Fierce Enchantments

by Janine Ashbless

I look up. I have to. All pretense is over.

  The dead men stand, all three of them, beyond the foot of the bed. Finlay is a little to the fore, his brothers to either side. There is no sign of my Mistress; perhaps she kissed them goodnight downstairs. They are still as posts, still as earth. No breath, no flicker of an eyelid.

  My legs nearly give way beneath me as I stand, and I have to clutch at the bed for balance. Finlay’s head turns a little, following my motion. My Mistress’s fur pelisse is soft under my clutching hand; she has spread it as a counterpane upon the blankets.

  I regain my composure, a little. Perhaps I can walk to the door. They are not blocking it. True, I will have to walk around them, but they offer no threat, yet.

  Their stance is menace enough. Their mere existence.

  I look into Finlay’s face, searching for expression. It is a mistake. There is such loss there, such regret and yearning etched into every haggard line. It draws me, like a dark candle flame. Before I breathe another breath my palm is upon his cheek. He feels just as I imagined: as damp and cold as a slab of meat.

  But I’ve grown used to damp and cold these nine weeks.

  “I’m sorry,” I hear myself say. Tears are burning at the back of my eyes. Closing them, I stretch up and kiss his lips.

  The two other brothers sigh. It must be hard work that, with no air in their lungs. Finlay does not exhale as his ice-cold lips press mine. But his hands steal to my waist and draw me close.

  “Will you wed me, my sweet Meg?” he murmurs. The same question he’d asked in the dairy, back in the long-forgotten summer.

  I’m trembling now, uncontrollably, but I make a fair fist of saying, “Ah, no, my brave laddie—it’s too late for that.”

  “There’s so much … Too late …”

  I stroke his face, though it is blurred by my frightened tears. “Not too late to love,” I tell him.

  His arms slide around me, pulling me to his cold frame. The strength in his limbs is startling, but the thick knot of his groin is familiar. The seaweed perfume fills my head.

  “I missed—” he says, uncertainly. “I wanted—”

  “I know.” I nod, pushing my fingers through his hair, feeling the sand all gritty there. “Dinnae worry. It’s fine now.”

  He stoops to kiss my lips again, and wraps one icy hand about my throat in a caress that makes me shake. Shudders course through my flesh as he stokes down to my bosom. And then suddenly, soundlessly, his brothers are there too, flanking me. Their hands are on me. My bodice laces at my back, so that normally my Mistress unties it for me. Now their dead hands pluck at the knots and draw the long laces out through their eyes with a hissing sound. I’m crying now: sobbing through my kisses. It is fear, but not simply fear. It is just that this is too much to support without something breaking.

  Bodice, overdress, shift and petticoat. Tugging and pulling like some underwater current, slipping beneath the cloth, kissing my warm places with chill.

  They strip me, the three of them. I am naked and glowing in my living heat, my skin stippled with crazy goose-flesh that will not die down, my nipples hard as sea-shingle. Their hands trace my curves and hollows and I know it is memory they seek: the memories of warmth and life and blood-blushed skin, lost to them now. Across the surge of my ass Rory chases the scent of crushed grass and beer and revelry, the giggle of a lassie trying to crawl into his bed without waking him, the splayed thighs and wet welcome and the gasp of shock as he entered me. In the cleft of my breasts Allan gropes for the galloping rattle of his fever-bed, the rush of relief as I pulled up my skirts for him, the smells of sweat and cunt and spilled gruel, and the squeals of delight vibrating through his teeth as he nibbled the teats hanging in his face.

  Over my lips and waist and breasts, reaching down between my thighs, Finlay searches out his own memories: whispered giggling intimacies, the summer scents of cow-breath and milk, the thrill of a nipple half-willingly exposed; a dress eased awry, an areola crinkling under a tender fingertip. Lips to throat, feeling the racing pulse. The slyly teasing pressure, momentary and perhaps unintentional, of a hand or hip against the tumescent bulge at his crotch. Sighs and giggles and murmurs of arousal—followed always by gentle slaps of rejection that were almost caresses.

  I never let him. Now I can curse myself for being such a fool. I should have spread my legs and let the young man mount me; I should have let him lay me down on the dairy table and rut deep and long until we both screamed for pleasure. I should have let him know the taste of my sex and the heat and the grip of it. I should have sucked his beautiful silken balls empty of seed, and spread my ass-cheeks with my hands to expose the winking invitation of my nether hole.

