by J. R. Rain
I’m not picking up that bad a feeling from the guy, so I shake my head. “Doubtful. He’s probably just seething to himself about the Devil having an agent with the police.”
She almost chokes on a piece of General Tso’s from laughing. After draining half her water glass, she wipes her eyes on the napkin and spends a moment just breathing. “Ouch. Don’t do that when I’m eating.”
I try to give her the innocent face, but a heavy wall of red curls flops in the way.
Isabelle giggles. “I can’t wait to go camping with you guys. You sure you two are up for it?”
“We should be…” I puff at my hair. “As long as people have the decency not to be murdered that weekend.”
Chapter Five
The Coven
I spent the rest of Saturday puttering around the house, doing a bit of cleaning, refreshing some wards, and cooking up the beef soup. Caius arrived a little after six in a foul mood from traffic, though within a few minutes of being home, the various protection spells we’ve placed around the house balanced his energy and he returned to his usual self.
Sunday, I wake feeling groggy, a little sore, and wearing nothing but a satin sleeping mask and handcuffs. Drat. Maybe I made the damiana tea a little strong after dinner last night. Being a cop, it was nigh inevitable that the cuffs would wind up involved in the bedroom at some point, though I don’t use my official ones. They’ve touched suspects. We take roughly equal turns with them, though Caius doesn’t care to be fixed to the bed like I’m presently stuck. A little tug confirms my memory that he’s attached me to the headboard. Faint weight on my chest feels like keys between my boobs where I can’t reach them.
The bastard.
I laugh. Either he’s messing with me, or something must’ve happened right when he was about to unlock them. From the faint murmur of his voice in the distance, I’m guessing the phone rang. Still foggy in the head, I pick at fragments of memory, reliving our lovemaking from hours ago. Either the tea had hit him hard or his trip was more stressful than he let on. After going twice in a row, he cuddled, teasing the idea of leaving me cuffed all night―and fell asleep. Guess I did too.
“Good morning,” I yell.
The soft thuds of him walking down the corridor grow louder, followed by a squeak from our bedroom door.
“Cripes, Maddy. Sorry ’bout that; it’s bloody Nigel on the phone.”
He’s the agent for Sombre Nocturnum, the biggest act Caius manages, and well… My boyfriend rather often uses a word for him that starts with C. It’s not such a big deal in England—it basically means contemptible fool—but over here, it gets people all lathered up.
The bed shifts and the jingle of keys accompanies a tickle at my chest.
Caius’ warmth spreads over me as he leans down close. After a few minutes of sensual kissing, he tickles my sides and armpits, making me squeal.
“Aah! Stop that!” I squirm, half-giggling, half-wailing. “You know I’m ticklish!”
He kisses my right breast. “Precisely why I’m tickling you while you cannot resist.”
“Knock it off before I mess the bed. I just woke up!”
“That could be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.” He laughs and unlocks the cuffs.
I sit up, tug off the sleeping mask/blindfold, and stick my tongue out at him. He hasn’t bothered to get dressed yet either, so I spend a moment enjoying the view. Caius’ long, black hair falls over his shoulders, hanging down his thin, sinewy body to within a few inches of his waist. His face is on the long side, too, angular with heavy black eyebrows.
Soon after we met, I teased him that he looked like Count Dracula’s rock star younger brother. He could totally pull off the prowling a castle in a blood-red bathrobe thing. Of course, unlike me, he can get a suntan. Even a two-day trip to LA has browned him nicely.
“Be a moment. Still have the annoying twat on hold.” He sighs and pushes himself up off the bed to stand.
“Whatever he is, he’s your fattest paycheck.” I roll to my feet and head to the bathroom.
Caius chuckles. “Fattest something all right.”
Three hours of marathon sex demand a shower first thing in the morning. Technically, it demands a shower immediately, but he left me fixed to the bed. Can’t blame him all the way though; I passed out too. Half an hour later, I’m refreshed and smelling of jasmine conditioner. Another gypsy skirt―this one blue―plus a black tank top follows, and soon, I’m slicing up a pair of molasses-ginger muffins for breakfast. I like jam; he prefers butter.
