Chapter 15

It is unknown why the goddess Luck favors a kiss and a pinch of garlic in spell building. And yet, both ingredients have a statistically significant impact on the use and success of an enchantment, enough so that the traditional practice of offering a kiss and adding garlic continues to be encouraged to date in all activities that would benefit from good fortune.

-A Witch's Guide to the Arcane

Quiet

"Dessert," I repeated. The loaded word had me squeezing my thighs together again. And then my knees parted ever so slightly. I was wearing far too many clothes. The weight of them irritated me. Lip between my teeth, I nodded at him. "Yes, dessert. Please."

Rorick leapt off the bed and stood before me. He rucked up my skirts, his enthusiasm surprising a chortle out of me. I helped him work down my drawers, lifting my hips. Then he stood between the cradle of my thighs and slowly coaxed my legs farther apart.

I held my weight up on my elbows, not wanting to miss a thing. Rorick put on such a good show, his beautiful eyes constantly gazing up at me as he kissed down my thigh, one side and then the other, lingering on that pulse point that surged like a beacon. He pushed my knees up and nuzzled the sensitive flesh of my sex. My stomach clenched pleasantly.

"You smell so divine, Quiet. I needed to taste you right here desperately. I'm so glad you said yes. What a bloody relief."

His words made my lungs hitch. He kissed the top of my sex, then flattened his tongue against the bud of nerves there, and I gasped. Rorick circled my flesh with hot, wet flicks until my hips jerked, seeking pressure against his mouth. His tongue moved lower, dipping inside me teasingly.

"You taste so decadent," he groaned, and the reverberations of his voice did delicious things to my body.

I was addicted to hearing this man say kind things about me, but not as addicted as I now was to his tongue and lips, lapping at me like he was a starving man, and my pleasure was his most delicious nourishment. My fingers raked through his hair, pulling him in closer, tighter.

"Just like that," he encouraged. "Hump my face."

And by the goddess, I did, not a care in the world for anything other than the sensation of building pressure, the promise of release. As my hips rocked, he opened the fall front of his trousers and slid a hand inside his drawers. He fisted himself while enjoying me, stopping briefly to lick his fingers, spreading my pleasure along his hand before he continued. The sight of that sent a tremor down my stomach where it spread in my pelvis. The sound of skin moving over skin while he sucked on my clitoris was lewd and erotic, and I climbed ever higher, tender flesh growing more sensitive.

"Bite me," I whispered, bucking my hips against his face. I wanted his mouth on my thigh, wanted his teeth back in my flesh, wanted more connection. "Please bite me!"

From between my legs, his eyes fixed on mine. He swirled his tongue, and that pushed me right over the edge. My head went back, and I moaned, awash with pure bliss. Another mewling cry slipped past my lips as my body slowly came back to earth.

I blinked my vision clear. He was still attentive between my legs, lapping up every last drop of my release.

"I couldn't have you thinking I had to bite you to get you there," he said smugly. And then he turned his head and buried his fangs into my thigh.

And bliss flooded me anew. I went up the mountain and dropped over the peak, crying out, grabbing for his hair, riding the storm of pleasure with every hungry pull he dragged out of me.

"Hell's bite," he gasped, my blood on his fangs, "the sight of you when you come . . ."

And that unfinished praise ruined me completely. A pleading cry caught in my throat. His trousers hung loosely from his hips. One hand still moving in his drawers, he rose up and kissed me. His lips were a bouquet of metallic blood and salty pleasure. I consumed both. Still connected to him, I enjoyed them the way he did.

He was right. They were a feast for the ages. And so was he. His lips and tongue caressing mine were nourishment for my hungry, unbound soul. Rorick orgasmed in his hand with a grunt. The knowledge that our kiss had brought him to his climax made my eyes water. My throat tightened.

When he pulled back, his gaze was dreamy and his movements, climbing up the bed, were lazy. "Fucking sun."

"If you fall asleep, I'll clean you up," I promised, and I helped him crawl under the covers. "You still feel like you have a fever." I slid a worried hand over his forehead. His skin was hotter than before.

He smirked. "Your blood made me warm. I'll be hot for a while now. It's normal after I eat so well."

