The Awakening
Raven Feathers

Brenna backed up toward the wall. The shape loomed larger. Massive shoulders, rounded torso, arms that could lift a felled tree.

“Chapman’s called off to a meetin’,” Viccars said. “Ananias Dare came for him. Be ya knowin’ Chapman is an educated man? Not like me, no, not like me ‘tal. Chapman can read and write. They need’m to put all their fancy words down onto the parchment. Everythin’ orderly and tidy, like we was home in England.”

“Can I open the door?” Brenna asked. “It’s dark in here.”

“Nay, lass,” Viccars said quietly. “Can’t stand the light. Hurts my eyes.”

She sensed him very near, then the stale odor of beer wafted across her face. Beneath the beer hovered another smell, something disturbing and rotten. His arms reached out and encased her on either side. Trapped against the wall, she held her breath and pushed back into the plaster.

“Nothin’ matters anymore,” he said. “Not the words, or the meetins, or what they be thinkin’. Things are changin’. Can’t ya feel it, wench? A witch like you ought to feel the tides and the moon and the changes stirrin’ in the wind, feel the darkness movin’ across the island, see the shadows. Have ya not seen them? Felt them?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Master Viccars.”

Viccars shook his head violently, like a bull preparing to charge. His eyes flashed with an unnatural glimmer in the gloom.

“He’s afeared of ya. Said ya couldn’t be trusted cause of the power and, oh aye, I can feel it in ya. The power of the witch.”

“I’m not a witch,” Brenna said softly.

“What a lying little bitch ya are,” Viccars said. “Though I’ll forgive it cause the smell of ya, the sight of ya, ‘tis more than a man can bear. ‘Tis more than I can bear.”

“I think you should move away.”

His face inched closer and the smell made Brenna gag. She turned her face toward the wall as his mouth grazed across her cheek, a thin veil of saliva coating her skin. One of his hands stroked her hair, and his touch sent a wave of revulsion through her.

“You’re warm,” he said. “So much warmer than Elizabeth. Must be that gypsy blood. That indenture of mine is a lucky man. He’s touched ya, hasn’t he? What kinds of things does he do to ya in the dark?”

“Please get away,” Brenna whispered.

“Too much beauty, too much woman. ‘Tis sinful. Ya ripened on the voyage, gypsy. You’ll be needin’ a man in this land, not a boy like Nick Johnson. I have enough for ya, wench. Elizabeth need never know and if Johnson doesna want to share, we’ll take care of him good and proper.”

Viccars pressed his face into her hair, inhaling deeply, and groaned, his swollen belly pushing toward her. His hand swept across her shoulder, leaving a sensation of squirming maggots burrowing into the soft flesh of her body, seeping into her pores, wiggling through her veins. The saliva on her skin dried to a hard crust that ate at her flesh like acid. His hands roamed the length of her body, moving over the curves inside the too-tight dress and his thumb flickered over the swell of her breast. Brenna stifled a moan deep in her throat.

“I know what ya need, gypsy girl. I can smell it on ya.”

He grabbed her hips, pulling her roughly toward his groin. Her stomach clenched as fear shot through her.

She wanted to scream, but if someone heard, there would be questions, stares, accusations. She knew what the villagers thought of her. She was foreign, different, a beautiful face on a lush body, an exotic flower in a field of weeds. Beautiful to watch, to lust after, to discuss in dark places, to dream of, to envy. But so different from them. Never accepted, never included.

The scream wound through her body, seeking an outlet. Close to panic, she vibrated with fear. She didn’t have the strength to push him away but she had to do something. She moved her arms between them and her open palms met the rough cloth of his shirt. A warm tingle pulsated through her arm and, as she prepared to push against his chest, a tiny spark of light fluttered near her hand. Abruptly, the cottage blazed with blinding light.

Viccars hurled backwards, his startled scream echoing in the cottage. He choked and cursed, his hand pressed to the front of his shirt. He fell hard and sprawled across the floorboard, his dirty gray hair whipping across his face. His breath came in hard gasps and the whites of his eyes shone in the darkness.

“What did ya do?” he demanded. He staggered to his feet and lurched several steps toward her, but stopped dead as a grimace of pain slashed across his face.

“Nothing,” she choked. “I barely touched you.”

“A gypsy hex,” he whispered. His round eyes stared at her through the darkness, a deadly mix of horror and revenge. “I’ll be seein the council about ya. What did ya do to me?”

