by Ruby Sirois
“Beginning back when I was a homebrewer, I’ve designed hundreds of original recipes over the years. Some are proprietary, but I’ve also had a number of them published. It’s a lot like cooking. You can flavor mead with any combination of fruit, spices, tea, and so on. You can age it on oak, just like wine, as you’ll see in a bit, and that adds its own special character.”
I barreled on, passionate about my subject.
“You can even add hops and malt like with beer, which is then called a braggot. Mead can be brut-dry or liqueur-sweet, sparkling or still. Really, the possibilities are endless.”
“I didn’t know there was a such thing as dry mead.”
“You get the floral characteristics of the honey, but without the sweetness. The scent is sweeter than the taste. Kind of an odd concept to wrap your head around at first. A lot of people have never really tried a good mead, so they think that it’s all just the sickly sweet, badly-made stuff that usually gets peddled at renaissance fairs or tourist traps as a gimmick. But I believe that the quality of an artisan mead made with local ingredients and the latest scientific knowledge, balanced with care and love, can stand up to any high-end wine made from grapes.”
“How strong is mead?”
“Well,” I said with a smile, “that’s like asking how strong is beer? There are many different styles, and you can make it as light as a very low-alcohol natural soda, or as strong as a port wine. With distilling equipment, even stronger than that—more like a brandy, although we don’t make honey jack here.”
I opened the door to the aging cellar and beckoned to the group.
“Take a look in here if you’re curious to see how we age our mead in French oak barrels, then we’ll go back upstairs for the tasting. I’ve got a traditional made with linden flower honey, a sessionable mango habañero, and the house specialty, an oak-aged triple berry vanilla called Dragon’s Blood.”
* * *
“May I say how much I admire your knowledge and passion?” said the older man from my tour group later that afternoon as I wiped down the bar.
“We learned so much today. I’m glad we came. I’ll be telling my daughter about you, she’s actually looking for a wedding venue.”
I smiled gratefully at him, taking his proffered hand to shake. His group had bought dozens of bottles to take home, and they’d made a huge dent in my bills just from their bar and restaurant tabs alone.
“Thank you so much, that’s really wonderful to hear. And we’d be thrilled to have the chance to give your daughter a lovely wedding reception.”
“But may I give you some advice?” He smiled at me. “Please don’t take this the wrong way. But I’m an artists’ agent, so I think I have some knowledge on the subject. You’re clearly very talented, and a real artist, but sales is not your strength. I think with better staff, you’d be much more successful. And have you ever considered opening a location closer to Stockholm’s city center? Your product would blow those silly Viking-themed mead bars out of the water.”
I sighed. My profit margins were razor-thin, and I’d had to let my best bartenders go when they’d found better-paying jobs elsewhere. I had picked up the slack as much as I could, but the strain was showing both on me and my remaining employees.
“I agree, but unfortunately money is tight. I’m just trying to make ends meet and doing as much as I can myself.”
He nodded. “I understand. The economy is very tough right now. Well, I hope you can make it work somehow. Your products are excellent and with some luck I think you could have a booming success on your hands—even with the economy the way it is.”
“I know you don’t want to hear this, Emelie,” said Linnea Eklund, my business partner and coven-sister, “but we’ve had another offer to buy us out. Heineberg Brewing. It’s the best one we’ve had yet, and I don’t think we’ll get a better offer at this point. I really, really think we should take it.”
She finished a row of rib knit on the sock she was making, laid it in her lap, and took a sip of her latte. My partner looked as worn-out as I felt.
I stiffened. We’d been over this before, and she knew my opinions on the subject. Linnea made a face.
“I’m not selling, especially not to some horrible megacorporation who will just cut corners and take all the love and soul out of my recipes. AllBev has already knocked off our best-sellers. But I’ve worked too hard and So Mote It Bee means too much. It’s a piece of me. I wouldn’t ask you to sell your children—so don’t ask me to sell mine.”