“Oh, we’ve got the Esbat today, don’t we?” asks Caius, two bites in.
My mouth full, I nod.
He winces a little, like he’d forgotten, but the only thing that frightens him more than losing a recording contract is getting on his mother’s bad side. Fortunately, Abigail is one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. About the only way to make her angry enough to be dangerous is to threaten one of her children, try to harm her, or betray her trust. She’s only got one actual child, Caius, but she regards our whole coven as basically her kids. I suspect her fondness for Elise goes a bit beyond that though, somewhat like an adopted daughter―even if the girl’s twenty. Not that I blame her at all. Anyone (with a soul) who looks at Elise would feel an urge to protect her. She’s got these big green eyes and pale-blonde hair that make her look like child-Cosette from Les Mis, but taller. Some women supposedly have ‘resting bitch face,’ but Elise’s version of a neutral expression seems to ask the world why it’s so cruel to her.
“Right. I thought I forgot something important.” He scoops his cell phone up in one hand, unlocks it, and dials one-handed. “Hey, Marla. I remembered that thing I forgot. Yeah, tonight’s not good. I’m gonna call the Baphomet guys and tell them we need to do it next Sunday. Just wanted to let you know you don’t need to be anywhere tonight. Sorry about the short notice.”
Marla, his assistant, murmurs back over the phone.
“Great,” says Caius, smiling. “See you Monday.” He drops the phone on the table and picks up his muffin. “Baphomet’s Crown… new act. They’ve been in the studio finishing up their second album and want to do this ‘event’ to celebrate.”
“Ahh. Are they any good?”
“Yeah, I think they’ve got a decent shot. Probably a little on the thrashy side for you, but solid.” He slides back in his chair and stands. “Give me a bit to rearrange all this, and we can hit the road.”
“Cool. I need to put the sachets together anyway.” I toss my last bit of muffin into my mouth and rinse it down with coffee.
The nice thing about muffins for breakfast is it’s easy to wash crumbs off plates. That done, I head into the greenhouse and collect some galangal root, St. John’s wort, and some dried fig for the protection sachets. Bundling sage and cedar into a smudge stick takes me only a few minutes, after which I stuff herbs into six leather pouches, one for everyone who’ll be involved with the ritual.
I’ve evidently got ‘the touch’ with plants, so my garden supplies most of our coven’s needs.
Caius threads his arms around me from behind while I’m sitting at the workbench in the greenhouse. I lean my head back and kiss him for a moment. As tempting as it is to let him carry me back upstairs to the bedroom, the mere thought of more sex right now makes my plumbing ache. I glance down, noting his continued lack of clothing―not a rarity for him around the house. How he doesn’t freeze, I can’t understand. I’m the Irish one; damp, chilly weather shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I don’t know how he can stand being naked so often. Granted, I appreciate the scenery. Which gets me wondering. My life feels about as stable as it’s going to get, and I’m thirty-five already. If I’m going to usher a spirit back from the crucible, so to speak, I’d better start thinking about it soonish, and I doubt I’m going to find a man better than Caius to do that with.
“What’s on your mind?” whispers Caius at my ear.
“Wondering if you’ll be going to the Esbat sky-clad
,” I say, deciding to put off the children talk for now. Soon…
He chuckles. “I think my mother would object.”
“I think she’s going to be upset if we’re late.”
“Late?” He leans back. “It’s not even noon yet.”
“Well, there’s dinner, too, and you know she adores the company of having us there for that.”
“Right, right.” He kisses the crook of my neck, then my shoulder as he backs away. “I’ll go get ready.”
I finish putting the spell sachets together, gather them in a plastic bag with the smudge stick, and go off in search of my sandals.
***
Abigail Craven owns a large house deep in the woods of Thurston County, Washington. We take the Silverado, since the last mile and a half or so of the trail leading west from Route 101 is unkind to the suspensions of tiny sports cars.
