The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil

by Heidi Cullinan

  She was shimmering very hard now—and fading, Jonathan realized. He was losing her. He reached up and took her shoulders, but it was only her body he touched.

  “It doesn’t matter.” He gripped her body tightly, almost shaking her, but her spirit only slipped farther away. “Hold on, Madeline. Don’t go.”

  She laughed, and it was a horrible, hollow sound. “That’s what I wished for. I wished for you never to go. Oh, Goddess, I am such a fool. I am so sorry, so sorry—”

  She was fading quickly. He was losing her. Desperate, Jonathan flipped her body over. To his relief her spirit came along, but the body wasn’t connected with it anymore. I have to finish this.

  Of course, he was no longer hard after so much talking. The cold fear that perhaps it had only been her magic finished off what a pause hadn’t managed. Fumbling, he shut his eyes, took himself in hand, and tried to find calm. You can do this. She took the demon out. You can do this. For Madeline. Do this for Madeline.

  Opening his eyes again, he stared down at her: at her body and at her spirit form, so close together, yet she might as well still be in the Void for how separate they were. And yet they were both her. Madeline, strong and magical and beautiful in spirit. Madeline, with soft skin and sensual curves and long, long limbs. And hair—such beautiful, soft, sensual hair. He maneuvered himself to rest on one elbow and stroke her silky locks as he continued to stroke his cock, his cock which, thank the Goddess, was starting to rise. He nuzzled her breast. His cock rose farther. He kissed her neck, and he felt himself swell so much he almost ached.

  He leaned forward, shut his eyes, and drew in a long, deep draught of her glorious hair, the smell of smoke and spice and wood soap bringing him home.

  He rose up before her, positioned himself between her legs, and thrust inside.

  Her spirit shuddered, and he fumbled. Not ready, he realized, feeling like an oaf. He started to reach between them, then realized it would be very difficult to arouse a body without a spirit inside. He shut down that line of thought entirely and simply pulled out carefully, then slid down her body, placing his mouth over her sex, kissing her there, making her wet with his tongue, easing her open, coaxing the stiff, cold muscles back to life.

  It was both the strangest and most beautiful sex he’d ever had—completely surreal, the physical part of it almost distasteful, but when he felt the muscles give, felt her limbs twitch, he felt so powerful, as if his touch could bring her back from the dead. Her body was responding on its own now, independent of the rapidly disintegrating spirit. He eased his fingers into her, testing her, dimly regretting that this first time was so fraught with desperation. He forced himself to slow, to savor her, tasting her as a lover this time even though everything in him said to hurry. This was important. He slowed even further, easing his fingers in, curling them, suckling her.

  She startled, then jumped, then clumsily pushed her fingers into his hair.

  He forgot the desperation, forgot the urgency, and simply lavished her, making her build, doing to her all the things he’d dreamed of as a boy, as a young man, as a miserable wounded soldier in wretched wet tents in a war. He was here now, he realized, and almost laughed at the joy of it, then continued to explore her—tongue, fingers, thumbs. He didn’t stop, didn’t even slow until she was panting, tearing at his hair, her body making soft, desperate sounds of pleasure. Her spirit was connected with it once more.

  But not yet completely.

  Jonathan rose from her thighs in a thick, red haze, climbing slowly back to her mouth, kissing her belly, her breasts, the center of her heart, her neck along the way. It wasn’t until he tried to look into her still, closed eyes that he remembered what he was truly doing.

  “Hold on to me, Madeline,” he said, nudging his penis partway inside her, moving gently, carefully, focusing on those unseeing eyes. “Hold on—I have you. I won’t let go. I swear to you, I won’t let go.” He kissed her mouth, hard and deep and long. “I won’t ever go again,” he whispered.

  Then he thrust home.

  It was sex, then, and little more—thrusting, panting, sweating sex—but it had been so very, very long, and it had never been with her. It was odd in that he was still, in a way, alone—except as his climax built inside him, he was more and more aware of her spirit within him, an extra tightening against his foreskin. It was as if he hadn’t come in ten years at all and it was backlogged inside him, ready to explode into her. It was the most incredibly erotic sensation he had ever known, and the more it stretched out, the higher it built and the more he thought he might literally explode with pleasure.

