Chapter Eight

 

“Tired?” John asked on the short drive home.

I opened my eyes. “A little. Did you have a good time?” I had not had a particularly good time. It had not helped to be relegated to civilian-wife status. Not that I typically had any interest in police work. But when the police work had to do with things I was interested in, things that were most definitely my concern, then yes, I did resent being shut out.

That was not John’s fault, however. Or at least, it wasn’t entirely John’s fault.

John replied indifferently, “Sure.” Mission accomplished. That was what sure meant.

When I didn’t respond, he glanced my way and said, “As soon as I can get away, I promise you, we’ll go see your father in Salem.”

I smiled faintly. “That would be nice. But I’m okay. Don’t worry about me.”

“I know you’re disappointed about our vacation being canceled.”

I was, but it came with the territory. I understood that. I had understood when we planned the trip that there was a very good chance it wouldn’t happen.

I said, “There will be other trips.”

“Yes.”

I studied his profile in the light of the dashboard. “I never did get to meet Solomon Shimon. He left the party early.”

John said vaguely, “Did he?”

“What’s he like? What’s he look like?”

“I don’t know him well enough to tell you what he’s like. He’s about your age. Maybe a little older.” He shrugged. “Average height, average build. Brown hair. Wears one of those handlebar mustaches that went out with penny-farthing bicycles.”

I smiled at that description. It did not sound like anyone I knew.

That was it for our conversation. It had been a long week. We were both tired, and I was sick with nerves and anxiety. I had to tell John about what happened when I tried to question Eddie Darksoul, but I was dreading it. The very idea made me physically ill.

We reached Greenwich Street and went inside. I greeted Pyewacket, and John said he was going to check his email before bed. I carried Pye upstairs.

“I don’t even know where to start,” I told Pye as I undressed for bed.

Pye’s advice was that I contact the Duchess at once.

“I do have to talk to her,” I agreed. “But these are two different matters.”

Pye was not so sure, and, naturally, in his opinion Craft matters came first.

“He’s going to be so angry,” I whispered.

Pye’s meow was loud and emphatic.

“I can deal with that,” I replied. “But he’ll feel that I broke my word. I did break my word. It’s taken so long to regain his trust, and now…I may have undone it all. I’m not sure he can forgive me again.”

That being the case, Pye, predictably, advised that I keep my silence.

I can’t pretend I wasn’t tempted, but I knew that in John’s view—in my view as well—I would only be compounding my transgressions.

When I climbed into our brass bed, I still had no idea what I was going to do, and I was sure I wouldn’t sleep at all that night, but the next time I opened my eyes, John was standing beside the bed, gazing down at me.

His expression was a strange mix of longing and doubt.

I pushed up on my elbows. “What is it?”

“Is it all right if I sleep here tonight?” he asked.

I made a sound in the back of my throat—it hurt me that he thought he had to have permission. I sprang up, reaching for him. John swept me into his arms, and it was like coming home after a long and terrible separation, clutching each other as though we’d had a near miss and barely escaped with our lives. Even the reassurance of touch and taste did not feel like enough. When would this love stop feeling so…precarious?

John kissed me over and over, and I did my best to return the favor. I grabbed that staid and proper pajama shirt of his in my fist, gave it a good yank, heard John start to laugh as the buttons went flying into outer space.

“Whoa, slow down—”

“I don’t want to slow down,” I said. “I missed you so much.”

“I know. Me too.”

I pulled him down on top of me, feeling the delicious shock of that landing. His mouth, hot and sweet, seemed to be everywhere at once—the delightful burn of his lips tracing the curve of my jaw…throat…collarbone… He latched on to a nipple.

The feel of that went through my body like an electric jolt. I arched up, crying out, “Fais ça. Oui. Encore.”

“Is that yes?” John gasped. “Please tell me that’s yes…”

“Yes, yes.” I writhed beneath his ministrations, his slick tongue sliding over the roughened points of my nipples. “Do that. Yes,” I whispered frantically, and I could feel him smiling at my responses.

He already knew the things I liked, even the things I was shy about wanting—just as I knew the things he liked, the things he preferred not to have to ask for. In just a few short months, we knew each other so well.

And yet, in some ways we still remained unknown quantities to each other. That was what frightened me. The knowledge that you could know someone’s most intimate secrets, know when they were nervous, when they were self-conscious, know how to set them alight with only your tongue and fingertips, and a few months later could be regarded as a stranger, an outsider, someone whose calls were let go to message—and never retrieved.

Eagerly, I returned his caresses, trailing my fingers down his broad back, little blue sparks skipping across his burnished skin. I nipped his throat, nuzzled his ear.

