Ignition Read online

  “So, my lord. Do you think you might find something for me to do?”

  I answer her self-satisfied smile with one of my own.

  “I expect I can make use of you. There is always a shortage of pretty faces around here—for serving.”

  “I live to serve, my lord.” She curtsies. I reach out my hand to gently grasp her elbow and lift her back up. She makes no outward physical sign that shows her reaction to my touch, but her lauvan writhe with greater intensity and focus themselves in interesting places. I bite back a smile. It is always gratifying to see oneself through the eyes of attraction.

  “Does my newest server have a name?” I keep my hand on her elbow much longer than necessary, and my own lauvan start to twist. I let her go slowly.

  She meets my gaze once again and smiles, sure of herself.

  “My name is Vivienne.”

  ***

  I’m restless. I’ve been here at Arthur’s side for many months as he transitions through his father’s death and into the responsibility of being the head of his household, a member of the war council, and the main benefactor of the surrounding countryside and its people. Uther and I have taught him well, but it’s a lot to lie on the shoulders of someone who’s only just barely a man. He’s growing into the responsibility, thank the goddess, because I’m starting to go crazy staying in the same place for so long. I’ve spent winters at the villa since Arthur was a boy, but most summers take me far from here. It’s been a long time since I traveled anywhere, and I have a yearning to cross the sea and try my fortunes there for a while. I’ll be back, of course. I always come back. What started as a tutoring job for one winter has turned into a permanent advisory role to a young lord. Arthur relies on me.

  In fact, he relies too much on me. It will be good for him to function on his own for a while. He needs to make his own decisions, be his own man, take advice but not require it for every decision.

  And if I stay here much longer, I might start growing moss.

  I pace through the villa. My twitchy, restless lauvan touch the lauvan of everyone I pass, and briefly infect them with my mood. I sigh and head toward the great hall to leave the villa. Perhaps a walk in the hills will settle me.

  I squeeze through the heavy wooden door, carved with a mixture of old Roman gods, the Christian cross, and the knots and twists of my people. This villa and the people living in it are a strange melding of Roman and Brythonic. The village where I was born is so far into the hills that the Romans never bothered to make their presence known, and traveling monks rarely visited. We didn’t bother them, so they didn’t bother us. Down in the south is another matter—it’s been Roman here for centuries. Many men here consider themselves Roman citizens still, even with civil wars in the capital and the withdrawing of all garrisons many years ago. Despite this, they have never forgotten their Brythonic heritage. It results in a mixture that seems strange to me and perfectly natural to everyone born here.

  I’m a bit of an outsider, with my darker skin and distinctly un-Roman nose. I’m known to be “from the hills,” which seems to automatically inform everyone that I am likely not descended from Roman citizens, and therefore not quite as worthy. Not that many people seem to care. Especially not the ones I care about.

  I slip through the doorway into the cool of the great hall from the courtyard, where my eyes adjust to the dimness. There is movement at the far end of the hall, past the many trestle tables and long benches. A multitude of wooden candlesticks dot the tables, the expensive iron ones reserved for the head table.

  The movement resolves itself as the form of Vivienne. She is on tiptoes, reaching up to hang a flower garland above the doorway. Her feet waver on a little three-legged stool and her bottom wiggles lusciously under her dress in her efforts. I could steady the lauvan of her stool, I suppose, and give her an easier time, but she’s so lovely to watch that I can’t quite bring myself to do it. Nobody has ever accused me of being a particularly good man.

  I cross the room on silent footfalls to come up behind her. Her garland now placed above the lintel, she turns.

  “Oh!” Her eyes open wide with surprise and she sways dangerously on her rickety stool. I anticipate this and hold out my arms to catch her when she topples toward the ground. Her weight in my arms is soft and conforms to my body. I wonder if that is not just luck, for she seems to take her time righting herself, and is in no hurry to extract herself from my hold.

  She looks up into my eyes from under her eyelashes.

  “Did you do that on purpose?”

