Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation Read online

  LOVE IS THE BOND

  A ROWAN GANT INVESTIGATION

  A Novel of Suspense and Magick

  By

  M. R. Sellars

  E.M.A. Mysteries

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The names Patrick Owen, V. Ostuni, and Velvet Rieth, are used with permission, and are loosely based on actual persons. While some characteristics of the individual personas are accurate, the characters portrayed herein do not necessarily reflect the actual personalities or lifestyles of the aforementioned.

  LOVE IS THE BOND: A Rowan Gant Investigation

  A WillowTree Press Book

  E.M.A. Mysteries is an imprint of WillowTree Press

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2005 by M. R. Sellars

  Cover Design Copyright © 2005 Johnathan Minton

  Cover Photography: Johnathan Minton

  Cover Model: Ms. Gwendolin “Wendi” O’Brien

  This e-book edition is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book edition may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission.

  For information contact: WillowTree Press on the World Wide Web http://www.willowtreepress.com

  Smashwords Edition – 2010

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Once again I find myself with the monumental task of thanking those who made this installment—and in some cases even the entire RGI series—possible. As I have said before, with each book I write, the list of people I feel compelled to thank grows, and eventually, this roll call will take up an entire volume in itself. Still, my good and true friends are very important to me, so this list of “thank you’s” has become like a moral imperative. That said, if I happen to miss someone, I hope you understand that it was unintentional, so please accept my apologies in advance.

  Finally, while I may simply run down this list like an Oscar winner getting the “wind it up” signal, please know that you all made this possible through your love and support (and in more than one instance, your abject lunacy)—

  Dorothy Morrison: Two words—Dunkin’ Donuts.

  Officer Scott Ruddle, SLPD: Two words—Scotch and Cigars.

  Roy Osbourn: I concur! See you at the buffet.

  Trish Telesco: Thanks for being a friend.

  A.J Drew, Aimee, and Aubrey: Y’all are extended family. I’m sorry I only get to see you once each year.

  As always, my ever-expanding, long distance families: Mystic Moon Coven and Dragon Clan Circle.

  Duane & Chell: Words still cannot express my love for you two.

  Angel & Randal: Ditto.

  Scott & Andrea: Ditto again.

  All of my good friends from the various acronyms: F.O.C.A.S.M.I., H.S.A., M.E.C., S.I.P.A, etc. (And even the acronyms that have since disappeared…)

  Patrick Owen: I’m running low on MX2’s… And, pass the Rye.

  Tish Owen: Love ya’ hon! Tell your husband I need MX2’s!

  Lori, Beth, Jim, Dave, Rachel, Doug, Duncan, Kitti, Edain, Boom-Boom, Kevin, David, Bella, Shannon, Denessa, Annette, Boudica, Imajicka, Owl, Breanna, Anne, Maggie, Gail, Phyllis, Zita, Heather, Kathy, Lin, Jerry, Mark, Christine, Kristin, Velvet, Rollie, Hardee, Z, and probably twenty or thirty more…

  My parents: You know… I wish you were here.

  “Chunkee”: Two words—Angry Squirrel.

  Johnathan Minton: Are we there yet?

  My daughter: Yes, tomorrow is after “this day.”

  My wife Kat: Sorry, I have to be serious for a moment…You are my one, my all, my everything. I love you more than you will ever know.

  Firestorm Publicity Services for making me look good.

  The gang at CAO for the MX2 and entire Brazilia line of cigars…

  Coffee, Wendi, E.K., The Bobblehead Lady, Little Green Men, dancing hamsters, the makers of hard salami…

  And, as always, everyone who takes the time to pick up one of my novels, read it, and then recommends it to a friend.

  For E.K.

  Don’t stop until you hear, “Ushmuff!”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  While the city of St. Louis and its various notable landmarks are certainly real, many names have been changed and liberties taken with some of the details in this book. They are fabrications. They are pieces of fiction within fiction to create an illusion of reality to be experienced and enjoyed.

  In short, I made them up because it helped me make the story more entertaining, or in some cases, just because I wanted to.

  Note also that this book is a first-person narrative. You are seeing this story through the eyes of Rowan Gant. The words you are reading are his thoughts. In first person writing, the narrative should match the dialogue of the character telling the story. Since Rowan, (and anyone else that I know of for that matter,) does not speak in perfect, unblemished English throughout his dialogue, he will not do so throughout his narrative. Therefore, you will notice that some grammatical anomalies have been retained (under protest from editors) in order to support this illusion of reality.

  Let me repeat something—I DID IT ON PURPOSE. Do NOT send me an email complaining about my grammar. It is a rude thing to do, and it does nothing more than waste your valuable time. If you find a typo, that is a different story. Even editors miss a few now and then.

