“Bless me with the leaf off of the tree
On it I see the freedom reign
We are falling. The light is calling,
Tears inside me calm me down,” Annette sings.
The words and the notes warble and fly through the leaves and I can’t help but admit she is good. She is incredibly good, and I shouldn’t be surprised. Annette’s work with the endless path does the soul good and I do not feel tired. There is nothing in the way of the next step, no wall, no hill, no gripping, sucking mud to bog down the movement from one moment to the next. It’s all just so easy.
I don’t know if I like it.
Certainly, easier than alone. And the body is in good shape, if a little stiff and tight. But slowly, the knitted bone and whole muscle find themselves back to where they were, where they were supposed to be. The mind though, the mind cannot stay still. It has the path in front of it and it needs to know where it leads. The body does not. It just keeps walking, keeps pushing forward, and keeps glancing over to Annette’s chest and finding some dark satisfaction in the urge to rip off her clothes and take her to the earth. That can at least wait until we stop for the night. Maybe get a fire going beforehand.
Not that it is quite cold enough for a real fire. And we have each other to keep warm. It’s odd, really. The lasting presence of someone by my side. A morning that was the same as the night before, the same body that will sleep next to me when night falls. My foot snags on a ditch and I almost stumble. The song stops and the forest goes silent.
“You okay, Cottontail,” Annette snickers, “Hate for you to break something again.”
“Well now we know how to make me better,” I say, “And I think you like making me better.”
“You’re tempting me to actively start hurting you.”
I smile and smother my own chuckle as she trips in the same damn spot.
“Shame we have no real way to make you better if you get hurt,” I say. She smiles and I amazed at how white her teeth can be. The black skin, blacker than pitch, make them look blinding and I can’t look away. Even when the smile is tinged with playful anger at the fact that the world decided to slight her too.
“Same way as anyone else. Bed rest and being waited on hand and foot. And since you’re the closest living thing to me, I guess that makes you de facto nurse maid.”
I roll my eyes and she sings again, strumming that lyre, or lute, or I’m not even sure. It’s not quite any of those things, neck a little too long, and I think it has too many strings. But its good. That and her voice just slowly eke out the minutes to hours to days on the trail.
Simple, all so simple really. Sleep when tired. Eat when hungry. Lay together when the urge gets too strong, and she refuses to stop shaking her hips in that terrible way when she walks.
Third day, or maybe fourth, and we finally come to a river. Annette grins at me, wide and playful and immediately starts stripping down. I don’t stop her. I have no intention of ever stopping that particular dance, but I do find myself joining her before I realize what I am doing, shedding leather and cotton, and almost running full tilt into the water. I beat her there, wading up to my waist before sinking to my back and just drifting under the sun. The water is cold and brisk and the wind whipping across the surface sends an exhilarating thrill over my skin. And I love it. I love the cold kiss of water, fanning my hair and letting me drift.
I’m happy. I’m oddly happy. The tense and the stress and the dull tight ache all take the current down river and I do not care to go fishing for them. Let them drift down to the ocean, let it all drift down the ocean, where some great leviathan of gaping maw and glinting teeth swallow everything terrible and evil and drag it down to the darkest depths the world can offer. I let an ugly sigh come from my chest and Annette snickers again.
“Feeling good Cottontail,” she asks. The current shifts and swirls around me as she approaches and the heat from her skin breaks through the cold water.
“Amazing. Been forever since I’ve been swimming,” I sigh.
Her hand crosses my stomach and I shiver, not quite just from the cold.
“You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“I am aware. Do you want me to stop?”
My hand wanders from the water and moves to her cheek. Her eyes are so green, so bright, just like the lips. I go to the back of her neck and her bring her lips to mine. She tastes like river. She tastes like rock and grass and soft breeze and hummed songs carried on wind and wave and I do not want to let her go. But I do and find her blushing, her body making heat to boil the water.
“Tonight,” I say, and an odd pride comes with her disappointment that I cannot drag the sun down and smother it in slumber. She tentatively drives a hand lower, and the knot makes a very, very, very good case for me that I should retract that word immediately. I am enjoying the river too much, the soft kiss of ice water on soreness so engrained into my body that I almost forgotten they even existed.
“Still tonight.”
She splashes me and I yelp as the cold water tries to go up my nose. I splash her back, kicking the full might of the river against her. She snickers and yelps and splashes me again.
We play. I have not used that word in years. Play. Carefree. Innocent. Although, I watch her chest jiggle and the curve of her torso as she bends and dives in every way but the innocent one. Devour, I want to devour her. She laughs and laugh and come up sputtering after an unforeseen dive sends water into my lungs. My scars and my aches and all of terrible things in my body don’t seem so bad.
—
We haven’t moved from the riverbank for the night. After scaring all the fish away, we lured them back with the unfortunate end fate of being skewered over a fire. It dries our hair too, imparts some of the lost heat to the grand river that takes and takes and takes from us all. And it gives some to the fish that just flakes away. Clear river water and clean stones and the air smells so good, fresh grass and coming dew.
We finish the meal and Annette comes to sit next to me, the heat from her core filtering through her skin and suffusing the air with her scent. She still smells like river and stone. Something sour though, lemons or limes, trickles through the air. She leans her head on my shoulder and the instinct takes over. I put my arm around her shoulder and hold her tight.
I almost don’t want where this will end. I like this. This moment, the flickering dance of fire, the stars overhead and a body that is calmly sharing the moment with me, that’s more than enough. The knot says otherwise, its tightening grip threatening to choke me if I do not loosen it, but I don’t want to listen to it.
She hums into me, sweet nothing harmony of her body. Channeling something in the stars, something in the moon, resonating within me. It unravels the earth into twine, snaking up my arms, snaking gup my thighs and joining the braided knot in my core.
“You smell like grass,” she hums into my shoulder. And she kisses me, right on the bone. The lingering touch of her lips is a lightning bolt frozen in my pores. Every little twitch, every little movement she doesn’t even realize she takes, I know it. I know all of them.
