Chapter 16
“What am I supposed to be?”I ask, staring at my reflection. I look exactly the same, except for some shimmery makeup and a white satin slip dress that leaves me feeling more exposed than covered.
“You’re a sexy ghost—or a dead bride. Whichever you prefer.”
I want to laugh a little. The whole point of dressing up on Samhain is to mask your true identity so that malicious spirits won’t recognize you. But in this outfit, I look like me, only in white.
“Wow, you truly do work wonders,” I say sarcastically.
The joke goes entirely over her head; Sybil looks thrilled.
My eyes linger on my chest.
“You can see my nipples,” I state.
“Babe, we’re going to be seeing everyone’s nipples by the end of the night. But if it’s a big deal to you, I have pasties. We can also use magic.” She wiggles her fingers dramatically to emphasize her point.
I tilt my head back and forth, trying to decide if I want to just wear a white dress—for the ease of stripping later, apparently—or put back on my skeleton costume and get an earful from Sybil.
“Do you think ghosts get offended when we dress like them?” I ask. “Seeing as how it’s the day the spirits cross over?”
“You were going to dress as a skeleton,” Sybil points out.
Yeah, but my point still stands.
Sybil lifts a shoulder. “I don’t think the spirits care, but if you want to play it safe, you could always be a living bride.”
At her suggestion, my mind moves to Memnon and his plans to marry me.
I look in the mirror again, my heart beating fast at the thought.
“I could be a bride.” That seems like a more respectful option.
Sybil claps her hands. “Yay! Then let’s find you a veil!”
We do end up finding an old, moth-eaten veil in some forgotten chest downstairs, though the long train of it that trails on the ground was clearly beautiful back when it was new. I put it on after dousing it in a few sanitizing spells.
Just before sunset, I leave Nero in my room with instructions to stay inside tonight since in a few hours the woods will be crawling with drunk witches. Sybil and I head downstairs, where the rest of our housemates have gathered. Dozens of my coven sisters are taking off their socks and shoes and making their way to the front door in all manner of costume. Goblins, leopards, fairies, mummies, vampires—the already magical company looks even more unearthly in costume.
“Shoes off!” one of my sisters calls out to the room. “We’ll need to ground ourselves during the spell circle.”
“Spell circle?” I glance at Sybil as unease blooms in me.
She smiles secretively. “Don’t look so nervous, Bowers. This is the fun part.”
It probably is. I’ve just been burned by the last spell circle, so I now assume the worst.
Begrudgingly, I remove my shoes and tuck them into a corner, the floor feeling chilly against my bare feet.
One of the witches throws open the door, and another cries out, “Let’s party, bitches!”
Then there’s clapping and laughter, and all of us begin to funnel out of the residence hall. In the process, several witches step on my veil, making my head jerk back and nearly ripping gossamer thin material. Eventually, I have to murmur a spell to make the thing float like fog behind me.
We make our way across the grass behind our house then we plunge into the Everwoods. Here, under the thick shadows of trees, it feels as though night has already fallen. There’s an electric heaviness to the air like a storm cloud about to break.
We reach the pumpkin-lined path, the unlit lanterns above us bobbing in the evening breeze. An owl hoots in the distance, but besides that, a solemn sort of silence has descended over the forest.
We walk along the path until it opens up onto Slain Maiden’s Meadow. Only days ago, Memnon pledged himself to me here. Now, the field is filled with countless costumed witches. In the center of the clearing, there’s a massive pile of wood and kindling.
The moment the sun dips beneath the horizon, a strong wind cuts through the clearing, stirring our hair and costumes.
“In a circle!” an older voice calls out. “Witches, grasp one another’s hands, and take position. It is time!”
Time for what is still unclear, but I follow orders anyway, grasping the hands of a witch with long, wavy black braids and another with cropped blond hair.
Once we’ve arranged ourselves, that grave silence takes over again. I can hear the soft snap of our outfits blowing in the wind, but everyone is so quiet and so still. Even our magic seems subdued, the air almost entirely clear of it.
“Welcome, honored sisters, to our one hundred and eighty-seventh annual Samhain ceremony!” an older feminine voice shouts. I can’t tell who it belongs to, only that magic has amplified it. “Samhain is the holy night when the veil between worlds thins. Tonight, we have gathered to welcome guests from these other lands who wish to visit Earth for an evening. We will invite them through the doorway here, but in order to do so, we must call on our communal power to help open it for the evening.”
So there it is, the reason for the spell circle. We’re pooling our magic to help widen the rift between worlds. Sounds totally safe.
“Then,” the witch continues, “we will make our way down the path to Last Rites Cemetery, where a feast awaits us and our honored guests.
“Beware,” she warns. “Not all spirits are benevolent, and not all guests are dead?—”
What in the seven hells does all that mean?
