Fire in the Cave (10 page)

The witch-girl came back to herself slowly. She was in her hut, in
the dark, in her sleeping pile. She felt a warmth between her legs,
embarrassing. She took a slow, deep breath, and gathered her
thoughts.

Black-dog was still bound. He couldn’t flow, couldn’t
come with anyone but her. That much, at least, was good. But he was
playing with witchcraft, playing with the River-folk, pretending to
be a spirit. What was he trying to do? Where had he learned it?
And would it work?

The hut flooded with moonlight as a man stepped into the doorway,
pushing aside the hanging fur. A black silhouette, dark hair that
drank the light, breathing slow and deep. Black-dog.

He stepped toward her, letting the curtain fall, and plunging them
both into perfect darkness.

T
he witch-girl crouched in the darkness, alert. Her
night-eyes were good, as good as any hunter’s, but there was no
light at all, now. She closed her eyes, then opened them. No
difference. Blind black.

She knew where she was. She knew her hut like she knew her own body,
knew that the door was there, the shelf with grandmother’s
skull was up there, the herbs in their pots and dishes were there and
there… but where was Black-dog? She could feel his presence,
and hear the low, slow sound of his breathing. She could smell him,
faintly, sweat and maleness. But she couldn’t tell where. He
seemed to be all around her, the sense of him coming from every
direction. Not knowing where he was threw doubt on everything else.
If she reached forward, would she touch her doorway, or the hot skin
of his chest? If she backed up, would she be backing away from him,
or would she feel his hands close around her throat from behind? Or
would it be his lips, brushing her neck, his breath warm against her?

“I’m not angry.”

His voice was to her left. But she couldn’t trust that. A
tiny movement of air touched her skin; he had moved, he was somewhere
else now.

“I’ll have the binding broken soon.” His voice was
calm, thoughtful. He was near the shelves. “It will not break
clean. There will be costs. But that’s more your problem than
it is mine. Foolish, to try something like that on me.” She
heard the clink and tap of clay jars being moved, and the change in
his breathing as he sniffed at the herbs inside them. “So.
Why did you do it?”

The witch-girl tried to focus on her breathing. It was too fast; she
needed to slow it. This close, she could feel the connection too
strongly. The bond between her and Black-dog was humming, was waking
every part of her body. Her skin was warm, and she thought about his
skin. The hair on the back of her neck was standing, and she thought
about his neck, about sliding her fingers up and into the dark tangle
of his hair. Was he feeling this? How could he be so calm?

She steadied her voice. “If I answer your questions, will you
answer mine?”

“Perhaps.” She heard rustling as he took herbs from
jars.

The witch-girl settled onto her pile of furs, kneeling, hands on her
knees. She had to stay calm. He would touch her soon, hurt her or
pleasure her or use her. Her mind spun, for a moment, with thoughts
of hands, heat, hurting, kissing, dark eyes looking down at her. He
would do as he liked with her, but she could take it. She was strong
and clever. She tried to silence the little voice inside her that
was looking forward to it, wanting it. She would defeat him. She
would make him hers.

“I bound you for the good of the tribe,” she said.

His laugh was low and hard, like heavy stones falling on clay. “It
is good that you’re lying, witch-girl. If that was the truth,
you would be even more foolish than I thought. I ask again: why?”

“Because of what you do to women.”
You take them,
she thought,
you break them, make them cry out in pleasure-pain,
you make them forget their names and shame and fuck like animals
until their minds are gone.

“You saw me with Sparrow.”

“Yes.”
You took her in the moonlight, in the woods,
she begged you to stop until she couldn’t speak any more, and
then finally she begged with her body for you to go on.

“And you wanted that to happen to you.”

“No.” A shiver ran down her spine. He was close,
somewhere close in the darkness, inches away, she could feel it, why
didn’t he just reach out and touch her?

“You wanted me to hunger for you.” So close, she could
feel the heat from his body on her skin. “You wanted me to
hold you down. You wanted to struggle, you wanted to be forced. You
wanted me to break you. Wanted to be my animal. My pet. My toy.
Wanted to blush and beg underneath me as I used you.”

