“Thank you for fixing him, Kaye,” said Rosemary sincerely. “I swear I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
Kaye sardonically remarked, “You’d probably be a lot more careful. While I’m around, you don’t seem to think twice about getting yourselves torn to pieces.”
Rosemary conceded the point. “Well, that might be true. Things have certainly gotten bloodier since you and Andrew joined our group. But anyway, yes, I’d love to meet your son. Let’s go to Boston. You tell me when, and we’ll work out some of their haunted hot spots. Isn’t Salem close to Boston? Now that we know all about witches. Fun for everybody.”
More awake now, Stefan asked, “What’s the story with the Sheriff?”
“Oh speaking of fun,” replied Greg. “She’s ordered all the Eyeteeth Mountain Bakers out of town.”
“Who could blame her?” muttered Kaye. “Those people are a hazard. They should have to wear big orange ‘danger’ signs around their necks.”
“Ardelia is coming to Kansas City with us tomorrow,” Greg continued. “Rosemary talked her into it, somehow.”
“I think my family’s shelter might be able to help her out,” said Rosemary.
“Now you,” said Kaye, looking thoughtfully into Rosemary’s face. “You should be resting too. You had a pretty good shock yourself today, maybe more than one, and took a nasty spill.”
“I will. We’re just wrapping things up. We have to tuck everybody in for the night.”
Stefan sighed, a yawn sneaking out of his mouth. “Can somebody please tell me why Rosemary is holding a bundle of blankets? Did someone leave us a foundling or something?”
Greg gestured at the clumsy bundle Rosemary clutched. “Rosemary has a gift for Kaye, apparently.”
“This is actually from both me and Andrew,” said Rosemary, setting the quilt-covered mystery on the room’s standard desk. “Andrew found it, and I made sure we walked away with it.”
Stefan came to stand beside them, curious. Biting her lip, Kaye tugged the quilt aside and saw beneath something that did not really seem to surprise her: Cloda’s grand grimoire. It was damp and dirty, the cover badly bent, but for the most part, the homemade book was still intact, smelling of feathers, of leather, of something less definable and slightly unpleasant.
Stefan watched as Kaye stroked the huge book’s cover. He asked, “How?”
“Yeah, how?” agreed Greg, staring at Rosemary hard.
But it was Kaye, who understood at once what had been done, who responded. “Cloda’s house was blown down and spread all over the mountaintop. I assume Andrew was able to locate it in the debris.”
“He never forgets a book,” Rosemary affirmed. “It hadn’t gone far. It had been shoved off its table and pushed into a pile of other stuff - Cloda’s house was full of this junk, remember.”
Kaye straightened, cleared her throat. “And I assume you misdirected Cloda’s attention, so that she never noticed you carrying her grimoire away.”
“I didn’t notice it either,” griped Greg.
“None of us did,” Kaye said.
Rosemary put up her hands in the universal who-knows shrug. “It’s easier to make something invisible to everybody than to start picking and choosing people to blind.”
“And you did this when, exactly?” demanded Greg.
“Well we had plenty of time to scavenge while you guys were farting around in Gully.”
“No pin-and-nail spell to stop you from this bit of theft?” asked Stefan.
Rosemary exhaled a puff of laughter. “Stefan, Ardelia took that house apart. I think she blasted away any protection spells that might have been in place. We’re just lucky she didn’t manage to destroy the spell out on the cliffside, because otherwise tonight would have been pretty different.”
They let that sink in. Then Kaye said, “Thank you. I’ll put this to good use. We will. It’ll probably take all of us to figure it out.”
“Are we just going to take it, then?” Stefan asked with a frown. “I thought we were going to buy it from Cloda, or trade her for it.”
Rosemary smirked. “We can trade her. In exchange for her grimoire, we won’t tell the world that Cloda’s spells are dangerous, that her brother was arrested for raping people for the last eight-or-so decades, or that they’ve been practicing some weird inbreeding experiment with their own daughter. Sound fair?”
Greg whistled softly.