  She sees right through me.

  “Would it be a problem if I did?”

  She reaches up to trace a forefinger along my jawline. My body tenses in anticipation.

  “Cruel man. Startling poor, defenseless girls like that.” She turns her face up to move her lips close to mine. Her breath is scented with the honey cake cook served after the midday meal, sweet and deep and rich. “Perhaps you should be punished.” She moves to kiss my lips, and grasps my waist to dig her nails into my side. I would gasp with pleasure except her mouth occupies mine fully. My lower regions grow hot and my trousers are much too constrictive. My lauvan twist through the air until they meet her own reaching tendrils. They twine together deliciously when her physical body presses into mine.

  A door creaks, sounding far away through the haze of my desire. Vivienne breaks away from our kiss and turns her head. I slowly follow her gaze.

  Arthur stands silhouetted in the doorway to the courtyard, his messy brown hair a halo around his head. There is just enough light to see the look of confusion and embarrassment on his face. I give a small sigh. He’s still so young, that coming across a couple embracing is a cause for consternation. I wonder if I can leave him quite yet.

  Vivienne slides out of my arms and pats down her dress. She curtsies to Arthur.

  “My lord.” She gathers her basket of flowers and hurries from the room using a side door that leads to the kitchen. She keeps her head down, but gives a very definite look to the head table. All of her lauvan snap in a tremendous jolt. I frown and follow her gaze. Behind the table, affixed to the stone wall in pride of place, is the banner of Arthur’s house. Its faded embroidery depicts the golden eagle of Rome and the winged serpent of a Brythonic tribe from which Arthur descends. It is a very old emblem of power and commands respect. In fact, the visitors arriving tomorrow for the feast will expect to see it there as tangible proof that Arthur is worthy of address, for those who have not yet seen him in battle. I briefly wonder why it prompted such a strong response in Vivienne, but put it from my mind when Arthur speaks.

  “Sorry, Merlin.” He looks around the room, as if hoping for a distraction. I take a deep breath to cool my frustrated desires and wait a minute to gain control over my voice. Arthur looks as if he doesn’t know whether to leave or not. He stays. I am still his old tutor, after all, and he is used to deferring to me. I’ll have to talk to him about that later. The other lords will want to see confidence and self-assurance. They are qualities that Arthur needs to work on—especially with women.

  “It’s fine. I expect she’ll be back. Now that she knows what she’s been missing.” Arthur doesn’t respond to my attempt at levity. I rub my face in my hands and walk between the tables toward him. “Arthur, what are we going to do with you? We have to find you a woman. The other lords now know you’re man enough on the battlefield, but they don’t expect to find a blushing boy when the bawdy talk starts flowing along with the ale.”

  Arthur sighs and his shoulders slump. I immediately regret my words, unfiltered as they are from the sharpness of my frustrated emotions. He feels the pressure of this feast celebration. Every eye will be watching him, comparing him to his esteemed father, measuring his worth. His three battles against the Saxons were excellent victories, but hearing the news from afar and seeing the man himself are two very different things. I can tell Arthur feels the pressure keenly.

  I put my arm around his shoulders and walk with
him to the outer door. He follows, unresisting.

  “Never mind, that’s what I’m for. You just stay quiet and laugh when everyone else does, and I’ll handle the retorts.” I squeeze his shoulder and he rewards me with a lopsided smile.

  “It is what you do best.”

  I laugh and release him to push open the heavy double doors.

  “Come on, it’s a glorious day and your visitors won’t arrive until tomorrow. What do you say to a run through the woods?” It’s a pastime of ours, started early in our relationship. I twist our lauvan into the form of powerful deer, and we run and bound for miles through the woodland and over the hills. It’s incredibly cathartic.

  His eyes glow with excitement.

  “Absolutely.”

