by Dawn Madigan
Dara! Sweetheart, keep grabbin’ me tight, Rowan’s voice cautioned, threaded with gentle humor. I’d hate to lose such a fine rider.
Dara’s eyes finally popped open, her pupils still dilated with ecstasy. Her breath was coming in wheezes—she was beyond talking. Clinging to Rowan’s body with all her remaining strength, she wasn’t about to let him go any time soon.
As time went by, Rowan’s mental answers transformed into single words and clipped sentences. His fur was drenched, the flesh beneath pulsing with heat. He was drawing on the last of his strength as he surged through Máigh-Mór, the Great Plain, struggling to keep the wrestling Powers in balance.
Dara knew that her weight must have been taking its toll on him.
The border town of Commar was perched on the verge of Mumha’s Great Plain, at the confluence of two rivers. The River of Gold, named so because its shimmering water seemed gilded, wound its way with sensual nonchalance, southeast to northwest. Its mate, the Ruby Glen, gushed through Connachta with vibrant force, its turbulent flow halving the kingdom in the opposite direction. Like lovers, the two rivers entwined into one, the Luran, golden and calm at parts and tumultuous in others. Flowing west and away from its parents, the Luran made a natural border between the two kingdoms of Mumha and Connachta before spilling into the Ocean. Thus the city of Commar had been split into three, the Golden bank, the Ruby bank, and a triangular peninsula termed simply Inis, the Island. The dé-Danann city belonged to both kingdoms, and yet belonged to neither.
“How are we going to enter the city, huh, Mackey?” Dara queried. “You left your jeans way back. Are you planning to go into town as a beast, or as a naked man?”
Which of those two options do you like best, sweetheart?
“Oh, quit it!” she laughed, nudging his flank with the heel of one small foot. Truth was, she rather liked both of the above options. She bit her lower lip, recalling how it felt to squeeze her thighs on that big, furry head. To get off on Rowan’s fluent, powerful body. To have his large, rough tongue moving inside of her…
I think they’re more used to shapechangers than seeing naked men roaming the streets, Rowan teased in her head. But the mac’tir form, I don’t think we should flash it in their faces right now.
“You’d rather flash something else in their faces?” Dara joked. She sighed, letting the sassy memory of his artful tongue go for now. Rowan did have a point. She consoled herself by clinging to his lithe, powerful body with a squeezing hug of both arms and legs.
Finally, he slowed his gallop, his weariness palpable. Dara slid off his back. Rolling her shoulders beneath her dagger’s leather harness, she watched Rowan’s mac’tir form as it crouched down heavily within the tall grass.
“Oh shit. I shouldn’t have kicked you, Rowan, I’m sorry.”
“’Tis fine, Dara. Tell you the truth, I enjoyed it.”
Rowan rolled to his back with a groan in the clearing mist. His transformation was swifter this time, faster than it had been before. He sat up, not bothering to shake the grass out of his hair. She watched him as he climbed to his feet, stretching to his full height, and realized that she wasn’t bothered anymore by his nakedness. Rather the opposite…
She wanted to see more of it.
“I hurt in muscles I didn’t know I had.” He grinned as he turned to face her, the familiar mischievous sparkle back in his eyes.
It hit her that she’d come to like that about him, as well. Damned if she hadn’t actually been missing it.
“The way we both look right now, we should search that town for a fairy tailor, not a fairy shoemaker,” she said. “Though we’re barefoot, as well.”
“He’s a Leprechaun, actually,” he answered.
“Huh?”
“Brighid’s acquaintance, the fairy shoemaker—he’s a Leprechaun. ‘Tis the common name for his kind.”
“Can’t wait to meet the tiny bearded trickster,” Dara admitted with a smile. “Brighid said he was living in the island part of the city, right? I wonder if he has a crock of gold stashed somewhere?”
“I thought you didn’t believe in fairy tales,” Rowan teased. “If he does have gold, Dara, I don’t think he’ll share it with us. You know the story about greedy Tom who caught himself a Leprechaun, don’t you?”
“The one with the red garter.” Her eyes shone. “Mom used to tell me that story over and over.”
“A red garter would look really nice on you, Dara. But only if you wear nothing else.”
