Spellcasters (36 page)

“Are those the zombies?” she said. “Talk about lame.”

“It’s an old film,” I said. “The special effects aren’t very advanced.”

“What special effects? That’s a guy with mascara smeared under his eyes. I’ve seen scarier people at the mall.”

“Did Paige tell you to go to bed, Savannah?” Cortez said.

“Oh, fine,” she said. “It’s a dumb movie anyway.”

She flounced from the room. A few minutes later, I sighed.

“It is a pretty dumb movie,” I said. “But I’m too wired to sleep.”

“I, uh, believe you mentioned something about new grimoires?”

I sat up. “Geez, that’s right. I almost forgot. I wanted to try them out tonight.”

“You were, I believe, going to tell me …” He let the sentence fade out.

I grinned. “I was going to tell you about them, wasn’t I?”

So I did.

“I
t’s possible,” he said when I finished telling him about the grimoires. “Possible? Are you saying my logic is flawed?”

“I wouldn’t dare. I’m simply saying that it makes sense and, therefore, it’s possible. Non-Coven witches have been using sorcerer magic for generations. It would be good to see them get their own back.”

I smiled. “Would it? You know what it would mean, don’t you? These spells could level the playing field.”

“As it should be.”

I leaned back into the sofa cushions. “Is this the same guy who made a crack about the ‘hereditary limitations’ of witch powers?”

“I effected the persona with which I thought you’d be most comfortable. I’ve dealt with enough witches not to underestimate their abilities. Not every sorcerer hates or even dislikes witches. Many do, though, even those who’d be considered decent, moral men.”

“Decent moral sorcerers?”

“No, that’s not an oxymoron. Not every sorcerer is evil. To say that would be akin to saying that every witch is weak and fearful, which I’m sure you wouldn’t appreciate. A stereotype becomes a stereotype when a significant percentage of a population appears to conform to it. Unlike some stereotypes, that of the morally corrupt sorcerer is, unfortunately, valid.”

“Absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

“Exactly. Those who chase the dream of absolute power, as many sorcerers do, find themselves obsessed by it.”

“So you don’t crave stronger powers?”

He met my gaze. “What I crave, as I believe you do, is stronger knowledge. The best possible repertoire of spells and the power to do my best with them. When I say I’m pleased that you found these grimoires, I must admit, I can’t help but see it as an opportunity to acquire new spells.”

“Can’t blame you for that.” I shifted and turned toward him. “Don’t you think maybe we’re being naive? Believing that we’ll never be corrupted by our own quest for power?”

“Perhaps.”

“There’s a definitive answer.”

“Wouldn’t it be naive of me to think I couldn’t possibly be naive?”

“Enough,” I said. “You’re making my head spin. Time to try out a new spell.”

He shifted forward. “Would you … object to an audience?”

I grinned. “Not at all.”

I gathered my books and we went down to the basement.

When I said I hoped to learn a new spell, I meant exactly that: one new spell. As much as I longed to test-drive the whole book, even hoping to learn one spell might be pushing it. To cast a spell from the tertiary-level grimoires, I first had to master a new one from the secondary spellbook, which would take time.

I further dampened my own enthusiasm by insisting on proceeding in a logical fashion. Tonight I wanted not only to learn something new, but also to test my theory. Was it necessary to learn the corresponding secondary spell before one could cast the tertiary?

To test this, I selected the suffocation spell. Since I’d practiced it already for hours without success, it was the perfect choice. If I could cast it after learning the secondary spell, it would support my hypothesis. The suffocation spell was classified as an elemental, air, class five.

The corresponding air spell was one that caused hiccups. Maybe in grade school that would have been fun, but for anyone over the age of ten, it was a pretty silly spell. Logically, though, it made sense. Both hiccups and suffocation are interruptions to breathing.

When I’d run through these grimoires the first time, I’d tried this spell, just for fun, but stopped before mastering it. If my theory was right, that might explain why the suffocation spell had shown some signs that it might eventually work—because I’d partially learned the secondary spell.

