Dark Enchantment (19 page)

God, he
is
big.

He stretches me to the limit. He fucks me slow and hard and deep. He knows what he’s doing. He knows what he wants, and I have no choice but to give it to him: in this waltz, he leads. And what he wants is to make me come, so I do it: on his pumping cock, on his wicked fingers. I shriek as I come, my voice echoing under the sundered dome.

When my surrender is complete he pulls out, shimmering with my juices, and plops me onto my belly over the stone. My toes barely reach the floor and it’s far from comfortable, but that doesn’t matter to either of us. My wrists are still captive at the small of my back. He pulls up my skirt, spreads my bum and fucks me from behind, leaning in low so he can embrace my torso in one arm, his cock ramming my open slot, his thighs slapping against my arse and his balls bouncing on my sex. All dignity gone, it seems to me that a hundred dismissed and disappointed purveyors of carpets and taxi rides and antiqued souvenirs are being avenged all at once. I am moaning in counterpoint to his grunts, gathering to a second storm. He is quickening his pace, no longer slow and easy but urgent.

Fire erupts from the stones.

All around us, flames burst from every joint and crack of the ancient masonry. I feel the heat, though nothing actually burns us. All the air seems to be sucked out of my lungs. He is hammering into me like he would split me in half, and I can feel it happening, I can feel my whole body cracking into pieces, opening up, and the fire bursting out of those splits too, whirling me away in a storm of flame. I am aware of his roar
as
he slams his way to orgasm, but I am already alight and flying away on the conflagration’s updraught, spinning like ashes and smoke up into the blue skies overhead.

It’s hard to act my normal self when we return from our honeymoon.

Back home in England, I do what any normal woman would do: I Google him. It takes a little while; misunderstanding and ambiguities of spelling handicap me. But I find the reference in the end:

Afrit, Ifrit, Efreet: The tribe of evil Djinn who followed Iblis in refusing to bow down before Adam upon God’s command. According to the Qur’an, Iblis explained to God: ‘I am better than he. Thou createdst him of mud, while me Thou didst create of fire
.’

Scratch

WHEN THE BERRIES
on the rowan tree in the yard turned black and withered overnight, Maarten Gansevoort’s wife, Mercy, knew it for a warning. She read omens like Pastor Arne read his big black Bible: she knew whether a cow was about to calf a bull or a heifer by the patterns of licked hair on its flanks, when a summer storm was on its way by the flight of birds and whether the river ice would hold solid by the squeak of snow-laden branches. She had been full of warnings before her marriage to Maarten Gansevoort.

‘What do you want to marry me for?’ she’d asked, knuckles on the jut of her hips, one eyebrow raised. ‘I’ll bring you no luck: a red-headed woman never brings luck.’ Her hair was the bright colour of newly poured copper, and escaped from under her sober bonnet in kinks that would have been becoming on a young girl, and on a grown woman looked quite indecorous. ‘And am I not to old for you?’

‘Too old for what?’ Maarten Gansevoort had said, turning his hat over in his hands for fear that if he left them idle they’d reach out and pull her to him so he could plant a kiss on that wide and luscious mouth.

‘Too old to mother you any children, I’d have thought.’

‘And so? I have a son and a daughter already by my Ingeborg, God rest her soul. What need have I of more children, Widow Lafferty? But I have it in mind that I need a wife.’

She’d done her best to put him off, turning his suit aside with good humour, sending him away with a bottle of
elderberry
cordial or a twist of dark toffee in his coat pocket as if he were an urchin importuning her for treats. But he’d persisted. Maarten Gansevoort was a big, vigorous man with a strength of will that had seen him hew a prosperous farm from near-wilderness and establish a dairy that supplied cheese and butter that was sent into Albany and as far down-river as New York itself. He was used to getting his own way in the end, and nothing would satisfy him but to take the Widow Mercy Lafferty to wife, because he saw in her a similar strength of will. He wasn’t interested in her money either – though she seemed to have a fair private income, and had rented a house on the hill where the richer folk lived. He liked her ready, conspiratorial smile, her wit and her confidence. What had brought her out alone to this little country town he did not know – no more than did any of the local gossips so frustrated by her serene indifference to their curiosity – but he did not care that her accent was different from that of the farmers thereabouts, or that her clothes were cut in a different fashion to the stolid goodwives’, or that she had unlucky red hair.

