InDescent Read online

  “How I love the human body at times like this,” she breathed against his throat.

  Jackson finally felt of the first quivering clutch of climax. “Crede quo habis, et habis,” he cried out, hoarsely, as his body stiffened and bowed, as the feverish plunge of his cock dwindled to a series of short, arrhythmic jerks. Finally, finally, he thought with each exhalation, relief weakening his limbs. Finally…as the thrumming pleasure rolled through him and gradually subsided.

  Not the greatest orgasm he’d ever had, but it was better than none. At least he’d been able to come.

  Trying not to seem hurried, Jackson pulled out and slid off Mikaela’s body. “That should do it,” he said, realizing too late how workmanlike he sounded. But, what the hell, he was only here to do a job.

  Carefully, he peeled off the laden condom and placed it on the floor. Whatever thoughts he’d previously entertained about seeing more of Mikaela, maybe developing a relationship with her, rapidly faded. He hadn’t exactly been at his best this evening. Moreover, too many aspects of this encounter troubled him.

  “I hope my tattoo didn’t burn you,” he said.

  Mikaela tilted onto her side and touched it. “No. It just felt very warm.”

  “I’m glad. It can do strange things—glow, pulsate, rise a little, even bleed.”

  “Is it the Trident of Paracelsus?” Mikaela asked.

  “Uh, yeah. As a matter of fact, it is. I’m surprised you recognized the symbol.”

  “I’ve studied many things,” Mikaela said. “That Latin phrase you uttered—”

  “‘Believe that you have it, and you have it’.”

  “Yes. I recognized that, too. But why did you speak it?”

  “Since this is a Passion Celebration, and we were essentially practicing sex magic, that was a way of sharing the ritual intention with everybody in the room.”

  Unexpected, added weight lightly jounced the mattress. Mikaela shifted her eyes in its direction. Jackson turned his head.

  “I won’t take any more of this disrespectful bullshit.” A petulant Christy, still naked, sat beside Jackson, her breasts jutting out over his body. “Now it’s my turn. Hell, it should’ve been my turn at the get-go. But if you’re a fucking sorcerer, which you sure as shit seem to be, you should be able to re-harden your dick in no time.”

  Jackson sat up and glowered at her. “One, I’m not a sorcerer. Two, my erections are none of your business. And three,”—he rose from the bed, snatched the condom off the floor, and stepped over to where his loincloth lay—”you don’t get a turn. I’m finished here.”

  That did it. He’d had enough of this. He touched his fingers to his lips then raised his hand toward Mikaela. “Thank you for your generosity,” he said to her.

  “My pleasure. Take care of yourself.”

  After securing the cloth around his midsection, Jackson walked to the front door.

  “Hey,” Christy shouted after him, “you can’t leave! We have to conclude the esbat!”

  Jackson turned to face her and the other women in the room. “I said I’m finished here. The ritual was successful. You can conclude the esbat without me.” He dipped into a small bow. “Blesséd be.”

  And with that, he strode eagerly into the arms of the moon-drenched night.

  * * * *

  “You hurled the chalice at the fucking door?” Ivan asked in disbelief.

  He’d gotten there after Spey’s departure, so he’d missed all the action.

  Christy, still naked, sat across from him. They were both ensconced at the small bar in the lounge area behind the covenstead. Smudged makeup deepened the High Priestess’s ferocious scowl. “I pitched it at Spey,” she said. “The door just happened to get in the way.”

  “You know,” Ivan said, “you really need to cultivate more—”

  Christy’s glass hit the bar with a thud. “Fuck you. I don’t need a lecture. I got dissed tonight. Your wizard pal is a piss-poor excuse for a high priest.”

  Ivan didn’t entirely believe that, much as he hated to admit it, but he was mystified by Spey’s behavior. Not the flouting-of-tradition part, since the bastard had a longstanding reputation for being a maverick, but the choice-of-partner part. Why would he pick a mouse like Mikaela?

  As Ivan pondered this, the plainest of the witches emerged from the bathroom, where she’d obviously gone to get dressed.

  “Ah, there’s the little lady with the hexy hoohah.” Ivan raised his drink, toasting Mikaela. She was okay-looking, but considering how much hotter and spunkier most of the others were, Ivan still couldn’t fathom Spey’s rationale.

