A Witch in Time Read online

  “I’m no matchmaking gossip, Salem, but I need to tell you…”

  Salem interrupted, “Again.”

  Misha laughed. “Yes, again—that I think it’s wrong for a nice girl like you to be sleeping alone every night above a shop full of hoodoo candles and leather condoms.”

  Salem laughed. “It’s a living. Now, about that corned beef on rye…”

  “It’s in the cooler. Enjoy it if you can. You don’t get married soon I’ll be sitting Shivah for your youth,” Misha replied.

  Salem shook her head and chuckled to herself. I’m not in the market for something long-term. I just want something to lie atop me besides the book I’m reading when I fall asleep! “Don’t cover the mirrors yet, Misha. I’m only thirty. There’s plenty of time for me to find a husband.” If I bother looking.

  “You are the kind of woman who will meet your true love in a heartbeat and marry him in the next. I know you, Bubeleh. I work next to you for ten years. I think at first with your spirits and sexual items you might be oysverf, completely crazy, but now, I know better. If you were my son, I’d say you were a man of honor.”

  Salem realized she was being given a great deal of respect by a man who refused to let his wife learn how to drive. “Thank you, Misha.” Now, hand me that dry salami you have hanging in your cold case so that I can screw myself silly with it and I’ll be on my way.

  She retrieved her sandwich, dropped a five-spot on the counter and headed upstairs. But not before turning off her shop alarm to retrieve the Viking Member and the Odin Stone.

  She couldn’t carry her to-go container and the heavy artifacts at the same time, so she tucked the bone dildo into her sports bra. It reached from the base of her bra to her chin, but at least it left her with two free hands to carry her food container and the rather large piece of palagonite.

  The cold hardness of the Viking’s boner shifted in between her breasts as she climbed the steps to her apartment. She felt her female parts go tight at the thought of something hard and warm between her breasts. Something just as long and thick, but more animated than whalebone. Maybe the Norseman who carved it. There was a man who knew how to give a gift that would keep on giving!

  “Gods, I need a man. Maybe I should perform a Venus ritual and see if I don’t get some action.” She paused. “No…a Freyja ritual. Norse passion. Bag myself a Berserker.”

  She had never performed a ritual designed to draw in a romantic encounter. She’d read about them, discussed them, sold items designed to enhance their magic, but she’d never cast one.

  She pushed the door open with one foot and set the stone and the container on her kitchen table. She hadn’t locked her door. No need. Hers was a fairly crime-free neighborhood. She withdrew the dildo from her sports bra and inserted the tip through the hole of the Odin Stone. A little tease for the female object from the definitely male object.

  Salem rolled her head back. “Crap, I forgot to feed the girls,” she cursed. “You two behave while I’m gone.” She patted the Odin Stone being teased ever so slightly by the tip of the Viking Member and jetted down the fire escape stairs.

  The girls were going crazy in their tank—and it wasn’t because their dinner was late. Salem reached inside her jet-fridge for the field greens salad mix and cherry tomatoes and opened the tank. Dax nipped at her fingers as she removed food bowl. “Hey! What’s with that? Why are you acting so skittish? There’s no one around. And I’m human!”

  Both rats turned their haunches to the plate glass and iron-barred storefront window, their long pink tails extended out like arrows.

  Salem dropped the salad mix into the tank and squinted toward the window. The street lamps cast a reflective glare against the plate glass, and the store’s security lights at the front entrance made it hard to see out the window. A shadowy figure lurked at her storefront, pressing his hands against the glass as if trying to get a good look inside. The bars held him back.

  “It’s just a lookie-loo, girls. The pub down the street is having dollar beer night.”

  Her little rats were insistent that the interloper into their airspace was far from human and, by their reaction, was probably extremely powerful. Salem took a step closer to the front of the store. The man reached one large hand through the bars and placed his palm flat against the glass.

  Oh, my Gods…She could feel him. Who—or what was he? Salem slipped a runic necklace off its display peg. The Helm of Awe—a protective rune. Not that she wasn’t already surrounded by spells and charms so thick she sometimes envisioned her shop encased in London fog.

