddess, you’ve made my day, my month, I think. Take advantage of me. Feel free to do so anytime you want.”
She stiffened at the Pagan reference, but then she relaxed when he pecked her cheek in an almost brotherly way. Her lips quirked up. “Glad to provide you amusement.”
“And so much more.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and her face warmed.
He took both her hands in his and his thigh touched hers on the trunk. He glanced back at the door. “So that appears to be a suitcase.”
“An overnight bag, yes.”
“So I’m guessing you’re planning to stay.”
“Well, maybe I’ll go back to the hotel.”
He shook his head. “No way. That would hurt Maeve’s feelings. I just find it odd that you told her you were staying and she didn’t tell you about me living up here.”
“Actually she ran off to an emergency meeting and we didn’t discuss it yet.” She sighed. “I admit I assumed I had an open invitation, as I always did.”
“Things change when you leave the nest.”
“Apparently.”
“But of course Maeve would want you to stay here. You just would have gotten some warning if you’d asked first.” He grinned, which made her recall slugging his gut last night. Could be fun to do again.
“Okay, so let me get this straight. You’re renting this room from her.”
“Yup. Got kicked out of my last place.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why?”
“They didn’t like me practicing witchcraft.”
Chapter Three
She dropped his hands and stood up abruptly. Holt remained perched on the edge of the trunk as he watched Diera pace across his room as if she was quite familiar with both the activity and the space. He had the odd sensation of feeling relaxed and open at the same time that he felt wary and alert. And both sensations could be attributed to Diera.
“So you obviously have some prejudice against witchcraft. Care to explain? I think it will affect your aunt just as much or more than me.”
Diera drew close to Holt in her circuit of the hardwood floor and growled, literally. “Aunt Maeve knows exactly why I hate witchcraft or anything masquerading as religion. Hell, even if it is a legit religion, if it brainwashes its people, it’s taboo in my book.”
She turned on her heel and stalked in the other direction. Finally she stopped at her—now Holt’s—dresser and picked up one of his ad displays. It was the one for the Byrd Theatre in Carytown. He was particularly proud of that one.
“What are these?”
“Ads I created.”
“So, you’re a graphic designer?”
“Yup. What do you think?”
“Not bad. What program are you using? I could help you tweak it a bit if you’d like.” Then she must have realized she was being too friendly, so she set the easel down none too gently and stalked the opposite direction. Her ass deserved an award for its beauty and gentle sway. Holt imagined cupping his hands along the bottom curves and sliding his dick along the welcoming slit. He was having a very hard time dispelling his erotic thoughts. Once again he wondered if the magick circle had increased the intensity of both of their arousals.
Even if it had, he viewed that as natural, too. Magick was all about nature, about working in rhythm with the Earth’s forces, about being completely in tune with the Mother Goddess. He wasn’t a New Ager, thinking everything was light and goodness. He knew there was just as much blackness on this planet to counterbalance everything he and his coven Night Mist tried to do. He felt like that was one of the key sentiments of any form of paganism, especially Wicca, understanding polarity, male and female, bad and good, light and dark.
“Diera, I’d really like to get to know you better, for Maeve’s sake and for mine, but this prejudice you have is going to be a major hurdle to doing that.”
She turned to face him from several feet away. In fact, she was angled slightly toward the door, as if preparing to escape. He wondered if her aunt had returned home yet.
Finally Diera spoke. “Let’s just say, since I hardly know you, that I had a very bad run-in with a cult that performed Black Masses when I was a teenager. It basically ruined my life.”
Holt thought her eyes looked foggy for just a moment and oh so sad, but then they hardened, as if she was used to fighting off certain memories. He’d like more details, but he guessed he was lucky to get these few for now.
“You know Wiccans don’t perform Black Masses. We don’t believe in Satan or Hell.”
She glared at him over her shoulder, her body preparing to bolt out the door.
“Diera, I’m not saying you have to believe in what we do. We don’t try to convert people. In fact, we’re probably one of the most open, accepting religions out there. I just want you to understand that we are not about hurt, hate, or power.”
“But you are about magic, and isn’t that a way of having more power than others?”
He stood up, keeping his hands loose, open. She was skittish and he didn’t want to run her off just yet. “Would you be willing to read a couple of books, for Maeve’s sake? And I really think you should talk to her. I know she didn’t take this up to hurt you. She loves you.”
“I won’t believe in witchcraft. I’m very logical.”
He grinned. “I’m sure you are. This is strictly for education on our beliefs, so you can see we’re nothing like the cult you knew before. Okay?”
She looked uncertain, wavering. “Okay, I guess.”
They both heard the car door slam outside the partially opened window. Holt glanced out and saw Maeve hurrying up the walk. Where her niece was going to sleep tonight would be another issue to work out. He’d certainly volunteer one-half of his bed, if anyone asked his opinion. Not likely, so instead he rummaged around on the shelf of his nightstand until he found a thin black book by Raymond Buckland. “This will get you started. I’ll hunt up another couple tomorrow, if you’re interested.”
