Cynthia pulled back, her lips swollen and her pupils dilated. ‘There you go, trying to tell me what to do again.’ As punishment, she redoubled her efforts. She began with gentle brushes of her fingertips, then more determined circles until Helena was writhing once more. Cynthia pushed a finger into her aching channel, then another, pressing against the walls. Tighter, faster, harder, the pleasure almost painful. Helena thrashed against the pillow before sobbing Cynthia’s name like a spell as she reached yet another peak. Finally, the woman showed mercy, pressing the palm of her hand against Helena’s throbbing core until she returned to the earth.
‘Gracious!’ Cynthia’s proper word would have made Helena laugh, if she had breath left in her lungs to do anything but breathe. ‘I had no idea giving pleasure could be so… empowering.’
Helena’s body was nothing more than a warm puddle. Never had her explorations with other women been so enthralling. She struggled to pull her thoughts back into some semblance of order.
‘I was supposed to bring you to climax.’
Cynthia collapsed next to her, taking Helena’s hand in hers and stroking along each finger. ‘I would apologise for disrupting your plans if I felt even an ounce of remorse.’
‘You are always disrupting my plans.’ Reality slowly reasserted itself. She had come here to explain things to Cynthia. To make her see why they weren’t some entangled spiritual couple that shared Hamlet between them like the familiar version of a love child.
‘Would you like me to stop?’ Cynthia stilled her fingers.
‘I would like you to understand. Why Aunt Rowan is wrong.’
The mattress dipped as Cynthia shifted on her side. She pulled the covers up and rested her cheek on her hand. ‘Then explain it to me.’
Helena mirrored her pose. The sky had drifted from indigo to a much paler blue as the sun began her slow ascent to welcome morning. Honeysuckle and vanilla wrapped around Helena, and she wished she could push the memories of her past away. She wished her mother had made different choices. That she wasn’t forced to remain alone because the fear of losing herself in a relationship was crippling.
Cynthia reached across the mattress, resting her hand where Helena’s waist dipped and squeezed gently. ‘Whatever it is, you can tell me.’
Helena exhaled a shaky breath. ‘My mother fell in love. Not with my father – they only spent one night together at the Samhain celebrations in Edinburgh. The man she gave her heart to was a blacksmith in our village. They had known each other for years. I never understood what finally drew her to him. There were always whispers about Mother, Aunt Aspen, and Aunt Rowan. The witches who could heal your ailing child or ripen the crops to harvest even after a blight cursed the land. The villagers allowed them to live peacefully because they knew the benefits of benevolent witches in their midst. But then Aunt Aspen left to follow her heart to its ultimate death. And Mother started visiting the blacksmith. At first, it was one night here and there, then it was most nights. He knew of her powers. He knew, and he craved the riches they could bring.’
‘What riches?’
‘Mother was a firewitch with the power of potions, much like Clio. The blacksmith convinced her to start dealing in love tonics.’
Cynthia scrunched her nose. ‘Is that truly possible? A potion that makes you fall in love?’
Dark and jagged memories clawed from the back of Helena’s mind. ‘I don’t know if it made people fall in love, or put them in a thrall to the owner of the potion, but I do know those love spells violated the oath she made. The oath of all the Blair witches. To do no harm. We can’t steal someone’s will and bend it to our own desires, or the desires of another. Forcing someone’s affections to blossom and grow in barren fields only ends in pain. And that is what the blacksmith asked Mother to do. Because people would bankrupt themselves for love. She chose him over her own coven. Over her commitment to only work in light magic.’
‘I don’t understand… Is there another kind?’
‘There are three kinds of magic. Light magic, dark magic, and blood magic. Blood magic is the most powerful. It demands a sacrifice and can be used in both light and dark spells. When we committed to being witches who bring only health and healing, we willingly gave our blood to strengthen the oath. But blood magic can be taken against someone’s will and used to harm. Mother needed blood, unwillingly given, to complete her love potions. Stolen blood for stolen affections. And a witch’s blood is far more powerful than a mortal’s.’
Hazel eyes widened with horror. ‘She didn’t…’
‘I didn’t know why I would wake some mornings with bandages covering cuts on my arms or legs. Only that it was happening more frequently. So, one night, I pretended to sleep and waited for whatever devil was sneaking into my room. Only it wasn’t a devil. It was Mother with a sacred blade in her hand.’
‘Dear God.’ Cynthia pulled Helena into her arms, wrapping her in warmth and strength and softness.
Helena wanted to dissolve into Cynthia’s embrace and forget. She wanted to sink into sweet oblivion and never emerge. But her story was not complete. Gently pushing against Cynthia’s shoulders, she extricated herself.
Tears streamed down Cynthia’s face. Water wrung from an angel. Helena wiped the moisture and let it absorb into her skin, a part of Cynthia irrevocably hers. ‘Don’t cry. Not for me.’
Cynthia’s lips hardened. ‘I will cry for you! How dare your mother abuse you so horrifically? You were just a child.’
‘I was old enough to know better. I should have found Aunt Rowan. But she wasn’t at her cottage, so I kept running until I came to the village. Old Mrs Campbell caught me right before I fell on my knees. She must have been on her way back from the market. She used to sell rabbit furs and peat bricks. I was bleeding, scratched from Mother trying to catch me when I fled. I’m sure I looked like a wild thing.’
‘Darling girl.’
But Helena didn’t deserve her grief. She certainly didn’t deserve her sympathy. Whatever her mother had done to her was nothing compared to how Helena punished Willow.
‘Don’t.’ Anger grew. Not at Cynthia. But at herself. Grief, fear, and shame amalgamated into something dark and powerful. Sharp and hungry. ‘Don’t waste a single tear on me, Cynthia. I don’t deserve your comfort.’
Cynthia pulled back, stung by Helena’s brutal words. She shook her head, mahogany falling around her like autumn leaves in the forest. ‘You deserve so much more than comfort.’
‘I don’t.I’mthe reason she died. It’s because ofmethe villagers swarmed my mother’s cottage, locked her inside with the blacksmith, and burned them to cinders. A firewitch consumed by mortal flames.’
