"See How High She Flies"~ for the Song Story Challenge 11/27

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

The prompt: The Eagles song: Witchy Woman. Warning: just a hint of mild het. (very little)

     

It was the night of Halloween that found our brave U.N.C.L.E. agents, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin stuck in a small town somewhere in Massachusetts.

Of course it was pouring like cats and dogs, and the cracks of thunder were so loud they sounded like artillery to Illya, sadly reminding him of the assault on Kyiv during the war when he was but a child.

Before exiting the car, Napoleon reported their situation to headquarters, stating the weather had turned so bad it was forcing them to stop until it cleared up. The partners exited the car, running between the raindrops, as Napoleon's Aunt Amy used to say, and headed to the closest refuge, an establishment called, Upton Tavern. It was a simple building, two story with a weather-worn sign in front showing and old style coach and four.

The door creaked as they entered; the two men removed their trenchcoats, giving them a little shake as they hung them up on an old wooden coat rack.

Napoleon looked around the room, noting the place appeared to be quite dated, something pre-eighteenth century he thought; though there was a welcoming fire, roaring in the hearth, making the shadows move like creatures caught in a frenzied dance. It created a strange, almost haunting atmosphere of a bygone era, and given they were in Massachusetts it was no surprise they’d stumbled upon someplace historic.

It being a creepy sort of night in general; the atmosphere of the place adding to it. It wasn’t worth trying to travel in the storm as the roads were too dangerous, and they were unfamiliar with the territory.

There was an exotic woman, raven haired, with voluptuous ruby red lips standing behind the bar and she looked up, smiling at them.

“What can I get you gentlemen on a night such as dis?”

Her accent was definitely Caribbean, as was her look. West Indian, perhaps, Napoleon guessed.

“Well hello there,” he smiled at her. “You’re a welcome sight.”

“Really, dat I’m not hearing from a man in a very very long time,” her dark eyes twinkled as she spoke.

That turned on the Solo charm like a switch, and he gave her his most disarming smile in response. “My name is Solo, Napoleon Solo, and this grumpy fellow here is my friend Illya Kuryakin.”

“Charmed,” Illya groused.

“Please ta meet you gents.  My name is Tituba...can I offer you ale or fine spirits dis night?”

“Umm, do you have vodka Miss?” Illya finally spoke up.

“Nay, only ale, porter, whiskey...or mulled wine.

“I’ll take a whiskey,” Napoleon said.

“A mulled wine please?” Illya asked.

                                 

She brought the drinks over on a wooden tray, bending over enough to give the two men a good view of her cleavage beneath her puffy white peasant blouse.

“Here you go. Can I interest you in some food...or something else, she battered her long dark lashes at Napoleon. He picked up on her vibe immediately.

“Yes, do you have a menu?” Illya interrupted the moment, knowing what was going on. He would be damned if he would be left sitting here by himself while his partner went off to have a quickie with this woman, at least not before having a decent meal with company.

“There is no menu but I can tell you we have,  potato-leek soup, Johnny cakes, pigeon pie, corn chowder with pork, there may be some cold roast venison left and, oh yes...hasty pudding.

“Ah yes hasty pudding, I have heard of this…”Illya recalled something he’d read and recited it.

“In haste the boiling caldron, o'er the blaze, Receives and cooks the ready powder'd-maize;

In haste 'tis served, and then in equal haste, With cooling milk, we make the sweet repast.”

“No burgers and fries?” Napoleon asked, disappointment filling his voice and ignoring his partner waxing poeting.

“Bur-gers. Fries...nay we do not have such tings.”

“Nevermind… I’ll have the potato-leek soup, please.”

“And you, Mr. Ill-ya?”

“I would like to try this hasty pudding, please.”

“We serve it fried…it is chilled in bread tins until easily sliced, dipped by slice in flour and den fried until well browned on both sides. It is served with butter and honey.”

“That sounds delicious,” Illya finally broke a smile.

No sooner did they place their orders, did the food magically arrive. Surprisingly, Napoleon’s whiskey was hot, with cloves and lemon.  He tasted it, finding it just right on a cold damp night.

“How’s the mulled wine partner?”

“I am mulling it over…” he quipped.

“You’re just Mister Cheerful tonight aren’t you?”