He approached her with the book and her fingers brushed his as she accepted it. Their eyes met for just a moment, and suddenly his thoughts weren’t on witchcraft at all, but how Diera had touched him, pleasured him, how he’d come right in front of her and how natural it had felt. Sh
e’d invaded not only his dreams and meditations, but now his body. She was completely unlike him, someone he should probably steer clear of, but, as she opened the bedroom door and reached for her bag, he only hoped he’d have the chance to feel her fingers on him again very soon. And other parts of her as well.
* * * *
Diera hustled out of her old bedroom with the overnight bag in tow, into which she stuffed the witchcraft book, but then she ditched the bag on the landing, figuring she’d retrieve it once she discussed a few things with Maeve. The house was narrow, but deep, with several rooms on the second and third floors, usually kept neat, but unused. Finding another place to sleep wouldn’t be a problem. Holt was the problem. Witchcraft and her own screwed-up hormones and impulses were the problem. And Maeve keeping so many secrets from her when she’d thought they were as close as a mother and daughter—big, big problem.
“Oh, there you are, dear,” Maeve said from the front hall, when Diera trucked down the staircase.
“Aunt Maeve, you have a man living in my bedroom!” Way to start a mature conversation. She sounded as put out as a twelve-year-old.
“Oh, dear. Discovered that already, did you?” Maeve set her keys in a wall basket and tsked as she slipped off her tennis shoes. “Were you planning on staying? If only I hadn’t had to run off, we could have gotten this all cleared up.”
Aiming for a more rational tone, Diera asked, “How was your meeting?” She picked up the grocery bag Maeve had left by the door and followed her aunt to the kitchen.
“Fine, fine. No emergency, just a bunch of paranoid old coots ranting on about funding, as I expected. They wouldn’t know a real emergency if it bit them in the you-know-what.”
Diera chuckled at the vehemence of her aunt’s voice. She sat on the barstool at the pass-through as Maeve pulled milk and cheese from the grocery bag and arranged them in the old-fashion fridge. She used to call it an “ice box” but Diera had finally broken her of that habit just before her high school graduation.
“So you met Holt, did you, dear? Did he leave for work again?”
“No, he’s upstairs.”
Aunt Maeve probably heard the sound of annoyance in Diera’s voice, because she looked at her suddenly. “Don’t tell me you walked in on him? I always try to give him his space.”
“Well, if I’d had some warning someone else was in the house, in my old room, I would have knocked!” She focused on chastising her aunt, so she wouldn’t blush at the memory.
Maeve tsked again and retrieved some glasses from the drying rack. She filled them with ice followed by sweet tea and two slivers of lemon. She handed one to her niece and sat down. “Holt is a wonderful boy, so considerate. He helped me paint, you know.”
“No, I don’t know, because someone…” she emphasized the word, “…has been keeping an awful lot of secrets from me.”
The older lady started guiltily. “I needed a bit of extra money and Holt needed a place to live. This big old house can get lonely now that you’re gone. It’s nice to have someone around. I mean, I was even tempted to get a cat!”
“You’re allergic.”
“So you see how Holt was the logical choice.”
“But what about the witchcraft?!” She hadn’t meant to blurt it out quite so suddenly. She hadn’t even explained about her assignment and why she was in Richmond.
“Holt told you?” She bit her lip in the exact same way Diera did when she was stressed.
“I saw you! Last night at Byrd Park!”
Her aunt’s eyes grew stormy. “What in the world were you doing in the park last night and why didn’t I see you? Were you spying on me?”
Diera sighed, sipped her tea, and explained. “My boss is looking for his daughter. He told me the coven’s name was Night something and I found out about the meeting last night on the Internet.”
Maeve clucked. “I warned Rowena about setting up a web site. Not wise, not wise at all.”
“Who’s Rowena?”
“She’s the High Priestess…” She gasped and placed both of her palms on Diera’s forearm. “Sweetie, this is nothing like your parents. Nothing!”
At that point heavy footsteps came down the hardwood-floored hall, and Holt appeared in the dining room/kitchen area. He looked a little sheepish and uncertain about whether to intrude. Maeve waved him over.
“Holt, dear, you’ve met Diera already?”
He nodded and seemed to be biting back a smirk. “Yes, ma’am.” The smirk was for Diera’s benefit, she could tell. He seemed perfectly respectful of her aunt.
“I should have explained … before this. An old woman should have no fear at this point in life, but I admit I was afraid to hurt you.” She gripped Diera’s arm tighter. “Always have been. I’ve been an initiated Wiccan since I turned nineteen, long before your parents met that charlatan Dave and his so-called coven.”
“You couldn’t have! No one ever said anything, not Mom or Grandpa!”
