by Sable Hunter
* * * *
“Well, now isn’t this just perfect.” He had debated how and when he could take McAllister down a peg. The big dolt was suspicious of him—and stopping him or slowing him down had become necessary. And look what happened—the goose laid a golden egg and it had landed right in his lap.
Cammack watched them leave. Checking the LED screen, he smiled. The picture was perfect. Hands raised to the night sky, hair blowing wildly in the wind, and a lightning bolt illuminating Eric McAllister and his pagan whore. He’d send this right over to his friend Jason, a free lance journalist. “The newspapers are going to love this.”
* * * *
The drive to the condo took exactly thirty-seven minutes and forty-five seconds. The rain was still pouring as he pulled into the covered parking garage. Leaving all of her witchy stuff in the car, they locked it and hurried into his condo. Just inside the door, he picked her up and carried her to his room. “I want to try something new with you. Is that OK?”
“Anything. As long as it ends up with you deep inside of me, I’ll do whatever you say.” She glanced around his room, it looked just like him. The furniture was big and sturdy and all made of golden oak.
Sitting on the bed, he held her in his lap, one hand stroking her back. She was almost purring with excitement. “Eventually, love, eventually. But, what I want to do to you is all about patience.”
“But, Eric, I wanted you so badly in the car and now you tell me I have to wait?” Feverishly, she began undoing the buttons on his shirt.
He stilled her hands, granting her a kiss on the lips, a token of the promises to come. “Waiting will only make it better, sweetheart.”
Underneath her hips, she could feel his arousal—long and hard. Attempting to relieve her need, she began to rub against him. “Can’t you make me come, and then we can go slow?”
Shifting her off his lap, before he gave in to her pleading, he chuckled with delight. “God, you are sweet! No, that would be cheating. I’m going to give you a full-body massage. And I want you to talk to me, tell me how you’re feeling—what you want. You can hear my thoughts when you want to, now I want to hear yours. Now, let’s get you undressed.” Since she had on a sundress, all he had to do was skim it off of her. As usual, she wore no bra and she had the panties off in a matter of seconds.
“You, too.” She reached for him. He helped her with the buttons and zippers and soon, they were both nude.
She melted against him. “Lord have mercy, you’re a temptress. I don’t know if I have the strength to resist you long enough to do this or not. Lie down on your stomach, doll.”
Giving one last kiss to his chest, she complied with his wishes. “I’m trembling, Eric. You haven’t even touched me, and I’m trembling.”
“Look at you—long legs, luscious bottom, the gentle curve of your back and that sexy braid that can make me hard from across the room. And here you are laying out waiting for my touch, for my pleasure. I must be the luckiest son-of-a bitch in the world.”
She kept waiting for the touch of hands, but it did not come. And then she felt it, soft gentle kisses in the bend of her knee, a hint of tongue, a nibble. “Talk to me, Evangeline,” he ordered.
“I feel sparks of fire coming from your lips.” His hands began to massage the backs of her thighs, massaging warm, scented oil into the supple muscles. “I’ve never had a massage, before. Your hands are so strong.” Evangeline put her face into her own hands. He didn’t realize he was torturing her—heavenly torture. He had no idea. “It feels wonderful.” She heard the bed creak as he changed positions, straddling her legs, situating himself so he could rub her back. She could feel his erection throbbing against her buttocks.
“I’m trying to focus on pleasing you, Evangeline. Bringing you pleasure is beyond exciting to me,” he kneaded the muscles of her lower back. “I want you so, much—it’s almost unbearable how much I desire you.” She groaned under his ministrations. “Your skin is as soft as silk and the color of a fading magnolia. You are exquisite.” She let out a trembling sigh. “Is this turning you on, babe?”
