STAIN (My Soul To Wake Book 1) (9 page)

I find myself slipping, matching his breathing. The thick sweatpants he wears wrap around my legs as we adjust ourselves to share the same space. I use a feather light touch to place my hand near my head on his chest, the hardness beneath his shirt tempts me to explore under it but I resist. I think he likes my gentle touch because I feel him hiss when I move about, tracing the hard indentations of his muscles.

“Marcelle wanted nothing more than to please him, and he used that to his advantage, manipulated her with it. He left her in charge of her daughter’s education in magic. Her slave Josephine helped in the lessons. Malcolm’s daughter was taught in a different way. He couldn’t risk his wife finding out about his talents. He had seen hysteria in France as well as England and knew what could happen if someone was accused of witchcraft. So, he concocted a different way for her to learn the ways.”

I close my eyes, his voice hypnotizes me.

“Josephine was friendly with one of the other slaves in town. Tituba, the Reverend Samuel Paris’s slave. Tituba was from Barbados whereas Josephine was from Africa. Both came from people who regarded magic seriously and knew the ways of healers and Shaman. He bartered certain things with those women, an exchange of services so to speak, for teaching their ways to his daughter. They entered his service, his coven, and did his bidding.”

“The two daughters grew up as schoolmates but had nothing more in common. They were both beautiful but shared no sisterly similarities. Malcolm’s daughter grew jealous of the witch’s daughter who was kind and generous although she had no worldly goods of her own. There was a boy who fell madly in love with the witch’s daughter. Malcolm’s daughter also had love for the boy but he only saw her as a friend. This further drove a wedge between the girls.”

I feel myself on the edge of sleep.

“After many months, the boy convinced the witch’s daughter to marry him, to join with him forever. This was in the midst of the hysteria that had taken hold of the town. Josephine and Tituba had found popularity of sorts with their magic lessons. Malcolm’s daughter had invited some of her friends to join in the rituals. One of the new students was the Revered Paris’s own daughter Betty.

“The boy knew of the power the witch’s daughter possessed but he also knew she was not like the others. She took no part in their selfish magic. Most of the victims that were caught up in the accusations were innocent. The motivations were either personal or political. Decades-old vendettas were settled by accusing the person who wronged another years before. It was the worst kind of retribution. Land, property, money… they were the real motivators behind the accusations. For anyone who was convicted of witchcraft forfeited all rights to their homesteads. Their heirs lost legal claim as well.”

I can hear Moose breathing deeply in his sleep by the fire.

“The townspeople were beginning to see the farce for what it really was. Malcolm had done his best to shield his coven from reproach, but even he grew nervous that they would be touched by the frenzy. He left for Boston to use his wealth and clout to help secure a legal end to the trials. While he was gone, the witch’s daughter was accused. The judges, mainly Judge Hathorne, had become crazed themselves. They believed they were purging their flock. But, they knew that the end was coming, that they would be stopped from serving the justice they wrongfully believed they were charged by God to uphold.”

Will’s hand snakes under the blanket, where my sweatshirt had bunched up. His large fingers splay out over my flesh, and I feel safer than I ever have before.

“When the witch’s daughter was accused, they moved fast to render a conviction before they could be interrupted. They ordered a hanging to be carried out the next morning. That night, the boy had used a year’s worth of wages to bribe the bailiff to allow him to visit the witch’s daughter with a priest. He had convinced the bailiff he was there to grant final absolution to the prisoner before her death. The priest secretly married them that night, right there in the dark, dank holding cell.”

I angle my chin to Will. “So it
is
a love story?”

He kisses the tip of my nose and shushes me. “He truly believed Malcolm would return in time to end the madness and save her from her fate, although the boy was as clueless as the witch’s daughter about her true parentage. The next morning, she was hanged.”

I gasp and swallow hard. I can feel Will tense beneath me from my movements.