  Finally, this book is not intended as a primer for WitchCraft, Wicca, or any Pagan path. However, please note that the rituals, spells, and explanations of these religious/magickal practices are accurate. Some of my explanations may not fit your particular tradition, but you should remember that your explanations might not fit mine either.

  And, yes, some of the magick is “over the top.” But, like I said in the first paragraph, this is fiction…

  When the wind comes from the South,

  Love will kiss thee on the mouth.

  Couplet #11

  The Wiccan Rede

  Lady Gwen Thompson,

  First Printing, Green Egg #69, Circa 1975

  Friday, December 3

  7:23 P.M.

  Room 7, Satin Tide Motel

  Myrtle Beach, South Carolina

  PROLOGUE:

  She could feel the tickle rising in her belly. It had been there ever since they walked into the room together. It was faint and fleeting, in the background but always there. Now it was getting stronger.

  Steady.

  Even.

  And, it was crawling upward in an ever-increasing ripple of internal pleasure. At this particular moment, the level was comfortable.More than comfortable, really, it was desirable and almost hypnotically rhythmic.

  She knew from experience that as the rhythm of the tickle increased so would the pleasure—and with it the hypnotic trance. And, with that trance would come yet another step in her journey toward an ultimate goal; of course, that was what this was all about, her objective.

  Her needs.

  Her wants.

  She took in a deep breath and closed her eyes, focusing on that which she desired. As she allowed the breath to slowly escape between pursed, red-glossed lips, she could feel the surge beginning. What was at this moment in time merely titillating would very soon push beyond that fragile envelope, exploding forth with untamed fury.

  But, not until
she was ready…

  Absolutely not until she was ready…

  It simply wouldn’t be allowed to happen until she deemed it time. This may only be a game to him, but for her the game was a ritual—and so much more. And, after all, she was the one in control.

  She opened her eyes slowly, feeling the rush as her pulse quickened and her breaths became shallow pants.

  “Kneel,” she commanded, her voice alluringly hoarse but authoritative nonetheless.

  The man was facing away from her just as she had instructed him to do. In response, he uttered a simple, “Yes, Mistress,” thus finally breaking the silence she had imposed on him fully fifteen minutes before. He set about complying with the order, struggling to keep his balance as he began lowering himself.

  He was completely nude with only a few minor exceptions. His hands were tightly bound behind his back; a beige athletic bandage stretched securely in a figure eight about his wrists. A nylon dog collar encircled his neck, and attached to the chromed D-ring was a matched training lead. The tough strip of webbing made a straight line down the center of his back where it eventually looped beneath his restrained arms and trailed off at an upward angle through the space between the two of them, finally ending where it was held in a loose grip by his Mistress’ leather-gloved hand.

  His right knee hit the floor with a hard thud, and he rocked forward as he fought for the equilibrium necessary to keep from slamming face first into the motel room’s thin carpet. Even so, Mistress didn’t yield her grip on the leash; instead, much more than simply allowing it to pull taught, she tugged hard on the end, levering his arms backward and straining the collar against his throat with delicious agony.

  He gurgled for a moment as he choked then thudded his other knee against the floor as well, still reveling in the pain that brought him such pleasure. He felt his own tickle between his thighs and knew without looking that he had begun to stiffen. Whether the euphoria came from the lack of oxygen to his brain, the curious bent of being tortured by a beautiful woman, or both, he couldn’t say. All he knew was that his entire body was beginning to tingle, and he relished its off-kilter pleasure.

  A rush of blood was beginning to roar in his ears, and bright spots of color flickered before him as the room began shifting out of focus. His nerve endings were tingling with what he perceived as pure ecstasy, but he knew also that there was a danger zone quickly approaching. Reluctantly, he began to shift his weight back to relieve the strain on the collar that was choking him into his personal bliss. The resistance he met was wholly unexpected.

  His pathetic gagging was fueling the tickle in her belly, pushing it up to her solar plexus and out through her extremities, setting each individual cell in her body alight with a smoldering pleasure. Her breaths became shallower and quicker still as she listened to him, twisting the end of the leash in her hand to pull it even tighter. She could tell by the way he was beginning to shift that he was reaching his threshold, but she was not yet ready for it to end. The tickle was still growing, and it had now become a not-so-singular tingle. It needed to be nurtured, and she knew just exactly what would feed its hunger.

  As he began to lean back, she maintained tension on the leash and quickly lifted her foot, placing the sole of her stiletto-heeled pump against his spine. She pushed him back forward, and though she was shorter and far lighter than he, she was in full command of the physical laws of leverage.

