by Josh Lanyon
“I’m sure.”
“Because this is the speak-now moment. I won’t be able to take it if you change your mind after we’re married.”
He said gently, “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not going to change my mind.”
“If you’re following through out of some misguided sense of honor or chivalry—”
He drew back to study me. “Honor or chivalry? Where do you get this stuff, Cos? I’m not following through. I’m marrying the man I love. The man I’ve loved since the moment we met.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t love me when we first met. You didn’t even like me.”
He raised his powerful shoulders, conceding the point. “Okay. It wasn’t love at first sight.”
“More than that. You actively disliked me.”
He sighed, obviously decided to humor me, and said, “True. The first time we met, I thought you were too young, too pretty, and way too used to having your own way.” His smile was wry. “And I still think that.”
“That’s…frank.”
“You asked.”
“What is it you think you love about me, then?”
John looked perplexed, but as previously established, no one expects the Spanish Inquisition—or a murder investigation—in the midst of their declaration. It was important to me to know for sure he understood what he was doing because I wasn’t exaggerating: I didn’t think I could survive his changing his mind once we were married.
“I love all kinds of things. I didn’t put together a dossier. What is it you love about me?”
I said at once, “I love your strength and your honesty and your decency and your courage. I love the fact that you know what you want and go after it. I wish I had your single-mindedness. I love the way you smell, and I love the way you taste. I love the way you make that funny, kind of half-growl sound before you laugh, like it goes against your nature to give in to being amused.”
“I don’t think I growl before I laugh.”
“You do, though. And I love—”
“Okay, well, I can’t put it as nicely as you do, but I love you.”
“But why?” I insisted. “How do you know it’s real? Maybe it isn’t. Your friends, your family, none of them think I’m your type.”
“You’re not my type. My type was guys I had no intention of marrying. The idea of marriage never crossed my mind until you. You’re…a separate category.”
I started to answer, and he put his hand over my mouth.
“Yes, I thought some uncomplimentary things when we met, but I knew the first night we went out that I never wanted to be away from you.”
That was the love spell, pure and simple. Nothing about that reassured me in the least.
But John continued, “Because in addition to being too young, too pretty, too used to having everything your own way, you’re smart and you’re funny and you’re kind. You’re…bright. I don’t mean mentally—”
I opened my mouth, and he corrected hastily, “I mean, yes, mentally, obviously, but in your attitude. In your way of…of being. You’re positive. I don’t know how else to put it. You make me see the world in a different light. Which sounds corny, but it’s the truth. The world is different since I met you. Life is more interesting and more surprising and more entertaining.”
That couldn’t be the love spell. Could it? For one thing, John was coming up with genuine positives, whether perceived or true. For another, he definitely wasn’t blind to my faults.
He finished, “I don’t know what my family or friends think when they see us together. I don’t give a damn. I came here tonight because I can’t imagine not having you in my life. I can’t imagine anything worse than never seeing you again.”
My throat closed, squashing my answer. This was so much more than I had expected. This sounded—felt—like true love. Not that I was an expert. This was my only experience at real love, true love, as well.
“So unless you want out, we’re getting married tomorrow morning. I don’t know if we’ll live happily ever after—I don’t believe in fairy tales—but I know there isn’t a chance in hell of living happily without you.”
“I don’t want out,” I managed.
He kissed my forehead. “Then I think we should try to get some sleep.”
We didn’t sleep, though.
We lay in wakeful silence in the moonlight flooding the room, and then almost in perfect accord we turned to each other…
Warm, soft lips trailing kisses as light and lovely as thistledown or moonbeams the length of my naked back. One velvety kiss for each articulation of my spine. The vocabulary of seduction. Not that he had to convince me. Each touch of lips to skin glinting and sparkling through my nerves. Through my cells. Through the bits of air and fire that make up the soul. Kiss by kiss, John read the human runes of bone and cartilage, telling my fortune with each beat of his heart. I closed my eyes, breathing softly, wondering where he would stop, not wanting him to ever stop.
“Oh…”
“You like that?”
“Yes.”
I felt his smile against my flushed, damp skin.
He nuzzled the sensitive hollow at the small of my back, and my breath caught. It tickled a little, and it sent something fluttering in my belly. Something soft and warm and helpless.
“Baby bats in my belfry…”
“Huh?” John asked.
I shook my head. “I’m being silly.”
“I like your silliness,” he murmured, “and those little sighs you make…but they’re not good for my resolve.”
I burrowed my head in my folded arms. “What are you resolved to do?”
“Nothing that will make you regret marrying me tomorrow.”
I considered this silently while he slowly rubbed his scratchy jaw against my ass cheek, savoring, but also giving me time to think.
“Not even possible.”
“Yeah, well.”
His warm palm stroked my flank, possessively, appreciatively, and I waited, reveling in his touch. Was that too strong a word for it? No. There was nothing so simple or so powerful as the feel of his hand on my skin. I felt sure I would know his touch in the dark, know his touch in death. Was it really possible to tire of this, grow bored with being loved, cherished? I couldn’t imagine it. John’s love felt essential to my survival. There could be no substitute. No surrogate.
