Addictive Rimeshade Read online

  For tonight then I shall choose to be the fox, and before dawn I'll be so deeply in a warm safe hole she'll forget she's a vixen.

  The hexed home embodies an ambiance so peaceful it reeks of heathen sacraments. Only one woman has these ingrained abilities, and she's the only one I ever knelt before and offered my devotion.

  I wonder how she feels about women? Does she swing both ways? If she does I have the perfect trap to catch all the butterflies together in one net.

  One fact no one seems to know about butterflies is they are the most violent of all insects, battering each other broken, sometimes to death.

  Swallowing my laugh as I stroll into a burnt mango kitchen diffusing warmth and invitation with sunflower yellows and spicy reds, I think I shall enjoy watching a nest of butterflies clashing.

  All I need do is separate the women from their men, corner them together, and wait to see which one is dominant.

  The men think I am risen to threaten their clans, so I shall distract them with petty conflict. I have no ego to wound, no reputation to protect, but they'd both die for those qualities in themselves.

  My role is to make a fool of the fools.

  She turns, indicating a large Italian espresso coffee pot on the stove, tugging at my shirt, muttering words about being cold and wet, but the truth simpers under her tone.

  She wants to sample the goods, she cares nothing for my discomfort, only her own. Shrugging, smiling as if willing, I let her assist me in the stripping of my jumper and shirt, distracted by the tip of her tongue lacing her lips, with her blatant glance of admiration.

  Lara coughs, turning her face askance to cascade albino pale hair across her shoulder, but passion was present before she could avert it.

  I am the game, I am the trap, and I shall play the hand of patience and ignorance until I discover her fatal weakness.

  Lara and Leug, it sounds too cheesy, but then fate always did have a penchant for kitsch romance.

  “What smells so good?” I ask, sitting down at the kitchen table draped in orange and white gingham. I give her the meaningful stare, hoping she catches on quick.

  Remaining diplomatic, she gestures to the cast iron pot on her stove, “Curry. Are you hungry?”

  For you? “Very.”

  *

  Lara:

  His sleeves are dripping. How is he not shivering with teeth chattering? He's just lucky I'm a tall girl who likes oversized sweats to chillax in. I think my charcoal track top will fit him while I put his in the dryer.

  “I'll be right back, help yourself to coffee.”

  Dashing into the laundry, I rifle through the 'to be ironed' pile which breeds and multiplies without my permission, unearthing the sweatshirt in question and stalking back into the kitchen.

  He waits, like the soulless queuing for a spirit to animate their body. It breaks my heart even more. I'm accustomed to obnoxious, pushy, and opinionated. This man is nothing like the common male specimen befouling the planet.

  Jeez dude. Tugging at the hem of his black jumper, I coax, “Don't you want to get out of this? You must be iced underneath this wet weight.”

  He gives me a stare that's hard to decipher, as if touching him is by invitation only.

  It only urges me to manhandle him more, just to instigate a reaction. His complacency is freaking me out a little. What happened out there? You seem to be in a state of shock.

  “Leug? Come on dude, let's get this off. I'll put it in the dryer and you can wear mine in the meantime.” I nod, being motherly and pushy, refusing to take resistance for an answer.

  He lifts his arms, assisting me with a hollow smile plastered in amiable acquiescence which doesn't match his eyes. Two men, one body, do they ever agree?

  I have to cling to the kitchen table for a moment because the wanton whore who haunts my nightmares and fantasies just whipped off her pushup bra at the sight of his upper half stripped to the skin.

  Holy fuckohara, the wind blew and froze his torso in a permanent crunch of extruded muscle. Not starving then. Well, he doesn't look like it. But then this man is more mystery and questions than obvious answers.

  Closing my eyes against the masculine morsel poised before me, my inner calm cracks with a tremor.

  Good lord, someone must be so proud to call you their son.

  Inhaling to calm the birthing storm in my veins, rocking my pulse with an excited tempo, all I do is inhale a lungful of his male potion instead. Warm skin locked in the scent of fresh thunderstorm, wet mulch and brisk ice. Beneath it all is a hint of burn. It catches in the back of my throat, watering my eyes, my heartbeat squeezing tighter with an aching crescendo.

