by Shona Husk
That made her step back, and he resented the distance immediately. Then she closed her eyes and she had that silent battle with herself, only this time she wasn’t fighting for control, she was fighting to contain herself. It must be like trying to put a genie back in a bottle—which was nearly impossible, as they were devious bastards.
When she opened her eyes the light was gone. It stole his breath that she looked so empty. He wanted to kiss her again just to bring her back. Kissing wasn’t breaking his vow of celibacy, it would be helping Mylla, and he might as well enjoy something before everything went bad. Which he was sure it would. The only question was would he survive it?
Would she survive it?
“I should go.” If he was caught in here there would be hell to pay, and he suspected Thomas was dealing directly as there were no demons involved.
She bit her lip, her teeth worrying the skin he’d just kissed. It must be killing her to have to choose what she wrote so carefully, to never be able to explain fully. He needed more time with her and the necklace to see if he could unravel that spell and hear her voice.
In the back of her book she wrote, then turned it to him. This isn’t normal?
“No, it’s abhorrent what he’s done.”
You know more than you are telling me.
Fuck, he did, and he couldn’t lie to her face. “I don’t want to tell you anything that Thomas could force out of you.”
Her lips parted with a silent ‘ah’.
You will try? She pointed at her collarbone, but he knew it was the necklace she meant.
“I will, but it is complicated. It makes me forget.” He tried to smile and failed. When he’d touched the chain and thought about taking it off his mind had blanked for a terrifying second. Standing side by side with her, he glanced at the necklace. It had a standard catch. It should be simple. He ran his hand up her back, wishing it was skin, not fabric, beneath his fingers, and thought only of admiring the necklace.
His fingers brushed the chain and wound around it were several strands of magic, from mind manipulation, control, and also an alarm, something that would warn Thomas that it had been tampered with. He should be able to figure it out. Deliberately, he thought of undoing the clasp to test the spell that made him forget. He lowered his hand, confused. Then he shook off the effects with little more than a shrug. Someone without magic would have found it much harder. The spell was a suggestion and little more, a safeguard against anyone who tried to help Mylla. Simple yet effective, but then the best spells were. Now that he knew what to expect, when he touched the necklace it would be simpler to avoid.
She’d noticed. And gazed up at him enquiringly.
“I’m fine. But I do need to leave.” He kissed her cheek, sure she was warmer to touch than she had been before. She might be waking up, but she was still a prisoner subject to Thomas’s will to survive.
Mylla turned her head to catch his lips, her mouth open and eager. But he pulled away. It would do neither of them any good.
“It’s not because I don’t want you.” His voice sounded rough with lust. Could she tell?
She placed her hand over her heart and nodded. In agreement? She wanted him. His dick hardened further. This really wasn’t fair on either of them. He didn’t want to sleep with a woman who was struggling to find herself—even if he wasn’t trying to avoid passing on the death curse. Even if it was what his Goddess expected of him.
“You need to be free.” And so did he. But he wasn’t going to tell her his stakes in the game. One command from Thomas and she’d be forced to reveal all of his secrets, so as much as he’d like to share everything with Mylla, who was possibly the last woman he’d ever speak to, he didn’t.
She gave him a sad smile, and he knew that wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She wrote in her book and then let him read.
I want to live while I have the chance. Her hand writing wasn’t as neat as she tried to get her thoughts down as fast as she could.
Her words struck his heart. She feared for her life, even though she barely had one, and yet she was trying to make every day count in case she never got another chance.
She put him to shame.
He looked away. If he knew how to free her, he would. But to keep his own promise he had to push her away. “Have you ever had sex before?”
Her eyes widened in shock, then she frowned before shrugging. She was no longer smiling as she tried to think. How much of her was there, waiting to be set free, and how much had been erased? He had no idea how much damage had been done to her memories.
He forced a smile to give her hope. “Let’s do this one thing at a time.”
And if we have no time?
He swallowed hard. “Pray we do.”
Even though he’d thrown himself into the gardening for the rest of the day, hacking back overgrown shrubs and tearing out weeds, the heat in her eyes and the touch of her hand and the taste of her lips remained with him, taunting him. He scrubbed harder, as if he could remove all trace by showering. It was only lust. He knew it, but naming it didn’t make it any easier to deal with.
He’d enjoyed the crackle of attraction and the sparks of heat. He’d denied himself for so long that it felt good. Beneath the simple attraction lay a deeper magic that could be tapped into. Most people felt something, but didn’t know what to call it. He knew, and he knew how to use it…in theory. The trouble with not being a full coven member was he didn’t get to do much practical magic.
Which was why coming here was a long shot. He’d thought he’d be able to get close and kill Thomas the old-fashioned way. Maybe he could, maybe he could hit an artery before the old man could whip up some evil spell. But that put Mylla in danger, as with the necklace on she was tied to Thomas. If he died, Oskar was sure Mylla would too.
He couldn’t let that happen.
