When I'm With You

by JoAnn Ross

  “Oh, she already hated you because of Morganna. She doesn’t feel the Mistress of the Dark is a proper representation of the Craft.”

  “What do you think?”

  She took a bite of shrimp salad on a buttery croissant that nearly melted in her mouth. “I think if I had more than three dates with you, I’d end up being the size of that tanker,” she said, nodding toward the huge cargo ship making its way up the river just a few yards away.

  “You’d be perfect whatever size you were.”

  “Flatterer.”

  “It’s true.” He took a bite of his huge roast beef sandwich. “Besides, we’ll work it off.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  “I hope you do.” He considered kissing her, then decided that if he began, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and being that they were in a public park, that probably wasn’t the hottest idea he’d ever had. “By the way, did you happen to notice that that Corey woman filched a candle?”

  “A candle and a vial of dragon’s blood,” Roxi said. “She’s a kleptomaniac. Her niece always pays up at the end of the month.”

  “Maybe she’s just smart. Getting someone else to pay for her witch supplies.”

  “That thought has occurred to me.”

  They continued eating in a surprisingly comfortable silence.

  “So,” she said, gesturing toward a nearby statue with a crunchy sweet potato French fry, “do you think she was really waving for her lover?”

  The statue, portraying a woman in a simple dress waving a piece of cloth, with a collie by her side, represented one of Savannah’s most endearing legends. The daughter of a lighthouse keeper on the nearby coastal island of Elba, Florence Martus, who’d become known as Waving Girl, had lived a quiet and uneventful life until one day she began communicating with sailors by waving a white handkerchief as they passed. At night, she’d wave a lantern, and it wasn’t long before sailors around the world began to signal her back.

  Over the decades she became a beacon of the city, daily offering a joyful welcome or fond farewell.

  That story in itself would have been good enough for most cities. But Savannah, staying true to its colorful self, had chosen to add speculation that Florence had fallen in love with a sailor who’d promised to return, but had vanished into the ocean’s vast horizon.

  “I think it’s a nice story,” he said. “And perhaps it began that way. But while most women are probably willing to stick a relationship out for more than three dates, forty years seems like overkill. I suspect it’s more likely she lived a lonely life and waving to the ships not only gave her a connection with someone besides her father and brother, but also gave her something meaningful to do, given how, if the thousands of letters addressed to Waving Girl she received are any indication, the sailors seemed grateful.”

  “I suppose. It’s sad either way.”

  “Granted.” He balled up the waxed paper and tossed it back into the wicker basket. “So, I guess you’re not going to stand out at the airport waving off planes until I come back?”

  “Sorry. I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”

  “I figured that’d be your answer. And I’ve decided what kind of spell I want.”

  She arched a brow.

  “A binding spell.”

  She laughed. Reached out and ruffled his hair. “That’s what you say now. Trust me, cher. That’s one helluva powerful spell and not to be used casually. If I gave you the power to bind me to you, by this time next week you’d be so sick and tired of constantly having me around, you’d start hating me.”

  “Think so?”

  “I know so.”

  He knew differently. But reminded himself that patience was supposed to be a virtue.

  “So,” he said, deciding it was time to change the subject, “remember that scene where Brianna uses her charmed sword to behead the evil gods of Hades?”

  “Of course. It was the first time she ever went over to the dark side.”

  “You don’t think audiences will have a problem with that? She is, after all, the ‘good’ twin.”

  “They were holding her sister hostage. Of course she’d save her. I have seven sisters and brothers, and if anyone threatened them, I’d do whatever was in my power to save them.

  “But you know, as much as I really like the books, pagans don’t view light and dark, good and bad, the dualistic way Western society does. Western thought, being deeply rooted in the Christian view, tends to view dualism as a battle between the good, or light, versus evil, which is dark.

  “While paganism is based on monism, where light and dark exist, but as polarities, two opposite, yet complementing aspects of a whole. So, in reality, Morganna and Brianna should be equal parts of the whole. If you want to stay true to the belief system. But,” she said, “I can understand how that doesn’t work well when you’re telling it to an audience steeped in Western thought.”

  “Plus there’s the little matter of Gavin Thomas having written the characters that way.”

  “Well, there is that,” she agreed with a smile. “And what a unique concept. A moviemaker actually attempting to stay true to an author’s vision.”

  “I try,” he said modestly. Not mentioning that Thomas’s witch wife had threatened to turn him into a toad if he didn’t treat her husband’s work—and witchcraft—with respect.

  “That’s one of the reasons I came to Savannah,” she revealed. “After Katrina blew away the Every Body’s Beautiful day spa and spell shop, since I had to rebuild anyway, I was looking to spread my wings. Savannah had always interested me because, like New Orleans, it’s a city that embraces its dark, midnight side right along with its light. And, as I said, that balance is what the Craft is all about.

  “This time, though, without Emma to handle the spa stuff, I decided to stick with the magic aspect, and the concept seems to be working. I suppose, if the box office for your Morganna movie comes even close to The Last Pirate, my business should get a nice a boost from all the moviegoers who leave the theater wanting to embrace their inner witch.”

