The Forbidden

by Cheyenne McCray

  Garrett had already ordered ale for each of them, along with slices of pulled pork and bread on a metal trencher placed before each of their seats. Hawk picked up the heavy metal mug and took a deep swallow, enjoying the thick malt, honey, and hops taste. When he set the mug down, he slammed it harder than he intended and ale sloshed onto the wood.

  After taking a large bite of his pork, Garrett simply looked at Hawk as he chewed. They had been friends for so many centuries that no doubt he could read and interpret Hawk’s every movement, his every expression.

  “Remember when we were mere boys?” Hawk said with a half-smile as he picked up a chunk of pork with his fingers and placed it on a thick slice of bread. “We used to play with wooden swords, imagining ourselves to be D’Danann Enforcers.”

  “Aye.” Garrett let out a soft chuckle while he sopped his bread in the pork juice. “And you and Keir tried to best each other even in those days.”

  At the sound of his rival’s name, Hawk scowled. Keir and Hawk had always tried to surpass the other’s skill level. Theirs was a competition born during their childhood, and carried on as adults.

  “He was as much of an ass then as he has been for all the centuries since,” Hawk growled. “I think the only reason he formally opposed my bonding to Davina was that he wanted her for himself, half-blood or no.”

  “He only wanted her because you wanted her. It hurt him that your father always favored you, even though he was your father’s bastard, and you a child of your father’s true union.” Garrett shook his head in amusement and then his expression sobered. “Never mind these old battles. Tell me what is on your mind that bothers you so.”

  Hawk let out a long sigh. They had been of the D’Danann Enforcers for centuries. They battled in Otherworlds to save various races if the Chieftains responded to the summoning of a particular people. It had been some time since the Chieftains had approved any fighting of that sort.

  Hawk gripped the handle of his ale mug, his knuckles whitening from the force he exerted. “We will be going to war against the Fomorii.”

  Garrett’s brows shot up and he dropped his piece of bread into his trencher. “I know you cannot be serious.”

  “The Great Guardian of the Elves has Seen,” Hawk continued before Garrett could interrupt again. “We will be summoned. Even if the Chieftains do not agree, Enforcers will go, no matter how small the ranks or the consequences.”

  Garrett picked up his bread, soaked from juices in his trencher. “You know the Chieftains do not approve of you speaking to the Elves.”

  Hawk gave a low rumble. “It is not for them to decide my associations.”

  His friend merely shrugged.

  While they ate and drank their ale, Hawk explained what the Guardian had shared with him, and his own crossing from Otherworld to warn the D’Anu witch.

  When Hawk paused to take a swig of his ale, Garrett said, “It is difficult to believe that the demons could be freed after all this time. It has been centuries since our battle with them.”

  Hawk slammed his mug on the table again, almost onto the bag holding his daughter’s poppet. “Somehow Balor, the God of Death, has found a way to convince human warlocks to summon his people.”

  Garrett’s expression of disbelief intensified. “If the Guardian is correct, and enough Fomorii escape Underworld, it will not be a war easily won.”

  Hawk sucked his breath through his teeth. “No, it will not.”

  After finishing one mug of ale, along with all his bread and pork, Hawk grabbed the bag with the doll and left Garrett at the alehouse.

  Hawk spread his wings and flew through the forest for a while, dodging trees and bushes, passing by the many creatures of the forest—deer, rabbits, foxes, and other animals.

  Otherworld was so different from the modern Earth version. Here the forest was sparkling and clean. Greens were more vivid, blues deeper, reds brighter, and yellows more vibrant.

  Sunshine glittered through frilled tree leaves, and other leaves shaped in perfect circles. Sounds echoed in the forest, of birds, the howl of a lone wolf, and wind chimes hanging from the many homes in the trees.

  When he had given himself a good workout and cleared his head, he flew to his own home. As soon as he landed on both booted feet and folded away his wings, he heard the flapping of much smaller wings. “Daddy!” sang a small voice from nearby.