His beautiful eyes fluttered closed, and his body went lax. Between the blood loss and my hammering heart, I stood a bit too quickly and was hit by a wave of lightheadedness. I gave myself a moment to recuperate, feeling sleepy enough to want to slip in beside him, but I'd keep my word first.

I remembered seeing an old pitcher and basin in one of the dusty boxes. I found the pitcher and carried it to the lavatory to fill from the taps. A fat coffin-dweller hung on the wall, sucking at the inky rot that seeped between the plaster. This shifter was much larger than the others, with long tentacles that grabbed at my ankles. It needed to be cursed into a caterpillar before I managed my task, but then I made it back to the bedroom without issue.

Without any outward issue.

My brain was a mess of thoughts and feelings and worries. While he slept, I cleaned Rorick's hands and face with a damp cloth. The intimacy of gently washing my pleasure and his off his body while he was vulnerable in his sun slumber wasn't lost on me. He was so pretty, lying there, my heart stuttered.

"Stop that," I told myself. "That was a meal for him. It's like that with vampires." They were seductive hunters, drawing in their meal with a carrot rather than a stick, as the other sort did.

Ugh, but it had been so good.

And I felt things I didn't want to feel, especially not if he didn't feel them too. My track record with this sort of attachment was dreadful. When I developed feelings, the other person didn't. Most of the time, my relationships remained casual before they ended almost as quickly as they'd begun, with me left wondering why.

What Rorick and I had was a partnership. A bedrock understanding built on respect and trust. Not rocky lust and unpredictable romance. I wanted to be too pragmatic to allow feelings to jeopardize what we had, and yet there I was. Feeling all these dangerous, jeopardizing feelings.

The one time I'd thought there might be more between us, it had ended disastrously. The night I'd saved him, I'd let down my guard. I'd let him draw me in closer, even as weak as he was, because I stupidly thought he was about to kiss me.

The embarrassment of realizing that wasn't at all what he had in mind burned through me anew. I didn't want that to happen ever again, and I didn't see how having some compatible smells made any difference now. He'd always smelled incredible to me, after all. Attraction couldn't solve a damn thing by itself.

I dropped the terrycloth I'd been using onto the rim of the pitcher at my feet, and I sat down hard on the edge of the bed. The mattress was unyielding. I slid down the slope of it to the floor. Knees to my chest, I sulked there, toes digging into the carpet.

Had it been a mistake, letting him have his dessert? It had felt amazing, but did that make all the rest too hard for me? He avoided romantic attachment—had said so himself. I didn't want to become someone he had to avoid.

But what if that wasn't just a meal for him?

It wouldn't be the first time he'd failed to speak his mind clearly. Hadn't he gone a whole year without talking to me because he'd thought I hated him too much? Perhaps we were both equally hopeless at talking about this sort of thing, and our connection did mean more to him than a meal.

I groaned at the ceiling. Those thoughts felt most dangerous of all. Hope was a powerful emotion, and the notion made it bloom in my chest. I could just ask the man what it meant, but how did I ask that without giving away my own turmoil? And if he knew my turmoil and didn't feel the same, would that be the end of our partnership?

My stomach cramped. I'd already endured one ending. I didn't want to go through another one.

No, the best course of action was to wait for him to share the meaning himself. I climbed to my feet, glad for the semblance of a plan. I wasn't without some investigative skills. Surely, I could suss out his intentions.

And then I looked at him, skin moonlight pale and glowing under the blue lights cast down from the beetles clinging to the ceiling, ebony hair hanging over his brow.

"You stop that, Quiet," I scolded myself, and I bit down so hard on my bottom lip it hurt.

Because damn it all, he was clever and he was handsome and he was strong, and he protected me with his whole being as best he could. Just like I did for him. And I loved how he made me feel when he said nice things to me. I loved how good he was at puzzles and problem-solving. Loved how much more capable we were when we worked together at things. I loved . . .

Ugh, he truly did smell so very good. Sweet and succulent.

I climbed to my feet and rounded the bed, fishing through the void in my skirt for a familiar jar with a nozzle handle. I pulled out the yellow bog spray and squirted myself right in the face.