“I do. Wonder why. It’s not like I’ve been traveling outside for the better part of a week now,” I say. The fire cracks and the logs settle into some new configuration, more suited to their collapse.
“No. Well, yeah, you do smell traily, but you smell like grass. New grass. Spring grass. What do I smell like?”
“Hellion. You smell like a hellion.”
“Do hellion’s smell good?”
“Some of them probably don’t. You smell good though. Kind of like a river.”
“Yeah. No idea where that’s coming from.”
She nuzzles into the nape of my neck and the cord finds another notch to break inside of me. My hand dips to the swell of her hips and she hums again. The noise, the wonderful song, resonates in my and she pulls my lips to her and I breath her in.
I can’t get her clothes off fast enough. I tear and rip and shred the cloth and she yelps and squirms in playful fright tinged with snickering laughter. She does the same to me, using my seams to expose me again to the night air. Not quite as cold as the water, not quite as biting and nipping, just a general cold that slowly fades and relents to the heat of our bodies.
She is soft, so soft on my lips, and the hungry knot lets me savor the soft. No rushed need to make her squeal, just tender moans of my name to the stars. Tender touches against her chest, against her stomach against her thighs. She does not twitch and spasm like she wants to. She arches and folds and bends, letting my hands, my lips turn with her body, finding new places to caress. And Annette does the same to me, tracing the lines of hard muscle on my back, my stomach, my shoulders, and I delight at the touch. Electricity and flame and all things exciting enter my body through her fingers and I find the rhythm she sets. It’s the one thing she gets to control for the night, the one thing she gets to set and make within me.
It’s always a good song she makes. I’m not surprised. I can’t be surprised, really. It’s what she does. It’s what she channels and makes with the world, the force, and the ripple behind her body that the stars and the trees and the slightest facets given to her.
I do not take her. I do not dive and devour and feast on her wet dripping need. Its slow, the burn and the hunger I take from her. I break from her lips and start trailing down, lingering at her chest. And it’s still amusing the way the green breaks through her skin wherever it pleases. Her nipples are that same green as her lips, her fingers, leaf green and almost blending into black. But they respond the same, the same as they always do to a lingering tongue and a soft kiss. And I get to see the flutter of her breath and her heartbeat shake her flesh. Her stomach gets the same attention the same soft ministrations for her body and she whines with need. She whines to the heavens that the tempo she set was too slow for her and her body. I chuckle into her skin as her hands find the top of my head and desperately try to push me down.
I allow it. But I skip right over where she wants to go and end up on her thighs.
“You absolute bitch,” she moans. I laugh again as her legs try to work my up. And I let them carry me right to her stomach again. She squeezes my back with her thighs, and I am finally forced to do the terrible thing that no one really wants.
She is hot, so hot, the heat from her core spilling out and she tremors from my tongue. I watch her eyes. I watch them widen and sharpen and flutter and squeeze shut so tight I am afraid something might tighter and burst and pop from within.
“What the hell are you doing down there,” she screams to the sky. He back arches again as I twirl my tongue and lick and suck at her, and she breaks into me. The earth takes her form, and she simply breaks as the first massive tight knot breaks within her. I trace the outline in her core, rock hard, and watch it shatter against her quakes. Tight squeaks that almost refuse to leave her throat, deep groans that shake the leaves and all the while the song she plays with her body sends maddening swirls of color through my vision.
Red and blue and green and yellow and rainbows without names dance and filter into my mind from the song of ecstasy. It dances and plays with my thoughts, taking control of my tongue and my lips, guiding them to her. And I fight it. I fight the song and it just keeps getting louder. The notes are baked into the taste, the scent of her and I want to thrash the instrument to pieces. Dash them to pieces and broken wires. Shatter the metal and bend the tune to a hymn of drum beat carnality. My hands find their way to her hips and dig into her flesh like a bear trap.
Her climax starts rumbling through her, deep in her stomach. The knot has broken and the failing strands whip at her insides like a ball and chain. It tears into her. The muscles clench and tighten and pull apart with the strands as the quaking tremors travel through her body and I tease them out into a weaving loom tapestry. The color takes shape, and it is green and pale and golden in the milk light moon shine. The release flows down my chin and stains my chest and I admire the absolute flushed wreck Annette has become as she spasms and gasps in the grass by the fire side.
And then she starts snickering. Her entire body keeps shaking and trembling as her fit rolls her over to her side. Clutching her stomach, tears in her eyes, she does not stop. She cannot stop. Even in the complete lack of control she has, there is still music.
“You know,” she gasps, “I think this is really, really, really unfair.”
I lay back and gaze up at the stars. Crescent moon tonight, waning if I remember correctly. Just a sliver, but still bright and shining.
“You’re supposed to ask how it’s unfair.”
“You’re going to tell me regardless.”
“I mean, yeah. But you could play along. It’s unfair because I can’t do that to you. No way in hell can I ever just do that. And you touch me and it’s like my mind is sent to the moon. You’ll never know. And now you’re smiling. Why are you smiling?”
“Because you’re the first goddamn person to say something like that. It’s always praise.”
“I can do that too. Your tits are phenomenal. And your abs. I like those. I like those a lot. And the arms that could probably fell a tree if you just pushed it a little. I like them when they hug me.”
I pull myself up alongside her and do as she like. The knot is odd in my stomach, so odd. Tight but not tight. Welcoming the release from another as a surrogate for its own frayed undoing. Not quite the same, sure, but allowed. And I still get the warm body pressed into my own, the slot of her spine against my stomach. All of that is dampened, though, because I know one of my arms will fall asleep before midnight.
—
I am right. My arm is numb and tingly and terrible pins and needles racing through the skin and I can’t move it because that would make up Annette. That is a terrible thing to do. I would not want to be woken up in the middle of the night. So, Annette shall keep sleeping, keep dreaming as the fire’s embers slowly fade and turn to dust. I just have to manage with a terrible feeling in my arm that doesn’t quite feel right, and I want it to stop. I sigh and shift and my hackles stiffen and bristle when the scent of smoke hits me.
“I know a little trick,” say Warren, “Dig a hole for your arm under her head. Takes the pressure off and it won’t fall asleep like that.”
