by Josh Lanyon
“Great.” John was silent, thinking. He said abruptly, “Let’s get a drink.”
We drank wine in the pretty little courtyard that opened from the downstairs lounge.
White and green umbrellas leaned over white iron tables and chairs with green cushions. Comfortable, but not so comfortable that you’d want to spend more than an hour or so. Ivy spilled from urn-shaped planters. Purple and pink petunias were planted between the slate flagstones. The tranquil plish-plash from the fountain at the far end ensured all conversations remained private.
There were two other couples in the garden. An older couple, smiling and comfortable with each other after a day of sightseeing, and a pair of newlyweds gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes, whispering things to make each other blush.
They made me a little sad because I knew now that John’s and my story was coming to an end. In fact, having suggested we go for a drink, John seemed to have nothing to say to me. But eventually the wine, the golden light through the trees, the warmth of the cobblestones—the simple pleasure of being alive on a beautiful day—lulled me into a sense of peace.
It was as I’d said to John upstairs. So mote it be.
We finished our first round, and John got us a second.
I took the glass, saying, “I shouldn’t have this. I haven’t eaten more than a handful of Cheez-Its since Andi and I had lunch on Tuesday.”
John gave me an unreadable look.
We sipped in silence. The shadows lengthened. The newlyweds went upstairs. The older couple left for dinner.
John said idly, “So are there also werewolves and vampires?”
“Where?” Comprehension dawned. “Oh. Not—that is, I met a vampire when I was a child. She was very, very old even then, and she’s crossed since. I’ve never met another one. I suppose they’ve either died out or are very rare. And I’ve never known anyone who came across a werewolf, or a were-anything.”
“What about wizards?”
I hesitated. “Wizards are different. It’s an entirely different magical tradition. Craft is almost universally based on bloodline and generally evolves in matriarchal societies. Wizardry is typically a masculine occupation, and it’s not…genetic.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
I said, “Also, though it’s mostly academic now, wizardry was originally commercial in intent.”
“Witches are born. Wizards are made.”
I nervously cleared my throat. “Generally speaking.”
“Ghosts?”
“Ghosts are real, yes. Of course.”
He said, “Of course.” Silence. Then he said, “What about elves, fairies, trolls? Fairytale stuff?”
I gave a shaky laugh. It was such a crazy conversation to have—and with John, of all people. He threw me a quick, scowling look, which instantly sobered me.
“Maybe once? I don’t…I don’t have any experience with such beings. I think they existed in historical times. In fact, I’m quite sure they existed in historical times. Now I assume—believe—they’re extinct. Like dinosaurs and dodo birds.”
He nodded absently. “What about Martians?”
“I-I’m sorry?”
“Extraterrestrials. Other life forms.”
“I don’t— How would I know?”
He said harshly, “I have no idea what you do or don’t know. Everything I understood about life on this planet has been turned on its head. Suddenly witches exist and magic is real. Why not space aliens?”
“John,” I began helplessly. But I didn’t know what to say. Of course this was a shock for him. Maybe more of a shock for him than someone else because he was so…earthbound. He had renounced the very idea of a god—was not just unaware; had consciously rejected the concept. I had found no sign of spirituality in his life. If he couldn’t see it or it wasn’t backed by science, he didn’t believe in it.
I said instead, “I don’t know about life on other planets. I assume there is life on other planets. It’s hard to believe we’d be the only sentient beings in a universe so vast, we can barely conceive of it. What I do know is on this planet there are some things you have to take on faith.”
He shook his head, denying this.
I said tentatively, “Have you told anyone about…what you now know? Have you told anyone about me?”
“No.”
I relaxed a fraction. This had been the thought that most terrified me, for both our sakes.
I was less comforted when he said, “No one would believe me.”
“Maybe they would. You’re not someone to make up stories.”
He grunted in agreement.
When we finished our second glass of wine, he said, “I should go.”
I had never previously considered that one of the most painful phrases in the English language, but it was. It was excruciating.
I said calmly, “Yes. Of course.”
He rose. “Will you be all right?”
I nodded. “Yes. I’ll be fine.”
Hungry though I was, I thought I would probably sleep until midnight when the Société du Sortilège convened.
He hesitated. “Maybe I’ll see you to your room.”
I grinned. “How gallant. But I think I’ll be safe walking through the hotel lobby.”
“You’re still my husband. It’s my responsibility to make sure you get in okay.”
I was a little amused, but maybe a little moved. He did still care for me. He hadn’t hesitated even an instant about jumping into the Seine to pull me out. Although he probably would do that for anyone.
We left the cooling temperature of the garden and walked upstairs, where it was still warm. When we reached my room, I unlocked the door, and then turned back to John.
I said softly, “I just want to say again, thank you. And I’m sorry. Truly sorry.” I felt I had to clarify. “Not for being. I was born this way and won’t apologize for that any more than I apologize for being gay. But I’m sorry I wasn’t honest. I know you won’t understand, but I couldn’t tell you the truth. I don’t have the right. It’s not my secret to share. But that being the case, I shouldn’t have married you. It was wrong. I wronged you.”