That was probably one reason Thomas kept her around, so any witch would get the guilts about killing an innocent. He rinsed under the cool water, then turned off the taps and dried off—fast—as the bathroom was only slightly above freezing. In the middle of summer the little room was probably close to boiling.
Cleaned up and in fresh clothes, he ate his dinner alone and in silence. However, he needed the quiet time to let his thoughts assemble. He was going to risk calling Mason from the house phone, even though he was sure Thomas would be listening to at least his end of the call. He needed to be careful with what he said.
He washed his plate and made his way upstairs. He regretted not putting shoes on immediately. Bare skin wasn’t insulated against the magic that coated the house. As he walked, each step felt tacky, as if he were walking through puddles of half-dried blood. His nose joined the sensory description of magic and added in the delicate scent of iron and decay. Dinner rolled in his stomach.
There was no real blood and no real rot. It was just the way his body was putting the magic into something tangible. Much like the way Mylla’s kiss made his skin tingle and his blood hot. They weren’t real reactions, but they were the way the body processed the possibility of sex magic.
The knowledge didn’t help.
He picked up the old handset and spun the dial. Halfway through he miss-spun, had to hang up, and start again. Why the fuck was there no key pad? Who the hell lived like this? He took a deep breath through his mouth and tried again. This time he got through the number and waited for Mason’s cell phone to ring. It was the number he’d been given. There was always a mission cell, which someone would answer. In this case, Mason had promised to be there. Sometimes it had been Oskar on the other end of the cell, helping someone out. He preferred being on the other end, even if it was a two a.m. call.
Three rings and Mason picked up. “Hello?”
There was caution in Mason’s voice at the unknown number ringing a cell that had only one purpose. “Coz, how’s it going?” Mason wasn’t his cousin but it’s what they’d decided on if Oskar needed to call while at Thomas’s house.
“Oskar, good to h
ear from you.” The relief in Mason’s voice travelled down the line, as clear as if they’d been standing in the office.
He missed getting his butt kicked in training. “You, too. I’m still hoping to make it over the border before my birthday.”
“Excellent, the family looks forward to seeing you.”
“I’ve picked up a temp job. It’s a bit bigger than I first thought.”
Mason took a moment before replying. “Well you said you needed the cash. How come you’re not on your cell?”
“Bad reception. It’s a dead spot out here.” He wanted to ask about how to kill Thomas and stop him feeding on the statues and Mylla, but working that into the conversation wasn’t easy. The floor beneath his feet felt mushy and seemed to ooze between his toes like cool mud. “And I can’t leave to go into town and try there.”
“That busy?”
“Yeah, I’m working on the garden of this big old place; it’s even got an orchard. You should see the statues, so life-like.” He moved his feet to stop the sinking sensation. It was carpet, not a corpse he was standing on. He was never going to walk barefoot upstairs again.
“You sound as though you like the place—thinking of staying?”
“If Mr. Quigley makes me an offer, I’d be tempted.” He prayed Mason got that Thomas would turn him into a statue if it all went badly.
“I thought you wanted to travel?”
“I do, but some offers you can’t refuse. Free accommodation and meals.”
“I don’t know, doesn’t sound like you. You could never put down roots.”
That was because he didn’t have a reason to—he couldn’t promise a woman a life while he had a death curse. Nothing had changed, for all that he’d told Mylla he wanted to help.
He forced a laugh, as though he was enjoying the catch up. “This is probably costing a fortune. I’ll call again, yeah?”
“Yeah, let me know how you’re getting on.”
Not well. “Like I said, garden’s a mess.”
Mason was quiet for a moment. “You don’t have to stay.”
Oskar hung his head and looked at his feet. It would be easy to walk away. No one would think any worse of him if he just took off and made the most of the time he had left. No one except the Morrigu and Mylla. They were both expecting him to do something. “I do. I made a promise.”
There was a long silence. “I know you’ve felt alone since your parents died, but you aren’t; you have family.”
Oskar shut his eyes as his throat closed. He’d never been more alone, more isolated, and in more trouble. Mason was telling him to come home. Maybe if he left and told the coven what he knew they could work something out, but he had the feeling Thomas would never let him leave. He drew in a breath. He shouldn’t have rung; homesickness tugged on his stomach and weighed him down.
“Yeah, I know.” He forced a smile so Mason wouldn’t realize how much this was hurting. They’d talked about death magic before Oskar had left, and how the routine way of dealing with it was killing the user. With that option gone, he wanted to ask if there was an alternative plan. “I still wonder, if Mom had tried an alternate treatment if she’d still be alive.”
There was a rustling of papers and Oskar knew Mason was looking at either the case files or something specific on death magic.
“You have to believe God has a plan.”
Oskar’s fist curled. “And if that plan doesn’t make sense?”
“You have to trust,” Mason said. That was the coven line, as if the Morrigu would never lead them astray. Did She really give a damn about Her foot soldiers or just how the battle was going?
“I trusted the doctors and look how well that worked out.”
