that, I am certain. But his children may have been involved in your blackouts. They’re half-bloods. Young fools. They dream of past glory and imagine that the grateful Queen will admit them to fellowship in the Wild Hunt. A vain hope, a childish fantasy. Nothing more. But some of Finn’s get and followers are strong enough to have created the spells I think were used on you, and others are human enough to handle cold iron, could have laid the trap we sprung on the roof. If so, I’ll make a bargain with Finn and let him deal with them.”
“This is because you didn’t find the summoning spell, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t on your skin,” he said. He didn’t want to tell her what the bastard had used. She had been through enough.
“What is it?” she asked. “You owe me the truth.”
They had just been intimate. Somehow that made it more difficult to tell her what he believed. If only he had found the summoning spell written somewhere on her skin. He might not have been able to remove it himself, weak as he was, but he would have been willing to bargain with the one other Fae in Boston who might have had the raw power, if not the requisite skill. Miach could have guided his old pupil, channeled his untutored energies and freed Helene from the deadly compulsion.
Instead, he had found only the locus of the memory spell. Dangerous enough magic, to be sure. It would have to come off, and soon. And that would likely involve Miach allying himself with his enemy, Finn.
Because he had not been able to resist her. He had thought he would be strong enough, but when he failed to find the geis on her back or her belly, when he had cupped her breasts and her breath had hitched, when he had smelled her arousal, honey sweet, and felt her heart beat faster; he’d convinced himself that the Druid’s spell, the Druid’s proscriptions didn’t matter.
It was her legs that had first drawn his eyes when he met her, and it was her legs that had undone him today, blinded him to reason. He’d squeezed the firm muscles of her calves, skimmed the pure geometry of her knees, then felt the swan’s down softness of her inner thigh where he had first placed his own mark.
It was gone now but the memory of tracing it there in Magic Marker had reminded him of the night they’d met and of all the reasons he wanted her. And then he’d seen it, when her legs were parted as he slid his hands up, up, up her silken thighs. Seen, on the simple, sheer cotton panties—a flash of white beneath her navy skirt—the spot of wetness forming. Noticed, too, the hint of musk.
He’d touched her. She’d responded. She’d sighed, and he’d circled his finger in her slickness. And she’d responded again, beautifully. She’d arched and writhed, and he—he’d become fixated on making her come. On showing her how good it could be with a Fae, with him.
If he had stopped after she’d sobbed and choked and given a wordless cry, if he had taken her into his arms or just rested his head on her thigh, all might have been well. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t stopped. He’d wanted to know the contours of her body, to draw things out, to drink in her responses to the invasion of one finger, then two, to see if she was capable of the kind of cataclysm he had suspected.
And she had been. Her entire body had tensed and spasmed that time. Then he’d put his lips on her and given her release once more.
Fool that he was, he wasn’t certain even now that he could have acted differently if he’d known the costs and consequences.
“There was no summoning geis on your skin. That means that the spell was placed inside your body. That it was baked into bread or written on paper, and that you were forced, under compulsion, to swallow it down. The medium is unimportant, and only the magic remains. The spell is part of you now, and it cannot be undone. Not until the Fae who cast it dies—or you do.”
• • •
H elene knew Miach was right. She couldn’t go
“This is because you didn’t find the summoning spell, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t on your skin,” he said. He didn’t want to tell her what the bastard had used. She had been through enough.
“What is it?” she asked. “You owe me the truth.”
They had just been intimate. Somehow that made it more difficult to tell her what he believed. If only he had found the summoning spell written somewhere on her skin. He might not have been able to remove it himself, weak as he was, but he would have been willing to bargain with the one other Fae in Boston who might have had the raw power, if not the requisite skill. Miach could have guided his old pupil, channeled his untutored energies and freed Helene from the deadly compulsion.
Instead, he had found only the locus of the memory spell. Dangerous enough magic, to be sure. It would have to come off, and soon. And that would likely involve Miach allying himself with his enemy, Finn.
Because he had not been able to resist her. He had thought he would be strong enough, but when he failed to find the geis on her back or her belly, when he had cupped her breasts and her breath had hitched, when he had smelled her arousal, honey sweet, and felt her heart beat faster; he’d convinced himself that the Druid’s spell, the Druid’s proscriptions didn’t matter.
It was her legs that had first drawn his eyes when he met her, and it was her legs that had undone him today, blinded him to reason. He’d squeezed the firm muscles of her calves, skimmed the pure geometry of her knees, then felt the swan’s down softness of her inner thigh where he had first placed his own mark.
It was gone now but the memory of tracing it there in Magic Marker had reminded him of the night they’d met and of all the reasons he wanted her. And then he’d seen it, when her legs were parted as he slid his hands up, up, up her silken thighs. Seen, on the simple, sheer cotton panties—a flash of white beneath her navy skirt—the spot of wetness forming. Noticed, too, the hint of musk.
He’d touched her. She’d responded. She’d sighed, and he’d circled his finger in her slickness. And she’d responded again, beautifully. She’d arched and writhed, and he—he’d become fixated on making her come. On showing her how good it could be with a Fae, with him.
If he had stopped after she’d sobbed and choked and given a wordless cry, if he had taken her into his arms or just rested his head on her thigh, all might have been well. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t stopped. He’d wanted to know the contours of her body, to draw things out, to drink in her responses to the invasion of one finger, then two, to see if she was capable of the kind of cataclysm he had suspected.
And she had been. Her entire body had tensed and spasmed that time. Then he’d put his lips on her and given her release once more.
Fool that he was, he wasn’t certain even now that he could have acted differently if he’d known the costs and consequences.
“There was no summoning geis on your skin. That means that the spell was placed inside your body. That it was baked into bread or written on paper, and that you were forced, under compulsion, to swallow it down. The medium is unimportant, and only the magic remains. The spell is part of you now, and it cannot be undone. Not until the Fae who cast it dies—or you do.”
• • •
H elene knew Miach was right. She couldn’t go
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