I wander through, shivering in the chill interior. The main room contains a small kitchen with a basin carved into the stone counter, a drainpipe heading out to the creek. There’s no faucet, but the kitchen window has the perfect view of the sound through a gap in the trees. The sun has almost disappeared, but the remaining light still flickers on the waves. I glance at the nearest lamp beside the kitchen window and fish into my pocket for a lighter. I have to hold the flame to the wick for several seconds before it finally catches, flaming up bright and hot, then diminishing to a warm flicker when I replace the globe and crank it down just enough to light the space.
It’s even more magical in the warm glow of lantern light. I carefully take the lamp out of its holder and walk toward the doorway beside the fireplace. The bedroom contains a huge log bed beneath a window, covered in a quilt sewn from small, colorful scraps. Across from the bed hangs a large mirror surrounded by a hand-carved wooden frame. The craftsman who made all this was talented. Were they Bloodline like me? Did they imbue everything they made with their magic? Perhaps it was an ursa, considering all the beautiful woodwork.
I set the lamp on the bedside table, then sit on the bed, sliding my hands across the quilt and closing my eyes, begging my latent magic to show itself for once. I get glimmers once in a while—enough to know it’s there, but not enough to do anything real with it.
Falling back onto the bed, I sigh and stare up at the beam in the center of the ceiling. This cabin is surprisingly clean and solid, aside from whatever small creature has been squatting in the sofa. I don’t see a single cobweb or insect. And though it’s a little musty, it isn’tdusty. If it hadn’t been for the pile of leavesin front of the door, I might have thought someone besides mice actually used the place.
Bathed in the muffled sounds of the creek outside and the ocean not far away, my mind blessedly stills enough for my project idea to emerge, free from any creative uncertainty. I unbuckle and remove my boots and crawl into the center of the bed, then reach for my bag and pull out my sketch pad.
Smirking at the giant dick on the page, I start sketching again, compelled to finish the image of the creature it belongs to. There isn’t enough paper to add onto the initial body part, so I flip to a fresh page and sketch the full figure instead. He’s a satyr, I realize when I finish and sit back to admire my work. He has two short nubs of horns sprouting from his forehead, covered in fur from his hips down to his cloven hooves… all except for that huge, beautiful erection.
“Too bad you don’t exist,” I murmur, extending a finger to smudge a shadow on the underside of his impressive cock. He practically leers at me from the page, mischief glinting in his eyes. His hands brace behind him, with hips jutting forward, daring me to touch him again.
I groan when my core tightens and warms, toss the sketchpad aside and fall back on the downy pillows. Idon’tneed the frustration of being horny right now on top of everything else. But unlike the dormitory I share with half a dozen other students, this place is empty. I bite my lip and idly slip a hand under my shirt, sliding it up my belly to cup one breast. My pussy pulses.
Giving in, I decide if I’m going to jerk off, I may as well get it right—get it out of my system. I strip completely, then prop my sketchpad on the pillows against the headboard. I prop the sketch of the cock alongside.
He’s proportionally enormous… a size I don’t think I could accommodate, but the fantasy gets me hot. On my knees facingthe drawing, I spread my thighs and dip my fingers between them, startling myself with a gasp when I find my clit slick and engorged.
“Why can’t you be real?” I whine, pushing two fingers inside my channel, wishing I could fill myself more. Maybe it isn’t a cock ring I should make, but an actual dildo just for me. Maybe that’s what I need to lure a god… a satyr god with wicked intentions. I don’t think I’d even care about who or what I am anymore if a creature like him wanted me as his plaything.
The visuals of such a scene play through my head and it takes moments for my rapidly stroking fingers to take me to the edge and over. My juices entirely coat my hand when I finish, and I collapse onto the bed face-first between the two sketches. I nudge them aside with a sigh and grab the corner of the quilt, tugging it over me moments before I drift off in a stupor.