“—so use caution even while enjoying the revelry tonight. Other than that, dance, drink, sing, mingle with our honored guests, and give in to your own innate wildness.”
In the distance, wolves begin to howl, as though acknowledging our wildness with their own.
Another witch now speaks. “Let’s commence the celebrations by incanting the following: Air above and earth beneath, here at last our worlds meet,” she says.“Goodfellows and the dearly deceased, come and join our hallowed feast.”
Down the line of our hands, I feel the current of her power run up my right arm and down my left, and I remember absently that magic moves in a clockwise direction for creation and counterclockwise for destruction.
She begins the incantation again, only this time, the rest of us join in. “Air above and earth beneath, here at last our worlds meet. Goodfellows and the dearly deceased, come and join our hallowed feast.”
I jolt as what began as a small current now amplifies. The magic that would normally waft off us funnels itself along the line of witches, the throb of it startling and decadent as it passes through me.
Again we repeat the phrase. And again and again, until the air is electric and my body is a live wire.
Est amage, what is happening?Memnon says, cutting through the magic-induced haze of my mind.
Witch stuff, Memnon.
I don’t know if he says anything after that. Magic is filling the space where my thoughts are. There’s only this moment and the touch of my sisters’ hands, and the world is magic, all magic, I think as my limbs tremble from the power and heat engulfs me. We are magic.
“…come and join our hallowed feast?—”
All at once, the nearly unbearable power flowing through me is sucked toward the center of the circle.
With a crack like thunder, the air rips apart. From it pours forth a wave of some translucent substance. It takes a moment for my eyes to realize it’s not a substance but spirits. Dozens of them. They cut across our circle, heading for the lantern-lit pathway.
“Welcome!” one of the witches shouts, her greeting trailing off into a cackle as more and more specters cross over, their ephemeral forms streaking across the clearing. Laughter rises around me, and I feel it bubbling up in my throat too. The aftereffects of the communal magic have left me lightheaded and euphoric.
The unlit bonfire at the center of the clearing now lights, the wood snapping and smoking as it goes up in flame.
None of us witches have released our hands, and we begin to sway and dance as one, moving in a circle. I don’t know who decides this. Maybe it was me? I can’t tell if my thoughts are my own or ours, the collective whole of our coven.
Someone begins to hum, and the melody catches, until we’re all humming the same wordless tune.
The song grows louder, and the dancing becomes erratic until someone—or maybe all of us—decide to release hands. The magical current cuts off abruptly, and what’s left in my body leaves me tingling and high off power.
“To the feast! To the feast!” a witch shouts, and though the group’s magic is no longer linking us together, I still feel that shared unity, and carelessly, I laugh.
At the sound of it, a nearby witch dressed like a wraith comes in close and gives me a hug, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “Merry Samhain,” she whispers before dashing off.
More laughter fills the space as sisters dance and embrace, their eyes and hair a little wild. I’m sure I look the same.
I was wrong to worry about this spell circle. This is how they are meant to be. A moment of unification between witches and a reminder that we are all one.
Sybil appears out of the crowd. “C’mon, my nubile bride!” she shouts, grabbing my hand. The bonfire’s flames dance in her eyes, giving them a moonstruck look.
As soon as my fingers entwine with hers, she cackles. The sound is contagious, and I begin laughing with her, feeling lighter than air. And then we’re running, racing alongside dozens of other wild-eyed witches and eager spirits, all of us following the magical road.
As we careen down the pumpkin-lined path, a deathly chill moves through me. A spirit emerges through my abdomen, and I let out a startled scream at the sight of its transparent form.
The spirit, a young man in a three-piece suit with slicked-back hair, lets out an echoing laugh and streaks ahead of us.
Sybil laughs and laughs at my reaction, her spelled butterfly wings beating behind her. Her laughter turns into a choked cry when a hag on a spectral broom flies out from her body before careening through the group of witches ahead of us. Now I’m cackling and Sybil’s reluctantly giggling, and our bare feet are stepping on sticks and rocks, and I know I’m getting nicked but the wind is smoothing my satin slip over my body like a lover’s touch and raking its fingers through my hair and the veil floating behind me, and I’m caught up in the magic of the moment.
That all ends when hoofbeats—then screams—erupt behind us. Sybil glances over her shoulder, her eyes going wide.
“Seven hells!” She veers off the path, dragging me with her. She’s not fast enough.
I hear the pound of hoofbeats a moment before someone snags my veil from behind me, lurching me backward. I stumble, about to turn around, when a hand catches me around my waist, lifting me off the ground and onto a steed.
I cry out as my ass lands on an oiled leather saddle. I glance up at a man with sharp, dark eyes and inky hair that seems to be decorated with raven’s feathers. My gaze lands on his pointed ears.
