Season by season, Lyra weaves spells of seduction and slow unraveling from her small cabin by the lake. Her human lover knows she's dangerous--but he keeps coming back, drawn by bells no one else can hear.
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My knees press into soft earth, the sun warms my bare shoulders, and the tiny bells I wear at my ankles and wrists keep time with the cadence of harvesting dandelions. The flowers will go to wine, the greens to dinner.
Between my tiny bungalow and the big lake, the easy melody I've been humming slips deeper into my chest. Slowly, it stretches into a come-hither rhythm that signals my wanting to the wind. My basket is nearly full when the subtle pulse at my wrist lets me know that my call was received and answered.
The breeze teases up my skirt, licking the sweat off the backs of my thighs as I stand and stretch. Its lake-fresh breath is cool on my skin, and I don't rebuke it. The wind has always carried my wishes wherever I desired, so I let it have what it wants of me.
I pitch the belled bracelets and anklets unceremoniously beneath the futon as I step inside. It wouldn't do for Colin to find me wearing them. The only bell left on me is the silver one on the beaded cord encircling my waist. Tucked beneath my tank-top, it won't make a sound unless I want it to.
I take a cloth stiff with frozen rosewater from the freezer. A delicious shiver breaks over me as I press it between my breasts, then run it over my face and collarbone. The pulse runs through again, harder, and I almost drop it on the floor.
He's closer.
I drape the cool cloth around the back of my neck, pour two glasses of magenta Sumac Lemonade, and step onto the porch.
He appears at the curve in the road, heading toward the lake trail in a ratty sweat-soaked t-shirt and idiotic neon green running shorts. The inelegance of masculine attire is one of the tragedies of this age, and for a moment I'm wistful for the past.
But I shake it off. Death chases such thoughts. Those of us who last remember that the best time to be alive is always now.
Now
is the only time I can savor the taste of Colin's skin, and the way he offers his throat to me in his ecstasies. The memory of his pulse against my lips alone is enough to root me back into the present.
My time with any lover is always short, and I'd wanted Colin since the moment his green eyes, broad chest, and strong thighs appeared in the dark liquid depths of my scrying bowl. An ideal summer lover. Often, men look better in the water than in the world, but he hadn't disappointed me.
Of course, there had been complications. From the start, he looked at me with want and wariness in equal measure. I'd had to send the bells on the wind to clear the way, and make him bold enough for my bed.
"You've got to stop doing whatever you've been doing to me," Colin says tightly, trying to project his voice from the curb without raising it.
I lean against the porch rail, smiling like he's just said something charming.
"You're cute when you're angry, Colin. Has anyone told you that?"
Not even his
scowl
displeases me. Nor do these moments of surliness. Yes, I
could
charm them away, but I'd miss the frisson of his brooding summer storms. It's their edges that make mortals memorable, and without memory to mark so much time, it's easy for us to get lost in the current of it. So I wanted his tension, yearning, and even his petrichor. I wanted
him
.
One day I won't, and on that day I'll move along. I had so many times before. But right now? He makes my blood sing.
"I'm not kidding, Lyra," he warns me, his eyes tracking the motion of my hips as I shift them. "Don't try to distract me."
"What are you not kidding about?" My voice is innocence itself.
"Your damn bells ringing. I hear them all day and all night. I'd complain to the HOA but..." he stops short of saying out loud what he already knows.
"Do you hear them now?" I ask.
"No," he admits. His body tilts forward, but he braces a foot against the curb. A tiny civil war playing out in the posture of the man who just ran
almost
three miles to my doorstep, then began dragging his feet with the finish line in sight.
I could ring the bell again to clear his way, but I doubt it'll take even that much now. I just curl my fingers, beckoning.
"Now?" I ask again, and warm my voice with notes of honeyed indulgence.
This time, he hesitates only a moment before coming up the steps to stand beside me on the porch.
"No," he says, and it sounds like his mouth has gone dry.
"You live over a mile away, as the crow goes over the woods," I remind him. "If you don't hear it from here, how could it be me? Nobody else is complaining. The only one raising a fuss on my doorstep is you."
The weathered planks of porch creak as he shifts on his feet. A fissure is opening between what his body knows about me and what his rational mind refuses to accept. He isn't more sensitive than most. Just more forthright.
It's always right on his tongue.
Enchantment. Witchcraft. Inhuman.
I don't quite know what I'll do if he says it aloud. It's been a long time since anyone has, and the world has changed so much since then.
"You have your ways," he says uncomfortably.
"You sound a bit overheated," I tell him. "Why don't you cool off with a drink before you go running up the mountain?"
"Someone will see us."
"No one will see us." I say it with an authority I do not have. As if I'm an Oracle to the Court Under the Hill, not just a Changeling passing as a human woman in a cheap summer rental.
"How do you know?"
"The same way I knew you were coming." I lie, nodding toward the porch table. The two glasses I set out for us are already sweating in the heat.
The lie as close to the truth as most lovers can stand, and still more than is wise to grant them. No rules bind my kind in exile --we are considered unworthy of governance-- but our stories are full of warnings about the limitations of humans. Men especially. Ask any Selkie, if you can find one.
He sits down with a huff, but he believes me. Takes a sip.
"Listen, Lyra," he begins, "this thing between us...I..." but he trails off. Having served its purpose of bringing him to my door, whatever proclamation he'd told himself he was going to make dissolves behind his teeth.
Instead, he takes a big gulp of the sweet, tart drink I've poured for him.
"What's this going to do to me?" he asks.
They always want me to tell them that I've given them some irresistible aphrodisiac. Potent enough to let them lie to themselves about their choices later. Even when I do, I never admit it. It only makes them lazy.
I roll my eyes at him. "It's just sumac, lemon, honey. Tonifying. Cooling in this weather."
He swirls the ice around in the glass self consciously. Disappointed that it's only more herbalism.
"Speaking of..." I take the damp cloth from my neck and lean toward him, my tank gaping just enough for the bell at my waist to release a delicate chime.
