Chapter 8

Grapes grow upon the vine giving us both joy and wine

– The Wiccan Rede

The storm broke before we arrived home and raged for the entire afternoon into evening, turning the ocean into a fearsome fury against the sand, and keeping me indoors. At my window, as night fell, I lit a candle and thought of Ender. If he was, as I suspected, not of mortal kind, the weather would not prevent him from walking the gardens seeking me, and I wanted, so very much, to be found. As the lightning flashed, lighting the shadows between the tangled plants of the garden, I thought that perhaps I saw the shape of a man in a dark cloak, the hood pulled up around his face, but imagination was very good at making human-form of inhuman shapes.

Storm-bound within the house, I spent Saturday pouring over spell books, studying invocations, or practicing the craft in the kitchen under the supervision of the aunts. Nova closed herself into her bedroom and played music so loud that I was not entirely sure if it was the wind or the reverb that shook the glass in our windows.

On Sunday evening, after sharing several glasses of strawberry wine and feeling a little fuzzy as a result, Fennel persuaded me to let her do a tarot reading for me, mostly, I suspected, to while away the time.

The first card was the devil. We exchanged a look, and I leaned back in my seat with a laugh. "Well, this is going to be interesting," I commented. "Who do the cards think I'm in an unhealthy relationship with?"

"That's your interpretation of the card, Nyx," she replied. "The Devil can mean sexual and creative energy, confronting your darkest fears and personal growth, and worldly desires. The question is: why do you believe that it implies an unhealthy relationship?" She lifted an eyebrow, and I felt my cheeks heat under her scrutiny.

"No reason," I looked away, avoiding her too-knowing gaze.

"Mhm." She turned the next card. The three of swords. Heartbreak, sorrow, and pain. I worried my bottom lip as she turned the third card. Two of cups. I frowned. The two of cups would indicate a third-party, interfering in the romance.

"I don't understand," I admitted. "It doesn't make any sense."

The next card was a three of swords.

"A love triangle?" Fennel suggested. What had been a slightly playful way of breaking study and distracting us both had become serious, and we both leaned forward over the table, our wine glasses forgotten in our focus on the next card.

When the card was revealed to be the lovers, we both recoiled, and I snorted in disgust, reaching for my wine. "Bullshit," I told her. "You're influencing this."

"Why would you say such a thing?" She was insulted.

"I don't know," I gestured out with a hand dismissively. "You have both been a little off recently, you must admit. I don't know what to make of it."

"Off," she repeated, both brows raised. "What precisely do you mean by that, Elenyx?"

"I mean…" I started as she turned the final card. The moon. I jabbed my finger at it. "I mean this. Hidden meanings and emotions. You are hiding things."

"I'm sure that I have no idea what you mean," Fennel gathered the cards back in. "Perhaps this was a mistake. You are decisively hostile this afternoon, Elenyx."

"I'm not hostile," I protested.

"What would you call it then?" She challenged me, and I was flummoxed, for honestly, I had my heat up, and I wanted to spit and rebel.

I swallowed back the spikes. "I don't know. Maybe I'm due my period."

"Maybe," she murmured. "Or maybe," she turned over the top card of her deck, to reveal the Death card. "An ending necessary for growth and renewal," she murmured.

"That's a creative way to describe a period," I replied dryly. "But accurate."

"I guess it is," she was amused.

"I'm off to bed," I pushed away the glass of wine. "I have the thing tomorrow." By thing, I meant the orientation day, but we both knew that.

"Yes, of course, dear," she shuffled the cards into a pile and picked up her wine glass. "Sleep well."

I went upstairs and performed my night-time routine, brushing my teeth, washing my face, braiding back my hair, and changing into my pajamas, and then I paused by the window to light my candle. I felt the shift in the air within the bedroom and wasn't entirely surprised when I turned, and he was there.

I drew in a breath.

His palm cupped my cheek, lifting my chin, and he stepped in as the lighting flashed, bathing the room in silver light, turning him into a creature of monochrome colour. His lips hovered over mine, our eyes meeting.

I reached up, the heel of my hand rasping along the stubble on his jaw as I sank my fingers into his hair and I pulled him to me, our mouths joining in the fury of an insatiable hunger. He groaned, his hand stroking from my shoulder, down my back to my hips, and tugging me into his body.

