Hexed

Shall we get on with it?”
    I feel the three witches behind me stir uneasily. I turn to face them. “Don’t worry. I will bring Stephen back to you.”
    Susan steps forward. I think she’s going to hug me, but instead she holds out her hand. “Go with the goddess,” she says.
    I press my palm into hers. At first, I feel just her hand. Then a small charm materializes. It’s round and warm and wet, as if conjured from flesh and blood. Her eyes hold mine with an intensity that burns. She wants to speak, but her eyes dart to the creature behind me.
    I acknowledge her gift with a small nod and close my fingers around it. It moves through the skin of my palm with a tingle and when I glance down, there’s nothing left to show for its passing but a faint flush.
    When I turn back to the creature, he’s studying me. Did he see what passed between Susan and me? Did he sense the magic?

SEVEN
     

     
    SAMUAL HAS AN ODD EXPRESSION ON HIS face. A mixture of humor and pity. I think he knew Susan passed something to me in that handshake, but he’s not about to let on that he knows. Not about to acknowledge a simple human trick.
    Condescending bastard. His attitude infuriates me. Well, I can be infuriating, too.
    I get right in his face. “Okay, Sammy, let’s get this show on the road. The sooner I clear myself of these ridiculous charges, the sooner Stephen and I can come home.”
    I think he actually winced at “Sammy.” His eyes certainly narrowed.
    Then the spark of irritation is gone. He’s smiling again, opening his arms. I take it to mean I’m supposed to step close to him. Reluctantly, I do. He folds his arms around me. The heat and scent of his body envelopes me in a cocoon that’s unnervingly arousing. Testosterone exudes from his pores, making me press myself against him as if drawn by a magnet. I feel my body respond to his masculinity just as I feel his body respond to me.
    I experience no sensation of movement. What I feel I think at first is my imagination. My body hums with sexual tension. Then it’s being touched by a hundred fingers—skilled fingers that roam, probe, manipulate. I am powerless to do anything. I can’t move. Can’t escape.
    I am powerless to do anything but surrender. Truth is, I’m not sure I’d stop it if I could. I’m trapped inside a pleasure cocoon being transported to what might be my doom. I should be outraged.
    Instead, I’m loving it.
    If this is teleporting, no wonder Captain Kirk always had a smile on his face. The climax, when it comes, is purely a physical reaction. The release is there, but that’s all.
    Makes “flying United” take on a whole new meaning.
    When my feet touch ground, I have no idea if the encounter took two minutes or two days. I draw a head-clearing breath. I look up at Samual, see the smirk, and all illusion of pleasantness evaporates. He has the self-satisfied leer of a man showing a woman that he is the one in control.
    I begin to wonder if he’s an incubus. If he is, I’d better be on my guard. We know what those bastards intend.
    I square my shoulders. “Is that how you get your jollies, Sammy? Was it as good for you as it was for me? Can I expect to be entertained the same on the way back?”
    His eyes darken, smoldering with suppressed anger. “Do not speak my name with such disrespect. You are out of your element here, Anna Strong. You will be wise to remember that.”
    I look around. The room is stark, bare, blindingly white. “So, what happens now?”
    He takes a step back from me, folds his arms in front of his chest. “Now you wait.”
    He fades away like a whisper, leaving only a wisp of smoke and a faint odor that tickles my nose. It smells like sex.
    How could I have ever thought him an angel?
    This was not exactly the way I imagined my reentry to the astral plane would take place. I suppose arriving on the wings of an orgasm is better than arriving in shackles. Should I feel embarrassed or ashamed? I feel neither.
    What I feel is confusion.
    I let my gaze sweep over the flat, unbroken surfaces all around. I can’t tell how big the room is. Or even if it is a room. It encircles me, front and back, above and below. An unbroken sweep of colorless, formless—what?
    I squat down to touch the floor under my feet. My hand touches . . . nothing. Yet whatever I’m surrounded by supports my weight. At least I think it does. Maybe I’m actually in a state of suspended animation.
    I don’t like it.
    “Hey, Sammy. Where is