“I was turned on to start with, I’m past excited—I’m in a state of wonderful desperation. My fingers itch to touch you. My nipples are aching for your mouth.” Then, she realized he had stretched out over her. She could feel his whole body making contact with hers. The hair on his chest tickled her bottom as he slid up her back. She began to shiver uncontrollably. His lips paved the way, but his body followed. There was no way he was letting his full weight settle on her, but it was enough to give her the most incredible sensation of complete domination. “Incredible. I feel so safe.” His lips burned at her neck, his shaft slipped between her legs, teasing the very portal of her femininity. “Your lips should be illegal, Eric.”
“Turn over baby. I want your front.” He raised up the inches necessary for her to reverse her position.
Finally. But no. He was back at her feet. “I can’t take much more, Eric. I’m panting, literally panting for you.” And she wasn’t lying. Her breath was coming in tortured gasps; her clit was swelled to bursting, her nipples protruding defiantly, demanding his attention. She held her hands out to him.
“Soon, sweetheart, soon.” Touching her inner thigh, he watched her raise her hips, offering herself to him. “Do you want any another man touching you?”
“God, no.” A kiss was planted about two inches above the place that she wanted it the most. He forged a path northward.
“Do I satisfy you?” At last, his lips closed over a nipple.
A ragged breath escaped her lips. She pushed her chest upward, begging him to take more of her breast into his mouth. The suction, the friction was incredible. “Do you have to ask?” At her question he raised his head. She met his eyes, seeing the seriousness of his question, she confessed, unequivocally. “Completely.”
“Are you ready for me, treasure?” He lifted her bottom, and she sighed with the knowledge that at last he was coming home.
“Past ready, desperate.” She watched his handsome face completely relax as he felt his manhood sink into her white-hot passage.
“Perfect,” he breathed. Over and over again, he plunged into her, the perfect fit. She wrapped her legs around his waist, past knowing where he ended and she began.
“Oh, this was worth waiting for.” She felt the contractions begin. “Eric, you are the most incredible lover.” She grasped his shoulders, pulling herself up. Her breasts nestled into his chest. “God, baby this feels so good.”
The spasms in her pussy were pulsing around his rod. “I want this to last and last, but I can’t—I need to come so bad,” he breathed.
“Come, love, don’t hold back.” She framed his face, accepting his gasps inside her mouth; his breath, his moans, mingling with hers. She loved him so much. And she knew he loved her, or at least she thought he did. Why couldn’t they say the words out loud?
Soon, she was going to tell him, the words were demanding to be said.
* * * *
“Tell me about Chango.” Eric held the car door open for her. “I heard you use his name during the rain spell.” Just hearing him say the word ‘spell’ brought a smile to her face.
“Chango is an African diety. He is the sky father, god of thunder and lightning.”
“Makes sense. So you called on another name, papa something?”
“Papa Legba. He is the gatekeeper, god of the crossroad. You must go through Legba before you access any other god.”
“Do you really think these gods are real?” Evangeline didn’t speak right away; she wasn’t sure where he was coming from with his questions.
“Yes, I do. I’ve seen what they can do. I’ve felt their power.”
“But do you think that they’re actually gods?”
“Spirits, angels, host of heaven—I don’t know what they are. Do I think they are the one true God? No. But are they demi-gods, dieties, supernatural, stronger than we are? Yes.”
“Do you worship
these gods, Evangeline?”
“No, I honor them, I respect them, I ask them favors. That’s not worship—it’s the same emotional attachments I have with family and friends. Does this upset you?”
“No. It’s foreign to me. And it would horrify my father. But I need to tell you about my mother. She has been dead for years, but until you, she was the most precious person in my life. And she did some of the things you do.”
This news floored Evangeline. “What do you mean?”
“My mother was from the Appalachian Mountains. She knew the uses of herbs and I can remember her healing me in ways similar to the way you did. But she had to do her magic when my dad wasn’t around. He hated it. It’s sad, but before she died, he hated her. There was no room in his world for what my mother was. He tormented her; he persecuted her—not physically, but mentally.”
“I’m so sorry, Eric. But your mother sounds fascinating; I would like to know everything about her you can remember.”