He sits on the other side of the dying fire, lingering in the deep shadow of the night, sprawled over the roots. He still looks disheveled, right out of the brothel and still drunk on cheap wine and the scent of perfume cloying the nostrils. But he always smells like smoke and the whisp in his hand trails to the leaves. I brush a golden leaf fallen from my hair.
“Before you say anything,” he says, “Can’t leave even if I wanted to. And I do want to. Well kind of. Not really. For once I’m okay with being here. You’ve picked a good spot, Claire. Ready access to fresh water. Good plant coverage. Earth’s nice and soft. Maybe a little too far from any berries but no place is perfect. If you’re interested, other side of the river, and follow the bank up for about half a league. Black berries, but not quite ripe yet.
I say nothing but hold her tighter. She sighs and shifts into me, murmuring some sweet song that has no meaning.
“I’m not here to take her from you. Not what I do. And why would I stop one of my favorites from finally finding someone?”
“What do you want?”
He brings his pipe to his lips and takes a deep
“Another warning. Wait. Wrong word. Premonition? Portent? Omen? No still not quite right. Something that’s going to happen. Not a bad thing, really. You’re just going to Goldenrod. Thought you would want to know.”
“I’m not going to Golden.”
“I mean, you are. Not much that you can do to change that. Just the way it is. And don’t worry. It’ll be fine. And besides, there’s something I want you do to for me.”
“Is it something that I can refuse?”
“You can always refuse. I have exactly as much power as you give me. There are consequences for refusing, but that’s fine. There are consequences for everything. But it’s simple really. All I want is a key. And I want you to have it. You just have to pick it up.”
“I don’t want to.”
“And I don’t want to ask you to.”
He sighs again and lets out a puff of smoke into the air. No tricks, no shapes, just a cloud that drifts into the stars and stays there for a good long while. He shifts a little, on his hollow, taking one leg long and taking it over the other, leaning back into the tree, moving down a little so his neck isn’t at the worst possible angle.
“I have less control than you think, Claire. But this is something I’m actually pulling the strings on. I just need you to go to Goldenrod and get a key. I’m even giving you and your friend some help along the way.”
“But there’s something after that.”
“There’s always an after. Always another step. And you are clear to refuse that one too.”
“I’ll do it. I’ll do it if it means I can go back to sleep.”
He doesn’t smile. He just takes another long take from the pipe, so long and deep he might burst. The ears hidden under his terrible hat flutter and he lets the breath go.
“Thank you,” he says in a voice it could slip through the eye of a needle. I almost don’t catch it.
“I’m happy for you,” he says to the night air, “I really am. Kept trying with Amaru, mainly because I always had more pull with him. And he wouldn’t push you. I like him too. One of the better ones really.”
“He’s alright.” My arm is still numb and tingling and terribly sore. Going to spend most of tomorrow rolling it to get all of the kinks out.
“He’s good and you know it. But she’s good too. And I’ll talk to Treblex, see if she can’t nudge some things in her, just for you.”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
He chuckles again and I have to admit that he does have a nice laugh. Deep and bass, almost like the wind before a thunderstorm.
“And that’s why. That’s why I actually take my time to talk with you. For the record, Amaru doesn’t know what’s coming his way. He’ll like it, I’m sure. But he doesn’t get the heads up.”
Annette shifts and turns and rolls away from me, freeing my arm. I take my chance at terrible freedom and sit up. Smoke, I smell of smoke and I smell smoke and I am in a fire in front of him. Warren doesn’t look at me. He just looks to the sky, the crescent moon, the stars, and the lingering gaps.
“Are you holding up alright,” I ask. An odd thing to ask a god, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Eh, more or less. Hanging in there. Doing my thing. Tired, though. Always tired. But its fine. It’s the gig. How about you?”
“Shoulder’s a little hurt, but that’s just the job. My body’s tired. My arms are tired. The rest of me is tired, and you’re not quite helping.”
“I guarantee that you’ll have a good rest. Least I can do, Claire. I’ll be in touch. Goldenrod. Key. And dig that hole for your arm.”
The thin whisps of smoke from the embers thicken and coil together. Warren breathes deep again from the pipe in his hand. My eyes sting and my throat chokes and it all goes beautifully black once again.
—
Warren is a man of his world, at least. The hole works and my arm is not on pins and needles despite the full weight of Annette cuddling in it and I feel simply amazing with the warmth of her body. She is close, so close, pressing every inch of her skin into mine. I make a good pillow and a good blanket apparently.
Unfortunately, I have to shake her awake and it takes her several moments to remember where she is, who she is, what she is. Her horn once again comes dangerously close to taking an eye out. I think I should broach the topic of having it blunted, at least for my safety. After her brief existential confusion, she has to grapple with the complete lack of desire to get up. If anything, there is a much better world waiting for her in my arms. She’s not wrong. It’s a nice existence, I must admit.
But the stagnation in her muscles definitely reaches her and that means I must let her go so she can stretch and find some relief. But I get to watch her stretch and that is certainly acceptable.
We dress and douse the embers of our fire and the roads greets us again. It always takes her a handful of moments to get going, to get the calcified muscles broken through and loose. The joints need motion and I get an hour of two of silence before she starts singing. The silence is a welcome change from the rest of the day. The noise of the forest, the birds, the sky, a wonderful reminder of how small we all are.
“Let’s just lie awake
In just a moment’s time, you’ll wonder why
You ever thought you’d ever long for more than you’ve got,” Annette sings and the world shifts to align behind us once more in the late morning. Still a good singer, still something that makes the steps and the trail melt away and slip through the mind like it wasn’t even there in the first place.
We eat on the trail and the silence comes once more. She tries, though, tries to get me to feed her so that she can keep strumming and playing. But I refuse. If we were still, maybe, but walking, eating, and feeding are beyond the limits of my coordination.
In the silence of our midday, there is still noise, still rattling and cavorting. Travelers, much like ourselves filter in along the path, some bidding us a good day, some preferring to ignore us completely. They have their tasks and their lives and there is simply not enough room for two more people on the route they take.