Her legs buckled beneath her, and she slumped against the wall for support. “Nothing. Just stay away from me.”

“There be trouble comin’, gypsy. So much trouble not even Peyton will be able to help ya.”

She fumbled with the latch of the door, desperate, but paused when she heard her name ooze from his lips like an oily curse. Reluctantly, she turned back towards him.

“Twilight be comin’, pretty one, and you’ll answer for this. Gypsy hexes will not help ya on judgment day. The Captain knows.”

She yanked the door open and staggered into the sunlight.

ADULT EXCERPT

Tarian muttered as his mouth roamed her face, down her throat. “All night I tried to track them. I searched everywhere but I felt nothing but you. I am lost and useless without you. What have you done to me? All I can think of is you.”

His lips covered hers again and she yielded to his kiss, drawing herself tighter to him.

“Get inside,” he said. “I have to have you. I can’t wait another day, another hour, another moment.”

“Tarian, something’s happened. Things have begun.”

“Now, Brenna!”

His hand fumbled with the latch as his mouth captured hers once again. She tried to talk, but it was impossible. She too was lost, filled with ache, need, desire that spiraled through her and stole her breath. The door crashed open, and they practically fell inside.

His body forced her across the room, his hands struggling with the laces of her dress. A ripping sound filled her ears as he frantically tore at the ties. When his hand plunged inside the bodice, covering her breast, kneading, trying to touch every inch of her flesh, fire coursed through her body, and she forgot every word she needed to say.

His mouth found hers again. She turned her face, needing him to know how much he meant to her. “Don’t ever leave me like that again.”

“No, Brenna, never.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise. I will say anything you want.”

He clawed at her skirt, sweeping it up. He pushed her toward the curtain, practically ripping it from the ceiling as he yanked it away. Brenna’s hand caught the edge of his breeches, drawing him closer, needing him closer, and he smashed into her, raking his hands into her hair and locking his mouth on hers.

They fell to the bed, and she clutched the back of his neck. His hand wrenched the dress above her hips, the calluses of his hand rough on the skin of her thigh. He paused only a moment to tear at the strings of his breeches. He pushed the leather over his hips with one hand while his knee forced her legs apart.

“I wanted it to be different than this the first time.” He reached between them, and she felt a feathery whisper between her legs. “But I can’t stop. I need you now.”

“No, don’t stop,” she whispered. “I need you too.”

He groaned. “Are you willing? Please tell me you’re willing.”

“Aye,” she gasped. She pulled him closer.

“And you want me?”

“Only you,” she whispered. “Don’t think, don’t talk, and for God’s sake, don’t stop.”

The feathery whisper turned into a hard prodding that offered the fulfillment of a promise. She opened her thighs wider to accept him. She focused on his eyes, dark, deep pools of hunger. She grabbed his hips and yanked him closer.

“What’s taking so long?” she grumbled. “We’ve waited too long already.”

Now that he was here, his flesh, his scent, the silky sweep of his hair face consumed her. And that hard length against her thigh drove her insane.

“Don’t you want—?”

“Whatever it is, not right now,” Brenna said. “Push inside. Don’t worry about me.”

He moved his manhood, spreading their moisture across her aching flesh. The touch of him felt unbearable and Brenna arched her hips, eager to feel him inside. He spread her soft folds and for one moment Brenna tensed, preparing herself to accept him.

Tarian pushed forward, one gentle press, entering her body a fraction of an inch. Brenna held her breath.

“It might hurt,” he whispered.

“I don’t care.”

“I’m larger than some and you’re a maiden.”

“Are you trying to talk me out of it now?”

“You may not like it this time.”

“Then we’ll do it again,” she said. She grabbed his face and forced him to look at her. She gave him a stern look. “Stop talking, Tarian. We’ve waited long enough. I’m ready, damn it! Just make me yours.”

He nodded. She tucked her face into his neck preparing for the worst. He smeared more fluid across her flesh and pulled away slightly. Just when she wondered what on earth he was doing, his hips rose under her hands, and he slid a little further between her folds. She waited and waited and nothing else happened. She knew nothing about lovemaking, but there had to be more than that. He stiffened above her.

“Come on!” she cried. “Don’t stop. I can’t wait any longer. What are you doing? I can’t feel you.”

“Bloody hell,” he groaned.