The Souls of Witches: Legends of the Pale, #4

By Tarrant Smith

      Orphaned at the age of six, Lars's earliest memories are of the violent encounters between the demon who sired him and his demigod mother. His unique history, which he'd like to forget, is what allows Lars to live a charmed life within the supernatural communities collectively known as the Pale. With the goddess Rhiannon as his patron, he wants for nothing. But after encountering Rowan Morgan at a local Witches Ball, Lars must face disturbing truths about his banished past before his ignorance and cravings kill her.

 

     Rowan is a solitary witch by nature and a kitchen witch by inclination. The life she has carved out for herself is a small one, but also deeply satisfying. Rowan loves nothing more than tending her herb garden, baking sweets for the local café, and spending time with her best friends. She is fiercely independent and has never truly felt as if she were someone's other half. Yet after a single night in the arms of a dark and mysterious lover, Rowan is forced to reconsider her past assumptions about the existence of soulmates. And if she and Lars are truly destined for one another, then how can such drastically different people learn to share a life together?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tarrant Smith
• Release date: Nov 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393381983

Tarrant Smith

Far far away and in a time long ago, Tarrant Smith graduated from Queens College in North Carolina with a degree in English literature. She currently lives in the beautiful town of Madison, Georgia with her husband, son, and two rescued stray cats who follow her around like familiars. As a kitchen witch, she has always sought out and nurtured the magick that can be found in the mundane trappings of everyday life. For more information about the author and her romance books please go to tarrantsmith.com 2020 Georgia Independent Author of the Year Award (Romance Catagory for The Love of Gods) "From cover to cover, Smith delivers insanely well-drawn characters and enough moments of levity to keep this paranormal romance moving along at a brisk pace. Never does Smith's work lack. As the author bounces from one subplot to the next and back, she keeps readers on their toes and deeply involved with each of the main characters and their tragic lives." Author's YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC_HCiwgsJBOiGJrza7FTd-Q The Love of Gods was awarded Literary Titan's Silver Book Award for June 2019. The Fate of Wolves was awarded Literary Titan's Gold Book Award in December 2019 ​​​​​​​The Dreams of Demons was awarded Literary Titan's Silver Book Award in August 2020 The Souls of Witches was awarded Literary Titan's Siver book Award in February 2021 Bound Darkly was awarded Literary Titan's Gold Book Award for July 2019. Kept Darkly was awarded Literary Titan's Gold Book Award for August 2019. Surrendered Darkly was awarded Literary Titan's Gold Book Award for August 2019. Resurrected Darkly was awarded Literary Titan's Gold Book Award for August 2019 Website: https://tarrantsmith.com/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/TarrantSmith Substack: https://tarrant.substack.com/ Medium: https://medium.com/@starrantsmith Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/starrant.smith/ Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/starrants/tarrant-smith-author/

Book preview

Chapter 1

The clink and chatter of the cafe’s kitchen fell away as Rowan’s focus spiraled inward, narrowing until all she saw or felt was the vanilla buttercream as it slid smoothly along the cake’s cold surface. This was her world—a place of taste and memory. Recollections of her grandmother’s kitchen, its sights, sounds, and aromas, flowed into her mind and along her arm as she guided another dollop of white frosting across the cake’s edge. The air grew heavy with the scents of powdered sugar and baked delights, of remembered love and cinnamon belonging.

The delicate trickle of energy was easily directed, as if it were her own wand she wielded and not a metal baker’s tool. A whirl here for love. A reassuring hug from one who cares. A graceful wave of longing along the side, the white veil now sweet and dense with promise. She worked widdershins, counterclockwise, until the whole of the hummingbird cake lay blanketed with her magick and the flavor of home sat thick on her taste buds.

Rowan ignored the ache in her shoulders as she topped the uniquely Southern confection with chopped walnuts, toasted and still warm from the oven, before tying off the simple spell. Stepping back, she surveyed her work and let a soul-deep smile lift the corners of her mouth, then she moved on to the next dessert.

ROWAN KNEW SHE HAD the bad habit of pouring too much of her personal energy into her spell work. It left her drained most days. She fingered the mint growing on the cafe’s back stoop to release the plant’s aroma and energy while she placed the call.