"Ack." I coughed, stumbling over to the desk. The putrid stink did nothing for my feelings, but it chased the scent of him out of my nose nicely.

I sat the jar on the edge of the desk. Gilbert flapped his wings at me, and his antenna flittered.

"Don't judge me too harshly," I told him, wiping droplets from my face with the back of my hand, trying not to gag.

Exhausted, I readied for bed. I assumed Rorick would be too warm to turn into an anaconda that night.

It pleased me terribly when I was wrong. His limbs wrapped around mine, and I sunk against his chest, sucking in his scent over the stink of the spray. I tried unsuccessfully not to think about anything else but sleep.

* * *

I awoke before dusk. Rorick was still slumbering, which meant the sun remained up. I missed the sun, the heat on my face, the natural light.

Rorick's body was warm, so I didn't have to struggle long to slip out of his grasp. I tended to morning ablutions with my cloak on and my wand at the ready, nervous that I'd see another larger coffin-dweller, but none came to bother me.

Back in my safe haven, I attempted to give Gilbert very specific instructions while I stepped into my stockings and secured my boots. "I think there's a passage that leads down to the old underground aqueducts," I told him. "I want you to take me to its entrance. Shifters too large to fit through the pipes are getting into the castle some way. That might be our only exit."

Gilbert flapped into the air and hung there lazily before ignoring my instructions entirely, flying instead onto the bed to land in Rorick's hair.

"Oy," I groaned.

I didn't need Gilbert telling me I wanted Rorick. Hang it all, I already knew that. I needed him to help me escape the dratted castle. Since my assistant stubbornly remained where he'd landed, I abandoned him to the bedroom. I only had four days left to save my coven. I wasn't wasting any of that time fighting with a damn moth.

Pulling on my hat, I exited under a warming swarm of lightning beetles, wand clutched in my fist. Curses wasted magic, and though I had years and years of built-up stores to spare from growing and building spells, it worried me that the creatures would only become larger and with them the cost of defending myself and my partner. Curses were costly, but they were quick and secure and I'd spend every last drop to keep us safe if I had to.

I made a mental plan to check the east wing sitting room first for signs that my sisters were awake and working, then make breakfast.

Ack. I covered my nose. Werewolf urine burned in my nostrils by the banister. Damn that beast. Rorick was right. That smell was awful.

The sound of heavy lumbering footsteps stole my attention. When I looked in the direction of the eerie staccato, there was nothing there. Strange noises in a haunted castle shouldn't have bothered me, but these didn't sound like any of the oddities I'd come to expect from this place. I pulled my spelled cloak up high around my shoulders and padded lightly down the hall, listening hard. The steps weren't coming from the corridor. They echoed from behind the walls.

I made it all the way to the end of the hall, past the paintings of Rorick's relatives, following the eerie footsteps, when my shy beetles rushed my pockets, depriving me of illumination. Their panic alerted me to movement amongst the shadows where the hall turned a corner, but there was only one dull, distant gas lamp to light the way before me. My eyes weren't keen enough to make out the moving shape in time.

The smell of ammonia hit my nostrils as the werewolf pounced, grabbing me and dragging me deeper into the darkness, holding me firmly to his chest with his injured arm, a furry hand squeezed over my mouth.

"I won't hurt you," he hissed in my ear. "But you have to be silent!"

The fear in his voice sunk into me, sending a tremor down my spine. I froze in his arms and lowered my wand as the footsteps grew larger, louder, closer in the space behind the wall. The staccato changed slightly. A thud, thud, followed by a heavy thunk.

A massive specter stepped through the wall: a tall, lumbering clown with bulging muscles in an undersized shirt and wispy raven hair. He kept a dead daisy tucked behind his ear. A frown was painted on his face in black, elongating his skull-white jaw and jet-colored nose. Behind him he dragged a large mallet, like what the strong man performers carried at the circus.

Thud, thudwent his huge feet. Thunk went the mallet behind him, hard enough to rattle the floorboards. The beat continued, and my heart raced so fast I got lightheaded. The wolfman breathed raggedly in my ear. Onward the clown marched, sad and terrifying to behold.