  Warmth rushed through Hawk when he heard Shayla’s voice. The music of his daughter calling to him was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

  Shayla flew to him, her gleaming blue-black feathers fluttering at her back as she landed. He crouched and held open his arms. His little girl ran up to him and threw herself into his embrace. Gods, she smelled so good. Of wind and wildflowers and the sweetest nectar.

  She folded her wings away as she hugged him just as tightly. She drew back and kissed him on the nose. “Breena said it would be a looooong time until you came back. But you didn’t stay away so very much this time. I am so happy you’re home.” Shayla wrapped her little arms around his neck and buried her face against his chest. “I love you, Daddy.”

  “And I love you, a leanbh,” he murmured as he squeezed his precious girl. Hawk brought his daughter up with him when he stood and she squealed with laughter as he tossed her up and then hugged her in one arm.

  He handed her the cloth bag and she cried out in delight as she withdrew the tiny poppet and caressed her hair and wings. “She’s beautiful.” She looked up at Hawk. “I love her.”

  Hawk pinched Shayla’s pert little nose. “And I love you.”

  Shayla laughed and didn’t stop talking as he carried her toward their enormous tree home. He met his daughter’s vibrant blue, almond-shaped eyes and they both smiled. A replica of her mother, Shayla was absolutely beautiful with her long blue-black hair, oval face, twin dimples, and the slight point of her ears. She was a mere six years old, and wore bright yellow pants and a yellow top with puffy sleeves.

  Hawk stopped in front of the tree and put his hand to the rough bark. A portion of it shimmered, then vanished, revealing a small chamber carved into the wood. He carried Shayla into the tree that smelled of cinnamon and cedar. The wood was intricately carved and polished on the inside.

  The transport carried them up into their home. The D’Danann had no need for transport, but most trees had them for wingless guests—a condition of the Dryads, who ruled the trees. When the door opened, Hawk stepped into the great room. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the crescent-shaped room, tree branches waved and leaves danced in a strong breeze. They were too far up to see the forest floor from where he stood. Other homes perched high above the ground in neighboring trees. Catwalks rounded each tree house and bridged one home to another. It was a delicate maze of artistry that blended into the ancient forest.

  The scent of cedar and cinnamon was even more prevalent inside his home. Talented craftsmen had carved intricate designs into the walls, some showing D’Danann in flight and some in battle. The wood was well polished, a deep mahogany shade. Curved doorways led to other rooms, and the ceiling arched high above their heads.

  The floor was a massive slice of the tree that showed at least a thousand rings radiating from the center. One could only see perhaps a fraction of the rings, and the rest were in the other rooms. Because they were Fae, they lived in harmony with nature, and always the craftsmen asked permission of and bartered with the Dryads before creating a new home.

  Shayla had continued chattering like a happy little bird. When she squirmed out of Hawk’s embrace, she darted through a doorway, calling “Breena!” to their housekeeper and Shayla’s caregiver. “Daddy’s home!”

  Hawk took in a deep breath as a feeling of loneliness clamped around his heart. This was the place they had moved to after Davina had died.

  His smile slipped away. He hadn’t been able to bear living in the home he and his wife had shared together once she had been killed by the snake—or what he had believed to be a snake. />
  Her death had been his fault.

  And he would never forgive himself.

  3

  Underworld

  * * *

  Junga paced the length of the cavern, her thick blue hide shimmering in the green glow of the chamber’s lichen. Water steadily dripped in one corner, with an increasingly annoying plop…plop…plop, and the whole place stank of decay and ancient dirt.

  Far, far above was the underside of the ocean, an underside she was sick of seeing. The Fomorii should be in the sea, not beneath it.

  The demon’s knuckles dragged the floor and she gnashed her needle-like teeth. To get out of this Balor-forsaken place was all she cared about anymore. Centuries of existing in the pits of the world while feeding on grubs and rodents extinct from mankind made her ill.