  I should have given him everything, and taught him every joy and every solace a woman is able to offer a man before the long night of Death. Before he left us, and the sea took him.

  For now he is back, and he still desires all that he hasnae had.

  Oh Lord, save me: I am drowning. The tide is rising in my flesh, lifting me from my feet. I reach out with desperate fingers and find Finlay’s jutting spar. I grab it instinctively, through the damp wool of his trousers, and he helps by tugging at laces and toggles until it spills out suddenly into my bare hands. I never beheld it in life. It is thick and hard, more like horn than flesh—Och, it is cold, but it is something solid, something to cling to as their hands ebb and flow, sweeping me up in an undertow that I know will drag me off my feet.

  Then they do it. Rory and Allan break from our cluster and pull me away, lifting me and laying me upon the great bed. I feel the warm silky brush of fur beneath my back. I look fearfully at Finlay, who stands where we abandoned him. His expression has not changed.

  Then Allan goes over to help his brother off with his doublet and shirt. And my vision is occluded by Rory, who puts both hands between my thighs and spreads them. Then he reaches for my sex.

  Cold—cold—his hand is cold. But I have warmth to spare for him, and wet too. Two fingers, at least, are slid inside me. I remember Rory’s fingers well: thick and leathery with knuckles like the knots on twigs, the creases ingrained with dirt. Now they curl inside me, and I buck my hips in welcome, unable to help myself, and let out a small cry.

  It’s been nine weeks since I was ridden. Rory was the last man to touch me, when he put me down over the wall of the sheep-fold while everyone else was loading the ponies—around the corner from them, but barely out of sight (the man was never shy)—and gave me a good seeing-to from behind, slapping my bum as he spent. Afterwards he gave me a kiss and a hug and a silver penny, muttered, “I’ll miss that sweet cunt of yours, Meg,” and walked away. As I watched the brothers ride off up the fellside, Rory’s seed was leaking down the insides of my thighs, beneath my skirt. Well he knew me.

  Now he knows, if there is any calculation going on behind those sunken eyes, that my sex is soft and ready and eager. It opens easily to the spread of his thick digits. In the old days he would have grinned at me, but not this time. His face is set, his eyes milky.

  Then Rory looks back over his shoulder at his brothers, and nods. He moves aside, his fingers deserting me. For a moment I feel empty, like a dropped glove. I look down once more and see Finlay standing at the foot of the bed, naked and ready, his cock as engorged as a hanged man’s. How his skin glistens! Thank God—the sea hasnae bloated him, though he bears great dark bruises across his belly.

  Biting my lip, I raise my knees, like the raising of the portcullis at the town gate. My wet sex is an open invitation. And as he comes forward to accept, I lift my hands to him.

  Ach. The first moment you step into the sea, it is always a shock. He washes over me like a winter wave, stealing my breath. His body is hard, with the leanness of youth, and his erect cock hardest of all. Cold impales heat. His back slides beneath my hand. His brothers are standing above us, watching, but I barely see them; in my inner sight nothing
but a stake of burning cold, plunged into a hot and molten core. Moving. Sliding. Stretching me in ways that I desperately need. His death-mask face over mine. His shoulders knotted. Curly hair coarse with salt; salt crusted on his skin, salt on my lips. The sea is bitter-salty, and I think that perhaps that is where all the tears wept in the world end up: filling the oceans.

  It is a wonder that there is any dry land left for us to stand upon.

  Dear God, but his cock is beautiful in me. This foul thing, this walking corpse—he is beautiful. My own tears rebuke me, but they cannae quench my heat.

  I fear that this time, our first, it will be over in moments. But I’ll tell you this much: the dead are not quick. Finlay, pinning me, moves with the slow brutal surge of the beating surf. There is no haste. Every wave lifts me higher, drops me deeper. One gelid hand clutches my left breast, squeezing tight. His lips brush my temple. I am sliding into the depths, losing my footing, kicking out but finding no purchase for my feet. I am finding it hard to breathe. Cold slips inside me, into my lungs. Dark water closes over my head. I look up and see the flickering glitter of light, but I know I’m sinking and cannot rise.