  She stepped forward, into the glow of her security lights. “We’re closed,” she called.

  A deep, smooth voice replied as clearly as if he were in the room with her. “Yes, I can see that. You are very closed. How many charms and spells do you think you need for protection anyway?”

  Salem laughed. Well, ain’t he a pisser?

  “I have enough. And a few mundane methods of protection in here, too.”

  “I’m not going to break in, Miss. I’m just wondering…”

  Salem raised her left eyebrow, smirking. “Wondering what?”

  The man continued, “Do you have an Odin Stone?”

  Salem caught her breath. “Why?”

  “Do you always ask potential customers why they want a certain item? If so, it’s a wonder you’re still in business,” the man replied.

  Salem wondered if she should say yes or no. She kind of liked the Odin Stone. Of course, if she kept everything she liked, she’d never sell anything and be out of business in a week. “Yes. I have one.”

  “May I see it?” he asked. “Odin Stones are aligned to the feminine side, you know. A woman is sacred, too. A keeper of oaths. The vessel for creation. Odin Stones are uniquely sensual. I need one for my collection. My own personal trove of sins.”

  “We’re closed. Can you come back tomorrow?”

  “I hate waiting,” the man replied, his voice soft and teasing from behind the plate glass.

  Salem smiled. “Tomorrow. Come back. I haven’t even unpacked it yet.”

  “You don’t lie well, Miss Grier. Give my regards to your pets. I’ve always enjoyed the company of rodents. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Salem rolled her eyes. Non-human beings making demands could be such a pain. The creature locked outside her shop thanks to powerful magic was more vaporous than corporeal. As he walked away, she could very easily see right through him.

  She called to her rats, “It’s okay, girls. I think my new shipment came with a bit of extra baggage, that’s all. I’ll work up an invisibility charm and the likes of that.” Salem paused. “Rather sexy entity will forget all about my having the Odin Stone.”

  Why do all the hot guys have to be less than human? Hot guys…was even thinking about performing a Freyja ritual stirring up the ethereal sexual plains? Salem picked up a bundle of sage. “Smudge me, baby,” she said aloud, giggling.

  She pursed her lips, recalling the other items she needed to invoke and invite the sexuality of the Norse Goddess of Love into her life. A string of amber beads would avert Freyja’s secondary role as the Goddess of War. Strawberries would invite sweet sensuality. She had strawberry jam. That could work. A falcon feather. A cat’s eye marble. Something naughty. She smiled. The Viking Member. What could be better?

  The girls had calmed down, but seemed quite intent on staring out their tank toward the window. Salem tapped on their lid. They ignored her, keeping their eyes focused on the street. She tightened her grip on her plastic sack full of ritual merchandise. “I’ll bet he has something that could fill that Odin Stone’s hole quite nicely.” She walked out and reset the shop’s alarm. Talk about a cock ring!

  * * * *

  Salem popped open a bottle of beer and downed it in three long swallows. She grabbed a second and sat down at her table. She popped the top off the second brew, took another long swig, and then addressed the artifacts. “Now what am I supposed to do with you? I h
ave a spirit being after the stone, the bone is worth a bloody fortune, and I was thinking of keeping you both. You look like a matching set to me. One piece really should go with the other.”

  She finished another beer. Dark, frothy, and strong, it hit her empty stomach hard. She should have eaten before going for the beers. Two bites of a sandwich and a Kosher dill just didn’t fill the void.

  With unsteady hands, Salem set up makeshift altar on her kitchen table. A red placemat acted as her altar cloth. No pentagram needed; this was an invocation of a Norse goddess. Salem set out a peach tea candle, the jar of strawberry jam, the amber beads, and a small tray to hold the sage. She moved the Odin Stone and the Viking Member front and center.

  She lit the candle and passed the end of the falcon quill through the flame. “I honor Freyja. I invite her into my home to make it ready for passion. May my true love enter in her wake and may the pleasure I receive in his arms delight the goddesses. I invoke the pure protection of the falcon and the clarity of the sage. Thank you, Freyja.” Salem paused. “I vow to honor the relationship given me.”

