Page 37 of The Folklore of Forever (Moonville #2)

Thirty-Seven

For a simple good-health charm, sweep basil from your back porch and fenugreek seed from your front porch. (If porches are not available, windows will suffice.)

Spells, Charms, and Rituals, Tempest Family Grimoire

“Morgan, wake up.” I tap his shoulder.

“It’s you,” he says in his sleep, smiling a little.

“Wake up. It’s raining.”

His eyes open, fluttering as they take me in. “Oh.” The smile widens. “It really is you.”

“Come on.” I lead him to a cave nearby, which I remember now that I’ve revisited the library—and there’s a waterfall around here, too! And a few pieces of railroad track, and a tree I decorated with necklaces and stuffed animals—at every turn, a new connection is illuminated. If I stand here long enough and think, I’ll end up with a complete map of the forest in my head.

“How’d you find this place?” he asks, stripping off his jacket and spreading it on the dry ground for us to sit on. I place my lantern alongside. “Look at all that!” He points at white mineral formations gushing down the walls, frozen in place.

“Flowstones. I used to call them crystal candles, because they look like dripping candle wax.”

We sit side by side, knees up, peering at the beautiful crystals thrown into relief by the lantern’s light. The cave feels rather smaller now that I’m fully grown.

“And you were out here by yourself? As a kid?”

I laugh. “Yeah.”

“Imagine what you’d do if Ash went sneaking off into mysterious caves.”

I bump his shoulder with mine. “That’s the difference, though. Her family would notice.” Not only Luna, but Romina and me, and to some extent, Morgan and Trevor, too. We’re Aisling’s village.

“Ah,” he says, with a nod of understanding. “And yours didn’t?”

“My parents weren’t worried about what I might get up to because as far as they knew, all I did was read and climb trees. What kind of trouble could I possibly find? Now Luna , on the other hand…”

“Golden child?” he guesses.

“Nope.”

He mock-gasps. “ Luna misbehaved?”

“Definitely not.”

At his confusion, I smile ruefully. “She was the best-behaved of all of us, but our parents were still the hardest on her. I don’t know why. Romina acted up so much that whenever she was good, she got praised for it, and I had my grumpy moments. Luna was expected to be perfect for some reason—they lectured her for any tiny misstep. If she’d tried to run off into the woods like I did, I can’t even imagine how they would’ve reacted. Would’ve been a blowup.”

He winces. “That’s why she doesn’t talk to them anymore?”

“That’s part of it.” I still have a relationship with my parents, but we aren’t close. I see my mom maybe a couple times a year, and I call my dad on holidays. “What are your parents like?”

“They’re awesome, I get along with them great. Which sounds funny to say, honestly, because I used to kind of hate my dad. When I was little, he was tons of fun. I worshipped—and I mean worshipped —him. I had friends hanging out at the house all the time because they idolized my dad. When I was thirteen, my parents found out they were having twins, which wasn’t expected at all, and things were pretty tight moneywise so Mom had to go back to work. Dad started working longer hours, too—actually, this is why I don’t want kids; I fell into the role of third parent because they were gone a lot, so it feels like I’ve already raised my kids, you know what I mean?—and anyway, I found out that my dad’s way of coping with stress was by chasing women. More than once.”

“Oh no.”

“He framed it as loving women too much , like he couldn’t help himself. Mom left him a couple times, but always went back. Every time she forgave him, she’d rationalize it as Dad being overly friendly, not realizing he was behaving inappropriately, that’s just his personality , blah blah blah. He’d say he was sorry and would never do it again. They treated it like a congenital weakness, and not a choice he continuously made.”

“Wow. I’m…very sorry you went through that. I can only imagine how frustrating it would’ve been, and how you must’ve hurt for your mom.”

“Yeah.” He picks at his sleeve. “It’s so weird, because it’s like…I love him. He’s great to me, always has been. Super charismatic, life of the party. He’s the guy you call at two a.m. when you’ve blown your tire in a snowstorm—that’s happened before, and he was there in six minutes, wearing pajamas. But I still resent how he hurt my mom. Part of me wishes she’d walked away from him for good, because he deserved to lose her. But the other part of me is happy for how happy she is now , because she loves him so much and they seem to be in a good place, so it’s conflicting.”

“I can understand that. I’m still mad at my mom for selling The Magick Happens to Trevor when she knew Luna was looking forward to inheriting it someday, and sometimes I want to punish her by ignoring her calls. But then I remember that my grandma—and I love her, don’t get me wrong—but Grandma wasn’t always that nice to my mom. She wasn’t mean , but she wasn’t…warm, I guess you’d say?” I trace patterns in the rock, reminiscing. “Totally different when it came to her grandkids. We were flawless angels who could do no wrong. But when I got older, I did notice some coldness between Mom and Grandma, and I know Mom was unhappy because she’d wanted a better relationship with her. After Dottie died, Mom admitted to me that she regretted selling the store.”