There is also not room for the massive cart coming down the way, gaudy thing of thick curtains and wild stallions snorting and pawing at the earth, carrying their immense burden. I notice it first, the ripple it sends up stream to us. The wave of people, glancing and turning and looking to one another and the wave hits me in the chest.
Flowers and pollen and deep heady wine fill my skull as my breath turns ragged and the knot in my gut promised to break my spine. My cheeks flush and the arousal, the sheer raw lust of everything, starts filling me. I turn to Annette. She is not special in this moment. She just happens to be the nearest to me and that is a good enough vessel to pour my desire into. The green comes out of her cheeks as the wave hits her. People, animals really, break off and let the cart come on through.
As it nears, the all-consuming lust turns to a bubbling rage, still deep in my stomach. The sign, done in a wonderfully curling font of flickering flames, reads “Madame Dantea’s House of Carnal Indulgences.”
I grip the hammer tight. I do not pull it out. It always strikes me how close those two feelings are within me. Both can be sated by the other. And the hammer is in my hand, so we all know what particular flavor I will be having. The horses are magnificent, I must admit. Tall, black, strong, glossy coats, cantering to heavens, somehow exuding more unfiltered smugness than a noble let standing behind their father. Beautiful creatures, although the snort and huff at my presence. I grip my hammer tighter. I do not trust their ego and I do not trust the stamping feet that could easily trample and stampede.
The carriage comes to a cantering stop at the will of the wave emanating from the grand cart, easily the size of a tavern and a half. The fight enters my palms, thrumming against the hilt. I want whatever is in there to come out ready for blood and splintered bone, to be dashed against rocks until the muscles and organs are pulp. The rest of the traveling crowd gathers at a respectful distance, their own wants plainly etched on their faces. Despite my intentions, I notice a rather fetching Gargan trying and failing to hide his arousal as it pours from the caravan.
The side door opens and a slender hand peeks through, beckoning to us. Annette steps forward. I step in front of her and block her path. She whines, because the waves pouring from the cart are strong enough to sweep her away, to knock her feet clean and carry her to the promised land of small death and ether laced dreams.
“Don’t be like that, child,” says the arm as the door opens an inch more, “You’ve been chosen. Honored. Come inside. We have many, many days left before our next destination. Your company has been requested and this is not something you want to ignore.”
“I don’t know you,” I say, “I don’t care who you are. I don’t care how important you think you are. We’re moving on and you can do what you want to do.”
“Let me talk to her,” says a deep voice of beaten leather. The knot in my stomach tightens and breaks and I want to brain something. Turn it red and pulp and broken at the other end of a hammer. Annette fidgets at the voice, no doubt riding the sound waves that travel and rumble through her.
The door opens fully by way of toned arm of light gray traced with sky blue ink. I gaze at the man of my dreams.
“Howdy Claire,” says Amaru, “Please come inside. We just want to talk.”
—
The inside is about as big as the outside suggests, maybe a bit smaller. Walls tend to take up more space than they’re given. The thick cushions and the plush curtains certainly don’t help. Clinging things with soft fingers, eager to reach out and hug and snare and take the body down into a tar pit of soft fibers. I do not trust the pillows. Anything that comforting has to have some sort of angle it wants to pull. I don’t trust the tea either, for that matter, as it sits steaming in a fuchsia porcelain cup. Too fragile, to perfume floral, processed and shaken through.
“It’s really good, Claire,” Amaru says, “Mistress Dantea’s handpicked blend. Don’t know most of the ingredients, but I think the main ones are sarsaparilla and rose. Maybe hibiscus, but I’m not sure.”
“Definitely hibiscus,” says Annette, “Although I’m not getting the rose.”
Amaru shrugs and I let the cup stay where it is. I’d probably end up breaking it anyway. I don’t trust things made of porcelain, especially with floral designs. I don’t trust the heavy perfume covering the scent of sex. I don’t trust the fact that Amaru has decided to forgo any form of shirt the entire time we’ve been speaking. And, for that matter, I don’t trust how smooth of a ride this has been. Carriages should rock and bump and rattle with the road. Gliding is not suitable for anything horse drawn. It must be to protect the teacups.
He sips and sets it down and I watch the work travel up his arm. His well-muscled, smooth, flexing, toned arm, that could probably pin me down or lift me up or hold me gently or do any wonderful number of things now that the mind is fixated on that. I don’t trust this place with the odd scents entering my mind and turning my thoughts to him and me an Annette and the whole world really. I eye the tea and let it sit. I do not trust the potentials it has within me.
“Good tea,” says Annette, desperate to try and crack the silence. I see no reason to break this one. I see no reason to not just let this all stay still and wait for the host to make her wishes known.
“Yeah,” says Amaru, “Yeah. It’s good, Claire. Really good. Never thought that we’d actually meet like this. You look good. Really good. Really, really good.”
“Thank you,” I finally say. Feels like I should say something at this point. I’m fine with the quiet. I’m fine with waiting.
“Alright, I’ll do it,” says Amaru, “I had a pull from Master Warren last night. No words, but a feeling, I guess. I knew it had something to do with you and of course, I agreed. I’m assuming this is it. Claire, whatever you need I’m here for. Whatever needs doing, I’m doing it.”
“What’s he talking about,” Annette says.
“Warren wants me, now us, I guess to go to Goldenrod and get a key. That’s all he said. And my guess is this whole show is going to Goldenrod on its next stop, so I have to ride along and play with whoever is running this thing. And I’m not too happy about that.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know. The master has a task, so it must be carried out. So says the Loom and its teachings.”
“No, I mean why are you not happy about riding in this thing. What a mansion! Someone slapped a castle on wheels and filled it with sex. Dantea’s got good taste. And I happen to like sitting on soft things instead of rocks.”
She sprawls back on the loveseat, kicking her feet up and laying her body into me. Every nerve alights at the touch.
“If you’re worried about the effects,” Amaru says, “it will pass. It’s just that initial shock wave. Give it a day or two. And Dantea won’t make you perform, although I bet she’ll certainly try. Two who walk with Warren, a lot of people probably want to see that.”
