by Bebe Balocca
“Oh, I’ve got an idea or two,” Lowell answered. “A little pre-wedding trip, if you’re up for some adventure. It’ll introduce you to some of the inhabitants of the woods that you haven’t met yet, too. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled with your company.”
“I’m intrigued,” smiled Dora. “Anything I should pack?”
“Ah, you won’t need much,” he said. “We can send some gnomes for food and water, so just bring what you’ll need for a few days.” His eyes narrowed and he shot her a concerned look. “I know you’re not shy, but you’re not afraid of heights, are you?”
Epilogue
Dora stretched beneath the canopy of leaves. The morning sun filtered through the branches and, far below her on the ground, woodland creatures and magic folk shifted and scurried. The nocturnal beings—the sprites and will-o-the-wisps, bats and raccoons—were headed to bed, while the daytime creatures stirred from their burrows to welcome the sun. She imagined the day shift and night shift workers in an otherworldly factory exchanging pleasantries and yawning as they punched their time cards.
“Be right back,” she whispered to Lowell, who dozed next to her.
“Down please, Geneva!” she called out. The juniper tree whispered and shuffled, and its limbs bent and swayed to form a living stairway to the ground. As long as I live, thought Dora, even if it’s forever, this place will never stop being magical.
The branches shifted beneath her feet, and Dora climbed down the organic escalator with ease. It had been just a few days since she’d awakened in her transformed state, but she felt completely trusting of the dryad who helped her down to the forest floor. “Geneva’s flighty at times,” Lowell had confided, “but she’s a sweet spirit. Hazel’s nice, too, though she can be a bit of a nut. Some of these dryads are tricksters—not that that’s a bad thing, of course—but let’s stay in Geneva’s branches for our first visit to the grove.”
Dora heeded the call of nature and freshened up in an overland stream next to the grove. The water in Prescott Woods, even the surface variety, was especially pure and cleansing. She rinsed her teeth and body, combed her hair with her fingers and caught her reflection in a still part of the brook. Dora brought her fingers to her cheek and stared at her mirror image. Her skin was smooth and taut, her body firm and curvy, and her hair looked as though J. Lo’s stylist had spent hours on it. The magical properties of Prescott Woods had gifted her with an idealised outward appearance and, even better, she felt like a million bucks. I think I could run for miles, climb a mountain, swim a lake… She looked up to find Lowell gazing down at her from their treetop hammock. And then make love with Lowell for hours.
The phone lines at the new Bohemian Rhapsody were already in place, so Dora had made a few reassuring calls to her friends and family before setting off into the woods with Lowell. He had taken her to Castle Speranza first to see his family and to meet Limax, Mephita and the infamous Bufo. Lowell’s father had been surprisingly emotional given Lowell’s description of the Fair Folk’s stern patriarch. Gavin had embraced her, nearly squeezing the breath out of her, and Dora was sure she’d seen him wipe tears from his eyes as he’d walked away. Paloma, whom Dora knew from belly dancing classes and performances, seemed different than before—kinder, perhaps. Along with Korbin and Brock, she’d welcomed Dora warmly into the family. Carmen was the most ebullient of the bunch. She’d shrieked with joy when Dora and Lowell announced their plans to marry. “We’re going to have so much fun, you wait and see!” she’d laughed.
Aside from some rather off-putting sinus issues, Limax was charming enough, and Mephita entertained her with a recounting of her part in saving the woods from destruction. It was Bufo, though, who revealed his deep affection for her. The guilt-ridden gnome had flopped at her feet and begged forgiveness for his transgressions. “You did say as you thought my gardening was clever, and then I wanted to see what your own plantsies were doing, and I saw somewhat and other I could do to improve your place and…” he wailed. “I never did mean to crack a breaksie or dirty not a thing for you, only to pretty up and work for you, and then that horrible fire! Oh, so very, very frightening!”