  “I’m all for Morganna making buckets of bucks,” he said. “But how many people do you believe are actually harboring an inner witch?”

  “I believe everyone’s born with the power of magic. It’s just that not everyone learns how to use it.”

  “Now you remind me of Morganna again.”

  She stood up, folded her arms, and looked down at him. “Let me guess. Despite making this movie, you don’t believe in witchcraft. Or magic.”

  “You’re not talking about an illusionist making a seven-forty-seven disappear, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Then, I guess I have to say no. I don’t. But don’t take it personally, sugar. I don’t believe in the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus, either.”

  She didn’t respond. Just gave him a long, steady look. He could practically see the wheels turning inside that gorgeous dark head, but had no idea what she was thinking.

  He wondered idly if Gavin’s wife was actually telling the truth about that toad thing. Thought about the sign on the wall in Hex Appeal.

  Nah.

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  “I was hoping to spend it making love to you.”

  “It’s customary to ask a woman for a date ahead of time. I have a thing tonight.”

  “A thing. Is that like a date? With some other guy?” Like that was going to happen.

  “A date. But not exactly with another man. It’s Beltane. You might know it as May Day.”

  “Ah.” Comprehension belatedly sunk in. “So I guess you’ll be doing some sort of ritual thing with your coven, or whatever you call it.”

  “Martha would call it a coven. As it happens, I’m a solitary witch. I’ll be doing my ritual at home.”

  “May I come watch?”

  “I would have thought you had enough of a show last night.”

  “I’m serious. I’ll admit that I’m not a believer in w
hat you call the Craft, but I’d really like to see how a witch celebrates a sacred festival.”

  “For research.”

  “No.” He thought they ought to get this point perfectly clear. “Because I want to know you better. I want to try to understand what’s important to you.”

  She gave him a narrowed, slit-eyed look. “That’s probably a mistake. The more people know about one another, the more likely they are to get involved. And I’ve already told you I’m not into commitment stuff.”

  “Are you saying you don’t want to know anything about me?”

  She flushed again, just as she had back in her shop.

  “No.” She shook her head. Dragged her gaze out toward the river where another tanker was heading into the harbor. “I mean, sure. Of course I’m interested, cher. It’s just that I…

  “Dammit.” She turned away and began marching back down the cobblestone roadway. “You’re confusing me.”

  The admission, Sloane thought, was a start.

  He let her get a little ahead of him, enjoying the sexy sway of her tight butt in those white cotton pants that stopped right below her knees. The back of which, he’d discovered last night, were directly, erotically, connected to her pretty pink clit.

  Catching up with her in two long strides, he grabbed her arm, spun her against his chest, and little caring about the tourists crowding the sidewalk, kissed her, a long hard kiss that sent a jolt of heat shooting through them both.

  “Static electricity,” she murmured, sounding as staggered as he felt.

  “That must be it.” He opted against pointing out that he couldn’t recall any science class teaching about receiving electrical shocks from cobblestones.

  “Are you going to let me come with you tonight?”

  She shook her head. Not in denial, but resignation. “You may as well.”

  “Thank you, darlin’.”

  He’d received more generous invitations over the years, but wasn’t going to quibble. Leaning forward on the balls of his feet, he brushed a lighter, gentler kiss against her tightly set mouth, encouraged when her lips parted on a soft sigh.

  They continued walking back to the shop, his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist.

  “Beltane,” he said, “that’s a fertility festival, right?”

  “It celebrates the divine union of the Lord and Lady.”

  Sloan grinned. “Hot damn.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  After she went back to work, Sloan researched Beltane online and discovered it was the one festival people had been most unwilling to give up, no matter how much the Church had fought against the holiday.

  Which made sense, he thought, given that it was definitely the kinkiest of all the pagan holy days, revolving around lust and passion as the celebrants honored not just the mating of their goddess and her consort, but their own bodies and the male and female physical relationship, a necessity if they wanted the human race to continue.

  In ancient times they’d burn fires on hilltops, couples would make love in freshly plowed fields to ensure the success of the crops, and any child resulting from this night was considered a chosen one. A blessing from the goddess.

  A nice thought, Sloan thought, at the same time making sure he stocked up on enough condoms to ensure there wouldn’t be any surprise blessings from this Beltane celebration.

  The moon was a silver sickle, slicing through a deep purple sky. Fog was drifting in from the sea, obscuring the stars and wrapping the silent night in a soft, misty shawl of white. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  They were sitting outside, sipping red wine in her postage-stamp backyard which was surrounded by a tall green hedge that provided privacy.

  She was filling in the bits and pieces of the Shabbat he’d learned about today.

  “In Celtic society,” Roxi explained, “not only did the woman own all the land and cattle, she also chose who she’d marry. The handfasting contract lasted a year. At the end of that time, if she or her husband were unhappy with each other, they’d just walk away.”

  “No harm, no foul,” he said.

  “Exactly.” She nodded. “It was actually a very sensible system.”

  “This from a woman who’d insist on renewing every three days,” he reminded her.