Struck by a thought, I dug out my Coven-sanctioned grimoire and flipped to a page near the end. A spell to cure hiccups, which I’d learned years ago. That one was an elemental, air spell, class five. The primary spell. First you learn to cure hiccups, then you learn to cause them, then you learn to cut off breathing altogether.

“Mind if I give you hiccups?” I asked Cortez.

“What?”

“Hiccups. I need to give you a case of hiccups. Is that okay?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever had a girl offer to give me that.”

“It’s a spell,” I said. “Don’t worry. I know one to cure them, too.”

“You’ll have to teach me that one. The curing, not the giving. I’ve never had much luck with holding my breath.”

“No? Then just wait until you see the spell I’m going to try next.”

Before I could hope for a successful cast on the hiccup spell, I needed to practice it. Having Cortez there wasn’t a distraction, probably because he was considerate enough to sit behind me, so I wouldn’t feel like I was performing.

After twenty minutes of tinkering with the spell, the rhythm felt right, so I asked Cortez to move in front of me. When he did, he faced the wall, rather than looking straight at me. That made it easier. So easy, in fact, that the spell worked on the second try. Then, of course, I had to do another half-dozen trial runs, to be sure I had it right. When I debated another try, Cortez proclaimed me fully proficient in the spell, and begged leave to regain his breath.

Next I moved on to the suffocation spell. I’d start by casting it on myself. Lucas had been through enough that night and I wasn’t in danger of suffocating myself. As with a binding spell, the moment I stopped concentrating, the spell would break.

It took twenty minutes before I could recite the suffocation spell. It wasn’t a difficult incantation. It being Latin, it was in the spell-casting language with which I was most familiar. The delay resulted from one simple factor. Nerves. So many of my hopes rode on this spell that I stumbled over the words. I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter that much, that if I failed, I’d find another way, but to no avail. I knew how important this was and couldn’t persuade myself otherwise. I scarcely dared utter the words for fear I’d fail. As if, in fumbling just this once, the magic would somehow vanish, never to be recovered.

After tripping over the incantation a few times, I changed tack and began with the second line. By leaving off the opening, I was guaranteed that the spell would fail, so I could concentrate on the recitation. Having tried this spell many times before, I quickly picked up the rhythm.

The words flowed, the inflections and tones rolling off my tongue. A well-cast spell is true music. Not a chant or a song, but the music of pure language, the music of Shakespeare or Byron. Put emotion and conviction behind those words and it has the power of opera—without even understanding the words, you can feel their meaning.

I closed my eyes and poured my heart into it, poured in every ounce of longing and frustration and ambition. My voice rose until I couldn’t feel the words coming from my throat, could only hear them echoing around me. Again and again I repeated the incantation. I heard the first line flow from my lips, unbidden. The words rose to a crescendo and, with the final line, the breath flew from my lips. I gasped, almost choked.

The moment my breath returned, the words started again, as if of their own accord. The window above my head rattled as I recited the incantation. Rosebush branches lashed and scratched against the pane. When the words finished, I sputtered, breathless.

Again I started anew. The hatch doors buckled and groaned. As the spell neared the end, the doors suddenly blew open. A gust of wind whooshed in, knocking over the baskets of clean laundry. With the last word, my breath was sucked out with such force that I fell forward and blacked out.

The next thing I knew, Cortez was grabbing my shoulders.

“Are you all right?” he asked as my eyes opened.

I turned, lips curving in a slow grin. “I think it worked.”

“I should say so,” he said, surveying the windswept piles of laundry surrounding us. “Now, having proven that the spell works and you can cast it successfully, I don’t suppose you’d mind if I had a try.”

I yanked the grimoire away. “No. Mine.”

With a laugh, I waved the spellbook, just out of reach. He grinned and grabbed for the book, but I whisked it away, nearly falling backward. He lunged for it. As his face came to mine, he paused and blinked. I knew what he was thinking. And I knew he wouldn’t do it. So I did. I lifted my mouth to his and kissed him.

