by L. J. Longo
Porter was nothing if not accommodating. As soon as he obeyed her needs, thrusting fast and deep, the woman melted into her bliss. She shuddered and jolted, biting back her own cries of pleasure.
It made Porter love her that much more. This woman was scared enough of her own pleasure to bespell a man and still stifle her own joy. Poor Emaula didn’t know how to enjoy sex. He’d enjoy teaching her.
He didn’t have her issue with restraint, so when he felt his own rising orgasm, he didn’t fight it. He did manage to avoid howling. That startled proper ladies, and Emaula was very much a proper lady.
Emaula smiled up at him with dreamy eyes and touched his face, bringing him down for another soft kiss. He relaxed into the kiss. She really was lovely. So soft and kind. She smelled fantastic at the start and even better now…
He lay beside her, and she continued to stroke his chest and kiss his mouth, soft sleepy kisses. He drifted into a deeper sleep and knew it was over. She was finished with him for now, and he could do nothing but let her go.
He tried to hold her just the same. She was too special to simply slip away. “Emaula, are you coming back tomorrow?”
She held onto the dream and lifted on one arm. “Sorry, what did you say? I think I’m waking up a bit.”
Then blushing, Emaula lifted the sheet to cover her breasts.
The world crumbled as her waking mind forced itself too much into the details she had made and broke them.
“Are you coming back? I’d like to show you more of this world.” Porter felt foolish. It probably wasn’t really very good. She probably only said it was because she wanted to be kind. “I mean, the forest parts. The parts I made by myself.”
“By yourself?” Emaula tilted her head. “Who else would make things here?”
Porter shrugged. “Oh, you know, other witches, like you. I mean, this is mostly mine, but I made it for them. I want to show you the parts I made for me. Emaula…”
But she’d gone, yanked out of the dream.
Porter lay in the bed and sighed. He was stupid. He’d ruined any chance he had for happiness with this woman with his stupidity. She wanted sex, and she wanted … she’d said friendship, but she couldn’t really mean that. What witch wanted friendship with a wolf?
Porter wandered through his little world toward the waterfall. Maybe he’d go swimming. Maybe he’d run until the forest turned dark.
Something in the air smelled strange, like iron and magic. A foul combination that didn’t make sense and was not part of his dream world. So, Porter woke up into a new nightmare.
Chapter Five
It was as Sock said, then. Old difficult-to-shake habits. A handsome young prize who lacked the strength to say no. Who crafted works of romance and beauty for other witches, like her. He’d asked her with such alarm “are you coming back?” and she could not tell if he feared her rejection, her desire, or her wrath.
Emaula sat in her bed, and stared at him as he slept, leaned beside her door at the foot of her bed. Like a toy posed by an overly careful child. His expression was troubled as he dreamed. In the moonlight, she could see the curl of his lip and the furrow of his brow. Did he wander through his dream forest alone and at peace? Had she forced him into that dream place and allowed other witches to find him?
A chill shuddered through her. Not the rain. Something magical prickled the air. Creaked through the inn, through the shadowy hallway outside. Emaula instinctively looked around for the danger. Was it Mother? Teasing her from the shadows. Emaula looked at the ceiling expecting a dark webbing and finding only the shadows of the jungle trees.
Still, she’d broken her oath. She’d harmed Porter in terrible ways that only a witch could.
As if summoned by the thought, she saw the danger.
In her mirror.
Just past the shadowy reflection of her pale skin and her blonde hair, something big with a short-sword glowed in an eerie green light. Emaula couldn’t understand what she saw until the creature stepped closer to her mirror. The world filled with a low growl.
“Mr. Navarro?”
The eerie light was the unwholesome combination of cold iron and magic. The oath she had broken had woken its champion and the creature—it was Navarro, wasn’t it?—was coming to kill her. Death if she harmed those dear to him.
Emaula’s heart dropped out from under her. Goddess, how Porter must have hated her. She hoped he didn’t blame himself when they found her dead the next morning.
