The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love (16 page)

“Have
you ever fellated a man?” he asked, pulling out of the kiss.

“No.” She ran a hand across his bulge. “But I’ve read a lot about it.”

With a laugh, he stepped back. “Does that mean you’re game to try?”

“Very game.”

As he began to unbutton his fly, he instructed her to kneel down. A moment later, she was on her knees, eye-to-eye with Angus Og. “Well, hello there,” she said, flushing.

“Do
you ken what to do?”

She didn’t answer; instead, she stuck out her tongue, poking wee Angus in the eye. Graham
hissed with pleasure and set his hands on top of her head. She took a breath, calling what she’d learned from her memory. She’d read advice from both men and women and watched both sexes doing it dozens of times on the internet. She’d boiled it all down to five basics: 1) use everything in your mouth but your teeth; 2) suck hard; 3) maintain eye contact; 4) be enthusiastic; and 5) don’t ignore the balls.

Gathering her courage, she seized the base of his member, steered it toward her mouth, and closed her lips over the bell. He released a ragged gasp and quivered a little. Lust hooked her womb and tugged. Oh, yes. She could get into this. And so could he, apparently. She started to suck—like a vacuum—exploring his ridges and grooves with her tongue.
The groan he emitted intensified the ache between her legs. She took as much of his length as she could without gagging, flicking and twirling her tongue as she went. She liked the feel of him in her mouth, liked his response, and even liked the ripe, salty smell of the region. Remembering his balls, she took them between fingers and thumb and gently pulled.

“Oh, aye, lass
.” He squeezed her scalp. “Just like that.”

She kept on “just like that” for several more minutes until her jaw began to ache. Letting go, she sat back on her haunches and regarded Angus like an opponent. She’d spit in his eye, she thought devilishly, if he wasn’t alre
ady glistening with her saliva.

“Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine. My jaw’s just a bit tired.”

A clearing throat snapped her head around. There, to her horror, stood Branwen in an emerald
charmeuse
blouse and skinny jeans, her eyes slits of emerald ice.

“If
you need someone experienced,” Branwen told him with an imperial look, “you know where to find me.”

At that, she turned and walked aw
ay.

B
urning with a blend of embarrassment and affront, she looked up at him. “I thought she wasn’t going to be here.”

A deep frown etched his features.
“Obviously, she decided to come back sooner than planned—probably for the twisted thrill of fucking with me.”

* * *

After the incident with Branwen, they moved back upstairs and, behind his locked bedroom door, spent the rest of the day and most of the night talking, cuddling, and shagging. She hadn’t eaten, both because she had no appetite and because she didn’t want to waste a single moment of their last precious hours together on something as trivial as food. It now was close to midnight and she was dressing to go home while he lay on the bed, eyes solemn and on her.

Grief’s cold, gnarled hand squeezed her heart as she pulled on her jeans. The thought of losing him, of walking away, was suffocating. She sucked in a breath, filling her lungs with air and her heart with resolve. She refused to accept defeat. There was a way for them to be together. There just had to be. She simply needed more time to figure out what it might be.

She’d forwarded every argument she could think of and he remained steadfastly opposed to turning her. Still, she wasn’t ready to give up quite yet. She could not accept the goddess had brought them together time and again only to break their hearts. Because that would be cruel.              And what about the
Ten of Cups
?
The cards had promised a happy ending to their story and this sure as hell didn’t qualify. And he’d drawn
The Fool
. She mustn’t forget that wrinkle. She couldn’t mention it, of course, because she’d obtained that intelligence in an underhanded way, but still.
The Fool
was the first and last in the deck. The alpha and the omega. Zero and infinity.
The Fool
advised a leap of faith. And Graham yet stood on the edge of the precipice, heels dug in.

She needed to come up with a way to push him over the edge
. But how? Only minutes remained in the game. She’d promised to break the spell at midnight. The second she released him, he’d be off to Scotland never to be seen again. Should she maybe keep him spellbound a little longer?

She crossed to the desk chair where she’d hung her blouse. As she pulled it on, her gaze skipped over his laptop and journals, guilt
turning in her gut like a screw. She’d already betrayed his trust. He didn’t know it, but she did. And to keep him spellbound after she’d promised to free him...well, it was simply out of the question. She’d destroy his trust. And how could they be happy together without trust?

So, she
had to free him. Had to. But to break the spell, she needed her altar, so she'd have to go home. That would be that. He’d be out of her life forever. Plus, she’d have to deal with Avery. She was in no mood for a confrontation right now, but neither would she let that backstabber get away with what she’d done.

Her thoughts darkened as she buttoned her blouse, keeping her back to
him. Maybe she’d get lucky and Avery wouldn’t be home. It was a coward’s wish, but so be it. She could deal with that two-faced trollop another time; perhaps even put a hex on her. Boils, warts, or—even better—genital herpes. If he weren’t leaving, she’d be tempted to put a spell on him too—a fidelity spell to repel slags like Avery and Branwen.

But he
was
leaving, wasn’t he? The thought impaled her heart, bringing tears to her eyes. Their situation seemed hopeless. If only she could share all she felt. How all her life she’d been searching for something—call it meaning or purpose or a sense of belonging she’d never found anywhere—not even inside her own family. And how, even as a kid, she knew someone would come for her, she just never dreamed it would be someone like him. And how there had always been this aching emptiness, this terrible yearning inside her nothing could fill. Until he came along. And letting him go would hurt more than any wickedness Gerard Fitzgerald could hope to dream up.

But she couldn’t say those things. B
ecause her throat was too tight for speech and because she knew nothing she could say would change his mind.