“Marcelle went mad, insane from the loss of her child and was accidentally burned to death in her home after a spell to resurrect her daughter went wrong. They both died just hours apart. The boy… the boy was inconsolable. He was angry. He wanted retribution for his wife’s murder. When Malcolm returned, he was just as furious. He learned of the secret marriage from the bailiff who was indebted to Malcolm. Malcolm sought the boy out and offered him a bargain. One that he knew the boy wouldn’t be able to refuse.”

I feel myself slipping in and out of sleep. Will’s voice soothes me and his words are sounding less and less clear.

He kisses the top of my head.

“And I’ll tell you the rest of the story another time. When you’re ready.”

I nuzzle into his chest. “ I--,” I yawn, “I’m ready… I’m listening….”

My words trail off. The last thing I remember is his pulling the blankets tighter around us and wrapping his arms around me.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Zay ze words, ma petit fille.”

I think hard on the forgotten phrase. I don’t want to disappoint her. I know it always makes her so proud when I remember my lessons.

The small wooden flowerpot before me is old and neglected. The dry soil within is cracked and broken. Tiny crumpled brown leaves are the only remnants of the once living plant.

I feel the room start to chill. The fire will need another log. Josephine has yet to return from her trip to the village, and I know maman will take it upon herself to fetch the kindling. If I can complete the incantation, charm the long-gone flower to bloom once more, I’m sure I can make myself useful by stocking the wood pile for the night before my mother attempts to do it herself.

She’s grown fragile these last few moons, the magick taking its toll on her small frame. She’s been tirelessly invoking the ancient charms of protection for days now.

Once word had managed to reach us here on the outskirts of the wood about the happenings in the village, maman had immediately set to her books to devise a spell to keep the danger at bay.

I can see her growing impatient now as she waits for me to recite my own conjuration upon the withered bloom.

“The gift of life has long been gone,

within your being I cast upon.

Bring forth the breath that is no more,

For once again your voice will roar.”

I open my eyes cautiously, first one… then the other. Maman says nothing. Her face conceals her thoughts, leaving me to judge for myself whether or not my words were strong enough.

I see nothing. The collection of dried earth within the planter lies dormant. I breathe out my disappointment. I’ve changed the words, yet the outcome is the same. Why is this lesson so difficult for me?

Maman had proclaimed time and again over the years that this particular enchantment would never feel my touch. Yet the day the accusations against Sarah Good, Sarah Osborne, and Tituba were made, my lessons accelerated. This is the fourth time I’ve attempted to bring back something that is no more.

My words will naught be allowed to be cast on anything greater than a flower until they prove successful. At this rate, the wooden floral pot will be the only recipient of my feeble attempt at revival.

“ ‘Tis no good,” I accept my failure yet again. My eyes cast themselves down, unable to meet hers.

Her pale hand sets upon mine, comforting her daughter. “Look….”

My eyes lazily obey, resting on the object of my frustration. One of the larger cracks in the soil widens, with a freshly sprouted stalk finding its way to the surface. It snakes its way around, winding and climbing its growth. Small pointed leaves emerge from the stem as it reaches for light.

I hear myself gasp. I did it. I’ve finally completed the one casting that has eluded me.

A beautiful shade of pink makes itself known as petals are born from the thin trunk of the plant. They blossom and stretch upward, swaying as the movement quickens. Within a matter of several short seconds the flower has reached full maturity, at the height of its beauty.

I know ‘tis not proper to swell in pride at the result of one’s charms, but this I cannot help. Until now, the success of this spell has escaped me… but with a final victory at completing the task, I feel a great sense of accomplishment. I turn to Maman, fully expecting to see her sharing in my joy.

But this, she does not.

Her eyes are soft, calming, ready to soothe me as they had many times before. When I was young and would scrape my knee or fail to perform the simplest of spells, those motherly eyes would help me accept and move on from the childhood tragedy.

This can’t be! I said the words, I felt the power.

The glorious blush-colored flower now wrinkles in on itself, the effects of time and age accelerating within. Petal after petal falls to soil, withering and turning acrid, fermenting. The once green stem now bends over, sacrificing itself to the will of defeat.

