Walking ahead of her, Samuel Noyes doesn't look back. He strides angrily, swiftly homeward, so fast that even robust, rambunctious Nicholas has trouble keeping up. In her heavy skirts, carrying a little girl, the witch may as well not try.
Faith hugs her all the way home. It's not often that she is picked up and carried; not since her mother died, and not even all that much before that. Puritans expect their children to grow up swiftly, to live as little adults. There is no room for coddling in this hard, cold land.
As they approach Samuel's house, he turns at last. He's some hundred-yard ahead by then, but even at that distance girl can see his scowl. "Faith," he calls, "come here."
Faith hesitates. She tugs at the witch's sleeve: "Let's go, Mercy. Father's calling."
But her father interrupts: "No. Just you, Faith. Go inside."
--
Unless she hurries, it takes some time before she stands face to face with Mercy's uncle. They face each other across the garden gate, which Samuel has pulled closed. He is silent a moment, mouth a hard line.
Then: "I should have told them you were a witch. I know not what stayed my tongue. Perhaps a fondness for my departed wife, who loved you inexplicably.
"But whatever her love, I will allow you to endanger me, my children, and my name no longer. You are hereby confined to this house, Mercy. You will keep my home and tend my hearth, and you will care for my children and cook their meals. Until I say otherwise, you are not to stray from this farm -- not one yard, not one inch. If I catch you in town, or in the woods, or with the Thornton boy once more, I shall turn you from this house and let you scrabble your way to an early grave.
"Is that understood, girl?"
DevonSamuel storms.
Nicholas chases.
Mercy walks. Mercy carries Faith, the small girl's head cradled on her shoulder. Devon is loathe to put her down, but on the long, hot walk home, her arms start to go numb, her shoulders sore. Faith is too big. She nuzzles the girl's coiffed head and pats her back, then wordlessly, gently sets her down. Walks alongside her then, holding her hand, not bothering to try and keep up with Faith's stupid father and confused brother.
He turns near the house and Faith is obliged, as they stride, to let go of her cousin and go inside.
Devon does not quicken her step. She walks steadily until she is within arm's reach of Samuel Noyes over the top of the gate, and then she lifts her chin, looks up into his eyes. Listens to what he has to say, and cocks her head slightly to one side when he mentions his beloved wife. Her stare is unrelenting.
It is bewitching. It always has been, all her life, even though she was born in a time when people stopped using that word.
Slowly, she replies, her voice low:
"I do not fear your discipline, uncle, for you are a godly man, a messenger of Christ's love on earth."
She smiles. A faint, soft, aching thing.
"Nor do I fear the grave, for my soul is a peace, and I know my heart is pure."
After a long moment, Devon finally drops her eyes to the gate, then looks back to her uncle.
"May I come in? None of us have eaten; surely Faith and Nicholas are hungry. You must be, too."
the woodsSamuel Noyes clenches his teeth so hard straps of muscle stand out in his cheeks. But he does ultimately relent -- stepping aside and back.
"You are an unnatural thing," he spits at her as she passes. "You've the Devil in your eye."
--
She is allowed, nevertheless, the great and enviable privilege of preparing his dinner. His wealth is evident again in what he can afford to put on the table: hearty bread and real butter, churned -- unevenly, it must be said -- just yesterday by Nicholas's efforts. A block of hard cheese; some cabbage from the garden. And, most precious of all, thin slices of salt pork from the old sow they slaughtered last winter.
The grace is led by Samuel, and it is long, berating and pointed; full of beseechings for the Lord to protect against wayward thoughts and lustful hearts and prideful gazes and devilry, witchery. By the time he finishes, Nicholas has already sneaked a tiny morsel of meat, though he closes his eyes and clasps his hands quickly when he senses the prayer come to an end.
Dinner is a joyless, silent thing. Afterward, the cleanup is her task as well, while the children wash up and put themselves to bed. There is another long, protracted course of prayer upstairs, after which the children shut themselves in their rooms, and Samuel in his.
She is left to herself: the silent, cold house; her miserable little alcove.
DevonThis, she does not answer. What would she do -- deny it? What would she do -- tell him that the Devil he sees in her eyes is a thing that even wolves don't understand?
She just walks by him, through the gate and to the house, lifting her skirts an inch to step inside. Faith is there, grabbing onto her, worriedly. Nicholas is watching from somewhere, perhaps pretending not to care.
But it is hours past dawn now, nearly noontime, and after all that walking and all of last night's searching, Devon is starving. She makes a meal from what they have: bread and butter, salt pork, cabbage, cheese. She fetches water and sets a table. She endures Samuel's prayers, her eyes closed and her face fervent though her mind is elsewhere; truth be told, she spends the interminable plea to god thinking about Rafael.
Rafael, naked.
Sweating.
Braced up on his arms over her, his hips flexing, his eyes on hers while he fucks her.
When she opens her eyes, the Devil is in them again.