I sobbed in my breath, arching my neck as his lips followed from the corner of my mouth to the point of my jaw, his tongue teasing my earlobe before he sucked his way down my throat to my collarbone.

He lifted me as if I weighed nothing and I wrapped my legs around his waist, gripping him tightly, feeling the hard line of his cock between us, pressing against my cunt, separated only by the fragile barrier of fabric and that small part of sanity that said that there was a boundary to how far we could take this before it went too far.

I wanted to taste the danger of that edge, I wanted to press against it and taunt us both with the potential of breaching it...

He lay me on the bed and his fingers unbuttoned and spread my pyjama top, revealing me to him, his lips following the line of the buttons, discovering the peaks of my breasts, sucking the nipple of one into his mouth whilst his hand squeezed the other, the pinch of his fingers teasing its nipple upward into a peak.

I arched into his touch, one hand clenched into his hair, the other clutching at the bedcovers, whilst the sole of my foot stroked up the back of his calf to his arse, pushing him into where my body most sought his, wantonly, recklessly.

His moan betrayed how much he wanted to give in to the implied demand of my body, but instead, he took his kisses down my rib cage, sliding his body down mine, and taking my pyjama pants down, until he had freed my legs of them. My feet rested on his shoulders, and his cool breath caressed the heat of me, a moment before his tongue found my clit. He gripped my hips, pulling me into him as he devoured…

I arched, sobbing out as my hair matted beneath my skull, my hands unable to find traction, scoring across the fabric, finding his grip on my hips, following wrist to forearm, up to shoulder, before fixing into his hair as I writhed beneath his tongue, arching off the mattress, pressing into him.

The storm flashed light into the room before snatching it away, bathing us in illumination before casting us back into shadow. Every flash exposed more of him than I thought he was aware, his skin translucent, the bone beneath it white and black...

I came apart, and he lifted over me, kissing me with the subtle ocean flavor of me on his tongue.

"What about you?" I asked into the kiss, my fingers stroking through his hair. He was so beautiful and both familiar and foreign in the darkness as the lightning receded. His hand cupped the back of mine, stroking it down so that the stones sewn into the luxurious embroidery of his shirt shifted beneath my palm, letting me feel through the cloth the way ribs and chest moved with his breath, the furrows of stomach muscle, before covering the hard length of his cock.

His eyes shone in the dark, twin flames burning through the pupils.

I released the fly of his trousers, and his cock sprang free to greet me. It was perfect, an artwork of soft skin over steel inner core, much larger than I, in my innocence, had expected, my hand not closing around him, the length of him overflowing my hold. He let me discover him, his eyes slowly sifting closed, his face slackening into pleasure, and his lips parting on a moan.

I lifted my head, brushing my mouth over his, tasting that little groan that I had caused to be there.

His hand closed over mine, tightening my grip, showing me the rhythm and pattern by which to touch him, the flesh against my palm and that holding me cooling mine. I must burn to him, my touch like the lick of fire, I thought, and yet it did not seem to bring him pain… rather pleasure, for his was the expression of a man lost to it, and he pressed his face into the curve of my neck and the tumble of my hair as he sobbed out, his cock quickening in my hold, before his cum spilled between us.

His cock became limp and soft, and his hand released mine, reaching up to cup my cheek tenderly, stroking through my hair before resting over my exposed breast, his thumb stroking the nipple so that it tightened. I stroked his hair, in an exchange of small caresses.

His position meant that I could bury my face into his hair, filling my lungs with the clinging scent of incense, and beneath that, the musk of the man who pressed tightly to my side, so long that his feet still touched the ground off the side of the mattress.

"Stay," I whispered. "Lay in the bed with me and stay until morning."

He sat up slowly, rising to his feet, and I followed suit, leaving my pyjama top behind on the bedspread, and slipping into the sheets naked. He unbuttoned his top, the white of his hands almost disembodied by the darkness of the room and the fabric, parting his shirt to reveal a body that was beautiful by any standard, smooth, muscled, and its paleness broken by the fine curl of dark hair and a tattoo of a raven, it's eyes glowing as red as Ender's own, wings spread across his chest, and it's claws clutching a symbol that I could not read against his sternum.

His hair fell forward, hiding his face from me as he slid his trousers down. The point of hip bone, the curve of arse cheek, the long line of thigh glowed against the shadows, before he slid into the bed beside me, and our bodies met, skin to skin.

