by Alex Lidell
In spite of myself, I feel my gaze rivet to the twitches. To the small bead of moisture slipping from the tip of River’s cock and snaking down along the velvety head, begging to be lapped off. My own sex, somehow finding the pattern of River’s throbs, clenches in an uncomfortable harmony.
Pulling my eyes away from River’s cock, I slide my hands along his abdomen, his muscled thighs. Cupping his balls, I stroke the velvet-smooth shaft with my other hand. His eyes shudder closed for one brief moment, then open with a snap as if nothing happened. “Are you ready?” I ask. My voice is hoarse, my lips begging to make contact with his.
“Yes,” River says.
Yes. The word echoes through me, filling a longing that I thought would remain a dream forever. Except that in my dream, River said yes for pleasure, not prudence.
I wait for something more from him, for a flash of need or desire. For anything but those neutral gray eyes, that impenetrable wall that will not let me through.
Nothing.
I swallow. “All right, then,” I say after a moment, surprised by my steady voice. “I’m ready too.”
The male nods and lifts one arm off the bed, spreading open my legs with a warm palm. I whimper softly as my thighs separate with a soft, wet plop.
Without another word, River cups my backside, raising it to a perfect angle before slowly sliding himself inside.
21
Lera
I gasp.
The size of him stretching my opening, the sudden fullness inside me, makes my nerves sing. River’s eyes flicker, the only sign he gives of feeling anything. He stills at once, giving me time to get used to the length of him. To the girth that still sends a shiver of want through my thoughts.
“Are you all right, Leralynn?” he asks, his voice calm, in control.
No. I’m not. I want to shatter that damn control. For River to move, to grip my shoulders and fill my mouth with his tongue while his cock takes me to the end of pleasure. I want to see the blazing thunder in his eyes. Lifting my head, I brush my lips over his, my heart stilling as I wait for a response.
River tenses, beyond what I already thought possible. When I pull back to study his eyes, I find him staring at the wall above my head. For all the world, I swear he is counting his breaths.
My chest clenches, a stinging bitterness coating my tongue and eyes. “You can start,” I say finally, the words a dull surrender.
With a nod of acknowledgement, River begins to move. A steady and rhythmic thrust, thrust, thrust that strikes just right deep inside me. My sex tightens around him, swelling with a zing of need at each impact. My breath quickens, the spot River’s cock pounds shouting its agony and pleasure through my core. My hips undulate hungrily, meeting his stroking pelvis, demanding and begging it to do more. Harder. Faster.
Stars. My toes curl, my struggles to rein in my own need doing nothing. Thrust, thrust, thrust.
Each plunge of him into me is a surge of sensation, a rising wave that halts a breath short of breaking and recedes for a moment before rising again with the next thrust. My body tightens, my breaths ragged as my legs wrap greedily around River’s waist.
He lets out a small choked sound when I lock my ankles, my fingers digging into his trembling arms.
Thrust, thrust, thr—“River!” The name escapes my lips as the deepest thrust yet makes my sex clench like a vice around the male’s cock. An unbearable abyss opens inside me, beckoning me closer, each new movement sending a shock wave from my sex to my roaring core. I moan. “Stars. River.”
The male’s gaze finds my face, his gray eyes glazed. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, his sweat-slicked muscles so bunched, it’s a wonder they’ve not split the skin. River’s mouth opens, the beginning of my name forming on his lips, before he jerks his face away, tipping it toward the bloody wall.
Before I can react, before I can think, his hand frees itself to cover my sex. Deft fingers slip through my hot wetness, finding my swollen apex. Circling it once, twice, before grazing it with a single, exquisite stroke that raises a scream from deep inside me.
Sex clamping around River’s pulsing cock, I topple over the edge of reason so hard that my body arches, the bed seeming to fall out from under me. As I settle, River’s beautiful face constricts with a fierceness that echoes through his body.
Suddenly, another sensation pins my body to the bed as River’s magic flares inside him, filling my core with its echo just as his cock fills my sex. I feel heavy with earth, the power within me pushing against River’s. The two phantom forces of our magic spin like a pair of dancers across a floor, counterbalancing each other as they twirl faster and faster.
“Leralynn.” My name slips from River’s lips on a whisper. Warmth fills my chest just as his warmth spills into my belly so wonderfully that I hear myself whimper, only to—
I realize with a gasp that River’s hand remains on my sex, his skillful fingers still stroking me despite the release that just racked my body. His magic tugs at mine, demanding that we continue our dance, dive back into that spin that’s too fast for either to manage alone. I shudder, yet he strokes me again, ruthless in his resolve.
I writhe beneath him, my swollen bud screaming with the smallest touch of his fingertip. With the aftershocks of pleasure still racking me, I’m too weak, too sensitive to do what River’s teasing demands. And yet . . . yet . . . my body responds in spite of itself, my magic rousing alongside my need.
“I can’t!” My words are a croak of desire, an exquisite tightness so deep it hurts. “I can’t. Not again. Not—”
River pauses, and for the first time since we started, his gray eyes truly penetrate into me. His want, his care, his command, all pierce through me in a single thunder of truth. Holding my gaze, River runs his thumb across my bud one last time and I scream a second release so hard that I can’t find my breath.
I’m shaking when River pulls free of me a few moments later, my body so weak and light that I wonder how I don’t float away from the bed.
Sitting up beside me, he industriously wraps my shoulders in a warm coverlet, settling me into a cocoon of comfort against the headboard. I wait for the male to say something, to explain that final gaze where our bared souls touched and melded. The one that still burns in my memory.
Reaching out, River brushes a strand of hair from my face, his fingertips lingering on my skin. The scent of earth fills me, the male’s heady musk dominating all else in the room. “Leralynn,” he whispers again, my name a mere breath on his lips.
