Rampant

d.

She clung to Elspeth and Elspeth whispered soothingly in her ear, words that she couldn’t understand, words that sounded deliriously intoxicating.

Her body seemed to lift and peel away in the moonlight, and she raised her arms above her head. Bathed in moon and firelight, she was filled with sensory seductions.

Then the others began to circle around her, chanting slowly. Zoë felt them touching her, stroking her. She felt kisses on her bare shoulders and arms. So many hands. Fingers whispered over her—soft feminine hands, and larger, rougher male hands that squeezed her flesh as if testing ripe fruit.

Grayson. Her body craved his. Was he here? She struggled to keep her eyes open, looking for him amongst the faces moving around her. Cain was there, and she was vaguely aware of him drawing a line around her with a stick, making a circle in the sand and ashes on the ground. When it was complete, the line flamed into life creating a circle of fire that enclosed her, separating her from the others.

I should be afraid, she thought, but she was too languid and aroused. The flames danced along the edge of the circle. Her hips rolled, her hands roving over her body, answering the call in her full breasts and the longing ache between her thighs, touching, rubbing.

Her eyes were closing, yet still she heard the voices chanting, and then she heard a word that she understood, a name: Annabel.

They were calling to Annabel.

Unease ratcheted inside her, her spirit torn between earthly pleasures and fear of the unknown. Struggling to regain her consciousness, she found herself dreamlike and back on the path through the forest, running, racing through the trees.

But it was Annabel who was at her side and gesturing for her to follow, not Elspeth. Annabel in her long gown, with her hair trailing down as far as her waist.

A vision.

Annabel had been here, long ago. She’d been here in this forest, she’d had sex with a lover here, and she wanted Zoë to know that. Excitement lit Zoë’s blood.

Stay with me, Annabel’s voice urged within Zoë’s mind. Stay with me, and I’ll lead you through this and out of here.

But Zoë wasn’t sure.

Ahead of Annabel it was dark, the darkest, blackest night she had ever seen. Would she ever truly find her way out if she followed? In the faint moonlight, Annabel’s ghostly form wisped in and out of focus and Zoë yearned to follow her. She peered into the darkness. The voices chanted on around her, the heat from the fire swamping her.

You will understand, Zoë, you will.

“Wait for me, tell me what it is you want me to know,” she whispered, unable to move forward, and yet desperate to keep up with Annabel.

It had to be done.

Drugged by the strange experience, Zoë reached again for Annabel, grasping at the lifeline she seemed to offer, her consciousness fading….

The master is leading me into the forest. He waylaid me as I was on my way to pick summer berries and ordered me to leave my basket and to follow him here instead. His mood is not good. With one hand locked around my wrist he drags me alongside him, his handsome mouth tightly closed.

“Ewan, what is it? Whatever is the matter?”

He does not reply.

We follow the path to the place where the coven meet, but the brethren are not here with us now. It is just the two of us, and the master is like a stranger to me. His head is bare, his hat who knows where, and his necktie is askew. His hair is uncombed, and he looks as if he has barely slept.

Beneath the trees the scent is high for it rained heavily in the night, an early summer storm, and while it is fresh down by the harbor, up here in the trees the musky smell of damp undergrowth fills the air. The ground is muddy and the path is damp and slippery beneath my boots, sending me skittering on the path.

He does not look back, does not seem to notice. Why is he bringing me here now, and why does he not speak? My heart beats hard in my chest, for I have a dreadful bad feeling about this.

“Talk to me,” I plead, “tell me what it is that you need. I promise I will do whatever you want, if only you would look my way and speak to me.”

Still he does not answer. Instead, he drags me even faster across the ground, intent on some purpose known only to himself. I can barely keep up, my footsteps stumbling in his wake, my skirts snagging on branches. Then I see our own place up ahead, the clearing where our coven meets. The circles of rocks mark the five points where we have set our fires, and the earth is burnt from our rituals.

He stops walking and pulls me up short in front of him, strong hands wrapped round my wrists. I have to stand on my toes and stretch, for he seems determined that I look him directly in the eye.

“Feel my ire,” he urges, “know it in your soul.”

I do feel it, I see it and I feel it, a churning vat of pain that he wishes to share with me. Betrayal, there is betrayal there too, amid the rage in his expression.