It all came out of me in a breathless rush. It wasn’t hard to get me started on a rant.
Linnea rolled her eyes, needles flying in her hands without her even having to look. “Heineberg has extremely deep pockets, but their patience is not endless. You’ve already turned down two other offers, which I think was a huge mistake, but I let you have the final say anyway.”
“What good is money without a reason to get up in the morning? With nothing to live for? You might as well ask me to cut off my arm.”
Linnea sighed, frustrated.
“Don’t be naïve. The economy is crashing and tourism has dried up overnight. We can’t keep up like this without a miracle. Money isn’t just going to materialize out of nowhere and magically save us.”
I picked at the crumbs from my chocolate croissant.
“Maybe we can try another spell.”
“You know it doesn’t work like that. Besides, the coven’s already done as much as we can in that regard. This problem is bigger than anything we witches can throw at it.”
“What I mean is maybe it’s time to bring out the big guns.”
Linnea gave me a warning look.
“That’s too dangerous and you know it.”
“The wolves are at our door, Linnea. Should I just throw them my children because calling a bigger beast who could save us is too dangerous? I have to at least try.”
“Could being the operative word. Whether it actually would is another matter. Far more powerful witches than you have called a dragon and failed miserably. Sure,” she says, interrupting me before I could protest, “you do have a wonderful gift for cooking and flavor magic, I’ll give you that—but I really don’t think that will be of any help when you’re faced with a dragon. I’d rather you give up your ‘children’ than your life.”
I scoffed. “Easy for you to say. You’d feel different if I asked you to do the same.”
“Because my children are actually two human children. Not a business.”
“To me it’s the same. And I don’t think it’s very nice of you to bring that up.”
“I don’t know what else to say to get through to you, Emelie.”
“I just want to try. I won’t be able to live with myself if I never even tried.”
She shook her head at me.
“I love you, Emelie. Okay? You’re a dreamer, and I would never change that about you. It’s one of your best qualities.”
Linnea took my hand and squeezed it.
“Despite that, I have to emphasize that I think this is a huge mistake. I wish you’d listen to me for once and sell while the selling’s good.”
She swirled her latte, finished it off in one gulp, and sighed.
“But I know you, and I know you won’t listen to me. Still, I had to ‘at least try.’”
Linnea closed her eyes and rubbed her temples.
“Since you won’t listen, I guess all I can do is help lessen the danger. I’ll talk to the coven and we’ll do our best to prepare the tools to keep you safe. Other than that, you’re on your own.”
I grinned in triumph and reached for another croissant.
“Love you too, Lin.”
4: Emelie
Dragonfire glows eerily along the circle’s circumference, at once lighting our bodies and throwing deep shadows across them. A living Caravaggio painting, the chiaroscuro effect is dramatic. Newly-fallen, the night is quiet, its calm sky streaked with violet and twinkling with starshine.
The contrast between the cool earth beneath me and Ragnarr’s hot body on top of me is delicious. I run my hands down his back, skimming the top of his firm ass with my fingertips before moving up again. His cock responds against me as I curl my ankles around his calves.
“Well, lilla häxan?” he says, nuzzling the soft skin of my neck before raising himself up on his elbows, looking down at me.
“Well, what?”
My brain is complete mush. I feel like I’ve been underwater.
“Your first wish. Speak it.”
With an effort, I sit up. He rocks back on his heels, those piercing glacier-blue eyes filled with sly amusement. I’m pretty sure he knows I can’t concentrate with him on top of me. He looks like it’s some sort of victory.
I’m not sure it’s not.
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and trying to concentrate. Focus, Emelie. Replay the past few weeks. What’s most urgent?
Then I have it: location, location, location.
“If I want a better location,” I say slowly, warming to my idea, “closer in to the center of Stockholm, would that be a really big wish? Something that will bring in a lot of new foot traffic, but also keep the regulars coming back. Something beautiful, but also something we can afford. Um…”
I pause to think.
