Page 6 of A Dance with the Fae (Mistress of Magic #1)

There had been a strange magic in the air ever since the three witches had cast their love spell – a lush, brooding, fragrant miasma of roses that Faye could smell at the edge of her awareness and a sense of pressure in the air, like a storm was coming.

It was a week after they had cast the spell – early February, just past Imbolc, an ancient Celtic festival signifying the first stirrings of new life in the land – and Faye he had awoken from a dream where she had been standing naked on Black Sands Beach, with rose petals cascading over her naked skin.

The petals were everywhere, being blown on a breeze like standing under a cherry blossom tree in spring.

She had to open the shop soon, but she liked to walk down to the sea in the morning with a coffee and just sit, taking in the sea air, rich in ozone.

Or, she would look for feathers and stones, or walk and think.

She liked to be alone on the beach, and she often was: Black Sands Beach was often deserted, apart from the odd dog walker or jogger, but Abercolme wasn’t in general a village of joggers or exercise fans.

Mostly, it was older people who had lived there their entire lives and were more likely to be found in the pub or the community centre.

Often, Faye came to the beach with a spell ready to cast into the waves; sometimes, she came just to be with the sea, loving its strong, elemental force.

The air at the beach was always so good , so healing – regardless of the weather.

She loved the salt spray on her face; she loved the wildness of the water and the way it changed colour, from grey to dull green to blue-black and even turquoise, in the summer.

Today, she had followed her instinct. She needed to be at Black Sands Beach. Her heart yearned to be there: the dream was a sign.

The feeling – and the smell of roses – had become stronger the closer she had got to the beach.

Here, the sky was roiling – dark clouds hovered over the sea, which was as slate-grey as the sky.

Perhaps a storm was coming, Faye thought, but it hadn’t been forecast. This felt different, somehow.

There was no wind, just the clouds rolling in, and a sense of waiting, of hiatus.

She closed her eyes, and the vision of decadent, blowsy pink roses crowded the space behind her eyes.

Rich hued, velvety, soft and sensuous, like soft, full lips, languorous kisses, thick with sweetness, waiting to be ravished.

She shook herself, opening her eyes, the fragrance of roses still lingering.

Was it strange that the feeling in the air – around her, in the shop, in the village, since the spell has been cast – felt so…

delicious and dangerous at the same time?

Was it strange that a kind of lassitude had overtaken her, on the beach, as if she herself was a rose, soft and full of pleasure?

As she brought herself back to the present, she saw a figure walking up the beach towards her: a man – tall, heavy-set but powerful, brown-skinned and unshaven with probably a week or more of beard, and longish black hair.

He was wearing a black knitted hat and a plain white T-shirt over black jeans.

He was broad-shouldered and muscular, with thick biceps and strong forearms. His thighs stretched the jeans a little as he walked.

He reminded her of a bull: there was something in his sheer physicality that was pure primal masculinity.

As he drew closer, Faye took in the details of his face: he had thick, heavy brows, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw under the dark beard.

Dark eyes regarded her curiously; he had an intense stare, not aggressive but…

direct. Faye got feelings about everyone, and even as he walked towards her, she could feel him: focus, groundedness and a kind of delicious warmth that thrilled something within her.

She was sure she hadn’t seen him around the village before, and she felt strangely exposed, standing there.

A flash of light to her right made her look away for a moment.

One of the windows on a nearby house that faced the beach was open at just the right angle, reflecting sunlight into her eyes exactly at that moment.

The house was all steel and glass, that ultra-modern look that had been popular when it was built.

Most of the villagers hated it; it didn’t fit in with the rest of the village, which was full of the old-style Scottish stone houses.

But Faye had always thought it belonged there, somehow.

The glass reflected the sea and the sky in all its changing moods and colours, and on full moon nights when Faye had been at the beach, the house, dark and uninhabited, had caught the lunar light like a glass temple.

It had been built in the sixties by some rich architect who was drawn to Abercolme for the coastline.

Moddie had told Faye that the architect had unknowingly built the house on a ley line, or some other sacred ground.

Either way, once it was built, Grandmother had said that the local faeries were displeased and had cast a curse on anyone who lived there.

