A Kiss of Shadows by Laurell K. Hamilton

looking behind us at the mirrors on the far wall. It took me a few seconds to realize something was wrong. Part of it was distraction. Alistair was kissing my neck, working his mouth over my skin, ever lower. Part of it was someone else’s magic. Someone powerful didn’t want me to know they were watching. But the mirrors were blank like the eyes of the blind. I looked up at the mirror above the bed, and it was empty, too, as if Alistair and I weren’t there.
    Then I felt the spell like a great sucking wound, drawing my power to the surface until it spilled from the pores of my skin, and up, up into that mirrored surface. Whatever it was, it was feeding off my power like a psychic leech. It pulled the power slowly like sucking up a straw. I did the only thing I could think of. I shoved the power into the throat of the spell, force-fed my power into the magic. They hadn’t expected that, and the magic shuddered. There was a figure in the mirror, but it wasn’t Alistair or me. The figure was tall, slender, covered in a hooded grey cloak that hid every inch of the body. The cloak was illusion, an illusion to hide the witch at the other end of the spell. Every illusion can be stripped away.
    Alistair’s mouth bit gently on my breast, and my concentration shattered. I looked down at him as he drew my nipple into his mouth. It felt as if his mouth drew on a hot line that went directly from my breast to my groin. It tore a gasp from my throat, made me writhe under his touch. A small part of me hated that this man could make my body react, but the larger part of me had turned to nothing but nerve endings and engorged flesh. I was sinking deeper into Branwyn’s Tears, drowning in them. Soon there’d be no thinking, just sensations. I couldn’t think to draw power. All I could smell, feel, taste was cinnamon, wrapped it in my mind, and shoved it into the spell. The cloak wavered, and for a second I almost saw what lay behind it, but Alistair went to his knees, blocking my view.
    He pulled his underwear down his hips, his thighs, and I was suddenly staring at the hard, gleaming length of him. It took my breath away for a second, not because he was so wonderful, but just out of pure need. It was as if my body saw the cure for all this need, and the cure was lying flat against Alistair’s belly. I don’t know if it was the sight of him nude or the power I’d shoved into the spell, but I was feeling more myself. A throbbing, nymphomaniac self, but still it was an improvement.
    I sat up. The front of the dress was torn away, my bra pulled down so that my breasts were bare. I said, “No, Alistair, no. We are not doing this.”
    A prickle of energy spilled over the bed, running in goose bumps on my body. Alistair looked up as if he saw something I didn’t, and said, “But you said to only use small amounts. Too much could drive her mad.” He listened, face intent. I heard nothing.
    Whatever was in the mirror wasn’t hiding from Alistair, just from me.
    Alistair opened the bottle. I had time to say “No.” My hand went out as if to ward off a blow. He threw the oil on me. It was like being touched by some great liquid hand. I couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but scream. He poured the oil down the front of my body. It soaked through my dress, to the skin underneath. He raised the skirt, and this time I couldn’t stop him. I was frozen, overwhelmed. He poured the oil over the satin of my panties, and I fell back onto the bed, my spine bowing, hands scrambling at the sheets. My skin felt like it was swelling, stretching with a desire that narrowed the world down to the need to be touched, to be held, to be had. It wouldn’t have mattered who it was. The spell did not care, and neither did I. I opened my arms to the naked man kneeling over me. He collapsed on top of me. I could feel him tight and heavy against the satin of the panties. Even that thin