Ritual Magic

NINETEEN

SHE lay in an exhausted heap against his side, and even now, flattened by a succession of climaxes, the warmth of his breath on her skin made her tingle with longing. It took so little for her senses to be overwhelmed by him . . . all of them save one. His skin was smooth and warm and slightly damp with sweat, but she couldn’t smell it. Couldn’t smell at all in this place.

“You are troubled,” he breathed into her ear. “Tell me.”

“It’s wicked to allow any sadness in when I’m with you.”

“And yet, you do.” He sat up abruptly and fear spiked sharply—she’d displeased him, angered him—but no, he was smiling down at her. His face was always his somehow, though it changed to suit his whim. Tonight his skin was dusky, his nose long, and his hair as brown as a mink’s, only curly. His eyes remained fathomless black. “By your own logic, then, you are wicked. Confess to me.”

She had to smile back. “I’m foolish. It’s just that when I wake, you won’t be there. You won’t be anywhere in my world, and the ache grows hard to bear.”

“Ah.” He touched her nose playfully. “But that time is almost over. Soon you will bring me fully into your world.”

“Soon?” Her heart lurched. “I don’t experience time as you do . . .”

He laughed. “Very soon, even as you measure time, my sweet mortal. Tonight I will give you the rest of your instructions. Pay close heed, for after I act I will be too weak for a time to call you to me.”

Alarm stiffened her. She sat up. “Too weak? You didn’t tell me—oh, beloved, don’t spend yourself too freely and leave yourself open to—”

“Do not?” he said very softly. All the light and laughter fled as winter rushed into his face, his voice—a chill as absolute as the empty sky above them. “You would tell me do or do not?”

She hung her head, shame mingling with terror. “I fear for you. It makes me foolish. That’s no excuse, but I . . . I’m so flawed. You’ve blessed me beyond reason with your loving. I should make my life a song of gratitude, and instead I—I spoke as if you weren’t so far beyond me that—”

“Child.” Not winter in that voice now, but no merriment, either. He placed a hand beneath her chin and tilted her face up. “I will not punish you this time. It would distress me to do so, I admit. Already you are dear to me. But you will remember, won’t you? You must not speak so to me.”

She nodded, dizzy with fear and relief. She listened carefully as he told her exactly what she must do . . . and what he planned to do. Some of it he’d told her before. Some he hadn’t, and parts of it frightened her deeply, and yet . . . she peered at him out of the curtain of her hair. “You said you must do this in order to wrest the path from the other one, the one she wants. You have to—to tip that path toward you before I can act. I know that’s true, but I think it—it’s not the entire truth.” Breathless with daring, she let her own small portion of mischief tilt her lips up. “I think there are many ways you could do that, some of them easier, less costly. But this will be more fun.”

And his laugh rang out merry and full, rewarding her for having risked so much. “It will, oh, it will. I give her all that she wants, or thinks she wants . . . in a way she will surely hate.” He stroked her cheek. “You do delight me. We will make much pleasure between us, you and I, when you are my high priestess and we meet body to body.”

Heat shivered through her, lust as pure and potent as whiskey, and sweeter by far. They would make love in the flesh . . . surely she would have that much, before he betrayed her. For he would, one day. From spite or anger or simply because that was what he did. What he was. He might laugh then or mourn, just a little, for he said she was dear to him . . .

“Ah, sweetheart,” he whispered as he stroked her between her legs, “do you not yet know that much about me? I can do both.”