He could almost hear Mason thinking. If he was going to spout more of the usual blind faith and do as She says, he was going to slam the phone down and not bother calling again. Although he knew he would just so that he could remember there was a whole world out there beyond the creepy Quigley manor.
“Let go of the anger and remember how to live, Oskar.”
Fuck you. You don’t have a use by date.
“Whatever. I’ll let you know when I’m getting ready to leave so you know when to expect me.” He hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment. The floor moved beneath his feet. This place was beyond fucked up. His first assessment had been right. The whole house needed razing to the ground. Scorched earth. He’d rather burn in the magical whiplash than let Thomas continue this perversion of magic and breech of Mylla’s freewill.
But would she rather die than keep living like this, or was any kind of life better than death?
Mylla sat on the edge of her bed in her nightgown, her book held loosely in her hands, but she wasn’t reading it tonight. She didn’t need to as thoughts and memories tumbled together, as if her mind couldn’t keep still. It was thrilling and terrifying…and noisy. She was used to quiet and stillness and nothing except Mr. Quigley’s orders.
His orders were still there, clear above the turmoil of her mind, and she still had to obey, but he didn’t know she was thinking for herself. That every time she did something for him she was testing the limits of whatever spell he’d put her under.
She shut the book, turned out the light, and laid down. In the dark, she imagined she could still smell Oskar in the room. Dirt and leaves and sweat. The taste of his mouth. She’d wanted more, wanted to know if the heat she felt could burn through whatever was trapping her. Her fingers brushed her lips. She wanted him and to know what she was missing—and she knew she was missing a lot. The holes in her memories were bigger than the fragments she held. Part of her didn’t care.
Whoever she had been didn’t matter. She was who she was now.
Her hand smoothed over her night gown, over her breast and down her belly to the place she ached. Oh, she knew what sex was, did that mean she had once had a lover? She didn’t know, and if she had he was long forgotten, and from the marks on her wall possibly long buried. Right now all she wanted was Oskar.
She pressed her hand between her thighs.
Images rippled. She was naked, her fingers against her most intimate part, but she felt nothing. She was going through the motions under orders, her body not her own. A feeling that was too familiar. In her mind she opened her eyes and saw Thomas, holding a glass filled with her blood.
Her stomach clenched and she pulled her hand away. Cold sweat slicked her skin, as if she was ill and her breathing came too fast. No.
But when she pulled up her sleeves and saw the old and new scars she knew what happened when she went into his room. For the first time, she wanted to forget.
Chapter 8
Coffee had never tasted so good, even instant coffee. He was torn between drinking it fast to let it flood his body and savoring the taste for as long as possible. He really needed to get out more. He smiled at Mylla. “Thank you.”
She inclined her head but there was no curve of her lips this morning, even though she seemed to have control of herself. Maybe she’d slept as badly as he had. Between the pressing closeness of the death magic making him dream he was in an open grave and sinking into the earth—truly an unpleasant dream—and the unchecked lust, he’d either been waking up in a panic or hard and wanting more than his hand and a cold shower. Either way, going back to sleep had been difficult and not truly peaceful. Of all the mornings he’d been here, today he really needed the coffee.
It looked like Mylla did, too.
“Did you want a taste?” He offered her the cup.
For a moment she looked at it, then took a hesitant sip. Her nose wrinkled and she handed it back.
“I didn’t sleep well, you?”
She shook her head and wrote a little note. She always kept them short when she must have so much she wanted to say. Too many memories.
“Bad ones?”
He only needed to look at her face to know that—the down turn of her lips and the sadness in her eyes. At least it wasn’t that blank look she’d
had when she’d first appeared in the shed.
“Living and the memories that follow aren’t always happy. But would you rather go back to being empty?”
She shook her head, her face showing that fiery determination he was getting used to seeing flicker to the surface. Her attention focused on the paper and she wrote fast and jerky.
I want him dead. The lead snapped as she finished writing, her letters hard and full of anger.
His coffee turned to ash in his mouth. “And what if I said you were bound to him, and in killing him you’d also die?”
While he was willing to kill himself to get rid of Thomas, he couldn’t make that choice for another.
Her lips parted, but her eyebrows drew together as if she’d never considered the possibility. She touched her collarbone, which he knew was her indicating the necklace.
“Yeah.” He kept the surprise from his face. She was working it out for herself.
Her frown deepened, then she pulled up her sleeves.
“Fuck me.” He put his cup down and ran his fingers over the marks. Her arms were covered with cuts. Some were nothing more than faint white lines that had been crossed by newer ones. They must be decades old. He turned her arm over to examine her forearm. Only a couple seemed to go deep, as if to nick the vein. Her other arm was the same. “It is just your arms?”
She shook her head.
Oskar gritted his teeth and tried not to imagine what was under that dress and where the cuts were. He took a breath and let the urge to punch his uncle in the face reduce to a simmer. He might get one punch in, but that would be all before Thomas reacted with more magic than Oskar could contend with.
Mylla pointed to her arm, then her collarbone. Slowly she closed her eyes, and when she opened them the blank look was back. Cuts. Necklace. Doll.