You better not say you’re not goin’. You promised, Rowan! I’ve been jabberin’ on about the Witches’ Ball for months now. And Brett and I can’t go as Sunrise and Sunset without Midnight, Tara complained before Rowan could utter a single word. Your costume is absolutely beautiful. It needs to be worn.

Rowan laughed. Of course, Tara had anticipated her last-minute call. And, thanks to Tara’s painstaking work, the star-strewn, midnight-black dress was indeed breathtaking. Playing to my love of fashion is not entirely fair, Rowan replied. She then took a deep breath and confessed what Tara already seemed to know. I admit, I was hoping to beg off. I’m more in the mood for a quiet celebration at home. Just me, the gods, and a glass of wine. Though she’d infused her aura with false cheer before making the call, Tara was almost impossible to fool.

You’re tired.

Rowan shrugged. I had to come into work today, even though Katherine knew it was Samhain. Rowan didn’t explain further. She didn’t have to. That’s what was so great about her closest friend. Tara was a natural empath. They’d met years earlier, well before Tara had married Brett. But his addition hadn’t weakened their sister-like bond, only enhanced it.

Take a restorative bath when you get home, came Tara’s reply, not letting Rowan off the hook. Make sure to put a touch of mint in the water to lift your mood. We’ll be by at nine to collect you.

Rowan smiled inwardly. The crushed herb was already under her nose for that very reason. A solitary witch by nature, a kitchen witch by inclination, Rowan understood the potent magick of aroma and flavors. To deny Tara anything was like refuting the fact that the earth smelled sweetest after a spring shower. It was usually just easier to go along than fight against her friend’s enthusiasm. And in the end, she, Tara, and Brett were probably as close to an actual coven as Rowan would ever want. It would be wrong to be apart on such an important holiday.

For you, sweetie, I’ll be ready.

Damn straight, you’ll be! Brett’s been lookin’ forward to this thing more than I have, Tara confessed.

Of course, he would! Rowan snickered, instantly picturing Brett in her mind. He’s a man, and he’s going to show up at this thing with a beautiful witch on each arm. Both of whom will probably be intoxicated by night’s end. I have no doubt he’s excited.

Tara giggled, her voice as light as snowflakes falling on Rowan’s ear. I wish I had your red hair. My wig itches something terrible, you know.

Well, you should’ve splurged, like I did. The jet-black wig had cost Rowan more than she’d budgeted for the event, but it fit like a glove and looked far more natural than the cheap thing Tara had purchased.

So, we’re agreed? Tara pressed. We’re drivin’ to Atlanta and celebratin’ the end of the year and the turnin’ of the wheel like the badass witches we are.

I said I’d be ready, Rowan promised again, grinning into the phone despite everything. Samhain, otherwise known as Halloween, was their New Year’s Eve and fiercely celebrated by all witches. For this one night, the veil between the worlds would be at its thinnest. The ancestors would be near, walking among the living to bestow their guidance. Readings, predictions, meetings, and dreams would hold greater significance tonight. And there would be dancing—lots and lots of dancing.

Nine, Tara confirmed one last time.

Yes! For you, yes.

Tara gave a squeal of delight and ended the call.

Alone on the stoop, Rowan let out the long sigh she’d been holding back and tried to relax her tight shoulders. For weeks she’d been looking forward to tonight’s festivities, but this morning her excitement had vanished. Vague apprehension was all she felt now. Rowan took a moment to massage the knot that had formed at the base of her neck and left shoulder. She’d made a promise to Tara, and ever since coming into her full power, Rowan had done her best to keep her promises. Words were like spells, and keeping her word was a part of caring for her power as a witch.

Her fingers dug savagely into the knot for a few seconds before releasing it again. Dropping her cell phone into her apron pocket, she took another deep breath and just as slowly released it. She forced the tension from her shoulders, letting it drain down her arms and fingertips onto the ground. A promise made meant that she was going tonight, apprehension be damned. Rowan pocketed the crushed mint leaf and resolutely walked back into the ordered chaos of the cafe’s kitchen.