“I think you need it more right now. To wrap it around your—”
“You insult me, sweetheart. Am I that small?”
“Around your hair, to keep it from falling into your eyes,” Dara finished with a grin. “Goddess, men!”
They both halted, coming across the first squat houses fringing the Golden slice of Commar. Dwellings were scarcer here, some surrounded by small farms—no, not exactly farms, there were no crops to be seen, no plowed fields.
“Look there—” Dara pointed to a mixed herd of cattle and sheep grazing not too far ahead. Her voice was imbued with excitement, that of a little girl introduced for the first time to nature lurking just outside city limits.
Rowan grinned to himself. Funny, finding out she was in the legendary Tír Na nÓg hadn’t drawn this kind of a joyous cry out of her like tumbling into these few lunching cows and sheep. Women, go figure. His mind conjured a steamy image of Dara, posing gloriously naked except for one sexy, red-hot garter slipped up her right thigh.
He considered that.
Mmmm, no, her left would be cuter.
Dara regarded the Irishman. “What’s going on in your mind, Mackey?”
He arched both brows innocently. Aye, definitely her left.
Dara eyed him with mounting suspicion. Was his look getting smokier or was she imagining things? Sighing, she relinquished the matter for now. “I keep waiting for one of these cows to float,” she told him.
“I don’t think that would happen.” Mackey’s grin broadened. “These don’t look like fairy animals to me. They seem more like stolen, very-much-Mortal cows and sheep. I bet there are very angry Mortal farmers looking for them right now.”
“Well, how can you tell these are not fairy cows?” Dara demanded with some disappointment. Her eyes moved from the pasture to Rowan’s roguish expression. Oh my. The man was definitely surveying her from her toes to the roots of her hair with that smoldering bedroom gaze. What lewd, X-rated film was he currently running in his head? She had a feeling that whatever it was, she’d been granted a starring role.
Dara was about to address the subject when something suddenly detached itself from the herd and made its way towards them, a smudge of gold and green.
That thing—whatever it was—was moving damn fast. Rowan reached and laid a cautioning hand over Dara’s forearm, the heat in his eyes swiftly dissolving.
What looked like a tall, slender woman drifted closer to them among the grazing blotches of browns, grays, blacks and whites. Her hair, a pale gold, flowed down to her knees. A loose green robe billowed about her body, simply cut but elaborately embroidered, long enough to hide her feet. The ballooning shift made it look as if she were hovering just above the grass. She drifted to a halt, facing them, her smoky complexion apparent now, and studied them with large eyes of a deep blue-green.
Like still pools, Dara thought, not stormy seas like Rowan’s.
“Name your weapon,” the woman commanded Dara in a sweet silvery voice. Her stagnant eyes briefly lit with an odd hunger as she surveyed Rowan’s nude physique.
“My weapon?” Dara inquired acerbically, shooting her an irate look. She’d better start staring elsewhere!
“Don’t,” Rowan swiftly whispered to Dara, slanting a wary glance towards her ritual Scían. “Don’t name your weapon. Just describe it to her.”
As if she could utter her dagger’s Gaelic name without breaking her teeth on it. Dara shot Rowan a baffled look. “I have one mean dagger,” she finally i
nformed the audacious blonde. “Damascus steel, inlaid with silver.”
“Forge-welded and folded by a master bladesmith,” Rowan added helpfully. “See, you forge-weld alternating sheets of low and high-carbon steels, so that—”
“Iron,” the woman growled. The delicate beauty of her high-cheekboned face was somewhat offset by the sharp fangs she’d just revealed.
The blonde was a vampire. And she seemed to really like Rowan. Dara’s hand immediately shot to her dagger’s bone hilt. “Yeah, iron, lots of it,” she hissed. “Really impressive. Want to have a real close look at it?” Odd, though—movie vampires usually avoided a wooden stake to the heart, not cold iron.
“What do you want, travelers?” The blonde vamp seemed deflated at the sight of iron. “I will do as you wish as long as you leave my herd in peace.”
“Who are you?” Dara’s fist was still tight on her dagger.
“I cannot tell you my name,” the toothy blonde replied.