  Sneering, Christy turned on the barstool to face her. “So, Hester, I suppose you’re one satisfied puppy, since you ended up with the big bone.”

  “I do believe the ritual was effective,” Mikaela said impassively.

  “Fuck the fucking ritual!” Christy cried, spinning toward the comfort of her drink.

  Reaching across the bar, Ivan patted her hand but kept his eyes trained on the lesser witch. “You sure fooled me, Hester Priss. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

  Christy made a derisive sound.

  “I never tried to fool anyone,” Miki said, “you included, Ivan. I didn’t ask to be chosen tonight.”

  Kurtz continued to smirk. “But it seems you acceded quite willingly—nay, even eagerly—to the guest magister’s choice of partner.” He gulped more scotch.

  “I think even you would accede to that man’s demands.” The words just wafted out of Mikaela’s mouth.

  Glass still at his lips, Ivan froze, staring at her over the rim. Then he lowered the glass and snickered. Even to him it sounded forced, self-conscious. Mikaela quite boldly studied his face.

  Damn, she was strange. Kind of gave Ivan the willies, actually. Miki was fairly new to the coven. Just showed up at Christy’s door one day, saying she’d like to join. Since a woman named Bridget had recently bailed out, Ivan came right over, checked out the wannabe, and gave his approval. There was no reason not to. She was young enough, had a decent body, was familiar with the Craft, and had no objection to sex within a coven. Good enough.

  But she’d never seemed quite…normal.

  The door opened and other women entered the room. As each one greeted the High Priest, he regarded each with a lecherous leer. Yeah, the rest were nice pieces. Easy pieces, too. Some dressed out in the open. Others took turns using the bathroom.

  “Surely you know him,” Mikaela said to Ivan.

  “Huh?” He wrenched his gaze away from the eddy of nubile females.

  “The man who stood in for you tonight,” Miki said. “Lady Alessandra may have picked him, but you must be familiar with him.”

  “I, uh, only know about…” He leaned toward Christy. “What name did he use?”

  She flapped a hand as she drained her glass. “I dunno. Fuckin’ Applebaum or some fuckin’ thing.”

  Grimacing, Kurtz dipped closer to her face and murmured, “Why don’t you get your ass dressed? Your goddamned tit is sitting in a puddle of orange juice.”

  “Why don’t you get me another drink,” Christy shot back, shoving her empty glass at him, “and let me worry about my tit?”

  “He gave his witch name as Abelard,” one of the coveners supplied, glancing at Mikaela.

  Kurtz rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Applebaum,” he muttered as he fixed Lady Alessandra another screwdriver. “Anyway, I only know about him through the grapevine. So, were you impressed?”

  Christy suddenly broke in and addressed the women in the room. “All of you, just go home if you’re not gonna help clean up. And if you are gonna clean up, go do it. Now.”

  Exchanging raised-eyebrow glances, they all gathered their things and padded out of the lounge.

  “Well?” Ivan said to Mikaela, turning up his hands. “Were you impressed?”

  “Yes,” she said without elaboration, and then abruptly wheeled out of the lounge.

  Staring at the space she’d
just vacated, Ivan pulled down his mouth. “Hm.”

  He’d have to give this unexpected turn some thought. Spey had showed up tonight. That was a good sign. He’d allowed himself to be pawed, he’d been turned on by it, and then he’d gotten down and dirty. Those, too, were good signs. But his choice of Mikaela…

  Ivan wondered if he should and how he could use the unassuming mouse to get Spey into the Prism.

  Chapter Four

  “Hi. I’m sorry to intrude, but I need to talk to you. About a couple of things. If you’re wondering how I got your address, I found it in Christy’s handbag last night while I was in the bathroom.”

  Jackson was taken aback. There she stood, the Mikaela he’d first met, her honey-colored hair defying its plastic clip, her chocolaty eyes watching him both expectantly and a bit defiantly. It was as if she anticipated being turned away but was determined not to let that happen.

  “Found it because you asked for it,” he said, trying to mask his discomfiture, “or found it through stealth?”

  Mikaela showed no sign of shame. “The latter.”