  Then he did. He shouted as he’d never shouted during sex, a long, rumbling groan, accompanied by a wild panic that half his organs were emptying into her along with his semen. He collapsed and fell against her, gasping, shuddering—dying, it seemed.

  But just when the last bit of him seemed to flood into her, he felt the shift. She gasped, drawing in a long, sharp breath that made her body shudder. He lifted his head and looked at her, weak and dizzy. Her eyes were still open, but she was in them now. She turned her face and looked at him—Madeline, all of her present, looked at him in wonder, in euphoria, and in love.

  She laughed. Then she moved.

  She tossed him onto his back, climbing over him, keeping him inside of her as she sought his mouth, claiming it with her own hot, hungry one. He was so spent he could hardly move, but he gave her everything she asked for and everything else he could manage to give her back as she rode his empty but still-hard erection. It hurt, but he didn’t care. It was the pain of use, not the pain of his wound. It was the pain of too much sensation, and that made it pleasure. He gave it all to her.

  She broke from his mouth and rode him like a warrior queen, putting her hands on his hips and thrusting hard while Jonathan sent up exhausted prayers that his cock would stay rigid long enough for her to find what she was seeking. He slid his hand between her legs to help her along, but mostly he watched her, lying almost passive, feeling not a single ounce of pain, lost in the wild, delicious tide of pleasure.

  She was blue again, but it was a lush, living blue, a glow that began at her heart center and spread outward. As she climbed toward her release, it began to pulse, and when she came, it shot sparks all around them, a rain of blue fire that sizzled and popped against his skin. She shuddered, then fell against him, slick with sweat, their now spent sexes slicker still, joined with one another.

  Dizzily she lifted her head and looked at him. He felt as if he were falling away, but just to the gentle dark of sleep. He touched her face clumsily, and she smiled.

  “Sleep,” she said with her true voice, her soft, beautiful voice.

  “Stay,” he whispered, clutching at her as he felt himself fading. “Please. Stay.”

  She said nothing, only kissed him again, and that was the last thing Jonathan knew as he drifted gently back into the dark.

  * * *

  On the moor, Emily and the red-haired man were still running.

  Emily had no idea where they were, where they had been, or where they were headed. All she could see were the four ghosts, the tallest ahead, the smallest behind, and the other two on either side. The red-haired man ran beside her, her hand held fast in his. They went up and down the hills, around, and back again. And as they ran they heard the monsters of the moor, their claws clicking and scraping, their howls and growls and snarls bouncing off the fog, sounding sometimes dangerously close.

  Neither of them said a word. They only held fast to one another and kept running. But Emily was beginning to tire. She didn’t know how much longer she could do this. The only thing keeping her running now was the terror that lay in the thought of what would happen to her if she stopped.

  “There’s something up ahead,” he said, gasping the words through his efforts to draw breath. He pointed into the fog. “There. That dark shape. Is it a building?”

  Emily squinted, not seeing it. But when she realized what it was he had found,
she cried out in relief. “It’s the tree! They’ve taken us in a complete circle!” She glanced at the ghost beside her; it was, in fact, motioning eagerly. Emily tugged on the red-haired man’s hand. “Hurry.”

  It was as if, once spotted, the tree parted the fog for them; Emily saw more and more of it every second, and by the time they came to the foot of it, she could see the entire thing, trunk to tip, a dark, leafy beast hulking on the top of the ridge, so dense it defied even the lake’s worst fog. The lead ghost backed away and joined the others at the side, and once Emily and her companion cleared the edge of the fog ring, the ghosts remained at the perimeter, watching.

  “Can we find our way back to the house from here?” he asked, trying to peer past it to the forest. “Use the tree line?”

  “No.” Emily let go of his hand and stumbled forward to the tree, placing her hand on the rough bark, staring up into the branches. “We wait here. We will be safer here than anywhere else we could be.”