Chapter 2

The bath Tara had suggested helped Rowan immensely, but so, too, did the quiet solitude of her home. Rowan’s house was a modest one, nestled behind a grove of pine trees, thick cedars, and assorted maples and oaks. Except for the rosemary bushes and the nondescript black mailbox, there was little to mark the gravel drive that led to the house and the clearing where she grew herbs. The property had once belonged to her grandmother but had been hastily transferred into Rowan’s name after the elderly woman’s tea leaves revealed a death omen at the bottom of a favorite chipped cup. Fate can be fought but never bested had been one of Nana’s favorite aphorisms and because no one had ever won an argument with Nana, Rowan had acquiesced to her grandmother’s wishes without much of a fight.

That fateful tea reading had occurred just over six years ago, Rowan mused, placing her hand against the bedroom window that looked out onto the garden. Just a month later, Rowan had found herself dutifully tilling her nana’s ashes into that soil. The herb garden was primarily why Rowan had remained tethered to this place.

Though Nana’s garden had thrived under Rowan’s care, ownership of the house had turned out to be something of a chore. It was always in need of work, and just contemplating the lengthy to-do list made Rowan’s head hurt. The weak floorboards in the guest bedroom and the dripping bathroom faucet should be fixed. But first, Rowan wanted to find someone to re-shingle the roof at a price she could afford. As for the furnishings, most were functional, mismatched, and mainly dated back to her grandmother’s childhood. Some items, Rowan had tried to update, like the kitchen table, the living room side tables, and Nana’s massive bedroom wardrobe. They had all been given a coat of paint.

Oh, what she could do if she had the money, Rowan thought. She sipped the honey-sweetened ginger tea and turned her gaze from the garden to her altar on the wall opposite the window.

The altar was currently decorated with red and yellow leaves, a crow’s feather found on her doorstep, sea-polished shells from the vacation she’d taken last year, a quarter-sized stone from the fields surrounding Stonehenge, a single antler she’d found while walking in the woods, a purple chalice she’d happened upon while shopping at Goodwill, her athame, her wand (carved so many years ago with Nana), a scattering of crystals and candles that forever changed with the seasons and the need, and a single acorn she’d plucked from the gravel of her own driveway as recently as this morning.

She fingered each item and arranged them in accordance with her need. Setting her tea aside, Rowan let her mind reach for the earth, to ground her own scattered thoughts before expanding her senses to first touch and then merge with a much larger flow. Like the garden, that river of energy was always there, waiting. It showed her things. Warned her on occasion. But for days like today, when she needed to recharge her own energy, it welcomed her like an embrace.

WHEN A FAMILIAR KNOCK sounded, Rowan hurried to extinguish the candles on her altar and dashed to the back door. I’m coming!

Brett’s lopsided grin greeted her first. Merry meet, he announced, stepping through the open doorway. Tonight, his blond good looks were displayed to their best advantage in his sunrise costume of gold and misty gray.

Merry part, Rowan responded, allowing him into her kitchen, the heart of her home.

And merry meet again, Tara chimed in, dashing up the porch steps and into the kitchen to stand beside her husband. Oh, you look so wonderful!

Rowan ran a hand over her left hip, the dark sparkle of the dress sliding under her fingertips like watery diamonds. Thanks. It came together better than I could have possibly hoped. And I take it back, Rowan replied as she surveyed Tara’s entire costume for the first time. The red wig isn’t bad at all. Not a hint of Tara’s dyed black locks showed beneath the red waterfall. Maybe you should think about going blood-red. It suits you.

Tara’s fingers self-consciously trailed over the synthetic wig. You think?

Why is it that you’d consider Rowan’s advice and not mine? Brett demanded with a distinctly wounded expression, casually leaning one hip against the kitchen counter. Just behind his head hung bundles of herbs drying over the kitchen sink. I said the exact same thing the other night when you wore it for me.

A blush colored Tara’s cheeks, the soft glow of pleasure only adding to the ruby sunset-glory of her costume. Perhaps I just needed a second opinion. Woman to woman, goddess to goddess.

Women, Brett grunted, his eyes rolling skyward and once again merry with amusement. He then clapped his hands. Well, let’s get this celebration started! My chariot awaits, O Enchanting Ones. With a shallow bow and a tilt of his head, his own golden crown of laurel leaves just a little askew, he waved them toward the door.

You don’t think we’ll be too early? Rowan asked, snatching her house keys from the kitchen counter.

"Maybe, but I’m not in my twenties anymore, and I’m not willing to wait till eleven to start celebrating. It’s an hour’s drive into Atlanta. If we don’t run into traffic."

