Page 42 of Her Dreadful Will
Of course she could. She’d felt his magical power, his quiet charm, his sex appeal—three different facets to his personality. And she resented her own ardent reaction to all of it.
“I guess I sort of feel it,” she said grudgingly.
Lindsey gave her a knowing nod. “Just wait until we form the circle and really get started. You’ll see.”
Soleil’s stomach jumped at the words. She wanted to grip Lindsey’s shoulders and shake him and scream, “What? What will I see?”
But Delaney gyrated past them just then, her dark lips bowed in a dissatisfied curve. “Next time, more death metal,” she said to Lindsey.
“The screaming and the pounding—it doesn’t make for good dancing,” he protested. “Interferes with the flow of the radiance.”
“Says you. For me, it unlocks stuff. Deep stuff.” She pounded her chest above her lacy black bra. She had several tattoos as well—eyeballs and skulls and coils of spine woven with flowers. Soleil had difficulty distinguishing which symbols were drawn with marker and which ones were permanent.
A pained sigh escaped Lindsey. “I’ll consider it. Maybe we can do some death metal as one of the opening numbers—”
“Hey. Give me more than one fucking song, Z.” Delaney punched his arm.
“Fine. Two songs.”
“Thanks, Golden Boy.” She blew a kiss to him on black-tipped fingers and moved away to dance with a girl Soleil hadn’t met yet.
Angelou skipped by again, handing Lindsey and Soleil each a small cup of glimmering amber liquid. “Magic juice,” she said. “Chug chug.”
Soleil sniffed the liquid, taking in notes of lavender and vanilla. A sip told her the taste matched the smell—sugared and delicate, with herbal undertones. She drained her cup and handed it back. The warmth spreading through her chest reminded her of alcohol, but the sensation spiraled into her head, clarifying rather than muddling it, sparkling along her nerves and skin. The moonlight seemed brighter, the music sharper and sweeter as it sank into an eerie Epic Trailer version of “Dreamweaver.” The female singer’s voice and the aching strings soared through the clearing, up into the sky, as if she were summoning the moon itself.
The energy of the coven changed, each member shifting naturally into place around the circle painted on the grass. Only then did Soleil notice Achan dancing on the painted triskele in the middle of the ring. He moved slowly, gracefully, and the others copied him—a simple dance of swaying arms and arching spines, heads bowed then tipped back, hands stretched to the stars. Soleil was swept along with it all, her limbs moving almost of their own volition. She could feel threads of magic whispering out from her, from him, from each of them, linking them all together. The circles of each member’s volisphere crossed and merged, a vortex of shared purpose that thrilled and fed her soul in a way she hadn’t known she needed.
At the center of it all was Achan, the pale puppet master, with skeins of silver light unfurling from his skin.
Dreamweaver.
He was pulling down the moon, receiving the concentrated light into himself, dispensing its power to them all.
Soleil gasped, tears gathering in her eyes as the first tendrils of the light reached her. It curled around her body, prickling with power before slipping through her skin.
The thrill that cascaded over her was like nothing she’d ever felt. Her body arched, twisting, sparkling with ecstasy from lips to fingertips, from her navel to the tips of her toes. Her spine was a burning line of star-fire, her eyes twin suns that flamed white. She could see nothing but darkness sprinkled with sparks, could hear nothing but the gliding sweep of the music through her brain.
Were her feet even touching the ground?
The sensation eased, and she shifted her toes. Yes, there was earth beneath them. All around her, the others in the coven were caught in their own spirals of light, and though they looked blissful, none of them appeared to have had as dramatic a reaction as Soleil herself.
She was still panting, glowing—yes, her skin was actually glowing, as if it were a mere shade for the lamp within.
Lifting her eyes, she looked straight into Achan’s.
He stood, legs braced and arms stretched wide, radiance flowing outward from him in a mass of glittering tentacles. He smiled, ferocious joy, and then tilted his head back, his throat shining white, his eyes open to the moon—and a fresh burst of light shot into him, and out of him.
This time, when the flood of magic hit her, Soleil screamed with the rapture of it. She had never known it was possible to feel this much radiance at once—to be so completely filled with power, soaked and sated with it. She felt herself healing, shriveled parts of her swelling with health, broken things knitting together, weary cells rejoicing, refreshed.
It was too beautiful, too much. She released the excess, sending a pulse of energy along the circumference of the circle, and she heard answering gasps as her magic raced through the other members of the coven.
Achan lowered his hands, and the coven moved as if he had called them, drawing close to him, forming a cluster of bodies around him. They were all touching him, finding space for their hands on his shoulders, arms, back and chest. Soleil slipped her arm through the tangle and touched his neck, where she could feel his heartbeat beneath the skin. Maybe she wanted to reassure herself that he was really human.
Under her fingers, his pulse drummed faster.
The music eased into a soft, bright melody Soleil didn’t recognize, and suddenly the twinkle lights in the trees sparked to life, brightening the clearing.
The dance was over.