John’s hand stilled. He shifted around on the mattress, nudging my legs apart. I glanced over my shoulder, surprised, wary, as his fingers dug into my cheeks. His head bent and, to my shock, I felt the wet slide of his tongue on the sensitive sac of my testicles as though he was sampling something sweet and illicit. I bucked, and made a sound that men—well, men like John—are not supposed to make.
He gave a surprisingly devilish laugh.
“Good?”
“Oui. Grimper aux rideaux,” I moaned.
“I have no idea what you said, but your accent is so damn cute.”
“Merci…”
He licked my balls, then behind my balls, working his way back up to the forbidden zone, and every cell in my body seemed to take a step back and pop on its monocle. Sacrebleu! indeed. He nuzzled my ass, and I could feel myself trembling with anticipation.
He paused to whisper, “We’re not going to violate international law here, are we?”
Never mind French. I couldn’t remember how any words worked. I finally managed a thick, “I-I’m not sure. What are you going to do?” Afraid to ask in case it was something he should stop.
By way of answer, slippery heat slowly pressed into my body.
Oh. God. Oh Goddess. Oh, John…
Osculum infame. The shameful kiss.
According to the Compendium Maleficarum of 1608, witches would greet the Devil with an anal kiss—and occasionally vice versa. How like a particular type of mortal to turn something sacred and lovely into a sin.
Anyway, sin or not, it was beyond my willpower to lie motionless as John’s tongue did those shatt
ering things: delicate, wicked, teasing things that left me mewling like a kitten. I whimpered, squirmed, humped, feeling the roughness of his beard, the hardness of teeth. He whoofed, caught my hips, holding me fast.
“Don’t break my nose, because that’s going to be impossible to explain.” His voice was threaded with amusement.
I laughed too, weakly, and then gasping as he kept pressing, pressing. “Sorry. It’s just so good. So good.”
“Yeah? I don’t want to get you thrown out of the Church of Stevie Nicks.”
I shook my head, still laughing, feeling light and silly as smoke rings or snappy, sizzling fireworks on sticks.
I could hear the smile in his voice, but he sounded serious. “I don’t ever want to push you into something that you regret or hurts you.”
I said urgently, “No, this is okay. This is not that.” Close. But crucial differences.
I hoped. Honestly, I didn’t care anymore. When the wine is drawn, one must drink it. A proverb John could surely appreciate.
John’s tongue circled and then dipped in. I heard myself making inarticulate and helpless sounds of delight and revelation. Was he really…? Was this actually…?
Yes, it was. Yes, he was. John’s tongue poked slickly in and out of my clenched-tight hole. So nasty. So naughty. Almost at once I began to come harder than I had ever come in my life, a messy spray of hot, wet, glittering celebration. Of life. Of love.
I rolled over and clutched him, whispering my feelings, my promises. He held me tightly, letting me babble.
“You’re sparkling.” I could hear the smile and the tenderness beneath the smile as he reached out to touch a drop of moonglow on my chest.
My heart seemed to rise like a will-o’-the-wisp. I was surprised it didn’t simply float away. I knew with complete certainty that he loved me with everything he was capable of.
And in that moment, I truly believed it would be enough.
Chapter Twenty
There was no Transformation of the Stag for me the next morning.
And maybe there never would be. There were worse things that could happen to a man.
When Andi arrived to pick me up, I explained about Rex, and she agreed that their need was the greater. We collected Bree and V. and drove straight to Our Lady of the Green Veil, arriving just before sunrise.
Rex’s family and a few other friends were already gathered, pale, tired, tearstained.
When word came, we crowded into Rex’s room, joined hands to form a circle around the hospital bed where Rex lay gray and still, and chanted the words of healing prayers and comfort spells as the sun slowly bathed the room in rose-gold light.
Afterward, Medicus Abioye said we had done all that could be done; the rest was in the hands of the Goddess.
So mote it be.
The most difficult of all the lessons.
On the way back to Andi’s car, V. said, “So the wedding is off, right? You can’t get married without undergoing the Transformation of the Stag.”
“Ha-ha.”
He grinned. “Yeah, but what if I’m right?”
Andi said, “I had no idea Rex was a detective. I thought they were a potter or something.”
“That’s a great disguise for a detective,” V. said.
“Did you know, Cos?”
“No.”
Andi shivered. “Their mother said a street person saw it happen.”
“Did they get a license? The make of the car?”
“No license. It happened too fast. The car was a black Mercedes Benz.”
“Maybe the self-driving Mercedes is roaming the streets again,” V. said.
“That’s an urban legend,” Andi told him.
“The hell!”
She said, “Anyway, self-driving or not, it wasn’t an accident. The witness said the car drove straight at them.”
Bree said, “Maybe they stuck their nose some place they shouldn’t.”
* * * * *
“Who comes to be joined together in the presence of the Goddess?”
I answered, “Cosmo Aurelius Saville.”
Inés, standing beneath the rose-twined arch in the white garden, smiled at me and turned to John.
John said, “John Joseph Galbraith.” He glanced at me, and I smiled. His mouth quirked, but his eyes stayed grave.
