Chapter 3

CHAPTERTHREE

Ruby drove her home. Ramona being at the wheel when she was unsettled could turn a vehicle into a weapon of mass destruction.

She said little, inviting Ruby’s close scrutiny throughout the drive. But she had a lot to think about. Fortunately, Ruby understood that. When they parted, Ramona kissed Ruby’s stomach, giving the unborn Derek-Ruby DNA peanut a blessing. Ruby touched Ramona’s hair, a thanks and reminder that the love for her coven sisters went both ways.

She went up the front steps of her porch and slipped inside, letting out a relieved breath as she did. Home. The place where she never had to worry about what she was. It met her needs in a way nowhere else could.

She inhaled darkness and old wood, memory and history. The interior of her 1810 farmhouse matched the exterior. A wood stove and fireplace for heat and cooking. Screened windows for air conditioning. A kettle on the stove handled coffee and tea making. She had electricity, but she used it sparingly. A landline was accommodated by a beige-colored brick of a phone Cordelia could sell as an antique these days. Because Ramona rarely used it, the curly cord stayed bundled close to the base like a sleeping snake.

She lit two oil lamps. The light gleamed off the ivory tiles she’d layered over the scarred surface of her old farm table, the turned spindle legs of the six straw-bottomed chairs. She bought furniture created in times before complicated machinery. They did better here.

Plus, it made her feel close to her roots. She’d been raised in deep forests, places away from human civilization.

Like the universe, a Chaos witch is born without placeholders, things to define her. You must create those, project them from within.

Another Chaos witch had told her that. Prior to killing herself.

Ramona sank down on her couch and looked up at the high ceiling. A spider rested on an oblong, intricate web in one of the crevices created by the rafters.

She held up her wrists to look at them, then folded them over her stomach. Even in the car with Ruby, she kept touching the bands of ink and she did it now, her thumbs passing over them. Slow, back and forth. The words had a raised texture. She thought of his hand, holding her wrist, curved around it, his thumb on her pulse.

Because she hadn’t climaxed while with Raina and Ruby, her body wanted to ride that wave back toward a crest. She wasn’t averse to functional self-pleasuring to blunt the edge of physical need, but she wanted more than that. She didn’t want to rush it.

She imagined him here, above her, a hand drifting over her cheek, moving to her throat. Her eyes fell half closed, chin lifting.

Take off the dress.That voice from deep in the earth, a command.

When Raina made the comment about Silas’s preferences and Ramona’s reaction, Ramona had defensively called it fantasy. However, as often as Ramona came to her bordello to watch, Raina had always known the shape of her desires. Desires that Ramona couldn’t pursue safely with anyone.

It was at Sweet Dreams that Ramona had learned about her own preferences and what to call them. When managing one’s sexual frustration and self-denial, it was important to use the right terminology.

As she obeyed the imagined command, she wanted to believe it wasn’t imagined at all, that somewhere that spell connected directly to him. It didn’t hurt the fantasy to believe it.

She wore nothing beneath the dress to deny him any part of her he wanted to see. Just the look in his eyes would make the bands on her wrists burn. Their combined desires would fuel them, the starting point to have those ribbons spiraling out again to restrain her upper arms, her throat. Crossing over her breasts, sliding around her small curves, plumping, tightening and lifting. Displaying her to him. He’d twine his hands in the ends of the ribbons, hold them. Hold her.

Because so much of her life was unpredictable, it made sense that a male who could bring control, enforce predictability, was a pervasive fantasy.

When Silas had been in her shop, it didn’t feel as if he’d overridden her magic. He’d stepped into the middle of it, and her magic had been willing to revolve around him. She laid her palms on her thighs, slid them along the insides as she spread them to his gaze. An invitation.

My lord is my shepherd…

Initially, the time she spent observing at Raina’s had been a practical exercise, learning how to manage sexual attraction. She was a witch, connected to the rhythms of the Earth, a woman with strong desires.

She’d quickly learned that males with that intoxicating Master vibe presented the greatest challenge to her control because…well, the irony. As long as it wasn’t targeted directly at her, she could resist it. At least until she was alone and it fueled her very active solo sex life.

Even if she could go to bed with a man on a whim, she wasn’t the type of person who did. But as soon as Silas had come into her shop, his proximity sent her spiraling into a vision of muscles shifting under her hands, slick bodies moving together in that rhythm that produced blissful Chaos. Because Chaos was a lack of control, and a climax was entirely that, in the right ways.

Silas’s Mastery had stayed with her like the summer sun’s lingering heat, a pledge it was only as far off as the next dawn. She slid her fingers over her sex, drew in an erratic breath. Those eyes, the green of lush velvet. All of it stroking her, teasing her.

I will make you come just by looking at you. Your hands and legs tied open with my gift, while my gaze alone shows you everything I can and will do to you.

He’d given her that promise in a glance. What would he give her with the rest of him?

Her hips lifted into her touch. She stroked, moaned, pleaded. Felt the rippling in her lower belly. Felt his gaze, his far too brief touch.