He gathered me against him, tucking my head beneath his chin, wrapping his arms and legs around me as I did the same, the tangle of us both charged with sexuality and innocent of it. If he had wanted to, he could have taken me. I would have let him, willingly, eagerly. I knew that he was tempted, his cock once again hard and throbbing in time with his heart, nudging against my stomach.

I ached to feel it within me, a craving that preoccupied me, holding sleep at bay. If I were bolder, braver, I would have shifted my position, parting my thighs so that with a small movement that would be far from subtle, his cock would lie between them, and another small movement would guide him to my welcoming cunt.

My lips were against the raven, bestowing upon its head a kiss, my breath warming it, as my skin warmed Ender's. I felt his body relax within my hold, the tension easing from muscle and bone, his breathing slowing, growing deeper, edging towards sleep.

I dreamed of ravens and fire, and woke alone, my bed empty, but with a raven wing feather clutched in the palm of my hand, and a ring woven of dark strands of hair wrapped around my finger. I rolled onto my back, placing the feather on my chest, and held my hand up to the light in order to scrutinize the unusual love token. The hair had been intricately and artistically woven, creating a fabric of the hair strands. It was no hastily contrived gift, but one that he'd had prepared.

I pressed my face one last time into the cushions, seeking the shadow of incense that he had left in the fabric, before rolling from the bed and pulling on my pajamas, my cheeks heating at the crust of cum that flaked off, as I recalled what we had done together in the storm-flashing darkness of the night.

I tucked the raven feather next to the owl's in the spell book before gathering my clothing and dashing through the hallway to claim the bathroom as my own. I took my time in the shower and before the mirror afterward, styling my hair and applying makeup, until I felt that I looked elegant and sophisticated, like any other student of the academy.

When I went downstairs, Fennel was stirring a pot of porridge over the stove. "There you are," she smiled warmly. "Breakfast is ready. My goodness, that dress again."

I looked down at the black lace and shrugged awkwardly. "I like it."

Truthfully, there wasn't much other option. My wardrobe over the past year had been school casuals, or work's black bottoms and white shirts. The black lace dress that we had bought for my graduation was about the only formal-wear item that I owned. The other dresses that I wore around the house were all bohemian maxi dresses, shapeless but comfortable.

I was very aware that our finances were tight and what money we had was better spent than on pretty dresses.

"Well, we should go shopping in celebration of your scholarship," Callista announced entering the kitchen. "You will need new shoes, at the very least."

Callista had dressed for the event in her normal impeccable if somewhat eclectic style - a velvet Devore opera caftan kimono over an elegant ankle-length black satin dress with a draped neckline and tailored waist. Her boots were beautifully tooled and intricately buttoned to the ankle. With her hair styled luxuriously to frame her face, and her oversized sunglasses and clutch, she wore head-to-toe vintage couture, loving preserved by their more prosperous original owners, and retrieved from the attic by my thrifty aunts.

She tilted the sunglasses down and peered over their rims. "You will do," she decided having evaluated me head to toe, and accepted a bowl of porridge from Fennel, gracefully sitting at the table and reaching for the sugar. "You could update your wardrobe choices from the attic as your sister is wont to do, you know, Nyx."

"I could," I agreed accepting my bowl and sitting opposite to her. I put preserved peaches onto my porridge. "But to be honest…" I shrugged my indifference.

"Mmm. As you like. But there are several events during the school year where you will need a dress," she poured three cups of tea and hovered over the fourth. "No Nova this morning again?" She asked.

"I will save her a bowl," Fennel turned off the stove and came to the table. "Are you nervous?" She asked me with an empathetic smile.

"Nonsense," Callista brushed the question off. "What has Elenyx to be nervous of? Rather they should be nervous of her, an accomplished witch of her intelligence."

"You're right of course, Callista," Fennel replied and rolled her eyes to me.

"I saw that," Callista tsked. "Stop making the girl uneasy, Fennel. Elenyx has this. Rather Pinegrove Academy does now know what they have taken into their fold. A Vossen witch," she told me setting her teacup down crisply. "Is a powerful woman, indeed. Never doubt your power, Nyx. They want you to do that. To learn what it is to fear them just because they are men and they have shaped the world to suit them. But they are the ones who fear, as they know how fragile their hold on us truly is, and there is nothing like a powerful, strong woman to remind them of that."

She rose from the table. "We'll leave in fifteen minutes."