  Now, bring it on. I’m horny and in need of serious lovin’. She giggled and held the Viking-age adult toy out over the altar and made the sign of Thor’s Hammer over the objects, much like a priest making the sign of the cross before a congregation. “Freyja, hear my plea! May you weep tears of gold in joy instead of sorrow. May your ranks be filled with true and perfect soldiers. May Odin forgive you your transgressions and may you soar on falcon’s wings in the hearts of all women.”

  Satisfied with her short ritual, Salem blew out the candle. She grabbed another beer and the container of food, and carefully navigated the piles of research books and occult references stacked in her hallway to the living room, the Viking Member again tucked into her sports bra. She wanted her treat from Misha—a piece of baklava. Honey. Nuts. Sounds like euphemisms for sex!

  Salem plopped down on the sofa without grace or finesse and opened the Styrofoam container, ignoring the sandwich and going straight for the pastry. “Baklava,” she drooled.

  She slipped the bone from her bra and set it on her coffee table. Misha had given her a huge chunk o’ glory. There’s nothing like baklava. Nothing. It’s better than sex.

  The first bite sent her into a state of cascading delight from lips to toes. The phyllo literally melted in her mouth while the honey filled her senses with its rich taste and aroma. She took a swig of beer to cleanse her palate before enjoying a second bite.

  “Tell me, my Viking stud, do you like baklava?” Salem picked up the dildo and ran its tip across the flaky goodness, covering the head with dripping honey.

  The mushroom head of the carved bone dildo glistened with the golden nectar. “Damn,” Salem whispered as she brought the dildo to her lips. She flicked her tongue against the cold hardness, catching a drop of honey. The bone had a salty essence. It formed a contrast against the sweet honey and pungent beer with a kind of sensual balance found only in nature.

  Salem lolled her tongue along the tip, capturing every last bit of the golden sweetness. She mouthed the head, as if it where the real thing.

  Just like riding a bicycle. She could do this again. If she ever got the chance. She felt a flood of readiness between her legs. She pulled the dildo from between her lips and looked at its shining head. Why not?

  She wiggled out of her cotton pants and ran the whalebone dildo across her thighs. “Oh, I don’t know Mr. Viking Member. You might be too big. It’s been a long time, you know,” she whispered, the beers doing some of the talking.

  She pressed the carved shaft against her clitoris, through her panties. “You are a naughty Viking. All right, you can come inside and play.”

  She reached for her beer and drained it. She then slid into a comfortable position on her sofa and maneuvered the dildo inside her panties. The honeyed head felt warm and sticky against her mound as she worked it between her labial lips and along her clitoris. She ran the head across her vagina, pressing inward slightly. She was wet. Really wet. She rubbed the member across her opening, and then let the Viking invader take the plunge.

  It hummed and rang inside her. It vibrated with its own heartbeat. It lulled her into a deep fantasy—a fantasy so rich, the real world ceased to matter. In her alcohol-induced state of tranquility, she felt the fullness of a man inside her. Filling her.

  She didn’t usually fantasize about blonds. She liked them a little more ethnic than that. But this masturbatory fantasy had a life of its own. And he was blond.

  His long, braided, whiskey-colored hair smelled of salt and leather. The aroma of his maleness captivated her senses. This was a fantasy worth pursuing. Since it was taking its own course, she didn’t fight against the tide.

  She was his sultry and helpless Irish captive and he was the Viking invader, ravishing her over and over until he coerced her into submission with pure pleasure. His need to conquer her consumed him. She held the key that would end his captivity. He couldn’t steal it from her—she had to offer it.

  His embrace enveloped her.

  But he was not alone.

  He had a friend—an unclothed, fully hardened friend with shiny dark skin and eyes the color of a summer field. They were brothers. Blood-brothers. The first child and the adopted child of a stout Norseman with white-blond hair and a penchant for eastern women. The dark boy was not his flesh and blood, but the son of a Norse mercenary killed in service of the Sultan. The Norseman had claimed the boy and the boy’s exotic mother as his own, vowing to protect them in honor of his fallen comrade.