No complainin’ tonight! Tara chided him, stepping onto the porch. I intend on having a marvelous time, and you’re starting to sound like a grumpy old man.

Brett grinned and playfully reached for his wife’s waist as Rowan locked the door. Tara giggled and fought him for a minute but then let him draw her in for a kiss.

Better? he asked.

She giggled again.

Let’s get going, he said, giving his wife’s bottom a playful swat.

Tara squealed and laughed. She then grabbed Rowan’s arm and all but skipped the two of them to Brett’s car.

DESPITE THE PRESS OF bodies, of witches and wannabes, despite the throbbing music and strobe lights, he had noticed her as soon as he’d arrived. Like most of the crowd, she was dressed head to toe in black, Goth-like except for the dazzling black and the crystals sewn into her gown. Those same stones cascaded downward from an exquisitely simple silver crown that rested atop her head to mix with her ebony hair. He had met many witches in his lifetime, but Lars recognized the weave and texture of real magick when he saw it. It was in the way she moved, the tilt of her head, the sway of her hips. She was no child, this one. She was a woman who was comfortable with her own power, her inner goddess, and it showed in every gesture she made. This was a queen moving among peasants, he thought.

Lars hadn’t planned to attend the local Samhain celebration, even though it was a fundraiser organized by the North American Witches’ League. His decision had been made at the last minute. Needing a costume of some kind, he’d donned an elegantly cut black suit and a Venetian plague mask. Coupled with his dark looks, the result was a rather convincing impression of a crow—highly appropriate for this night and the goddess who had claimed him as her own.

Lars was the grandson of the Morrigan, the great Crow Goddess. It was through his mother’s line that he’d been granted a natural darkness, a birthright of sorts, that most could sense and thus avoid. His grandmother didn’t bother to reach out to him very often, but when she did, he listened and grudgingly obeyed. Tonight was one of those times, and Lars suspected that Midnight was the reason. That was why he’d noticed her so quickly, and why she’d held his attention, though what his grandmother wanted from this particular witch he could only speculate.

From behind his mask, Lars watched Midnight (for that is how he thought of her) as she wove her way across the dance floor. The gyrating sea of bodies parted before her, perhaps on some level sensing her power. Because she’d arrived with two others and had yet to stray far from either, Lars decided to bide his time and keep to the shadows, eyes ever watchful. He’d already turned down a handful of invitations from women too inebriated to know better. And he’d been rude to the point of insulting to those who would not take a polite hint. Midnight was who he wanted this evening. The longer he watched her, the more certain he became that no substitute would satisfy him.

WHAT? ROWAN YELLED, cupping her ear in hopes of hearing Brett over the drumming beat of the music.

Brett waved and pointed toward the far corner of the club. The venue had two levels, with several accessible, smaller rooms beyond the dance floor in which conversation might be possible. Rowan nodded her agreement. Beside her, Tara tilted an imaginary glass to her mouth. Brett noted his wife’s request, and the three of them set off toward the bar.

It was there that Rowan caught sight of him again. The crow’s gaze had been following her for some time now, his aura both dangerous and alluring. Despite pairing off with several male partners on the dance floor, Rowan had shamelessly begun to dance for the dark stranger who remained cloaked in shadow. He intrigued her—his aloofness, his determination to remain separate when everyone else was so eager to merge their energies with one another. The club was a cauldron, the occupants bubbling with exuberance and joyful magickal potential. Bolstered by such an abundance of energy, Rowan was no longer tired, and the apprehension she’d felt that morning had evaporated like a long-forgotten dream.

Ever so briefly, Rowan graced him with a smile from across the bar before turning her attention back to Tara.

Sunset pressed a glass of red wine into Rowan’s hands. You’ve got an admirer! she yelled across Rowan’s left ear, her gray eyes full of happy mischief when she drew back.

Rowan didn’t try to answer, just raised her glass in salute. Tara smirked and clinked her own white wine glass to Rowan’s red one. And then Brett herded the two of them away from the bar in search of a quieter space.

The first two rooms they entered were crowded with people paying to have their fortunes told for the coming year. The third room was clearly a pleasure room meant for the club’s private members. Brett hastily ushered their threesome out, his face blushing redder than his wife’s. The fourth door they passed through turned out to be the building’s spacious balcony. It wasn’t deserted, but it was a welcome break from the press of bodies and the almost deafening music.