“No.” Her heart was pounding like a war-drum. “Wanted
to bind you. Tame you. Punish you.” He was behind her, she
thought. If he grabbed her now, wrapped his arms around her, she
wasn’t sure whether she would fight him, or sigh and melt back
against him.

“You’re the clever witch-girl. You know many ways to
punish a man. Curses and poisons and rumors. But you did none of
that. Instead, you made me want you.” His breathing was
ragged, now. His voice was harsh, hungry. “You set it so I
couldn’t be satisfied with another. You put yourself in my
mind. Always. I think of you when I run. When I try to sleep, I
dream of you and wake. You know who I am, my strength, my hunger.
You knew what would happen. You made me want you, because you want
to belong to me.”

“No!” Her heart was hammering, it was hard to breathe.
He was going to hurt her, she knew that; the only question was
whether he’d make her enjoy it.

“Then release me. If you don’t want this, break the
binding!” He was in front of her, now, he was so close, if she
leaned forward he would be right there, his lips, his teeth, his
hunger and anger.

“I will not break it.” Her voice was shaking.

For a moment, there was silence and stillness. She couldn’t
tell where he was. She couldn’t tell if he was still there at
all. Blind, on her knees in the darkness, panting through parted
lips, she waited.

“I will make you want to,” he said.

And then he was on her, finally touching her. He was pushing her
down, his heat and weight pressing her down into the furs. Her hands
were on his chest but she couldn’t push him back, he was too
heavy, too strong. She curled her fingers to scratch him, but his
lips found hers and she was clawing at him with desire, instead of
hate. She opened her mouth to kiss him, to bite him, and his hand
was on her chin, holding her mouth open as something bittersweet
passed from his mouth into hers. The herbs, he’d taken some
from the jars, he must have been chewing them, the juice was
trickling down her throat and she didn’t know which ones,
didn’t know what they would do to her. She writhed underneath
him, forced to swallow or choke. None of her struggling moved him at
all. He held her down, as unmoving as if he was carved out of stone.

She swallowed. Sweet and bitter… she tried to count the
tastes. There was dead-man’s-words in the mixture, she would
be feeling drunk soon. And meadow-milk, and… she couldn’t
tell. She realized her tongue was peeking out, running over his
lips, gathering the taste of the herbs, the taste of him. He was so
close, finally touching her. His body warm on top of her, his arms
strong around her. It was only now that they were together that she
realized how much the binding hurt when they were apart, how it
stretched between them, tight and straining, like a strap around her
chest making it hard to breathe. Finally touching each other,
finally kissing, was such a relief that she felt her chest clenching
in a sob.

“Wait,” she gasped.

He ignored her completely, pulled her hands up above her head. She
felt leather; he had a strap, was winding around and around her
wrists. He pulled it taut, binding her to one of the thick wooden
posts that held up the roof.

“Wait,” she said again. “You want me, you want to
use me for your pleasure, but do you feel anything? Do you feel
anything for me when you think of me, dream of me?” She needed
to know. For her plans. For the twisting feeling in her chest.

He finished the knot. Her arms were stretched above her head, and
she felt the touch of his long hair on them, trailing over her,
tickling, as he moved back down. In the blind darkness she could
hear his breathing, knew he leaning over her, his mouth coming closer
to hers. She could feel the warmth of his breath, now, and the touch
of his hair on her cheeks. So close she felt the words on her lips,
he whispered his answer.

“No. You are nothing to me.”

The words fell into her mind like a stone, heavy, cold, crushing.
The herbs he had fed her, the bitter juice he had made her drink,
were working in her now. She felt the words strike in her gut, again
and again. She was falling into herself, into a cold and empty
place, with the words echoing all around her.

And then the echoes shattered into noise, and she knew, as easily as
she knew sunrise from darkness, that what he had said was a lie. He
felt something, something stronger than a river in flood, coursing
down the connection between them. It was frightening in its power,
and in how much strength he must have to control it.