With Calvin’s blessing, Bufo agreed to be head gardener for Dora’s new home. Lowell had grudgingly agreed to the arrangement on one condition—Bufo was not to enter Dora’s house unless lives were in danger. Dora, as grateful as she was for Bufo’s brave part in saving her, was secretly relieved. He was a nice gnome, certainly, but he seemed a bit star-struck by her. Bufo’s sister, Caudata, would be her housekeeper as soon as the elves were done with construction. Mephita was pleased to hear this. “Caudata will keep her brother in line, sure enough she will, and straight as a pin she’ll keep the home of yours, yes indeed and for certain.”
They’d stayed one night at the castle and, while it was perfectly luxurious and comfortable, Dora was pleased to leave the next morning with only Lowell at her side. He’d given her a box, once more wrapped in heavy cream paper and tied with a glossy deep green ribbon. “For you, if it’s something you’d like. The elves made it for you at my request.”
She’d been surprised and touched to find a garment of the same pattern as his ever-present kilt. “It’s an Italian tartan, you see,” he’d explained. “As a Rossi, I started wearing a kilt made of it, and I thought, well, since you and I are engaged now…” She’d lifted it and found a buttery-soft wrap dress—angora, he’d informed her—that hugged her curves and fell to her knees in a graceful skirt. “You don’t have to wear it,” he’d told her. “Not if you don’t like it.”
“But I love it,” she’d insisted, “especially since I’m part of your clan now, Lowell. I want to look like we belong together.” She’d kissed him then and thought of the Mathesons in their matching tracksuits and fanny packs, giving each other Eskimo kisses and radiating perfect devotion. Love is so beautiful when the pieces fall together.
He promised to take her on a walkabout of the woods and introduce her to trolls, elves, naiads and the other magical beings. “But I’ll do it slow and easy,” he’d smiled. “No rush, my queen. I want you to drink it all in, in your own sweet time.”
A human visitor to the dryad grove, if he or she were to make it this deep into the woods without being frightened away by a glamoured image of a bear, lion or bobcat, would see a patch of a six lush trees in a cluster. That human might notice that the trees bent and swayed without the benefit of a breeze, and he or she might wonder how it was that no dead branches littered the perfect mossy carpet beneath the trunks.
Dora, however, was now one of the Fair Folk and the mysteries of the woods were no longer hidden from her. She saw the trees, but she also saw the dryads who were linked to them. Geneva, the juniper dryad, rested on the moss floor and played a lap harp. Next to her, Hazel, her feet propped on the trunk of her hazel tree, juggled four walnuts. Fiona was in the crook of her tree inspecting the young apples that were swelling on its branches.
“Where are the others?” Dora asked Fiona. She’d been surprised when Fiona had explained earlier that the dryads could safely leave their trees for days at a time to venture into different parts of Prescott Woods.
“Daphne and Dara went to visit the naiads,” replied Fiona as she clambered up higher in the tree. “And Ashby’s off picking some blackberries for you.”
Three walnuts careened over Hazel’s head, plopping to the moss beneath her, and one fell on her forehead with a plunk. “That was supposed to be a surprise, Fiona!” Hazel complained, rubbing her head and scowling.
“Oh—whoops! Just pretend you’re surprised, okay, Dora?” Fiona’s eyes lit up as she parted a group of apple leaves. “This is going to be the best apple crop ever, ladies!”
Geneva strummed a close to her song. “Want back up, Dora? Lowell’s still in bed.” When Dora nodded, the amenable dryad tilted her head towards her juniper tree and closed her eyes. Immediately, the branches shifted into place so that Dora could ascend with ease.
“Thanks, Geneva.” Dor
a climbed back up and snuggled next to Lowell on the sweet-smelling bed. The juniper’s branches themselves formed the frame and a thick elf-woven pad of rushes served as the padding. The elves were not only talented home-builders and mattress-makers. Lowell had revealed one of their finest inventions—an indiscernible birth control device he wore when they made love. “Just so you don’t need to worry,” he’d explained gruffly.
From the castle, Lowell had brought along a pillow for each of them and a plush quilt, and Dora had decided on the first night that there was no more desirable bed in the whole world.