A fae.
Did he come from the portal we opened?
“There’s been a mistake,” I say, pushing against the man’s chest, my dress riding up my legs.
His arms tighten on me. “I don’t think so. You’re dressed like a bride.”
My eyes widen. “A b-bride?” I echo. What had Sybil said long ago? Something about stories of fae snatching witches from these woods to be their brides? “No, no. This is not an actual wedding dress, and I’m definitely not looking for a groom. I kind of already have one of those in fact. This is a costume.” I squirm some more in his arms as his horse cuts down the path, nearly trampling dozens of other witches. “Seriously, let me go.”
“No.”
My gaze snaps to his. The fae lifts his chin, as though he doesn’t think a witch like me will do anything.
Maybe it’s the side effects from all that communal magic. Maybe it’s just that I’m tired of bossy men. Maybe it’s that the last fairy I crossed paths with tried to kill me. Or maybe it’s the fact that this pretty asshole is openly trying to abduct me.
I rear back a little, then punch the fucker in the face. The fairy’s head snaps back, and his whole body recoils, falling away from me. I must’ve added a little power to the hit. Whoops. I shake out my throbbing hand as the fairy slides off his horse, hitting the ground with a dull thump.
Witches jump out of the way around him, a few of them letting out startled screams.
What is going on, est amage?
Why do you only ever talk to me when there’s a problem?
I’m trying to give you space. Now, what’s wrong?
While the fairy regains his bearings, I hop off his horse and sprint for the cemetery, my terror eclipsing any pride I feel at that punch.
I threw a man off his own horse.
That’s my queen,Memnon says, immensely pleased and not at all bothered by the fact that I assaulted someone.
As I run, I rip off my veil and toss it aside so that no one else can assume I’m actually on the market. Fuck. I’m trying to drop the engagement I already have. I do not need a second one forced on me.
“Selene!” Sybil shouts from far behind me. “Selene!”
Everything in me is demanding that I continue to flee?—
Flee? Memnon’s voice is no longer playful. Who are you fleeing from?
I’m fine, Memnon,I insist, even as I glance past my friend, toward that black-haired fae rider far behind me. He’s remounting his horse and scanning the crowd of witches.
I dart behind a tree. Goddess, but if he tries to grab me again…
Who tried to grab you? Memnon demands.
Stop eavesdropping on my thoughts,I respond, my breath coming in quick pants.
“Selene!” Sybil is still shouting.
“Over here!” I call out.
I will gut your enemies from navel to throat.
You won’t,I correct him, because like I said?—
I pause to peer around the trunk of the tree. When I catch Sybil’s eye, I wave her over.
—I am fine.
Memnon doesn’t respond to my words, but I sense his skepticism.
Sybil jogs over just as I hear the fairy’s horse snort.
“Why didn’t you warn me about that?” I whisper. Around us, other witches are still heading toward the cemetery, many of them glancing back at the rider.
“Because that didn’t happen last year!” she says, her eyes wide. “Goddess,” she says, grabbing my aching hand, and I have to smother a wince. “Are you all right?”
I sense Memnon still eavesdropping.
“I’m fine,” I say, more to him than to her.
She searches my features, then glances back at the fairy. “Fuck!” she curses as the hoofbeats start up again. “Duck!”
I don’t know what good ducking will do, but I drop to the ground anyway.
The fae rider and his steed pound past us, my floating veil clutched in his grip. He doesn’t notice me at all as he veers off into the woods.
I’m breathing heavily. “Who thought letting him in was a good idea?”
“He’ll leave by dawn,” says an older witch passing by. “The bride he takes will have agreed to go.”
Oh really now? Because he didn’t seem super into consent when I was in his clutches.
“Those are the rules for hunting on coven property,” the elderly witch finishes as she moves away from us.
“Hunting?” I echo, horrified as Sybil and I begin walking again. I keep scanning the woods where I last saw him. “We’re not deer to be caught.”
The older witch gives her head a shake. “To some of them, you are.”
Maiden, Mother, and Crone.
“What will happen to the witch who goes with him?” I ask.
“The same thing that happens to all brides the fae steal away,” the witch says. “They are taken back to the Otherworld, and the union is made official.”
Sexis what she means. Sex followed by…whatever fae do with mortals.
“Sounds hot,” Sybil says.
I give her a traitorous look.
“In theory,” she adds, smoothing out her costume. “Anyway, you should’ve seen that fae’s face when his ass hit the ground. Pure disbelief and outrage. You knocked years off his life. Where did you learn to hit like that?”
Memnon.
It felt like muscle memory—being on the horse, throwing the hit. It didn’t seem to matter that millennia separated those memories from this evening.