She bit her trembling lower lip. “Won’t
you at least walk me to my car?”

“
Of course I will.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Cat turned her MG into the alley behind Mayflower Cottage. When she saw Avery’s empty parking space, the knot in her gut loosened slightly. Graham was determined to break both their hearts and she could think of no non-magical way to stop him. He’d walked her to her car and kissed her like there was no tomorrow, which, of course, he believed to be true. No tomorrow for them, anyway. She just prayed he was mistaken.

She pulled the car into her own space, killed the engine, slung her satchel over her shoulder, and climbed out. As she cut through the rear garden, she felt eyes on her. She looked around for the voyeur, but found only a large black bird. It was perched on one of the more substantial lower branches of the gnarled
oak in the middle of the yard.

The bird, head cocked, regarded her in an eerily human way. Was it a raven or a rook? She could never tell the difference. Either way, something about it gave her the creeps. Its bill was thick and dark, its claws sharp, its eyes, oddly enough, were like two fiery emeralds burning into her core. Something about those eyes seemed familiar in a way that gave her goose pimples.

“Can I help you?”

The raven, to her astonishment, opened its beak and spoke. “Stay away from him, witch. If
you know what’s good for you.”

Before Cat’s stunned brain could conjure a suitable response, the bird took wing and dove down, heading straight for her. Panic erupting,
she dropped her satchel, spun toward the cottage, and broke into a run. The raven swooped past with a whoosh of cold air.

Just as
she reached the back door, the bird circled back and lunged again, this time with claws extended. She grabbed the locked handle and shook it frantically. Talons caught her hair and pulled. Shrieking in pain, she flung her keys at the bird. It let out an ear-piercing screech and flew off.

Heart pounding, hands trembling, she
retrieved her keys and satchel and, after a bit of fumbling, got the door unlocked. Once inside, she slammed the door behind her, threw the bolt, and dropped her bag on the kitchen table. Then she stood there, hand over her hammering heart, struggling to collect herself as her mind sought to fathom the inexplicable.

When her heartbeat was close to normal,
she looked around. The cottage was dark and quiet. She went to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of wine, and poured herself a glass, hands shaking. She carried the wine into the bedroom and set it on the nightstand. The bedside clock told her it was nearing midnight. She had lectures tomorrow and could use a good night’s sleep—not that she expected to get one.

Sucking in a bracing breath
, she crossed to the altar and took down a white candle. She gathered all the sigils and talismans used to cast the spell, deposited them in her cauldron, and set them on fire. While they burned, she lit the candle and said in a tear-choked voice, “The spell is done, its object free. No longer will magic bind him to me. So mote it be.”

Heart like molten lead
, she took a long bath and tried to sleep, but couldn’t get him off her mind. After an hour of agitating, she gave up on the bed and decided to try the sofa. As she lay there, staring up at the ceiling, a storm of emotions blew through her. Anger, fear, grief, regret all took their turns. Mostly, though, she felt cheated.

He was her
soul mate, her one and only. How could he not see that?

With a frustrated sigh, she rummaged through the stack of magazines on the coffee table. Most were Avery’s—fashion, celebrity gossip, and the like, none of which interested
her in the least. She and Avery, who the university had paired as housemates, never had much in common. She liked vintage clothes, antiques, and historic dramas. Avery liked designer labels, minimalist modern, and slasher movies. She was pagan; Avery was Presbyterian. She liked dangerous rakes with long hair. Avery liked clean-cut Ken dolls. Cat would move out, but had nowhere to go. All the university housing was occupied and she couldn’t afford the rents anywhere else.

Giving up on the magazines, she considered reading a book, but she had only Highlander romances and vampire novels. The goal was to distract her mind, not to pour salt
on the wound. Out of other options, she turned on the telly and started surfing through the channels. Finding nothing worth watching, she clicked it off, returned to her altar, and took her tarot cards down from the shelf.

Carrying them to the bed, she sat cross-legged and began to pull out the twenty cards of the Major Arcana. As she shuffled, she focused on her que
ry:
What should I do about the situation with Graham?
She then laid out seven cards in a burning question spread—three over three and one on top.

The first card symbolized the question. Overturning it, she was not surprised to see
The Lovers
. A love affair with a choice involved aptly signified the nature of her query.

The second card revealed obstacles or supporting influences. She flipped
The High Priestess
, which depicted a woman in pale blue robes on a throne decorated with pomegranates. On either side stood two pillars—one black and marked with a “B”, the other white and marked with a “J”. There was a cross on the figure’s chest, a sphere on her crown, and a crescent moon at her feet. She held a scroll marked TORA.

Each of these esoteric symbols denoted the woman as a cleric of Hecate
, the Greek goddess of magic, witchcraft, the night, the moon, ghosts, and necromancy. Hecate assisted Demeter in the search for her daughter, Persephone—hence the pomegranates—after the girl’s abduction by Hades, lighting the night and the underworld with her twin torches.

The High Priestess
was the card of hunches, of intuition, of knowing without knowing. Generally, the card counseled trusting one’s gut and going with the flow, but Cat’s sixth sense told her that, in this case, the message was more literal. And there just happened to be a High Priestess in Wickenham. The head of the local coven. Her faculty colleague, Maud Edenfield.

Goosebumps sprouted along
her arms. Might Maud know more about his “curse” than she’d revealed? The idea percolated as she continued her reading. Cards three and four represented her hopes and fears in relation to the question. The Tower and The Magician. Those made sense. She
feared
the foundational destruction threatened by the first card and
hoped
for a magical solution promised by the second.