Chapter 3
Nemea
I wake with a mission. Metal won’t do for what I have in mind, at least not for half of the multimedia project I envision. I need stone, and the right kind. I dress quickly and blow out the lamp before leaving. It’s dark, but not too late, according to my phone. Just past midnight. I use my phone’s flashlight to scan the rocky shore.
The tide is just receding, and after walking up the shore past the creek, I find the motherlode. At first, I think it’s just a pile of glass shards, but as I draw closer, my pulse increases. The sand is strewn with obsidian fragments, ranging in size from my pinky finger to pieces as large as my forearm. I shuffle through them, nudging with the toe of my boot until I find one that’s just right. The shape has the perfect curvature, and I can even see the slightest suggestion of a mushroom crown at one end.
I bend to pick it up and nearly drop it when I find it warm to the touch, despite being half embedded in cold, wet sand.
“What the fuck?” I gingerly brush the sand off the shimmering black shard. My fingers tingle when they touch the surface, and when I wrap my palm around it, I could swear it lifts itself into my grasp. Something deep beneath my sternum resonates, as if I’ve struck a tuning fork and my body hums with the same vibration. It’s so palpable, my nipples tingle.
It takes a moment for me to gather my wits, stow the obsidian in my satchel, and head back to campus. Hopefully, all it will take is a little grinding and polishing to be perfect, but Iwant to be prepared in case I need to melt it down and cast it fresh.
The first week at the school were intro classes for each of the elemental studios. I learned the basics of pottery, glassblowing, blacksmithing, woodworking, jewelry making, and several other mediums taught here. Most of my classmates discovered their specific elemental talent during that orientation week, but I’m still rotating until I find mine. At least I know how to melt down glass and cast it if it comes to that. I’m eager to find out.
Distant voices carry through the darkness from nearby buildings when I walk to the courtyard in the center of campus. This place never really sleeps, so it’s easy to find fellow artists agonizing over their ideas at all hours. The buildings are haphazardly arranged around a central garden with stone paths and benches. All around an enormous tree sculpture made of metal and glass.
Despite being crafted of inorganic materials, the tree grows. Glass globes dangle from the branches, transforming with the time of day, with the weather, and I hear they shift with the seasons too. Standing beneath the tree, I can feel the power of its roots beneath the earth.
Rumor has it that April and her mates crafted this tree and planted it here. It’s as much their creation as the towheaded toddler that accompanies one of her six dads in the classes they teach. The kid is three years old but has no fear of the furnaces in either the glass or blacksmithing shops, and plays with those materials the way most kids her age use playdough.
April is proof that we can have powerful magic, too. Hopefully, the hum inside me means mine is finally about to show itself.
The glass studio is blessedly empty. I start with a fine-grit grinder wheel, but after a minute the obsidian doesn’t show a scratch.
Next, I place the shard into a crucible, then into the furnace to melt. While I wait, I begin my wax mold. When I’m happy with the results, I return to the crucible, only to find the obsidian is still as rigid as it was when I found it, not even glowing from the heat.
I retrieve it with tongs and set it on an insulated pad, staring at it. What if it isn’t obsidian, but something else? Against my better judgment I extend a finger, prepared to snatch it back if the shard’s as hot as it ought to be, but it feels no different from when I first picked it up. Body temperature.
But when I draw my finger away, a faint purple glow remains, dimming slowly. I touch the shard again and observe a faint illumination that gradually fades. Heart racing, I take it in my hand and stroke up the length. This time, not only does the stone glow, some of the angular ridges soften. The hum inside me vibrates stronger, that glimmer of what I always believed to be my magic speaking to me.
I still don’t know what it means, but within an hour I’ve molded the rough shard into the perfect replica of my sketch, and only with my bare hands.
Fatigue hits hard when I step outside to a silver morning cloaked in mist. The kitchen is lit and the students whose skills relate to food are busy cooking. This place is magical at every turn. It’ll be nice when I finally feel like I belong here.