“Fairies are real touchy when it comes to a first name basis,” Rowan intervened. “I can tell you what she is, though, Dara. A Glaistig, if I guess right.”
“A what?”
The Glaistig stood motionless, watching them with her still-pool eyes.
“A Glaistig—a Water Imp,” Rowan repeated. “In truth, I believed her kind to reside only in the Scottish Highlands. She’s a water spirit, living close to rivers, streams, and lakes. The River of Gold is not too far from here, aye? When a Water Imp is good, she’s kind to kiddies, grannies and grandpas. Loves herding cattle, blessing them with plenty of milk. A good shepherdess, she is.”
“But?” Dara’s dismayed gaze was fixated on the woman. “There’s always a but, Rowan.”
“But—” he grinned, “—when she is bad, she is true evil. See the sharp teeth on her? She likes grabbing a man for a wild dance, and then, like a vampire, she feeds on his blood. She also doesn’t care much for travelers, has this habit of slaying—”
“Slaying?” Dara exclaimed. She drew out her dagger, completely removing it from its sheath.
The Imp reared back, snarling, her fangs glistening cruelly in the perpetual daylight.
“No, no, easy, sweetheart—as long as you don’t tell her your weapon’s name you’re safe, and she will do as you ask.”
Just to be on the safe side, Rowan took a step that put him halfway between Dara and the snarling woman. He was standing much closer to the Water Imp than he cared to be.
“Okay, then. In that case,” Dara turned to the Water Imp, motioning with her dagger. “You. Give him your clothes.”
Without a word the Imp slid her green robe over her head and handed it over to Rowan. He took it from her hands, noting her unsheathed silvery claws stroking over the cloth. The ornamented green fabric was sheer and almost weightless in his hands, like a piece of cloud, fluttering against his naked flesh in the soft wind. The Imp measured him with another hungry look, her lips curling slowly into a smile that bared her fangs again. Slowly, he withdrew from the smiling vampiric fairy.
“Rowan, but she’s half a… Her legs are not…” Dara stammered in shock. She was gripping her dagger so hard, her knuckles went white.
“Oh, aye,” Rowan grinned. “I forgot to mention that part. Her lower half is…not womanly.”
The Imp growled, outraged. Willowy and smoke-skinned, she stood draped in nothing but her light gold hair. Strands of it fell against her small, firm breasts, like those of a young girl on the verge of womanhood. Her nipples peaked in a shade darker than her skin, almost bluish in color. The feminine curves of her narrow hips ended in a pair of tapering goat legs boasting white, silky fur.
“You forgot to mention,” Dara mumbled. She stared hypnotized at the delicate silvered hooves bejeweled with tourmalines, red and black.
The Imp shifted slightly, stomping the grass with one hoof and then the other, obviously ill at ease with Dara’s scrutiny.
Rowan meanwhile pulled the green gown over his head. It was long enough to reach his lower calves, its folds shifting around his body with each small movement. He made a face. Still no sassy comment from Dara, her eyes were glued to the Water Imp.
“Go, go back now,” Dara ordered in her kiddie teacher tone. “Back to your herd. I’m sorry for doing this, it’s just that I had no choice, and…”
That pretty much left her speechless. She obviously wasn’t accustomed to robbing half-women-half-goats of their clothes.
The Imp gave Dara a dirty look, then gave Rowan an even dirtier one. “We’ll be dancing yet, pretty one,” she murmured in a husky voice much more suited to a cat than a half-goat.
“Hey!” Dara shouted angrily.
“I think I’ll pass.” Rowan grinned at the fairy, laying a restraining hand over Dara’s lush backside. His mate jolted in surprise, her gaze whipping back to him.
The vampiric Imp gave Rowan a “we’ll see about that” predatory smile, and then swirled within the gold cloud of her hair. Now that her gown wasn’t conveying the illusion of a graceful walk, the Water Imp didn’t bother to appear humanlike anymore. She took advantage of her powerful legs, launching herself back to her precious herd in a series of powerful, oddly graceful leaps.
“I’d be watching my back if I were you.” Dara’s gaze followed the creature’s movement as she again sheathed her trusty dagger.