Two hours after Andi and I got back from the hospital, John and I stood within a circle outlined in flowers, our hands lightly bound by a braided ivory rope, surrounded by our loved ones as we exchanged our marriage vows.
The tiny garden was crowded with white wooden chairs, and every chair was filled, though this informal, private service was only the first ceremony of the day. The big event, an Episcopalian wedding service, would take place late afternoon in Maman’s garden. That second exchanging of vows was to be immediately followed by a country—the country being France—style reception.
The severity of John’s black suit suited his stern not-quite-handsomeness. A butterfly fluttered down, touched his shoulder for an instant, and fluttered away.
Despite everything that had happened, or maybe because of it, this morning seemed especially beautiful and truly magical. The air was sweet with the heady fragrance of an abundance of cut and newly planted flowers, the sun warm and caressing, and nearly everyone I loved was gathered round.
There were a few tears, but it was mostly smiles. Nor were all the tears from happiness. Neither Nola nor my mother were crying for joy. In fairness, Maman was not actually crying; it was more of a light mist with a slight chance of thundershowers. Nola was experiencing climate change: a severe downpour with a high probability of freezing temperatures.
Inés spoke in French and then repeated in English, “Cosmo and John have chosen to include the traditional handfasting in their ceremony. You may know this ceremony as the basis for such terms as tying the knot or bonded in matrimony. The yoking of their hands symbolizes their love and commitment to each other, but it is not ropes or rings that unite the hearts and bodies of two men for all their lives. Love is not a restraint or restriction or a predicament. Rings may be lost, cords maybe be cut, and bodies will die, but true love is eternal.
“Cosmo, is it with willing hand you take this man to have and to hold through all your earthly years?”
“It is,” I said.
“John, is it with willing hand you take this man to have and to hold through all your earthly years?”
John said, “It is.”
“Blessed be. Never forget that these are the hands that will protect and champion you the rest of your life. Never will these hands be raised against you. For his are the hands that will support you in your efforts, steady you when you stumble, raise you up when you fall. For his is the touch that will cherish your body, comfort your heart, and feed your spirit.”
“So mote it be,” I said.
“I do,” John said.
Inés nodded to my cousin Lucille, who strummed her guitar and began to sing Stevie Nicks’s “Your Hand I Will Never Let It Go.”
John’s lips twitched. He met my eyes and shook his head ever so slightly. I squeezed his hand.
When the song ended, Inés said, “Cosmo and John, with willing hearts you have pledged to take the man at your side to have and to hold through all your years. The Goddess and God smile upon this union. All gathered here today wish you a lifetime of happiness—”
“Not everyone!” a woman screamed in bloodcurdling tones.
I confess that for one appalled moment, I thought it was Maman. But no.
Worse.
Ciara stood about a foot from me, outside the sacred circle.
She looked…unhinged.
It was not a Maleficent moment. This was not a witch in control of her powers; this was a woman on the edge of a nervous breakdown. She was white and shaking and sick. She looked like she hadn’t bathed or slept in days. She was still wearing the short blue shift she’d had on when I came to see her on Friday.
People began to rise from
their chairs. I heard the instant low hum of protection spells being spoken, like a swarm of bees rising, and I saw John’s groomsmen breaking rank and making for us. I saw Sergeant Bergamasco reaching for what looked like a shoulder holster. A dozen images imprinted themselves in a quick, confused rush upon my memory: my mother’s face, Lucille’s guitar twanging as she dropped it, Ralph Grindlewood’s astonished expression—and the equally transfixed expression of the young, dark-haired woman beside him.
Ciara cried, “Not everyone wishes you a lifetime of happiness, you lewd, vile, canker-blossom, maggot pie of a murderer!”
She pointed skyward—and I saw that she was holding a pistol. She didn’t fire it, though. She quoted, “Ùine, stad a-nis, Tha mo ghunna a ’dol gu pop.”
I didn’t understand the words, but it was easy to guess their meaning because I and everyone else instantly froze in place.
A holding spell.
Something old enough, arcane enough, powerful enough to hold even other witches motionless for a few vital seconds—and that was all the time she required.
She walked back and forth along the curve of the circle, pointing the gun at me, and crying. She said through her tears, “I would wish you a lifetime of pain and sorrow—only your life ends now.”
I had never seen a gun up close. John did not carry a gun. He owned guns, and we would have guns in the house, whether I liked it or not (and I did not), but he had not shown them to me. Ciara’s pistol, which seemed the size of a Schwerer Gustav Dora, wavered.
“Why are you so hard to kill?” she wept.
There was barely time to be afraid—although I was afraid—because in the space of describing what happened, it was over. In one lightning-swift motion, John shook off the silk rope binding us together, knocked me to the grass, sprang from the circle, and grabbed my besom, which was leaning against the side of the rose-covered archway in anticipation of the broom jumping. He whacked Ciara across the middle so hard, she fell backward and dropped the pistol.
It went off with a shocking bang! Everyone screamed, and the blue crackle-glazed seer’s globe on the nearest pedestal shattered into a million shining bits.