“It’s just one of those things that came back with my memories,” I say evasively.
I give the darkened woods one last glance before turning my attention ahead of us. I can make out the end of the pathway and the gravestones and crypts beyond it, the stone markers lit up by yet more lanterns.
Once we enter the cemetery proper, it’s clear this is where the party is at. There are more pumpkins stacked around gravestones, along with candles and marigold flowers. A fiddler on the far side of the cemetery has struck up a tune, and large tables rest between grave markers, all of them set with candelabras and laden with food spelled to be accessible to both spirits and mortals. On one side of the cemetery, a large cauldron bubbles away. I veer right for it, dragging Sybil along after me.
“Someone is super eager,” she mutters.
“You would be too if you just barely escaped getting kidnapped seconds ago.” We weave our way through the graveyard, passing headstones covered in moss.
“Yes, it sounds so awful to be chosen as an immortal’s bride. Real tough life you have there.”
I stop at the cauldron, knocking some of the marigold flowers at its base askew as I turn to gape at her. “He picked me because I wore white and was easy to grab! That’s all! That’s, like, the most unromantic way to get a girl.”
Sybil looks unconvinced as I grab a glass and reach for the cauldron’s ladle, pressing my lips together at the steady throb still coming from my hand.
“If the dude is so in need of a female companion that he has to travel to a whole different realm to snatch one away without even getting to know her,” I say, filling up the glass and handing it to my friend, “he probably sucks.”
Sybil tilts her head as she takes the cup from me. “You may have a point.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling vindicated. I fill up my own glass of witch’s brew, down the cup in a few long gulps, then refill it once more.
In the distance I hear the baying cries of wolves.
Sybil looks positively thrilled. “Looks like your kidnapper might’ve made it to shifter territory.”
That thought pleases me for two-point-five seconds before I remember that if the lycanthropes manage to scare the fairy off, he’ll just return.
I chug my second drink, only vaguely noting that this version of witch’s brew tastes strongly of star anise and clove.
“You’re going to want to chill on how fast you drink that,” Sybil cautions as I refill my glass again.
“Or you can just make bad decisions with me,” I say, looking pointedly at her own glass.
She cackles, then knocks her drink back.
“Fine,” she says, handing over her cup. “I’ll join the bad decision train with you, you freak. Now, refill our glasses, and let’s grab some food!”
I understand Sybil’s caution only once it’s too late.
We end up drinking another glass of witch’s brew and gorging ourselves on the foods set out for this outdoor banquet.
It’s only once I’m sitting on a crypt alongside Sybil and several other housemates of ours, nursing my fourth glass of brew, that I feel the first stirrings of desire.
I shift a little to ease the sensation, only now remembering that espiritus, the active ingredient in witch’s brew, makes witches extra lusty. For now it’s just an inconvenience, nothing too distracting.
Around us, ghosts and other witches sit on crypts and tombstones, enjoying one another’s company. Many have also taken to dancing around the graves.
“You guys thinking about going to the bonfire?” asks Yasmin, a petite witch with brown skin and curly hair cropped in a bob. She daintily eats a caramel-dipped apple in one hand and sips brew from the other, completely unaware that one of her tits has slipped out from between the linen bandage mummy dress she wears.
Next to her, Olga stands in a Victorian dress, her once-coiffed hair now tugged mostly loose and the high-necked collar of her dress gaping open, a few buttons missing. That’s not the only thing missing. Her Ledger of Last Words, a book dedicated to collecting the final words of the dying, is also absent tonight. Olga’s eyes are a little glazed from the witch’s brew, and she’s tugging absently on the back of her corset as though she might be able to loosen the lacing.
A wave of desire slams into me, this one much more insistent than anything that came before, and I white-knuckle my glass, nearly moaning at the throbbing sensation between my legs.
Mai, a witch with pale skin and wide, high cheekbones, eyes Olga. “You ladies can do whatever you like,” she says, “but I’m going hunting for wolves. I want to get eaten like I’m Little Red fucking Riding Hood.”
“Oh, count me in,” Sybil says from where she sits next to me on the crypt.
“Count you in for what?” I say dazedly, only half following the conversation.
I tug at the low neckline of the satin slip. Two hours ago, this felt like a wisp of an outfit, but now my skin is hot and overly sensitive, and the dress chafes in a way I cannot suddenly stand.
Around us, other witches have begun to strip, the outer layers of their costumes haphazardly tossed over the gravestones.
Sybil rubs her neck absently, her wings fluttering behind her. “Getting fucked by a lycan.”
My body viscerally tightens at that word. Fucked. Goddess, how much espiritus did they put in the brew this time? This is like a lust potion gone wrong.
I swim through the haze of my thoughts, finally refocusing on the conversation.