“We need space for customer seating for the bar and restaurant, but also it would be great to keep the production facilities close-by, if not in the same building. Something we can customize to fit our needs. Elegant, but also practical.”
“I’m a dragon, not a real estate agent.”
I can’t tell if he’s being funny. I stare at him for a long moment. The barest hint of irony plays at the corner of Ragnarr’s mouth. My heart starts to sink.
“Oh,” I say lamely. “I guess it is kind of a lot to—”
“But I think I can make something work for you.”
Why does he look so smug? I feel like he’s getting one over on me, but I can’t for the life of me think how.
“Really?”
He only looks at me with an infuriatingly mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Is this your wish?”
“Ja!” The word bursts out of me without a second thought.
“Well then…” the dragon says, his gaze raking over my nude curves.
It’s really not a flattering angle—Peter would have told me my belly looks too big—but he doesn’t seem to share that opinion.
Quite the contrary.
My nipples harden in response, my skin tingles. My cheeks grow hot.
I remember our deal. Pray I haven’t made a horrible mistake.
“How—” my voice cracks. “How will I be… paying?”
I wrap my arms around myself. A crease appears between his pale eyebrows.
“Uncover yourself.”
This isn’t what I was expecting.
“What?”
The dragonfire lighting the circle intensifies, and I squint as my eyes adjust. I feel like I’m on a sports playing field with all the stadium lights turned on before I can see again. It only increases my urge to hide.
“Do not conceal your body from me,” he says. “I want—I need to see every part of you.” A pause. “You are incredibly lovely.”
He takes a breath, but swallows whatever he meant to say next.
I study his face. It gives nothing away. I relax my arms, inhaling deeply before letting them fall to my sides, exposing my nakedness to him again.
“Is… that all?”
I’m not sure if I’m hopeful or disappointed.
Another short bark of laughter. “Not quite, häxan min.”
Witch of mine. The term of endearment sounds cozy. It warms me from the inside out, my heart reacting, contracting oddly.
His glacier-blue eyes grow intense. Ragnarr’s fingers trace the outer curve of one breast, circle my nipple. It hardens under the light caress, the areola crinkling up tight around.
“I want to worship you with my tongue. Taste you. Suckle you. Give us both pleasure.”
He pauses, caressing the hard bud with the pad of his thumb. I gasp, any thoughts of resistance shattering.
“I want to slide my fingers inside you, feel your pussy squeezing around me as you come for me. I want to hear your cries of pleasure as you let go completely.”
I can’t even form words. I’m convinced this is a dream. I try to answer him, but all that escapes me is a little cry of desire. I can’t focus on anything else besides what my body aches for. It’s clear on my face. He sees, and it’s all the encouragement he needs.
The dragon brings me to my feet, pulls me close, plunders my mouth. With every dip of his tongue against mine, my pussy gets wetter, more swollen. My clit is pulsing, hardening. His delicious spicy scent envelops me, the heat of him like a bonfire. I cling to him, absorbing his essence through my pores. I can’t form the words to say it, but I want him inside me.
“Are you a häxjävel or a goddess, little temptress?”
Ragnarr sinks to his knees and his kiss-reddened mouth dips to my right breast, takes the sensitized coral point between his lips. My mind goes blank, my protest over the derogatory term dying in my throat.
His arms wrap around me, encircling me in luxurious warmth. The pull of his mouth shoots pleasure straight down to my pussy and back up again.
I feel desired. Treasured. Beautiful.
I can’t help but imagine how that divine mouth of his will feel between my legs. The thought makes me moan. Another burst of wetness, and my thighs are damp with it. The dragon moves to the other breast, making little noises of pleasure. One arm is wrapped securely around my waist, the other supports my breast as his tongue paints wide swathes of pleasure onto my skin. Dragonfire reflects from his white-blond hair in bright will-o’-the-wisps.