--
So they eat, and the children go to rest a bit -- they had such a long night, such a trying morning. Devon wants to rest, too, but Samuel has chores for her. To bake more bread, to milk this creature, to feed those animals. She does so wordlessly, but while she is outside on the farm, she takes a moment to harvest a few flowers, tucking them into the pocket of her apron. Samuel does work, too -- not all work on a farm can be done by a girl. He is the only man available, and as the children get up from their rest, Nicholas follows him around, 'helping'. Faith has to practice her sewing, and Mercy has to teach her.
Devon watches her sew, while the 'men' work outside, and she gives her tips while she uses mortar and pestle on the flowers she gathered earlier. Faith asks her what it is. Devon smiles at the little girl and says she's going to make a fragrant sachet. What for, Faith wants to know. Devon just laughs and tells her: for the sweet fragrance of the Lord's creation and leaves it at that.
--
Hours pass. They wile and wave and distend around the family. Later it is time to make stew, which also takes hours -- Devon cooks a small chicken and keeps trekking to the well for more water to pour over it, leaving Nicholas to watch the fire stop fussing with it under the pot. She chops onion and digs potatoes and carrots up to add them as well. She uses whatever roots she has at hand, cooking a meal that is perhaps too rich, too hearty for a family like this when it is not a holiday. But she keeps saying it was a trying day, and they all need the warmth. She is trying to please them. All of them.
Especially Samuel. She keeps looking at him, checking to see if she is pleasing him. His children have been washed and combed, his house has been cleaned, his animals cared for, the mending done, the food cooked, fresh bread baking. Stew simmering, filling the farm with a heady, savory scent.
Devon is a defter hand with the spices than Mercy. She crumbles crushed, pulverized herbs from her apron pocket into the stew, stirring it, sweating over it, and
the Devil is in her eyes again.
--
When they sit down to sup that night, the sun on the verge of being gone, the light dim, it is to full bowls of chicken stew, heavy with potatoes and herbs and carrots and onions and turnips and all manner of vegetation. There is soft bread to the side. It is like a holiday.
Devon closes her eyes when it is time to pray again.
This time she does pray: for Gaia to protect Nicholas and Faith, to give them sweet dreams in the deep sleep to come. For Samuel to sleep deepest of all, borne under by Gaia's own grace and flowering wisdom. For her own body to be strong, when she has slept so little, eaten not quite enough, and worn her will down like a knife against wood.
Amen.
the woodsFaith is attentive, when she teaches her to grind those flowers. She is clear-eyed and inquisitive and -- to be sure -- not entirely convinced that all she's doing is making a fragrant sachet. She is curious. She wants to know more.
But now is not the time, and perhaps she is too young at any rate. The flowers are soon forgotten; the midday turns to afternoon, and the afternoon to evening. Supper is nearly a feast, and though Samuel grumbles about the extravagance of an entire chicken stewed for no purpose other than to assuage the nerves after a trying day, he does not stop her. He certainly does not refrain from eating. He even helps himself to seconds, though she catches him muttering a prayer for temperance and forgiveness as he ladles stew into his bowl.
The children have seconds too. They are encouraged by their father's excess. Their cheeks are rosy with heat and pleasure. It is like a holiday, except better: for their true holidays are typically filled with prayer and exhausting sermons.
--
After dinner, as she cleans up, Samuel is yawning. He tries to read that great and precious Bible by the fire, but his head is so heavy; he keeps nodding off. Eventually he gives up and puts the Bible away. The children are already fast asleep, curled in front of the hearth like two small dogs. He wakes them and ushers them bedward, sees to their washings and prayings, tucks them in.
By then the dinner table has been cleared, and the leftovers packed off to the cool cellar lest they spoil. Samuel, not having forgotten his edict, comes downstairs to bar the door with a length of wood so heavy and stout it would be impossible to lift without waking the whole house ... on any other night. As he treads heavily up the stairs, he mumbles what may even pass for praise, damningly faint and backhanded though it may be --
"More days like this one, Mercy, and your name might prove to be on the list of the angels yet."
--
Samuel doesn't even manage to close his bedroom door. He's barely managed to change into his nightclothes before he collapses diagonally across his bed, fast asleep. The children are already deep into their first dreams. The house is silent, save for the soft sounds of breathing, snoring, the occasional turning-over in bed.
It is only an hour or so after the late spring sunset. The witch feels awake, alert, nerves steady, senses sharp.
DevonDevon eats bread and it looks like she dips it in stew; she mostly eats broth, if she is eating at all, claiming that she wants to make sure Nicholas and Samuel get as much meat as they can for their strength. She smiles as they all eat.
Faith is the first to succumb. She is nodding away as they're cleaning the table and Devon feels a sharp stab of guilt. She sends the children over to the hearth while she tidies up, to listen to their father read the Bible, but they keep yawning and he keeps struggling to keep his eyes open. The children fall asleep and he doesn't even seem to have the energy to scold them.
Devon creeps in, offering to help the children upstairs and put them to bed, which she does, helping the limp-limbed little girl and little boy into her nightclothes and whispering I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry and little Faith just giggles:
for what? as she collapses into her bed, heading into a deep sleep already. Nicholas is not far behind. He hits the mattress beside his sister with barely a word to Mercy as she goes back downstairs.