“Oh, lassie, I didn’t know you cared.” He gave her juicy buttock an appreciative squeeze.
Dara jumped with a yelp and swiveled to face him, then stared at him openmouthed. “Goddess,” she started, then pressed both her hands against her quivering lips. It looked like she was wrestling with something huge swelling inside of her, her torso quivering and her face flushing scarlet. And then she gave in, and it spilled out through her slackening fingers—ringing peals of laughter, one chased by the other.
“Aye?” Rowan frowned. “Is something not right?”
“You,” she gasped between giggles. “You look…like…”
“Go on. I look like…?” he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest in a gesture that only made Dara laugh harder, hugging herself and bending in half.
“Like Robin Hood in a dress!” she finally managed, squirming with giggles, her butt hitting the grass.
“Come now, lass, get up,” Rowan groaned and leaned above her writhing form, extending one of his hands. “’Tis better than walking around naked, right?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She grabbed his offered hand, and he yanked her back to her feet. She was still panting, but the worst of the laughter had subsided. “I never thought I would say it—” she shot him a grin, “—but after seeing you in this outfit, I think I prefer watching you prance around naked.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, flashing her his roguish grin.
Before Dara managed to regain her breath Rowan gave her wrist a slight pull and gathered her into his body, swiftly trapping her face in his hands. His mouth came down over her stunned lips, brushing, teasing, demanding entrance. She opened her mouth wider for a quick breath, accepting his tongue with it. Her hands climbed up his shoulders, sought his tangled, wild hair. The man’s devilish tongue took swift control of her mouth, swirling within its moist depths, sensually unraveling each of its dark secrets, playing a sizzling game of dominance.
Dara’s moan slipped into Rowan’s mouth, and he welcomed her tongue in with it. His commanding hands slipped to her waist, pressing her tighter against him. With luxurious leisure he guided her velvety exploration inside his mouth, then shamelessly sucked on her tongue, making her moan with building ecstasy.
And then he released her tongue with a soft “pop”.
His green eyes twinkled as he studied her dazed expression.
Finally remembering to roll her tongue back in her mouth, Dara thought Rowan had made his point perfectly. Dress or no dress, Mackey was one hundred percent pure male.
Chapter Twelve
The river town of Commar thickened around the two Kanjali shifters
as they ventured deeper in, towards the River of Gold that wound its way through the city’s heart. The twining streets bore no hint of a name and no numbers, only colors. Maybe that was how their denizens recognized them, Dara mused, by hues and shades—or perhaps the townsfolk needed no obvious markers to navigate through their own avenues. She was ambling with Rowan along winding lilac, the pavestones gleaming a soft purple, same as the pudgy brick houses. Even the air they had been breathing felt lightly perfumed with lavender.
Though Kanjali and dé-Danann bloodlines had entwined in a distant past, this didn’t feel like home. Now and then the two of them drew questioning glances from passersby, who recognized them for the outsiders they were. The town dwellers, typical dé-Danann, were a long, lithe breed, boasting fair complexions and hair ranging from golden to fiery. Men and women alike wore their hair long and intricately braided. They were clothed in various shades of green, ranging from deep emerald to pale celadon, with stirred-in hues of browns and grays, earth, sea and grass. The faces they glimpsed were all fine-featured and young, not one ridged with old age, but Rowan and Dara had noticed no children skimming through the streets, either.
“At least you blend in well,” Dara teased. “A redhead in a green dress.”
“That didn’t sound like a compliment.” Rowan gently squeezed her arm, and she rewarded him with hushed laughter. Her lips still deliciously tingled from his last, branding kiss.
“I think we’re kind of lost,” she said. “Maybe we should ask someone to point us to the river?”
“Mmm, how about those two?” He pointed to an entangled couple half-shaded by a low-hung arched balcony.
She glanced where he pointed and quickly averted her gaze. “Uh, you ask them.”
Rowan’s hand closed over Dara’s wrist and he gently rolled her into him with a swift motion, yanking a surprised squeak out of her mouth. He enfolded her against his chest, each of her hands captured in one of his.
“What,” he whispered, his voice low and husky, “is so terrible about watching these two, sweetheart?”