Luna will never forgive her. I’m not sure if I forgive my mom or not, but I don’t want to make her feel bad about it anymore, because I’ve made mistakes, too.

“Family is complicated,” Morgan says.

I hug my knees. “So very true. Speaking of family, how’s Forte?”

He takes a peek in the sling. “Awake, but strangely docile? I think he must really love being swaddled.”

“Don’t let him out. He’ll maul my other leg.”

We’re quiet for a while. Morgan lies down, patting his outstretched arm to indicate that I can use it as a pillow. I’m not one for cuddling, as it makes me hot and I don’t like feeling restrained, but it’s about forty degrees in this cave so I’ll take heat however I can get it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Morgan tells me once I’ve made myself comfortable.

“And what’s that?”

“You’re thinking about trying to seduce me again.”

I roll onto my side, exhaling into his chest. “Curses.”

“You couldn’t wait to yank off all your clothes and get wet with me. And you kissed my hand when we were high on psychedelic potion.”

“You kissed my hand, too, if you’ll recall.”

“If I recall? Do you think I’d forget getting my mouth on you? Anyway, back to your trial here. You, Miss Boots, dragged me into this sexy cave”—he pauses while I burst into laughter—“and are plotting your next move. I bet you knew the cave was here all this time. I bet you’ve got a picnic basket with grapes and cheese stashed nearby.”

“Grapes and cheese in a cold cave with no mattress to lie on,” I reply dryly. “What a fantasy.”

“My fantasy is you, Zelda. In it, you’re thirty feet tall and you pick me up like I’m nothing. You throw me onto a giant cupcake.” He spreads his hands above him, finger-painting the scenario in the air. “I swim in French buttercream frosting. Then you swallow me whole and I live inside you like a symbiotic parasite.”

“We shouldn’t talk to each other anymore.”

Morgan wraps his arms around me and hauls me close. “I feel the same way,” he murmurs in my ear, as if I’ve just confessed that he makes my insides warm and fuzzy. Which he certainly does not. It would be a waste of time to have my insides kindled into warm fuzzies in regards to Morgan Angelopoulos, who is an interference in my path to finding True Love. My True Love would never say he wants to live inside me like a symbiotic parasite. I bet he’s a psychologist or an archivist. Somebody who takes his job seriously and would never, ever post gleefully incorrect movie synopses in a newspaper under the moniker Moe Angelfish.

I think about my True Love as we drift in and out of consciousness, sleepy and comfortable, lulled by the pattering of rain. Our bodies move closer, closer. I say to Morgan, “I bet my True Love wears a newsboy hat and he’s got a proper library in his house,” but the syllables get all jumbled up on their way out of my mouth, so instead it sounds like I’ve said, “I like being alone with you.”

Most befuddling.

“I know you do,” he whispers. “You’re constantly engineering it.”

“Am not,” I whisper back.

“That’s all right.” His lips graze my temple, brushing over hair and skin. My eyes slide closed. “Once you admit to yourself what you want, that’s when the real fun can begin.” He sighs against my cheek.

What I want.

What do I want? I know exactly.

“Is it me that you like?” I ask, swallowing, twisting my fingers in the fabric of his shirt. “Or is it my magic?”

He tilts up my face, commanding me to meet his eyes. “The only thing I want from your magic,” Morgan tells me, each word grave and deliberate, “is for it to keep making you happy.”

And he kisses me.

My first lucid thought is Morgan has known exactly how he would touch me, if he got the chance . He’s thought about this. Dreamed of it with methodical thoroughness. I can feel the release of a tight and heavy yearning in the sweep of his tongue, in the way he rolls so that he’s positioned halfway on top of me. He’s known just how he’d angle his head, anticipating where my hands might wander along his body, how I’d arch mine to seek his.

The kiss deepens, the pressure lovely. It isn’t enough. I need more hands so that I can touch all of him at once, I need to be the ground and the air and his shirt, I need…I need…I moan under my breath when he rubs against me just right, the hard ridge in his jeans notching between my legs, and he stiffens for a second.

His breaths are shallow. “Make that sound again. No, don’t, actually. I don’t have spare pants to change into.”

I hold him tight against me and rock; this time, Morgan’s the one who groans.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck .”

“Yes, I’d like that.” I’m a flame. All I want is friction and his mouth, I want to see that easy smile fall open into pleasured gasps. I want, I want, I want. “You,” I say softly. “I want you.”

Morgan stops breathing; my chest is pressed against his, so I can feel it. He stares at me, the emotion in his eyes startling the shadows away; the lantern brightens as though responding to freewheeling particles of electricity, and we devour each other.

