The Call of Distant Shores (28 page)

Alex could feel a tension growing in the air, linking her to him, and both of them to the cards, and sweat began to roll down the sides of his face. His mouth was dry and his hands trembled. So, this was it. This was the moment of discovery. There would be no weeks or months of study, no delving through notebook after notebook of meticulously recorded experiments and facts. It would come down to the moment, and the belief. The instinct.

Taking a deep breath, he reached for the cards, and closed his eyes. Normally this was the point where he would begin the slow shuffle that would place them in the proper order for reading. In this case, he merely held them, clearing his mind of all thought. It was not easy. He could feel Madeline's hungry gaze, taste her perfume in the air, sense the beating of her heart.

Several moments passed before the familiar, warm peace began to settle over him, and he felt the beginning of the trance state calming his nerves. He didn't begin until he was absolutely certain he was ready. There would be no second chance.

The professor had taught him the pattern long ago. It was not the system used by most followers of the Tarot, nor were the cards exactly those one could buy in a store. Subtle changes had been made over the years; steps had been taken to obscure the strongest secrets locked in the ancient symbols and designs. A few questionable luminaries, such as Aleister Crowley and
Eliphas
Levi had hinted at these changes, even giving a second, and also erroneous, set of cards and numbers to further confuse things. The secrets were there, locked away in the collective unconscious of mankind. It took many years of study, however, to sort them out and make a usable system.

Alex turned over the first card, representing the person for whom the reading was done, in the center spot on the cross, face up. The Magus.
Of course
, he thought, flipping over the next card, crossing the first with it. The Queen of Cups. A water card.
Probably Madeline
, he thought, but he brushed the intruding images aside and continued. It was necessary to keep his mind clear, to not influence the reading in any way.

He flipped the next card and placed it directly above the first. The Knight of Wands. Fire. He was a Leo himself; could he be an influencing factor? At the bottom of the cross, he placed the foundation, the Ace of Pentacles. Primal energy. Earth. To the left, the Nine of Cups – Debauch – excess in pleasure, in indulgence; to the right, the Four of Swords. Four, a number of completeness – an air card.

He could feel a slight ripple in the air around him, the familiar detached tingle that working with the cards always brought; but stronger than he remembered, and more intense. He was aware, on a level just beyond his concentration, that Madeline had moved closer, that her thigh was pressing tightly against his shoulder, and her long auburn hair was draped down, forming a framework around the cards. Her perfume was like incense.

The next three cards he flipped in rapid succession: that which has gone before. The Fool, naive innocence and unshakable faith, walking into the unknown. The Ace of Cups, the fountain of malleable energies. The Four of Pentacles, stabilized power, completed work. An Earth card.

The next three cards, bottom left corner of the cross. The cards that expressed the central focus of the reading. The first, the Universe. Totality. Understanding. The second, the Two of Pentacles – the infinite inevitability of change. The Hanged Man, upside down, head to the stars, the earth and its control falling away below. Images began to fill Alex's mind, as if the meaning of the cards had begun manifesting itself, via pure sensation. Instinct.

Madeline's fingers touched his hand, and suddenly, his perceptions sharpened, heightening the sensation that he was observing the reading from a distance. The air felt heavier, moist and clinging. He made himself continue.

The third corner, the method – the answer. The Hierophant – a spiritual teacher. The Two of Cups – partnership, constant blending. Lust – originally labeled Strength– passionate energy, primal desire. Her fingers felt like fire on his skin, moving over his body in a sweet caress, but he could not be sure of its reality. His heart pounded so strongly, so fiercely, with the energy of the card and the heat of her touch that thought fled on its own this time.

Three more cards. One more corner of the cross. Powers that influence, but are beyond the control of the
Querant
. His hand, somehow, reached out and flipped the cards, three in quick succession, and they fell into place as though unseen hands had guided his. The Ace of Wands – Fire, unleashed energy, unchecked passion. The High Priestess – the mother spirit – the source of all growth. And Death. Not the physical death, but the end of one thing and the beginning of another. These last three cards danced before his eyes as he felt himself falling back.

The chair was gone, but though he braced himself mentally for the shock, his head and back did not strike the floor. Madeline was pressed so closely against him now that they seemed one body, one being. Their clothing had melted away, and they drifted, afloat in some other-worldly bed of buoyant dream. There was a violent snap – a twist of vertigo that nearly drove him into unconsciousness. The walls of the room faded to green.

The trees stretched out in front of him, and he could hear the rushing of the river's water somewhere to his rear. His knees scraped on the stone of the altar, rubbing into the soft fungus that grew there, but he ignored the pain.

Madeline lay beneath him, her eyes closed and her head thrown back in ecstasy. Her long lithe body moved like slow, powerful swells on an ocean, undulating with relentless, growing ferocity. Alex could feel his own naked flesh sliding over hers, thrusting roughly, pounding to a rhythm that rose from deep within him, pressing in from the line of trees and rushing over them in the sounds of the river and the buzzing flight of insects.

Madeline moaned, meeting every thrust with her hips, grinding back against him. Her cries blended in smooth harmony with the birds and the rushing of water. Dim thoughts invaded his passion, calling to him, calling him back but he cast them away with violent mental strokes, bending the energy to the motion of his body, and the heat of hers. The world around them, the impossible world of giant trees and primordial energy, ceased to exist. He bent his lips to her writhing form, slamming his tongue in to meet hers.