“You said that before,” he said crisply. “Guess what? That part I do understand. Classified information. Need to Know. I didn’t have security clearance.” He shrugged. “But like you say, that being the case—and given that my feelings for you were not based on reality—you had no fucking business going ahead with our marriage.”
I hung my head. “I know,” I whispered.
John suddenly groaned from deep in his chest, said roughly, “So why do I still want you so much?”
I glanced up in surprise as his hand locked on the back of my head, tangling in my hair, pulling me to him. His warm mouth claimed mine.
For a paralyzed moment I could think of nothing but the feel of John’s hard, insistent lips on my own, the almost feverish heat, the taste, the scent, the shocking urgency of John’s need.
He pushed the door open, and we half fell inside, still clutching each other, still kissing. We made it to the bed, falling onto the creamy comforter on the cloudlike mattress.
“Why you, why did it have to be you?” he muttered, breaking contact for a moment. His eyes glittered, and I could see his resentment, his reluctance, but I could see longing. Knew it because I felt it too.
I shook my head, gasped out, “Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point.”
He leaned forward again, his hot mouth bruising mine, but he relented almost at once. I recognized my name in the soft, persuasive pressure of his mouth. Cosmo.
Not a question. A call. A summoning I had no strength to resist.
The terrible, exultant familiarity of it. A reminder that I was not even close to being over John, that no matter how fast I ran or how far I traveled, any distance between us was all on John’s side. Reason and logic could not withstand the power he had over me—still had—whether I wanted it—whether he wanted it. Incurable yearning s
parked, then blazed back into life, a dying star crackling at the edge of the buckling universe.
It had to mean something that he was here. No spell had brought him to me. He was real. He was now. And he wanted me too. The sudden unbearable sweetness of it made my breath catch and tears burn beneath my lashes. I was parched for him, withering without him, and there was no remedy for this drought, no cure but John.
I cried out in shock when he pushed me back.
“Are you doing this to me?” John’s voice was ragged, his chest rising and falling, his pupils dilated so his eyes looked black as midnight.
“W-what?”
“Is this a spell? Are you making this happen?”
“No,” I protested. “This isn’t— I’m not—”
“Then where did these feelings come from?”
Anger, frustration, hurt soared. I planted my hands in his chest, shoving him back so hard, he nearly fell off the bed.
“Where do you think they come from? This is lust, you bastard. Nothing more, nothing less. And it’s all you. It’s not me. I don’t want you. I hate you.”
I shoved him again, but this time John didn’t budge. Didn’t speak. His big hands locked on mine like iron bands, holding me in place. He stared at me unblinking, unmoved.
“I hate you,” I repeated fiercely, and yet even I could hear the lack of conviction. “You left me, remember? So leave me alone. Haven’t you done enough? You’ve ruined my life.”
A sob tore from my chest.
Yes, I know, according to the Malleus Maleficarum, witches can’t cry because the tears of the humble can penetrate heaven and conquer the unconquerable, so tears are an offense to Satan, blah, blah, blah. Of course we fucking cry.
Another sob—painful, ugly—ripped out of me at the lack of comprehension on his face.
“Cos.”
I didn’t hear the rest of it. Maybe there was no rest of it. To my eternal humiliation, I was weeping openly. I tried to pull away, but his hands tightened, and instead of releasing me, he drew me to him. His shoulder was painfully familiar because once I had found comfort there, comfort in his arms. I could smell the earthy, woodsy scent of his aftershave, feel the warmth of his skin beneath the cotton of his shirt, hear his heart beating against my own.
“All I did was fall in love with you,” I gulped into his neck. “How is this fair? Even when I found out you were descended from witch hunters, I still loved you. And what do I get? You destroyed me…”
What a world, what a world. Who would have thought that you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?
I mean, I don’t pretend it was anything but childish and undignified.
“Okay, stop.” John’s deep voice resonated in his chest, and that made me cry harder because it reminded me of when we’d talk late at night and… Oh, it doesn’t matter. Because it was all over, and I was just making it worse by carrying on.
After another moment or two, John said more gently, “Jesus. Come on, Cos,” and ran his hand over my head. “Shhh.”
I don’t think he meant to. I think old habits die hard. The strands of my hair crackled against his fingers—static electricity, not witchcraft—and his hand lingered just a bit, grew caressing, and then stilled.
“Shhh,” he said again, and I quieted.
We sat like that for a little while. I knew he would pull away soon, but I couldn’t make myself pull back first. Also, it’s amazing how exhausting it is to cry like that.
Finally, John said, “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“No. But you’re very good at it.” I pulled back, and that time he let me go. I could still feel the indent of his fingers on my wrists. I wiped my face, not looking at him.
“I can’t trust you. I can’t trust anything I feel for you. Never again.”
I did look at him then, and I could see… I wasn’t sure what that expression meant. I think there was regret, but there was resolve too.
I wiped fiercely at my still wet cheeks. “Same here. But let me reassure you about one thing. I’m not making you want me. I can’t make you do anything. Magic doesn’t work on you.”
