Page 73 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
He turned over. The fire was out, and the white light of dawn was peeping around the edges of the curtains. He glanced over to the spot where Soren had dropped his clothes last night—those awful old things borrowed from a fisherman. They were gone, of course. Even the tarred jacket.
So, Soren had gone out.
Would he be back? Or had the sea called him again?
Despite what Soren had said last night, despite the promise in his voice, John’s skin began to prickle with disquiet. Whatever Soren might say, whatever might be growing between them—was it any match for the forces of magic? If a man’s mother was a selkie, did he understand the instincts that might drive him? John lay under the warm covers, deep cold assailing him.
Then, through the turmoil of his thoughts, he began to sense something. He didn’t recognise it at first, because the tone—delighted, almost smug—was not one he’d heard before from that particular material. But yes, it was the salt, trying to give him a message.
Soren had touched it. More than that; Soren had held it. Soren had let it trickle out of his hand. The salt was practically purring. John sat up. Last night the salt had been in its oilskin bag in the pocket of his jacket, which he’d hung over the back of a chair. But now—he got out of bed and went naked to the hearth. There, in big uneven letters of salt, was written one word:
WAIT.
Warmth and light flooded back, filling his chest with hope and his cock with blood. It was a tease, no more, no less. Wait, eh? When Soren got back, John would make him wait. Until he was begging for release. Until he was writhing and whimpering and pleading for it. Perhaps he’d make him wait all day. He’d given himself a fine cockstand, just thinking about it, which was probably what Soren had intended. To distract himself, he made up the fire, but it did not distract him very efficiently, because he was kneeling on the hearthrug they’d fucked on the night before, and it was impossible not to remember Soren’s fists clutching the rug, the sweat dripping from him, the hot, tight pressure of his arse, and the taste of salt on his skin.
The flames caught on the new wood and began to fill the room with warmth. Feet came thumping up the stairs and John shot to his feet, hands covering his crotch. Soren burst in, a burlap sack in one hand. He closed the door, and took one look at John.
“I see you got my note,” Soren said.
John took his hands away from his crotch; he wasn’t fooling anyone anyway. Soren was wearing the old patched, tarred canvas trousers, shirt and jacket—and he looked utterly, devastatingly handsome. He was breathing hard, as if he’d been running.
John was about to say, “Wait, eh? No ‘please’? And with my salt? Shall I remind you of your manners?” But something stopped him.
Soren had a strange look on his face, half defiant, half afraid. “May I show you something?” He spoke fast, as if to get the words out before he lost his nerve. He didn’t wait for an answer. He reached into the sack, at the same time upending it, so that out poured something supple and golden-brown. It was so beautiful, flowing out of the rough sacking, that John caught his breath.
It was the sealskin; Soren’s skin. But much bigger than the last time John had seen it, and a thousand times more beautiful. Before, it had been dormant, unused, dusty, half-dead. Now it was alive, as much a part of Soren as his heart or eyes.
The skin. Of course; he’d been to get it.
John stood staring, wondering what it had cost Soren to lie with him all night, when the skin was hidden somewhere else. Had Soren slept at all? Or had he lain there, on guard, letting John sleep, his mind bent the whole time on the skin?
Soren held it out, his eyes grave. John could see his hand trembling, the skin shivering and shining in the firelight. And well Soren might be nervous. What must it be like, to offer your skin to another person? Knowing that if they choose to take it, and keep it, you would be trapped. Bound to them. Forever.
Of course, John wouldn’t take it. He knew what he was being offered; the chance to see, the chance to touch. He went closer—it was difficult not to—as the skin drew him. It was a hundred shades of gold and brown; it was honey and oil, Tokay and hot chocolate. It was shafts of sunlight in clear pond water. It was copper and gilt, topaz and brandy. And yet, it was more beautiful than all these things, because it was alive. Magic shimmered in it, ripe, ever-changing, eternal, like the sea.
He put out a hand to touch it, then let it fall back. Who was he, after all? An ironmonger’s son. A magician, yes, but also a mere mortal. This was a fey thing, aglow with potentcy. The little dried-up pelt he’d thrust inside his shirt had been different; he hadn’t minded touching that. This thing was perilous, as dangerous as love. A man shouldn’t touch it lightly. He dragged his gaze from the glory of the skin to Soren’s face. Soren was biting his lip; he looked as though he might cry.
“You don’t have to let me touch it,” John said, a little stiffly.
“Don’t you want to?” Soren’s voice wobbled.
John sank to his knees on instinct. He’d never been moved by the piety charms of the church mages—it was difficult when one could see right through them—but kneeling now seemed right and proper. And perhaps he was afraid, but Soren wanted him to touch it; so, touch it he would.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. May I really?” He stroked that glowing, living fur.
Soren shivered, and gasped, and, to John’s horror, snatched the skin away. They stared at each other. Soren was breathing in shallow gulps, holding the skin protectively against him.
“I—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—” John said, shaking his head, appalled. He didn’t know what he’d done, only that Soren was looking at him as if he’d never seen him before.
“My God.” Soren breathed out, almost a gasp, almost a laugh. He held the skin out. “Do that again?”
John did as he was bid, running his hand down the fur, so smooth, so warm—
“Christ! How—how—” Soren took a few steps backwards, pulling the skin away again. He fell to his knees as well, eyes huge and black. “How are you doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“It doesn’t feel like that when I touch it. It certainly didn’t when Father had it.”