  His gagging and gurgling continued unabated, and she began to almost tremble as the tingle skipped up the scale several notches to become a more than pleasurable full-body itch. She looked up toward the ceiling then closed her eyes yet again, stretching her milky-skinned form toward something unseen. She took in a sudden, deep breath out of autonomic reflex and let it go with an almost imperceptible moan. Opening her eyes she let her gaze fall back down to her slave then clenched her teeth as she slitted her cold stare. With a heaving sigh she released her grip on the leash and gave him a shove with the foot she held planted against his back. He fell forward into a heap, sputtering and gasping as he struck the floor. She watched him slowly roll over, his naked chest rising and falling as he sucked hungrily at the charged air in the room. Her gaze continued to roam his form, falling momentarily between his legs. It was obvious that he had been on the verge of release, and he was still throbbing as he lay there.

  “Good,” she thought to herself. “He’s ready, and so are we. Almost…”

  She moved forward, slowly stepping over his prone body but not without dragging the toe of her shoe hard across his heaving chest, taking a moment to relish the sudden yelp the scrape elicited from her slave. She then continued on with a high-heeled swagger that bordered on obscene then strode over to the bureau and stood with her back to him.

  An airline bottle of a popular brand of rum was all she had on hand; she hadn’t had time to purchase any of the really good stuff. This session had come about far too quickly. The man on the floor behind her wasn’t even the real reason she was here. He was serendipity incarnate, spur of the moment and a fully unexpected bonus. Even more—dare she even think the cliché pun—almost literally “right out of the blue.” But, still, he was one she couldn’t pass up; they needed to be fed—all of them, including her. And, at least she did have rum, so she was certain that Papa would understand. He always did.

  She looked down and opened the aluminum attaché that adorned the scuffed top of the bureau. Latching the lid upright, she proceeded to arrange the contents within, just as she had done countless times before. But even with her practiced ease, there was still an absolute reverence in the solemn task.

  The sweet itch was all but ravaging her now, morphing into a luscious burn that couldn’t be quenched, and she knew it was only going to quicken. She reached to the surface of the bureau and retrieved the man’s pilot’s wings. She had taken them from his uniform earlier while he was dutifully prostrate before her, face down in the carpet and begging pathetically for her sadistic attentions. She laid the prize amidst the other items in the attaché—money clips, rings, watches, and even some things that defied description; those were the most frightening. Some of them actually looked vaguely organic; some appeared as though at one time they should have repulsed the casual observer, even if they did not do so now.

  She carefully thumbed through a small stack of photographs, propping them around the items so that she could inspect the images at her leisure. They were simply more mementos of her conquests, but looking at them made the itch swell yet again.

  She felt her hand slipping between her thighs as if by its own volition, and she knew it was time. Consciously stopping the hand before it could go any farther, she allowed herself an anticipatory sigh.

  She reached up to the bureau and picked up the miniature bottle of rum. With a flourish she twisted the cap from it then pressed the opening against her lips and tilted her head back. She quickly swished the caramel-colored liquor around in her mouth, letting its alcohol-burn tingle for a brief moment, and then carefully spit it into a shot glass. She gently placed the glass jigger directly in the center of the assorted items. With a soft touch she fingered a partially smoked cigar, which still possessed a band proclaiming Cohiba and that was underscored by the word Habana—true Cuban contraband. She rolled it back to rest against the measure of rum and then allowed herself a fleeting, girlish smile.

  As she looked up, she listened intently to the room. She could hear her slave’s breathing from his position on the floor behind her. He was finally settling into an even rhythm as he continued to come down from the rapid sexual high she’d inflicted. She looked straight into the mirror and flipped a shock of her waist-length auburn hair back over her shoulder then carefully turned her head side to side, checking her makeup. With the tip of her finger, she made a practiced swipe against the corner of her lower lip, blending a spot she felt needed attention. Then, she inspected it again before letting out a satisfied sigh.

  “So,” she purred as she turned and began slowly sau
ntering forward until she stood over the man. “You weren’t lying, were you? Asphyxiation really is your kink, isn’t it, worm?”

  “Yes,” he muttered as he tried to give her a nod.

  “Yessss?” she questioned with a raised eyebrow, allowing the word to hiss between her teeth.

  “Yes, Mistress,” he replied.

  “Yes, Mistresssss…?”

  “Yes, Mistress Miranda.”

  “You like being choked by women, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mistress Miranda.”

  “Especially beautiful women.”

  “Yes, Mistress Miranda.”

  “Tell me I’m beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful, Mistress Miranda.”

  “Yes, I am… Aren’t I.” She uttered the words as a statement of fact.

  She squatted next to him with fluid grace, displaying exquisite balance on the teetering heels, and ran her gloved fingertip along his chest, down his abdomen, stopping just before the upper reaches of his pubic hair.

  “Then…” she began, pausing as she eyed him seductively. “Since you like it so much, maybe you would want me to do it again?”

  “Oh, yes, Mistress,” he answered, an excited catch in his throat.

  “Then… Beg me to love you,” she ordered quietly.

  “Mistress?”

  “Beg me to love you,” she demanded again.

  “Please, Mistress,” he murmured. “Love me.”