by Eve Langlais
By the time summer came, and school was finishing up for the year, I had achieved a solid B average, which is great for someone like me, whose wild spirit is difficult to funnel into final exams.
Kenny had mostly Cs, but an A+ in composition. He was really good at composition, when he wasn’t too high. I had a C– in composition, but thankfully I still passed and wouldn’t have to take Mr. J’s class the next semester, assuming I returned.
Things with the coven were going well, and by well, I mean fabulously. My new mentor was teaching me singing techniques I didn’t imagine were possible. We played together on occasion as a duet, and she always outshone me, but I was gaining ground. I worked hard to make her proud.
My new song witch powers made performances even more interesting. Sometimes I would just be playing in a coffee shop, caught up in my own thoughts, and I’d start pulling threads from the audience and twisting them together, playing around, and things would happen without me even trying. One night I was thinking about what might have happened if Arturo hadn’t walked out of the bedroom that night, and I heard some strange panting and moaning in the audience.
Before I realized what was happening, I’d given three ladies and one gentleman a spontaneous pleasure spasm.
The tips were good that night.
Chapter Nine
Graduation day came, and the whole music school gathered in the auditorium for a ceremony. The school offers a multi–year program, but many students only take the first year of fundamentals, which is a complete program on its own. (Listen to me, I sound like a brochure for the college. Honestly, I don’t get any kickbacks, I swear.)
As of that day, I wasn’t sure if I’d be back for a second year. Kenny and I planned to hit the road for the summer, to see where the road took us.
First, we had to survive the ceremony and a bunch of sloppy, emotional stuff.
I try not to be all sappy and maudlin, but seeing everyone in the auditorium hit me hard. It was like high school graduation, only minus all the jerks. It’s going to take you a few minutes to even imagine something that special. I’m writing a song about it, actually. I’m having a hard time coming up with words that rhyme with douche–canoe.
Moose renew?
Tush lasso?
Anyway…
In my bag that day was a freshly–laundered and folded blue shirt. I planned to return the garment to its rightful owner, but was too nervous to approach Arturo before he took his place on the stage for the ceremony.
I waited until my name was called and crossed the stage to receive my first–year diploma. After getting the rolled–up paper, I proceeded through the line, shaking the hands of all my professors.
When Arturo’s palm swept into mine, sparks shot up. He looked into my eyes, and I nearly had one of those spontaneous pleasure spasms. I looked around nervously, even though I didn’t need to. Regular people can’t usually see the sparks flying off witches and wizards, and other than me and Arturo, Kenny was the only other wizard at the college.
“I need to see you,” Arturo said.
“You had your chance and you walked away. That was almost a year ago. A lot has happened since then, Mr. J. I turned twenty, and I grew up. A lot. I know all about dryer sheets now. Did you know they’re not just good for preventing static cling? You can put one in the bottom of your kitchen trash container, and your bin will stay smelling fresh.”
His blue eyes danced with amethyst lights. “You’ve changed.”
“I’ve also moved on. For the record, you can’t have your blue shirt back. The dog actually ate it. Sorry.”
He murmured a string of numbers, and tattletale gold sparkles flew from my mouth, down to my shoulder bag.
Busted. I unzipped the bag, grabbed his blue shirt, and handed it to him, grumbling, “You math wizards and your arcane truth spells.”
“Shh,” he said. “Later. Tonight.”
He tossed the shirt on the chair behind him and turned to shake the next student’s hand. Orange sparks shot up from their hands, because the next student was Kenny.
I turned and gave Kenny a wide–eyed look as we walked off the stage.
“Dirty boy,” I said.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I’m twenty. I don’t have much more of a crush on Mr. J than I do on any other straight man under fifty in this auditorium.”
“Good, because I’m calling dibs on Mr. J.”
“Yeah? Trying again for that sex date? One hot night together before you, me, and the dog hit the road tomorrow?”
I sighed. “A girl can dream.”
“That’s a good name for the band. You, Me and the Dog.”
“That’s confusing and weird. I love it.”
Chapter Ten
Kenny and I weren’t planning to attend the post–graduation dance, but two things convinced us:
1. We were both curious about what Arturo wanted to talk to me about.
2. Kenny’s application to have the dog declared an official therapy animal came through. We received his official yellow vest that very day, and put it on like a long–lasting magical glamor spell. Now the dog could go anywhere, and help Kenny cope with his anxiety, so he wouldn’t have to take so many drugs just to be able to leave the house. Since the dog was all dressed up and ready to party anywhere, we declared the post–graduation dance to bedog prom, and the three of us fancied ourselves up.
I submitted to having myself “made over” in the image of a proper young lady. Kenny’s not the kind of gay friend who does makeovers, so he called in some friends of his, and they got out the sandpaper and grime–remover and went to work on me and my barnacles.
I’m just kidding about the barnacles. I do practice basic hygiene. But, according to the gay dudes, my cuticles were ragged as hell, and the fun rainbow of colors in my hair were a total nightmare. Whatever.
