Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

For a list of the many characters who populate this saga, check out Dramatis Personae.

Several days later, Simon and Elsa host a housewarming party in the grounds of the old manor. Elsa treats Freya to a tour of the recent restoration efforts, and the seeds are sown for a burgeoning friendship. Meanwhile, post mistress Sally Jeffries has a few too many drinks and ends up accidentally setting fire to pompous druid Bernard, then has a few choice words for Simon Derwold, who she remembers from decades before. Georgia, Sadie and Millie make their way home, where they indulge in a night of passion in the lounge, only to be interrupted by Elsa and Freya. Elsa comes to suspect her new neighbours are not all that they seem.

And now, dear readers, we make our way into the next installment. Read on…

1

by BlueJean

The old vicarage stood solitary at the end of an isolated track, a short walk from the village green and the small Anglican church where the vicar had sermonised for almost half a century. He had been a young, fresh-faced layman back then, full of genuine good-natured cheer, a spring in his step. His messages from the pulpit offered simple moral guidance – be kind and tolerant, work hard, love your neighbours.

Those were the years he’d begun volunteering as a helper for both the Brownies and the Cub Scouts. In those days there were no background checks, and people had a tendency to turn a blind eye to anything suspicious involving the clergy. On the rare occasion when the little ones told their parents, flat-out denial had usually been sufficient – the word of a priest could always be trusted over a child’s, after all. If it progressed beyond that, his superiors would give him a slap on the wrist, warn him not to do it again, and then find some way to cover up the truth.

In time, the vicar came to understand two undeniable facts about himself:

The first was that he would never be God’s man, not after the things he’d done. That door would be closed to him forever, and for a true believer – because despite it all, he was – that was a terrible weight to bear.

The second was a colder, harsher truth: There was a special place in hell reserved for the vicar of Derwold.

Over the next few decades he learnt to accept these two fundamental maxims like a man condemned.

He wondered how many children he’d molested over the years. They’d come and gone, leaving him with a deluded sense of untouchability, as if the small, isolated village was somehow trapped in its own bubble, and that what happened in Derwold stayed in Derwold. Like most of the other villagers, he would never truly grasp the strange truth of that.

But the children grew up, moved away, and for the most part, never came back. Derwold was a village few returned to, though why that should be, no one had ever given much consideration.

And yet, one of them had come back. The boy.

He’d been the first the vicar had touched, but surely the boy wouldn’t remember. It was a long time ago, and that was the other thing about Derwold – once you left its confines, the village wanted you to forget.

And if the boy did remember, wouldn’t he have done something about it by now? No. No, the boy had as much to lose as the vicar if he told. More, perhaps.

He’d put an end to his pursuit of children for a number of reasons. The vicar was old now; it wasn’t as easy as it’d once been to entice them back to the vicarage, or convince their parents there was nothing untoward about a man of the cloth borrowing their little ones for the day. And the rise of the internet had ushered in an age of paranoia and hysteria – now every white man of middle-age was a potential kiddy fiddler. It was a great shame. Some beautiful children had frequented his parish in recent years. The Newton girls, for example. Oh, how often his mind wandered to Freya and little Millie…

These days the vicar resigned himself to enjoying the pictures and the videos. The internet was both a blessing and a curse in that respect, he often thought.

It was late one dreary, drizzly evening when the vicar of Derwold, seated in his study at the computer desk with his trousers around his ankles, gave a sudden start to hear the vicarage doorbell chime. Who on earth could be calling at this hour? It wasn’t without precedent – on occasion there had been a sudden death in the family and he had been called on to undertake last rites. And pilgrims passed through the village infrequently, travellers, backpackers, requesting the hospitality of the vicarage. It was an inconvenience, but they simply couldn’t be turned away.

The vicar shut his aging PC down with a sigh, hoisted his trousers up, then struggled to his feet.

Hell must have got fed up with waiting and decided to seize the initiative. It would be the last time the vicar ever opened a door.

***

Victim is a white male. Mid-seventies. Local vicar. Initial cause of death believed to be a sharp instrument across the jugular vein, almost certainly a knife. Metal crucifix, most likely belonging to victim, driven upside down into skull with great force. Eyeballs removed, placed inside ear cavities. Penis removed, placed inside mouth. Disemboweled. Symbol carved into chest – appears to be a pentagram. Has all the hallmarks of a ritual killing. 