Her magic flustered and tried to stir her. It surprised her how calm she felt about this inevitable death. She expected she’d have a better survival instinct.
Navarro, or rather the oath controlling the physical form of Navarro, raised the sword.
Emaula wondered if she ought to run, just for show. But no, that would only make things harder for Jasprite. She pulled her hair off her neck and knelt before the mirror, bowed her head forward to make it easier for him to strike.
She ought to regret her choice. But she smiled slightly. It was impossible to regret Porter. She only wished she’d stayed in his world longer, given him the chance to show it to her since he’d seemed so excited. She only wished he’d wanted her genuinely and not because the force of her magic made him want her.
There was no sound from the mirror, but the shape was nearly upon her.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” It was a surprised shout, without any malice in it, and accompanied by an enormous clattering as Porter shot up and swung the door shut.
The image in her mirror went away, blocked by the door, and Emaula turned with a start. The man came from the hallway, not the mirror.
But Navarro’s big hand caught the door to push it open. Porter put all his weight on the door to fight him. “Emaula, through the window. Down into the caves. Travel straight and down, and you’ll get to Yenna.”
Emaula’s stomach clenched with shame and fear. More fear than she felt facing her execution, just from seeing this man—her victim—coming to her defense.
The tiger did not stop. The door splintered between the force of the two men.
Porter looked around at her to tell her to run again. The fear in his face turned into realization, and the door slipped. “You’re not running?”
“I broke my oath. There will be consequences,” she said calmly. “Please, don’t get in its way. It might hurt you.”
A chunk of the door broke free, and the tiger stabbed the sword through. It only missed Porter because Navarro stabbed blindly.
“Porter!” She gasped. “Please, don’t let it hurt you.”
The wolf turned his back on her executioner and sprang across the room and dropped on the floor before the mirror with her. “Stop it, Emaula.”
He seized her arms, and her magic snapped at him. The wolf snarled in pain and released her. His hands helplessly grasped at nothing, because he wanted to hold her. “You didn’t break no oath.”
Emaula shook her head. “The magic knows better than you or I.”
“Like hell it does,” Porter said.
Then he hesitated and smiled with a mad kind of joy. “Wait. That’s what you were afraid of? Hurting me?”
Before Emaula could answer the tiger broke through the door. The explosions of wood rattled through the house. Then as the big man moved ceremoniously closer, sword raised, the hinges creaked and the remains of the door inched forward.
“Emaula…” Porter twisted, looking from her to the tiger. “There’s—you don’t understand.”
“Magic does not misunderstand.” His protest offended her. This wasn’t some game she was taking too seriously. This was his damned freedom. “You’re bespelled, Porter. I broke my oath. I must accept the consequences.”
“No!” he shouted.
The tiger—perhaps part of Nav still inside his possessed body—seized Porter by his arm and threw him out of the way.
Porter did not resist his flight, but rolled into the wall and scrambled onto his feet again the second his feet touched the ground.
He launched himself at the tiger’s knees.
Navarro lashed out with the sword. Porter dodged by grabbing the sword’s handle. “Call off the magic so I can explain.”
Why was he so insistent? Emaula would rather be executed quietly than to be the object of his pity, of his foolish resistance. Did he defend all his attackers this passionately? Another one of his old habits?
The tiger jerked the wolf and the sword up. Porter got his feet under him and kicked Navarro in the gut. While the tiger caught his balance, Porter punched his face hard.
The magic flared to protect its champion, and the tiger roared. Emaula had never heard anything so loud or so bone-crushingly frightening. Porter paused only a moment, but it was long enough for Navarro to catch him again by the shoulder. This time the wolf was thrown behind him against the shattered door.
There was nothing between Emaula and the magic’s champion.
Porter cried out. “I know I’m bespelled. I don’t care.”
The tiger stopped. The wicked glow quivered. Was it only because she entertained the doubt herself?
Porter crawled back from the hallway, looking from the halted tiger to Emaula. “It doesn’t count that way, Emaula. Listen.”
