First thing she'd do, she'd show a lot more skin. Maureen gritted her teeth and unbuttoned her blouse, top and bottom, until it was barely decent and then one button further, and tied the shirttails across her belly. She tugged her bra down an inch beyond her comfort limit. She unsnapped her jeans and slipped the zipper and settled them on her hips, until white lace showed below her belly-button in an open invitation.
Jo looked back at her from the mirror, Jo in her tomboy temptress phase. They matched except for the hair. Maureen borrowed Fiona's brush and flipped hair forward until curls half-covered one eye.
That took care of the outside. What the hell could she do about the inside? Last time she checked, you still had to get close to a man to screw him. If she tried that, she'd go catatonic or grab for that knife.
She gagged at what she did remember of Dougal, his arms enfolding her naked body, his kisses on her breasts, his hand between her legs. She felt filthy again.
Think of some other man, the voices prodded. Think of a man you aren't afraid of. Think of a man who gave you joy instead of sorrow.
A tune floated through her head, and she started singing softly to herself, remembering a child's nonsense song learned from her grandfather long before Buddy Johnson clouded her horizon. It was the only bit of Gaelic she'd ever learned, and she didn't know the meaning of half the words--if they even had meanings other than mouth-music and a lilting rhyme. She did remember dúlamán was a kind of seaweed.
"Dúlamán na Binne Buí, Dúlamán Gaelach,
"Dúlamán na farraige, 's é b'fhearr a bhí in Éirinn."
Grandfather O'Brian was always warm and gentle and friendly, even when he reeked of Irish whiskey. She'd loved him. She still did. He'd never hurt her. She tried to visualize him as the handsome charmer he must have been when he was young. She'd marry a man like that in an instant, booze and all. She'd bed him without the blessing of the priest and to hell with contraception.
Maureen stepped out of the toilet and met Brian's stare. He looked at her, not at the table, and she saw something in his face no man had ever aimed at her before. It was the way men looked at Jo. The look punched her in the gut, and she stopped singing. His eyes lost their focus. She forced herself to start again.
"A 'níon mhín ó, sin anall ne fir shúirí,
"A mháthair mhín ó! cuir na roithlé go dtí mé."
Gentle warmth flushed her face and hands, not a blush but a reminder of her sexual dreams. She washed up at the sink, his gaze on her back again, and she remembered her vision of Fiona in the forest. The dark witch had been singing as part of her spell.
So this is magic. How can it feel so natural?
Now came the hard part. She had to retreat into her padded cell and let Jo take control. She walked over to Brian, conscious of a different sway to her hips. His eyes focused on the top of her zipper and the lacy cloth showing there.
"Tá cosa dubha dúbailte ar an dúlamán gaelach
"Tá dhá chulais mhaol ar an dúlamán gaelach."
Her hands, Jo's hands, caressed his cheek and slipped inside his shirt. The heat of his body felt scorching to her, and his warm male smell twisted her nostrils. She took his hand and pulled him out of his chair, led him to the next room, pushed him to the floor where there was a rug and room to work.
He moved like a putty doll--pliable, inert and yet living. Zombie was the word.
His attention was riveted to her body, but he wasn't aroused. She knew enough about men to know that. Her hands, Jo's hands working without command, unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it off, slid her zipper fully open, performed the rest of a slow striptease. Her magic controlled her as much as it did him.
"Rachaimid go Doire leis an dúlamán gaelach,
"Is ceannóimid bróga daora ar an dúlamán gaelach."
The voices in her head echoed Fiona's words in the frozen forest. He smells you, they said. You lead men around by the nose. You can make a man do anything you want.
Her hands, Jo's hands, slipped down her body and probed the moisture between her legs. She brought a finger to Brian's nose and his nostrils flared. His body stirred against the spell that bound him, and she pushed him back to the floor.
Jo's fingers deftly opened buttons and buckles, slid cloth over skin, laid his body bare on the rug. Maureen's stomach clenched at the sight, and she forced herself back into the song.
"Bróga breaca dubha ar an dúlamán gaelach,
"Tá bearéad agus triús ar an dúlamán gaelach."
He groaned. It came out as a word, "Maureen," and he reached for her.
"Shut up and lie still," she hissed. "The only way I'm going to get through this is if I do everything. Be a goddamned crash-test dummy."
His eyes widened but he obeyed. Of course he obeyed, the voices muttered. You're making him your slave, just like Fiona did.
She straddled him, forcing herself to look only at his eyes. His eyes lived now. They saw her. A mind sat behind them.
Memory forced itself forward, pain and exhaustion and slick sweat and the stench of blood. The last time she was in this position, she was chopping a man's head off while his dying reflexes vainly tried to screw her. She fought the image back and reached down beneath her, concentrating on the simple mechanics of alignment rather than exactly what she actually was doing.
'twere well it were done quickly . . .
She lowered herself on him, and she