“I’m not doing that.”
The thoughts turn in Annette’s head and I can certainly see her thinking of ways to push me that way. It is a conceivable possibility in the world now, and I don’t see the joy in quashing a dream so early. Let it build and fester until it is overripe and rotten. The juices would fly much farther that way when it is stomped. But she’s thinking of grand schemes, I’m sure. She takes another sip and sets the cup down.
“She’s always like this,” Annette says, “Always says no. And no doesn’t really mean no with her.”
“I am aware of that,” Amaru chuckles. I watch the jump in his chest with raging hunger. Annette does as well, the lines, the swell, the bounce. And his stomach, more hard lines that look like a wonderful place to rest my head. I can even see the outline in his trousers, that snaking muscle. I do not like it here.
The carriage finally rattles, and my tea has the audacity to spill onto the plush carpet. Of course, that moment is also the time the footsteps come from up above, shaking the roof and sending Amaru’s back ramrod straight. I have to take up the slack, apparently, leaning into the cushions, letting them take more and more of my form until it all melts away. Annette takes this opportunity to shuffle a little closer.
From the second floor of the carriage comes a languishing stride of smooth gossamer and a soft sighs of content existence. I see the train come first, the flowing silk robe of ruby red. And I wish once more for my hammer as the most beautiful women steps forth from the entranceway. Blonde, so incredibly blonde of sunshine and daffodils and golden wheat, hair drapes from her shoulders down to the floor. I don’t know why she even bothered putting anything on if she was just going to wear it open and plain, breasts softly brushing against one another with each and every step. Swell of hips and tone and I want to get up and bend her over and shove her to the floor. I remain seated, mostly so I can feel Annette squirm on top of me.
“Apologies for the late introduction,” the Madame of the house says, “There were some affairs I had to attend to with my husband. A very intricate operation, you know. But you must be Claire Verlaine. Even if I hadn’t the luck of employing one of your associates, I know so much about you. If half of it is true, then I am honored. Although, I’m afraid I do not know your fetching companion.”
“Annette Biedermeier,” she hums. Even the voice pouring from the crimson lips sets the skin on fire. I want to shred the cloth and the leather of everyone in the room. I want to press bodies to mine and taste lips and tongue. The hair would make a good lead.
“It is lovely to meet you, my dear,” the demon purrs. The horns and the tail, those she keeps hidden, although I glance their form piercing the curtain every other heartbeat. Glimpses of more red shimmer, shifts and waves. She moves and sits a respectable distance away from Amaru and a poison claw clutches at my gut. I still do not touch the tea.
Amaru pours and she takes a languid sip, sighing once the drink passes her throat.
“And you, Miss Verlaine,” she says, “I believe my employee has already expressed my interest in hiring you, at least for a short little while. Two who walk with Warren would be something, especially if one of them is you. And of course, Miss Biedermeier, should the urge strike, I know we can be accommodating as well. Treblex and Warren are linked more than people seem to realize. Or at least they can be linked. Dance and song are closely tied to love making and- ”
I hold up my hand and the words relent with dignity and grace.
“Annette,” I say, “If you want to, I won’t stop you. But I am a hammer, not a set of spread legs. If you need a hammer, then you have one. I’m not going to be something I’m not.”
She sighs.
“Shame. A real shame. Missing a good opportunity. You don’t want to only be known for that hammer, don’t you?”
“Considering you know my hammer, I accept it.”
Amaru looks disappointed and I do not blame him. He had his hopes up and I took them down. Natural really. But I also want to spite someone and the knot in my stomach relents with the action. Dantea shrugs and drains her cup. Like twin serpents, she uncrosses her legs that sadly puts them back together.
“Alright then. That door will be open for you, but I’ll take another guard for the road. Can never be too careful. And there will be front row seats if you want them. I treat those under my employ well. Don’t I, Mister Blackmountain?”
“Yes, you do ma’am. Yes, you do. I’m glad to be here,” he says. His eyes never leave a point in space a foot or so above my head, even as the mistress so coyly shimmed over and sat on his lap. That same poisonous claw came and scraped against the insides of my gut. I’m just glad I am on official duty to be violent now. There is a cup in my hand, full of floral tea. A sip is gone and I taste the perfume at the back of my throat.
—
The carriage rattles along and it is a smooth ride. Very smooth. I sometimes doubt we are even moving at all. Then the whole thing shakes and rattles and that sharp crystal adornment hanging over the couch in my quarters. That I definitely don’t trust. Splinters and shards and all matter of pain from lacerations. And probably and infection or something. I don’t trust whoever does the cleaning in this place. The scent of sex has been baked into every fiber, covered up rather well all things considered, with perfume and flowers and tea.
There always seems to be a pot or a kettle steaming and piping wherever I turn. The quarters I’ve claimed have one delivered at every hour. Every corner I turn has another just sitting on a table. The one meal we’ve shared had a pot for each and every lovely guest. The madame didn’t join us for the occasion, unfortunately. More matters with her husband or some such.
From what little Annette knows of magecraft, there doesn’t appear to be any bindings on her, no runes, or rituals to keep her grounded. Not unheard, although certainly odd. She doesn’t mind. She should mind, but she doesn’t. She should also stop drinking the tea by the bucket, but she doesn’t heed my warnings. Amaru also seems to be fine with the copious amounts of drinking going on, and I do trust him, more or less. I do trust him, but I do not trust him to be in complete control of his faculties here.
I am not. The scent and the wave and the current of energy in every grain of wood has tightened the knot in my stomach ever so slightly with each breath I take in this place. I have my hammer. I have my hammer nearby and that is a good thing to keep close at hand. It is a good thing to have a weapon so close, just in case I need to kill something immediately.
The couch I have chosen as my nesting site for the time being is comfortable. Perfect length to slot my body into, head propped, thick blanket covering my feet and a steaming kettle for tea near my head. Gods forbid I have something else to drink. I would like some cold water to be honest. That would nice. That would something incredibly refreshing as it would cut through the cloying perfume in my mind. But there is only tea. And a crystal chandelier that sways and dangles and rattles, threatening to pierce and shred me.