Samuel takes far longer to give in. Devon finishes cleaning up while he struggles to finish his reading, watching him from the corner of her eyes. She looks away as he dozes, then comes alert with a start. He forces himself to his feet to bar the door, which makes her smirk at his back. He goes upstairs, muttering his words, and she hears him hit his bed upstairs.
Devon follows. She tiptoes to his threshold and sprinkles the remaining herbs and flowers from her apron pocket over his pillow, staring balefully at him.
Motherfucker, she thinks, and leaves, gently closing his door behind her and going downstairs.
--
There is still water. She puts it on her face and behind her ears, rinses out her mouth and spits, washes her hands. Pours the water on the fire and stirs the ashes, then -- in the dark -- goes to move the bar across the door. She is wasting no time. She hefts it upward, trying to be quiet but not as much as she would if she did not have the help of herbal magic she's been doing since she was Faith's age. She trusts in Gaia's grace; they will sleep through this.
Hell, with the dose she gave that stew, Rafael would sleep through this.
the woodsThere isn't so much as a stirring upstairs as she shoves the bar from its place, though the wood grinds horribly across its metal brackets. It's a heavy bar, but nothing she can't handle -- not even as heavy as her traveling suitcase, fully laden. She manages to set it down with only the lightest thud.
The door itself is heavy as well, but Samuel has the means to not only have hinges on his door but to keep them well-greased. It opens nearly without a sound.
Then the night is hers. The moon is rising out of the ocean, vast and white. The sky is utterly clear, the stars so bright she could almost touch them. The air is cleaner than any she's ever tasted, even in the mountains. There's a rustling of feathers from the henhouse, but no one clucks. The other animals are asleep in their pen.
DevonEvery little success brings her a fuck you, fuck you cheer in her mind. She slips out of the house and closes the door and runs. She's tired and underfed but she runs towards the wood anyway, undoing her bonnet, clutching the strings but letting her hair unfurl behind her in the wind.
It makes her feel clean.
She wants to whoop and holler but she doesn't dare. She just runs eastward, holding in her laughter until she's past the treeline, then all but cackling.
the woodsSummergrass feels good against her bare palms as she runs. That's the only place she can feel it, for her shoes are on, and her stockings, and her underthings and her overthings and all the ridiculous amounts of clothing she would never ever in a million years wear in her own place and time. No bracelets, straps, necklaces or earrings jingle-jangle from her body as she runs, either. Her own laughter is the loudest sound she makes, and it is loud enough to frighten small creatures in the undergrowth -- a tiny explosion of rabbits and startled birds fleeing from her.
In the wake of it, there is movement. Not her own. Not an animal's. A large, dark, familiar shape thrashing not-gracefully through the brush, tugging itself loose of a snagging branch.
"Heard you laughing," the wolf explains, approaching. "What's so funny?"
DevonDevon in 2016 never wears this much clothing, even in winter. Leggings, a baggy sweater -- these are her concessions to cold weather. In May, in June, she wears short-shorts and tanktops, next-to-nothing shirts, short sundresses that she somehow makes slutty even with little flowers on them. She bares her arms and her legs and her sides and Rafael follows her with his eyes and sometimes his feet, closing the distance between them, between her steps and his, between her skin and his.
Like he does now. Even when she's covered tip to toes in so many layers she can feel the heaviness of it all. She nearly runs smack into his chest. But not quite -- at the last moment she adjusts, and leaps, and throws herself onto him, arms around him, kissing him as soon as he's caught her.
the woodsTruth be told it's harder to catch her. There's so much fabric, slipping and sliding. He's used to her lithe agility, the way she leaps, the way she wraps her legs around him as he wraps his arms around her; cups his hands under her thighs or -- let's be honest -- her ass.
Different now. All those skirts. He wraps his arms around her, but she slips, and he grabs, but it's just a handful of rough fabric, and then she's kissing him and he still doesn't quite have a hold on her so he hefts her higher, gets a hold. He kisses her hungrily there in the dark forest, the trees, the shadows. No fire tonight, no smoke. Just what heat burns between them.
DevonHer legs can't wrap around him easily in this dress. She hangs from him, trusting his strength despite the awkwardness. The fact that she slips a bit just makes her laugh again, but she refuses to stop kissing him. She reaches behind him and all but clutches at his hair, moaning softly at the contact.
She likes the way his tongue feels in her mouth. She likes tasting his. She feels like no one's touched her in weeks. She feels her heart hammering so hard in her chest that it beats in her ears, thrums in her limbs. She can feel herself already growing wet, just to be near him again. Just to kiss him.
Sighs, when she has to breathe. Opens her eyes to look at him.
"Deeper," she whispers, and doesn't mean the kiss: "Deeper into the woods."
the woodsHe doesn't want to put her down. First time he's had her in his arms for -- god, it feels like weeks. First time, and he doesn't want to let her go. He shifts her, hefts her, scoops her up in his arms and strides into the woods. Deeper, wading past dense undergrowth, gnarled roots, ducking under low branches.