  They say that, as you drown, the panic and the terror drifts away and that you feel, at that last moment, a kind of pleasure.

  Drowning, I dissolve in delight.

  He is everything I have longed for.

  ♦♦♦

  Fare ye well, my mother dear,

  Farewell to barn and byre

  And fare ye well, the bonny lass

  That kindles my mother’s fire!

  ♦♦♦

  I wake next to a dead man and sit straight up, gasping. The cockerel outside in the yard crows a second time, its voice hoarse and bitter.

  A glance about me reveals that the fire has died down and gives no light but a tiny glow; it must be hours later. But there is a kind of light in the room; I can see a man silhouetted against my Mistress’ great window. His outline is entirely black, like a cut-out piece of darkness, but the world beyond is a faintly luminous gray.

  He shifts, turning. I discern broad bare shoulders. “It’s time we were away,” he says, and I recognize Rory’s voice. “The gray rooster crows. Dawn comes across the sea.”

  “The worm frets,” says a second voice. “If we are missed from our places …”

  I look to the other side of the room, but I can make out nothing more than a standing figure, pale from head to toe. No mind: it is Allan, judging by the voice. That means that the slab of meat at my side must be Finlay.

  “Brother, rise up,” says Rory softly. “We must leave.”

  Without a grunt or a word, Finlay sits up from the hips. It’s too dark to see him, but he puts his arms around me. “My pretty Meg,” his whispers.

  I close my eyes, recalling what was done last night. The memories are fragmentary, and I am deeply grateful for the lack of clarity. What I do remember is shame enough. My calves are stiff, my lips bruised. My whole body aches with delight.

  They say that kissing a corpse upon the lips means you will die within the month. If that’s true, then I am damned and more.

  “Remember me,” murmurs Finlay. “But dinnae weep, my sweet one.”

  The three dead men move about the room. They need no light. I am next to blind, though, and it takes me a little while to realize that they are putting on their clothes. Then someone moves over to the door, and throws it wide.

  There is light outside: only a single lantern, burning low, but I’ve been in the dark so long it seems to flood this shadowed room. My Mistress sits in the passage outside, curled up in a blanket, and her blinking, confused face must be a mirror to my own. She’s been there all night, guarding her sons’ chamber. Rory reaches down and pulls her to her feet. He’s gentle, or as gentle as his stiff limbs allow him to be.

  “Mother,” says Allan, “we are leaving now. We must be back by dawn.”

  She starts to shake her head.

  “Mother,” says Rory. “You must let us be. You know that.”

  “You are keeping us from rest,” adds Finlay. “Please, Mother. We cannae sleep while it rains.”

  My Mistress bows her head in her hands. For a moment all three sons surround her, and then they break away and head for the stairs. Their footfalls sound like the dull knocks of nails driven into wood. Finlay is last to leave. He pauses at the door and looks back—not at his mother, but over her head, at me. As if he’s trying to take one last memory with him.

  But he says not a word.

  Then they are gone, and I’m sitting up in the middle of my Mistress’s bed, naked and shivering, and our gazes lock. Her jaw sags and her eyes grow wide. I see, with a cold pang, that she didnae know I was in here. She must have assumed that I’d fled like the rest of the servants. She didnae know.

  I reach out and snag the crumpled fur pelisse, drawing it up to cover my nakedness. As if it could hide what I’ve done.

  The smell of the sea is terrible.

  The Military Mind

  The drop pilot is a blocky woman with a thatch of curly gray hair—the bleaching’s a side-effect of the uppers they keep pilots on, Peyton has heard. Certainly she looks too young to be naturally gray. She casts Peyton sidelong glances as they watch the five men load into the drop capsule.

  “What’s it like?” she says.

  “What?” Peyton doesn’t take her eyes off the marines. The bolt-gun at her hip is new and feels incredibly heavy. She wonders if she’s going to be sick.

  “What’s it like being inside their heads when they die? D’you see anything? Is there, like, a tunnel of light or whatever?”

  Peyton’s mouth tastes metallic and she realizes she’s bitten the inside of her lip. “I don’t know,” she rasps. “Never happened.”

  “You guys that good?”

  The quiver is involuntary. “My first drop.”

  The pilot doesn’t answer, but her eyes widen before she turns away.