  Reopening my eyes I cling to my conditioning, that of a polite hostess without a pulse, without desires or demented dreams.

  I know instinctively to tread cautiously, to not pry. I hate getting a grilling from people who don't know me and know nothing about my life. Human nature assumes it is entitled to question a stranger on personal issues that are none of their damned business.

  I know - who he is, where he comes from, and where he's going - is none of my business, but I have an overwhelming need to make it my business. I want to smooth away the frown and watch those eyes light up with laughter. The constant pain etched into his expression is killing the part of me that witnesses the serenity of death, daily. Is living so cruel that it must scar those in its realm?

  I like my job, there's no one to interrogate me, to ask unwelcome questions. The dead drop the body suit and float on off to a different level of being, they finally get to step out of the shackles of living. Leug looks like every breath scalds his lungs and induces agony. The tension in his muscles is plain to see before he covers them up with my sweatshirt. He looks glorious in charcoal.

  I indicate he should sit, moving to the counter to pour coffee.

  “What smells so good?” he enquires, his tone relaxed and a tad gruff.

  “Curry. Are you hungry?” For all I know he could be homeless, or lost, or have amnesia. When was his last meal?

  “Very,” purrs at me as if he just declared a vendetta against chastity.

  Ooooer, that's the most delicious 'very' ever uttered around my eager ears.

  “I've eaten, so don't mind me just drinking coffee,” I natter, filling the awkward stiltedness with noise and fussing. Grabbing the Spanish soup bowl and filling it to the brim, I place it in front of him and point to the caddy holding the knives and forks. “Dig in.”

  Pouring coffee into my already waiting mug, I grab the rolls, putting them down in front of him in case he wants bread with that. I'm about to stretch my legs out when I spy his reaching my chair. This is weird. I'm so used to slouching around my house without sitting primly or making polite conversation - or checking for 'his' legs under my chair.

  He eats methodically, surveying my kitchen and windows, as if wary to make eye contact.

  It is awkward, even I have to admit it is, so stand after staring at wet black trainers for too long.

  “Please enjoy your dinner, I won't be long,” I say, needing to put distance between us to regain my composure.

  Taking my coffee with me I put his shirts in the dryer, stop in the lounge to put a CD on to fill the gritty silence, before continuing to my bedroom to find the man a fresh pair of socks. The trainers will take a few hours to dry, and I can't believe I am so clueless that I thought a dry shirt would make a shred of difference.

  He garbles my brainwaves and makes me behave like a complete fuckwit. Finding the hiking socks, I dig at the back to find the pair that's too big; the pair I never wear because they give me blisters. That's what happens when you buy the wrong size.

  I can't help him with his jeans, but I do have that red fleece blanket I was saving for Deliah. He can just wear a fleece sarong until his jeans are dry.

  Taking the blanket down, the devil on my shoulder pokes my neck in gloating insistence, demanding to know why I'm being so accommodating to this guy.

  I'm not r
eligious, but what if he was god testing my character. What if this one night determines an afterlife of strife or one of peace. What if once every twenty years the angels fall from heaven and hope to know what it's like to be human, to eat, to be cold, to get warm after being cold, to sleep in the arms of a woman with her nipple not a centimeter from the tip of his nose.... what if...

  “What if you think too much because you're a closet full of crazy,” I grumble to myself, going back to the kitchen with my supplies and dumping them next to him, blushing when he gives me that dark stare of suggestive accusation.

  “Sorry, I'm operating on the only brain cell the lightning strike didn't fry. It's pointless giving you one dry item to wear while your toes go blue, plus nothing chaffs worse than wet jeans. I hate them wet, I'd rather be naked.”

  Clamping my mouth shut I want to kick myself, slam my forehead on the counter in head-desk style for saying that to this man. He must feel so fucking harassed by me. It's like everything I say and do is to get the man nude and rude, which is not my agenda. I sound like a pathetic stereotype who can only shut up when she has a thick long pacifier stuck in her mouth.