“Although,” she whispered into Lowell’s ear, “the company may have something to do with that.” Lowell, eyes shut, grinned and kissed her. “What’ll we do today, Lowell? I’m curious about the naiads, and I haven’t seen any trolls yet, either. And I’m curious about that leprechaun you were talking about earlier—can we visit him? And what’s an Irish sprite doing in Prescott Woods?”
“Sounds like we’re going leprechaun hunting,” Lowell chuckled. “Even if we don’t find the little guy, we can have fun trying. He’s more slippery than a gnome. But I’ve got an idea about what I want to do first.” He reached beneath the quilt and cupped one hand around Dora’s rear.
“Ahh, so romantic!” a female voice cooed close to Dora’s head. She turned to see Geneva in the crook of the tree, smiling blissfully.
“Mm-hm, sure is.” Fiona paused in her perusal of the young apples to look over at the juniper tree.
Hazel scampered up the trunk and popped her head over the edge of the mattress. “You guys want any help up here?” She ran her deep green eyes down Lowell’s frame and stopped just below his waist. “We know just how Lowell likes it.”
“Ah, ladies, many thanks, but not today,” Lowell answered. Dora chuckled to see the deep crimson of his cheeks and gave him a fond peck on the cheek. He produced another elven invention from beneath his pillow, commissioned especially for this trip. “We’ll see you in a bit, girls.” He held aloft a palm-sized green sphere and squeezed its sides. At once, a shimmering tented dome opened over the mattress.
“Aw, phooey,” Dora heard Hazel complain from outside the barrier. “They’re still shutting us out.”
“No matter, Hazel. Come on up into my apple tree and let me see if I can tempt you with something else,” Fiona told her. Dora heard the thump-thump of dropping feet and the rustle of leaves in the tree nearest her. “You too, Geneva. Let’s play Dora and Lowell, shall we girls? I’ll be Dora! Oooh, check out my glossy black hair—I’m sooo beautiful and voluptuous, aren’t you jealous?”
“And I’m Lowell!” Hazel chortled in a deep voice. “Arrrgh, arrrgh, arrrgh, lookit my beard! Kinya guess what I’ve got under this here kilt?”
Geneva giggled with delight. “And I’m me, after Dora and Lowell decide that they’ll let us in on their play! Lucky, lucky me—here I come, gonna shake up your tree and strip off your bark! Grr-ruff-ruff-ruff!”
“Dryads.” Lowell rolled his eyes and turned to Dora. “They get a little silly here in the woods, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, don’t be afraid.” Dora pulled the quilt off him. “I’m certainly not. They’re fun, and who knows what we’ll do in the future with them, right Lowell? Forever’s a long time.” She stroked his thickening erection and lifted her shoulder. “We’ll have plenty of chances to try things out in these woods of ours.” Lowell’s eyes glittered as she straddled him and held his cock between her legs.
“I wish you could see yourself right now, woman. With that shiny deep green behind you, all aglow in the morning light, and your hair falling around your shoulders, and those glorious curves of yours…” He wrapped his hands around her waist and groaned as she eased down onto his shaft. “You’re a goddess, Dora. My queen.” He ran his hands over her hips and grinned. “Know what you make me think of, lovely lady?” Dora lifted an eyebrow in response. “Whittling.”
“Whittling!” she shot back. “The hell you say! I thought you loved my curves, Lowell! And, from what I understand, this figure is as good as it’s gonna get, now that I’m one of the Fair Folk. Like it or lump it, Lowell Rossi.” She lifted up from his lap until he was barely inside her and glowered at him.
“Oh, hush, Dora! You know good and well that your body excites me like no other woman’s possibly could. I love you and I adore the meat on your bones.” He squeezed her hips and brought her down a notch or two. “It’s just that I realised that being with you makes the world around me make sense. You bring out the best parts of me and let me see the good in everything else. The only other thing that’s done that for me is scraping a knife on a piece of oak. I whittled when my father brought me to these woods, transforming our family in one swift stroke, and it helped feel as though I had a little bit of control left in my own life. I thought that if I could make something beautiful out of a chunk of wood, there was something special and worthy about me.” He pulled her a bit lower onto his lap. “You make me feel that way, Dora. You’re my whittling stick.”