Autopsy report by medical practitioner Vivaan Dinesh in the absence of an official coroner

2

There’s always a kernel of truth in every legend, myth or folktale. One need only sift through the detritus of human misunderstanding, misinterpretation, exaggeration, flat-out lies and plain old stupidity to catch a glimpse of it. Sadie had come to realise the truth of these old stories was often stranger than the fiction.

Legend had it that the ancient standing stones dotted around Great Britain were gateways of sorts. Sadie had spent years pondering the meaning of that vague notion until Millie and Freya had told her about the day they’d travelled through the menhir stone near her cottage.

The question was, had they really travelled back hundreds of thousands of years, before Homo Sapiens had even reached these lands, or were they merely seeing through a window in time? Was it possible the menhir had somehow amplified Millie’s genetic memories, allowing her to tap into the Neanderthal ancestral line? It seemed unlikely – though we share a small amount of DNA with our Stone Age cousins, it was surely not enough to access their memories.

But Sadie Laine was nothing if not determined. With the help of her two young apprentices, she set about trying to fathom the mysteries of the menhir stone. She’d purchased safety harnesses and climber’s ropes to attach the three of them to a nearby tree. When Freya asked her if that was really necessary, Sadie told them she got the idea from an old movie called Poltergeist and that it was just a precaution. She also made them wear high-vis vests.

“This is completely mental,” Freya said in a disgusted voice, swatting at the bright yellow material. “What’s the point of these?”

“Health and safety,” Sadie insisted.

“How do fluorescent vests make us healthier or safer? I mean, have people suddenly become so shortsighted we can’t see each other properly any more? Are we all going to start bumping into each other unless we’re lit up like Christmas trees?”

Sadie looked momentarily stumped, but then began nodding vigorously. “Yes, well, I applaud your curious nature, Freya Newton! And I’m sure there are satisfactory answers to all those questions. But the point is, everyone uses high-vis these days. I’ve even seen dogs wearing them. Ethel Weatherford never leaves home without hers, and you’ll be grateful for that extra bit of visibility when she comes hurtling towards you on her mobility scooter, believe me. Poor Tony Framton never really got over being impaled on her handlebars… And besides, the vests came free with the harnesses.”

Freya rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” Georgia had pointed out on numerous occasions that if she kept rolling them like that they’d drop back inside her head one day. “They don’t mean a thing. Elsa says they’re just a symbol of pointless auth… auth… au-thor-itarian-ism.”

Millie gave her sister a sideways glance. Elsa was Freya’s new friend. It was all she ever talked about these days – Elsa this and Elsa that and Elsa the other. Millie just couldn’t be doing with it. Her sister had once idolised Sadie, until Sadie came to live with them and then Freya decided their teacher wasn’t so amazing after all.

Plus, there was something weird about Elsa. When she shook her hand that night a while back, Millie had felt something… something bad, maybe.

“Never mind what Elsa says,” Sadie told Freya, hands on hips. “Elsa doesn’t have two young girls to protect against potential space-time catastrophes. While we’re out in the field getting our hands dirty, working hard to unravel the mysteries of the universe, Elsa is most likely at home in Derwold Manor with her feet up, reading a copy of Country Life and sipping chamomile tea. She’ll never know what witches like us do to keep the world safe.”

“We’re not the Avengers…” Freya mumbled.

“I actually like my high-vis jacket,” Millie told them both, doing her best to be positive and prevent another argument.

“You’d like a cow pat if it glowed in the dark,” Freya replied sullenly.

Millie thought that was particularly mean and uncalled for. “No, I wouldn’t, actually, Freya! You take that back!”

Sadie was clapping her hands to demand their attention. “All right, settle down. Millie, clear your mind and touch the menhir again.”

Millie cleared her mind. She touched the stone for the umpteenth time. Nothing happened.

Sadie propped her chin with her knuckles. “Hmm. What exactly were you doing when you got sucked in last time?”

The two girls looked at each other with a smirk. “Freya was licking my kitty,” Millie admitted.

Freya rattled out a half-surprised, half-appalled laugh. “Omigod, I can’t believe you just told her that!”

“What? It’s not exactly a secret anymore, is it?”

Sadie didn’t seem in the slightest bit fazed. “That’s interesting. Sexual arousal may have triggered the stone. Or perhaps simply a strong emotional response was enough.”

“But Astris was there too,” Millie pointed out. “She probably had something to do with it.”

Freya shook her head. “I remember the dryad saying she didn’t bring us there.”