  My cheeks are burning and I hinge out of my chair, stalking back to the coffee and cursing when I realize I forgot my mug in the bedroom. “Fucking fuck it.” Yanking the cupboard door open I extract another mug, twisting to ask him, “Do you want coffee? Or.. um... I think I might have beer in the larder's fridge ... or... um... wine maybe? Shit, let me go look.”

  “Beer would be great,” he nods, fiddling with his food as if finding it putrid but unwilling to say as much considering he's a guest and all.

  “Oh uhm, the bathroom is just through there if you want to change – or uh, I could just go find that beer and give you some privacy.” Yeah Lara, why don't you do that, why don't you give this man some privacy. You are overwhelming him, you are smothering him, and when you smother men they run away. Stop snuffing him!

  The serial asphyxiator strikes again.

  “And if you don't like that curry you don't have to eat it. My feelings won't be wounded, promise.” Halting the verbal diarrhea I go striding off to the larder. Opening the back up fridge, I'm relieved to see I do indeed have beer chilling next to a virgin bottle of lime vodka. Hmmmm, is it too early for vodka?

  Yes Lara, it is too early for vodka. He's a stranger, and you need to be as paranoid as your sister or the big bad wolf is going to eat you.

  My, what big muscles you have grandma. My what a cunning smile you have grandma. My what broad shoulders you have …

  I'm an idiot. I know it like a shark knows blood in water.

  Decided, I grab three of the beer bottles, prepared to leave two in the kitchen fridge so they're within reach.

  Swanning back into the kitchen I'm pleased to see the man in my hiking socks with his shoes neatly placed at my oven to dry out. He kept the jeans on though. I don't know how he can handle that. It's like having incontinence and sitting in a pool of lukewarm pee eating away at your skin with uric acid.

  Placing the beer in front of him, I put the other two in the primary fridge to chill next to the butter, returning to sit with him, reclaiming my coffee when he pops the top and takes a pull deep enough to strain the veins out on his neck.

  Isn't this cozy. How did we get to, 'man stay there while woman run around in circles making you fee l like the king' so fucking fast?

  Planting the bottle down, leaving his hand circling the bottom with long nimble fingers, which have neat fingernails that are clean (three stars added to the stranger's chart), he asks without any compunction whatsoever, “So who do you light the candle for?”

  “Huh?” Why does he naturally assume I lit the candle for someone. Why can't I just have a candle fetish?

  Dark eyes engage my own, our gazes meeting halfway across scrubbed pine cloaked with girly adornment, the frisson palpable when he repeats, “You are holding a vigil for someone. I wondered who it is.”

  “Is that why you stopped at my house? Was it the candle?”

  He offers a skew smile, rounding his left cheek into perfectly peachy, answering with a half shrug, clearly expecting me to answer him now that he's harnessed the courage to engage me in conversation.

  “My sister. It's for my sister Deliah. She's lost,” I pause, pointing to my chest with my free hand, “In here, ya know? Her heart looks for love in the wrong places. She ran from her ex and I don't know where she's gone, if she's alive or dead, or if she's in pieces. I just want her home safe. I want to hug her and tell her it's gonna be okay.”

  “So you lit a candle and offered a prayer, letting the light call her home?”

  “I don't offer prayers, I state my demands. Pleading falls on deaf ears because one only pleads for mercy. And if you have to resort to a plea there won't be any mercy. The word please includes plea in it, the fact that parents insist their children plea for anything with their demand of 'say please or you can't have it' sits badly with me. We should never teach children to beg, it robs them of their power. If you desire something you have to be concise, and clear, and state your intentions and parameters at the get go.”

  Two eyebrows pop up and he smirks at me, “Oh yeah?” He scratches idly under his chin, clearly wondering what me yanking his clothes off says about my intention. I feel like the wicked witch coaxing innocents into my kitchen so I can roast them for Sunday lunch, or lick them until their flesh is raw on their bones. Licking him is a highly tempting concept. He makes me feel evil even though that was the last motivation I harbored.

  I have a niggly sixth sense reeling in psychic facts, daring me to test my hunch by asking, “Where is your dog?”

