The flare of approaching orgasm seized Caity’s muscles. She closed her eyes and tried to distance herself from it, needing to hold off, wanting Quinn to come first. But when sudden warmth pressed against her mind, there was no holding back.

  They’d only done this once before, and back then Caity hadn’t understood what was happening. She did now. With a deep breath, she relaxed her body and allowed the dragon to enter her mind.

  Every nerve exploded with pleasure. Caity felt Quinn’s pleasure and…her relief at having her human back. The dual sets of sensations of pleasure—nipples scraping against each other, clits swollen and hard, cunts begging for release—rolled over Caity. Eyes wide, she silently begged Quinn for what she couldn’t vocalize.

  “Come for me,” the dragon whispered against her lips as she ground down one final time.

  The scream wrenched from Caity’s chest as pleasure cascaded through her, over her, obliterating every thought from her head. She bucked her hips, squeezed her leg around her lover’s back trying to pull her even closer. Wet covered her thigh, easing the way even more for Quinn. The dragon bit down on Caity’s shoulder as she came. Her body flared with heat, the metal of the cuffs holding Caity to the wood was suddenly too hot against the sensitive flesh of her wrists. But she didn’t say anything, simply waited for the dragon’s pleasure to subside.

  With a groan, Quinn dropped forward, bracing her weight on her hands. Their minds were still joined, and for the first time in years, Caity felt a sense of peace.

  Quinn turned her face and licked at the spot where she’d bitten her. Caity sighed, happy to have her lover’s mark once more on her skin. They stayed that way a moment before the dragon moved to release her from the chain. Pain lanced through her shoulders and it took both of them to lower her arms to her sides.

  “I forgot how much that hurts.”

  Quinn chuckled. “Then don’t leave and we won’t have to do this again.”

  “I won’t.”

  Quinn sat down and pulled Caity onto her lap. There was something beautiful about being held by this creature, this woman who was older than anyone fully appreciated. Caity had been wrong in walking away. Quinn would never allow her to lose herself, to forget who she was as a person. Quinn needed her to remind her of the joys of life. Caity would never fail her again.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” Quinn’s question was nearly lost, spoken against her hair as she placed kisses to her head.

  “I did.”

  “Good. I want to hear about it. About where you went and what you saw.”

  Caity pressed her head to Quinn’s shoulder and looked into her golden eyes. “Let me tell you.”

  THWARTING THE SPIRITS

  Michael M. Jones

  In the city of Puxhill, there is a park. Crowded by day, deserted by night, it’s a patch of green set against the urban jungle. Tonight, with the full moon shining overhead, impossibly out of their natural habitats, a mongoose and a cobra fought with tiring implacability.

  The cobra was a textbook example of its species, nearly eight feet long with a magnificent hood and cold eyes. It would not have looked out of place wrapped around the god Shiva’s neck.

  The mongoose was short and slender, brown of fur and long of claw, and likewise far from home.

  They wrestled and leaped, paused and charged, slithered and struck. Evenly matched in speed and ferocity, neither seemed capable of gaining the advantage for long. A keen-eyed watcher who got past the impossibility of the scene might have picked up on several things. First, that both creatures were significantly larger than most of their kind, possessing preternatural presence and power. Second, that while they struggled with all their strength and cunning, neither actually seemed intent on winning. Though compelled to battle, they refused to carry it to its natural conclusion. The blood flew from a multitude of wounds, but none were by any means fatal.

  At last, the night ended. The moon set and the sun peeked over the horizon. As dawn broke, the two creatures reeled apart as though repelled, putting a good distance between them. The sun’s rays flowed through the trees, striking one and then the other.

  Changes began. Bodies twisted, bones cracked and elongated, scales shed and fur fell out. Claws and fangs retracted, and their many wounds healed as though never inflicted. It was a swift, brutal process, over in a minute, and it left behind a pair of naked, exhausted women in place of the creatures.

