Roses & Haunts

by Selena Page

  He tasted each anew like a fine wine, loving the marks of their life together, turning imperfections into masterworks.

  “I love you,” she gasped as he found the front latch of her bra, freeing her from the confinement. “I do truly love you with all my heart.”

  “No,” he whispered, mouth grazing over her left nipple, his hot breath teasing its tip to hyper-awareness. “You love me with all my heart. Because that’s what’s here,” his hand rested gently over her chest. “I gave you my heart, and you gave me yours. It’s right here,” He tapped his chest. “And I love you with all your heart, Alynia Caprice Tintreach.”

  Was there any other combination of words that were sexier, more devastatingly awe-inspiring, than that? If there were, she’d yet to come across them. She nearly came on the spot, her eyes squeezing shut as her hips bucked against his. Begging, pleading through her jeans for him to do anything with those hands, with his mouth, rather than speak. He obliged, lips closing over her erect nipple, the slight pain of teeth like a symphony dancing up her nervous system. It was her turn to buck, to writhe beneath him, to beg through the bond for some kind of release. To beg him to never stop.

  If there was ever a moment she wanted to hang suspended in time, it was this one. On the worn motel rug in a nowheresville town, just she and the man she loved, chasing a ghost on her honeymoon. Seriously, did life get any fucking better?

  The answer came in swift motions, his hands making quick work of her jeans and panties, and flipping her over on her stomach. Those strong hands slid up her body, raising goosebumps as they went. Tracing further up her arm, sliding them over her head and under the foot of the bed. Her fingers found the metal legs of the bed frame, and his closed hers around them.

  “Don’t you dare let go,” he growled into her ear.

  He pushed her to her knees, wedging them apart just enough to…

  “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

  She wasn’t given to poetry like her husband, the gift of the word lost on her almost before she was born. Over the bond, she felt what the repetition of that one word did to him. It was music to his ears, music that lit up his soul. His tongue entered her delicate folds, the salty sweet taste of her bringing a moan from his own lips. Searching for that one spot he’d found the last time they were together, the one that… ah, there it was.

  There was literally nothing in the universe for a long, long while. Nothing but blinding white light and pleasure so intense she thought she’d died. Did she cry out? Make a sound? Did she have a mouth anymore to do any of the above? Did it matter at all?

  I promised you would pay.

  You bastard, Iowin. You unbelievable magnificent wonderful bastard.

  Really, unbelievable? Can you believe… this?

  Two fingers slipped inside her without preamble, without warning. Rough, strong, and she was so wet for him that he glided into place and found her center in a moment. Her head snapped back, spine arching, mouth wide with a soundless scream as the orgasm rocked her.

  God, he always knew how to do that. Knew how to work her, bring her, love her. Never afraid of hurting her, never ending in his quest to show her just how many ways there were left to pleasure her body.

  The fingers vanished, and his tongue returned. Alynia shuddered as she came again, his tongue mercilessly working her clit as she had his cock. No quarter was given, no amount of pleading on her part would make him slow or increase his pace. He’d ride her pleasure like it was his own, like she had done with his, storing it up within their bond and pouring the concentrated essence back inside them until she was screaming. Literally screaming, the bed rocking as her hips rocked, as his body moved with hers, as his tongue kept contact with her core and lashed her over and over again.

  She had a moment to thank god that they were the only ones in the motel, that their room was far, far away from sweet old Ms. Irving. She came so hard, so violently, that she shoved the bed frame, slamming the headboard into the wall. The picture above it cracked and fell behind the frame, splintering glass shards. She didn’t care, not when she was flying apart at the seams and falling into darkness.

  Chapter 3

  The rental car wasn’t fast, wasn't silver, wasn’t leather, and definitely wasn’t a rental. The outlying area of Sleepy Hollow wasn’t big enough for a rental car company. Hell, it wasn’t big enough for a real grocery store. So they’d settled on borrowing Mrs. Irving’s 1985 Plymouth Voyager. Much like the motel, and Alynia was beginning to believe much like Mrs. Irving, herself, it was old and well loved, reliable if you treated it right. And, in exchange for a promise to change the oil and a few hoses, they didn’t have to worry about replacing the picture in their room.

  “These things happen,” Mrs. Irving had said with a knowing smile.

  Alynia wasn’t certain whether to be embarrassed or proud that the blue-haired caretaker had an inkling as to just why a picture would fall off the wall just above the bed of a newly married young couple. Then again, the many pictures of grandkids and great-grandkids on the check-in counter, combined with the french-fry and candy stains on the Voyager’s floor, could only have come from the aforementioned grandkids and great-grandkids. That pretty much let her know the sweet lady knew her way around a bedroom, too. Again, she didn’t know whether to shudder or find a way to ask the woman for tips.

  Thankfully, that last thought caused Iowin to blush and all but drag his wife out of the room. The fact that Mrs. Irving giggled—giggled!—a bit ensured the doorframe in their bathroom would most likely be repaired before they returned, too.

  “Do you think the Foundation has anything to do with this?” she asked, slipping the travel coffee they’d picked up at the only gas station in town. “The more I think about that time freeze back there, the more I have to assume this was a trap.”