Rosemary checked her tone, changed it. No need to bite at her friends. “I’m sorry. This one bothered me more than usual. Stefan, forgive me for being snarky. How about this? We promise to take good care of the grimoire, and when we’re done, we’ll give it to Ardelia, or even back to Cloda, if she’s still alive.”
Greg had another point to make. “And if Cloda comes looking for it, accusing us of stealing it?”
“Then I have no idea what she’s talking about. No? Not good enough? Okay, how about this, then. Cloda was badly disoriented and upset after her house was wrecked by that microburst, and I just took the grimoire to keep it safe. Didn’t want it to be destroyed by the rain.”
Greg peered at her hard. He was pretty good at gauging her bullshit. Well, her whole team was pretty good at it, but Greg was the one in the room who would call her on it. He seemed to sense some here. “You know, for a woman who swore she would never leave that mountaintop, she sure did leave it in a hurry. Now she’s heading off to Vichy, of all places, and without complaining about it, if the Sheriff can be believed.”
“No. Really, no.” Rosemary put her hand in the air as if taking an oath. “I had nothing to do with that. If Cloda has abandoned her post, it was her choice, or somebody else’s, I guess - but not mine.”
“Okay,” relented Greg. “No offense meant. Just checking. Not sure if there was a little Rosemary magic at work there.”
Stefan was still focused on the grimoire, and the determined focus Kaye showed its ragged cover. “You really want this?” he asked, and apparently saw the answer in her earnest expression. He, too, relented. “Then, yes, if you all think we can do some good with it. Let’s take the book.”
Rosemary pressed her lips together. “Yep. Already taken.”
Kaye nodded at her with satisfaction. “It’s ours now.”
*****
Only one room left on the row, and Greg wouldn’t go there, suddenly more interested in returning to Sally and Judge’s promise of zombie movies than he was in seeing if Andrew was well and content.
“You go,” he told her. “He doesn’t need to see me.”
Rosemary hugged him, quick and hard. “Oh thanks, Greg, that saves me the trouble of telling you to get lost.”
He smiled broadly, enjoying the affection. “Yeah, well. I’m not as dumb as I look, or that’s what they tell me. Can I tell you something that you’re going to think is adorable?”
“Better not. You know how much I hate to hear adorable things.”
“Too bad. On the drive here Drew and I had a terrific conversation about our favorite horror novels, and just when I thought we were going to exchange friendship bracelets, he up and asks me if I’d be mad if you two started dating. Started dating, yes, those were his words. I told him it wasn’t really my choice or any of my business. But, he’s heard the rumor that best-friend approval is important to women. Again, his words.”
“That is adorable,” admitted Rosemary, unable to keep dreaminess out of her voice.
“Why is he so skittish, do you think?” Greg asked. “If I looked like Drew, and had his whole broody tragic romantic hero thing going on, I’d grab myself a woman as fine as you are in a damn hurry, and I sure as hell wouldn’t be wasting my time making sure nobody’s delicate sensibilities were offended.”
“That’s the problem with broody tragic romantic heroes,” Rosemary sighed. “I think it has something to do with his ex-girlfriend murdering four people and trying to kill him too. That not a great intro on your dating profile, you know. Plus he’s afraid of hurting me because I ha
ve a weird past with David Merchant.”
Greg nodded thoughtfully. “I see. Plenty of angst to go around. Well, you kids do what feels right, but just so you’re aware, I told Drew that I’d be really happy about it, and that he has the best-friend approval. I probably wasn’t supposed to share this with you. But I figured, since you already know the betting pool, hearing this little story would be no big deal.”
“You’re right; you’re not as dumb as you look.”
“Incidentally, if you’d care to share any information to increase my odds of winning, please feel free.”
“Oh, Greg, I just don’t know.” She stared wistfully out into the night and realized that, in the clean wash of the storm, the air smelled wonderful. “We’re not rushing anything. I think both of us want to enjoy the process as it comes - you know this is new territory for both of us.”
“Rosie, that’s just fine. The audience loves it anyway. You go take care of your boyfriend.” He raised his hand in the air. “High five for getting everyone home safe once more.”
She smacked his hand in the air. “Damn right.”