  “Times were different then,” she said mildly. “Relationships were all tied up with land and property and survival. Not to mention that being tied to the earth as they were, an agrarian society, there was so much more opportunity for powerful outside forces to rule your life.”

  “I know how it feels to have outside forces rule my life every time one of my movies has its opening weekend,” he said.

  “I believe it would have been a bit more serious.”

  “Hey, they’re both about survival. If Morganna goes bust, I don’t eat.”

  “At least not caviar and champagne,” she said dryly. “My point is that Beltane would’ve been the one time a year when people could let loose and celebrate the future instead of dwelling on all the things that might have gone wrong in the past.”

  “And fuck like bunnies.”

  She dimpled prettily in the light from the candles she’d placed around the yard.

  “I was going to say it was when they’d make wishes for the year ahead, because their lives would be forecast by what they saw at dawn the next morning. But that fucking thing works for me, too.”

  As they laughed together, her eyes warmed with something richer than lust. Perhaps he was only fooling himself, but Sloan didn’t think so. Despite what she might think she believed, he knew that by inviting him here tonight, by allowing him to share in something so important to her, she was opening not just her body to him, but her heart, as well.

  “You know when I said you reminded me of Morganna?”

  “It would be difficult to forget. Being that it was only last night.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “Oh?” Her luscious lips turned down in a little moue.

  He skimmed a hand down her hair, which she’d woven with a riot of fresh flowers that smelled like a night garden. “You’re worlds above that fictional witch.” He touched a palm to her silky smooth cheek. “In fact, I may just be beginning to believe in magic.”

  She smiled, openly pleased, and covered his hand for a moment with hers.

  Although he had never witnessed a ceremony in real life, he’d read enough books and seen enough movies to recognize the casting of the sacred circle, the calling of the elements. In lieu of a maypole, she’d woven ribbons of traditional white and red together and had hung them from the branches of a sweet gum tree in the center of the yard. A CD of a Celtic harp played softly.

  The wide sleeves of the red robe she was wearing slid down her arms as she lifted a silver chalice in a toast.

  “Behold the chalice, symbol of the Goddess, the great Mother who brings fruitfulness and knowledge to all.”

  Putting the chalice onto the table, she lifted a knife, the handle formed into the shape of a Celtic crane, the blade glinting in the slanting moonlight. Although Sloan knew it was only his imagination, he could have sworn he saw a shimmering blue energy swirling around the sharp steel tip.

  “Behold the Athame, symbol of the God, the all-powerful Father who brings energy and strength to all.”

  The distant storm was growing closer, lifting her hair, tossing it in a tangle around her face. Heat lightning shimmered behind churning dark clouds as she picked up the chalice again and slowly and deliberately lowered the Athame blade into the wine.

  “Joined in holy union together, they bring new life to all.”

  Impossibly, the wine began to bubble, smoke pouring out of the chalice like the dry ice his mother used to put in the Halloween punch.

  “Blessed be.”

  She took a sip of the wine, then held the chalice out to Sloan, who couldn’t have resisted if his entire fortune—his life—depended on it.

  The wine was warm, like deep red velvet against his to
ngue. After he’d taken a drink, he handed it back to Roxi. Instead of taking it from his hand, she placed her palms on top of his hands and together, with her leading the action, they poured the remainder of the wine onto the ground, which immediately swallowed it up.

  Returning the chalice and knife to the table, she went through the rite of closing the circle, then turned toward Sloan.

  With her eyes holding his, she lifted her hands to the silver brooch holding her cape together, unfastened it, and let it slide down her shoulders to the ground.

  She was an enchantress. Circe. Lorelei. Morgan La Fey. Brigid, goddess of eternal fire. She was all the goddesses of all the ancient myths in one stunning package and he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.

  Smiling a sorceress’s smile she went up on her bare toes, splayed her fingers at the back his head, and pulled his lips down to hers.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sloan heard the low, threatening rumble of thunder and couldn’t tell if it was coming from the midnight dark sky or inside himself as he kissed her in a deep, tongue-thrusting, branding kiss.

  He felt the four winds whipping her hair across both their faces, and although he knew it was as impossible as the blue light he’d thought he’d seen bubbling in that chalice earlier, he felt as if they’d been swept into a tempest and were being dragged across the night.

  She tasted of sex. Of temptation. Of magic.

  As the sky opened up in a hot, drenching rain, they dragged each other to the ground, rolling on the wet grass, greedy mouths devouring raw, painful breaths, hands tearing at his clothes.

  The storm broke with a clap of thunder directly overhead that shook the earth beneath them. As Roxi ripped Sloan’s shirt open, sending buttons flying across the garden, neither noticed.

  Lightning forked across the sky; as he sat up and yanked the ruined shirt off, neither cared.

  Her shaking hands struggled with his belt buckle, but she managed it, whipping it through the loops of his slacks. There was a clang of metal as it landed somewhere on the brick patio.

  Bending over him, her face shielded by her thick fall of hair, she lowered the zipper then released his rampant erection from its confinement. It jutted from the whorl of dark hair, thick and long and heavy. And for tonight, it was hers.