Whatever the reason, it had been bought a few times but always sold soon after, so had been empty for as long as Faye could remember.

She stared at the house for a moment, shielding her eyes from the bright glare. She saw that a few of the windows were open, in fact, and when she looked harder, she could see the blinds that were usually closed had been opened, meaning she could see into the house.

Inside, people were moving furniture; she watched as two men carried some kind of desk up a set of stairs. Someone was moving in.

I wonder if there really is a curse on it. She smiled to herself, pulling the tartan wool shawl around her shoulders to keep out the cold.

She remembered asking her mother about it one day when Moddie was plaiting her hair for school.

But IS there a faerie curse, Mummy? She had watched as Moddie’s deft hands braided the three hanks of the deep auburn hair that fell in natural – but often wild and knotted – ringlets around Faye’s shoulders.

But when she gazed up to her mother’s face from the edge of her bed, mirrored in the glass of the dressing table opposite, Moddie had a strange expression.

Just Grandmother’s tales. Go on and get dressed for school now, little one , was all she had said, but she had hugged Faye fiercely before she let her go.

‘Great view out here!’ the man called out as he approached her.

‘It certainly is!’ she called back.

He was holding a sheaf of papers, but just then the wind came up unexpectedly and blew them out of his hand.

‘Oh, shit!’ His dark eyes widened, and he started running after the papers, which had turned the quiet beach into a sudden storm.

Instinctively, Faye collected the ones nearest to her and realised they were flyers of some description.

She watched him as he ran around, trying to catch the others.

There was a sudden greenish glimmer of light around the man, as if it was chasing him, tormenting him.

It was as though there were sprites in the wind, pulling the papers away from him right at the last minute, curling and parading them around him.

Faye blinked, watching the energy. It appeared to want to distract the man from Faye, because every time he got closer to her, the green light – which curled and danced lazily in the air – pushed the papers further away.

Curiously, she watched for a few moments before moving towards him and collecting some more of the papers.

As soon as she approached, the shimmer disappeared.

‘Here.’ She handed him the ones she had collected.

‘Thanks. I don’t know what just happened. There’s no wind.’ A smile played on his lips as he looked up at her.

‘You’re welcome.’ She found herself smiling back, taking him in as he stood up.

Close up, he seemed even larger. Faye was very aware of the aura of masculinity that surrounded him; she could almost breathe it in, and it made her giddy.

She had the sudden impression of this man holding a baby pink rose softly against her cheek, and then taking her in an embrace, his rock-hard biceps pressing her close to his chest.

He handed her a wet flyer. ‘Here. You might as well have the last salvageable one.’

ABERCOLME ROCKS , Faye read. Underneath, there was a list of what she assumed were band names, then MIDSUMMER EVE written at the bottom. Midsummer, Midsummer, Midsummer delight; go to the faeries on Midsummer night – the old rhyme played in her mind.

‘What’s this?’ She looked back up at him. Close up, his eyes were such a dark brown they were almost black; his eyelashes were long and soft.

‘Abercolme’s first music festival. That I know of, anyway. Hi. I’m Rav Malik.’ He held out his hand; Faye shook it politely, feeling a glow of warmth from his skin and a sudden shiver of desire at his touch. ‘I’m promoting a festival up here. I was supposed to be plastering these all over town.’

‘You managed the beach.’ She smiled shyly.

Faye was unused to interacting with men like Rav Malik.

He exuded some kind of primal pheromone that she could feel herself responding to, and she had no idea how to deal with it.

She had never, ever met a man and been this attracted to him on sight before.

The smell of roses was now quite pungent in the air. Faye wondered if she was going mad or if Rav could smell it.

‘Yeah. Not quite the plan, but maybe a few snails will buy tickets.’

‘Snails don’t live on beaches. The salt would kill them.’ Faye chuckled. ‘You’re not from around here?’

‘You got me.’ He looked boldly at her: a look that she felt between her thighs, as if he had touched her there. Her eyes widened; her lips parted. She made a noise in the back of her throat, like a moan, and disguised it as a cough.

Faye pushed her hair out of her eyes and tried to compose herself. ‘Who’s moving into the big house? Do you know?’