“Wait, what?” That’s her plan? “But the shifters…they’re still in seclusion.”
Sybil holds her thumb and forefinger close together. “They’re just a teeny tiny bit feral. That’s all. It’s not like it’s the full moon.” Her words slur together a little.
My skin is hot, so hot, and not even the chill in the wind can cool it.
“When I said I wanted to make bad decisions, I didn’t mean that!” I say, shifting again. Damn this throbbing. I want to sob at the coiling sensation growing in me that demands all sorts of friction.
Sybil looks me up and down, her own cheeks flushed. “I think you need to go wolf hunting too, Selene. Or find yourself a pretty witch. You drank a lot of brew.”
I swallow and shake my head, hopping down from the crypt. Only as soon as I’m on my feet, the brew hits me all at once. I sway a little.
“Sacred Seven,” I say, my voice coming out breathier than usual. “The lycans are still observing it. And then there’s that—that fae.” Unless the shifters chased him off, he’s likely still prowling the Everwoods.
“Oh!” Yasmin squeals. “You think he’s close by? I want to see him. Fairies are so pretty.”
“Only look for him if you want to marry him and have lots and lots of kinky fae sex,” Sybil says, smiling salaciously. “Apparently he likes girls wearing white, so your mummy costume will probably do the trick,” she says, tucking Yasmin’s boob back into her linen wrappings.
As Sybil and Yasmin discuss the nuances of becoming a kidnapped bride, I press my eyes together, my need rising. Goddess, but I’ve drank way too much. What was I thinking? The lust is no longer manageable. Nowhere near it. I was a fool to think otherwise. My desire has ratcheted up to a painful need.
Est amage, I feel how you ache…
Memnon,I nearly gasp down our bond. I should be irritated by his voice. Instead, my lust seems to find its target.
My king. My soul mate.
I don’t want to throw myself to the wolves or to the fae. I want him.
I was wrong earlier,I say down our bond. Even my internal voice sounds breathy, wanton. At least I’m thinking a little more clearly. I’m not fine. I need… I want…
Fuck, I’m having trouble saying it. I want him, but I don’t want to beg. Not when he’s supposed to be the penitent one.
Are you all right?
No, I nearly moan as a wave of desire rolls through me.
The other end of our connection is disturbingly quiet. Then?—
Gods, little witch. What was that?His tone is all wrong. Deeper and—and surprised.
Another wave crashes into me, and I press my thighs together, but that movement is too much. My pussy seems to have a pulse point of its own, and I can feel it with each beat of my heart.
Around me, the group of witches is splintering apart. Sybil’s hand clasps mine, and she tugs me along with her as I drown in my own desire. As soon as I begin to walk, I let out a soft gasp. Even that small movement is heightening the throb at the juncture of my thighs.
I nearly weep. Going to hex whoever made the brew tonight for being so cruel. I wanted to get smashed, not to smash someone.
Memnon!I call out again. Where did he go?
I’m here, est amage,he reassures me.
Thank the Goddess.
What do you need?he asks.
Can he not tell?
You. I nearly weep the word out. Cursed brew.
He’s quiet for several agonizing seconds.
If you need me, little witch, he finally says, then command it of me.
Command it of him? What in the actual fuck?
The growing ache in my core overwhelms the last of my sense and my pride. Shoving away my embarrassment, I straighten my back and steel my resolve.
Come to me, Memnon.I sound less like Selene and more like fierce, strong-willed Roxilana.
I feel the sorcerer’s mood shift, warmth spreading out from his end of the bond. As you will it, Empress. For you, I will always come.
I pinch my eyes shut. Fuck, he’s being noble—about a booty call no less. I start to laugh but end up moaning.
“Babe, you going to make it?” Sybil asks.
I glance over at my friend, who is pulling me along. Next to her are Mai and Olga. My gaze moves to the trees and the darkened forest around us. I’d been so singularly focused on speaking with Memnon that I tuned out what was happening with my friends.
“Where are we going?” I ask. I can’t tell exactly where we are in the Everwoods, only that a fae rider might be somewhere out here, and at this point, I’m likelier to climb him like a tree than I am to fight him off.
“To get laid!” Mai says, lifting her glass of witch’s brew into the air like she’s making a toast.
Absently, I glance at my own hand, noticing that I too am still carrying my booze. As is Sybil. And Olga, who has now lost her dress and is clad in only a corset and a sheer skirt. Her hair hangs mostly unbound.
“Whoo!” Sybil cheers, raising her glass.
Olga joins in, and all right, guess we are toasting. I lift my own cup and clink it with the others, our brew sloshing about. I hesitate only a moment before I take another drink of it.
Is this irresponsible? Yes.
Is Samhain a celebration that revels in witchy debauchery?