As he passed by the paintings, the images changed. Instead of a Rorick aristocrat, the clown filled up the frame with his depressing frown and painted features.

The message at the bottom of each frame stretched larger, the letters backward and words written in reverse. The Children, The Children, The Children they read.

The werewolf squeezed my face tighter. My heart hammered in my chest so hard I worried the clown would hear it—that he would turn away from his path to look at me with his frightful black eyes.

And do what?

I didn't want to know. My fingers gripped the pearl handle of my wand so tightly my hand went numb.

The clown dragged his feet down the hall, closing in on the banister and the last, largest oil painting of the first Duke of the Damned, Jonathan Rorick. The specter came to a stop there, dragging his mallet in front of him, and for a moment, I thought he was going to smash the painting to bits.

Instead, the massive clown shoved the ethereal mallet inside the frame and climbed in after it, pushing through the image before vanishing. The werewolf released me, and I stumbled forward a step.

I let out a breath, chest heaving. "What in the name of all that is true was that?"

"I helped you," the wolf said gruffly. His bushy tail twitched behind him. "Now you help me."

At my hip, I kept my wand pointed at him, fingers sliding around the grooved ridges in the pearl handle, palms clammy. "What do you want?"

He kept his distance, injured arm tucked in against his chest. "I just want to talk."

"Good," I said, loosening into a less combative stance, but my tone remained brisk. "That's all I wanted before, but just so we're clear, the blood bees are never far."

The wolf winced as though pained, and his tall ears went back. "The mirrors," he whined, "they scream at me sometimes and they send those horrid clowns after me. I need it all to stop."

I cast a glance around the dim hall. "Where do you see these mirrors?"

The werewolf aimed a clawed finger at one of the oil paintings now occupied by an image of the sad clown. "There are hundreds of mirrors all over. They appeared on the walls right after the castle bit my fucking hand off."

"They must be ethereal then, made of spirit. The voice that's screaming," I said, gentling my tone, "do you recognize it?"

He nodded his big husky head.

"You've attracted the torment of a vengeful spirit," I said carefully, not wanting to bring an end to our fragile truce. "An ‘eternal consequence,' as the poet Levy was so fond of saying."

"How do I make the girl go away?" he whispered, voice choked.

Girl? As in a child? An innocent?

My nostrils flared. "Things like braided garlic and burnt sage can deter a vengeful spirit for a time," I said, my tone crisp, "but it's actually not a good idea to try to make them go away. If you avoid a consequence, it grows bigger and darker. It becomes more powerful. Like all this." I pointed to the inky rot dripping down the walls.

The werewolf paced side to side, his movements graceful and canine. "Then what am I supposed to do? Let it drive me mad?"

"That is one option, yes. The other is to face your consequence. Your actions that caused the vengeful spirit to target you will determine how heavy the price is."

"But I didn't kill the girl," he grumbled. "Her spirit should be haunting someone else!"

"If there were others involved in her death, I'm sure she is. Poor thing doesn't spend all of her afterlife haunting you. Just some of it," I said acidly. The children, the children. I thought of the newspaper clipping we found, dwelling on the little I understood about clowns and their love of young ones, and it all suddenly made more sense. Those messages were meant to taunt the Gardener, the werewolf responsible, not to ask my partner and me for help. "Are you going to answer my questions now?"

He shrugged his hunched shoulders. "Depends what you ask me."

"To start with, this girl haunting you, does she have anything to do with the work you were completing for Alexander Harker?"

"He was conducting strange experiments. Things I don't know much about." His tail drooped, brushing the floor. "I was tasked with bringing goods to the broker."

"Who was the broker?"

"Sebastion Rorick," he bit out.

"The necromancer who owns the circus?" I asked, confirming what I already knew.

"Purveyor of rare and strange magical goods and services," he said. "I brought the foundlings and was given a special shipment in exchange. I didn't open the boxes, but I recognized the smell. Fairy bone dust. Very rare. Very potent."

"They traded the children to the fae? Fairies eat ged children!" My stomach plummeted. How could Penance have had anything to do with that? Anger melding with grief simmered under my skin. A strong part of me now wished that big hulking clown had found this werewolf.