  Fuck you, Peyton desperately wants to tell her. You don’t ever have to touch the dirt. You don’t get anywhere near the Spiders. But this is her cherry jump and she knows she’s the one who has to prove herself.

  “Peyton!” Sergeant Jomoa lifts his hand. “Saddle up! Now!”

  She scurries to obey, reaching up to the hatch. He puts one hand on her ass and boosts her up into the interior so powerfully that she nearly falls into Rialto’s lap. Everyone laughs. A couple of hands land slaps on the curve of her butt. She’s wearing the thin, skin-tight leather-look jumpsuit of a Pslider and it doesn’t do much to shield her from the sting.

  “Want to sit on my dick for the drop?” suggests Hayes.

  “Keep your cheese-stick inside your armor till this is over,” growls the sergeant, scrambling in through the hatch. “Unless you’re going to use it to fuck a Spider. Then, be my guest, Hayes.”

  Trying to ignore the sniggers and the gropes and the whoops—they like her new uniform, it seems—Peyton pushes through to her seat just behind the forward bulkhead and straps herself in. The men sound confident and eager. Maybe, she thinks, they won’t need her much. They’ve all done this before, many times. They know what they’re about. All she has to do is watch and learn, with a bit of luck.

  She pslides behind the sergeant’s eyes.

  —SHE’D BETTER BE UP TO SCRATCH OR WE’RE ALL FUCKED SIDEWAYS SENDING US A LITTLE FUCKING GIRL WHAT THE FUCK IS H.Q. THINKING OF??!!!

  Shocked by his thoughts, she pulls out. There’s no sign of any emotion at all on the man’s broad, scarred face. He isn’t even looking at her. She makes a show of checking her webbing, aware that she’s suddenly hot and sweaty.

  I can do this. I’ve been training for this for ten years.

  As the pilot’s voice comes over the intercom and the pre-flight checks start, she takes a tentative look inside the minds of each of the marines, like she
’s checking her pockets just to make sure she’s not left her keys at home.

  —SHE’S GOT GREAT TITS I WANT TO GET MY COCK BETWEEN THOSE PUPPIES AND SCUZZ ALL OVER HER FACE OH YEAH MAMMA I COULD JUST DO THOSE JUGS RIGHT NOW HEY HEY HEY GOTTA STIFFY OH YEAH IT’S THE ONLY WAY TO FLY

  That’s Hayes. No surprises there.

  —SHE’S NOT ORIEL OH FUCK ORIEL WE SHOULD NEVER HAVE BROUGHT HER INTO AN UNSECURED ZONE IT HURTS LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER JUST THINKING

  Eriksen, of course. Peyton feels guilty even touching his mind. It feels raw and angry, like a picked scab.

  —LEFT FIELD CHECK THE LEFT ALWAYS YOUR BLIND SPOT PISSING GUN MOUNT THEY NEED TO REDESIGN THOSE THINGS SPIDERS COME OUT OF THE LEFT LIKE BLUE NINJA COCKROACHES

  That’s Brannon, his thoughts so focused that she feels like she can’t breathe inside his head.

  Rialto isn’t articulating any thoughts at all: from him she just gets a blurred picture of a courtyard with a wisteria creeper hanging over the wall and woman—a big soft woman in a bright print dress—popping beans out of their pods.

  Testing, she says into his head. Can you hear me?

  Rialto glances at her and nods. The mental picture goes blank and is replaced by a wall of LA LA LA LA. They can shield themselves from her if they concentrate. She blushes, feeling like she’s been caught spying.

  Then the engines catch and roar, and she knots her fingers together and stares at them, fighting her surge of panic. I can do this. I’m trained. They need me. They’re relying on me. I will do it. Oh … shit. I’ve known them ten days and now their lives depend on me getting it right.

  ♦♦♦

  Ten days before, Lieutenant Vanderhuys had escorted her to the barracks to meet her squad for the first time. Peyton had always found Vanderhuys intimidating—she was a tall, proud woman in her forties, who wore her Pslider leathers even off-duty and walked with long strides even in high boots. Peyton was wearing regulation gray panties, a sleeveless top and little flat pumps; she didn’t even have a bra on. Her breasts felt free and uncomfortably vulnerable, bobbing behind the tightly-stretched cotton, and she was struggling to keep up with the older woman’s clicking heels.