‘Me.’ He smiled at her. He had a nice smile. ‘Just moved my company up from London to Edinburgh. Amazed it’s been empty so long.’

‘You? You’re moving into the house?’ Faye did a double take.

She didn’t know how much the house was worth, but it would have to be a lot, given its size and location, right on the beach.

Rav didn’t look particularly wealthy, dressed casually with his week-old beard, but then, she supposed, what did a wealthy person look like?

‘Aye.’ He smiled at her again, the grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. ‘I’m moving into the house. Anything wrong with that?’

‘No…I guess I’m just surprised that…you’re not…old,’ she blurted out, and blushed instantly. ‘I mean…most people who live here are.’

‘Hmm. I’ve got a few years in me yet.’ He chuckled. ‘And you are?’

‘Faye Morgan.’

‘Nice to meet you.’ He gestured at the remaining flyers that still littered the beach.

‘I’m going to have to pick this lot up, aren’t I, Faye Morgan? Or the village elders will curse me.’

She laughed. ‘The village elders would tell you it’s not them you have to worry about.’

‘Oh. Who do I have to appease with burnt offerings?’

She started picking up the stray flyers, mostly wet with seawater.

‘Me, probably,’ she said over her shoulder.

She caught a glimpse of his thick, muscled back under his T-shirt, which had ridden up as he crouched down, and looked away, feeling a heat spread through her, from her thighs, deep into the core of her and up into her stomach.

He stood up and stared at her. Faye felt his intense gaze, again, as if it was penetrating her. She shifted, swallowing.

‘You? Why?’

‘I’m the local witch, you could say. My family’s been here for generations.’

‘Witch? What, eye of newt and toe of frog?’ He frowned at her now, his brow becoming heavier, and Faye was reminded of a bull, sizing up an intruder in its field. Overhead, the seagulls circled and squawked.

‘No. Herbs, plants, the moon, magic…that kind of thing.’

‘Right.’ He smiled, then, crinkling his eyes against the hard late winter sun, and the sense of peril passed. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met a real witch before.’

‘You probably have. You just didn’t know it.’ Faye ran for three flyers that were caught at the tideline. Rav followed, picking up more.

‘So, you’re local? D’you know anything more about the history of the house? The agent was pretty clueless.’ Rav appeared next to her and stuffed another handful of mulched flyers in his pockets.

‘I run a shop in the village – Mistress of Magic, and I live above it. I’ve lived here all my life.

Yeah, that house has a history. My grandmother used to tell me stories about it.

’ She didn’t break her gaze away from the water, but only because she didn’t know where to look: Faye was deeply, almost painfully aware of Rav.

Of his aura, which was a deep red. The colour of sex.

Of the smell of him, which was clean, woody, but also somehow overpoweringly masculine.

‘I’d love to hear them sometime.’ Rav’s eyes met hers, and held her gaze. He’s probably nice to everyone , Faye thought reflexively. He’s not flirting with me.

‘Well, pop into the shop. I’m open every day except Sunday,’ she said, looking away hastily. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go and open up. Good luck with your festival.’ She bent and picked up a dry flyer from a few feet away. ‘I’ll put one up in the window if you like?’

‘I do like. Thanks.’ He caught her eye again and his eyes twinkled. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you again soon, Faye Morgan. Or should I call you Morgan Le Fay ?’

‘Just Faye will do,’ she said, picking up her forgotten coffee. She made her way back to the footpath, feeling his eyes on her. Once she was far enough away, she waved, and he waved back.

I can’t believe I waved , she thought.

She wondered whether meeting Rav at the beach – in all its strangeness, with the glimmering light chasing him away from her, and the scent of roses – was a result of the love spell. Surely, that was just her imagination.

Let him be kind, beautiful, magical, free; let him be loving, gentle and in love with me.

That was what she had asked for.

Faye didn’t know much about Rav other than that he was gorgeous, was moving into the house on the beach, and that he worked in music. Whether he was kind, magical and available, she had no idea.

Would the spell work that quickly? Faye had cast spells before, but the outcomes were never that exact. Was meeting Rav a coincidence?

Or had she just got what she asked for?