Chapter 29
Beatrix went through the motions for the rest of the conference on Sunday, feeling as if she wasn’t entirely there.
Perhaps her distraction was evident, or perhaps she just looked as tired as she felt, because Rosemarie told her to sort out the caterers and gave her no other assignments when she finished.
Ella patrolled the building—Western High, once an all girls’ school—on the lookout for wizardry.
Rosemarie followed Lydia around, alert for problems. And Lydia went from state delegation to state delegation, talking quietly with leaders about the ways she hoped to accomplish her aims. Some were more receptive than others—especially to the idea of staging a massive rally in D.C.
“Young lady,” said the white-haired president of the Maine chapter, “I did not vote for you, and I have no intention of demonstrating in the streets like rabble.”
After lunch, they led the promised tour of the Walters Art Museum—Beatrix ready to jump out of her skin at every noise—and finally, finally it was over.
The last bus left the city en route to the aeroport.
The last bit of debris was cleared out of the high school’s auditorium.
Beatrix distributed thank-you gifts to the local League activists for their help and drove the Ellicott Mills contingent home, wanting nothing more than to go somewhere quiet where she could hear herself think.
It was nearly four-thirty when she reached her favorite clearing in the forest, the one with the comfortable stump.
Here, she’d read countless books. Sobbed over her mother’s death.
Planned how she would give Lydia what she couldn’t have herself.
Danced with Theo. Kissed the dream version of Blackwell.
Here, surrounded by the many ghosts of her past, she could finally be alone.
She sat on the stump and pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, trying to stop the terrible, itchy feeling of threatening tears. The thought of what had almost happened to Lydia—what could easily still happen, despite their best efforts—made her feel so helpless.
What she really wanted to do, if she was honest with herself, was to plead with her sister to stop. Live past twenty. Let someone else be a hero and a martyr. You’re all I have.
But that would be so breathtakingly selfish that she knew she couldn’t even hint at it, and besides, that was exactly what the bastards wanted. What Theo wanted, damn him.
Garrett. She would have to start thinking of him as “Garrett” again.
At some point, she supposed, she would be able to consider him without anger and humiliation clouding her judgment.
Perhaps then she would feel the loss—not of him, exactly, but of the person she’d thought he was.
Now, though, as she considered him, prodded the wound, it was as if she’d never gotten within a stone’s throw of loving him.
Never advanced beyond the rush of simply being wanted.
She thought it had been more than that, but those feelings were dead.
Or perhaps transferred.
Dear God.
She was convinced now that she and Blackwell were still having tandem dreams—nightmares. Last night had seemed so real, he had seemed so real, right down to the calluses on his fingers and the stubble on his jaw, that nothing but magic could explain it.
But that dream was distinct from everything she’d unwillingly shared with him before, even the one ending in that unsettling, impassioned kiss. Three Vows now bound them together. The magically significant three. Was that the reason? Had they made the situation worse?
When she’d dragged herself out of bed that morning, exhausted and mortified, he was already gone. On Rosemarie’s bed lay a scrap of paper with a telephone number and a message in his graceful cursive: Remember it’s tapped—but call if you need me.
She did need him, but not in the way he’d meant or she wanted to feel. She could hardly miss the many objections. He’s your boss probably ranked least serious among them.
None of that stopped her temperature rising when she thought of him, which only meant that she would have to not think of him. She had a thousand other pressing matters to consider, anyway. What he was trying to keep from blowing up, for instance.
I don’t think you want to add your own fear to what you’re getting from me secondhand.
She shivered as she remembered what he’d said. She didn’t believe in ignoring problems in the hope that they would go away, but this one she would gladly put aside, just for the moment. Besides, it involved him.
Something else, then. How she managed to teleport, perhaps.
Come over afterward and we’ll run some tests.
Every fiber of her body urged her on. Yes, go see him. Yes, yes, yes.
She jumped to her feet and walked—ran—back home.
No.
She looked up from her carefully arranged brewing ingredients to find him standing at the threshold, grasping the doorway with both hands as if to hold himself back.
“Are you really here?” he said, an urgency to the question that she could feel in every inch of her body. “Are we awake?”
She considered this as best she could with her heartbeat pulsing insistently in her ears, neck, thighs. “I—I don’t remember walking here.”