Also yes.
Apparently it’s also a low-key orgy-fest, judging by some of the witches we’re passing. The forest is alive with the sounds of moans and pleasured cries. Each one of them seems to reach inside me and twist me up tighter and tighter.
I have a two-thousand-year-old soul mate who is coming to take care of my needs,I remind myself when I feel like I’m going to burst from the ache of it all. I can probably command him to do kinky shit. Bet he’d be down.
“Bottom’s up, girlies!” Mai shouts.
Another pang of lust hits me, and I covertly pour my drink out. I’m all for being irresponsible, but I have zero desire to black out. That story ends with me waking up in the bed of some douchey fae lord who now thinks I’m his wife because he’s decent at kidnapping drunk girls.
Thank you, no.
“We can leave our glasses here,” Mai says, taking our cups from us and placing them at the base of a nearby fir tree. “They’re spelled to eventually return to the cemetery.”
We leave the glasses behind and resume our drunken march forward. I eye the rest of the group—Sybil with her flushed cheeks and her spelled wings fluttering madly, as though they’re trying to get away, and Mai, who was dressed as a knight but is now dressed as a topless knight, and Olga, who is skipping along and singing some creepy song about corpses.
Oof, we are a ragtag bunch.
“So where are we going again?” I ask Sybil.
“Hmm?” she says, swaying a little.
“Where are we?—”
Deeper in the woods, an ominous howl goes up, followed by another and another, the sound raising the hair along my forearms.
Olga decides now is a fantastic time to stop singing creepy songs and howl back like a demented wolf.
“Did you forget already?” Mai says, noticing my shocked expression. “We’re hunting for wolves.”
I release my friend’s hand, even as my skin still throbs. Fuck, all of me throbs. I’m a mass of overstimulated nerve endings. “We cannot be on lycanthrope territory during the Sacred Seven,” I say adamantly. Doing so is essentially consenting to being bitten and turned. Which can happen, especially during the Sacred Seven when a shifter’s animal instincts often overwhelm their human motives.
I back up from the group. “If any of us get bitten?—”
Another howl interrupts me, this one much, much closer.
“No one’s turning into a wolf,” Sybil says.
I rotate in a circle, uselessly searching for the faint, luminous blue line that marks the boundary between Henbane Coven and the Marin Pack. Did we pass it already? I place a hand on my head, distressed.
Sybil comes over to me, and she doesn’t look worried. Why isn’t she worried?
My friend lays her hands on my shoulders. “It’s the seventh night of the Sacred Seven. This last evening of seclusion is basically a formality for lycans.”
I shake my head. I heard Kane’s roughened voice only hours ago; he sounded like he was only partially holding on to his humanity. “This isn’t a formality,” I insist. “They need this night too.”
Another bolt of desire courses through me. My panties are drenched, and this was an uncomfortable enough situation when I was lusty around a bunch of ghosts and coven sisters. But we must smell like sex and magic, and any shifter out tonight will notice. We’re lingering out here like bait.
The lycans have extended me protection, but there is no protection against getting bitten on their land.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. “I don’t want to be here.”
I glance around again. Which way is home?
I can’t tell.
Ahead of the group, a twig snaps, and my eyes flick to the sound. There in the darkness, I catch sight of three pairs of luminous eyes.
I freeze.
It’s enough to temporarily cut through the haze of my lust.
Sybil follows my gaze, her hands falling from my shoulders as several shadowy forms prowl forward. Olga sends up an orb of light, and under the reddish hue of it, I can see—fuck—five wolves.
“Sawyer?” Sybil says.
One of the wolves flicks his ears. He stalks forward, past Olga and Mai, who look a little less eager to play with shifters now that their massive animal forms are this close.
Drunk Sybil, however, shows no such reservation. She rushes forward, causing some of the other wolves to growl. Heedless of the danger, she throws her arms around the wolf she thinks is Sawyer.
I go stone-cold sober for an instant as visions of my best friend getting mauled fill my mind. But shockingly, the wolf begins to lick what it can of Sybil’s arm. It bows its head, nudging her with its snout, and its form shifts before our eyes. Hair recedes into skin, claws become nails, paws lengthen into hands and feet. The wolf’s back broadens and its face rounds.
When it’s over, a naked man kneels in Sybil’s arms, his skin coated in sweat, his breathing labored.
He glances up, and yeah, it is Sawyer. Sybil squeals and hugs him tighter, gyrating against him while he breathes in her scent.
I nearly forgot about Sawyer—Sybil hasn’t talked much about the shifter since they got together a couple weeks ago, but it’s obvious now that she has a thing for him…and that he has a thing for her.
He nips lightly at her throat, and I tense, my magic beginning to pour out of me.