I’m making too much of this. But the nice thing about self-pleasuring was there was no such thing as too much.

She imagined hands tightening on her wrists, drawing them away, and stopped touching herself. She gasped as the throbbing of her flesh intensified with the frustrated jerk of her body.

No touch. Nothing but my gaze, my command. Show me how much you want me. Get wetter. Slicker. Show me.

Her hips rose and fell, straining for what her flesh and emptiness needed. Her cunt had dampened, but now, with nothing but the thought, his order, she knew it was slicker. The impact of her buttocks against the firm sofa cushion sent more shock waves through sensitive flesh.

She gripped the sofa arm behind her with both hands, breasts lifted and thrust out, offering it all to him. The ink around her wrists burned. She wanted the words branded to the bone.

Mouth, cock, touch, taste, her gasps for his ears alone, his eyes offered an exclusive feast.

Yes. Do you offer this to any other male?

Not in a while.

Never again.

For her, possession was a need, a dream. Of being the center of someone’s existence, the only one to whom she’d give her body. A belonging that couldn’t be questioned or challenged by any power in the universe. In this quiet place, her woman’s soul might be overwhelmed by loneliness, but she was also powerful, claiming and owning the fantasy of believing in it.

Perhaps I’ll forbid you to climax until I’m really here again. Order you to keep count of the times your body will rebelliously seek satisfaction in your dreams, so you wake with your release still slippery between your thighs. That way I’ll know how many punishments you deserve.

I can’t control my dreams.

You say that like it matters. I control everything about your pleasure.

You wouldn’t be cruel enough to deny me an orgasm until I see you again.

Wouldn’t I? I can be cruel in memorable ways.

He’d had a kindness, a patience that spoke to how disciplined and focused he could be. But when he turned all that toward a man’s hunger, mixed it with the wolf she’d felt from him…yes. He’d had that cruelty to him. Remembering sent ripples through her core.

“Please…” Her heart thudded hard against the wall of her chest. She wanted a man she could beg. One she could trust that much, to lay herself open, let him see how vast and deep her need was.

Keep begging, witch. It only makes me harder.

A smile in his voice, one that heated her within, took her toward conflagration. She envisioned him bringing that hardness to her emptiness, filling all of it.

She wet her lips, swallowed, writhed. Wetness dampened the tender pockets between thigh and sex. She was moaning, whimpering. Energy swirling, the curtains lifting, fitful breezes coming in the screens, the porch swing creaking, jangling on its chains.

She didn’t have to stop, rein it back. Chaos magic was a toddler running amok, but she was home. Where she’d made sure it was all safe, at least when she was alone like this. Shielded and protected. No glassware to break.

“Please…”

I have you. Let it go. But do not touch yourself.

The climax grabbed her, her body convulsing. She writhed for him, dancing, her fingers clutching the cushions above her, breasts aching. All of her aching, shuddering, in a paroxysm of response that went on longer than most of her self-inflicted orgasms.

It was still over too soon, but it wasn’t the end. She might be the only person in the world who stretched her sexual fantasy material out to include cuddling aftercare. She dreamed of him holding her, his hand idly stroking her hair. Though it was blonde, he’d said he saw it as red. Maybe she’d try red sometime soon.

What small talk would they share? Maybe what they’d cook for breakfast. Or things happening in her store. His Reaper shop talk. Where they might go on a play day, when they didn’t have to work.

In his absence, she’d create a persona for him, a rich backstory and personal life to keep her company. A detailed fantasy of being a couple with someone.

Like what Ruby and Raina had found. Their matings had made Ramona a true third wheel, though she knew that was a pathetic characterization. If she needed anything in the world, they’d be here for her, and not just them. Derek and Mikhael considered her their family. Two Guardians, one Light and one Dark, including her inside their protection.

Sylvanus “Silas” Pendleton. She wouldn’t likely see him again, she knew. He’d even designed the gift to allow for that possibility. Something that would fade and disappear with time. If she wanted to hurt her own feelings, she’d remind herself that deft spellwork had been as easy for him as a child’s game. As such, it could be nothing more than an erotic thank you for the nice moment they’d shared, offering a forlorn witch pleasurable masturbation material for as long as she could keep it going.

Wow. That was an impressive piece of self-pity. The gift might not be everything she hoped it was, but she didn’t accept that it was merely a token. She could choose to cherish the memory and accept what it could give her, not harp on what it left her wanting.

The thought eased the emotional slap she’d just given herself. Slowly, she centered herself again, until fantasies melted away and it was just her and the wind, the comfortable old wood smell of her house, the earthy scent of her spent body. With a sigh and rueful smile, she rose, slipped her dress back on and padded out to her back porch to sit on her swing. Bracing her hands on either side of her, she let her feet dangle and the swing rock as she peered out over her darkened property.

The nearby barn provided a loft annex to do additional energy work and experiments she didn’t want to do inside the farmhouse. Learning to channel Chaotic energy, work Chaos magic, required room and nerves of steel. Flexible steel. Maybe rubber bands were the better description.