Tara sighed in reaction to the cool night air hitting her hot skin.

So, who is he? Brett pointedly asked, the constant pounding of the club’s music now a muffled heartbeat.

Rowan arched an eyebrow, knowing full well who Brett meant. Who’s who? She found them an empty table and sat down. Her mind might no longer be tired, but her feet had yet to be convinced. She fought the urge to slip her stilettos off.

The man who’s been stalking you all night. Are you going to ask him to join us, or do you want me to run interference? Brett pulled a chair out for Tara.

Rowan took a sip of her wine and did her best to look innocent as Tara settled herself into the chair. If he doesn’t have the courage to approach me, then why would I want to seek him out? she answered pragmatically, ignoring Brett’s offer to run off her mysterious crow.

Brett’s brow furrowed, causing deep lines between his eyebrows that Rowan suspected would one day become permanent. Well, if you decide he’s the one for this evening, or someone else, you should know that Tara talked me into getting us all a room instead of trying to drive home. It’s the Marriott on Peachtree, just a block or two away. I booked a suite in my name.

So, Tara winked at Rowan, if dark and mysterious is your choice, you’ll have a place to take him. If not, we’d love to have you join us, she finished, once again giggling as Brett’s blush predictably stained his cheeks.

The first time Tara had broached the subject of Rowan sharing their marriage bed, Brett’s long-abandoned but strict Christian childhood had resurfaced, to his wife’s utter amusement. It happened again the first time the three of them had performed a ritual while skyclad. Brett hadn’t been able to hide his arousal at seeing Rowan and Tara naked in the woods. But this time, instead of crawling under the table Brett merely cleared his throat, ignored the heat rising to his cheeks, and sweetly tolerated his flower-child wife’s mocking laughter.

From across the table, Rowan smiled at the two of them. She laid a hand over his and turned her gaze to Tara. Thank you for the offer. As always, I’m honored, but I’m afraid I’ve set my sights on a certain crow tonight—despite his apparent shyness. Her hand lingered for a moment so Brett might feel the love she felt for the two of them before Rowan broke the connection and reclaimed her wineglass. I just have to toss out enough breadcrumbs to catch him, I think. And probably stray far enough away from the two of you for him to introduce himself.

Be careful, Rowan. I’m not sure I trust the look of him.

Tara shoved at Brett’s shoulder. You don’t like anyone who eyes our Rowan. She’s a grown woman, thirty-three—

Thirty-two, just two years older than you, sweetie, Rowan gently corrected her friend. And your glowing wife is absolutely right, Brett. I can take care of myself. If I decide I want him, I’ll have him. And then, after tonight... She paused to give a delicate shrug of her shoulders. I’ll throw him back. She had long since abandoned any hang-ups about sex. It was beautiful and natural, a merging of female and male energy. And that was all it was.

Brett’s jaw visibly tightened. Be at the hotel no later than three. And knock on our door, so I know you’re there and safe. I worry, he admitted. And then he, too, shrugged off his concerns. Though I don’t know why. Between Tara and you, I’m the safest man here.

They all three laughed at that. Despite her hippie peace-and-love upbringing, Tara was a shield maiden at heart and Valhalla bound one day. So naturally, Tara had first declared they should all dress as marauding Vikings. But Brett had nixed the Viking theme early on in his wife’s planning phase, claiming that it wasn’t witch-appropriate enough for a holiday like Samhain.

You would have made a terrifying Viking, Tara cooed, her eyes turning soft as she gazed up at him.

Next time. Tonight, my little witchy wife, you’ll just have to make do with bedding the god Apollo. Or perhaps I should channel Thor? he finished hopefully, wiggling his eyebrows.

Tara giggled and Rowan smiled into her wineglass. One day, maybe. If she were lucky, truly lucky, she wistfully thought. But until then—if then—she wasn’t going to waste her life waiting on a long shot. She’d made a happy life for herself. She was a complete person, not someone’s other half. On occasion, Rowan longed for something or someone she could not name, but those moments were like flashes of quicksilver, there but gone again, fleeting whims easily pushed aside. Go. Dance, you two. Leave me here for a few minutes, and let’s see if my crow finds me.