“Though technically, we aren’t home yet. How much trouble can we get into on the highway, I wonder?” He shuffled off toward Judge’s room, looking over his shoulder once with a mischievous grin.
Rosemary shrugged good-naturedly, then went to Andrew’s door, last on the row.
She hadn’t seen him since they’d finally gotten everyone to the motel that afternoon, all of them bedraggled and stained brown and red, with either their own blood or someone else’s. Loose ends to tie up, arrangements to make, a debriefing of the team that had seemed to take forever. How did so much manage to happen in one short morning? Their audience would see an episode about them interviewing Cloda the witch in the middle of a gigantic storm, hints that the town of Slope was under some mysterious spell, and maybe the wreckage of the town after the storm was finally over - an encouraging epilogue showing that the townsfolk had been safely relocated to a nice clean motel. Plus, a special report on the mountain monster Razorback. But they’d never get the whole story; they never did. If Rosemary and Greg ever told the whole story, nobody would believe them.
“Most people don’t believe us anyway,” Rosemary admitted to herself as she put her hand on the door. She didn’t need to knock. He knew she was there. He called, “Come in, Romy.”
His small, wood-paneled room with the bad lakeside art on its walls was warm and softly lit. He’d drawn the curtains, maybe so he could get his prescribed nap during the daytime, so now only one bedside lamp glowed for him to read by, and on the table beside the bed were books at the ready, of course. Sense and Sensibility was the one in his hands. Looked like he was almost finished.
Andrew was propped on pillows, long legs crossed casually. He wore his usual bedtime attire: a t-shirt (I hiked the St. Francois Mountains! it declared) and loose sweatpants. On his face rested a slightly insolent smile, as if he was aware that, rather than standing chivalrously to welcome her, he was just lying back and enjoying the luxury of Nurse Kaye’s orders. That sharp, intense face of his could leave Rosemary speechless. To her, he was the most beautiful man in the world. Everything about him seemed made to drive her to distraction.
Rosemary approached the bed, inspecting his arms, the side of his head. His skin was smooth, golden, unbroken. The hard muscles of his bitten arm had been mended, now only a faint red irritation showed, a mild sunburn rather than the filthy gouges of a monstrous animal’s fangs. His hair, freshly washed, burned dark golden in the room’s faint light. Thank gods there was no more blood matted in it Seeing his head bleeding had taken ten years off her life, Rosemary was certain - worse somehow than when Razorback had pinned him to the ground, because that dreadful sight had seemed so surreal. This was how shock worked, she supposed.
The dogs had come to their rescue, thanks to Judge. Andrew was mended now, thanks to Kaye.
But it was Rosemary he thanked. “For calling the dogs,” he said, “and for getting me up on my feet again. My thanks, Romy. I want a nobler obituary than ‘mauled to death by a monster pig’.”
This brought a faint smile to her lips. Words continued to fail her. Actions must speak. Rosemary pulled her own t-shirt over her head, tossed it aside. Smoothly she stepped out of her ballet flats, pushed her leggings and knickers down her legs, slipped in two easy steps out of her bra. Clothes in a pile on the floor. Naked she went to his bed, climbed on, knelt next to him.
It had taken her all of ten seconds to get undressed. Andrew needed a moment to catch up. He straightened from his pillows, properly marked and closed his book, and set it aside. His eyes never left her. After a long, slow exhale he said, “You’re exquisite, did you know that? Like a work of art, all these clean lines and smooth colors. Sometimes I worry about these fragile little bones.” He took her hand from her lap, lifted it and kissed the inside of her wrist, circling it with his long fingers, shackling her to him. His mouth slid to the crook of her arm, touched the sensitive place inside her elbow. Slid ever upward toward her throat. She wrapped her kissed arm around his neck to guide him.
Maybe she knew a bit of witchcraft herself. There was magic somehow, that moved them without thought or effort in a slow lazy spin on the bed until she was in his arms, on his lap, gently pulling his new t-shirt over his head.