  The cobra was the first to recover, picking herself up off the ground to brush away the grass and dirt. Tall and lithe, radiating a queenly grace, she was all sinuous curves. Her skin was a smooth bronze, her eyes wide and dark, her lips full, currently pursed in something between frustration and amusement. Long dark hair tumbled luxuriously down her back, stray waves falling to not quite cover small breasts. Even naked, she exuded confidence. Those who knew her would have recognized her as Purnima Gurtu, a graphic designer for a local advertising agency. They’d finally know why she never joined them for drinks on the nights of a full moon.

  The former mongoose was several inches shorter, with a stockier, though equally sleek, build. Her skin wasn’t quite as dark, and the stubbornness to her features made her look defiant and a little aggravated. Glittering dark eyes and brown hair cut to the nape of her neck echoed her animal alter ego. She wasn’t so confident in her nudity, immediately turning away with an arm over her breasts. This was Hala Laghari, a research librarian for nearby Tuesday University, and she really wasn’t happy.

  “This can’t go on,” Hala said, voice clipped with annoyance and embarrassment. She bent over to retrieve a small backpack from where it had been stashed in the nearby bushes.

  Purnima paused to ogle the other woman’s round backside as it was unwittingly offered. “I agree. It’s not doing either of us any good. Sooner or later, it’ll all end in tears.” She moved to grab a small duffel bag from where she’d hidden it.

  For several moments, the women distracted themselves by slipping on the clothes they’d put aside hours before. Purnima’s movements were slow and languid as she slipped into matching silk purple bra and panties, before adding an ankle-length multicolored skirt, a low-cut light blue shirt, and well-worn sandals.

  Hala was much more awkward, moving with furtive speed. First, plain white cotton underwear, then a long-sleeved brown shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. Finally, with a great deal of care, she wrapped her hair in a black hijab, tying the ends of the scarf securely. Once she was properly covered, she relaxed a little.

  They finished straightening up as best they could, looking around to make sure they hadn’t missed anything or been spotted. Early-morning city sounds echoed from the nearby outskirts of the park, as Puxhill properly came to life. Their gazes met, and an awkward moment of silence was broken only when Purnima spoke. “So. Breakfast, then? The usual place?”

  Hala dipped her head. “I will meet you there shortly.”

  Purnima’s eyebrow quirked. “Prayer first, of course.” She was well-used to Hala’s ways. The teasing came out of habit.

  Hala puffed indignantly. “Though my family cast me out for loving as I do, and I transform into a monster every month, I will not abandon my faith. I merely…make adjustments under the circumstances, and pray Allah will forgive my irregularities.”

  “Easy, my dear, I’m not judging you,” said Purnima, tone softly soothing. “I will order for you and see you soon.” She bestowed a fond smile upon the other woman, almost reaching out, but rethinking it. Instead, she bowed her head, turned, and left.

  Hala closed her eyes for a long moment, breathing deeply, before departing as well. The rising sun took no notice of them.

  The Dashen Diner was a small place, a hole in the wall that had served the Caravan Street community for decades, with little thought given to décor or ambience. You got good food at cheap prices at all hours of the day, and that was that. When Hala finally walked in, Purnima had secured a booth near the window, where she could watch the street and the early-morning traffic. There was a scattering of other patrons, a mixture of those up too late and those up too early. In one corner, a pair of scruffy men argued with a waitress over whether their cat qualified for the children’s menu, and asked for their coffee to be brought by the pot. At the counter, a notorious talk show host chatted animatedly with a sleepy pair of prostitutes over slices of blueberry pie, apparently regaling them with exaggerated tales of his own prowess. Elsewhere, several college students desperately quizzed one another about differential equations. It was just another morning.

  Hala slid in across from Purnima, smiling with more warmth. There was coffee waiting for her; she took it between her hands gratefully, breathing in the steam rising from the top. “You are too kind.”

  Purnima sipped at her own cup. “After the night of the full moon, it’s the little things that make me feel human.” She sighed, putting the cup down. “This has to stop, Hala. How long have we been at this?”