  ***

  The feast is loud. The lords and warriors are boisterous and their wives fill the air with high-pitched laughter. The ale flows freely, and my eyes follow Vivienne on her weaving path between tables to refill goblets over waving arms. I sit at Arthur’s right hand, a coveted spot that afforded me curious glances and surreptitious whispers at the beginning of the night, although everyone is too drunk to care now. I knew it would be controversial, but I counseled Arthur to place me there. Not out of ambition—I really couldn’t care less what these Gwentish lords think of me—but it gives Arthur an excellent excuse to not single out a particular ally and risk offending the others.

  Arthur is occupied with the man seated on his left, a neighboring lord who was good friends with Uther before his death. The noble seated beside me, while decent company earlier in the night, has succumbed to the mysteries of his goblet and now snores gently, propped up by his less-than-sober wife.

  I slouch low in my chair, content for the moment to watch Vivienne’s form slide gracefully through the drunken rabble. The buzz of ale relaxes me and my lauvan hum gently. I pick one up and twirl it around my fingers idly, pondering the vastness of eternity, the meaning of life, the soft perfection of a woman’s breasts…

  As I reach this train of thought, I rise from the bench. My sleeping neighbor does not notice my departure and Arthur is engrossed in conversation. I sidle to the pillars surrounding the center of the hall and lie in wait.

  My target approaches soon enough and I thrust an arm out to encircle her waist.

  “Oof!” Vivienne gasps and then laughs. “I might have known.” She offers the pitcher she carries. “Care for some ale, my lord?”

  I grab the pitcher from her and drop it over the table next to me without looking. Under my direction, the lauvan of the table take the pitcher and maneuver it down gently. The table was once living wood and therefore possesses a rudimentary lauvan structure still. I focus on more important things.

  “The lords have had enough ale. I think your job here in the great hall is done.” I put my hand on her cheek and draw her face closer to mine. “I think you should take your pleasure, now that you have worked so hard.”

  Vivienne’s eyes close and her breath quickens between parted lips curved in a smile. But through my half-closed eyes, I notice her lauvan do not tell the same tale. They writhe and twist with desire, certainly, but those movements are at war with tight, straight strands of fear and anticipation of conflict. There is something else Vivienne prepares herself for tonight, and it has nothing to do with me.

  Let’s see if I can win this battle.

  I send my hand from her waist downward, and slowly reach around to cup her bottom in my palm, my fingers gently spreading. She sighs, and the sensual lauvan twist closer around the straight ones. Then her eyes flutter open and she straightens when the tight lauvan become dominant.

  “I can’t. Not right now. I—I still have work to do.”

  I tilt my head in amusement. Her eyes search mine.

  “I am your master tonight, so I’ll be the judge of when you are done work. And I say that time is now. If you’re not interested in a little recreation, that’s fine. Just tell me so.” I keep my gaze level into her eyes. She stares at me and out of the corner of my vision the lauvan battle. A sigh of desire and a final twist of the curvy lauvan, and I know I have won.

  I kiss her firmly on the lips and reach my tongue deeply into her mouth. I am rewarded by her body arching into mine. Without further ado, I pull her through a nearby doorway and out into the night.

  CHAPTER XI

  The late morning sun shifts through the open blinds to land on my face. I blink awake groggily. My hotel has curtains, not blinds. That must mean—I turn my head to look at Anna, but the bed beside me is empty.

  The apartment is silent. Anna must have left early. How trusting of her to leave me alone. I stretch my naked limbs under the duvet and luxuriate in the satin sheets sliding over my body. Really, Anna? Satin sheets? They’re obviously a carefully chosen splurge in this rental apartment with an old radiator and nondescript white walls.

  Gradually, I remember in reverse the chain of events that led me here—the frenzied undressing at the door, the flirting at the bar, the frustration at my lack of conclusions—and I groan out loud.

  “Dammit.” A leaden weight lands in the bottom of my stomach, previously held at bay by the pleasant distractions of last night, but returned and heavier than ever this morning. I still haven’t figured out how to stop this volcano from erupting.