Cortez’s eyes widened. I laughed, nearly breaking the lip-lock, but before I could fall back, he pulled me to him. His lips went to mine, surprising me with the force of his kiss. Whatever Cortez lacked in technique, he more than made up for in zeal, and in that kiss I tasted something that made my head spin and set my insides afire and brought to life every other romantic cliché I’d ever laughed at. The intoxication of the spell-casting still lingered, now infused with a fresh passion and the sheer elation of feeling that passion returned. I felt giddy, electrified, invincible. For the first time in days I felt I was everything I’d once believed myself to be.

We tumbled into the pile of clean laundry, still kissing. Cortez rolled over, pulling me on top of him. His hands moved to the back of my head and fumbled with my hair clip. I reached back and released it. As my hair
fell free, Cortez entwined his fingers in it and kissed me harder. Then he slipped one hand from my hair and snapped his fingers over our heads. The light went out. He murmured a few words against my mouth and the unlit candles from my spell-casting practice ignited.

My chuckle vibrated between our lips. “Show-off.”

He pulled back and arched his brows. “It’s called being romantic.” His lips curved in a grin. “And maybe showing off. A little.”

“Well, don’t. This is my seduction.”

“Is it?”

“I started it, didn’t I?”

“Quite right. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

I cast the witch spell to extinguish the candles, then the one to relight them. Cortez chuckled and pulled me onto him again. We kissed for a few minutes. When he tugged my blouse from my jeans, I shook my head and backed up, breaking the kiss.

“My lead, remember?” I said.

I wrapped my fingers in his shirtfront and pulled him until he was sitting. Then I straddled his hips, kneeling, and wriggled until I felt his erection exactly where I wanted it. His breath caught. I smiled and tugged off his glasses.

“Do you need these?” I asked.

He shook his head.

I laid them aside, then began unbuttoning his shirt. After three buttons, I pressed my lips to his throat, tickling my tongue along it, feeling him swallow. I moved my fingers down to the next button and undid it, then slid my tongue down, tracing circles down his chest. Between each unfastening, I ran my fingers across the bared skin.

When I got to the final button, I shimmied back, so I was sitting by his knees. Then I bent forward and teased his bellybutton with my lips, my tongue dipping lower until I undid the button on his pants, then, slowly, tugged down the zipper. I could hear his breathing above me, raspy and uneven, and my own hunger ignited.

I ran my tongue along the top of his underwear, letting it slide just underneath. Then I slid my body forward, lips moving back up his chest until I was straddling him again. When I was back at eye level, he wrapped his hands in my hair and pulled my mouth to his. His hands slid under my shirt, but I backed off again and grinned.

“Not yet,” I said.

He opened his mouth, but I put my finger to his lips and scuttled backward, pushing myself up. Then I stepped back, grinned down at him, and
pulled off my shirt. My socks followed, then my jeans, falling in a puddle at my feet. I stepped out and kicked them aside. I unbuttoned my shirt and let it slide away. Then I took my time with the rest, the bra and panties.

When I let the panties fall, for a few seconds, Cortez only stared. Then he grinned, scrambled to his feet, and covered the ground between us in one stride.

I arched onto my tiptoes to kiss him and we nearly tumbled down. As my balance faltered, he caught me and redirected our fall onto the pile of clean clothes. I tugged his shirt off his shoulders, running my fingers across and down his back. His pants were still undone. I wriggled my hands under the waistband and pushed them down, leaving his briefs in place.

He kicked off his pants and moved his hands under my rear, pulling me against him. Then his right hand shifted and, from the corner of my eye, I saw him reach out. He murmured something against my lips and Savannah’s stereo turned on.

“Ah-hem,” I said, pulling back. “My seduction.”

“Consider me seduced.”

As he lowered his mouth to mine, the crooning of a boy band filled the room. Cortez’s eyes widened and his hand flicked again, moving the tuner. I laughed. He flipped past a jazz station, then returned and, with another flick, adjusted the volume to a whisper.

“Not bad,” I said.

I cast the wind incantation, softening the emphasis in the right places, so a cool breeze tickled across our skin. Cortez kissed me, then moved his lips over my chin and down my neck. As he kissed my throat, he murmured something and flicked his fingers. The candle flame refracted into a hundred shards of light. I chuckled and arched my back as his lips went to my breast. I let myself enjoy that for a minute, then tugged away and pulled myself up until I was sitting, straddling his chest.