“Then it’s clear what we must do, apprentices!” Sadie boomed. “We shall recreate the exact conditions of that day.”

How she planned to have the girls go at it suited up like rock climbers, Sadie wasn’t sure, but it was a beautiful day in the secluded barley field, and she was certain they’d find a way to overcome any difficulties.

But the three of them hadn’t noticed Bernard the Druid marching through the barley towards them. Bernard didn’t exactly fit in with their plans.

“Ho!” The druid hollered as he strode towards them, staff in hand. “How goes it, Miss Laine and company?”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Freya hissed. “Tell him to go away, Sadie.”

“Don’t be mean. I can’t stop people going about their business.”

“But he’s such a twat.”

Sadie gave her a disapproving look. “We’ll have less of that if you don’t mind, Freya Newton.”

“Hello, Bernard,” Millie said.

Bernard had swapped his old burnt robe for a new one, a leaf-green affair with elaborate gold trim. It had a cheap look to it that made Millie wonder if he’d brought it from a fancy dress store. Truth be told, Bernard looked a bit silly, but he was quite nice really. He once showed her how to catch a fish by tickling it, and she showed him how to stop a nettle sting hurting by rubbing a doc leaf on it.

“Hail and well met, Millie! What brings you three young warriors out here to the menhir?”

“We’re cataloguing wild flowers,” Sadie replied quickly, sounding just a little too rehearsed.

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yes. They grow all around the stone. Yarrow, buttercup, bluebells. Other ones, too. It’s fun, isn’t it, girls? Hands up who likes cataloguing wild flowers.”

Millie and Freya tentatively raised their hands.

Bernard raised his with much more enthusiasm. “Well, bravo!” the druid cried. “I’m all for passing nature’s knowledge on to the next generation.” A brief pause. “May I ask, why the safety harnesses?”

Sadie looked uncannily like a deer caught in headlights. “These? Oh. Er… sinkholes.”

“Sinkholes?”

“Yes. They’ve been known to open up now and then round these parts. Better to be safe than sorry, you know?”

Bernard stared confusedly for a moment, then brought his staff down with a mighty thud – or as mighty as a length of mahogany hitting a patch of grass would allow. “Excellent thinking! Protect your investment, as we used to say in the banking world.” He gestured to the menhir. “Well, don’t mind me. I must pay my daily homage to this ancient beauty. Just pretend I’m not here.” With that, the druid knelt down before the monument and raised his arms into the air. “Macka malai! Shamalee moo! Kranping poppawoppa!”

“What’s he doing?” Freya whispered.

“I don’t know,” Sadie whispered back, both fascinated and appalled. “I don’t think Bernard does, either.”

Bernard began dancing round the menhir, making high pitched whoop whoop whoop noises. Sadie and the girls quietly crept away, hiding their amusement as best they could.

3

While Millie and Sadie headed home, Freya made her way towards Derwold Manor. Elsa had told her she could visit whenever she liked, and sometimes even phoned the eleven-year-old to invite her round. Freya liked spending time with her. Elsa seemed to understand her in a way that her mum and Sadie never could, always managing to say the right things at the right time.

And there was no denying she fancied the Lady of the Manor quite a bit – her red hair and pale creamy skin, her freckles, the stylish outfits she wore. Elsa was older than Georgia by a few years, but she was one of those women who seem to grow more beautiful as time passes.

The gardens of Derwold Manor had mostly gone to rack and ruin since they were abandoned decades before, but the rose garden had inexplicably thrived. Though unruly and overgrown, hidden amongst bushes and long grass, Elsa had made some effort at restoring the mutinous beds, pruning and deadheading the crimson blooms until they resembled something of their former selves.

“They’re blood roses,” she told Freya as they walked through the gardens.

The grounds were alive with activity, teams of gardeners restoring vegetable plots and lawns, unearthing pathways long hidden beneath weeds; reshaping topiary. Elsa would allow no one but herself to touch the roses, though.

“I wonder how they survived,” Freya mused.

Elsa placed a hand around her young friend’s waist, and Freya felt herself shiver at the touch. “It’s said they’re so named because blood sustains them.”

Freya gave a little snort. “How would they get blood?”

“Oh, the occasional animal wandering into the garden would be enough. A deer, perhaps. With a little persuasion it might be drawn towards the roses where those sharp looking thorns await. And then…”

She poked Freya in the ribs, making her squirm and giggle. The two of them laughed together, drawing amused and conspiratorial looks from the nearby gardeners.