  “Madam, those sounds—”

  “They cannot come here. They are magical beasts. They come when the lake fog is high. They will kill us if they find us, and while we cannot see in the fog, they see very, very well. But they cannot come here.” She waved tentatively at the ghosts, who waved. Then she turned back to the stranger.

  He was still watching the fog with heavy apprehension. “But what is to keep them from coming here? Why did they not attack us as we ran? What were those shades?” He blanched. “They’ve gone. The shades have gone.”

  Emily was not surprised to hear the ghosts had vanished. She had been afraid on the moor, but now that she was at the tree, she found herself feeling much calmer and oddly centered. The alchemist was hunting her but could not reach her because she was surrounded by the beasts. Yet she had been rescued by the abbey ghosts. And she had been given a companion.

  He turned back to her, eyes wide, face pale. Emily paused, then lifted an eyebrow and one corner of her mouth as she gathered her skirts for a curtsy.

  “Emily Elliott, sir,” she said, her smile staying in place. “Thank you for my rescue.”

  His eyes darted from her to the fog and then back again. He nodded stiffly, not smiling. “Thank you for mine.” He bowed, a proper, elegant bow, doffing his hat and all. “Stephen Perry. Your servant.”

  Emily’s smile fell, and she stepped closer to the tree. “Another Perry?”

  He perked up, following her. “You have seen my brother? You have seen Jonathan?”

  “Charles. I have seen Charles.” She flattened herself against the tree, watching him warily. “You said you needed to speak to my sister.”

  He nodded. “I wanted to ask the witch about my brother—about Jonathan. I don’t give a damn about Charles.” Then he blushed. “I don’t mean—I’m not like my grandfather. I’m not cruel. But it’s Jonathan I’m concerned about now.”

  “He is at the abbey, I think,” Emily said. She looked off to the east. “I wonder if that is not where Madeline is also.”

  A loud scream pierced the night, and the chitters rushed up around it. Both Emily and Mr. Perry glanced nervously at the moor.

  “You’re certain they can’t come here?” he asked.

  Emily nodded, but she kept her gaze on the fog. “This is the Goddess tree. They cannot come to it.”

  Mr. Perry balked. “Devil take it—don’t tell me you’re expecting religion to save us!”

  He looked ready to run again, which annoyed Emily. She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Not religion, Mr. Perry. The Goddess.”

  “Splitting hairs, isn’t it?” he shot back, waving at the tree with disdain. “What is it you expect will happen? That she will descend from the boughs and smite the beasts with a golden staff?”

  “I said this was the Goddess tree.” He stared at her as if this meant nothing. “You don’t know the story of the Goddess tree?” she asked.

  “Why should I?” he said.

  Emily shook her head in disbelief. “And you call yourself a Perry.”

  She’d meant it as a jest, but he looked as if she’d slapped him. “I am a Perry,” he said coldly.

  Emily sighed, then held out her arms, gesturing to the empty space around them. “Do you see any beasts approaching? Do you hear them coming near?”

  He was pacing the edge of the fog, looking agitated. “No,” he admitted, but he kept pacing. “I don’t understand any of this. I don’t understand those shades or how a tree could save anyone.” He tossed her a cutting glance. “And I do not believe in the Goddess.”

  “If you don’t, then none of my explanations of the shades or the tree will make any sense.” Emily crossed her arms over her chest and glared back. “Perhaps you should walk out into the fog and explain to the moor beasts that they don’t exist either.”

  She expected another outburst, and for a moment it looked as if he might give her one. But after a few seconds of fuming, he simply pulled off his hat again and ran his hand agitatedly through his hair.

  Softening toward him, Emily sank down at the base of the tree, nesting between two of the roots. She patted the space beside her. “Come. Sit, and I will tell you stories. You can decide for yourself how much truth is in them. If nothing else, they will pass the time until morning.”

  He stared at her a moment, then threw up his hands. “I only wanted to see my brother,” he said, sounding almost despondent. “How did it come to this?”

  “I wanted the quiet of my bedroom and a mug of tea,” Emily replied and patted the space again. “Come.”