Maman rests her gentle hand on my shoulder. “It will come. You will try again tomorrow.”

I sniffle my sorrow and hide my eyes from her. “I’ll fetch more wood.”

~*~

Something cold and wet presses against my skin. I move my arm. Again, the coldness returns. I pull away quickly, tucking my arm under me.

Whoa!

I rebound, jumping back and waking Will. His eyes are groggy as he watches me throw myself off of him. My less than sturdy half-asleep legs wobble and I topple over onto the floor next to Moose from my place on top of Will on the sofa.

He nudges me again with his nose. Cold and wet. This time, he pokes his head from under my arm and jabs again and again urging me to rise. The whiny gurgles let me know full well what he’s doing. He needs to go outside.

Will wipes the sleep from the corner of his eye, adjusting to being harshly awakened.

“Let’s go, boy.” Moose runs to the front door.

Will places his bare feet on the floor, shaking his head to somehow help with his awareness. He stands directly in front of where I’ve landed on the floor. The firm object that surprised me earlier is now front and center, protruding harshly from within Will’s grey sweatpants.

I swallow hard, but can’t tear my eyes from it.

He sees me, scrunches his eyes and then casts them down to where I’m looking… between his legs. His eyes widen and his face grins.

“Sorry, baby.” He winks. “Can’t help it. You wiggle when you sleep.”

I’m left to my embarrassment as Will tends to Moose’s yard duties. I busy myself by folding up the blanket that covered us last night, doing anything to distract me from that look in Will’s eyes. I punch the pillows to fluff them up.

“Coffee?” I snap up and look over my shoulder at Will speaking to me as he disappears into his kitchen.

Oh, thank God
. “Three cups.” I call out to him.

His head pokes out from the doorway. “Seriously?” He watches me curiously. “Decaf at least?”

I shake my head no.

“Is that even safe?” he asks half joking.

It’s no use shouting out into another room, so I follow the sounds of closing cabinets and drawers into the kitchen where my host is preparing to grind some coffee beans. His sweats hang low on his hips, the material hugging and clinging in all the right spots, showing off the chiseled “v” of his lower abdomen

The hard curve of his backside gets me salivating. It’s firm, strong, manly. My eyes wander up to his back, the ripples of the t-shirt he wears glide over the bulges his muscles make as his arms work to prepare our coffee.

His hair is short, but just long enough to have become mussed up from sleep. I fight the urge to run my hand through it and feel it rush through my fingers. The loud mechanical sound of the grinder wheels out.

“Stop!” I call out. He jumps from the shock of it and shrugs his shoulders. “You’re doing that wrong.”

His hands pause on the control button, processing my complaint. “How is it possible to do this wrong?”

I laugh. “Step aside and let an expert handle this.”

I slip between him and the coffee grinder set out on the counter. He probably could have stepped back a bit, but he holds still, body close enough to me that I can now tell his… er...
excitemen
t from this morning is relaxed.

“Expert?” he asks coyly.

I smile to myself. “Can you get me two ice cubes?”

It must sound crazy to ask for ice, but he does it anyway and quickly returns with two half moon shaped cubes. I open the grinder canister and hold it up for him to drop the ice. I return the canister to the base and hit the grind button several times in short bursts.

“The secret is to grind quickly in short little surges. Using the ice helps to keep the blades from grinding too fine” I pass along my coffee wisdom.

He watches over my shoulder. When the grinds are ready, I hold the plastic container up for him to take a whiff.

He leans even further, pressing every inch against me to settle his nose at the opening. I hear his nostrils flare and he makes a delicious moan at the appetizing aroma.

“See?” I ask.

I can feel his head nod. “I see.”

His arms plant themselves on either side of me, holding onto the counter, locking me in. I stiffen. I’m positive he’s sensed my reaction. His lips lower to purse themselves against the flesh of my neck. I feel my eyes roll back.

“So… what else are you an expert at?” His lips resume their tender invasion of my personal space.