  Iowin finished chewing a mouthful of nuked breakfast burrito before answering. “Highly unlikely. They would have had to know we were heading in this direction to begin with. We didn’t know we were heading in this direction until yesterday.”

  “And the kind of power that goes into this sort of time freezing spell would take a while to prepare,” she nodded in agreement. “It’s not an off-the-cuff ritual.”

  “You have been studying,” he smirked around another mouthful. “I’m so proud of you.”

  Her response to that was a one-fingered salute, to which he simply grinned anew. “Anyway, it was a passing thought.”

  “Not all bad magic is aimed at us, love. There are plenty of people in this world without the craft that anger those with it.”

  “But enough to bring the Headless Horseman back to life?”

  “You’re assuming he’s really a ghost and not a projection. Besides, all our research points to the fact that the Hessian was a fictional character.”

  She lifted the vial from her jacket pocket, shaking it slightly until the blue-white smoky residue within twirled around and around. “Uh, I doubt a projection threw that kind of power at my head, thank you very much. The Horseman in the story may have been fictional, but he was based on actual German Hessian soldiers sent to fight in America. It’s not a long stretch to believe at least one Hessian warrior actually died the same way the dude in the story did.”

  The grin turned into a deep scowl. “I’m not ready to take this on face value just yet. Let’s unmask the bad guy first before we start turning fiction into reality.”

  “Jinkies, Shaggy, wouldn’t that require Old Man Smithers to, you know, have a head to unmask?”

  That slanted look returned her way. “I don’t know, Velma, is it easier to believe the ghost of a fictional three-hundred-year-old Hessian is roaming about upstate New York, or that someone wants us to believe the ghost of a fictional three-hundred-year-old Hessian is roaming upstate New York?”

  “Point,” she conceded. “I’ll reserve judgment until we know what we’re facing. But when we eventually are hip-deep in ghosts, I do reserve the right to call told-you-so’s.”

 
“I love how mature our relationship is.”

  “So do I,” she beamed a great big grin at him, causing him to grin in return.

  The bus stop, or Mom Stop No. 27, was thankfully vacant when they pulled the old minivan to a slow and gentle halt next to it. No trace of the mystery mom and her kids, and the only spooky thing worth noting was the fresh dew evaporating in the crisp morning air. In the distance, a deer peeked between the trees, watching with dark, penetrating eyes. Birds sang in the trees. It was every happy little forest painting come to life. The important part being that everything was alive and moving like it should. Nothing was frozen in time.

  Her fingers clasped her amulet once more, time blurring backwards within her mind’s eye.

  “Anything?” Iowin asked, his voice sounding far away.

  “That depends. If a wild squirrel is our culprit, then his paw prints are all over this thing,” she sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose as the vision faded. “Nothing outside of nature has touched this place since we stopped here yesterday. From what I can tell, the mom and her kids got on their bus and left the area like they should have. Has the ghost goo reacted to the location?”

  Iowin fished the vial of vapors from his pocket and gave it a good shake. “Nothing.”

  “Then this isn’t ground zero for whatever spell caused the world to stop.”

  He didn’t like that news any more than she did, she could tell from the look on his face. They stared at one another for a long moment before turning in unison to gaze a short distance up the road. To the place where the sudden need to off-road had been so paramount.

  “Stay behind me,” Iowin ordered, hoisting the bag of magical gear onto his shoulder.

  The feminist in her raised its ugly head and snorted. “Why? Think I can’t handle myself?”

  “Oh, I know you can, beloved. This is for two reasons: the first being I want someone capable at my back if I’m tracking a suspect up ahead, and secondly, whatever this is didn’t try to take me out yesterday. It aimed for you.”

  “You think it was a deliberate attack on me?”

  His lips set in a grim line. “The spell heading towards you is the only thing I’ve been thinking about since we decided to come back here.”

  Alynia kept her gun loosely gripped in one hand, the amulet wrapped around her left fist, and followed him. “Why would it come after me?”

  “If this is truly a ghost, it’s attracted to sources of power. Before you argue, I understand my magic is more powerful than yours, bond or not. But what you outshine me on every time is—”

  “The Caprice curse,” she snarled. “Yeah, I get it. I’m a fount of dark-stained magic.”

  “You’re not. The curse surrounding your bloodline is. It follows you, and shines like a beacon to anything connected to darkness.”

  “Like ghosts,” she finished for him, the words more a statement than a question. “Jesus, I never catch a break.”

  “Forever,” he said simply, like she already needed a reminder of their vows. “What comes at you comes at me. Forever and ever.”

  The sad fact of the matter was he was right, at least when it came to her family’s curse. The thought of any action she took negatively impacting him was ridiculous. She’d eat her own gun before she’d allow anything to hurt Iowin. And yet, because he loved her, he’d ride right into the mouth of Hell and grin that lunatic grin of his the entire time if it meant they’d be together. It was easy enough to promise when the chips weren’t down, and she had a sneaking suspicion he was about to learn just how much he’d anteed into Fate’s pot by linking himself to a Caprice witch.

  She hoped he was strong enough to handle it.