His question was answered with a shrug;  Illya-speak for ‘leave me alone; to which, Napoleon obliged him. Sometimes it wasn’t worth the effort when the Russian got into one of his cranky moods. He’d noticed in the past that violent thunder storms seemed to send his partner’s mood down, and wondered what memory they might be triggering...not that Illya would ever tell him.

They ate in silence and after they were finished with their meal, Tituba cleared away the dishes. She disappeared for what seemed like the blink of and eye, returning with more drinks.

"Good food and de drink always makes for a happy man, though I know someting dat makes 'im happiest. Napoleon, there is something upstairs I would like you to see,” she purred.

Solo looked to his partner, who gave him a long sigh. It was as Illya suspected, Napoleon was going to get lucky tonight.

“I swear,” the Russian mumbled, resting his chin on his fist as he leaned his elbow on the table, sipping his drink. “I do not understand how you manage this every bloody place we go.” Though at the moment the mulled wine was making him surprisingly warm and toasty.

“Hey when you’ve got it…”

“Please, if you say that to me one more time, I think I will shoot myself with one of my own sleep darts. Go...abandon me for your wanton lust.  Get it over with.” Illya dismissed him.

The enticing and mysterious Tituba took Solo by the hand, leading him up a moaning staircase to what he assumed what her private room.

Inside there was a large, rather inviting feather bed, but decorating the walls were strange things...bunches of herbs, spider webs….and what looked like a classic witches broom hanging above the headboard. A  medallion in the shape of a five-pointed star laid discarded on a table next to the bed.

Tituba lit several black candles and as she joined Napoleon standing there at the foot of the bed, she leaned into him, letting the dark-haired man envelop her in his arms and kiss her. It was a deep, passionate kiss and one in which Solo explored her with his tongue.

The seductive woman moaned as she began to undulate in his arms, grinding her body against his.

She wiggled free of him,  pushing Napoleon back onto the mattress, and there she leaned over him. He grabbed her blouse, pulling it down and exposing her enticing breasts.

Lowering herself to him, this time she took the lead in kissing him as her hand wandered to his trousers.

Napoleon felt himself being drawn into something that was akin a trance-like state.  His head began to spin, and opening his eyes, he saw Tituba above him...literally, levitating in the air, flying high as she was writhing, half naked. Her hair was standing on end moving like tendrils with a life of their own, and white sparks were emanating from her fingertips.

“Do you like what you see Napoleon?” Her voice was that of many women speaking at once.”Come to me...be mine.” The voices echoed that phrase over and over...

“Not on your life sister...or mine!” Solo jumped up from what was surely the Devil’s bed, zipping up his fly and making a hasty retreat out the door and down the stairs.   He swore he heard a cackling laugh echoing from behind him.

“Done already?” Illya blurted out as he watched his partner bound across the floor, heading straight for the doorway, not bothering to fetch his coat.

“NO, OUT NOW!” Napoleon barked.

Illya, not being one to be told twice,headed straight for the door right behind  his partner.

It had stopped raining, and the night sky was now clear and filled with stars, revealing an enormous full moon; its light turning the shadowed landscape into a blue-black vista.

Napoleon started the car, looking to see if they were being pursued, though by what or whom, they had no idea.

To their surprise, the door and windows to the Upton Tavern were boarded up, and the place looked abandoned as if had stood that way for many years.

Solo hit the gas, peeling out and driving high speed down the road.

“What happened my friend?” Illya asked.

“Not quite sure chum, I need to think about it.” He remained undecided whether to tell his partner what had taken place upstairs, as the man would think he’d lost his mind. Napoleon looked up at the moon and he swore he saw the silhouette of a figure riding on a broomstick fly past.

       

“Illya what town was this again?” He suddenly asked.

“Danvers, though it was once called Salem Village you know... the site of your Salem witch trials.”

“Oh peachy…Damn!”

“What?”

“That was a brand new raincoat,” Napoleon moaned.

“You are not going to tell me what happened back there are you?”

“Nope.”

Comments

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Yep, even when he was feeling amorous, and falling under a spell...he kept his wits about him. The character Tituba was based on one of the innocents killed during the Salem Witch trials..so a touch of reality there.

Thanks for reading and commenting!