Annette shuffles in, humming a tune that only slips through the mind and shifts the fog to my ears. I have a headache and the song doesn’t really help.
“I think you need to get up and start exploring, Cottontail,” she says, “Kind of a waste to lay up in this place. At least check out the closet.”
“I’m not wearing somebody else’s clothes,” I say, “Especially from someplace like this.”
“You’re really uptight, y’know that? And they are really good. Like really, really good. A good thread count and very breezy. But like, in a good way.”
I can hear the sway in her hips. I can feel it. I can feel the way she walks cut through the scent, the floral. Everything about the air shifts and folds into the sensation of skin on skin. Not in control, not in command.
And Annette is not helping. Silk and cotton and embroidered low cut trailing number of fabrics, open almost down to her navel. Bare shoulders and tight around the waist, humming in feigned ignorance of her body as she simply putzes around the space I’ve claimed.
“And you have a room, y’know? You don’t have to use a couch. Dantea was nice enough to give you a bed. And by that, I mean us. We’re sharing.”
That I do not mind. And I don’t mind that it’s not posed as a question. A simple statement of fact.
“I don’t trust a succubus’ bed,” I say.
“Fair. But Amaru’s here. And he’s fine. Probably. Definitely seemed intimidated, but who wouldn’t be right? You still kind of scare me sometimes.”
“I do?”
“Oh yeah. Especially once you get going on me. What do you expect? You can get kind of intense. And on that hill, you were going to kill me. That was scary.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was a fight. That’s what happens in fights. And it was also kind of hot. But you feel that way too, right? See a guy come back all bloodied and battered and broken, still that wild eyed rush in his stomach. Something broken or torn. Maybe missing. Maybe. That’s how I found you.”
I sigh and I feel something click within me. How long since I’ve just sat in stillness and let the world carry on with my body? Not that long really. Had a cart when I was with Saaverdra. Didn’t have to march with the rank and file, at least for long. Didn’t really do all that much with them really. Couple drills, a drink or two that bled into a night. But it wasn’t comfortable as this. The cushions weren’t as plush or soft. The itch crawls on my legs and I need to get up and stretch. The blanket makes it difficult though. It is very, very warm.
Even the floor is warm to the touch once my bare feet hit the carpet. Too comfortable and I don’t know what to do with that. Annette moves the sit by me, press into me and I want to. I want to lay back down with her, but I do not trust the floral perfume clinging to my skin. I don’t trust the urges in this cart. She does and I can’t help but feel that is a mistake. She takes my cheek and presses her lips to mind, and I do, I do want to let go. But not here and not like this.
“Later,” I whisper in her ear with a little nip. She sighs and groans and tries to push me back to the cushions. I do not let her have that victory. I need to take a long, long walk and hopefully find a spot that does not reek of perfume. She pouts as break from her. As one final push, she pulls the dress low, exposing her chest, and once more, she makes a good, persuasive argument. But the cloy in my mind makes the urge dull and broad and blunted. I need fresh air and I cannot get it here.
It all smells of perfume. Every grain, every fiber, every nail has been soaked into the mind sedative. It seeps into my muscles and I can’t see straight. It’s all the winding thoughts and shifting colors. Red. So red and warm and soft, everything worth diving into headfirst in suffused slumber half awake. Everything is soft and dull and warm and relaxed and does not allow the sharp hard edge of anything rational. I huff and walk. I huff and keep stepping, each turn taking me deeper and deeper into the labyrinth, each step sending me deeper in to the mist. There should be a window at least. A door that doesn’t open to a sea of pillows and blankets and cushions and another tea kettle spitting steam in my face that urges me to strip and take Annette until she is comatose and catatonic, and I am still needing.
No servants or staff, just an empty wagon for two. Might be between line ups with Amaru the only hold over. Maybe. I don’t know how theater companies work at the best of times, let alone one this specialized and niche. The whole carriage shakes again and sends me to the wall on the bad shoulder. Still not quite the way it used to be, still sore and tight and all sorts of wrong. That’s going to hang around for a whole. Hard to hold a shield with a bad shoulder. Not quite as hard with the hammer, but still not great. I roll it and it pops and I wince.
I hear something move around above me, creak in the wood and the grain. The shadows from the lanterns flicker and dance as they follow my trek up. A right, then a left, and a set of stairs and I am one floor up. I also happen to be lost, but that is something to deal with later. If there is another person here, then they would know better than I do as to the layout. Or not. Or I’m in a great big circle and Annette will be there and she will have her promise of later.
As it stands, none of those are correct. It is just another door, although a larger one that the others this time. Double doors of gilded rose wood, thorns sharp and prickly, all shifting to a horizon of crimson sunset. I don’t want to see anymore red. I don’t want to smell anymore flowers. I want grass and trees and open skies, fresh cold water and ripe berries and Annette naked and clinging and not trapped in this suffocating cage of hollow pleasure.
“Again,” Amaru says through the thick wood.
“Insatiable aren’t you,” Dantea purrs.
“You’re one to talk.”
I freeze. I do not want to intrude, but that is a lie. It would be improper of me to intrude, but the fog in my mind slips the control to the corners of dust and ghosts. I can hear them rock and creak, laugh and sigh.
And I do not like it.
The knot in my gut wraps around the joints and the bone, the soft center of calm and shatters it like brittle glass. The shock simmers in my spine and before I can stop, I am on the floor, ear pressed to the wood. Like a common voyeur.
The claw knot screams at me to knock down the door and take the black road of rampage. The dream, the dream is in there and for someone else now. That is not how the world should be. The dream, the large man with the soft eyes and broad chest and deep dark inked lines on his flesh was for me. Not for anyone else, angel or devil, or whatever in between.
Bu that pesky little bit that says not to intrude forces me to kneel and listen and seethe silently. Amaru is his own person, his mind of desires and wishes and if he wishes to go again with a demon, I am not in a position to stop him. Feel like I should though. Feel like it would be a smart move to starve something from ember and brimstone. She’s congenial enough, but still, the precedent matters. Especially if she is riding my cock.
