Nikolo #3
“Fae don’t need all those extra steps to access that magical energy.
It’s already within them in vast quantities—integrated into their being in a way that takes mages years of practice to emulate.
And witches are all borrowed magic. Through their oath to the Gods, they create a tie to that energy and can draw from it to create magic.
Over the years, the instructors here at the shop have found ways to allow our staff to expand the ways we access that energy, that magic.
Blessedly, it seems to pool here—kind of like a spring or a well—so it makes drawing upon it a little easier.
We've found ways to make things work, to foster the skills that we’re born with and even coax out others.
And…” Willan’s eyes narrow at me and he licks his lips, like he’s preparing to say something controversial.
“A lot of the time for the beings who come here, it’s about finding why they are here in the first place.
Some are simply seeking community. For many, it is more about the ritual, about finding a personal way to connect themselves to the Gods.
To access the spirit rather than wielding magic. ”
Willan's words are like a sucker punch. My head rings with the weight of them.
“And you can help them?” I don’t look at him, because I can’t, not without him seeing everything written on my face.
“We do our best.”
I stare at the lump of quartz in my hand until my eyes cross.
“I saw your braid earlier. In your hair.” Willan pulls me out of my unconscious musings and I pat my hair self consciously. “I… Did you want that? What I said? About ritual or magic or—fuck. Did you want me to braid your hair or something?”
“Yes.” I answer before I can think about it. Or worse, before he can take back the offer. “Yes. Please.”
Willan swallows hard—I can see the way his throat works in the opening of his collar. With a deep breath he stands, trying to exude calm but with an undeniable shakiness.
“Okay. Let’s… let’s not do it here, though. We can go upstairs. To my apartment.”
Fuzzy white noise fills my ears. This is a terrible idea.
Or the best idea. It doesn’t matter, it’s happening.
Lifting my bottle to my lips, I drain the blood and watch Willan round the desk towards me.
I may be the vampire, but I feel like the prey.
A shiver runs down my spine and when Willan stops directly in front of me, I put the now empty bottle on the table.
Willan's hand appears in front of me, his forearms exposed where he’s rolled up his sleeves.
Licking my lips, savouring the flavour of the blood there, I spy the veins visible in his wrist, suddenly ravenous again.
“Unless…” Willan hesitates, his outstretched fingers curling in retreat.
“No. Nope. No.” My eloquence astounds me. I quickly snatch up his hand and jump from the desk, putting myself squarely in Willan's personal space.
I don’t remember getting up to Willan’s apartment. I only have a vague awareness of Willan’s husky laughter and the narrow stairways and the anticipation thrumming in my veins and the prickle of the energy rolling off Willan.
“Woah, this place is nice.”
The apartment opens directly into the living room.
Just like the shop on the bottom level, the internal space doesn’t quite correlate with what I know is the physical space of the building.
Unlike the shop downstairs, which is welcoming and cozy and whimsical with everything overly cluttered and chaotic, Willan’s apartment is dark and moody and extremely tidy with a whole lot of black.
Black leather couches, black stained wood furniture, black panelled walls, black rugs on the dark wood floors.
Lamps spring to life as we kick off our shoes, lighting up all the corners of the room.
“Thanks. Come on.” He doesn’t give me time to awkwardly wonder about what’s coming next, brushing past me to lead the way to the hallway leading off the living room.
Space really seems to have no concept here, because there’s more than one room off the hallway, and unless Egbert’s place is the size of a shoebox, I’m itching to find out how it works, but that’s definitely a question for later.
The door pops open with a touch of Willan's hand, revealing another room drenched in black. Only this room is definitely where Willan performs his rituals and magic.
A large silver circle’s been marked on the floor, with a spiderweb pattern connecting it to the walls of the room.
Within the circle are sigils, most of which I recognise—mainly the ones for warding, others are symbols for the elements or the Gods.
In the centre of the circle is a low-lying table filled with candles and sacred items. There are a couple of large crystals that look like they come from our mountain and bottles of swirling, smokey air and others with water.
Apart from the fat cushions sitting beside the altar, the only other thing in the room is a large cabinet, probably filled with other magical things.
“Do you want another drink or anything?” Willan asks, almost nervously, both of us hanging in the doorway.
“Nah. That’s fine.” I take a step in the room, with a feeling like I’m taking a step off a ledge—metaphorically throwing myself into the upheaval of my life.
“Take a seat. I’ll just grab my things.”
Willan’s voice is directly behind me, the heat of his breath tickling my neck. Harder than granite, I make myself move to one of the cushions, jumping when the candle flames flicker alight as I sit down.
“Gods tits” I mutter the curse, rubbing my hands on my thighs, much to Willan’s amusement. I can hear him snicker as he fidgets about in his cabinet.
“Why so jumpy? Nervous?” The soft sounds of his feet get closer as he comes back to me.
“Not nervous. Just…” I don’t have a socially acceptable word to use here. Excited? Horny? Conflicted? I don’t finish my sentence. Willan snickers again and moves another cushion around so it’s behind me.
It’s been years since I’ve drawn in a breath, but somehow my chest is still locked tight as he settles down on the cushion. His legs are crossed so his shins brush my back. His cushion is higher than mine, and with his height, it feels like he’s looming over me, in the very best way.
“It’s okay if you’re nervous. I’ve got you.” His hands fall on my shoulders, molten heat flowing to my belly. I sink my fang into my lip to keep my whimper inside.
Completely oblivious, Willan massages my shoulders with three quick squeezes before running his hands down my arms to my elbows and trailing back up to squeeze my shoulders again.
My fingers link together in my lap, keeping them locked in place when he continues the slow trail again, his breath flowing in time with his hands.
Up and down, his hands keep going and I’ve never been so tightly wound and yet completely relaxed.
My eyes drift shut and I sink into the floating feeling.
After several passes, and his fingers feeling like they are teasing the bare skin at the end of my sleeve, the room drops.
Not literally, but there is a sudden drop in the room's air pressure with Willan’s power growing.
Still, I don’t open my eyes, as I’ve become putty in Willan’s hands.
Waves wash over us, warm and then cool tingles. The magic is like an echo of a song I can’t quite remember the lyrics to anymore, but still, it’s not unpleasant. Especially when Willan’s hands leave my shoulders to massage my scalp.
A whine slips from my lips, and I sink further into his touch, nuzzling my head into his fingers. Sensations flow from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. Dimly, I’m aware of the aching hardness of my dick, but it’s peripheral to everything else. I’m completely under Willan’s spell.
His soft whispers tickle my ear, and his fingers begin to comb through my curls. When he finds the braid I’ve hidden away in the masses of my hair, he slowly and carefully unknots it, pulling it apart with delicate precision.
Through the thick layer of protection he’s drawn around us, the outside world manages to sneak through.
All of my complicated feelings about finding a place for my old life in my new one.
The fear of judgement about wanting to balance them.
Years old hurt from my clan's rejection.
The pain of making my own way in the world completely alone.
All of them looming figures on the edge of the circle, growing bigger and bigger as the braid unravels.
“I’ll keep it hidden, if you want. No one has to know. You’re safe now.” He whispers knowingly, his fingers never leaving my hair. And I feel it. The reality hasn’t changed, the figures are still there, but they no longer feel like giants.
“Thank you.” I try to whisper, too, but my lips are so relaxed I can barely form the words.