"Take that stupid dress off," he mutters. "Glad you lost that stupid bonnet."
DevonRafael thinks everything is stupid, and this amuses Devon terribly. She goes on kissing him as she can, but lets him walk. Struggles a bit but wraps herself around him so he can carry her more easily. Nuzzles him under his jaw. Breathes in his scent, though it's understandably stronger than usual. She holds onto him as tight as he holds onto her, and doesn't take a single thing off. She is still carrying the bonnet, at least, holding onto it like she needs it.
She will need it. On her way back.
"No," she says, obstinate but breathy. "Want you to help me take it off before you fuck me."
the woodsDoes think everything is stupid. The dress, the stockings, the bonnet, the uncomfortable shoes. Thinks his own clothes are stupid too, scratchy and hot and his shoes are hard as rocks. Thinks it's stupid that he can't approach her in town, stupid that he has to meet her behind barns and deep in the woods, stupid that her uncle keeps haranguing her, stupid.
Not stupid that she's here now though. Not stupid that she holds onto him, happy but also -- holding on for holding on's sake, like she too can't bear to let an inch of space open up between them. She's still holding that stupid bonnet. He wants to throw it into the trees, except he gets it. He's not stupid. And this world, this time -- it's not stupid either. It's devilishly clever, and prying, and cruel, and it's just
waiting
for someone like her to slip up.
--
Truth be told this counts as slipping up. This is the epitome of slipping up: drugging her family, those gracious people who were kind enough to take her in after her own died. Running into the woods on her own. Meeting a boy, a man to whom she is neither wed nor betrothed. Saying the sort of things that would appall every last soul in Newbury -- except the one she's with.
He's not appalled. He swallows, his throat moving where she nuzzles him. He does smell stronger than usual. He stinks, frankly, but he still smells like himself. He still looks like himself, talks like himself, moves like himself; as though what makes him him transcends the centuries and the miles.
He sets her down. They've stopped rather suddenly, but they've come a long way. Now they stand in a clearing, and now -- for the first time in a long time -- he lets her go. So he can go stomping around the clearing, trampling the undergrowth flat, flattening a region out like an animal building a den, a nest, a bower.
When he's done, or perhaps when he loses patience, he comes back to her. He's breathing hard by then, and in the dark he has trouble with the lacings of his shirt. The cord whips through the eyes; when he gets it loose enough he pulls it off over his head, tosses it on the ground.
Steps into her, her face between his hands: kisses her again, drenchingly, meltingly, eating at her mouth until her neck arches, until her arms circle him.
DevonFor what it's worth, she agrees with him. This town is stupid. That scene back in town was stupid to the point of madness. The clothes are stupid and the hygiene is stupid and the rules are stupid and all she wants in the world is to be naked for the first time in days and to feel Rafael against her, also naked, like they aren't in this stupid time but they're just out in the woods somewhere, fucking because that's what they seem to enjoy best.
Every time she even thinks the word fucking, Devon gets more aroused. Her cheeks are flushed in the dark. She is let down when they get deeper into the woods and she immediately steps aside, setting her bonnet down. Stepping out of her awful shoes beside them. She doesn't want anything to get torn, or stained, or lost. Then Samuel Noyes will know.
They are all waiting for her to slip up. Waiting for her to fail, even in some small way or in some stray look, so they can burn her alive and hope that this holds back the darkness a little longer. It never worked. It never does work. Never will. All they are doing is inviting the darkness in. Devon knows this: their fear is the magic. Their rituals are the spell. They open the door wide, and keep killing children and women thinking that this is not what the darkness is asking for. Thinking they are doing anything but slaking the thirst that darkness has for innocent blood.
Devon thinks it is all terrible, and stupid. But that doesn't mean she's going to risk it. She sets her shoes aside and strips out of her stockings, tucking them under her shoes. Turns to him and sees he's stamping out a bed and she almost laughs, but she loves him so much for it, loves him for being such an animal, loves him for wanting to soften even the grass for her.
He comes to her, pulling his shirt off, and her amusement dies, replaced yet again with heat. She takes in a sharp breath and meets him where he is, pulling him down to her, kissing him hard. She doesn't care that their mouths are wet and their hands fumble in the dark: he can find her laces. She can help him. In the meantime, she reaches behind herself, untying her apron, tossing it aside. One more thing down.
the woodsOne more thing down.
He responds by undoing his trousers -- which are large and loose, gathered roughly at the waist with a length of cord. The clothes of a working man who has no time for fine breeches and easily-torn hose. He pushes them down, kicks them aside, mutters irritably because his underclothes are practically another layer of clothing in and of themselves. He gets those off too. And his stockings, and his shoes, and then he's barefoot on wildgrass; the night wind is cool on his bare, overheated skin.