Dantea laughs and I shift closer and closer, pressing myself to the grain. If I try hard enough, I might just be able to phase through like a spook and haunt them. Watch for a bit, but ultimately take him as my own. But no, I am still solid and corporeal, still layers of well-defined muscle and shapely hips that deserve some attention from a large man with intricate tattoos.
The noise starts and it’s the worst rhapsody that has ever done me the privilege of existing for my senses. It’s beautiful, simply beautifully, the way the huffs and grunts start and slide together. A symphony of duet, two souls united in a dance horizontal. And vertical if his physique implies a requisite amount of strength. He better be able to actually lift me up. I can certainly train him up to that, but I’d prefer to get that started as soon as possible.
The want, the need, the endless spasming hunger that twitches and shakes between my thighs, weeping for attention, keeps hitting me. Each pound of my heart, each strained muscle, each and every tightening joint surprises that same little bit that holds on to the safe detached space. The absolute void in my soul the shape of Amaru, the dreams gone and empty and I want to shatter the door to splinters.
And I still don’t. That terrible little bit of self-control keeps me on the wrong side of the door.
I hear Amaru shift and groan as his mistress shifts. She’s on top. She’s on top of him and taking him and the little claws of venom fangs tear at the knot and snap the fibers. Still holds. Still holds tight down all the clenching joints and gritted teeth and splintering wood.
“Still not quite full,” she says, “But I think Miss Verlaine would be amenable to a meal, no?”
Amaru huffs and grunts and shifts, frustration evident through the voice and the action and the creak.
“Really now, you do such a good job, most of the time, but I need something more. I need a little more than you can give.”
Amaru laughs and the knot tightens, and the claws sharpen.
“You’re really talking about more with me?” he says, the voice dripping with honeyed pride. Good. He should be prideful. He is mine and that is an honored place.
“I don’t mean the physical. Just something different. A feast of a single dish is no feast. Variety, my dear, variety. And I need to be full from a feast.”
She does not know of hunger, of want, of need, in this palace of soft cushions and hazy flame. She does not know of barren winters and biting snow, huddled in caves, icy rock taking every ounce of warmth. She does not know of the want with hammer in hand, facing against blade and bow and spear. Coddled thing of warm fire that doesn’t have the bite of the wild.
Amaru gasps and my heart clenches. He should fight back. Take the demon by the horns and fight back, buck into her and instead he gasps and whines like a puppy being weaned. Sick, I feel sick at the edge of the door. I press my hand to the rose wood.
And it opens. Slightly, a crack, hairline, but enough, enough to see beyond into the den.
It is warm. It is so incredibly warm and cozy, emanating the floral blanket that filters into my mind and softens the senses and all I want is slip in at the foot of the bed and lay my head there. Lay my head at the foot of the coupling of something sophisticated, fed the scraps and pet when desired.
I hit the floor and the wild comes back. Amaru slaps her ass and muffles the noise. Some fight in him at least, getting a playful giggle in response. Not quite the desired reaction for the situation, but that is something. Small beginnings, and small steps towards the end.
My picture was more or less right from what I could hear, although the shape of it had probably changed. She was riding him at some point. Not now though.
She laid on her fore arms, hips raised and enticing, Amaru rising behind her like a mountain range. The shoulders, the broad shoulders that go to the horizon and back, the chest filling the space. And his tattoos his skin canvas of sky blue swirls. Hypnotic in stillness, captivation in motion. His entire body is slick with exertion. He is behind her, rutting her like a beast. She just sits there smiling and still, content to let him do all the work. Bored, she almost looks bored with him, at the monument to carnal indulgence inside of her. The name means nothing when made manifest. An idling toy to pass the time with.
Her eyes glance over to the door and see the crack. She has to see the eye peeking from it, my voyeuristic excursion. And she smiles venomous and gleaming daggers, licking the air and tasting my fury. At least she starts to move.
She starts to move with him, matching his thrusts and the tempo, the dance of bored pleasure. A simple thrill through her core, and nothing else. Nothing more than an idle distraction, nothing to waste her time on. And it gets to him, sharpening the breath and huff and the thrusts going wild and wide as his hips send his whole form into the motion. A lot shallower than I thought it would be, given his size. But it works, at least a little. Dantea’s eyes flutter shut for a beat and then another as the ripples travel up her body. She sighs and the air shifts around her, the floral wave of decadence wafting off of her in thick sheets.
It hits me. It hits me and sends me sprawling on my back as every single fiber of the grand knot is lit aflame and struck by lightning bolts from on high. It chokes me. The knot tightens and strangles my throat, throttling my breath, taking every ounce of strength from me as the overwhelming heat suffuses my skin and pierces my core and shakes my bones. It’s all I am, the soft little pet to coil and curl at the foot of the bed, another hound to be collared and slept by the fire. Fed and watered and pampered. And I like it. I like the feeling of shackles around my mind, the loving embrace of cold iron locks. It will be safe and calm, and I cannot think of anything more than the benign comforts of a smoky caress that takes away all the bad things.
She leans back and stands on her knees, blocking my wonderful view of Amaru and his heaving chest. I growl, I cannot help it but growl and sneer like a caged wolf at the view being taken away. I cannot help but urge the black claw and tightening knot to grow and consume more of me as the floral fog continues to emanate from the roof. It lights a fire in me, and some miracle allows me to move my legs. It helps. It helps simulate some relief in me, but it does not satisfy. That is for the flesh and the blood in the room, occupying the other woman.
She shakes and moans, does the song and dance, now for my enjoyment more than anything. And it is captivating. It is hypnotic, the collision of their bodies. Although, from this angle, I cannot quite see the point of union. I do see the shape his size makes in her though, bulging her stomach from the inside. I am mad. Despite all the reluctance of my dreaming relief, that is mine. That is simply mine. I own that in the dream and thus I own it in the flesh. It is robbery, plain and simple.
My hands dart between my legs and I cannot stop them. The door is a little more open. Better view for me at least. More of their bodies displayed in the effort. More lines and muscle and shifting flesh rippling and spiraling out of control. I gasp as the fingers find the folds within me.