  Born from the mating of Norse to Byzantium African, the adopted brother—the blond’s blood-brother—had a radiant beauty never before seen in Iceland. He’d been popular during the long winters. With the women. With the men.

  And he wanted her.

  Salem reached out for him—Kane. She wanted to take them both on. Kane, the dark one, and Ketiljon, the blond.

  Ketiljon growled. He didn’t like to share. Not his father’s affections, not the land his father left them. Never a woman, and even more potently, never his blood-brother. It had been over bruises and beatings that he’d given other men a chance at Kane during the long winters. Kane was his. Kane would always be his.

  Ketiljon’s obsession with his blood-brother distracted his love-making with Salem. He reached out his right hand and tried to urge Kane’s thick penis into his mouth. Kane refused his touch. Salem felt Ketiljon’s irritation as his pounding thrusts grew even more furious.

  Salem parted her lips, inviting the dark Viking to fill her mouth with his dusky member. He smiled and allowed her to draw him in. He tasted like honey. He’d covered his thick member with the sticky golden nectar. She slid a hand around his sticky shaft and moved her head back and forth in time with her hand until her tongue tasted his sweet salt in the mixture.

  “No,” the blond brother ordered, pushing his adopted-sibling away. “She is mine. If you want her, you must let me have you, first. Like when we were boys—and during our long confinement.”

  Salem tried to protest, but found the blond’s hand covering her mouth. His grip hurt. Ketiljon pulled away from her, leaving her rudely unsatisfied.

  The look on the dark brother’s face changed from soft to anxious. “Those days are over, Ketiljon.”

  The blond, his expression sharp and his member jutting out from him like a ramrod, reached for Kane’s arm, twisting it. “Is she worth it to you? One last time with me and she will be yours. At least for now.”

  “She is worth everything to me. Without her, we have no future,” Kane replied.

  “Then do as I wish.”

  Kane’s voice strained over his blood-brother’s heavy panting. “Let me take her from behind. While I am in her, you may take me.”

  The blond smiled. “Agreed!”

  Salem sighed with relief when Ketiljon lifted his hand from her mouth. “Roll over, darling. Come along now. Since you are fantasizing that you are an Irish slave, then you
must do as I say. That’s part of the fantasy, is it not?”

  Salem took a deep breath and rolled onto her belly. Who was he to control her drunken fantasy? Asshole!

  “Bottoms up,” Ketiljon commanded.

  Salem pulled her knees up under her, lifting her buttocks in a frighteningly exposed manner. She didn’t like him. He was hot, and she liked him fucking her, but she didn’t like him—and she didn’t think he really wanted her, anyway. He wanted to make love to another man. She could deal with that, but Jesus Christ, not in mid-fuck! Love the one you’re with, bucko! This was not her fantasy! It was his! How did that happen?

  Kane mounted her from behind. His hands went to her hips as he pushed his way into her vagina. She was so wet—still ready for sex in the wake of Ketiljon’s withdrawal. His penis was longer and thicker than his blood-brother’s. His style of thrusting was different, too. Whereas the blond was fury in the act, this man was molasses, using deliberate, slow strokes, easing his way in and out of her, making sure her pleasure was not ignored.

  Just as Salem’s clitoris responded to Kane’s skillful technique, he withdrew and dragged the thick head of his penis across her anus, wetting it. Slowly, carefully, he pushed his way into her rectum. The pain was nearly unbearable at first.

  “You’re too…big…” she gasped.

  He stroked the small of her back. “Relax. Relax and it will soon be over. Reach between your legs and touch yourself while I’m in you. You will enjoy this, I promise.”

  Something in his voice was not right. It was as if he was saying one thing, but meaning another. Like she should have been reading him between the lines. The blond guy, he was controlling them.

  Nevertheless, Salem did as commanded. Her swollen clitoris responded accordingly. At this point, she didn’t care how she got off, or by whom.

  Ketiljon interrupted Salem’s thoughts as he pushed Kane forward. “She will not enjoy you as much as I will, blood-brother,” the blond said. Without a moment’s hesitation, he assaulted his brother’s anus, thrusting so hard he drove his way in up to his own pelvic bone.