He reaches for her fastenings. There are no buttons -- buttons are expensive, and easily lost -- but there are laces. He turns her around and starts undoing those laces, stripping those thin straps out so fast the ends sting his hands. He is reminded of the first time, the first night; he'd undressed her like this too, wildly and impatiently, bit her when he couldn't contain himself anymore.
Together they pull her dress up and over her head. Beneath he finds another morass, a foreign country of stays and bolsters and petticoats, a shift as all-covering as a dress; underclothing more restrictive and modest than his own. Piece by piece they undo it all, reverse it all, cast it all off. When his hands find her skin at last he growls; kisses a bare shoulder; grips at her bare body.
When she turns to face him, he lifts her. This time she can wrap her legs around him. This time when they kiss it feels exactly the way it should, the two of them together irregardless of time or place. He sinks to his knees; lays her in the trampled grass.
DevonHer apron gone, Devon has started touching his chest. She pants against his mouth to feel him, hot under her palms. Her touch is aimless at first, drunken; like the feel of him is intoxicating her, drugging her. He's struggling with his own clothes before he gets to hers, and she huffs a breath because this is amusing, but she's not disappointed.
When Rafael first reaches for her laces, Devon stops kissing his mouth. He has to see; all of this is unfamiliar, and there is so much of it. But she doesn't stop touching him. She doesn't stop kissing him, but now her lips are falling on his chest, caressing the side of his pectoral muscle, brushing over his nipple. She licks him there, tasting sweat -- some fresh, some stale, and it doesn't matter. She presses her hands more firmly on his sides, holds him tighter, tempted to suck and not inclined to resist that temptation. So she wraps her mouth around his nipple and sucks, groaning softly.
The laces on the front of her waistcoat, first, and the easiest. She can suck on him, kiss him, lick his skin, while he does this. She shrugs out of the waistcoat with his help, aching for it to be gone. She tosses that out of the way; they can't fuck on top of her clothes, rub them into the dirt and grass, and expect Samuel Noyes not to beat her with a switch or belt in the morning. Or worse.
But then there's the laces down the back of her dress-proper, and Rafael turns her around, hunching over them, and she's reminded of all those silly buttons and such on her Halloween dress, her broken doll costume. He goes quickly and the bodice loosens and she gasps; she hadn't quite realized just how used she gotten to the way it impeded her breathing. Together they wiggle her out of it; there is no way the close-fitting, thickly woven garment would fit over her hips, slide down easy.
Underneath is her chemise and petticoat, and beneath that is her shift, but these are all a bit easier to undo: a drawstring, a single lace. She slips from them, sylph-like, as Rafael helps her, and she gets closer and closer to herself as she loses all these things. Her wild, long, dark hair on her finally bared, freckled shoulders. Her fair arms and legs, her slender thighs, those sweet pink nipples. Rafael is growling for it, for her, and all she can do is press herself against him.
It nearly knocks her out. Nearly makes her faint, feeling his stomach on hers, feeling his cock pressing against her hip, feeling his hands on her back, her ass, up her shoulderblades, over her arms, around to her breasts. Even the very first touch makes her knees tremble a little; she's slept so little in the past two days. She doesn't want to sleep now, but she's weakened, and her will is sapped from too much magic in those two days with not enough rest, and she knows it, and this is all she wants. This is all she can imagine that might restore her.
Rafael might sense the way her legs threaten to give out; lifts her up, and her legs fold easily and smoothly and close around him. She looks at him with something like relief, like gratitude, like this is all both the pain and the cure, at once. She is herself again, freed from these temporary and false constraints. She has the woods around her, earth under her, the sea nearby, and the moon look down, and Rafael like fire against her skin, magic like fire underneath her skin. She's a witch. And finally, she starts to feel stronger again. Starts to feel like she knows what she has to do, and why, and how far she'll go.
Like she knows, better than she ever has, how far she can go.
--
She kisses him hard still, but deeply, trying to tell him what she's feeling, or hoping he can translate something she doesn't even have words for.
Which isn't true, but feels that way sometimes. The words are this:
she loves him so much. She loves him so, so much.
--
As he sinks to his knees, her center of gravity shifts. She follows him, slides from him, lays back on the crushed, sweet-smelling, cool grass. Kisses him, and goes on kissing him, and it's rare that kissing her and undressing her is everything, is all she needs, but tonight it is. Tonight she's been hungering for him for days, for hours. Her hand slides down his side, his hip, his ass, drawing him closer. And when her hand shifts, when she strokes him, takes him in her hand, pulls him to her, he can feel how wet she is. How ready for this. For him.
the woodsLittle by little they become themselves again. They lose those strange and temporary constraints. They become wild and untamed, bare and primal. No wonder Mercy must pin and twist and hide her hair under that little coif, for it is so long, so thick, so dark; it would give her away at once, even as her eyes do. She is not of this world. She is not of these rules. She is a witch, and knowledge, freedom, temptation, power are in her eyes.