Freya found herself gazing up into the older woman’s grey-green eyes. “I’m glad we met each other,” she said in hushed tones.

“As am I,” Elsa told her with a smile. “I never had children myself, but if I ever had a little girl, I’d want her to be just like you.”

Freya felt the warmth reach her cheeks.

Elsa placed a hand on her shoulder. “Shall we retreat indoors? I can show you our latest restoration efforts.”

“Sure.”

Elsa led them through the Great Hall and up the grand staircase. The floors had been stained and polished since Freya had been here last, and pictures had been hung on the walls.

As they ascended the stairs, one particular picture caught Freya’s eye, causing her to double take. It was a huge oil painting depicting a naked woman being mounted by a black horse with steaming breath and fiery red eyes.

Elsa gave a soft chuckle, amused by Freya’s shocked look. “It’s an interesting painting, isn’t it?”

“It’s… I mean, it’s nice, but it’s so rude. Why would anyone do that with a horse?”

“Why shouldn’t she? Passion takes many forms, Freya, some of them quite unconventional. When one frees themselves from the restraints of society, true freedom becomes attainable. Do you understand what I mean by that?”

“Yes, I think so. Is that what you believe?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Freya glanced towards the painting again. “But she could get into trouble. And people would hate her if they found out.”

“It’s a sad fact of life that some must pursue their passions in secrecy. But imagine a world where that was no longer the case. A world where everything was permitted.” Elsa flashed her eyes, her smile full of mischief. “Perhaps even a world where women ruled!”

“So… if you found out someone was doing something really naughty, something that might be against the law, you wouldn’t tell on them?”

Freya realised she was trying to find a way to tell Elsa about all the rude things she’d been getting up to with Millie, Sadie and her mum over the past few months. Given how unconventional her relationships had become recently, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get another perspective, she supposed.

But there was another reason she was aching to tell her new friend: She wanted Elsa to know how sexually experienced she was, that she wasn’t just another immature schoolgirl diddling herself to posters of teen pop idols. It seemed important somehow. Perhaps Elsa could be trusted with her secrets, but she’d have to tread very carefully.

Elsa leaned into her. Freya could smell her expensive perfume. Suddenly fingers were teasing at the skin of her bare midriff. “You might be surprised to discover how open my mind is, Freya. I’m not exactly a saint myself, you know.”

Emboldened, Freya placed her hands atop Elsa’s. “Is it okay to tell you I think you’re really pretty?”

“Yes, it’s okay. The feeling’s mutual, I can assure you.”

Freya’s heart raced inside her chest. In the last year alone she’d somehow managed to entice her teacher, her own mother, and now the Lady of the Manor. She was starting to think she must be irresistible to older women. A fine thing for the self-esteem of any eleven-year-old.

Elsa took her hand. “Simon’s away on business for the day. The workmen aren’t back until Monday, and the gardeners are forbidden from entering the manor with their muddy boots. It seems we have Derwold Manor all to ourselves, Lady Freya. How about you and I go upstairs to have some fun?”

“I’d really like that…” Freya murmured, her pussy tingling with anticipation. “Lady Derwold,” she added with a smile.

She followed Elsa upstairs and through a long central corridor, other strange paintings catching her eye as she went: A group of robed figures standing on what looked like a big Jewish star. A half man, half goat looming over a sleeping woman. A blonde-haired man with shining armour and golden wings languishing upon a throne of dark stone.

At the end of the corridor they reached a door. Elsa opened it, ushering Freya inside. The room was still and womb-like, the wallpaper and fabrics as deeply crimson as the blood roses outside. A huge four-poster bed dominated the space.

Judging by all the female paraphernalia, this was undoubtedly Elsa’s room, but there was nothing that looked definitively male. Freya supposed Simon must have his own room, and wondered why that might be.

“Wow. I love your bedroom,” she told Elsa with breathless enthusiasm.

“I’m glad you approve,” Elsa replied, approaching Freya from behind and slipping an arm around her waist. She bent to kiss the nape of the eleven-year-old’s neck, causing Freya to draw in breath. “Is this all right?”

Freya gazed up at the older woman and gave a nod. “Mmm-hmm. I actually have quite a bit of experience when it comes to sex, believe it or not.”

Elsa snaked a hand between Freya’s thighs, stroking lightly through her leggings. “A girl your age? Surely not! Have the local farmer’s boys been having their way with you in the haystack?”