  She missed everything about their lives before being banished to the depths of Underworld by the Tuatha D’Danann, the Elves, and the goddess Dana. Fomorii were meant to conquer other races, meant to rule. Once they had traveled easily between Otherworld and Earth, and overpowered race after race.

  Junga sat back on her haunches as she remembered her favorite part. Sex as Shanai, human, or other races. With a mere touch they could shift into another being, killing that being instantly and taking over his or her body and mind until the Fomorii chose another body to consume.

  They could change forms at will, but only into the most recent host body, or into their normal demon forms. The only beings they hadn’t been able to overcome were the Fae, including the D’Danann, Elves, and Mystwalkers.

  She scowled at the other demons roaming the cavern. She had tired of sex with her own kind and she craved more, needed more—variety.

  Her people were beautiful, of course, all in different shapes, sizes, forms, and colors. Some had several eyes, others took after the god Balor and only had one. A few demons had as many as nine limbs, and some merely had three. There were hundreds of her kind, all different, all unique.

  They survived with other races banished to Underworld, but Junga considered those beasts—especially the Basilisks— evil. Junga and her legionmates were not evil. They simply lived life as they were meant to.

  Some of her people had regular lovers while a very few had chosen lifemates, and yet others chose a different demon at every opportunity. Occasionally an infant was conceived, but in this damnable place it was a rare occurrence. The Fomorii needed freedom to expand, freedom to grow their race.

  When it came to sex, the sensations with other Fomorii were not as pleasurable, nor as intense as with other races. Junga’s usual lovers over the course of countless centuries no longer held appeal. Neither Za’s brilliant green skin and slender multi-legged body, nor Bane’s hulking red form and his two penises attracted her. Nothing was enough anymore.

  But soon they might have the opportunity to leave and conquer once again.

  And the Basilisks would aid them.

  Basilisks were beasts of the night. They often took the form of a common, though poisonous, snake, but when attacking their prey or enemy, they grew to their full and formidable height, twice that of a mere human, and as thick as three men.

  The Basilisks’ scales were like armor, and they had few weaknesses. They looked like a giant snake, but with a fan of skin and bone crowning the back of their heads. And their fangs—the poison injected into their victims was so deadly that even the Fae were susceptible. Only the Fomorii had resistance to the venom.

  The Basilisks had been caught up in the same spell that banished the Fomorii to Underworld. For centuries the two races had fought one another, but had eventually come to a truce—with the promise that the Fomorii would find a way out of Underworld and a way to seek revenge against the D’Danann.

  Revenge against the D’Danann. Yes, they would have that.

  “Junga!” came the queen’s snarl.

  Junga whirled toward Queen Kanji and lowered her head in a submissive posture even though she wanted to claw out the queen’s heart and feed her carcass to the rest of the demons. From the top of her eyes she saw the white-skinned queen limping toward her, claws digging into rocks and dirt.

  If not for her father, Kae, Junga would not be groveling in front of this white bitch. Her father had served Balor as his right hand, positioned to become King of the Fomorii once they defeated the Tuatha D’Danann.

  But no. Kae had let down his guard. Had allowed the Sun God, Lugh, to put out Balor’s great eye. If not for her father’s stupidity, for letting the bloodline down when he underestimated the D’Danann all those centuries ago, Junga would be queen and ruler over all Fomorii.

  Instead she’d had to fight and scrabble to reach her position of legion leader, despite being next in line if the queen died. And to do it, Junga had never let a male or female dominate her, save for the queen.

  When she reached Junga, the queen growled, “Balor spoke to Old One. The human Balorites have begun the summoning.” Junga raised her head as the queen continued, “Take your best warriors and two Basilisks to the Temple of Balor and prepare.”

  “Yes, my Queen,” Junga said, trying to keep excitement from her voice. A new species to dominate, to possess, to dine upon—the children of Earth, who populated the world after all gods and goddesses had left to Otherworld or Underworld.