Yet -- she is also just a woman. A human being, a girl, a skinny thing that's barely ate or slept in two days. Her heart beats too fast and she is trembling, and he sees it, and it burrows into the very chambers of his heart. He lifts her. She looks grateful, relieved, and he starts to ask her --
well, it never leaves his mouth. She kisses him again, and that is when he sinks down, and that is when she lays back, and that is when he covers her. Her hands run over his skin; strokes across planes of muscle and arcs of bone. When she touches him, takes his cock in her hand, he groans against her mouth; pulls back to watch her stroke him, watch her draw him to her.
He looks into her eyes. His hand cradles her head, keeps it off the ground. He moves into her smoothly, familiarly, and as she takes him in he wraps her in his arms; holds her close and tight the way he does.
They've exchanged almost no words at all, and none seem necessary. He understands that she loves him. She understands, he thinks, that he loves her, and missed her terribly, and searched for her even when he wasn't searching for her -- his eyes wandering the crowds, his ears alert for her voice. He felt her absence like a hole in the gut.
Closing now, though. Healing now, though. His hands push her hair back; he kisses her again, one kiss melding to the next, their mouths never quite parting.
DevonShe's so impatient. And for all that, they aren't rushing. Not headlong, not madcap, not frantic. Healing, which happens so quickly and yet so purposefully, urgent but careful. That's what this is. She cries out after that first warm, slow entry, when the flex of his hips takes over and he slides into her. Her hips open a little, tip to meet him, welcome him. She arches a little, trembles under him because of her weariness, her hunger, and now her need.
Devon is panting softly with it. She doesn't say anything now, she who normally begs for so many words. She's sunk to something else now, something more primal than her ever-racing, brilliant mind can permit her most of the time. Her body holds tightly to his: her arms, her legs, even -- especially -- her cunt. She opens her mouth to him when he lowers his face to kiss her, and she accepts it, receives it like a blessing, which it is.
All she needs right now is this. For him to be here, for him to be with her. She can't see the moon or the sky past the trees overhead, above his shoulder, but she looks up anyway, the view dizzying, whispering in his ear a sort of magic spell of its own:
"I love you. Fuck me."
Something about the fricative rush of the next to last word is meant as a spark to some unseen line of powder up his spine. Something about the way she says it, after that soft and aching declaration of a sacred truth, is carnal. Is animal.
the woodsDoes light him off. Always does, always did, when she says that word. Says it like that. Fuck me. Wolf never stops to analyze it. Probably some base neanderthal thing. Probably something connected to how he loved it that one time she praised him for fucking her so well. Something about being at once commanded and beseeched; something about that word, that soft fricative, that hard consonant. Fuck.
Makes him growl. Makes him seize her in his teeth, but then he remembers he shouldn't. Shouldn't? Thinks she told him that once, a long time ago, four hundred years in the future. They were in Oregon. He hardly remembers the word; it doesn't exist yet in this time.
Fuck exists, though. Fucking exists. Sex and lust exist, of course they do; the Puritans wouldn't fear them so if they didn't. People still lust in the dank corners of their heart. People still fuck in the darkness, under covers, furtively fumbling at the propagation of the species. What a fucked-up religion it is that they follow, that the very act of love, bonding, and life has been cast down and denounced.
They don't hide, though. Not here. Not when they're alone, just the two of them, coupling like animals on the forest floor. He kisses her where he bit her; he mutters a reply.
"Love you."
Just that. Not too, not like you, nothing to sidestep it or dodge it. They don't have time for that. She's in too much danger for that. They have time only for the truth, which is what they give each other, and for this desperate, slow fuck. His arms are so tight around her; he fucks her so firmly, so heavily, the weight of his body driving into hers. His big hands grasp at her hair, her back, as though if he didn't clutch at her she might simply break apart and waft away. And then he might lose her. He can't bear to lose her.
"Love you, Devon," he says, a second time, clearer. "I love you. I do."
DevonIt's something of a magic spell, that word, that moment when she twines love and lust in her voice and wraps both around him. There's intention in it; there is also power. She commands him but she also invites him; she asks him for his attention and his favor, and she exposes her vulnerability to him. All of these things; more.
And being magical himself, Rafael responds to it instantly, entirely, whole-heartedly. He answers her with all the strength in his body and spirit at once, and she cries out from it, her arms wrapped around him, her hands briefly clutching as he bites her, snarls at her skin. If he isn't supposed to be biting her right now, Devon doesn't mention it. She doesn't pull away, tense up, stop him this time. She trembles, and wetness slides between their bodies every time he draws his cock out of her, every time he pushes it back in. Sounds come out of her, too, every time he moves like that in her. For her.
Then he says he loves her. Her body tightens under his, her cunt gripping his cock. She bites her lower lip, head back, then has to let go to gasp for air.
Then he says he loves her again. Says her name, the first thing he said to her in this time, letting her know she wasn't alone. And she cries out again, softer and more plaintive, overcome.
Then he says he loves her a third time, a sacred time. And Devon shakes, panting against him, meeting every stroke of his body, every flex of his hips, a little faster and harder than she was before. She holds onto him with everything she has, and from the way she's fucking him and the way she's breathing and the way every little cry from her lips seems truncated and urgent, he knows she's going to come soon. Impossibly soon, but many things she does are impossible. This can be, too.