Ragnarr’s mouth is everywhere: the insides of my elbows, the base of my neck, the dip of my waist, the soft skin above my knees. The dragon is at once urgent and languid—eager to taste every part of me, yet savoring every bit. He laves my skin with broad strokes of his tongue, nips me gently with his teeth, sucks and kisses and tastes me. I’m the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten, and he’s at once savoring me and gobbling me up.
His big hands trace my curves, exploring the hills and valleys of me. Every part of me is a new delight to him, and he lingers here and there before finding new places to admire.
I am a goddess to him, and he is my devoted worshiper.
A tiny part of me that I’d never known existed wakes within me, a newly germinated seed seeking the light. His light. I’ve never felt so cherished.
5: Ragnarr
Emelie is laid out before me, a decadent buffet. I feast on her, tasting all the softest, most delectable parts. Her skin is silky, her scent like a spell designed to drive me wild. The soft noises my tongue draws from her are an electric charge straight to my cock. My dragon urges me to take her, to plunge my cock deep into her wetness, to ride her and make her mine. My need for her is nearly insurmountable.
I bury my face between the soft mounds of my witch’s breasts, the skin there soft and slightly damp with her sweat. I lick it from the creases below, wanting to taste every secret bit of her. I am determined to stay in control of myself, to instead bring her past the borders of herself and into the wilderness of ecstasy.
The dip of her navel invites me, her body tensing, relaxing, tensing, relaxing under me as I lap at her. My hands glide over the silky expanses of Emelie’s round hips, down over the expanse of her thighs, back up to the soft mound of her belly. I scent-mark her, claim her, needing to make her mine. Her body responds eagerly to my pheromones, holding the promise of opening completely for me with time.
Her fingers dig into my hair and she pulls me up to her mouth. Emelie wraps her delicious thighs around my waist as I dip my tongue into the sweetness of her. She is the first taste of water to a dying man. The first taste of food to a starving animal. She is a revelation and I drink her in.
/> My cock strains against my trousers, aches to feel the hot wetness of her. Emelie’s hips rock against me. I match her rhythm, and she breathes in little gasps as I rub against the most intimate part of her. She grasps at me with her entire being, drawing me in with limbs and lips and soul.
The scent of her is clean and pure, near innocent, but her passion is brazen and unfettered. She craves my touch as I crave hers. My witch knows what she wants, and I want to give it to her.
My fingers find the soft tangle between her thighs, and when I part the wetness within she shudders with need. Rough hair contrasts with wet silk, smooth soft expanse with hard nub. I explore it all, the tips of my fingers fluttering over her heat.
The slick little pearl of her clit finds its way between my fingertips. I dance around its circumference in small, teasing circles. Testing, experimenting, discovering. I seek out what brings the greatest response, hunting her passion. I find it, back away, give chase once more. Tiny circles, all leading back to the same sensitive spot. I retreat slowly, come back. Again and again. I learn what she craves, and I give it to her as it pleases me—never too much, always teasing.
A broken gasp in my ear. Emelie’s full hips rocking up, demanding to meet my touch. The enthralling wildflower musk of her, a perfume that fills my senses. She is damp and hot, flushed deep pink. Our skin clings together. The entirety of her is a siren song, an enchantment spun to bewitch me, to entangle me. I am helpless against the magic of my lilla häxa. But I don’t want to escape. I want to lose myself with her.
In her.
My fingers dip lower, seeking the depths of her core. The slick, hot wetness of her slit. She’s swollen there, ready for me. Her pussy lips are full and inviting, softer than satin, radiating heat. She nods, pulls me closer, beckons with her hips.
“Please. Please.”
My middle finger parts her folds, and her body begs me not to stop. Entranced by her, I don’t want to stop. I can’t stop.
Her heat enfolds me. I enter slowly, teasing myself as I find my way inside her. My cock is wet with the wanting of her. She is tight, so tight, yet I slide in easily, unhindered, as if coming home.