  Sobered before she could even enjoy her coffee, Hala stared into its swirling depths. “Just over a year,” she murmured. “Three nights a month, for thirteen months and counting. Ever since we first met.” She raised her suddenly challenging gaze to meet Purnima’s. “Ever since the Bifrost Books mixer. Ever since, in a moment of foolishness and ill judgment, we fell into bed together.”

  The shared memory crackled like electricity between the two women. A night of burning passions set against a wrath-of-God thunderstorm. Intermittent lightning casting wild shadows against the walls of a hotel room. Limbs entangled, chests heaving, bodies sliding. Soft lips, slick skin, taut nipples. Vanilla and jasmine and the musk of arousal. Low, heated cries of passion, and a seemingly endless series of orgasms. Curling up together under rumpled blankets, impossible to tell where one woman ended and the other began. One perfect night of wild abandon.

  Purnima’s skin darkened with the memory, her eyes flickering; she didn’t look away. “It was the best night of my life,” she said. “We connected so well. The sex was mind-blowing. You fit against me like it was meant to be. It felt like the start of something.”

  Hala gave Purnima her best silent look. Neither of them could forget the next night, the first of the full moon. How unfamiliar forces had raged screaming out of the depths of their souls, their conscious minds fleeing under the onslaught. Their bodies had twisted and reshaped, instincts overriding intellect. In a cruel mockery of the previous night of lovemaking, they’d fought with unrelenting hatred. Only a miracle had prevented tragedy that first night, as the cobra and the mongoose clashed. “It was the start of something,” she said, bitterly. “How long before one of us kills the other?”

  They’d agreed to keep their distance for the nights when all was normal, for a variety of reasons. The relationship that could have been, reduced to this: three nights of feral combat, three mornings of recriminations and regret. “It’s getting harder to hold back,” admitted Purnima, glancing away shame-facedly. “I dream of sinking my fangs into your neck, wrapping my coils around you. I yearn for your death.”

  Hala looked down, finger tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “I wake up with the taste of blood in my mouth. This is never going to stop, Purnima. Never. I’ve researched until my eyes about bled, exhausting hundreds of sources, and nothing.”

  “We’ll find a way,” Purnima promised. Seizing Hala’s hand, she kissed each fingertip in turn. Hala was too surprised to protest. It was a bold move, given the state of their relationship, and she didn’t let it linger. Instead, she released the hand and stood, throwing down money for their coffee. “I have to go. But we will find a way.”

  Hala remained long after Purnima stalked out. Her fingertips tingling, she replayed the moment in her mind with surprising pleasure. Please, she begged silently, let us find something. It would destroy me if I killed you.

  “Couldn’t help but overhear you,” drawled a voice. It was one of the scruffy guys, an olive-skinned, gold-flecked-eyed man of indeterminate age and a fondness for jeans and plaid. He’d come to lean against the side of the booth while she was lost in her thoughts. “Don’t get upset, li’l lady. I’ve just got good ears, and I’m a bit nosy.” He lowered his voice. “If you’ve got problems of a magical nature, I’ve got a name and address for you.”

  Hala studied him fiercely, trying to read any guile or malice in his openly earnest expression. No, she decided, he might have been an eavesdropper and a busybody, but there was something trustworthy about the man. He had a wildness to him, but his intentions seemed straightforward. She made her choice. “Go on. I’m interested.”

  An hour later, Purnima met Hala outside Desiderata. It was either a pawnshop or antique store, depending on who you asked, its dusty windows full of old junk and curiosities. Hala greeted her with a slight smile. She’d explained what little she knew over the phone. Wordlessly, they went in.

  The proprietor was a few years older than either of them, short and slender with pale skin, dark eyes, her black feathered hair streaked with red. She had the same wildness Hala had spotted in the man at the diner, the same wildness she recognized in Purnima and herself. She sat at the counter, reading a newspaper; when they came in, she looked up, head cocked birdlike to the side, and stared unapologetically. “Help you with something?” she asked. “I’m assuming you’re not here to pawn something. Call it a hunch.”

  “We were sent here by a guy named Raoul,” Hala said tentatively. “He said you could handle…unusual things.”