So he’d got his way as he was determined, wearing her down with his wooing until she’d submitted, laughing. But still she’d warned him, even as she’d accepted. Her green eyes had grown dark as she looked up into his face, her hands slipping into the compass of his, her mouth turning down almost for the first time.

‘I have a past, Maarten Gansevoort. If I am to marry you, you must promise never to ask me about it.’

Besotted by her eyes and the curves of her body, and knowing himself so, he’d answered, ‘So long as you have no husband alive somewhere to make this marriage void, I swear I do not care to know.’

She’d smiled at that, but her smile seemed a little bleak. ‘No
husband,
I promise. I will be an honest wife. But …’ She hesitated. ‘It is possible my past may return to touch upon me. If that should happen, promise you will be guided by me. Promise that you will let me deal with it in the way I know best, so that neither of us will come to harm. Promise me that, Maarten, or I cannot wed you.’

It had seemed a strange thing to say, and a dark omen for their marriage, but he had promised. And so they had been married, and happily enough, until the day the rowan berries blackened even though there had not yet even been a frost. Mercy came to him then with the news, and more warnings.

‘Someone is coming to visit.’

He pulled out a plug of cheese from the round he was inspecting and sniffed it. He was used to her knowing that a stranger would soon pass by the farm; she would say she could see it in the watermarks left on the stone threshold when she scrubbed it on a morning. And she was always correct. ‘Right, then.’

‘Someone important.’

He looked over to see that his wife was as pale as new curd, her freckles standing out across her cheeks and nose like ground peppercorns. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Husband …’ Mercy’s hands twisted at the belt of her apron. ‘Before I came here I was … indentured as a servant. To someone very … very powerful. I left his service. And he did not try to constrain me at that point. But he made it plain that he might call upon me at any time. He’s coming here.’

‘Do you owe him money?’ It was the only thing Maarten could think of to say. He’d never seen such an expression of dread upon her face.

‘No.’ Her eyes looked sunken, but burned like green coals. ‘Money is not what he is after.’

‘Then if he is intent on hurting you, I will not let him through our door. I have my musket, Mercy, and my axe.’

‘No!’ Her eyes widened. ‘You mustn’t do that! You must not confront him. Maarten –’ She broke off to put her hand on his breast. ‘Remember you promised that if this happened you would let me deal with it?’

‘Yes, but –’

‘You must do what I say. You mustn’t anger him, or cross him. He is capable of destroying us all. And … I owe him. I gave my oath in service. If you do what I say then he will be happy and go away again.’

‘I see.’ Maarten was trying to hold down the mutiny in his breast. ‘And what do you want me to do?’

‘Go stay with your sister tonight; take the children. I’ve told the servants to leave the farm and not return till dawn.’

‘And I’m to leave you alone with this man?’ He wanted to shout, but he kept his voice low.

Mercy nodded mutely.

‘And what’s his name, this master of yours?’

She looked away, as if she could not meet his hot gaze any longer. ‘He goes by a number of names.’ Then she took a deep breath and admitted: ‘Nicholas.’

‘Nicholas what?’

‘Nicholas … Scratch.’

For a long time Maarten did not answer. ‘Salem,’ he said at length, thickly. He’d heard the rumours. ‘You came here from Salem.’

Mercy bit her lip and dipped her chin.

‘Oh.’ Maarten blinked hard, trying not to feel the skin crawling on his spine. ‘Shall I fetch Pastor Arne?’

Her voice was only a whisper. ‘That will make it worse for us all. Let me deal with him on my own.’

He felt as if all his joints had seized and he could hardly move. ‘As you wish.’ He groped his way to the shed door, then paused. ‘But I’m not leaving you.’

‘Husband –’

‘Enough. Do what you must, but I’m not running away. You’re my wife. I will stay with you.’

It was a good thing that the servants were all away that day, because there was nothing for them to do. The hens had stopped laying. The cows refused to come into the milking shed, and instead clustered up at the top end of the pasture, facing outwards like buffalo sensing wolves. Kindling which had been dry the day before refused to catch and no fire could be lit in the house. Crows circled overhead, but no birds flitted down to pick through the chaff in the yard or steal from the feed bins. In fact the only animals that behaved with bravado were the frogs in the pond, who kept up an ascending chorus of croaks all day – and even that was unnerving, because frogs call in spring, and this was the fall of the year.