Tap, tap, tapas Buford came up the steps and bleated at her. Jumping nimbly on the swing, he collapsed his solid miniature goat bulk against her. He sniffed at her wrists, sneezed and stared at her with his clear eyes.

Buford was her familiar, the first of a small menagerie of animals that had found their way here. A cow, an elderly horse named Esmerelda, three sheep and a flock of chickens that gave her eggs. The barn was useful for them as well.

“They are strange, aren’t they?” She passed a finger over one of her wrists and shivered. “But wondrous, too. I like them. Too much, probably.”

Where are you, Silas? What happened? Maybe time worked differently for him, like between the Fae and human worlds. It didn’t make the wait any easier.

Her thoughts had an effect on the swing. Buford settled in deeper as the rocking became more erratic. The front left corner moved ahead of the right, like when a person pushed off wrong and it jangled back and forth on the chains. She let it pass, let it play out, a minor irritation.

One night soon after the pixies had found her, she’d wandered away. They’d tracked her to a farm on the edge of their forest home. She’d been curled up against the side of a goat, among a herd of them on a warm summer night. The farmer had an electric fence, but one touch of her curious, tiny hand and it had fizzled, popped and shorted out.

As she put an arm around Buford, she remembered the solid feel of that mother goat, the musky smell, the softness of her udder against Ramona’s hip. A stable heartbeat, warmth. Then the brush of pixie wings along her cheek, the touch of hands small as mouse paws. The pixies made her laugh, danced with her, led her away from the farmer’s field and back into the forest.

When she was in her teens, they’d sought out another Chaos witch to guide her, but in the end, what helped her the most was accessing what lay within her. Figuring out a way to keep from going mad in front of that mirror.

The witch they’d introduced her to had not succeeded at that. Ramona’s free hand curled against her knee, remembering Frieda’s limp body lying across her lap. The blood drained from her wrists swirling in the bathtub.

It had taught her a vitally important lesson. If she fought it, resented it, she was missing the point. Chaos magic was her magic. It didn’t happen to her. It was her. Part of who she was, her power to wield. She smiled, and the wind rocking the swing in an asymmetric way settled into a rhythm. Buford made a grunt of satisfaction.

She closed her eyes and reached out into the night. Her spirit rode the currents, danced with clouds, soared. The soft strips of a tattered cloak stroked her cheek as she twisted and turned. She was a cloaked witch on the wind, passing across the moon on a broom, a children’s story with her striped stockings, a big wart on her hooked nose.

She could project her astral self into the ether just for the pleasure of flying, but she had a purpose tonight. Silas’s being in her town hadn’t been happenstance. Though she didn’t know how far he might travel to collect a soul, the local papers had told her three people had died in and around their small town during the week he’d come through.

So ever since that week, she’d done this periodically, thrown out a net to see if she could snag a clue that added to her information about why he hadn’t returned. Each time, she told herself she was looking for a pebble thrown into a swift river current. But she still did it.

Tonight, she caught something.

A ripple of wrongness sliced through that net. The power of it knocked her back into her body, an automatic safeguard she put into the traveling spellcraft. Her eyes sprang open and she was on her feet, off the swing and moving to the rail, Buford right with her. His eyes searched the night, his body just as tense as hers was.

She tried to grab the tail of it, see its true shape, but she already knew it was only an echo of what had already happened. But something wrong had been here, in their town. And Silas’s energy was tied to that wrongness.

A confrontation.

Though she lost track of time seeking answers in the night, she couldn’t learn more than that. When she at last settled uneasily back into the swing, she pulled a blanket from the top of it to wrap around herself and gathered the watchful Buford closer.

The spellcraft Silas had left on her wouldn’t still exist if he had been killed. On that somewhat reassuring thought, the constriction around her heart eased, but her brow still creased as she considered the possibilities.

Whatever Silas had tangled with had been an enemy to all things that made life worth living, something that threatened the soul. But he’d taken care of it. Its energy would have lingered longer than Silas’s if it had prevailed. Plus Mikhael had told Raina that Reapers had assigned divisions of a sort, so he’d have had backup.

Reassuring thoughts for his wellbeing, but leaving her only a couple possibilities for the reason he hadn’t returned, choices he’d made. She would not act like a crazy stalker and have Mikhael dig deeper to verify his whereabouts. Or suffer embarrassment when the Dark Guardian told her Reaper business was their own, but he was sure Silas was fine.

She pushed that into the self-pity pool to hopefully drown and leave her be. At least for tonight. The threads of life were playful children sometimes, playing tag, hide and seek. Crossing the paths of other threads, sometimes getting tied up in knots.

Her gaze fell to her wrists, and a faint smile touched her lips, dissipating the lingering uneasiness. He’d certainly left her tied up in knots.

She would not believe it was a casual gift, an afterthought. When she spoke to the night, sincerity infused the words, their power coming straight from her heart.

“Wherever you are, Reaper,” she whispered, “know that I carry your marks willingly. And I would welcome you back to my arms. I wish the blessings of the Lord and Lady upon you, so that might happen sooner than later.”

In short, bring your fine ass back here, before I lose my mind.