  The woman groaned, rubbing at her temples. “The Coyote Brothers are back in town? Lovely. Was this something they caused?”

  Hala shook her head, swiftly. “No, it’s not like that. They merely pointed us in the right direction.”

  “That’s something, at least.” The woman hopped down from her stool, and flipped the sign on the door to “Closed.” “My name is Isobel Sparks. Call me Izzy. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  They explained everything. About the cobra and the mongoose. About their thrice-monthly fight to the near death. About their fears. Izzy offered them tea or coffee, but neither took her up on it. Occasionally, she asked for clarification, eyebrows twitching thoughtfully with each answer.

  Afterwards, she sat, rubbing her chin. “It sounds to me like you two somehow got entangled in a free-floating, generational curse. I can just imagine. You come from different cultures and traditions, but you both have a healthy dose of the animal spirits in you. Folks like us, we tend to gravitate towards one another. So totally by accident, you meet. Your spirits collide, things kick into high gear, next thing you know, they’re reenacting something from centuries ago with you caught in the middle.” She whistled. “Raven’s balls, that’s an icky one.”

  Hala fidgeted. Purnima stood dead still. They watched and listened while Izzy spoke, half to herself, half to them. “There’s only three ways to break something like this.” She listed them on her fingers. “You can get as far away from each other as possible, stretch it until it snaps. It’s anyone’s guess as to how far is far enough. Downside is, you can never see each other again for fear of resurgence. Do nothing and it eventually runs its course, most likely killing one or both of you in the process.” She paused.

  “The third?” pressed Purnima.

  “You overload it.” Izzy’s grin was almost reckless. She brought her hands together to signify two forces colliding. “You find a way to supercharge the curse, and it’ll collapse under its own weight and significance. Kablooey.”

  “But how would we do that?” asked Hala.

  “I can’t help you there. It’s not in my skill set, and I don’t have the tools. This is way beyond my experience. But I know just the right person. You’re in luck, it’s the right time of month to talk to her.” Izzy wrote down a name and number on the back of a business card, and gave it to Hala. “Tell her this clears us for the Lexington thing.”

  “What do we owe you for your help?”

  “Normally, I’d charge you a favor each, but since you actually gave me advance warning that the Coyote Brothers are back in town, I’ll make it one favor between the both of you. And I promise, it’ll never be anything illegal, immoral, or against your religion.”

  “Deal!” exclaimed Hala and Purnima as one.

  As they left, they heard Izzy muttering about getting the emergency kit ready. Just in case. Stupid Coyotes.

  “There’s a woman with issues,” murmured Purnima, wryly.

  Hala had to agree, a surprised laugh escaping her.

  Phoebe Masters was a tall, pale woman, silver-haired and violet-eyed. She hosted a late-night program on a local classical radio station, and agreed to meet Hala and Purnima in the midafternoon, well before sunset. When they joined her at the Dashen Diner, it was impossible to miss her. Even dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, she had a presence about her, a magnificent radiance that made them want to bow down, to acknowledge some ineffable quality. Just sitting in the booth, sipping at her tea, she was regal. No, corrected Hala’s mind, she was like a goddess.

  They settled in, side by side, across from Phoebe, studying her curiously. Apart from the indescribable aura and unconventional attractiveness, she seemed normal enough. How could she help them? Introductions were made, drinks were ordered; only after the waitress had come and gone again did Phoebe get down to business. “You have a problem. And Isadora Sparks thinks I can help.”

  Purnima straightened up, trying to project confidence, something in short supply at the moment. “She said it would clear your debt for the Lexington thing.”

  “Mmm, that. Well worth having that issue dismissed. Tell me your story.” Phoebe’s voice was cool and soothing, but carried an inescapable weight, like the incoming tide. Once again, Hala and Purnima took turns explaining their dilemma. Silent, impartial, majestic, Phoebe drank it in without interruptions. At some point, Hala took Purnima’s hand, their fingers interlacing on the tabletop. Phoebe’s gaze caught that as well.