I know my body well enough that it doesn’t take a handful of moments more to start my cycle of escalation. I match them. I hate it, but I match them. The rhythm, the spread, the fill of another in me. I do my best to mirror and mimic. But it is not the same. Not the same at all. Fake and simulated, each inch of hollowness inside of me begging for Amaru to toss the madame aside and come to me and my arms.
But he does not. He only goes harder into her, shifting rocks and boulders, sending an avalanche through his frame. He shudders and rocks, gasps and spams, his whole body thrusting into her. A mountain range rising from the earth, a rockslide entombing, quake of the whole body and soul that shrugs the world on his shoulders. He leans into her ear and growls something that gets a laugh out of her. Another wave of the floral perfume hits me and takes my breath from me. Robber, a sneak, a thief. Theis woman thing is all and more. Snatcher and wrecker, pilfer and cut purse and every bit of my rage concentrates in my hands and though my thighs. It helps. The rage crystallizes and helps the fingers spread and prod the slick flesh, joining and folding and shifting the insides.
The groans again the air shatters for the briefest of moments. The floral scent is gone and the smell of clean grass and dark forests under moonless nights. And it slides through me, bring clarity and peace of warm den under roots. Better than the fake oily flowers ever could. Roses of ethereal void and lilies that wilt with the breeze. I smell grass and wood and pending rain, and it cools the blunt mind. For a moment, a glorious moment, I have my thoughts back again. I have the clarity I need and then I glimpse the demon’s stomach. The shape and the bulge, his outline within her, the belly distended. That is mine. Mine and mine alone and I can see it pulse and twitch and beautifully throb within her with his impeding release.
He throws his head back and roars and my claw knot tight roars with him. The scent of grass fields and sunny days falls the oily rose petals of cloying warmth and bedside manners. I shift and the knot tightens in my core. Its good. It’s good to just watch him erupt within her.
Dantea moans, finally doing something genuine. The petals of scent batter me and I have to climax with her. It rips away from the black claw grip, spasming and shifting and rocking my core and I all I can think of is the emanant gratitude of witness. I saw this. I watch him seed her with his prodigious essence. It is a miracle to see. It is a miracle to just hear of such a union, and I got to see it firsthand.
Stars and lighting and rolling thunder come from my core. Calming tingles under my skin, bouncing joint to joint to joint and stealing my mind. Calm and stagnant air settled and still and I immerse myself in the soothed sensations.
Its over too quick, much too quick, for my liking. Annette draws them out, lets them linger, fading into silence once the note has gone from me and shifted pitch. But this one bows with the curtain fall and I am left with my hands still aching and the hunger in my core unsated. Better though. A little clearer thought, at least.
The madame hums a soft little lullaby as Amaru withdraws. He is spent too. Don’t know how many times before I got to my post, but he is finished. His eyelids hang heavy, and he is fighting off sleep. That same rational part of me chuckles. Even he has limitations and its one I’ve seen countless times before. Natural really. Nothing to be ashamed of, but certainly something to be frustrated at.
I slowly stagger to my feet as the glow warmth fades from my skin. Red curtain halls and thick perfume are still there to greet me kindly. Greet me as a welcome guest from the trail. The carriage finally rattles again, and I do not falter. I think I will turn in for the evening as well. And Annette is still waiting for me. A short game or two with her before I sleep is in order.
“You’ll be delicious,” says a voice in the rosewood, bouncing through the echo. My hand clutches at nothing, the gap of where my hammer should be. No one is there, just me and red and a scent that I cannot get out of my mind.
A chuckle travels through and I desperately need to get to Annette. The hunger has spiked, and I cannot stand it anymore. Annette’s going to have a wonderful night.
—
I have a slightly less of a wonderful night. I tasted hellion for the millionth time, had a few very close encounters between my eyes and her horn. Still need to ask if it’s alright to take it down a few inches and maybe not quite so sharp. But it’s so nice, that fade of color, black charcoal to emerald green, and I can’t ask to get something so magnificent dulled for my safety. My own wellbeing is not as important as that horn.
I still pull myself away early in the morning from the sharp needle that hopes to find anything soft and delicate. I still need some fresh air, something to clean my mind and help me actually think straight. Even now, the flowers and the oil slick send messages to me to go back, to go back and cuddle up in warmth and I just want something cold and harsh against my skin, so I have some frame of reference.
The carriage hasn’t started moving yet. Still from the night, still from the dreams, the side of the road holds no dangers. I imagine more magecraft involved, but I do not care to further my understanding. Few more days to Goldenrod. Few more days until I can wash the scent of flowers from my hair and never stroll through so much as a garden again.
To my surprise, there actually is an exit to this place. And it is roughly where the entrance is, just on the other side. Never would have guessed. To further gobsmack me in my already bleeding lip, its unlocked. A slight push open and I can finally feel the forest again.
Green and vibrant and still damp with dew. Every ounce of flower is washed away in the morning sunrise. I breathe deep and actually feel alive once again.
The bushes rustle and I reach for the hammer. Still inside, still leaned up against a bed frame. Probably the floor now, knocked to the wayside.
All the panic was for nothing. A bald head gets bumped by a branch and Amaru swears and rubs the forming nub. Not a threat. Could be, but the smile and the wave melt the fear and replace it with a soft warm glow that takes me by another sort of surprise.
“Morning Claire,” he beams at me, “Look, blackberries. Found a good bunch of them.”
He holds his hands wide as a plethora of berries sit in his massive palms. He is so proud of himself and I have no clue why.
“Had a thread pull me up in the morning and I figured I would run these by the kitchen before we got underway. I’m hoping that we get some cookies or something. You had the cake last night, right? Dantea’s got some talent on the payroll.”
I did not in fact partake of the confection. Wanted to, certainly, but it smelled too much like roses. And now it smells like strawberries and that’s alright.
“Show me where you got the berries,” I say, and he beams. A few blackberries would be nice, but more would be better, and I get to take a nice long walk in the morning with a rather fetching gentlemen who I watched rail a succubus last night. But he doesn’t need to know that part.