Her home verges on being an estate, surrounded on all sides by thick trees with a large open field behind it. My head spins trying to imagine Caius growing up in such a world, simultaneously vast and full of wonder while also being isolated and lonely―at least in terms of having friends. He did attend school in Olympia, so it couldn’t have been too bad. Still, requiring an off-road car ride to hang out with his buddies had to suck. Quite a bit different from me having Isabelle right next door while we were growing up.
Abigail doesn’t employ the full gamut of servants, but the sheer size of the structure warrants hired help. Whenever we visit, it’s like being transported to another time and place. If not for everyone wearing modern clothing, I’d imagine stepping into Victorian London. Speaking of England, at one point, Abigail mentioned a relation to Anne Boleyn, but couldn’t confirm whether or not the allegations of her practicing witchcraft had been true. Back then, ‘witchcraft’ wound up more as a political tool to get rid of people than having any bearing on actual practitioners of magic.
A long, curving road leads to a courtyard in the front of the house, where a few cars gather in a paved circle. The number of them tells me we’re the last to arrive, as I feared we would be. Before we can even get out, Charles Price (Abigail’s butler, for lack of a better word) opens the front door and smiles. His 51st birthday occurred two weeks ago, the last time we visited the place. Not one to care about social status, Abigail took over Charles’ duties herself for his birthday. The subject of money hasn’t ever come up, though I imagine she’s well-off since I’ve never known her to work. Fair bet their family goes quite far back in England.
Today makes three visits in one month. That should make my as-good-as-mother-in-law happy, right? I hoped. Our coven meets once a month on the first, and again whenever there’s a holiday or new moon. Birthdays, handfastings, and other occasions don’t count as ‘official’ meetings, but we all tend to gather here for them, nonetheless.
“Ahh, Caius, Madeline, welcome,” says Charles, when we reach the door. His nearly-white hair is short and slicked back as always, not a thread out of place on his suit.
“Hello, Charles,” I say, smiling on the way in.
Caius shakes his hand. “Thanks for getting the door, old chap.”
“Bah. ’Tis what I’m paid to do.” Charles smiles.
After I park my sandals by the front door with the pile of other shoes, we head to the sitting room where the rest of the coven is relaxing. The dark wood walls and burgundy curtains send my imagination whirling off to the age of horse-drawn carriages and ghosts roaming the halls of castles at night. Admittedly, the place isn’t overly fancy, merely large.
Abigail, the head of our coven and Caius’ mother, perches on a wingback chair near a fireplace on the far side of the room, engaged in a smiling conversation with the others. She’s kind of got that whole Helen Mirren thing going where she’s into her sixties but still turns heads. Like me, she’s rather fond of gypsy skirts. Her hair is straight like her son’s, only grey, and even longer than mine, hanging down near her knees. A glint of metal pokes out of the neck of her black shawl from her pentacle amulet.
Our ‘baby witch,’ Elise Taylor, occupies the leftmost end of the large sofa in a brown, gauzy dress that makes her look like an escapee from Woodstock. She’s got the build of a French runway model, so the airy garment swallows her whole. A few pink highlights that weren’t there two weeks ago streak her otherwise pale-blonde hair. For once, she’s smiling, which makes her overly large eyes sparkle. She lives here with Abigail in a relationship that’s part friend, part adopted daughter, and part helper.
Next to her sits Tamika Bowen. She’s our resident ‘wild woman,’ and highly protective of the coven. More than once, I’ve had to physically hold her back from a confrontation. She’s also pretty free with slinging spell energy as an answer to problems. As soon as I take note of her, I gasp. Her dreads are gone, and she’s sporting a short puff of natural hair.
“Tami!” I shout, bringing the conversation to a screeching halt. “Your hair!”
“Late to the conversation as always,” says Abigail, smiling.
Caius strides over and hugs his mother. “My fault. We’d have been here earlier, but I got stuck on a business call.”
I rush over to Tami, gathering my heavy curls like I’m protectively embracing a child. “How could you chop it off?”
They all laugh at my overacting.
Tamika sighs. “Dreads are a pain in the ass, trust me.”