There was no breeze all day, just a thick breathless warmth.

At sunset, as the golden light lay across the stubble of the meadows and glinted through the trunks of the red oaks, the frogs fell silent. And up the track to Maarten Gansevoort’s farm came a man riding on a black horse.

They stood out on the porch to receive him, the two of them by then the only living souls on the farm. Mercy looked more composed now, Maarten noticed, and he wondered if she had been dreading his reaction more than the news she’d given him. She was still pale, but there were two spots of colour high on her cheeks as if she’d pinched them. She’d been silent all day. The rider drew closer until they could see
him
and his mount clearly. The horse was a tall stallion as black as charcoal. The man was dressed in a long black coat too, and his unruly hair was the same glossy jet as his mount’s, but he was pale of face. He was tall and slim and rather young, with wicked arched brows and dancing violet eyes. He swung down from the saddle and spread his hands. ‘Mercy!’

She bobbed a curtsey.

‘
Meneer
Scratch,’ said Maarten, not bowing or nodding or holding out his hand. Just letting him know.

‘And this must be your husband. How pleasant to meet you, Goodman Gansevoort. Mercy, it’s been twenty years. Have you missed me?’

It struck Maarten that this handsome young man did not look old enough to have met anyone but his mother’s teat twenty years back, but he said nothing.

‘I have been happy, sir,’ said Mercy faintly.

‘Little Mercy Martin.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Then Mercy Lafferty. Now Mercy Gansevoort. You look better than ever. Don’t say I don’t look after my own: you’ve prospered.’ He winked broadly at Maarten Gansevoort. ‘Only the innocent hang.’

Maarten would have replied sternly, but he was distracted by his wife’s reaction; she’d flushed and then moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. He’d never seen her look so disconcerted, not even on their wedding night. It made the hair on his neck prickle.

‘Now, will you not ask me in to sit with you?’

‘Do you need to be invited?’ Maarten Gansevoort growled.

The stranger arched a brow, amused. ‘Strictly speaking, no. But you should be pleased when I observe the social niceties.’

‘Please, sir,’ said Mercy, her voice a little husky, ‘do us honour and enter.’

‘How hospitable of you. I’d be delighted.’ The stranger followed Mercy over the threshold and Maarten brought up the rear. He could not help sneaking a suspicious look at the other man’s feet, but only polished leather boots peeked from under the ankle-length hem of his coat.

One last glance overhead showed him that the crows were wheeling about the building in a tight circle, in silence.

Maarten Gansevoort’s house was a big, comfortable one, every board pegged and sound, with a kitchen hall for cooking and eating, and beds and stores kept in the rooms beyond and overhead. Mercy directed their visitor to the high-backed oak settle by the fire, and Maarten sat himself awkwardly at the head of the table. ‘Will you drink, sir?’ she asked in an odd voice. ‘We have buttermilk and small beer.’

‘I’ll take a hot cider.’

She shrugged, helplessly. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I haven’t been able to light the fire today.’

He shook his head and waved one hand negligently. Flames leapt up in the hearth, filling the room with light, and Maarten jumped before mastering himself. The logs spat, shrank and turned to glowing embers; in a moment the fire looked for all the world like it had been burning all day. He could feel the heat fill the room. The stranger leant forwards to ram the poker into the heart of the embers. ‘That’ll do it.’

Sweat trickled down Maarten Gansevoort’s spine, but Mercy didn’t seem surprised at all. She turned away to the cider keg and filled an earthenware flagon. Then she wrapped her hand in her apron and pulled out the poker; its tip was already, impossibly, starting to glow. Carefully she lowered the metal point into the drink, and Maarten heard the liquid hiss and bubble.

To present the drink to their guest, she went to her knees before him, proffering the vessel with both hands, head bowed and eyes lowered, her full skirts belling out around her. Maarten felt shock pulse through his body at that sight. She’s so graceful, was his incongruous thought. He knew his wife as a capable, boisterous women who took no nonsense from anyone. To see her behaving so submissively, so out of character towards another man made his guts twist and his blood race.