Rampant

Breathing hard, his hands manipulated her buttocks while he drove his shaft in and out of her, over and over. He seemed to be all around her, hot and strong and fierce. Then he meshed his long strong fingers with hers where they clutched on the steps above, and she felt his breath hot against her hair and he kissed the side of her face.

“Hold tight,” he breathed, and his cock grew longer still, pressing hard against her cervix and jerking repeatedly.

The sensation was so intense it was closely bound up with pain, and she heard a sound that she didn’t recognize as her own. The cry was wild and animalistic, and it sounded like victory.

But he held her, and she felt safe. She was vaguely aware of being lifted and turned, and then she felt him taking her strappy sandals off—a tender gesture after the determined actions that had gone before—before he lifted her into his arms and carried her up the stairs.

The bed was soft against her back and she lay back on it gratefully. Her awareness faltered, and she heard herself chuckle but wasn’t sure why. She felt strangely trancelike, as if her mind was captured somewhere between the reality of this moment and a dreamlike state. Tired, that was why she felt herself adrift. Her eyes closed, and with great effort she opened them again. She saw the biker-prof standing there looking down at her, watching her closely.

He makes magic here tonight. The strange thought echoed around her mind even as she drifted off. Can you feel it? Can you sense the power rising in the atmosphere?

Her eyelids lowered, and she struggled to open them again.

The room was darker.

A breeze blew through her mind. On it, she could smell wood smoke. It was enticing, and somehow seductive, and it lured her into its spell…

The moon is full and heavy and it races across the fields, stirring the creatures from their burrows, beckoning to those of us who seek its thrall. My heart beats fast, for I crave the ritual that is to come.

The scent of the forest is high in the air, for the nearby brook flows fast with spring rain. New life is all around, from the sprouting undergrowth to the lambs in the fields beyond. I push my cloak back over my shoulders and lift my skirts free of the hawthorns and brambles, tracing the familiar path through the forest to our special place.

I am late, and the coven is already in the midst of their revelry. I see flames flickering between the dense trees as I approach. The fires are lit in the clearing and the smell of the kill is high on the air. I need not hurry, even though I am eager for the power I sense carried on the air, for I know the master will wait for me.

Two of the younger women look sullen as I approach, annoyed that I have arrived. Old man Cawley sits on the ground, playing the demon dance upon his flute. His eyes are bright and a flagon of ale is propped at his side. Beside him a young lad beats a drum, entranced by his own rhythm.

Three of the coven roll together on the ground nearby, all hands and tongues, their clothing undone, their faces flushed with lust and wine.

Ewan Findlay, our coven master, chants over the sacrifices laid out at his feet. Oh, but he is strong, and so wickedly handsome. My body quickens at the very sight of him. His dark hair falls long and unruly over his shoulders, his shirt is loose over his breeches, and his buckled shoes glisten in the firelight. He stands over the animals he’s slaughtered on this full moon’s eve, his hands raised to harvest their life-force and their souls. A skinned rabbit, the entrails of the deer he hunted this morn. On his back he wears the deer skin, fresh from the kill, an unholy cloak. It stains his shirt here and there with blood. The woman he chooses this eve will also be marked with that blood, painted with the ancient sign while he rides her.

And now he stares down into the fire, his dark eyes reflecting the flames. A smile plays around his mouth, and a determined set to his jaw makes my chest swell with anticipation. I am here for him, and I eagerly follow his footsteps into the forbidden. It arouses me, the power and the magic that is ours when Ewan communes with the dark forces of the Hidden World.

To his right flank a furrow has been dug into the earth. There the younger men will spill their seed before dawn, joining with the earth and the Hidden World. Ecstasy will unite the coven this eve, and one shall be chosen as Ewan’s woman. He will declare her his divining rod, the witch he chooses to channel his magic.

Eight of us here hope to be chosen. Deep within I nurse the knowledge that it will be me, I am his chosen, and I will have him as I an have any man here in Carbrey. As we celebrate the surging brook and the rising crops he will declare me his consort, daubing my body with sacrificial blood and bedding with me under the full moon, closing the circle between him and I.

As I glance his way his gaze lifts to meet mine, and I know he has waited for me to arrive. Lust burns bright in his eyes and mine own surely reflect it. My cunny is warm and sticky as a honey pot, ready for him.

I drop my cloak to the ground, undoing the laces at my breasts, baring them. Pulling on my stiff teats with my fingers I step into the circle, ready for everything this night will bring.

6

GRAYSON STOOD BY THE WINDOW IN HER BEDROOM, watching over Zoë while she slept. When he glanced out along the bay toward Cain Davot’s citadel, his thoughts clouded. Cain was bad news, really bad news.

Grayson had first come to Carbrey to investigate the rising number of sightings of the ghost in Her Haven, and when he arrived, he found Cain Davot in the village. Cain was a he-witch with a black heart. The stains on his soul and his hunger for power were obvious, and Cain brought dark ways into what had been a relatively happy community. Along this coast the practitioners of witchcraft nurtured and explored their magic as they went about their everyday lives and jobs. Unobtrusive for the most part, they were in league with the natural, elemental world, as well as the manmade world they were part of. Not so Cain Davot. He was the sort of witch that drew bad attention to them all, always greedy for power.

Earlier, Cain had cast a sensory spell over Zoë. Was it purely for entertainment, or was there another reason? Determined to find out, Grayson vowed to stay close and watch over the visitor while she was here.

He closed the curtains, and lay down alongside her.

At first Zoë’s sleep seemed restless and troubled, and when he put his hand to her forehead he found her skin was overly warm to the touch, as if there was a fever in her blood. Concerned for her welfare, he studied her as she slept. She was quickly becoming part of the magic here in Carbrey. That was obvious. When she moved restlessly he noticed that her nipples were hard. Occasionally her thighs would squeeze together and she’d pull her knees higher against her, as if she were having erotic dreams.

She was an attractive woman, and she looked as if she were built for a sensual life, despite the smart car and the city attitude. After a while, the flickering of her eyelids and her rapid breathing slowed down, and she fell into a deeper, more restful sleep.

He pulled the quilt over her, reassured. Then he turned his attention to their surroundings, sprawling on the bed as he observed the phenomenon. The house was filled with psychic energy. It glowed and rumbled up from the staircase like a purring cat, wisps of it darting about like ethereal creatures freed from confinement. It was visually entertaining, but not that unusual in a house with a history like this.

He craved a tumbler of the old malt whisky he had next door, and perhaps a good Cuban cigar from the box his aunt had given him for his pondering moments. That’s what he was doing now, pondering.

For some reason the ghostly occupant of Her Haven was no longer fragments of memory captured in time, echoing through the building. She had accumulated enough energy to manifest her presence and fill the house with sensuality and mischief. She had identified with Zoë. Why?