Colleen Connor, fellow Irishwoman, hops off the right end of the couch to check out my plastic bag of witchy herbs. She’s my height, but reedier, with long, straight black hair and hypnotic bright-blue eyes. Our tank tops are almost identical, but she’s wearing Army pants with thigh pockets. “Whatcha bring?”
I spin around her and plop down on the sofa where she vacated. “Sachets and sage.”
“Hey!” Colleen wedges herself between Tamika and me, squeezing my hip against the sofa arm.
Caius sits in a wingback chair on the other side of the fireplace from his mother.
Elise shifts, untucking her right leg from underneath her, and nearly pricks my nose with her big toe. “Check out the new charm I made,” she says, holding up her foot. A delicate silver chain circles an ankle not much bigger around than my wrist, from which dangles five silver crescents, each with a BB-sized blue crystal orb.
I lift one of the moons up on two fingers, appraising it. Noticeable energy radiates from the jewelry with the sense of a positive ward. Given how rare it is for her to smile, or be… ‘chipper,’ I’m wondering if perhaps she’d had an attachment to some manner of darkness this trinket is shielding her from. Though, within the coven, she’s a lot more open and animated than out in public. Evidently, me not saying something in three seconds gets her worried, as her expression starts to collapse back into the abandoned kitten look she usually wears.
“Wow, this is amazing,” I say, with sincerity. “Did you make the bangles too, or only the magic?”
Elise’s fleeting gloom fades back to the eager grin of a kid stuck in the ‘pleasing others’ stage of development. I’ve been accused of being overly caring, but the way she’s staring at me now is setting off a ‘someone attacked my child’ reaction in me. I’m more convinced than ever that a serious and awful event happened to this girl when she was in her early teens or tweens. Her emotional age hasn’t changed from about that point.
“I put it together, and I did the whole spell,” says Elise.
“She’s got quite the talent for wards and charms.” Abigail beams like a proud mother.
Elise grins.
Colleen hides a smirk for an instant. When Elise first showed up at the house four years ago, both she and Tamika doubted the girl’s motives, and thought she may be some street kid trying to take advantage of Abigail, who took her in. Since then, Elise’s overall fearfulness and need for validation hasn’t lessened, so we’ve come to trust her authenticity. Colleen has a low tolerance for treating a twenty-year-old woman like a little girl who needs constant reassurance, but so far, she hasn’t protes
ted with anything beyond ‘gimme a break’ stares when Elise isn’t looking at her. Tamika wants to help Elise ‘get better,’ while I’m itching to figure out what happened to her. Guess that’s the cop in me. Abigail’s content to mother her as is, and Caius doesn’t seem to have an opinion of her beyond being happy his mother’s not living alone. He isn’t even jealous that a non-blood-relative has become basically his sister, and may wind up in his mother’s will.
That’s mostly what Tamika and Colleen were worried about, Elise ingratiating herself in purely for financial gain, but I don’t think the girl has it in her to do that. Evidently, Abigail doesn’t believe it either. After watching Elise go from sixteen to twenty, changing only on the outside―and not all that much―I’m positive she’s got some deep-seated trauma that’s caused her to stunt psychologically. The girl wants safety and protection, not money.
Elise rambles about her invoking defensive magic into the charm, describing the setup and ritual she used―both of which are relatively common. Still, we give her the validation she clearly needs.
“I know it’s working. The Shadow isn’t watching me sleep now,” says Elise.
“The what?” asks Caius, arching an eyebrow.
“Umm.” Elise tucks her leg back under her rear end and shrinks into her usual timid posture. No, not timid. Terrified. “Stuff watches me at night.”
I think we all might have just arched eyebrows, and I think we all just realized how deep Elise’s psychosis might run. I find myself at a loss for words; luckily, Tamika jumps in and defuses the strangeness.
“Relax,” says Tamika, patting Elise on the shoulder. “Anything bad’s gotta first get through all of us, and that ain’t gonna happen.”
Elise cheers up at her touch. Her smile’s gone, but she doesn’t look like, well, like someone might look who’s being watched at night.