“You have a poet’s soul, my love, whether you know it or not.” She smiled and spread her palms over his broad chest. “And you set me on fire, Lowell. Whittle away—I love being your stick.” She lowered herself until he was fully sheathed inside her, then slowly ground her hips against him. Her breasts swayed with the movement and Lowell raised his hands to caress them, then stroked the twisted burn scars on her back.
“I thank all that is good that you are here, well and whole, in my arms,” he murmured. Birdsong without the tent mingled with the dryads’ giggles of delight.
She smiled and rolled her hips in a tight circle, undulating her stomach as she did when belly dancing with Carmen. Lowell growled and she felt his cock thicken inside her. “Let’s take it slow this morning, okay?” she murmured.
Dora clenched her muscles around him and lowered her face to his for a lingering kiss. Lowell flipped her onto her back and traced a path down her neck with the tip of his tongue, then began a slow rhythm that set the tree mattress swinging in the juniper branches.
“That sounds perfect, Dora. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:
A Ghost on Two Wheels
Bebe Balocca
Excerpt
Chapter One
“Barney!” I lean out of the back door and holler up into the meadow. “Barney, damn it, come on in!” As I have for the past several days, I hope to see him dart out from our rickety barn, his namesake and his favourite haunt, and plummet down the gentle slope to our back door like a ginger lightning bolt. Barney enjoys nothing more than lurking in that dusty old barn, chasing field mice and sparrows and lizards, then resting after his hunts in my lap.
We inherited Barney when we bought this old farmhouse ten years ago. After we moved in, we told Mack Grayden, the owner, that we’d found a cat in the barn.
Mack had shrugged and spat on the ground. “Just an old barn cat,” the crusty old man had grunted. “And I got no use for him where I’m going. Keep him or call animal control to pick him up, don’t matter none to me. Reckon you might want a good mouser, though. Keep mice from gettin’ into the place.”
We decided to give the unnamed mouser a trial period. I set out dry cat food in a dish, and the cat acted like it was wild salmon on a bed of caviar. Apparently Mack had never fed the cat at all and had just left him to fend for himself with mice and lizards and whatever else he could catch. The poor, scrawny thing was just skin and bones. We fattened him up, got him checked out at the vet, and invited him into the house. Our hand-me-down cat proved to be a well-adjusted and contented pet, as well as a very, very good eater. He’d rolled with the punches delivered by his neglectful previous owner Mack, and was more than ready for the next phase of his life. Now Barney, as we named the orange barn cat, is part of our family, a huge, tough tomcat who sleeps at the foot of our bed and curls next to me while I write, as loyal as any dog.
I wait and I hope, but
there’s no lightning bolt this morning.
Michael comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “I’m afraid he’s gone, babe,” he says quietly, and plants a kiss on my neck. “He’s been missing for six days now.”
Fear stings the back of my throat and I swallow painfully. I just can’t bring myself to believe it. “He’s been gone for a week before and come back, hungry and filthy and covered in burrs. He’s probably just out hunting,” I insist. I cup my hands around my mouth and shout once more into the air. “Barney! Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”
Michael leaves me to my yelling and walks to the coffee pot.
I shut the back door with a sigh. “You think he’s really gone for good?” I ask quietly.
Michael pours two cups of coffee and sloshes some cream in the mug intended for me. He hands it to me and answers carefully. “Barney’s an old cat, Ivy,” he says quietly. “And he was starting to move pretty slowly. He’s had a good, long life, but he may have gone off to die if he felt the time was near. Outdoor cats do that sometimes, you know.” He sees me bite my lip and quickly adds, “But I could be wrong. He could show up any minute, begging for some Fancy Feast and a nap in your lap. What do I know, right?” He smiles at me over his coffee cup, blue eyes glinting warmly.
Two months into his biannual buzz-cut has given a nicely tousled look to his wavy black hair. I love how he can’t be bothered with frequent haircuts, yet manages to look devastatingly hot with his hair at every length from shaved to shaggy. I think that now is my favourite hair length on him, though—long enough to run my fingers through his short waves, and still short enough to stand up on its ends.