He closed the distance between them in three strides and caught her in a bruising kiss.
She could feel nothing but him, his jaw warm under her fingers, hips flush against hers.
Could smell nothing but the hint of cinnamon and rum in his aftershave.
Could taste on his tongue what he’d last eaten, something both bitter and sweet.
He pulled back the barest amount, just enough to choke out, “I want you.” A desperate laugh escaped his throat. “No, that doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m consumed by thoughts of you, Beatrix Harper—I’m being burned alive from the inside out. Please tell me you feel half so much for me.”
She attacked the buttons on his shirt. “Every bit as much. This time, don’t stop.”
They made it up the stairs somehow, her lips on his neck, his hands pulling the pins from her hair.
His room was hardly anything but a bed, and as he lifted her onto it, her coat, dress, corset, shift and shoes disappeared without a trace.
She tried visualizing him without his clothes and got the same effect—better than magic.
He’d left her stockings and underwear. But before she could imagine them blissfully gone, too, he put his lips to her ear, murmuring, “Wait.” It wasn’t at all the sort of wait he’d meant the night before. This was a promise. A beguilement.
He kneeled at her feet, unhooked her garters and rolled the stockings down one at a time. Slow, deliberate. Agonizing.
“Omnimancer, please—”
“Peter. Say it.”
“Peter,” she gasped as he kissed her just above the ankle, skin against skin.
“Again.”
“Peter.” It felt like a spell, powerful and momentous. “Peter.”
He kissed her calf, her knee and up her inner thigh until she was nearly crying in frustration. When he pressed his lips to the sole bit of fabric still covering her, her hips jerked of their own volition. Then he vanished the underwear and—
Oh God!
The sensation, the utter shock of his tongue on her, sent her careening over the edge with a scream.
He turned her so she was fully on the bed, her head on his pillow, her chest heaving, and angled himself over her. Yes, more, now. But he hesitated.
Was he afraid of hurting her? “I’m not a virgin” tumbled from her mouth before she could stop it. The words hung in the air, horribly.
“Good,” he said. “But I am.”
She could hardly believe it. The man was continually surprising her. “Well—here, allow me.”
She pressed herself onto him, carefully, for it had been a very long time. Wrapping her arms around him, she set a rhythm.
He grasped her hips. “Slowly—slowly, or it’ll be over.”
She hooked her legs behind him to push him in farther. He sucked in a breath. “Just that much faster we can do it again,” she murmured, increasing the pace.
He didn’t protest a second time. Afterward, flushed and breathless, he rolled them both over so her head rested on his arm.
“The way you made me climax—I had no idea people did that,” she said.
He traced a finger down her arm. “You don’t sound altogether pleased.”
“Extremely pleased,” she said quickly, wanting to leave no doubt there. “I just hate not knowing things.”
His chuckle rumbled through her.
“It’s not funny, Omnimancer.”
“Peter.” He reached for a gorgeous scrap quilt at the foot of the bed and pulled it over them. “And I’m not laughing at you, Beatrix, I was simply thinking it’s very you of you.”
She slipped a hand into his. “How could you do that with such skill if you’re a virgin? And, for that matter, how is it you’re a virgin at all? You’re a wizard. It couldn’t have been for lack of opportunity.”
“To be clear,” he said, lips quirking, “I’m not saying I’ve lived like a monk.”
The thought of what else he might know how to do brought on a rush of heat. A bit breathlessly, she asked, “Then why not …?”
“I don’t want to leave any woman in the position my mother found herself in.”
She pushed herself up on one elbow, the better to see his face. “Surely there’s a black market for rubbers in D.C.”
“They’re a lot less effective than you might think.”
When she’d kissed him before, she’d been spurred on by lust. This time, affection drove her to it. He slid his fingers into her hair and kissed her back, unhurried.
After they finally separated, he smiled up at her. It transformed his face. He looked so happy.
She didn’t intend to ask the question, but it popped out the instant after it came to mind. “You’re not bothered by my lack of maidenly virtue?”
He snorted. “Who do you think I am—Mrs. Price?”
She kissed him again, luxuriating in the feeling of his lips and the contour of his chest against her palm. Then she settled back into the crook of his arm.
He cleared his throat. “As long as we’re being nosy ... Garrett?”