  I roll out of bed and pad over to the window. Anna’s apartment has a glorious view of the mountains, an agreeable surprise I didn’t fully appreciate in last night’s fumbling and unsuccessful attempt to shut the blinds. I look for Mt. Linnigan, but don’t have to wonder where it is for long. A belch of steam hisses out of the top of the leftmost peak. Even from this distance I can see a trickle of rocks tumbling down the steep cliffs of the mountainside, likely loosened by a localized tremor.

  A cold sweat breaks out on my naked skin. I shiver and turn from the window to look for my clothes.

  My pants are easy enough to locate at the foot of the bed, although it takes some hunting to find my socks, one lodged under a pillow and another behind the night table. My shirt lies in a heap by the door. There’s a carefully folded piece of paper lying on top.

  It’s a note from Anna.

  Good morning, tall, dark, and handsome. Sorry I had to leave early. You can let yourself out whenever you’re ready. Thanks for the good time last night, sexy. Your hands are magic.

  Anna

  The note brings a smile to my face despite my feeling of foreboding. I shrug on my shirt and tuck the note in my pocket. My eye catches an incense holder on the hall table, accompanied by a long-stemmed rose and a small mirror in a gilded frame. I frown. It looks like a shrine to something.

  The coffee table houses a pile of papers, books, pamphlets, and various other items. I saunter over to the couch and sit, interested to learn more about Anna and prolong the moment when I have to face Mt. Linnigan.

  Hey, she was the one who left me alone in her apartment. If she didn’t want me nosing around, it was a silly move. I definitely can’t be trusted not to pry.

  A pack of tarot cards sits on top of the pile as a paperweight. I idly flip open the lid and slide the cards out facedown. I pick one and flip it over.

  The Chariot meets my eyes. It’s upside down. A warning of disrupted balance and loss of control? Suddenly irritated, I shove the deck back into its case and set it aside.

  There’s an envelope on top from a credit card company, addressed to “Anna Green.” Interesting. Now I have a last name. I set it on top of the tarot cards and turn to the pile again. The next paper is an advertisement for a local store. Obviously printed at home on brightly colored printer paper, its black text loudly proclaims the grand opening of “The Flickering Candle.” The purveyors promise to help guide the reader to their “optimal spiritual well-being,” with the aid of essential oils, healing crystals, and a choice selection of incense available for purchase. Promises of tarot card readings and monthly séances are also displayed.

  I snort and set it aside. I find it hard to believe that a to
wn of Wallerton’s size can support this type of shop. The three churches I passed on my way into town indicate a brief existence for an alternative spirituality store.

  I reach for the next paper without looking. A sizzle of sensation in my fingertips jolts me to attention. I snatch my hand back and shake it. What the hell just happened?

  When I look to the pile I instantly understand. The large advertisement had completely concealed a small folded note on lavender stationary. But this is no ordinary paper—the entire surface is positively crawling with lauvan.

  I’m fascinated. An immobile piece of paper should have little to no lauvan. Whatever lauvan the tree might have had in life should have been long since processed out of existence, and the paper should have very little potential energy sitting on a low table.

  And yet, here it is. The only other explanation I have is that this note has immense value to a fair-sized number of people, and their lauvan have transferred to the paper.

  I stare at it for a second longer, then gingerly pick it up. The note won’t read itself, after all. Now that I’m prepared, the sensation of the foreign lauvan is bearable, even pleasant. In fact, the threads almost feel familiar, as if I have encountered them before.

  That’s doubtful. I would remember this funny little piece of paper with the extraordinary lauvan. Although, come to think of it, the lauvan on this note are all of one variety and color, as if from the same source. Objects of worship are generally surrounded by a multitude of different lauvan, the collection of their followers. This one has a layer of smooth, translucent lauvan of a deep, rich red that clashes horribly with the delicate pastel of the paper. I grin briefly, remembering Josephine’s preoccupation with wearing shades of blue to match her lauvan so that she would look beautiful in my eyes. She needn’t have bothered—she was always beautiful to me.