  The expression on his face is truly priceless. I love it when I'm right without a shred of proof but my gut instinct.

  “How do you know about my dog?” he says, slowly lowering his fork, the tension in him making the movement stiff.

  None of this makes sense to me but I'm going on blind faith, telling him the things I intuit, “You are Leuk. Lugh was first known as Leuk, the K being silent, and although you have dark eyes and hair, I don't believe this is your true form. Your coloring is like my own, because you are the spitting manifestation of the Celtic god Lugh. You are blonde, you have blue eyes, and you have many skills at your disposal, one of them being trickery. You enjoy disguises, role playing, hoping it will make you forgettable to those you meet. But you can never blend in because your name not only means trickery, it also means glorious. Inside you is a forge of spiritual strength, it makes your aura blinding, and despite you sitting at my table as a pauper, you sir are a noble king.”

  “What does this have to do with my dog?” he sidesteps deftly.

  Leaning my elbows on the table I examine this mystery, smiling at him, “Lugh has a loyal hound - Salinnis, you could call him his kin. He is undefeated and Lugh's sidekick in battle. You may think I'm creepy and crazy but I would bet my hair that you have canine reinforcements.”

  To my surprise he sits back, folding his arms and dropping his eyelids to stare heavy lidded at me, in an almost seductive fashion, “My hounds, as you put it, are outside. And yes, they are my companions and very much my kin.”

  Glancing at the deluge splattering the kitchen window in vicious globs of storm spit which slide slowly down the pane to obscure the darkness with razor rivers of rain, I'm annoyed, jumping up to open the door, “How can you leave them outside in this shitty weather? You're an asshole!”

  He pounces off his chair, blocking my path, preventing me from reaching the back door, obstructing it completely with his stature, “No. They keep guard. This is no hardship for them, they are immune to the cold.”

  “No Leug! Bring them in to dry at the Aga, they need rest and food too.”

  He claims my hand, squeezing it to the point of painful pressure, “Lara, your compassion makes you weak prey. How often do you open your door to strangers and their companions? How do you trust so blindly that no harm will befall you?”

 
; Because no god would allow more pain to my stomp on my welcome mat.

  Instead I say, “A man who leaves his best friends outside in the cold and rain has no conscience or respect for sentient beings. You bring them inside or you can fuck off back out there with them.”

  His laugh is robust and contagious, spreading a sinful heat through my belly. “You've got balls lady, I'll give you that.”

  He nods agreement, turning around and unlocking my door, opening it wide to lean across the threshold, droplets coating his hair in the baptism of icy rain. A flash of light pulses once across my yard to the copse at the rear. It could be sheet lightning to peripheral vision, but it's plain to me that he was the source of it. Staring through the kitchen window into the night I watch two enormous forms launching from the darkness, slithering across the blackened lawn with stealth and speed, forcing him to step aside to allow them entrance.

  They are pitch black, and it's hard to tell if they are Alsatians or wolves. I've heard of white German Shepherds, but these two are as black as midnight and larger than any dog I've ever known.

  My kitchen is dwarfed and the scent of wet fur is thick and cloying.

  Glancing at their master, I don't know if it's pertinent for me to command them. Normally I'd not hesitate to tell them to sit and lie down.

  Leug points to the one closest to me, who's shoving his enormous skull and muzzle into my crotch, nudging me hard against the kitchen counter while he has a deep pull on violating my privacy. “That's Sköll the ring leader, and this is Hati.”

  Gripping the dog's muzzle I force his chin up, using effort, looking into his eyes and saying, “Sit. Behave, or you're going back outside.”

  He understands, staring up at me with pale eyes, panting hot breath when he complies to my demand, his bushy tail sweeping my floor in complacent wags.

  “You too, Hati,” orders Leug, who closes the back door and locks it again, giving me a glimpse of his amused smirk.

  Looking at the man who is tall and dark haired, I wonder if I'm right. Does he have the fair hair of his namesake? He has the hounds, and he called them using an energy signature he didn't expect me to witness. My hunches are never wrong. Why didn't Deliah listen to me when I told her Dias was a bad man? She likes her men homicidal and I hate watching her get hurt.