“That’s the sad thing; I don’t remember a whole lot. I wish I did.”
“How is the relationship between you and your father now?” Evangeline had no desire to come between a man and his family.
“We don’t agree on a lot of things. But, we have made peace. I can’t wait for him to meet you.”
“Eric, he would never understand me.”
“You are a beautiful, precious woman. We’ll just steer the conversation away from religion or politics—the way most American families have to.”
When they arrived at the house in Hyde Park, a strange car sat in the driveway. “Philippe must be here.” Evangeline smiled. “You will like him. He’s originally from Martinique. Nanette has him translating this diary that belonged to one of our ancestors from the 1700’s, Genevieve Romee. I can’t wait to hear what he’s discovered.”
“I can’t either, it sounds intriguing.” When they walked through the door, it was obvious something was wrong. Nanette, Angelique and Philippe were all sitting at the kitchen table. A newspaper lay face up between them. They looked somber.
“What’s wrong?” Evangeline asked with concern in her voice.
“Look at this,” Nanette pointed to the front page of the paper.
Evangeline and Eric stepped closer and Evangeline gasped with dismay. There—displayed blatantly—in a full color photo, was Evangeline calling down the storm. She looked like a medieval sorceress, captured at the very moment that a lightning bolt illuminated the night sky. Eric was in the picture also, standing just to the right of her, his heart in his eyes. But the headline was the most eye-catching thing of all. AUSTIN FIRE DEPARTMENT CALLS UPON WITCH TO DOUSE WILDFIRE.
Chapter Eight
“Your job is not in jeopardy, McAllister. Relax” Chief Kirby smiled at Eric. “So, tell me the truth. Is your lady a real witch?”
“Yes, she is. I don’t claim to understand all of it, but I’ve seen her do some incredible things. And she means the world to me, Chief.”
“Listen. I’m not a skeptic, and I’m not a believer, what I am, is intrigued. And if Evangeline made it rain and saved our butts, innocent lives, and property—I can’t be anything but grateful. Am I happy about the weird publicity? Not entirely. But I can live with it.”
“Thanks, Chief. Do we have any idea who took the photograph?” Eric asked—suspicions in his mind.
“No, newspapers protect their sources. They won’t tell me a thing.”
“Even if it could help in the arson investigation?”
“Not so far. But, you quit worrying. Just keep your eye on Cammack. If he is the arsonist, he’ll make a mistake. We just don’t want to miss it when he does.”
* * * *
Aimee pulled out the charcoal drawing she had hidden behind the large armoire. The magical barrier that Zak had thrown up around her had taken a lot out of him. But as far as they could tell, Black Eddie had no knowledge of it.
“That’s beautiful, Aimee.”
“The subject matter is very special to me—it’s a statue that sits in a park in St. Martinsville, Louisiana of the beautiful Acadian Evangeline Bellefontaine. It’s uncanny how much my Evangeline resembles this beautiful tragic girl. This statute means a lot to us—many times, I took her to see it in person. She felt a kinship to it, and so did I. When she sees this, she will remember. Are you familiar with the story, Zak?”
“No, ma’am. Will you tell me?”
Aimee looked at the young man who had been such a comfort to her. And even though she thought of him as a child, she realized that he, in fact, was a very handsome man—a man that she could envision as a perfect match for her own child. “Evangeline was a woman very much in love. Her beloved was a man named Gabriel Lajeunesse. They were to be married in the new world, in America. Tragically, they were separated during the deportation from Arcadia. They spent literally years searching for one another, many times being very near to each other, but making no contact. Finally, near the end of their lives, they were reunited in Philadelphia, where Evangeline is a Sister of Mercy tending the poor. There, while she is helping tend the sick during an epidemic, she finds Gabriel and he dies in her arms.”
“That’s one of the saddest stories I’ve ever heard.”