He was touching her body, each touch humming with the power of that
connection as he ran his hands down her in practiced, controlled
motions. His fingers pressed hard to massage muscles, touched
lightly as they stroked down her arms, legs, throat. It hurt, it
tickled, it was unbearably good. She felt like she was opening in
every place he touched, coming un-knotted, spreading like a flower.

She pressed her eyes closed, breathed hard. “Lying. You’re
lying.” She clenched her teeth as his fingers sunk into her
thighs, rubbing, massaging. She panted, catching her breath. “Tell
me. What do you feel?”

His hands didn’t stop. It felt sweet, sweet, she felt trails
of stars wherever he stroked her gently, she felt slow bursts of
color wherever his fingers pressed firm. She felt beautiful, felt
like his touch was making her beautiful.

“Nothing. I feel nothing for you.”

The words were lies, but she could almost hear the truth, a weight of
something trying to break through from behind his harsh whisper. Her
body was shaking with every breath. His hands ran down her and she
felt sculpted, crafted, like she was a precious, intricate work of
art. Like her body was his instrument, and he was making music.

She could feel everywhere he had touched her humming, like taut lines
drawn through her body. His hands pulled away and she felt her body
arching up, trying to follow, desperate for his touch. She bit her
lip, trying not to whine with need as the lines of fire he had
kneaded into her began to fade in intensity.
No, not yet, I need
to feel more, feel that touch more!

His hand covered her breast and squeezed, pinched the tip. She felt
it through her whole body. The sensation spread through her like a
branching, flickering bolt of lightning, spreading along the lines he
had made. Her breast under his clenching hand was a knot of pain,
the tip a white-hot point of agony, but the flickering lines felt
like warm sunlight and strong wine, like stretching after a long
sleep. She wanted him to hurt her more, pinch harder, if that would
make the sparks creeping through her arms and legs flare brighter, if
that would make the tingling at the top of her head more intense.

He released her. She went limp, lying on the furs, panting. “Tell
me…” she started to say, but his hand was on her other
breast and she was arching again, her whole body vibrating with sweet
fire. In the darkness behind her eyes, squeezed closed, she was
watching waves and swirls of blue flame.

His hand released, and she collapsed again. “Tell me, “
she gasped, trying to concentrate as her mind filled with rivers of
light. “Tell me what you feel for me!”

He bit her thigh, hard. A hot spike of pain shot up from below, shot
up to the tingling at the top of her head and shattered it, released
it to flow down her scalp and neck and arms and back stomach and down
her legs, her whole body covered in the glorious prickling shiver.
It hurt, it hurt brutally where he was biting her, but his fingers
were trailing down her stomach and legs and wherever they touched the
prickling turned into feather-softness and warmth. She was spasming,
legs kicking, arms pulling taut against their bindings, and she heard
her own voice, babbling, begging him. “Tell me! Touch me
more, tell me the truth! Please, stop! Please, what am I to you,
please, more, I’m so close, it hurts, I need to know!”

He was on top of her. She writhed against him, everywhere his skin
touched hers was warmth and heat and joy. His hands were in her
hair, holding her head, holding it still, she could feel his breath
on her lips again and he was telling her, the words flowing into her
like water into an empty bowl:

“You will do as I say. Then I will give you what you need..”

“Yes please yes anything.” She was gasping, straining
toward his lips, her legs wrapping around his waist, some small part
of her remembering that she should resist, but that made no sense.
If she did as he said he would be pleased with her, and he would
touch her more and hurt her more and whisper to her more and close
his arms around her and pull her closer and nothing could possibly be
more important than that.

“Break the binding.”

“I can’t,” she sobbed. He was still running his
hands over her, it felt so good but it wasn’t enough. She
needed to please him, wanted to, but she couldn’t. “I’m
not strong enough now. I’m yours, I’m clay in your
hands, I love it and I’m sorry, I have to be strong inside to
do witch-work and right now I’m gone and it feels so good, and
when I’m strong again I’ll be strong enough to say no.
Please, please forgive me, please don’t stop!”