John said—and the words sounded torn from his throat, “I can’t imagine not having this.”

“It’s the same for me.” I gasped as his mouth transferred to my other nipple.

But didn’t the fact that we could put it into words mean that we were imagining not having this?

I didn’t want to think about that. Wouldn’t allow myself to think beyond the incandescent pleasure of touch, of skin on skin, of being stroked and petted and admired by the one I loved most in all the world—and giving the same and more in return. I could feel myself going up in a blaze of sensation, all the cells of my body sparking and catching fire.

We shifted a little, accommodating our erections. John’s firm mouth traveled to my own. He tasted dark and dangerous, like shadows on All Hallows’, like bittersweet chocolate and the reddest of wines. My lips yielded to the press of his tongue, and that slick, intimate nudge as he pushed into my mouth brought a groan of relief from me.

For these few minutes, I was his and he was mine and nothing could come between us.

The bed itself seemed to rise a few feet, rocking us gently, the stars peeking through the bedroom curtains and nodding to each other in agreement.

It was tempting to make it even sweeter for him, but I had sworn to never use Craft on him, and I would not do it now when there was already the deliberate movements of his hips rocking against mine. Pleasure quivered through me with each thrust. Each sway, each bounce seemed to send flashes through my belly and groin at the contact with smooth, hot skin.

John responded in kind, and again the meter of his hand tugging on me seemed to match the meter of my heartbeat, hard and measured and, in its own way, magical…

Time lengthened, curled lazily around us. A silvery haze surrounded us. My heart swelled with emotion. It was as though John and I had always been together. Always been locked in embrace. Two halves of one whole. I knew every inch of his body, muscle and bone and elegant scroll patterns of chestnut hair. Starlight burnished him to a desertscape of broad planes and subtle dips and powerful sinews. Shade and illumination. We held each other as the headboard thumped the wall, locked tight in an interlace of legs and hands and cocks as we thrust our way into the fierce, fraught pulses of release. Hot as dry ice, sudden and bright as raw moonlight.

 

 

I held him as he slept, but, if possible, my mind was less quiet than when I had first gone to bed. My thoughts buzzed, swarming without destination, agitated and fearful.

When I could stand it no longer, when I thought my heart would tear out of my throat along with the words I knew had to be said, I eased out from under John’s arm and grabbed jeans and a sweatshirt that turned out to be John’s. I crept out of the room, down the hall, out of the house. Beneath the dark canopy of rain clouds, I went down to the white garden.

The white garden had been John’s wedding gift to me. Every detail had been planned by John. Every plant had been chosen by John. Silvery white flagstones ringed a wide border of ivory and white heirloom roses, cream and blush-edged peonies, and panicle hydrangeas. In the summer, the beds had been a riot of sweet-smelling lily of the valley, snowdrops, Queen Anne’s lace, fragrant white hyacinth, and choisya. That had been the garden in spring. But it was autumn now, and everything smelled like rain and overturned earth. The flower beds looked like graves, the vines winding around the wrought-iron obelisks were more wire than wood. Even the faux gazing balls atop weathered pedestals looked foggy and dead-eyed.

I closed my eyes and thought of Eddie Darksoul.

“I’m sorry. I meant you no harm.”

Tears squeezed out from under my eyelids. I expected no answer and received none.

I prayed to the Goddess for Eddie.

I prayed to the Goddess for guidance.

But there too I received no answer.

The moon sank behind the cathedral top of tree branches. I sat in the darkness and listened to the frogs croaking and the occasional patter of raindrops.

I was still deep in thought when the scrape of footsteps on rock caught my attention. I raised my head and saw John’s tall form coming down the steps.

My heart grew heavier still.

John reached the bottom of the steps, entered the garden, saw me sitting on the bench. I wondered if he was surprised to see me there or if he was past the old doubts. If the latter, then not for long. Not after he heard what I had to say.

I said nothing.

He came and sat down on the bench beside me.

He waited, and when I could not think how to begin, he said, “You have to talk to me, Cosmo. I know something’s wrong.”

His tone was so calm, so…normal.

I nodded. Drew in a sharp and shaky breath. “I don’t want you to hate me.”

He was silent, absorbing that. Then he sighed. “I couldn’t hate you even if I wanted to. Tell me what’s going on.”

I made a sound that was not really a laugh, and said as steadily as I could, “I may be responsible for someone’s death.”

You would have thought that would give him pause, but John only said, “Go on.”

“I spoke to Jinx about the photos, and she gave me the name of the man she was with. The relationship was over months ago.” I realized I was stalling. “She knew him as Eddie Darksoul, but I was able to track him down. His real name was Edward Darquez. I went to see him.”