“It is pretty heart-wrenching. But it’s such a beautiful story of true love and not ever giving up on finding that love. It reminds me of our situation. Zak, I know that my family thinks I’m dead—but if they had any idea I was still alive, they’d move Heaven and Earth to find me. And when they rescue us, Zak, you’ll never be alone again. My family will be your family, for as long as you want them to be.”
* * * *
“This diary is unbelievable.” Philippe addressed the family that crowded around the dining table. “Genevieve Romee was taken from the Paris Salpetriere prison in 1727. She had been serving time for being a vagabond, which sadly meant her only crime was probably being caught on the road traveling from one place to another, alone, without the company of a man.”
“Was that legal?” Evangeline asked saddened. At her tone, Eric tightened the grip he had around her waist. She was sitting on his lap and he was having the devil of a time concentrating.
“It was the custom, darling.” Nanette interjected. “Women, especially independent women, had it hard back in those days.”
“Did she say anything about the type of witchcraft she practiced?” Angelique asked her fiancé.
“The 1700’s was a dangerous time to be a witch. Midwives and herbalists were targeted and killed. This was near the end of the witch hunts in Europe, and some say that millions of women, men and children were butchered for being witches, it made the Nazi death camps seem mild by comparison. Genevieve did not start her diary until after she arrived in America. At first, you can tell she was hesitant to commit a lot of facts to paper, but the longer she was here and the farther you read into the diary, it seems she lost a lot of her initial trepidation. But to answer your question, at first Genevieve seems to be your garden variety hedge witch—basic herbs, healing and some of your weather manipulation, Evangeline. But New Orleans changed all that.”
Nanette laughed. “New Orleans always changes you. It’s truly a magical city.”
“Was she scared?” Evangeline asked, softly.
Philippe laid the diary down and lowered his voice. “Sure she was. This was a new world. Everything was different. She speaks of the giant mosquitoes that plagued them and how cattle died because their nostrils would be so full of the pests they would die from suffocation. Here, in America, she became acquainted with yellow fever, thick miry yellow mud, and devastating hurricanes—a myriad of new experiences and most of them unpleasant. There is a lot of mystery here, also. As you know, the girls were brought to the Ursuline Convent. Immediately, the story began changing. Instead of women that were taken from the prisons, word spread that these women were all from church charitable organizations. I’m not judging whether nor not the women taken from Salpetriere were virgins, but they were definitely not all
the innocents they were advertised as. This is where it gets sticky.”
Angelique smiled at Philippe, and Eric knew she was happy. He wondered if Evangeline looked at him the same way. Philippe continued, “The men that came to pick out a bride were for the most part wealthy Creoles. There wasn’t a lot of preliminary contact with the women; in fact, it comes across like a cattle or a slave auction.”
“How terrible,” Nanette commented, intrigued.
Philippe agreed. “It was terrible. Genevieve was claimed by Louis Arnaud. They were married, without ceremony within a week.”
“Not much time for romance,” Angelique muttered.
“Romance didn’t have a thing to do with it. Louis was cruel.” The doctor adjusted his glasses and turned a few pages in the diary. “Genevieve doesn’t go into great detail, but apparently the new husband was into an early form of S&M.”
“S&M?” Evangeline asked, confused.
“Sado-masochism, sexual cruelty.” Philippe did not bother to elaborate, but Evangeline nestled back into Eric’s embrace. He stroked her back, telling her without words that she would never have to fear anything from anyone as long as he was alive.
“Obviously there were children from the union, or we wouldn’t be here.” Nanette pressed for more information.
“As far as I have gotten in the diary; there were two, both female. Tragically, the oldest was killed, and if I’m not mistaken in my translation, it was fratricide.”
“Louis killed his daughter?” Evangeline whispered the question.
“Yes, at the age of fourteen. Genevieve alludes to abuse, perhaps even sexual abuse. The reference is sketchy, but from what I can gather, Louis choked her to death when she tried to escape his bed to flee to her mother for protection.”
“How horrible.” Angelique mourned for the long-lost girl.
“What about the other daughter?” Eric asked, as intrigued by the history as the women.