  Jackson voiced a surprise that was half feigned and half genuine. “No kidding. If that’s the same bag I saw, it really took some guts to rifle through it. I’m amazed your hand came out intact.”

  Images of their coupling flashed through his mind. Immediately, his cock began to stir. It was as if it—not he, it—needed to make up for the extended period of inaction. Too bad the feeling was matched by an anxious squirming in his stomach.

  “The experience was kind grisly,” Mikaela said with an uncertain smile. “But in any case, I do need to talk to you.”

  “If it’s a matter of need, I can hardly turn you away.” Jackson opened the door farther and casually gestured toward the flat’s interior. “Please, come in. I apologize for the mess.”

  Glancing at him, Mikaela stepped inside and quite boldly looked around. The fact that he’d admitted her must have restored some of her natural bravado. “I like it,” she pronounced, facing him again. “It reflects you. I’m glad you’re not anal compulsive.”

  At the sound of those words, another image fluttered through Jackson’s mind—an image more compelling on more levels than his recent activity at the esbat. “Not usually, no,” he said.

  As he’d done when Christy Kemmer came calling, he strolled over to the couch and sat in one corner, his right elbow on the armrest, one leg jacked up on the opposite knee. Motioning to his left, he invited Mikaela to sit beside him. His gaze, which had a will of its own, inched down her body. Damn, it had felt good to fuck her. To fuck somebody. Maybe if he got laid more often—

  “Jackson?”

  Pulled from his reverie, he jerked his head in her direction. “Hm? I’m sorry. I was drifting.”

  Mikaela watched him with a musing smile. “You probably haven’t been called Jack since you were a boy.”

  She was obviously referring to the transparent pseudonym he’d used at the bar. Blushing, he picked at a thread on the hem of his jeans. “I think the last time was in junior high, by some classmates. My father always called me Jackie. My mother always called me Jackson. Other relatives adopted one or the other.” Feeling a bit penitent, and probably looking that way too, he glanced up at her. “I’m sorry for not coming clean at the Lobo. I hope you understand.”

  Mikaela nodded. “I believe I do. You’re a very private individual.”

  Jackson raised his left hand and let it fall to his thigh, hoping his semi-erection wasn’t visible. “So,” he asked abruptly, “what do you need to talk to me about?”

  “There’s something very strange going on.” Mikaela looked directly into his eyes, hesitated a moment, then spoke. “How much do you know about Artemis-on-the-Crescent? Like how it got started and by whom?”

  Odd question. Jackson had in fact given the subject no thought whatsoever, especially now that his business with them was concluded. He shrugged. “I assume it was Christy’s brainchild.”

  Mikaela made a scoffing sound. “Hardly. To have a brainchild, one first needs a brain. I’m not even sure she’s qualified to be a high priestess.”

  Her comment made Jackson grin. So they felt the same way about Lady Alessandra. “A pretender, huh?”

  “You could say that. Although ‘pet’ would be a better word.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Mikaela angled toward him. “Jackson, are you familiar with a man named Ivan Kurtz?”

  Hearing that detested name was like having one icicle spike up his spine and another pierce his solar plexus. Jackson froze—except for his cock, which started to soften. Of all the questions Mikaela could have asked, that one was right near the top of his “didn’t want to hear it” list. The other would’ve been, “Would you please ball Christy to placate her?”

  Trying not to betray his shock, he merely said, “Yes. Why?”

  “The coven was his brainchild. Like the other one he started, the Coven of the Golden Star. Except ours is…I don’t know…more like his playpen. I won’t go near him, but Christy and some of the others—”

  “I get the picture. A playpen full of dolls.” It figured. No wonder the members were all women who hadn't yet reached middle age. Jackson let out a hefty sigh.

  The revelation sickened him, especially after last night’s esbat. Now what the hell was Kurtz up to? The memory of his ruthlessness some years earlier was still fresh in Jackson’s mind. Driven by vitriolic envy and resentment, the self-styled mage had provoked a confrontation with the wizard. And the mage had lost. His accomplice, Bothu the necromancer, had gotten off much easier, but he’d still ended up with a sac-shriveling scare.