Infatuated or not, I will rip him off her if he dares?—
A growl cuts through my thoughts, dragging my attention away.
The largest wolf of the pack slinks forward, its gaze fixed on me as it takes slow, tentative steps. I can feel power in its gaze—it makes me want to kneel, to bare my neck, to submit. The shifter is making it abundantly clear that I’m not to fuck with its pack mate.
I fight the compulsion—the last thing I want is to make myself even more vulnerable before a pack of wolves—but I do drag my magic back into me. Once I do, the growling dies down.
The shifter, however, continues to slink forward, and without meaning to, I tense all over again.
“Don’t run,” Sawyer says softly from where he holds Sybil. “If you need to back up, do it slowly.”
I draw in a shuddering breath and nod. My skin is tingling in a decidedly unwanted way now that I’ve gained the attention of a fucking wolf.
Not just any wolf, I realize as I study its eyes. I remember looking at those lupine eyes only a couple of weeks ago.
“Kane,” I whisper.
At the sound of his name, he goes very, very still. A low sound comes from his throat. It’s close to a whine.
Shit, it is him.
Sawyer turns to Sybil and brushes aside one of her dark, silky locks. “I can’t believe you came,” he says quietly, though we can all hear him. “None of you are supposed to be here.” He doesn’t sound mad about that.
“My friends were interested in…getting to know your friends tonight,” Sybil says.
In response to her words, Kane’s ears flick.
He makes another whine that sounds almost…happy? His tail wags once, and I think I’m supposed to feel reassured by this?
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the other wolves approaching Mai, with her breasts bare, and Olga, whose corset is now loosened and partially sliding off her. They should be retreating—we all should be retreating—but instead Mai is beginning to stroke the valley between her breasts, and Olga is slipping her arms out of what’s left of her outfit.
I can practically smell the sex in the air.
This is such a terrible idea. I’m drunk and my pussy is pounding with need, but even I can see that.
Unfortunately, no one else seems to think so. Sawyer has lifted Sybil into his arms, the two making out as he wraps her legs around his waist while those damn wings of hers flutter away. No sooner has he gotten her into his arms than he lopes away into the darkness.
One of the other wolves is shifting, and a now topless Olga is petting one of the lycans who’s remained in animal form.
I glance back at Kane, who has moved closer, his eyes fixed on me and his snout lifted as he scents the air.
I swallow, sure that he’s smelling me. My scent and the wetness that’s soaked my panties.
“Kane.” I lick my dry lips “I’m not…”
At the worst possible moment, another surge of desire floods my body, and I gasp, locking my knees to keep myself upright.
Kane’s lupine form stills as though he’s aware of exactly what’s going on with me. Abruptly, he swings around to the rest of the group and growls menacingly at them, his hackles rising.
My heart ratchets up at the sound, and I begin backing up. Maybe, while he’s busy being weirdly territorial, I can just…disappear.
At the sound of Kane’s growl, a freshly shifted lycan steps in front of Olga, guarding her with his body and slowly backing the both of them up.
“Relax, Halloway, we’re leaving.”
Leaving?
“Wait! No one needs to go!” But even as I speak, my coven sisters and the shifters who’ve caught their eyes slip away into the darkness. I hear a couple breathy laughs, a handful of whispered words, a moan, then—nothing.
Un-fucking-believable.
I turn my attention back to Kane, who’s studying me with those glinting blue eyes of his. My breath picks up, this time for entirely nonsexual reasons. It was distressing enough to face down my crush’s wolf when he was injured, but now, when the two of us are alone in the woods and Kane’s under the sway of the moon and his beast’s instincts, it’s somehow worse.
It doesn’t help that I’m very drunk and even more aroused.
Kane approaches me, his eyes tracking my every move. The witch’s brew is still hitting my system, and I can feel heat and need and magic moving through my blood. It’s overwhelming my misgivings.
I put my hands out in a placating gesture. “I don’t know how much you can understand, Kane, but we’re friends, and I know I smell…weird.” Read: like a horny badger. “I honestly just want to get back to my coven’s festivities,” I say, fighting the urge to back up. “If you let me, I’ll leave?—”
At that, Kane gives a low growl.
“Or I could stay,” I add.
His growl dies down.
I guess he wants company.
I try again, breathing through the throb of my desire. “Kane, I know we didn’t get our moment,” I say, now edging back a little.
He prowls forward, aware of the distance I’m trying to create. He’s having none of it.
“And,” I continue, “I like you—a lot—but…” My words lapse into a moan as my arousal spikes once more. My breasts feel so heavy, and my core keeps clenching around nothing. “But it’s still the Sacred Seven, and I’m waiting for someone else?—”
At the mention of someone else, Kane begins to growl again.