“Come here,” she beckoned, spinning on through the circle of motion that pressed her into the bed and drew him over her, a kiss that lasted for a long aching time, through the deluge of new sensations. She groaned at the delicious feeling of her bare feet stroking down the hard muscles of his legs as she deftly rid him of his remaining clothes. This surprised Andrew; she felt the smile against her temple. “Clever,” he said. Now her legs around his waist, to lock there, her arms thrown around his neck. He was hers.
She did not know how to say out loud what she felt because there were too many words involved. She wanted to tell him that yes, yes, of course she wanted to be courted and wooed, that she loved his old-fashioned wishes, that she might have been happy to be escorted and danced with and serenaded - whatever the hell courting involved - until finally some romantic night, in a few months, their good-night kiss on her doorstep (what doorstep, you silly woman, you live in an apartment) became urgent with longing and she whispered, “Would you like to come inside for a while . . .” and they were both comfortable and relaxed and ready and secure but.
But that morning, he had stepped between her and the biggest goddamned tusked animal she’d ever seen and with blood streaming down his face he had more or less volunteered to die for her, and might have, if not for some ridiculous Judge-ex-Machina, a pack of stupid loyal dogs. There remained not one single bit of mental baggage or tragic broody past that could compete with her love for him. But - how was a woman supposed to think straight, speak coherently, with Andrew’s mouth on her skin?
Then of course she remembered that she was a telepath, and he was a psychic, and she needn’t say anything out loud. She gave him her thoughts in a tidal wash, felt him receive them. He stilled for a moment, absorbing, drew back to meet her eyes. No questions there. So he understood. She shifted against him and his body responded instinctively and maybe without his forethought, and his brows drew together, his eyes closed with the intensity of the moment. Sharply she inhaled; oh a bit of pain here, a refurbished bit of virginity to conquer.
“Am I hurting you?” he whispered.
“Just a pinch. I’m fine, I’m better than fine,” she assured him - was she speaking out loud or just giving him more thoughts? She believed she’d heard herself speak, but pure sensation crowded out her awareness of everything else. This was almost too much to bear. For so long she had wanted him so badly and now here he was. Andrew might have been in her life for over a year now, crammed into the same cars and the same rooms, sometimes sleeping only a few feet away, but she knew that he came to her finally from a distance that could not be measured in length. She was an impatient creature, she did n
ot like delayed gratification. She trembled with the power of her gratification now and it radiated out of her in waves. Would it hurt him, her psychic lover, to be buffered into oblivion with her orgasmic telepathy? A better question, what in the hell could she do to stop it? She was lost and taking him with her. The sounds he made, the power of his body, assured her that he was strong enough, and more than willing, to come into the waves.
Everything crashed together and apart, together and apart, for a delirious time, until she simply lay clutching him, indulging herself with his gasping breaths against her shoulder, gazing at the damp blond of his head, beautifully tousled.
Then a thought. Wild, from nowhere. The snorting, enormous Razorback, bristling hair and swinging tusks. She and Andrew, staring agog at the creature, unable to believe such a thing was possible. Her shock and worry and loss of words blew apart.
She burst into peals of giggles.
Andrew’s voice, a little stern: “Romy, laughter is not the response a man is hoping for.”
“That was,” she gasped between her spasms, “that was the biggest pig I’ve ever seen in my life.”
He processed her words for a second and then he, too, was helplessly laughing, shaking from head to toe, nodding in abject agreement. “Sweet Jesus, it looked like a dinosaur - what were the ones with the horns—triceratops?”
She threw back her head with the mad giggles that seized her. “How in the hell does a pig get that big—”
“He was all roided up from the gym.” They cackled together; the bed shaking with their bodies. “Romy, stop, I can’t . . . this is a little hard to manage if we’re laughing,” and his plea made her laugh all the harder.
Besides it didn’t seem to her that he was having any problems; he felt wonderful to her. She couldn’t tell where one sort of pleasure ended and another began. For long moments they laughed helplessly against each other, and still there was all this lovely skin, all that beautiful blond hair at her fingertips. Her voice strained and squeaked with the convulsions of her giggling fit. “Oh my gods that pig! Those dogs! Flying through the air—”
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