  The broken path eventually smoothed into hard-packed dirt, the covered bridge looming in the distance. Alynia took a deep breath, casting her senses around and backward, watching the fight happen anew. She saw it in slow motion, and stood beside herself as the apparition coalesced into being. Because that’s what it did—manifested right in front of that bridge—in a swirling of shadows and air far too cold to belong there. At the time of the attack, she’d been a tad occupied by the blue-white death trap he’d fired off at her to notice the little details. She saw it clearly now, and it wasn’t an illusion or by any definition a real ghost.

  Unless ghosts suddenly had the ability to rip portals through time and space, an ability the most powerful (and insane) of her kind wouldn’t attempt on their best day.

  She paused the memory with a thought, moving through the landscape to examine the entire scene. Behind the not-a-ghost, the portal wavered like the flickering of a candle flame. Enough detail made it through the wavering to make out a little village on the other end of the covered bridge. Quaint and very retro (late 1700s retro if the legends were true), there was a part of her that expected a reed-thin guy to come walking up the bridge in Revolutionary era duds while whistling a jaunty tune.

  “It’s a ghost,” She murmured, hoping Iowin could hear her. “But it’s not like anything we’ve ever encountered. It’s… from another time and place, Iowin. It’s here because it wants to be here, not because it’s trapped here.”

  “So it’s not a ghost. Ghosts can’t do that,” Iowin replied, his form more ghostly to her than the moments displayed before her eyes. “It’s more than a specter and less than alive. I’m sorry. That’s the best I can give you until we know more.”

  Alynia closed her eyes, reluctantly untangling her soul from the currents of magic that wove her spell. When she opened them again, Iowin stood before her, a hand resting gently at her waist.

  “So it’s not a ghost and it’s not an illusion,” she whispered. “And it’s not a witch. What is it?”

  “Time to find out.”

  As far as ritual casting went, this was one of the creepiest.

  It hadn’t taken long to hike across the bridge and into the direction of the village she’d glimpsed through the portal. Nature had reclaimed most of the area, and no foundations or ruins remained of the tiny village of Not-Sleepy-Hollow. Because she refused to call it that, flat out refused.

  There was a resonance to that stretch of woods as they pushed their way between trees and around thickets of wild lavender roses of all things. Weren’t roses out of season now? And why were they blooming in the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere? She made a mental note to ask her cousin Miriam about that later. God—and possibly Miriam—only knew what grew in the wilds of the world.

  She’d stick to her concrete jungles, thank you very much.

  None of these random distracting thoughts were going to make her problems go away. They certainly didn’t help with the way her gun swung this way and that, ears pricking at each crackle of leaf underfoot and each sway of branch. And… and wasn’t she supposed to hear animals chittering—they chittered, right? Why weren’t they chittering or chirping?

  Admitting it or not, she was literally walking into the old tracts of land that once held the village the first incarnation of Tarrytown, and the source of the Headless Horseman legend. The closer they came, the more the magic tingled at the back of her neck. Something had happened here, something hinting towards the bad. Old, too old for her to put her metaphysical finger on it. Something that had caused this part of the town to be lost and forgotten.

  Dammit, why weren’t there any birds in the area to sing at them?

  Alynia dragged her mind back to the task at hand, watching Iowin clear away the last of the overgrowth that had reclaimed the early incarnation of Tarrytown, revealing a flat square of land resembling the outline of a building. They’d chosen this place specifically for the tingles, the way the remnant magic congregated right in its center. The moment the last stick was tossed aside, the very air around her thickened, a pressure like a massive storm was about to burst at any moment. Iowin must have felt it, too, his hand reaching for the crossbow on reflex.

  “It’s high noon,” she said aloud, more to herself than to remind him. “Why does it feel like it’s midni
ght in a graveyard?”

  “Good question.”

  “I’d prefer a better answer.”

  “Wouldn’t we all?” he glanced at the bag over his shoulder. “Help me set up a protection circle. It may not do much, but I’ll take little over nothing at this point.”

  Chalk and candles were pulled from the cavernous depths of the bag, wood seasoned in sage and other incense made for the most comforting campfire. The flickering of yellow flames against the four pure beeswax candles placed at the cardinal directions soothed the edges of her raw nerves. The moment he finished drawing the circle, sealing it with a kiss of his power, the pressure vanished. It was just the two of them again, standing like hipster, wannabe-Wiccan tourists in a circle of chalk and flame if anyone happened to pass by. God bless the Internet, she thought with a wry smile. The indifference of the world population as a whole was the greatest cover their kind could ever enjoy.

  Iowin popped the cork on the ghost goo, holding it out between them. “You ready for this?”

  “Not really,” she said honestly, staring at the circle. “Do we have a choice?”

  He shrugged. “We could always get back in the car and head out. It’s not like we’re stuck here.”

  Alynia shook her head, sighing heavily. “When have we ever left anything as ‘someone else’s problem’?”

  “Just saying it’s an option.”

  She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “No, it’s never an option for me. I’ll take my vows to protect and serve all the way to my grave.”

  “Once a cop, always a cop,” he smiled gently, holding out a hand.