“I broke my oath, Porter.” Emaula didn’t look at him. The tiger stood above her, the sword raised, ready to strike at her neck, but frozen. “I shall accept my fate.”
“I…” Porter struggled with the words. “Listen. You’re not the first witch to bespell me. Not even close.”
Emaula burst with shame, and the tiger lifted his arm higher.
“No! You listen! I know when it’s bad and when it’s not. I know a person I want, and a person I don’t.” Porter spoke in a burst. “And you’re a person I want, Emaula. So, please don’t do this to yourself.”
Emaula looked at the floor.
It was so easy for her to doubt herself, to accuse herself. What if, what if the man genuinely did want her? How would she even know? “Porter, you were trained to accept it when a witch forced her will on you.”
“Yeah. I know.” Porter moved around Navarro, keeping his distance from the sword, ready to lunge for it again. “It’s why I was made. But I also know what they were like. And, Emaula, they were never like you.”
Emaula looked at the floor, unable to meet his eyes.
Porter came between her and the dim glowing sword again and put his hands on her knees over her nightgown. “So, you haven’t hurt me, got it? No broken oath, I promise.”
Emaula sniffed. She hadn’t known she was crying until she nodded and felt the tear fall off her cheek.
The sword’s strange light shrank away. The iron looked much less impressive without the swirls of power. Navarro shifted off balance.
“Uh.” Navarro staggered and looked around the room, deeply confused to find himself awake and standing with a sword in his hand. “What the hell?”
Emaula looked at Porter to explain. He turned and sat on the floor, facing the tiger and rubbed his neck. His eloquence dried up for the night. “Uh, nothing? Go back to sleep, Nav.”
Navarro woke a little more. “Did she bespell you?”
“No.” Porter smiled a wide, earnest, and innocent smile.
Navarro paused for a moment, then hardened. “Don’t give me that ‘I’ve been a good-boy-face’, Porter. What am I doing here with—”
Emaula said, “I have an overly-developed sense of guilt when it comes to using any magic. And Porter agreed to partake of a potion so we could … circumvent my curse.”
Navarro stared at her without comprehension.
“In dreams,” Porter said.
“Oh!” The tiger got it. Then his brow darkened with doubt. “Like your witches before—”
“No!” Porter insisted. “Not like them.”
Navarro’s brows knit together. “Porter, are you sure?”
“For fuck’s sake,” Porter growled. “I know what I want and what I don’t.”
Navarro, who most likely had never been growled at in his life, lifted his hands defensively. “You know what, I don’t know what I walked into, so I’m just gonna walk out.”
“Good plan, boss,” Porter said.
Emaula trembled from the residual chill of the magic and the rain and her own self-doubt. She hugged her arms. Navarro left and tried to shut the door, but he’d broken it beyond repair.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered into the hallway. The shadows of the hall swallowed him as soon as he turned towards his room with Jasprite.
Emaula envied her friend with sickening jealousy. Navarro would return to bed and wrap his arms around her and nuzzle her neck. Jasprite would not appreciate the little affection but push him away for disrupting her sleep or being too warm. She didn’t understand what it was like to live without touch.
Porter dropped a blanket over her shoulders and knelt behind her. He rubbed her arms through the fabric and then smiled at her.
“Sorry for all the fuss.” Emaula wiped her eyes.
Porter laughed, amused and gentle. “I don’t know the right word, but you are a very silly woman.”
“Self-righteous, moralizing, self-hating, masochistic,” Emaula suggested.
“Silly,” Porter agreed and kissed the blanket over her shoulder.
Her magic reached through the fabric to attack him. She tried to duck his touch, but the magic slapped at him. He flinched away.
He leaned against her bed and draped an arm over his knee. “Is there more to say?”
Emaula shook her head. “No. I think we should … go our separate ways for now.”
“I think you’re not listening again.” Porter did not move from his place. “Will you come back into my dreams again?”