  Jackson had cast numerous afflictions upon Ivan Kurtz. He subsequently heard that Ivan rebounded—a recovery Jackson himself had facilitated, although no one knew this. Recovery wouldn’t have been possible without his aid. Despite his initial fury over the mage’s plotting, Jackson had begun to feel guilt-ridden over his enemy’s suffering. So, little by little, he’d reversed the afflictions.

  Now he wondered if his sympathy had been misguided.

  “What does this have to do with your being here?” he asked Mikaela, trying to erase his frown of concern.

  Now the frown appeared on her face. “Well, after the esbat last night, Ivan stopped in. He and Christy had some private little confab in the back room, the lounge area. I only heard snatches. It was obvious she was angry with me. She thought I’d usurped her place during the ritual.”

  Jackson snorted and shook his head. “That woman doesn’t even belong in a coven.”

  “Why did you single me out?” Mikaela asked.

  He told her the truth. “I didn’t. I just demanded an appropriate partner. And you were it.” He reached over and touched her leg. “Excuse me. You were she.”

  “I wasn’t offended,” Mikaela murmured. “Anyway, your name came up. Well, not while I was around. I happened to overhear Ivan and Christy talking about you.”

  Jackson’s earlier chill began to resurface. “In what context?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. It seems Ivan wanted to know how things went—which was strange enough, considering it was late and he lives on the other side of town.”

  “You’re saying he could’ve just called.”

  “Yes, although even that would’ve been odd. It was only an esbat, after all, not a major sabbat.”

  Spey nodded. This wasn’t sounding good, not good at all. Some mischief was afoot. “Mikaela, who dreamt up that Passion Celebration? And who wanted to get me involved?”

  She shrugged. “Christy, I assume.”

  Hand to chin, Jackson turned his eyes away from her. He considered this possibility. “No,” he finally whispered, shaking his head. “No. That would be way too much of a coincidence.”

  “I also heard a few references to a prism,” Mikaela said, “some sort of prism Ivan has. He seemed excited about it.”

  Staring at her, Spey felt his heart skip. This reaction bewildered hi
m. A prism. So what? A lot of occultists had crystals they thought were special in some way. And Ivan did tend to brag a lot about his magical paraphernalia.

  Still, it wouldn’t hurt to find out more. “Did he describe it or identify it in any way?”

  “He called it by a name,” Mikaela said immediately, as if she’d been waiting to divulge this. “I heard something that sounded like…Robbie or Ronnie, but more exotic.”

  “Robbie,” Jackson repeated in a mechanical voice. He felt as if he’d gone into suspended animation. No. It can’t be. Uh-uh. Not that debauched asshole. But he had to ask, just to make sure. He needed to dismiss the possibility and ease his mind. “It couldn’t be Nezrabi, the Prism of Nezrabi…could it?”

  “Yes, that’s it!” Mikaela said brightly, far too brightly for such a grim revelation. “You’ve heard of it?”

  “You bet.” Spey’s voice was barely audible, his mind barely functioning. “So you’re saying Ivan Kurtz somehow got his hands on Nezrabi’s Prism?” He simply couldn’t absorb this.

  “That’s the impression I got.”

  “And there’s no chance you misunderstood the word?”

  “No. I recognized it as soon as you spoke it. I even heard Ivan say, ‘I can’t believe the motherfucking thing is actually in my possession.’ And he said it gleefully.”

  “That can't be possible.” Spey fell against the back of the couch and dropped his arms over his head. He pondered aloud, mumbling possible explanations. “Could be he’s the victim of a con. Or he got his hands on some other crystal and mistakenly identified it as the Prism.”

  Whatever the case, there was still something fishy going on. It was obvious.

  “Jackson…”

  “Hm?” He wrenched himself away from his thoughts and looked at Mikaela.

  “That prism seems to have corralled your attention.”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be. What is your and Ivan’s relationship?”

  “We have no relationship. We loathe each other. He thinks I’m a grandstander, which I’m actually not, and I think he’s… Well, it doesn’t matter what I think. But my assessment is accurate.” Spey slid his hands over his face and rubbed it. “Fuck,” he muttered before letting them fall, one to the couch arm, one to the cushion. It sent up a diaphanous cloud of fine dust. “I’m sorry, Mikaela, but I’d rather not dredge up the whole slimy issue. And it’s best if you know nothing about it.”