He seals it. I do. She lets out a sound that seems stirringly close to pain, is nothing anywhere near pain. As it is shaking out of her, she breathes back:
"Rafa," a gasp and a plea and a warning. She may as well be begging him to hold onto her, and don't let her fall, don't let her be carried away by a wave, by wind. And again, louder this time, sound like fear but more like need, right before the water and the wind take her anyway, pull her skyward and plunge her into depths all at once: "Rafa --!"
the woodsHe remembers the first time he heard her moan. Wasn't when they kissed the first time. Wasn't while they undressed -- while he nearly tore that disturbingly childlike doll-dress from her body. Wasn't while he groped and grabbed at her, wasn't while he pulled her down, wasn't even the first time he bit her, mindless and needful.
Was when she bared his body and pressed herself to him. Was the first time their skin touched like that, intimately and irrevocably. Sometimes he thinks that was the moment, the point of no return. But then: he can think of a thousand such moments before and since. Maybe love isn't a tripwire, all or nothing. Maybe it's a tunnel that goes deeper and deeper; a storm that whips you higher and higher.
Certainly feels like they attain some impossible height; plunge to some impossible depth. Certainly feels like madness and obsession, and some dark old truth at the center of the world. He knows exactly what that sound means, and what her grasp on him means, and what the tremble in her thighs means. He knows exactly what it is that lights his nerves off, burns down his spine. She speaks his name; he grasps at her body, pins her down with his weight, the momentum of his thrust; bites. There's something unapologetic and primitive about it.
She comes. So does he. The sound he makes is involuntary and short and rough. Sometimes at the point of orgasm he fucks her furiously, heavy and deep; but not this time. This time he stays with her, close, tight, encompassing and holding her in every way he knows how, eyes closed, breath short, chopping, unsteady.
--
Feels like he has to hold her, in this time and place. It's such a strange world, so dark and borderless, and the god-fearing intruders that tremble at its shore are so vengeful, so fearful, so self-devouring. It's such an unspoilt world, so raw and wild, and here -- he knows, she knows, they both know with all the instinct they were born with -- magic is still unfettered and powerful. Could take them both over.
If he doesn't hold her, she might dissipate to mist. Fly away into the night, never to be seen again. If he doesn't hold her, he might forget how to be human. Run away into the forest, never to be seen again.
So he holds her.
--
And afterward, panting and shattered, he kisses her shoulder; licks the sweat from her skin. A while later, he rolls a little ways aside, exhales like a sigh.
"Really is you," he murmurs; as though that was ever in doubt.
DevonAnother time, Devon might huff laughter, might smack him, might even tense up and ask him what the fuck he's doing fucking her if he wasn't sure it was her. Right now, though, Devon is on some other plane. She feels renewed. She feels some of her power back, feels the ground beneath her as steady and breathing and warm and welcoming and alive as Rafael on top of her. They have crushed the grass under their bodies, torn at the dirt, and she can smell all that richness just as easily as she can smell his sweat, his him-ness. She feels so much more settled, so much more safe, than she did even as she ran triumphantly into the woods to meet him.
She is so grateful, too. Enough that when he mutters his nonsensical, dumbo declaration, all Devon does is wrap herself more securely around him, as though to prevent him from going any farther away from her. She holds onto him, deeply comforted by the breadth of his shoulders and the heaviness of his chest, the slickness of his skin where it is desperately trying to cool itself. She hugs him tightly, his cock still buried in her pussy, and nuzzles her face into the side of his neck, hiding there for a while.
Somewhere deep in her, she already knows she has to go. She has to dip herself in the ocean or a stream to wash. She has to put her hair back up in its bonnet and don those awful clothes again. She has to go back to the house of Samuel Noyes and the village of Newbury. She needs to take care of little Faith and even asinine Nicholas, who will still be groggy and disoriented for most of the next day from what she did to them. She needs to be there, pure and obedient, when Samuel Noyes stumbles awake and yanks open the curtain to her little orphan's alcove. And all these things she needs to do so that she will make it to another day, to another battle.
She hopes she can help someone like Hannah again. Or Mary Goffe. Her kind. But all of them, really, hanging on to their souls by threads.
Devon breathes in deeply. She holds him as long as she can. She doesn't want to be the one to tell him she has to go.
But nor does she want to put that burden on him.
So she holds him, and she nuzzles him, and says nothing. Their skins start to cool, but long before she shivers, she whispers to him: "Babe, I'm sorry."
Devon doesn't even need to say why:
I have to go.
the woodsHis eyes open at the first syllable from her mouth. Animal-like, he'd been dozing, but it wasn't true sleep. He inhales, fills his lungs and expands his chest.
Exhales. Touches her face in that heavy, pawing way of his, without finesse but certainly not without care. She doesn't need to explain why she's sorry. They both know.
He doesn't say anything in return. Just kisses her, slow and soft. And then, exhaling, lets her draw away and rise.