His eyes narrowed. “That’s a lie. You told me Andi—”
“Yes, she did. And the spell did work. For a time. I’m now sure it would have faded quickly even if I hadn’t made her remove it.”
His lip curled.
“You remember the day of our wedding rehearsal, don’t you?”
“Of course I remember,” he said impatiently.
“You remember when that piano fell out of the townhouse next to ours and nearly killed me?”
His brows drew together. “Yes. You know I do.”
“That’s my point. You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t remember anything about it. That spell I tried to use on you was a forgetting spell. It should have wiped the memory from your consciousness. It worked for a few seconds, but then you started to remember.”
John stared at me. Although we had briefly covered this ground the night of the party, I don’t think he had fully absorbed the implications—and I hadn’t been about to point them out to him when he was mad enough to kill me.
“That should be impossible, yet somehow you were able to throw off some of the effects of the spell. Then later that night, when I tried again. In fact, I tried twice that time.”
His mouth curved in self-mockery. “When I thought you were trying to hypnotize me.”
“Right. I tried again to use a forgetting spell, and it didn’t work. You were immune to it. The more I tried, the stronger your resistance grew.”
I could see that this time, the significance of my confession was not escaping him. And I knew by drawing this connection for him, I was giving him an advantage he didn’t need. The advantage was already his.
“Honestly, the fact that your first impulse was to rationalize what had happened should have warned me something strange was going on.”
“Should have warned you something strange was going on?”
“Yes. You should have been freaking out, John. You should have been afraid. I was. I was trying to use magic, and you were coming up with all kinds of reasonable explanations for what was happening. Hypnosis? Seriously?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
“It’s like something in your subconscious allowed you to process what happened and put it in an acceptable context.”
He frowned, remembering, considering.
“There’s more,” I said. “To me, this is the clincher. When Ciara interrupted the wedding ceremony at our house—” I stumbled a little at the bleakness in his eyes.
“Yes?” His tone was curt.
“Ciara used a holding spell, a spell that kept everyone present—except you—motionless.”
At his apparent lack of comprehension, I said, “There were other witches present besides me, but the only person able to act, able to stop Ciara, was you.”
I could see this thought had never occurred to him. “I don’t believe you ever even realized magic was used. I think you acted out of age-old instinct.”
“How would that be possible?”
“I don’t know. Something in your bloodline, I suppose. Some kind of built-in immunity.”
He was silent. When he finally spoke, he surprised me by changing the subject. “What about Jinx? Is she a witch?”
I temporized. “What if she is? Is it going to change the way you feel about her?”
“Of course not. She’s my kid sister.”
He seemed sincere. In fact, he seemed almost affronted at the very idea.
“I don’t think she is. But I can’t be sure. I’m out of practice.”
“What does that mean? You’re out of practice.”
“Just that. I don’t—try not to—use Craft. Like any skill, like any muscle, it weakens if you don’t exercise it.”
“It’s only been a few weeks.”
“No. I stopped using Craft almost two years ago.” He started to speak, and I corrected, “At least, I made the decisio
n. I’m not saying I always stuck to it.”
“Clearly not. You used it to get to Jinx’s apartment the other night. You used it—”
I said irritably, wiping my wrist against my wet eyes, “I know. That’s what I’m trying to say. As a matter of fact, I’ve used it more since I met you than in the last two years.”
He ignored that. “Why did you renounce your magic?”
“It didn’t have anything to do with you, and I didn’t renounce it. Not formally. I just wanted to live an ordinary life. A normal life. Mortal life seems so simple, so uncomplicated. I wanted that for myself.”
He seemed struck by this, frowning at me in a grim sort of silence as he worked through whatever it was crowding the airwaves.
“What about now?” he asked finally.
“What about now?”
“Are you going to continue with your…Craft, or are you going to try to live a normal life?”
“Does it matter?”
He hesitated, then gave a quick, brief shake of his head. “No. I guess not.”
It wasn’t that I’d hoped… Well, yes, I probably had hoped even without admitting it to myself. But anyway, so much for that.
I said, “Is there anything else? Is the third degree over? Because I’ve had a horrendous day so far, and I could use some sleep.”
John nodded curtly, and rose. He stood over me for a moment.
I gazed into his eyes. Neither of us spoke.
John sat down again.
I don’t know who reached out first.
Chapter Sixteen
Our clothes whisked away as if by magic.
It wasn’t magic, though, it was desperate desire that had us tearing off jeans and shaking off shirts before landing back in each other’s arms. My nerves were humming a sexual incantation as John’s hands moved over me with easy familiarity, caressing and stroking, and I climbed onto my knees, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. My cock jutted up, moisture pearling at the tip, and his wand tapped mine.
“Feels like a fucking lifetime,” he groaned.
I nodded. It did. It felt like forever. I kept my jaw locked on all the foolish, emotional things I wanted to say—the wonder of being in his arms again, of feeling his mouth pressed to mine, of being permitted to touch and taste what I had believed forever lost. Was perhaps still forever lost. For John, this was just sex. For me…better to think about it later.