  He came, and he sat, looking sullen like a little boy. It should have annoyed Emily, but for some reason it charmed her. She settled back against the tree, feeling its strength surround her, and she began her tale.

  “Rothborne Moor is a magic place,” she said and gestured to the fog. “You cannot see it now, but we are sitting in the middle of a paradox. Ahead of us is barren, craggy moorland. Behind us is a thick, vast forest, full of trees and vegetation seen nowhere else in Etsey. They are here because of magic. They are here because the Lord and the Lady put them here.”

  Emily tipped her head back and smiled up into the branches. “The Lord made the world and brought the Lady to see what he had made, ending the tour here in the land he made for their children. To mark the sacredness of this place, together they made this tree. It has stood for over three thousand years, and it will stand for three thousand more.” She glanced sideways at her companion. “It’s famous. It drove the Morgan mad, chasing all the lovers off the moor who came to spend a night beneath it. The story is any who do will never be parted, that they will have the love of the Lord and Lady in their hearts.”

  “I’ve never understood that,” he said, clearly unimpressed by either the tale or the romantic legend. “How the Goddess is a man and a woman. Why isn’t she just a woman?”

  Emily just stared at him. “What do you mean, how could she be just a woman? Do you suppose the androghenie would simply beget themselves?”

  He glared back. “Who the devil are the androghenie?”

  He truly didn’t know. It boggled Emily’s mind. “They are children of the Lady and the Lord.” She nodded to the empty space where the ghosts had been. “What you called the shades.”

  He blinked at her, turned to the fog, blinked at it, then sank back more heavily against the tree.

  “I’ll grant you that there truly were shades.” His voice was slightly shaky and more subdued than it had been. “I would have denied them before tonight, but I saw them, and I followed them into fog without questioning my own actions.” He put his hand over his mouth, then shook his head as he drew his palm down to rest on his chin. “But I refuse to believe they are androghenie. I’ve heard that term before, Miss Elliott. In a fairy tale.”

  “In this parish, the fairy tales are more like simple history,” she said.

  “I don’t like religion. The priests and priestesses are jokes. They’re only after a living wage or are on some moral mission of their
own at best, and at worst they prey on the minds and the pocketbooks of the vulnerable.”

  “I am not speaking of religion or of priests and priestesses,” Emily replied. “I am speaking of the Goddess. She isn’t something you can learn in a book. She is something you experience.”

  He groaned. “You’re a mystic.”

  Emily laughed. “I’m nothing of the sort. I’m just a girl from the parish.”

  The beasts were still chittering in the distance, but Emily had all but forgotten them now. He seemed to have as well as he looked down at her dubiously. “Is this something to do with being the witch’s sister?”

  “Perhaps a little,” Emily confessed. “Though mostly it’s simply from growing up here. When the Morgan was alive, we had one of the strongest witches in Etsey in our parish, but we were proud of ourselves before that. People use charms to ward off evil all over Etsey, generally evils of their own thoughts or meddling from alchemists. Here, the evils are more direct. No one walks the moor at night, and precious few do during the day. That is my sister’s chief job, beyond caring for the sick and ministering to the dead: she tends the moor, keeping the magic that lives inside it from leaking out into the world. But you cannot live beside the sea without feeling the spray. And so we all wear charms, because we all experience magic. It becomes easier, I think, to believe in ghosts and Lords and Ladies and beasts that appear when the fog is high, when you live in this parish.”

  “I like logic,” he said a little desperately. “My mother sent me to a school run by a Catalian refugee who had been a professor before the war came to his country, and he taught me logic. I believe in what I can see and feel and taste, and I make sense of the world before me by studying it. I do not hide behind Etsian superstition. I like logic.”

  “Then use it,” Emily suggested a bit sharply. “You saw ghosts, and you believed your eyes. You heard dangerous sounds, and you ran from them. You have calmed beneath the Goddess tree because you are observing how the beasts do not come close to it. Now you are being offered an explanation as to why. I suggest you listen to it, and let your logic lead you from there. Your logic, Mr. Perry. Not what you wish logic would be.”