Blackmail Earth - By Bill Evans Page 0,30

fire, water, and spirit. And each element represented the five points of a compass: Air was east, fire was south, water was west, earth was north, and spirit was the center. Microcosm upon microcosm of creation. Real meaning in all that you did and thought, especially on this day.

Only hours ago, Forensia and Sang-mi had given themselves a ritual bath in a spring, though finding one that hadn’t succumbed to the devastating drought hadn’t been easy. They’d had to drive forty-three miles and then hike for an hour up into the Catskill Mountains to bathe outdoors. But on the day of their initiation they knew that their skin and spirits needed to feel nature’s elements directly. A bathtub would never do.

Once a witch, always a witch. Even as a young girl, she’d been drawn to witchcraft. Not the dark side, but not Disney’s commodified version, either. Or Harry Potter’s, for that matter. Much as she’d loved the Potter series—yes, she’d been one of those kids lining up at midnight for each new book—the world of Hogwarts had never appeared as real to her as the world within herself.

For Forensia, witchcraft was all consuming: befriending the trinity of maiden, mother, and crone who lived inside her; learning about the spirits of the land, sea, and air; using natural herbs and balms for healing and to gain wholeness; and enjoying the companionship of like-minded women. Practicing spells, too. Yet despite several years of study, she felt that she had only begun to learn these ancient magics. She’d be studying enchantments and charms—and a few carefully selected curses—the rest of her life. Spells were so hard to perfect, yet so vital to her growth.

Her fears ebbed as she considered her long path to the circle of power. Then she noticed a distinct trace of giddiness blooming in her belly, sweetened by the knowledge that Richtor sat, also shamelessly sky clad, only feet away. Over the past two months she’d been drawn to his quiet overtures, lured by his shockingly abundant blond dreads and his densely blue eyes that reminded her of cornflowers. She tried mightily not to look at him, not to linger on his lovely nakedness, but her body wouldn’t obey such an easily eluded command, and a smile parted her lips when his open gaze met hers.

The feelings that had drawn her to Richtor, to hold his hand and kiss him, felt strong as thunder. They’d spent many evenings reading by candlelight in his simple wooden cabin, imagining the rites and rituals that neither of them had yet performed. But she’d never shown him her private Book of Shadows, an intensely intimate journal filled with jottings about spells, and the results—still spotty—of her magic making. And he and the other nonwitches would not be permitted at the initiation ceremony itself.

She looked at him once again, caught his eye, and felt ever more naked, open, willing. Any thoughts of blood or blindfolds or blades had been eclipsed as totally as the brazen face of the moon in the willfully calibrated heavens.

* * *

“Let’s go check ’em out. Naked. No fucking clothes.” Jason Robb pumped his fist, felt his abs clench. Girls loved that shit; too bad none of them was around to see him.

But maybe mo’ betta, mon, not havin’ dem shorties wich you. Ever since his parents had taken him to Montego Bay, Jason had begun talking to himself in what he thought of as his “Jamaican voice.” He might be white, but he didn’t have to sound like it. Still, he kept his quarterback’s bark alive for his teammates: “Come on, you assholes. They’re gonna be dancing around gettin’ all horny. Got to strike while the punani’s hot.”

“Sounds too good to be true,” groused Carl Boon, his center. Jason had seen enough of Boon’s fat butt to last a lifetime, and he’d about had it with all the fag jokes about reaching down between Carl’s chunky fucking legs. “You jerking him off during audibles, QB?” Like I’d juke him, mon, even if I was some batty boy.

“Hey, you know the one with the tat on her shoulder?” Jason said. “Big fucking flower?”

“Big fucking tits?” Gabe, his halfback, smiled. Built like his father and uncles: square body, square head, stumpy legs. Tiny dick.

“Yeah, Forensia, the one my brother drilled.” She’d never fucked Gareth again. Wouldn’t even kiss him. Called him a “bad mistake.” And then Gar ran off and signed up and got his ass shot to death in Baghdad. The

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