When they finished, I looked exactly like my favorite old photo of my great–grandmother. I nearly cried all over my vintage dress. I quickly hummed an I–will–not–cry–now spell to myself. As I looked in the mirror and listened to myself hum, I recognized the melody as the lullaby my great–grandmother used to sing to me. With that memory, not even the spell could hold back the floodgates.
Kenny picked me up off the floor, though, and we got into Piglet with the dog and drove to the dance.
Once we got there, I looked around the dance hall for Arturo, but couldn’t see him. Before I could go asking around, someone asked me to dance. It was a fun retro song, so I danced. Then another guy asked me to dance. And another.
The makeover was working too well! I was the most popular girl at the dance, much to my pretend–horror.
Two hours later, my feet were getting tired from dancing when a very familiar face popped up in front of me.
It was Arturo, looking spectacularly handsome in an actual tuxedo.
The guy I was dancing with frowned, noting that the real tuxedo trumped his tuxedo–print T–shirt, and quickly left the two of us.
“You’ve become Miss Popularity,” Arturo said over the music.
I shook my dance fists from left to right like miniature pom poms. “Vote Zebbie for Prom Queen!”
“We don’t do that here.”
I poked him in his chin dimple with one finger. “There’s a first time for everything.”
He caught my hand and kissed my fingertips while looking into my eyes. A blast of sparkles shot out from… let’s just call it “from underneath my dress.”
The horror! I stopped dancing and crossed my legs. The other students couldn’t see the magic light, but Arturo had. His eyes glowed amethyst.
The light blasted out again. I didn’t know what to do. Sparkles had never shot out of my ladyparts before. My song witch mentor should have mentioned something like this.
I could have curled up right there on the dance floor, praying for death from embarrassment, but I was pretty sure that wouldn’t stop the sparkles shooting out like a telltale crinoline of horniness. So, I turned an
d ran.
I ran as fast as I could.
Arturo chased after me, slowing down only to pick up my shoes as they fell off. He followed me outside, into the crisp, dark night air. I kept running. I’d been meaning to get some exercise, and now was the time.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he called after me.
“I’m never wearing a dress again!” I sobbed.
He caught me by the hand and tugged me to a stop under a streetlamp. “I think it’s sexy.” He reached for my cheek and pulled me gently to face him and his glowing purple eyes. “Zeb, I think everything about you is sexy.”
“I’m like a broken fire hydrant blasting horny sparkles.”
“You look beautiful, for a broken fire hydrant. Is your hair all one color?”
“Don’t look at me with your sexy purple wizard eyes.”
“My eyes are purple? Well, I guess there’s no hiding it. That means I want you.”
“You don’t want me, Arturo. You think you do, but as soon as you get me naked, you’ll just walk away again.”
He pulled my hand to his mouth and kissed my fingers again. More sparkles, and this time I felt them. Everywhere. My bare toes curled against the cobblestones on the path.
“I was scared that night,” he said.
“You’re superstitious. My coven told me all those myths about wizards and witches stealing each other’s powers during sex. They said it’s all urban legends, something you wizards make up to get out of commitment. Nothing but old wizards’ tales.”
“My fear had nothing to do with magic, Zeb.” He stepped in closer, so our noses were nearly touching. “I was afraid of the most powerful magic of all. Love.” He kissed me. “But I’m not afraid anymore.”
And with those non–magical words, the spell was cast.
Arturo wasn’t afraid anymore, so neither was I.
I kissed him back, looping my arms around his neck so he wouldn’t get away. We kissed each other under the street lamp until we were gasping for breath.
I pulled away and gave him hell for months of torture. It was agony to sit in his classroom and focus on lessons when I just wanted to rip his clothes off and nibble him all over. He told me he’d felt the same way.
“Zeb, I’m a math wizard, and I finally figured out the formula. One plus one equals infinity, when love is part of the equation. Zeb, I love you.”
I quickly hummed the I–will–not–cry–now lullaby, then said, “Where do we go from here?”
He kissed me, then murmured, “My house?”
“Too far. My van’s parked right over there.”
He grimaced, showing his snooty side, but I kissed him so hard, he changed his mind about making love in a vintage Volkswagen. He swept me up in his arms, saying he had to, since I wasn’t wearing any shoes, and he carried me into the van.
We closed the curtains on the little windows and tore each other’s clothes off. I had stocked the van with some non–magical sexual protection spells in anticipation of my hot summer of touring, so I handed him a square packet and he readied his sparkling love rocket.
He fell into my arms and gently plundered me while I moaned helpful feedback. Everything seemed to fit together right, from what I could tell. His fingers left tracers on my skin and vice versa. His kisses were like fire and water at the same time, and I went crazy for him.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
“You’re a great liar, just like Kenny.”
He moved against me and with me, pounding out a beautiful rhythm with perfect timing.
“Admit you’re beautiful.”
I whispered back, “Your eyes see only beauty, and so that’s all there is. I am yours.”
“You are mine.”
“One plus one.”
He smiled. “Infinity.”
Our light merged as we reached the end, and hovered over us like a star. I dug my fingers into Arturo’s muscular back and murmured that I loved him. He swore his soul to me, from that moment forward.