“Grandpa never knew.” She straightened and gestured at the fresh paint, artwork, and candles. “I waited until he was gone, and you had moved on. I didn’t want to hurt either of you.”
Tears filled Diera’s eyes, unbidden. Tumbling memories jumbled her emotions as Holt leaned against the wall and watched her. Self-preservation told her to change the subject for now. She didn’t want to completely lose it in front of the sexy man.
“Aunt, like I said, my boss is looking for his daughter. He knows she’s in Richmond and involved in a coven, but he wasn’t clear which one. Maybe you can help me figure that out. Meantime, I’d like to stay here a few days, if you don’t mind.” She scowled at Holt for a moment, which helped her cast the ghosts of her memories away for now. “A guest room is fine.”
* * * *
The heat finally broke. Perhaps Indian summer was truly over. A few leaves had turned crimson and yellow in the higher trafficked areas of Richmond, a phenomenon that Diera always found curious. She guessed the higher pollution from car exhaust must make the green leaves give up on life sooner.
But Diera couldn’t see any leaves, turned or otherwise, since the cloud cover blocked the partial moon. She could, however, see the eerie green glow from her clock. It was a travel clock perched on an unfamiliar side table in a rarely used guestroom. It was on the third floor, so it had a dormer window with a cushioned window seat. A stiff breeze had ushered in the cold front, causing branches to bang against the eaves outside.
Diera had propped up some pillows on the bed and tried to read by the light of a tiny brass lamp earlier in the evening, but the story hadn’t held her interest. She kept thinking about Holt, ensconced in his room down the hall. He’d said something about doing work on his laptop when he’d excused himself after dinner.
So close yet so far. What was he doing? What was he wearing? Was he naked once again? Was he hoping she’d walk in on him a second time? She was as bad as an adolescent with her first crush.
She wore striped pajama bottoms and a lemon yellow tank, since even though the temperature had dropped outside, it certainly hadn’t dropped on the top floor of this old house. Her window refused to budge, so she couldn’t prop it open. It appeared to have been painted shut years ago. Diera was tempted to use that as an excuse to bother Holt, see if he had a screwdriver or some other tool that would help open the window, but that had seemed too lame.
By ten-thirty, she gave up on reading, turned off the light, and curled up on top of the sheets. The pillows were not the right lumpiness, so she punched and kneaded them, but nothing helped. She needed the white noise of her bedside fan, which was still in Norfolk.
And the memories were too thick here. She recalled Aunt Maeve’s tears all those years ago when the social worker had brought Diera onto the porch, saying that custody had finally been approved. Her mother and father, both sitting in jail, had relinquished their parental rights. Diera’s willowy body had been shaking with fury at hearing the social worker discuss everything so clinically. Aunt Maeve ha
d handed the woman tea and they’d talked about Dave Graves getting sentenced to twenty-five years because of her parents’ testimony, and how that didn’t seem nearly long enough. No matter. He would die long before his sentence ended.
Dave was such an innocuous name for a High Priest, but the man had been pure evil. He’d used his charisma to gain followers, but evil seethed underneath his handsome façade.
Diera had read once during college about how serial killers and cult leaders often used sex as a way to control. Sex was the most intimate act, so somehow by taking away a person’s control within the sexual realm, the leader could control them completely. She didn’t quite understand it, but she had no doubt it was true.
Shivering, she pulled the top sheet over her body. The black room that haunted her nightmarish memories was in a Depression Era house in Richmond’s North Side. Diera had not even driven by the street since she’d shown the police where it was. She wondered who owned the house now. No one should have to live where such evil acts took place.
* * * *
Kim woke to find herself in the same cage she’d been in for too many days to count. She was naked and smelly. Her wrists were bound behind her back, so that when the High Priest brought her food she had to lean down like a dog and lick it up. It was humiliating. The lunatic refused to speak to her—about anything, the coven, witchcraft, when he planned to set her free. If he planned to set her free. And his silence was more unnerving than being locked in a cage in a basement.
Kim had understood Wicca to be a peaceful, Earth-based religion with nothing to do with ritual sacrifice, but the High Priest Setnau obviously followed his own creed. She thought the web site for the Nightshade Coven had said Wicca, but maybe it had only mentioned pagan. She could no longer recall, and she vowed to cancel her Internet connection if she ever got free of this place. She also vowed to make up with her mom and dad. How silly their fights seemed now. How could she have chafed at their rules when they’d only been trying to protect her from men like this?
Tracking the general time of day proved difficult. She watched for light peeking through the duct-taped windows high above her and noted when the temperature seemed highest in the basement, but she was losing count of the days. Black paint covered the walls and floor, and even the rectangular table in the center of the room was shrouded in a black cloth. Her cage was at the far end, away from the stairs, tucked against the side of the hot water heater, which helped keep her warm when the dankness of the earth and the night seeped in.