--
They're both putting their clothes back on when he speaks again.
"Before you go," he mutters, pulling on his trousers, "spent some time listening to the buzz around town today. Lots of crazy talk, witches and devils. Six people are sitting in jail waiting for some judge to show up tomorrow, and half the town saw what happened today with Hannah, and the butcher, and you."
He finishes with his laces. Comes over to her, taking her by the hand, the arm, the shoulders. Interrupts whatever lace or knot or article or garment she's dealing with.
"You might've saved her life getting her to confess. But the townsfolk took it to mean witchcraft's real and the devil's loose here. Now they're scared out of their heads, looking for someone to blame. Don't be that someone. All right? Be careful, Devon."
DevonIn bed, in his condo or her friend's flat or in his mansion in the mountains or in whatever road motel they're staying on on whatever trip they're on now, they might roll over. Doze. Fuck again. Or get up, shower, fuck again there. Or just sleep.
They can't do that here. They can't snuggle together in the grass, keep each other warm with limbs and scraps of clothing. They can't shuffle back to some place together and find a bed to fall into. And it's a shame, because that's all Devon wants in the world right now. To keep him. To keep him with her, at her side, as she does whatever it is they need her to do here.
A storm is coming.
And she will be tested.
Devon tucks her face against Rafael's neck again, just for a moment, before he pulls away. He touches her face, her hair, lifts her to him and kisses her, deep and slow the way she needs him to right now. It makes it harder, though, to let go.
But they let go.
They must.
--
Devon's clothes take time. Shift, chemise, petticoats... everything back on again in reverse order. She blindly and badly braids her hair, tucks it up under the bonnet, looking at Rafael as he speaks. Listening. Her brow furrows anxiously. Her throat moves as she swallows. She's still only about half-dressed when he comes over and touches her, stops her, and she faces him.
Witchcraft is real.
And the devil is loose.
The devil is me, she thinks, but not with self-recrimination or self-loathing. Nor with pride. Just reality. There's no such thing as Lucifer, not that she knows of. But there is a spirit of rebellion and resistance and doubt, and it lives inside of her. It's who she is.
She nods.
"As careful as I can be. But I'm not going to let them burn and hang these women. I can't stand back and watch that to protect myself."
the woodsHe finishes dressing himself first. Even in present day this would be true. There were mornings on this road trip or the other when he waited for her, sitting on a windowsill in a patch of sun -- watching her put on her makeup or her jewelry, all those clinking and clanking bracelets running up and down her thin wrists.
Tonight he comes over to her, unwilling to be far away. He helps her with some of her laces, the ones that tie behind her back -- clumsily, not as well as she'd do them herself.
"I know," he says, quietly. And he drops a kiss on her shoulder before covering it up, tying another tie. "I'll try to stay close by. And I'll keep my ear to the ground. Might hear things, see things. Let you know."
Done with the laces, he lowers his hands. Fingertips graze her waist as she turns to face him. He steps into her, that light touch turning heavy; he runs his palm over her side, cups her breast through her gown while he kisses her.
"Meet you here again tomorrow night?"
DevonFucking breeches and shirt and shoes and Bob's your uncle. She's got eighteen things to put back on and lace up and braid and hide so she doesn't offend the Lord or incite the lust of any man who looks at her. As though the stiff fabric and long hems would stop them.
Devon is grateful for the help with the laces up her back; she was struggling when he came over. She wouldn't really do them much better than he would, anyway.
He kisses her shoulder and she sighs softly, wanting again. Wanting more. She closes her eyes a moment. There is this much to say about her ridiculous garb: it covers the place where his teeth dug into her, glaring bright pink on her pale skin, an obvious sign of what she's been up to. Devon turns to him, her eyes limpid, stepping into his light touch and breathing in deeply when he gets serious about it, when his hand touches her like that. She is touching his forearms then, and her hands tighten as he kisses her. She almost groans.
Tomorrow she'll insist that she and the children, at least, take baths. Wash up at least a little. That will be good. The bite mark will have faded by then, she'll have no bruise to show for it because of her wolf's blood. And --
His words interrupt her train of thought. Tomorrow night.
Tomorrow night she'll bring a cloth, perhaps. A bit of water to wash with. Make sure she doesn't smell like him, doesn't smell like she just got fucked in the woods by some sort of devil-ridden beast. Which he is. Which is what she likes.
Devon just nods, and puts her arms around his neck, standing on her toes and drawing him down to kiss again. Parts only reluctantly, and exhales. "I have to sleep a few hours," she whispers. "That helped -- more than you know. But I'm still exhausted. Walk me to the edge of the woods?"
the woodsHe holds her by the waist as she kisses him, and as they part, he catches her hand. Winds his fingers through hers, his forearm alongside hers.
" 'Course," he says. Tenderness isn't in his nature, and so it's a gruff sound, short as a bark -- but he does feel tenderly toward her right now. Exhausted, endangered, hunted like an animal by a world that neither likes nor tolerates her.
They walk back together, and he says little. Remains beside her, though, his hand in hers.
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