If I weren’t so drunk on witch’s brew, and if Kane weren’t an actual wolf at the moment, I’d know what to do. Instead, I edge back a little more, my heart thundering. I cringe when I feel my pussy pounding in time to it.
The lycan moves forward again, eating up the distance between us and then some. He’s so close—close enough to touch. The thought has me backing up faster.
A low, warning sound rumbles in the shifter’s throat.
“Kane, I know I’m on your territory, but you’re making me nervous. Can you?—”
I yelp when the back of my foot catches on a tree root, and I tumble to the ground. My hip hits the earth hard, and I hiss in a breath.
One moment, I’m laid out on the ground, and in the next, a massive wolf looms over me.
Maiden, Mother, and Crone.
I go absolutely still as Kane sniffs me curiously. His snout moves to my neck, and I feel his teeth graze my skin. I go very, very still.
“Please don’t bite me,” I whisper.
Sybil might’ve been blasé about it, but I don’t have any interest in being a werewolf.
Kane pauses, then breathes my scent in once more, his tongue licking the flesh before his teeth graze it again, this time more deliberately, like he’s considering the notion.
I lift my hand, readying a spell to push him away, when I see his pelt ripple. In the next instant, his form shifts, his fur receding into his skin as his torso broadens. His translucent magic hovers around him as he transforms.
In less than a minute, the shift is complete, and the wolf is gone. In its place is a very sweaty, very naked man, his heavily muscled body pressed to mine, his face buried against my neck.
He takes deep, heaving breaths as he recovers from the shift.
Unfortunately, all I notice is how fucking good he feels against me. Too good. I reach for him, needing more contact. My prior worries are distant things. Inconsequential, really. This is Kane. I like Kane. I wouldn’t mind kissing Kane.
I drag him onto me, and he doesn’t fight it. He shifts himself so his hips are settled between mine, pinning me in place, and his hand begins to languidly glide up and down the side of my torso, catching on my satin dress.
The lycan draws in a deep breath, then groans, leaning his forehead against my neck. “Fuck. You’ve had witch’s brew, haven’t you?” Kane’s voice is deeper than usual, as though his wolf is barely banked.
“Mmm.” I writhe a little against Kane. His body feels different than what I expected—his hair less coarse, his sweat-slicked skin less scarred. It throws me for a moment.
“You shouldn’t be on lycanthrope territory,” he says.
“I tried to leave. You wouldn’t let me.”
He huffs out a strained laugh. “Yeah, well, my wolf likes you, and he has fewer reservations about making that clear.” He laughs again, then touches the side of my face. “I’ve been worried about you. You okay?”
I nod, then shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about that.” I can barely think over this driving need.
I feel Kane’s cock trapped between us, and though he’s acting gentle and concerned, his body is taut with arousal. I grind against him, causing the shifter to groan.
“Fuck, Selene,” he hisses out, jerking his hips out of reach. “Please tell me you wanted to find me.”
“No,” I say, kissing the underside of his jaw and continuing to rub myself against him. “I had plans.”
He growls at that, and the wolf is wholly in his voice when he says, “Seems to me like you’re making yourself new ones.”
With that, he finds my lips and kisses me.
Just like the last time I kissed Kane, it feels wrong. All wrong. Because I called out to another man, because I stumbled unwillingly into this situation, because it’s the Sacred Seven and Kane’s not in full control of his magic, and I don’t want to get bitten. But most of all, because Kane isn’t Memnon.
I groan at the realization.
“I smell your need,” Kane breathes against my lips, mistaking the sound for something more carnal. His mouth returns to mine, and he deepens the kiss, grinding himself against me, his hard cock rubbing against me through the thin fabric of my dress. I gasp into his mouth as sensation floods me, my hands moving to grip his hips. And yet?—
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
The wrongness is screaming at me and cutting through my arousal.
“Wait,” I say, breaking off the kiss, a note of panic entering my voice. My body is weeping at me for stopping, and I have to fight the urge to give in again. I place a hand against Kane’s chest. “Stop.” I force the word out, even as my traitorous hips grind against his.
Another growl rumbles low in Kane’s throat, his instincts clearly not liking my words. “Stop?” he says. He dips his nose to my neck and breathes in. “Your body, your very scent itself is telling me to fuck you. You’re dripping in arousal.”
I pinch my eyes shut. “I know, but…” I draw in a lungful of air and force my limbs to untangle themselves from his. “I can’t do this.”
I can’t. The longer I lie here, the more obvious that becomes.
Kane rears back a little, but he doesn’t get off me. Instead, he searches my features. “You can’t, or you don’t want to?”
I open my mouth?—
“It doesn’t matter what my mate meant,” a deep voice answers. “She said no. Now get the fuck off my fiancée.”