And Alexander Harker.

And even my sister, if she'd had as much to do with this as I now suspected. Penance, how could you?

"They don't always eat them," the Gardener persisted, shaking his snout. But he sounded about as convinced as I felt. That was a line he'd been feeding himself for some time now, no doubt, and it had lost its edge.

"Abusive servitude or death," I spat. "That's what you damned those four children to, and seeing as how one is now a vengeful fucking spirit, guess which happened to her, you horrible dog!"

He growled low in his throat. "I didn't want to do any of it! I never signed up for carting children across Purgatory! Alexander wasn't the sort of man one could say no to. I had to deliver."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, wanting to shout at him more, but what good would that really do for anyone? I needed more information. My anger was getting in the way of my purpose, and I steadied myself with a deep inhale. "What did Alex send you here to destroy?"

"His laboratory with his experiments on vampire blood. But I can't. I can't even get inside it. The door downstairs is covered in that horrible rot that smells like death. The walls are squirming, and there's no other way in."

"Did you kill Alexander Harker and the witch assisting him?" I demanded, wishing he'd acted sooner if that was the case. Those children would still be alive if he had.

"I didn't do anything to him, and I don't know about a witch. I'm certainly not grieving over Harker now, but I didn't kill him. I had no choice about the girl," he stressed.

"There's always a choice." I felt no sympathy for this wolf. I didn't want to look at the beast anymore. Disgusted, I marched back down the hall toward the banister and the safety of the spare room I'd claimed. Between the werewolf, the appearance of the disturbing clown, and the growing size of the shifters, I no longer believed it was safe for even me to wander the halls without my partner watching my back.

The wolf dogged my heavy steps. "Please! Can nothing be done about the screaming?"

"Doubtfully by you," I said with a snort. "Levy believed that a consequence could be soothed with enough selfless actions. If your ambitions led you to make horrid business deals with the likes of Alexander Harker, I doubt you're capable of such a thing!"

His next growl rumbled fiercely. "You don't know anything about me."

I wasn't intimidated by the likes of him. "I know enough," I said, coming to a stop in front of the oil painting of Jonathan Rorick.

The werewolf stared me down with desperate yellow eyes. His gaze was red-rimmed, blue-black fur matted around his face and tall ears. "You still need me. I know things. You have to help me."

"I owe you nothing! It's because of you that my partner and I are trapped in this blasted castle. We've been caught in the crossfire of your eternal consequences." I didn't want to help him. Frankly, I hoped that poor little girl drove him mad and got her revenge. "I don't think you know anything of use to me, or you'd have shared it."

"I do! I can tell you things!" He reached for me, but I snapped my wand at him threateningly and the wolf pulled back.

"Then start talking," I said through my teeth, sharpened end of the dagger inches from his furry chin, "or get out of my face."

"There was someone snooping about here before Alex got himself killed, a detective maybe? He knew things he shouldn't," he sputtered. "He-he wouldn't identify himself, but he talked like a copper and never wore a uniform. He nosed around here a lot after I delivered the children to the circus. Harker planned to have me do away with him, but he never gave me the final order before he died."

I cocked my head, considering him. I wasn't impressed by what I saw, but he'd intrigued me about this nosy lawman. "What did the detective look like?"

"Like some ged, I don't know." He scratched the fur on his jaw. "Average chap. Brown hair. I remember he stunk like he was sick. There was something wrong with his blood."

That was interesting at least, if not entirely helpful. Someone within Purgatory's police agency knew something. "If there's more, you'd better get it out before the sun sets. My partner isn't going to take kindly to seeing you again," I warned, stopping at the top of the stairs before the door to my safe haven.

The wolf's lips curled back in a grimace that showcased his sharp teeth. "If the tick lays another hand on me—"

I stuck him with the silver tip of my wand, right in his bad arm. The wolf reared back, whimpering though the wound was shallow.

"You won't touch one single black hair on my vampire's head!" I roared, and my voice echoed around the vaulted ceilings. "Not one hair!"

The doorknob to my safe haven rattled, and we both fell silent.