“Not that kind of sex,” Freya uttered disdainfully. “Girl sex.”

“I’m just teasing,” Elsa chuckled, circling the girl slowly. Finally, she moved towards the bed and sat back on it. “One can tell much about another’s body language if they’re observant. And I’m nothing if not observant, Freya. I know you want me as much as I want you.” She beckoned with a finger. “Come here.”

Freya strode towards her, tossing her hair back as she went, hoping the gesture made her look mature and confident.

Elsa slipped her tweed jacket off, then began to work the buttons of her blouse free. Her cleavage was creamy pale, a scattering of light freckles adorning each breast. “I must warn you, I’m a rather dirty girl in bed. Inhibition is the bane of sexual freedom, I find.”

Freya didn’t exactly know what that meant, but she had her doubts Elsa was any dirtier than Sadie or her mum, being a posh lady and all.

Elsa unhooked her bra and pulled it away, allowing her bare breasts to spill free. She took Freya’s hand and placed it on one of the fleshy globes. Freya kneaded it softly, trapping the stiffening pink nipple between her fingers.

“A little harder, if you don’t mind,” Elsa suggested, placing her hand atop Freya’s. Satisfied with this first test of her young friend’s willingness, she gently nudged Freya away with a stockinged foot. “I simply must see you naked, Freya. Stand there for me and remove your clothes. All except your socks. I like those to stay on.”

While Freya shed her clothing piece by piece, anticipation banishing any inhibitions she might otherwise have had, Elsa pushed her skirt down her legs and kicked it away. When she rolled her stockings down, Freya couldn’t help notice how toned her legs were. This wasn’t some overprivileged woman who sipped chamomile tea with her feet up all day, but someone always on the move, busy with something or other.

When Elsa slipped out of her knickers, Freya’s eyes were quick to track them as they dropped to the floor. Elsa regarded the girl’s curiosity with amusement. “Oh, I see. Would you like them?”

Freya quickly drew her eyes away from the discarded underwear, berating herself for her lack of subtlety. She shrugged nonchalantly.

Hooking her toes into the satiny material, Elsa kicked the panties towards Freya. The eleven-year-old caught them easily.

“You can keep those as a souvenir. Slip them around your neck for now, then spread your sweet little vagina open for me.”

Freya put her head through one of the leg holes of the underwear, the faint musk of Elsa’s sex teasing her senses as the silken material slipped past her face. Wearing the knickers like a kinky necklace, she stepped toward the bed and parted the lips of her pussy.

“Look at that plump rose bulb,” Elsa murmured with rapt approval. “Ready to burst into flower at a moment’s notice. A young girl on the cusp of change. You’ll never be as powerful as you are right now, Freya, my dear. All that raw emotion can be so exquisite.” She brought a leg up onto the bed, then allowed a finger to glide through the folds of her vagina. When she pulled the digit away, a tendril of sticky fluid clung to it. She smeared it upon her red pubic hair, then repeated the process several more times until her thatch glistened with moisture. “Play with yourself,” she demanded.

Freya took another couple of steps towards the bed, eager to wallow in the thick aroma that emanated from the older woman. She buried a finger inside herself, the thumb of her other hand brushing her clit.

“Oh my,” Elsa chuckled, her own fingers whisking up a thin layer of creamy discharge. “I can see you’re certainly no stranger to a quick diddle. Have you ever used your tongue on a girl, I wonder?”

Freya offered a quick nod. “Loads of times.”

Elsa brought the other leg up onto the bed, spreading her knees wide. She pointed a single finger at the fiery gateway between her legs. “Show me.”

Freya didn’t hesitate. Squatting on her heels, she placed a hand on each of Elsa’s inner thighs and pressed an open-mouth kiss into Lady Derwold’s cunt, her tongue probing its folds and creases. She peered up, locking eyes with her new friend. See what I can do, Elsa? See how grown up I am? Aren’t you glad you made friends with me?

“My word,” Elsa crooned, pinching her nipples between thumbs and forefingers. “I’ve done some wicked things in my time, but having it away with such a young girl might just take the biscuit.”

This is just the start. I know how to do lots of other rude things, Freya might have replied, but her mother had always told her never to talk with her mouth full. She scissored two fingers into Elsa’s warm, wet cunt, then clamped her lips around the large clitoris that had slipped free of its fleshy sheath.