John didn’t speak.

I stared straight ahead. “I promised you I would stay out of police business. I broke my word.”

“Yes.”

My throat closed at that uncompromising yes. I said, “I know you don’t want to hear my justifications—”

“Correct. I don’t want your excuses. Tell me what happened.”

I put the heels of my hands to my eyes, said, “I didn’t get a chance to ask him about the photos because he recognized me.”

I felt John go still. “Recognized you from where?”

“He’s the one who pushed me into the Seine. He thought he was giving me a test—”

“Test? What the hell test was that?”

“The swimming test for witches.”

“You mean—what do you mean? Like a ducking stool? That kind of thing?”

“I think so. He’s not—was not—very astute. He was paid by someone to push me into the river to-to test me. That’s not how it works, of course, and he didn’t realize I couldn’t swim.”

“Who paid Darquez to test you?”

“He knew him as Count Whitney.”

“Count Whitney?”

I nodded.

“Not Count Dracula? Not Count Chocula?”

“John—”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He got hold of himself. “Go on. Count Whitney hired Eddie Darksoul to test your witch powers by throwing you in the Seine. Okay. Any reason he didn’t test your witch powers by shooting you?”

“I know it sounds—”

“It sounds fucking preposterous, Cosmo. Not that I should be surprised at this point. Go on. Darquez tells you he nearly drowned you, and then what? You turned him into a footstool? A toadstool? Can you turn him back?”

“He—” My voice cracked. “He climbed out onto the fire escape and fell. The railing was slippery because of the rain.”

John didn’t move a muscle for what seemed like a very long time. He said at last, “So he really is dead?”

“Yes. I don’t think he could have survived that fall.” I closed my eyes, remembering the smell of the rain and the sound of Eddie’s body hitting the wet pavement. My stomach rose, and it was all I could do not to be sick then and there.

“You didn’t wait around to find out.” It wasn’t a question.

“No. Someone saw him fall. A woman was screaming when I…left.”

“Did she see you?”

“I don’t know. There was a little boy in the apartment across the way. He saw me.”

John practically jumped to his feet. He did a quick circle around the garden, stopped before me. “Don’t lie to me,” he warned. “Did you cause Darquez to fall?”

“No. I swear I never touched him.”

“Did you use your…your magical powers on him?”

“No. I pointed my umbrella at him. I said he didn’t know who he was dealing with. I was trying to frighten him, yes, but not… I didn’t…wouldn’t. I told him to come back inside.”

John said nothing. His tall, silent shadow staring down at me raised the hair on the back of my neck.

“It was when I asked him if he had anything to do with Rex’s accident that he started to freak out. I asked about Rex and he denied it, then I asked if he had sent the photos of him and Jinx to me, and that’s when he tried to get away down the fire escape.”

“You never touched him. You never did anything—”

“John, I never laid a hand on him. Never spoke a word against him. I give you my word.”

“What good is that?” His voice was raw with pain. “Your word means nothing, Cosmo. You’ve promised again and again that you would not involve yourself in police business. That you would not use magic. I can’t believe anything you say. I can’t trust you!”

I rose too. “You’re not the only one I owe allegiance to!”

He was close enough to punch. Close enough to kiss. I wanted to do both. I knew I would do neither.

Into his startled silence, I said, “I’ve made other vows. And they’re just as important as the vows I’ve made to you, John.”

“You gave me your word.”

“I know. I had every intention of keeping my word.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Because it’s too much! It’s not fair. It’s not right. I agreed that I would not use magic as a first resort, and I’ve tried to hold to that. I promised never to use magic on you, and I haven’t. And the last fucking thing in the universe I want is to involve myself in police business. But I have obligations and responsibilities to my family, to my tradition, that I can’t ignore. I didn’t want any of this to happen. But it is happening. Something sinister is reaching from my world into yours. I can’t pretend I don’t see it. And I can’t trust you and SFPD to handle it when you don’t even know what you’re dealing with.”

I was nearly shouting, so it was something of a slap to hear his flat, unimpressed, “And I suppose you do know what we’re dealing with?”

“No,” I admitted. “I don’t know much more than you do, but I know different pieces of the puzzle.”

He said in that sardonic tone I had come to hate, “I can only imagine.”

“Apparently not, John. Apparently, imagination is something you don’t have. Or you’d realize that there’s not a rule and regulation for every situation. Not every problem can be solved with a gun or a jail cell.”

“This is an idiotic conversation. Do you really think you know more about real life than I do?”

“You’re right,” I said. “This is an idiotic conversation.” I snapped my fingers and disappeared.