Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49441 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49441 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Complete panic, mingled with my tendency to use as little effort as possible when it came to magic, had made it impossible for me to see a magical way out of the fire maze.
Then, when the rain wouldn’t stop and the water started to rise, I fretted that I’d screwed up, that I was going to drown us because I wasn’t being careful enough.
It wasn’t until I was doing the spell to create a small hill for us to stand on, and created an entire island instead, that I understood how the magic was working.
Nathaniel, though, despite not knowing how to swim, never seemed to lose faith in me.
Even as we approached a crystal ball the size of a starter home, he seemed as relaxed as ever, his hand a solid, reassuring presence in mine.
My mind flashed back to endless afternoons sitting at my mother’s altar, staring at a crystal ball. And no matter how I tried—and back then, I truly did—nothing ever appeared but a fog that refused to part, to show me what was hiding beneath.
I wasn’t a child anymore, I reminded myself. I was stronger now. And I had real incentive to see… something.
Though, with how the magic of this labyrinth was working, I’ll admit that there was a fairly large amount of trepidation in my steps as we grew closer to the crystal ball.
What was I supposed to try to see? The cure? But I didn’t even know what the cure was, let alone what it looked like. And as much as Nathaniel had researched, I was pretty sure he had no idea either.
“Do you see anything?” Nathaniel asked as we stood before it, stretching comically high above us.
“Fog,” I admitted. But I didn’t know if it was actually there or if I’d conjured it because of my fears of my history repeating itself. “What do you see?” I asked.
“A reflection.”
“Of what?” I asked.
“You, but… it’s not right.”
“How isn’t it right?” I asked, squinting, but the fog didn’t budge.
“It’s not… here,” he said, waving his free hand out at the labyrinth. “And you’re not wearing what you’re wearing now.”
“What am I wearing?” I asked, glancing from the crystal ball just in time to catch an almost… bashful look cross Nathaniel’s face.
“A nightgown,” he said, but there was a false edge to his words. Like he wasn’t telling me everything.
“I think I might need details. I’m not seeing anything, so maybe your vision is what is important.”
“I, ah, I don’t think so,” he said, voice taking on a husky edge.
“What are you seeing?” I asked.
“Me,” he admitted. “And you.”
Why was he being so evasive?
Unless what he was seeing was something he didn’t want to repeat.
Was he… killing me?
As soon as I thought it, though, I brushed that idea aside. Because nothing about Nathaniel’s gaze said he was off-put by the vision.
Sure, his gaze was hungry. But I didn’t think it was that kind of hungry.
Oh.
Oh.
Desire pinged off of my nerve endings, my mind suddenly flashing back to trying to stay focused on bringing up the land while we floated in the water, and Nathaniel’s fingers grazing my belly then… lower each time I started to sink.
As if the crystal ball was listening to my innermost fantasies, the memory went from my mind and into the ball.
This time, though, I got to watch it from the outside perspective, seeing myself and seeing Nathaniel.
It was the same hunger in his face then as I saw as he watched his own fantasy in the crystal ball.
My memories slowly got taken over by a haze as I focused on Nathaniel.
Then, gradually, like fog kissed by the first rays of sunlight, the crystal ball cleared again.
In the place of my memories, though, was a vision of myself. I stood in the doorway of Nathaniel’s library in his brownstone back in the city.
In place of my usual loose-fitting sweats and hoodies with absurd prints was a filmy opal nightgown that hugged the curves of my unbound breasts, then cascaded into thin waves over my body, pooling around my feet.
The material was barely there, the dimmed light in the library playing peek-a-boo with the hint of my flesh under the nightgown.
Across from me, still unaware of my presence, was Nathaniel. He was bent over a tome on his desk, his elbow on the surface, his hair mussed from many hours poring over his text, likely running impatient fingers through the strands.
The fantasy me didn’t announce herself, just stood transfixed with the man before her, drinking him in, enjoying catching him in an unguarded moment, seeing him as the truest version of himself.
Across the room, though, Nathaniel’s nostrils flared. Like he caught my scent.
I didn’t wear perfume.
But maybe fantasy-me did.
Or perhaps vampires thought each witch had their own individual scent.
Ode de Type O Negative.
Nathaniel leaned back in his chair, drinking in the nightgown-covered me for what felt like forever.