She lifted her head, surprised. But then, she shouldn’t be so surprised, should she? He said he loved her. He said he wanted her. And the dreams were the only place he could touch her. There was no reason for her doubts. No reason for her fear.
“I want to show you places I never showed the others,” Porter said. “The waterfall and the forest. Places I made for me. I want you to see those.”
Emaula smiled. He wanted to give her things he’d never given the others. She was different.
Porter rubbed his shoulder. Not his usual shy gesture, but because it was bruising when Navarro had thrown him into the wall. “Maybe we will make a new world together. You could show me something beautiful from the North, and we can explore it together.”
“Porter, that’s—” It sounded wonderful. That’s what she wanted to say, but her heart felt like it could shatter in her chest. “Do you really love me?”
He laughed. “No. I fight magically-possessed tigers in the middle of the night because I think it is fun. Of course, I love you. Silly witch.”
Chapter Six
Porter woke before the dawn and crept out of Emaula’s room. He liked the hallway on the second story even less in the darkness; he couldn’t shake the crawling feeling that something watching from the ceiling was about to pounce. Emaula’s room smelled nice, and she was so beautiful to look at while she slept, but he had to talk to the pack, to explain and maybe to fight.
So, Porter crept out of her room and headed toward the kitchen. Half-Ear hadn’t come back from the seaside last night, Nav’s room was dead quiet, but Sock muttered in his sleep. Porter hoped his dreams were good.
In the kitchen, Porter absently made coffee and started on a special breakfast, only big enough for his pack. He decided on pita and fava beans and tomatoes, and bits of steak. As he prepared the beans, Porter dreaded the daylight.
To talk, to explain, maybe to fight. It made him nervous. They’d laugh when he said he loved her, and Sock would be scared and angry. They’d say he wasn’t good enough for her, and they’d be right, but what did it matter if she was happy?
It would not last. These things never did with witches. She’d go, and Porter would stay. And it would hurt, but not forever.
Half-Ear and Sock worried so much she wanted
to bind him, to keep him. But Porter knew the truth. He wasn’t a wolf worth keeping. The others didn’t understand because they were useful people. But Porter … he was really only good for one thing, and she’d tire of him soon enough. Then she would go, and he would stay. It would not hurt forever.
Soon, Nav woke and sat on the porch. In a few moments, Half-Ear just come back from the seaside sat with him. Porter caught pieces of their talk. Words like “witch” and “dumb puppy” and “charm” and “confused”.
It was very frustrating. He wasn’t bright, but he wasn’t confused. He knew he loved Emaula, and he knew there was no harm in it.
Nav laughed, a little louder, “Hell, she can’t be any worse than—who’s that weasel that keeps beating you up, again?”
“Arva is a mongoose, not a weasel. And let’s leave my shitty choices in women out of this,” Half-Ear answered crossly.
Porter’s instinct was to avoid the conversation. But it didn’t seem like a good idea to play dumb or pretend nothing had happened, or to deny anything. So, he had to have this talk, maybe fight with the pack.
The steak sizzled as he flipped it in the pan. He sliced the tomatoes and layered them over the four bowls of warmed beans. What would he say to them? What could he say that he hadn’t already expressed to Nav? He just wanted the whole thing to go away.
Sock’s distinctive footstep sounded in the dining hall. He had a tendency to tap the tables and chairs or drag his hand along the wall like he needed three points of contact with the world he had trouble seeing.
Nav and Half-Ear no longer whispered, waiting for the little wolf to join them.
Porter sighed and poked the steak. Still a little too rare to cut and serve. He tapped the knife agitatedly along the counter and craned his hearing in case Sock was speaking.
He added two cups of coffee to the tray along with the bowls of beans and tomatoes. Half-Ear’s coffee was black and steaming. Sock’s drenched in milk. Then put Nav’s tea, a fragrant eastern tea Jasprite had introduced him to, at the center.
“I already said I don’t know,” Sock said. “It has to be her. I don’t know where else that kind of dark energy could come from.”