Page 21 of Bloodgrove

Magic spoke to magic. Will knew that his power was a sister to what Elodie had called forth. Perhaps not a sister—perhaps a lover, an old companion recognizing the touch with which they had once danced.

“Will,” she breathed, looking up at him. Black curls had broken free of her updo, and Will reached into them, releasing the rest. Her hair was like silk, heavy, thick, and smooth.

Behind her, the monster growled as it tore strips of muscle from the vampire’s bones and swallowed them, saliva dripping from its jaws. Steam rose from its body in the frozen air, and Elodie’s breath hung in white clouds before her.

“What god speaks through you?” she asked, wetting her lips. Her torn collar revealed the frantic beat of her pulse and the swell of her chest pressing against the bodice with every breath. He took another step toward her, and she slid onto the altar. Blood soaked into her dress as it ran through the engravings, but she did not care. No—she parted her legs, allowing Will to step between them. His hands caught the black hem of her overskirt and pushed it higher, exposing layer after layer of white tulle and lace. Dimly, he remembered imagining such a sight earlier that day as he gathered the fabric until her legs came into view.

“The god of the Winter Sea.” His voice was still not his own. Neither was the searching hand driven by magic as it moved along the tender skin of her thigh. Elodie sighed, while behind her the monster crushed the vampire’s skull between its teeth. The guests hummed in their trance.

Slowly his fingers moved over the soft fabric of her stockings, up to the bare skin and finally reached the hot, wet place between her legs, where her menstrual blood glistened. It stained the white petticoats, and suddenly something broke through from deep within him. It reminded him that he was her employee and she, the mistress of the house. That he had never touched a woman this way. That he was not a man who took a woman while a monster tore someone apart beside them.

With a strangled cry, he forced the magic back and pressed his soul once more into the inadequate shape of his body. He stumbled away as panic overwhelmed him. The fear had been there all along, but whatever had taken control of him had pushed it aside. Now he saw the entire grotesque scene and fled.

Chapter 11

He was never fully awake, never fully asleep, as dreams tormented him. The sheets were soaked with sweat and tangled around his legs, trapping him in his own bed while something caressed his body.

Will felt a long, thick tongue against his most intimate parts, but he could not open his eyes to see. He was helpless, and yet it felt like a reward. Blood rushed to his penis, making him hard and heavy, his arousal pressing eagerly into the touch. His body betrayed him in those dark hours of the night.

“Who are you?” he moaned, his mind wavering between sleep and pleasure.

“You know me, my dearest.”

“Albatross. God of the Winter Sea.” Will did not know how the words had found their way to his lips, yet he felt their truth.

“And you are the wind that carries me home, my salt, my shore,” the dream whispered, and took Will completely—licking, sucking, pressing, filling.

He lost his mind.

Until he spilled into the sweat-damp sheets.

Will jolted awake. He was alone.

“What are you waiting for in the quiet of the night?”

The voice pulled Will from the fog of his thoughts, and he turned toward the soft tread of leather soles on the kitchen’s cold stone floor.

He was in no condition to receive a lady. His silver hair fell in long, uncombed strands over his shoulders, his loose nightshirt and trousers were wrinkled, and the dressing gown was a threadbare inheritance from his grandfather. His feet were bare, and he welcomed the cold creeping up his legs. He wanted to feel the damp flagstones and the worn wood of the threshold where he stood, watching the city awaken.

The morning dawned beyond the kitchen door, no more than a pale line on the horizon. The city had grown quiet, the howling had faded, and the shadows were soft as velvet. He had no idea what had happened to the sacrifice from the ritual or where the monster was now. The moment he had returned to his room, he had collapsed onto the bed. When he woke again, every trace of the ritual had been cleared away, as though nothing had ever happened.

“For morning to come,” he answered.

Elodie stepped from the darkness of the servants’ corridors into the kitchen, illuminated only by the fire in the stove. She smiled wearily, poured more milk into the pot where Will had just warmed a cup, and hung the kettle over the fire. Her dressing gown spilled over her white nightdress in a broad flood of scarlet. Will did not miss the shadows beneath her eyes or their missing spark.

“May I help you?” he asked too late, though he did not move from the threshold. He remained with one foot in the alley behind the house, the other as an anchor on the stone slabs.

He probably looked no better, half-dead from whatever had assaulted him in his sleep, while his body still hummed from the dream’s touch. The shame had returned, but so had the rush of surrendering to his magic, and the pleasure and torment of being overwhelmed. Nightmares were always a kind of assault the mind inflicted on itself.

Slowly, he exhaled.

“Nightmares?” Elodie asked as she stirred the milk.

“And you?”

He saw her faint smile in the firelight. She lifted the kettle and poured herself a cup, then took honey from a cabinet and stirred in a spoonful. Apparently, during these forgotten hours between night and day, she allowed herself a little sweetness.

She brought the kettle with her when she joined Will and refilled his cup. Then they stood together in silence, leaning against either side of the doorway, sipping their milk and watching the world awaken.