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“And that would be?”
“Your uncle seemed convinced that the only way to tap into Tillandsia’s power would be to enter into a sexual ecstasy.”
I had filed that little tidbit away as something to consider only when absolutely necessary. Even though the horse had broken well free of the barn, Peter and I had agreed, at my urging, to wait until after the wedding to make love again. Now I needed to show up and tell him he had to put out as part of a magical rite. I worried more about my own dignity than his willingness.
“Of course,” Emmet began, “it would be unwise to expose Peter to this untested magic. It might trigger his awareness.”
“His awareness of what?” I snapped.
“That he’s a changeling.”
“Damn it, Emmet,” I said. My head started hurting. I closed my eyes and tried to compose myself. “He can never know.”
“I understand, and that is why I am counseling you against bringing him tonight.”
Emmet was right. Again. “So what do you propose?”
“I offer myself—”
“Oh, no. You hold on right there.” I threw up both of my hands. “That is not happening. I am engaged to Peter. I love Peter. I will not allow anyone else to touch me that way.”
“I understand.” He drew nearer to me. I took a couple steps back, but then froze when his eyes locked onto mine. “I understand you wish to remain faithful to your fiancé. I won’t say that I would not like to lie with you as a man.” In spite of myself and my storming, guilty conscience, the image of our naked bodies straining against each other rose in my mind. “But I respect you and your commitment to Peter. I would never attempt to touch you that way as long as you honor that commitment.”
“Good,” I mumbled, trying to rid my mind of the thought of Emmet’s body, but still transfixed by his intense gaze.
“You must acknowledge, however, that if ensnarement is the intention of whoever sent you this invitation, they will be surprised to find that you have a very capable and coolheaded witch as your escort, rather than your impulsive carpenter.” I couldn’t deny that Emmet’s firepower might come in handy. He smiled, his eyes narrowing, lending a mischievous look to his normally serious face. “Besides, there are so many ways I can pleasure you without even touching you.” My temperature spiked as a vibration tingled through my body. “I can bring your pleasure centers to life with nothing more than a word, a thought.” I felt a surge rise up through my body, firing up each chakra as it passed into a tangible rainbow. Red, a shock, mercury rising. Orange, I felt a wave of shivering satisfaction swell up inside me. I should have protested what he was doing, but yellow, I felt so safe. Green, I knew I did have feelings for him; this wasn’t merely a carnal act. Blue. My pleasure expressed itself in a gasp. A soft moan. My eyes closed, and my head tilted back. Indigo. My eyes fluttered open to see the devotion on his face, the beautiful intensity of Bernini’s David made flesh, the purity of the feelings he held for me. The world around me turned violet, as he fully suffused me with his power. I fell forward into his waiting arms.
“Ahem.” Jilo banged on the top of the gate with her cane. I tore myself from Emmet’s embrace, startled and ashamed. “Wouldn’t mind a taste of that myself, mud pie.” She cackled and closed the garden gate with her stick. Both hands on its handle, she wobbled her way toward me. “Jilo understand you be needin’ her.” I looked from her back to Emmet, glowing in his smugness. In that moment, I hated him; in that moment, I knew that if it hadn’t been for Jilo’s arrival, I’d still be lost in his arms, my body demanding his.
THIRTY
“The game is afoot,” Emmet said, glancing over at me as we pulled up to the gates of the Tillandsia house. I rolled my eyes, and he smiled. He turned down the long drive, pulling near the oval, which had been a patch of dirt only a few days ago. Tonight, a decades-old magnolia stood there, fragrant in its full and miraculously timed bloom. The scent wafted in through my cracked open window. It intoxicated me, almost as much as the few times I’d allowed myself to glance over at Emmet. His piercing eyes burned, and despite their fire, they were even blacker than the tuxedo he wore. His hair was combed back in thick onyx waves. I fought the urge to run my fingers through them. My love for Peter was all that prevented me from acting on my desire.
I forced myself to concentrate on the matter at hand. Our plan was good, although I was not about to jinx it by thinking of it as foolproof. My job was to unlock the energy, and then Emmet would relay it to Jilo, who had ensconced herself in her haint-blue chamber and would be waiting to take charge of any magic we sent her way.
We pulled around the oval, where attendants were opening car doors and collecting keys. Emmet placed the car in park and turned to face me, a hint of a grin on his lips. “I’ve never driven before. Did I do okay?”
I laughed even though I shouldn’t have. I should have questioned his overly earnest request to act as chauffeur. Tonight, though, I didn’t want to ask too many questions of him. I was afraid of the answers. “You did great.”
Powerful searchlights crossing beams overhead and smaller lamps scattered throughout nearly turned the night into day. Peter’s crew had done no additional work since Tucker’s death, but the Tillandsia house shone, the very image of perfection. Only magic could have transformed it so quickly. The sad and peeling paint had been exchanged for a fresh and nearly luminescent white that coated the house’s Doric pillars as well as the building itself. The shutters had been enameled black. Only the door remained as it had been, the same black and red that the Tillandsia Society had evidently adopted as its symbol.
The attendant opened my door, and I stretched out my legs, making sure that my much higher than usual heels connected safely with the still fresh pavement. Emmet met me at the side of the car and offered me his arm. I let myself lean on it, enjoying the comfort of his strength. My fingers dug into his jacket as we stepped past the infamous door and over the threshold. My eyes darted nervously around the entranceway, but there was no visible dome overhead. The true architecture of the house fully honored the Georgian preference for symmetry—two stairways curved gracefully up to the top floor, one on each side.
Eyes fell on us from every direction, predatory and hungry—some for me, some for Emmet, and a good number for us both. I recognized some of the faces, including a teacher from my high school and a few business people and their respective spouses. Most of the faces were new, but all, the new and the known, glowed with the same carnivorous delight. Conversation stopped as a servant who was attired in a period costume, complete with a powdered wig, stepped forward. “Your invitation, please.” He held out a silver tray to receive it. I looked at Emmet with panic in my eyes. I’d forgotten to bring it. He smiled and produced the paper from his coat pocket. After he placed it on the tray, the servant picked it up. “Miss Mercy Taylor and Mister . . . ?” He paused, appreciating the dark wall of man next to me.
“My name is Emmet Clay.”
“Wouldn’t mind spinning that clay on my wheel.” A stage whisper floated down from a group of middle-aged ladies at the top of the stairs. The conversation picked up again in spurts and stops, soon reaching its previous volume and complexity, even though most eyes remained fixed on the two of us.
“A warm Tillandsia welcome to you, Mr. Clay,” the servant said and bowed.
Emmet leaned over and whispered into my ear. “They can’t take their eyes off you.” His warm breath tickled.
“I think you are the one everybody’s checking out.”
“No,” he said. “You are breathtaking in that dress.”