Tara tossed back the rest of her wine and stood. Say no more. I’m ready to dance again.

You sure? Brett took his wife’s hand, his questioning gaze still on Rowan.

I have half a glass left. I’ll sip it. If he doesn’t show in that time, I’ll come find y’all on the dance floor. I promise.

Tara leaned in and kissed Rowan’s cheek. Happy hunting, Midnight.

Rowan grinned back and raised her wine glass in salute. "Skol."

Tara laughed and saluted back with her empty glass. "Skol."

Brett reached into his pocket, only to then press his car keys into her free hand. Take ’em. Tara and I can get an Uber or a taxi to the hotel. At least this way, I won’t feel like we’ve deserted you.

Rowan accepted the keys and slid them into a discreet pocket hidden in the folds of her dress. Thanks. Brett bent down and lightly touched his lips to hers in parting before leading Tara away. Feeling the energy and wine in her bloodstream, Rowan watched the two of them go, their bodies instinctively brushing up against one another as if bound together by some invisible thread. For some couples, perhaps that was the case; for her, it would never be.

Rowan took another sip of her wine, closed her eyes, and sighed contently. She could sense the coming darkness, the shorter days as they gave way to longer, colder nights. Nature was readying itself for the long sleep, and this night would be the last great celebration before Yuletide. She could smell the change in the air and in the earth, see the color difference in the daytime sky. Though she appreciated all the seasons, autumn had always been her favorite time of year.

Hi.

Rowan didn’t bother to open her eyes. This wasn’t her crow. She had no doubt she’d recognize the feel of him. Go away. I’m waiting for someone. Her tone was pleasant enough, but it left no room for argument. Rowan didn’t see so much as feel the intruder walk away. When she opened her eyes once more, she was alone and completely at ease inside her self-made circle of solitude.

Chapter 3

Her companions returned to the club’s rowdy interior, but Midnight did not. The two were definitely a couple, which made Lars wonder who Midnight was to them. The blond male made it a point to glare at Lars while escorting his woman, or wife, to the dance floor. Lars found the other man’s gesture amusing, but he reciprocated nonetheless in the age-old ritual, inclining his head to acknowledge the silent warning, male to male, hunter to hunter. He then waited until the couple was lost in the throng of bodies before he maneuvered toward the balcony.

He found Midnight sitting with her back to him, alone, her wineglass nearly empty. For a moment, Lars considered removing his mask but then decided against it. He strolled over and gazed down at her.

Waiting for me. It wasn’t a question so much as a statement of fact.

She glanced up over a bare shoulder, her hazel eyes piercing him. One penciled, darkened eyebrow arched upward.

Took you long enough.

Lars held his hand out to her. Come with me. Even over the muffled noise of the music, he heard her heartbeat quicken.

She turned in her chair, a slight smile curving her rose-colored lips. The air between them crackled the moment her hand touched his, her light energy clashing almost violently with his dark. The air swirled and danced around them like a winged serpent, each exploring the other, testing walls and bouncing off skin. The surprise he saw in her eyes probably mirrored his own.

Evenly matched, he remarked, making an effort to keep the shock from his own voice.

So it seems, she replied just as coolly. With her hand still in his, she rose from her chair. Where? In the heels she wore, she was almost as tall as he. Her look was direct, full of expectation and no small amount of daring.

The single question brought a smile to his lips, and for a split-second Lars wasn’t sure whether he was hunter or hunted. Follow me.

With her hand securely captured in his own, he guided them from the balcony and through the throng of people to the club’s private pleasure room.

Oh! So you’re a member?

No, he replied, a bite to his tone as he wove through the array of dungeon-like restraints and contraptions. But I’m acquainted with the owner, he confessed, the memory of the petite blond coming to mind as he opened the door of the club’s office. And this is far more private, he added, stepping quickly across the threshold after her and locking the door behind him.

When Midnight pivoted to face him, Lars removed his mask. He’d expected a certain amount of shyness from her after he’d locked the door, a few minutes of having to set her at ease, but this witch didn’t hesitate or turn suddenly coy. Before he could ask her name, Midnight reached for him, her arms encircling his neck as she guided his mouth to meet hers.

Lars was utterly lost the second their lips touched. Hers was a magick he’d never encountered before, and he was no novice. Her body smelled of vanilla and promise,