The star went supernova.
Chapter Eleven
When the van’s a–rockin’ don’t come a–knockin’.
That’s the new bumper sticker we applied to Piglet’s bumper before we left town for our summer tour.
Our band, the soon–to–be famous You Me and the Dog had a fourth member: Arturo. He wasn’t the greatest backup singer, and his work on rhythm guitar needed to loosen up, but he brought his composition expertise to our songwriting. Plus he brought his money, and his convertible, towing a new trailer holding our band equipment.
I didn’t bring him for his money, though. I brought him because as soon as we both admitted how in love with each other we were, we couldn’t bear to spend one night apart. I joked that he needed a yellow vest, like the dog’s, so he could be my official therapy animal.
He likes it when I call him an “animal.” He says I bring out his inner tiger. And I do bring out his inner tiger… frequently. Sometimes I bring it out in hotel rooms along the road, and sometimes literally along the road, pulled over to the side so we can have at each other inside Piglet.
They say that when a wizard and witch have sex, they can steal each other’s powers. For a while, I worried it was true after all. I was getting more powerful by the day. Then Arturo said his magic was getting stronger as well. We’ve decided the legend must be true, but it does the opposite when both people are giving instead of taking. When they are in love.
Love.
Love is my driving force these days, in every way. I love touring, and I love Kenny and the dog. Both of them are happy on the road, having their adventures. They worried about Arturo joining the band, but I do little things to assure them of my infinite love. For example, last week I booked Kenny and the dog a couple’s massage at a spa that does Doggie and Me treatments. They both came out looking relaxed and smelling pretty, with matching red ribbons in their hair.
I can be sweet sometimes, thanks to the magic of love.
Love is what keeps me going on days that get too long. Like when Arturo won’t listen to driving directions and gets our two–vehicle caravan lost on his so–called shortcuts. Whenever I’m tempted to quit, I just draw my energy into myself, make a cup of tea, and hum a helpful lullaby. If I wait for it, I’ll soon feel the love again. Life can be a roller coaster, but it’s also a carousel, going ‘round and ‘round.
When the love is good, it’s really good.
Our band is starting to get a following. They call me the Love Singer, and people swear that magical things happen to them at our shows.
I’ve seen it with my own eyes.
I sing, and the carousel keeps turning.
People who’ve lost all hope find it again.
Couples who’ve fallen out of love see each other again, underneath the wrinkles of time and hardship and kids and bills and whatever else people fight about when they ought to be trusting in love.
I sing for them all, about what I know to be true. I gather the threads that have come undone, and I tuck them back into the tapestry of life and love, where they belong. All of us, woven together, are stronger when we’re bound to each other, arms linked, hearts entwined.
Bless you, all my friends, and may you know the magic when you find it. May you never lose hold of what makes you sparkle.
Zeb, out.
Author's Note
Note from NYT bestselling author Mimi Strong: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed LOVE SINGER. I’d had the idea for this story for nearly three years before I finally got to write it for this anthology. If you read my other books published under Mimi Strong, you’ll see I usually write contemporary erotic romance. I do, however, also write paranormal books! You can check out my GHOST HACKERS series, which is published under my pen name T. Paulin. Check out my paranormal books here.
Mimi Strong
Love Singer © Copyright 2014 Mimi Strong
Lord of Misrule
Volume One
J.S. Hope
Reporte
r Alessandra “Alex” Donati is in Venice chasing the story of her career. While the city prepares for the Christmas festivities, Alex is hot on the trail of a group that celebrates a much older – and much darker – festival, one that offers sex and sacrifice in exchange for power and wealth.
Alex is smart. She’s going into this with open eyes. She thinks she can handle anything the city and its ancient rites throw at her, including gorgeous cult leader Sebastian Assante, but she’s wrong. As the lines between fantasy and reality blur she finds herself caught up in the passion and excess of the Saturnalia Festival, and she loves it. The attention is thrilling. The heat and lust of the rites dizzying, and the hunger of the revelers intoxicating… but when the masks come off what lies beneath is terrifying.
Chapter One
As the plane banked into its final turn, Alessandra Donati, Alex to her American friends, looked out the window at the cool blue waters of the Venetian lagoon just coming into view below them. A single phrase repeated itself over and over again in her mind.
Whatever it takes.
That was the vow she’d made to herself when leaving the newsroom yesterday and she fully intended to live up to it. She knew this was her best chance, perhaps her only chance, of showing her chauvinistic asshole of an editor that she had what it took to make it as a frontline news reporter and she didn’t intend to waste it.
Twenty–five and a graduate of Columbia’s prestigious school of journalism, Alex thought it would be a simple matter to find a decent–paying job as a reporter at one of New York’s many news companies and begin the career that she knew would eventually lead her to the Pulitzer she’d been planning for since the 2nd grade. But eighteen months after graduation she still hadn’t been able to find a job and, in an act of what some might call desperation, she took a job from Gordon Jones as a junior reporter for the Global News Network.