  This was Junga’s opportunity to prove to all the Fomorii that she should rule, not this bitch. Junga would take control and slowly her people would overrun the world from which they were wrongfully banished.

  “We haven’t much time.” The queen came closer to Junga. “The Old One has been informed by Balor that the D’Danann warned one of the D’Anu—a gray witch named Silver Ashcroft.”

  Junga gave a low growl. “How dare the bastards interfere? What of their creed of neutral alliance?”

  The queen snorted. “One rogue D’Danann is not likely to convince an entire legion of his people. They will realize it is the Fomorii’s day to rule again.”

  “And if they don’t,” Junga said, her skin heated with fury, “this time we will win the war.”

  “We have something that will ensure our victory.” Kanji’s voice was almost a seductive purr.

  Junga couldn’t help but be intrigued. Her mind filled with visions of two ways to slay the arrogant D’Danann—tearing out their rotten hearts and slicing off their useless heads. The bastards were near to invulnerable otherwise.

  Yesssss.

  Blood.

  Blood and triumph.

  “How will we defeat them once and for all?” Junga’s fangs gnashed in blind excitement. “Tell me, my Queen.”

  Kanji quivered in apparent delight, then flared her talons and stared at the tips. “Magic.” Her snarl was one of bloodlust and vengeance. “Not enough for all of your best warriors— but half, at least. And even a few Fomorii with this enhancement ... the Old One has Seen our coming glory.”

  Kanji rose and her claws clicked against stone as she came close enough to Junga that their snouts nearly touched.

  “You dare not fail to set up a suitable residence and summon me within one Earth week’s time.” The queen’s glare would have slain a lesser demon. “Or I will ensure you are eliminated when I do arrive.”

  “Of course, my queen.” Junga seethed with hot fury and hoped the bitch would depart.

  Kanji gave an intimidating growl. “Hurry to the temple where you will be readied for the Balorite summoning.”

  Junga bowed her head and shoulders. “Yes, my queen.”

  Once the queen had returned to her lair, Junga moved. With more hope than she’d had in centuries, she loped toward the Temple of Balor.

  October 24

  4

  San Francisco

  * * *

  Far below the busy streets of modern San Francisco, silence reigned in the ancient stone chamber. To Silver, the absence of sound felt like a physical weight. How could the twelve other D’Anu Coven members be so eerily quiet?

  The night after meeting Hawk of the D’Danann,
she stood ready to convince her Coven the Fomorii had come. She had scried it with her cauldron, and now she would provide the evidence to her brothers and sisters in magic. She had spoken nothing of it until the vision had finally come to her, knowing the Elders would not listen to her without proof.

  They might not listen to her with proof.

  Even now, the D’Anu Coven ringed her like a grim jury. Twelve other witches, male and female, all descendants of the Ancient Druids, passed judgment. Some with disbelieving eyes, with frowns, with the slightest shake of the head, others with curiosity.

  Copper’s place had been filled by an apprentice who had become an adept. Silver couldn’t help but think about her sister, whenever she saw the arrogant replacement, Mary.

  Silver felt the tension in her jaw, in her neck, in the agony of her doubled fists as she fought to support the weight of her pewter cauldron. Her posture was rigid. Her silvery-white hair hung limp and straight in the damp underground air. Her silver and amber pentagram was warm against her throat, and the silver snake curling around her wrist seemed to tighten with warning.

  Warning of what?

  She had never felt so insignificant, so foolish—and so incredibly desperate. The Coven had to believe her. If they didn’t, if they ignored the warning she brought them, she couldn’t imagine what would happen next.

  Not for the first time, Silver wished she could have belonged to one of the other twelve groups scattered across the United States. Maybe they would be more accepting, more progressive.

  Thirteen American D’Anu Covens, each with thirteen witches, gifted with the Druid legacy, powerful magic of older days and older ways—and she had to be stuck in the most traditional of all.

  Considering San Francisco was such a liberal city, she’d thought the Coven would be much more open to progress, changing with the times rather than sticking strictly to old traditions.