The moment rose toward ecstasy, toward a dizzying peak of blended sweat and blinding energy, pulling them both into a spiral beyond thought, where each motion, each bend of muscle or twist of limb was primitive – instinctual. The feeling was of such completeness, such fulfillment that he knew that he wept, and he could see the tears running freely from her eyes as well. He moved his tongue over her face, cleaning away the salty droplets and wondering at the sweetness of their taste.

They climaxed together, just as they had begun, one body blended of two psyches – trembling and quivering; his seed rushed into her in great spurts and his arms encircled her so tightly that he felt her tighten imperceptibly, then surrender to the moment, pressing himself into him as thought she might melt right through his flesh.

Then, overcome by almost maddening fear, he pulled away from her with sudden, desperate strength. She clung to him, called to him with her eyes, molded her limbs around him, but he was moving shaking his head slowly back and forth. It was too much – and spinning now, losing clarity. He no longer felt the stone beneath him, or the silken sweaty touch of her skin on his own. There was nothing but haze, spinning and receding and a face, a familiar face, fuzzy, yet discernible through the mist.

His head struck the desk with a sharp crack, and he slid to the side, dropping to the floor in a heap. The pain made it difficult to focus on his surroundings. He lay on beige carpet, huddled against the side of Professor Devonshire's desk. Although her perfume lingered tantalizingly in the air, there was no sign of Madeline. Shaking his head slowly, and regretting the action instantly, he rose to his knees, pulling himself back into the chair with great effort.

The cards were gone, all but one, and it lay in the center of the desk. It was The Universe, but it was not one of the professor's cards. Alex recognized it as coming from the Crowley deck, his own favorite prior to creating his own. His memory sought and found the text from Crowley's
Book of Thoth
, and a sad smile drifted across his features.

"We are come unto a place of which every stone is a separate jewel and is set with millions of moons.

"And this palace is nothing but the body of a woman, proud and delicate, and beyond imagination fair ... "

Alex rose, walking around the desk to stand once more before the window.
 
They were gone, on to the next challenge, the next level – or beyond. He now understood his role here, Madeline's need for his energy, which had been fired and consumed in the final Tarot reading.

But his own work was just beginning, for he now knew at least one of the answers he had sought; he was not ready. There were still things to draw him to this world, things that he could not take with him. He would follow, though.

Someday, in some way, he'd yet to discover, he would open that window again, himself, and he would step through.

Alex glanced over his shoulder at the desk, and the notes, and the work to come, but before he moved, turned once more to the window, gazing into its empty depths. Smiling, he raised a hand, and he waved.

"So," Gretchen breathed in Toby's ear, "why
do
you write that stuff?"

"What do you mean," he returned, twisting his head to the side as her tongue slipped past his earlobe to the tender skin inside, "that stuff?"

"You know," she breathed, "killers, monsters, vampires.
 
Why not write about what's real?"

"And what would that be?" he asked, pulling back and turning to gaze into her eyes.
 
"What is real?
 
What
should
I write about?
 
Everyone is always telling me what
not
to write; suppose you do the honors?"

"I don't know," she said, turning her face away from him just slowly enough for him to catch the expression that told him she knew all-too-well.
 
"Why don't you write about what turns you on?"

"You want me to write about you?" he grinned, reaching for her playfully.
 
"You want me to write porn?"

"No," she said, her face a mask of seriousness, "I mean what
really
turns you on, you know?
 
What's inside here."
 
She tapped his forehead with a long, lacquered nail.
 
"Write about what takes you away, what opens the doors.
 
Write about what really matters to
you
."

"And what if it doesn't matter to anyone else?" he asked.
 
"What if I empty it all out and nobody will read it, or worse yet, nobody even wants me around?
 
Have you thought of that?"

"Have you?" she countered, her eyes narrowing a bit.
 
"I'd read it."

"Would you still want me around, though?" he asked, suddenly as serious as she was.
 
"What if I'm not who I seem to be?
 
What if you hate me?"

"Oh, like you're the first to think of
that
one," she teased.
 
"What did that old poet say, what's his name, ...uh, "all that we say or seem, is but a dream within a dream?"

"Poe.
 
The poet's name was Poe.
 
He wrote a lot of stuff that nobody read until after he died, and most everyone agrees he was mental.
 
Maybe that's what happens when you write about what's important.
 
Maybe it's not meant to be written."

"Maybe it's the
only
thing that is.
 
Maybe he died because, once it was all out, his mission was complete.
 
He was empty."

The conversation ended abruptly as Gretchen either lost interest or changed tactics, moving forward to plunge her tongue between his lips and press him back against the couch roughly.
 
She never fooled around; even sex was serious – never trivial – never without some hidden, subliminal meaning.

As her fingers and tongue began to march across his skin, sending the world about him twisting away in waves of pleasure that insinuated themselves into his thoughts, then slammed through him like a battering ram, his mind detached itself, whirling off onto a tangent of its own.
 
Or was it another of hers?
 
He left his body, her body, all of it behind, left it in her eager, capable hands, and took off.

What turns you on?

The words took on shapes and substance all their own, pushing at him, nudging him, unwilling to release him without an answer.
 
He didn't know the answer.
 
He didn't know what it was that was important, and the sudden knowledge hurt worse than any physical blow, worse, even, than Gretchen's teeth, which he was vaguely aware of snapping at his nipples and tearing at his chest, more than her nails, which bit into his back and left little trails of plowed flesh and blood behind.
 
Her mark.
 
Her brand.