He unbuttons the fastening of my jeans. I peel his shirt over his head. Pants and underwear, all our layers, until Morgan is (oh my god , magnificent) dropping kisses onto my naked skin. He murmurs curses and praise, firm hands loving my thick thighs, my wide hips, my soft stomach. My fingernails gently graze down his nipples, his abdomen, to the hard cock jutting between his legs, and he shivers.

“I’m finally going to have my way with you,” I say wonderingly, half-delirious, and he buries a fist in my hair.

“You’re so damned beautiful. Poor thing.”

“Poor thing?”

“Don’t you realize? You’re never getting rid of me.”

And with what he does next, I can’t imagine ever wanting to be rid of him.

Morgan tastes me, reverent, filling his hands with my breasts, dragging his tongue over my nipples. I stroke up and down his back, letting my knees fall apart as he sinks between them. Words that don’t make any sense spill from his lips to caress my mouth as he positions himself at my entrance. “Yes?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Morgan pushes into me, slowly, my hips rising up to greet him.

“It wasn’t your desk, it was you. It was your energy, it was…the magic telling me: Wait right here. She’ll be back soon. Didn’t even know what I was waiting for, really. Just knew I had to stay put in that spot.”

A light laugh flutters from my throat. “What are you talking about? Ohhh, my. You feel so good.”

“I’m talking about…” He falters, his features relaxing into bliss. “Oh, it’s only everything. You. Sweet lord, Zelda. Do you even know? I’m still not sure you have any idea.”

I love that he can’t think straight.

“I know that I am feeling incredible right now,” I reply. “Don’t be offended if I don’t come, though, all right? Sometimes I don’t, and when I do, it usually takes a while.”

“I’m a patient man. We’ll see what we can do.”

Morgan slows, testing different rhythms and positions. He wants me on top because he’s worried my back will get sore (and he’s not wrong), but I need the pressure of his weight, I need to feel like I’m sinking. Through trial and error, we find out what my body wants from his, and after pausing a few times so that Morgan can last longer, I eventually sense a wave cresting.

I dig my nails into his hips, bringing him closer to me. Harder but not faster, we writhe together, and ultimately, I suspect my climax is equally credited to the euphoria caused by his words, and not just the way he moves inside me: You’re never getting rid of me.

He’s laid a pillow under my fear, giving it a safe place to land. If he likes me for me, then perhaps it’s safe to like him back.

We kiss anew as joy bursts in my heart. I kiss him and touch him, stroke and savor, until we can’t ignore that we need to clean ourselves up. So we do; then we redress when the heat we’ve generated dims to an ember, and he asks again, hopefully, if I’ve stashed a picnic basket around here.

I rip open a packet of peanut butter crackers. “Sorry, this is all I’ve got left. Somewhere out there, an elephant is enjoying our granola bars.”

“We hallucinated that, right? There’s no way there was an elephant in the woods. We’re in Ohio .”

“There were definitely fumes in that hot spring,” I agree. “I bet we saw a funny-shaped tree and somehow convinced ourselves it was…” I trail off as the vivid image of an elephant trampling our tent stampedes across my memory.

“Nah,” we say in tandem. “That was an elephant.”

We split my water, polishing off every cracker crumb. “I still can’t believe that the first time you kissed me, the kiss was on my hand,” he laments. “I’m going to have a stern talking-to with that psychedelic potion.”

“If it helps, I definitely would’ve preferred to kiss your mouth. But I was trying to be respectful toward your father.”

He tucks me up against him again. “What a weird and wonderful creature you are, Zelda Tempest.”

Through the mist that suffuses the mouth of the cave, I notice small, silvery insects weaving. One of them blows into the cave, landing on the rocks close to me. Its wings twitch as it rights itself, and it flies back out to join its friends.

“Those are supposed to be green,” I remark, as Morgan’s arm tightens around my waist. “I think they might be paranimals. Or not animals, since they’re insects. Parasects?”

“Interesting,” he replies distractedly, the rumble of his voice inviting me to snuggle in deeper.

“Want to go have a look?”

“No.” Morgan kisses my neck. “I want to be right here.”

I smile.

And the rain shivers through the trees and the magic burns in my veins and I want to be right here, too. I could live right here , I think.

“Not a bookmark,” he says softly, as I’m falling asleep.

“Mm?”

He smooths back my hair, baring my cheek. I feel the weight of his gaze, and his voice is like melting gold. “If you were a gingersnappus, you wouldn’t transform into a bookmark,” Morgan tells me. “You’d be a galaxy. So bright and beautiful that I could see you from any edge of the universe.”

When I dream, I am in Morgan’s arms, drifting across space, through implosions of stars and the births of planets, through all the constellations inked into his skin.