My breaths race. My chest heaves. The tank top I wear falls just low enough at the neckline to bare my cleavage, now seeming to grow as my chest expands to take in more air. He’s tall enough to get a Grade A view of it, too. I hear him groan again, feel the warmth his tongue now adds to my neck.

My fingers fumble but I manage to load the coffee grinds into the filter and hit the switch without bungling it up.

His hands now move to grasp each of my hips, pulling me back to him. I feel him grow once again, his manhood pressing into my backside.

“Actually,” I explain. “Not as much as you probably think.”

His lips soften. I take the opportunity to turn to face him. His eyes are clear now, no longer lingering in a partially slumbered state. “Really?” he asks hopefully.

I breathe deep. It’s not a fact I’m necessarily proud of, but it’s true nonetheless. I can’t help but notice my own cleavage once again, pressed right between us. Where the hell did my hoodie go? I know I fell asleep with it on.

“I-- I’m cold. I’m gonna go find my sweatshirt.” I slink away.

“It should be on the chair next to the sofa,” he calls out. His voice fades the further I get. “You got too hot last night. Woke up clear out of the blue and threw it off.”

That answers that mystery.
Crap!
What else did I do in my sleep? I close my eyes and pray it isn’t what I thought. I don’t remember a nightmare, but I don’t always.

“D- did I do anything else that was weird?” I brace myself for his answer. This is the moment I’ve feared my whole life.

He laughs loudly from the echoey confines of the kitchen. “You mean like sing show tunes or something? Not that I remember.”

I deflate as I relax. The gods have taken pity on me. I could not have caught a bigger break. I punch my arms into the sleeves of my thin hoodie and pull the hem down. Scratch sounds are made at the front door.

“I’ll let him in.” I hope I’m being helpful as I let Moose back into the house. He shows his appreciation by rubbing affectionately against my leg in passing. He travels straight to his water bowl and laps up a little refreshment. Closing the door, I notice the sun and make a judgment call that it’s got to be at least nine.

“Are you going to be late for work?” I call out to Will as I move to join him in the kitchen.

Two mugs are set out on the countertop along with some bowls and a box of Mini Wheat’s. He begins to pour the first bowl, his eyes catch mine and he asks silently how much to pour. I hold my hand up when he’s filled the bowl halfway. I join him in preparing our meal by pouring the coffee.

“Nah. I’ve got my foreman covering things. I’ll stop by the site later and make sure it hasn’t fallen down. Strawberries?” he asks as he piles some fresh cut fruit into his own bowl.

I nod my head. I love strawberries.

Once we’ve sat down to a proper meal at the small kitchen table, with Moose lying at our feet, we both relax and tuck into the food. He sips his coffee and I see his eyes close as he savors it.

“Good, huh?” I ask, seeking validation of my barista skills.

He smiles. “The best I’ve ever had, I think. I’ll have to remember your ice cube trick.”

I blush at the compliment. My mood quickly changes, though.

“Did you sleep alright?” He asks, taking another sip. “I didn’t mean for us to sleep on the couch all night. You kinda just fell asleep on me and I didn’t have the heart to move you.”

I crunch on my softening Mini-Wheat’s. “I think so. I’m not usually a great sleeper.”

His eyes grow wary.
(Crap! Why’d I have to go and say that?)

“Really? Why not?” He doesn’t miss a beat.

I try to think fast. “Never have been.” I hope he’ll drop it.

No such luck. “Sleep apnea? Night sweats? Sleep walking? Wait… you’re not one of those people who shops on the Home Shopping Network in their sleep are you?” He jokes. I wish the answer were that funny.

I shake my head, sipping long on my coffee. “Dreams. I have weird dreams.”

His chewing slows. His eyes study his spoon. “What kind of dreams?”

I stifle a groan at having to talk about the subject.

“It’s complicated. Up till the other day it was always the same dream.”

His eyes now abandon the utensil to study me instead. “And now they’re not?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Now, they’re short little dreams. I guess it’s my overactive imagination from being in this place. From hearing your stories about it. I don’t remember much about them.”