Elsa uttered a surprised cry, then rattled out a breathless laugh. “Kinky little thing! You found Aunty Elsa’s sugar plum!“ she cried, twitching and writhing. “You’re going to make me spend all over that pretty mouth if you keep that up!”

Freya pistoned her fingers back and forth and sucked on Elsa’s clit, the woman’s ecstatic shrieks echoing off the old panelled walls of the manor.

Finally, Elsa lay exhausted, a pleasant post-orgasmic thrum radiating through her body.

Freya stood at the foot of the bed with her hands on her bare hips, a pleased little smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. “How’d you like that?“ she cooed.

Elsa fought back the impulse to leap off the bed and slap the smug little brat across the face. Clearly, Georgia Newton had not felt it prudent to teach her offspring manners, unlike Elsa’s own mother. Elsa had learned those lessons the hard way – other lessons, too. They’d been hammered into her like nails into flesh. Ultimately, her mother had paid the price for teaching her daughter so thoroughly.

Careful how you sharpen your blade, Mother, lest you cut yourself.

Nevertheless, she would thank her mother if she’d still been alive. Those lessons would serve Elsa well when the revolution began. They had hardened her, stripped away all notions of compassion and empathy.

In the meantime, she would do well to keep Freya Newton on side. The girl had not yet served her purpose. And besides, the little brat really was a fun toy to play with.

Elsa propped herself up on her elbows and forced a smile for the girl. “My goodness, you weren’t fibbing when you said you had some experience in the art of passion. I’m awfully curious to know where you learnt such things.”

Freya looked coyly at her. “Well… I could tell you. I could tell you lots of secret things. Some of them you probably wouldn’t believe. Um, but if I told you, you wouldn’t be able to get me into trouble, would you? Because you did something with me that’s against the law, so…”

The girl had guile, Elsa couldn’t deny her that. “How clever of you. I’d love to know your secrets, I must admit. And I wouldn’t say a word to anyone. But before we get to that, perhaps you’d like to sit on my face so I can taste that sweet little confection of yours.”

Freya climbed up onto the bed and walked to the head where Elsa waited. Standing over the woman, the eleven-year-old prised her pussy open lewdly. “Is this what you want?” she teased.

“Indeed it is. Let me taste it.”

Freya sank to her knees until her pussy was brushing Elsa’s painted lips. She rocked herself back and forth, hands gripping the black wrought iron of the headboard.

Elsa found the girl’s arsehole, probing the pink opening with the tip of her tongue. Freya strummed her own clit while her new friend rimmed her, then Elsa was at her cunt again, mouth pressed into the delicate folds.

The Lady of the Manor licked her lips, drawing the tart taste of Freya’s sex back into her mouth. There was powerful magic there – the essence of a girl on the cusp of womanhood. Menstrual blood was even more potent, and Elsa had dabbled in her fair share of blood magic.

Freya moved her hips in rhythm with Elsa’s tongue, and soon that familiar ache gave way to the sharp release of climax. She expelled a breathless cry, then fell away from Elsa.

Elsa turned onto her side and drew Freya close, the child’s back resting against her breasts. “What a naughty pair we are.”

Freya offered a satisfied hum.

“Now. What was it you were going to tell me, my dear? I’m all ears.”

Freya took a leap of faith. “Well. It all started last summer…” she began.

Elsa brushed her cunt lightly against Freya’s arse as the child told her fantastic tale. Freya left nothing unsaid – Mr. Dalliard and the Dryad, witchcraft and vengeful spirits; standing stones that led through time itself. Then she hesitantly told Elsa about the intimacy she’d come to share with her mother and sister, and her teacher Sadie Laine.

Maybe Elsa wouldn’t believe the magic parts, but at least she’d found someone who would listen. Elsa could be trusted. Elsa would understand. Elsa was her friend.

So Elsa listened. And she did believe. Every word. Because some parts she already knew, and others she’d suspected. Freya merely filled the gaps of her knowledge, provided the missing pieces.

And now she had them trapped. Georgia Newton and her pretty schoolteacher girlfriend Sadie Laine had been doing some rather wicked things with Mrs. Newton’s little girls, things that could get them into a great deal of trouble if the wrong people found out. And if that wasn’t intriguing enough, it turned out that Miss Laine was of the Wicca, and the youngest Newton girl had a mysterious power of her own. That much had been evident the night she’d touched the little one’s hand.

Elsa knew all their secrets now. The board had been set up, the first piece played.

Now the real game would begin.

Soon to come: Chapter Five!