My heart stills.
A bell marks the time outside, the sound shattering the silent illusion like a hammer striking glass. River is off the bed at once, sliding into his clothes so quickly that I only manage to get as far as my pants before the male is striding to the door.
“There isn’t much time before we go, and you are exhausted,” River says over his shoulder, tucking the loose ends of his sash around his waist. “I’ll have someone wake you up when it’s time to leave.”
My world blinks as the door opens and shuts, leaving me alone on one side and River on the other.
I don’t remember making it back into bed and falling asleep, but Shade’s gentle brush of fingers along my face comes all too soon. Rising quietly—lest my shaking voice give away even more of my nerves than my scent no doubt already does—I dress in the supple leather armor Shade hands me and join the others as we walk back to the elders’ chamber.
This time, the whole council is there, standing before their dais. I glance at my males, waiting for . . . something. A hug, a word, a nervous smile. Four calm, experienced warriors look back at me. As if everything that need be said has already been uttered. Probably two hundred or so years ago.
I raise my chin.
“When you are ready,” Elder Beynoir intones in the deep voice of a quint commander as he holds out a blindfold.
Shade steps forward, pausing long enough to grip my arm. “When you are left at location in the Gloom, stay put. I’
ll find you by smell.” He gives my arm a final squeeze, his golden eyes steady with command. “Now go to Elder Elidyr.”
The three long steps across the chamber’s gleaming floors feel like an eternity. My heart hammers, my sweating hands rolled tightly into fists. But I’m not crying. Not even a little. That counts for something.
“Take a deep breath, young one,” Elidyr says gently, his hands wrapping a blindfold around my eyes. Despite my pounding pulse, the male’s smell of hay and horses, together with his calm voice, adds a measure of comfort. “I’m going to bring you through the Gloom to your trial site. Have you moved through folds before? They let us travel greater distances more quickly. A corridor of sorts.”
I nod, remembering the passage Autumn once used to bring me from Slait’s border into the palace.
“Excellent.” Elidyr sounds pleased. “We will be making use of several of these on our way to the destination. You are unable to step into the Gloom yourself?”
I nod again, proud that my muscles are not shaking.
A solid hand presses between my shoulder blades. “That is not a problem. I will take your hand now and we will step together, all right? I’d like a verbal response, please.”
I lick my lips. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ve not taken a single third-trial who was not petrified, Leralynn. That has not stopped most of them from returning.”
I think he means the latter to be comforting, but the words utterly miss their mark. Not that it matters, since a moment later, I feel Elidyr pull me along into the darkness. A deep chill penetrates my bones. The male guides me in blindfolded silence for what seems like an hour, though I doubt it is really that long. By the time we stop, I’m certain I’ve left bruises on his skin where I gripped his forearm.
I smell dust, damp. Metal.
“Here we are,” Elidyr informs me finally, his voice sounding distant though he stands right beside me. “Count to ten before removing the blindfold. You have seventy-two hours to return. Good luck.”
22
Lera
“Wait!” I call into the cold silence. My body tenses, my mouth drying even as my hands open and shut with a sudden influx of blood. Even without seeing, I can feel the Gloom’s gray oppression saturating the air.
No answer.
I rip off the blindfold. To hell with counting. I am in what looks like a basement, one narrow streak of light illuminating the dim space. The room around me is square, the stone walls covered with bits of glowing blue moss. A pile of loose metal and wood scraps makes a mess in one corner of the room, though the large empty worktable beside them is clear. I wonder what’s missing, what would be here in the Light—how some objects exist here and others do not.
Regardless, I need to get aboveground. Connect with the others. Shade has promised to find me by scent, but it will be faster if I’m in the open air. And even if it weren’t, the notion of staying here, in this underground tomb, sends a cold sweat along my sides.
Stopping by the pile of junk, I quickly flip through it in search of anything weapon-worthy, since “bring no weapons” is one of the brilliant third-trial rules. Coming up with a rusty old sword, I tuck it into the back of my sash. Better than nothing.
Seeing no staircase up, I walk the perimeter of the room in search of a door. Nothing. I curse. The door and stairs, which no doubt exist, never made it into the Gloom. If I could maneuver between the Gloom and Light, I might step out and try to use the resources that way. Although, in the Light, there might be fae occupying the house. Ones who might or might not welcome a stranger. Just now, I’m rather grateful that most of Lunos’s residents either can’t or won’t step into the Gloom.
Following that small stream of sunlight, I find a narrow, horizontal window near the ceiling. Metal bars cover the opening, but I’m likely small enough to fit between them. Thank the stars. Now, to get there. Tye could no doubt simply jump, grab the ledge, and pull himself up without wasting a breath. For me, however, it would be a climb. I run my hands over the rough walls in search of holds, finding few nooks worth the title. Wiping my moist palms on my pants, I grasp the tiny seams, the toes of my boots turning stone nubs into footholds, and pull myself up.
My hands slide off at once, the momentum I used to propel myself up pulling me back instead. Losing all balance, I fall backward. The ground rushes up to slam into me, the thud of my fall dulled by the Gloom’s oddness. The sword tucked into my sash leaves a deep ache along my lower back.
Damn. Taking a moment to force moldy air back into my empty lungs, I rise to try again, the lack of grips and holds laughing at me as I approach the wall. I glance at the worktable, too heavy for me to move, and briefly wonder whether I might jump from it to the window ledge. I could—if my goal were to break a leg instead of escape.
The wall it is. Gritting my teeth, I reach for the pitifully small holds, this time making it two steps up before falling back to the packed-dirt floor.
A whimper escapes my throat, the walls closing in around me, the basement now a crypt marooning me alive. My heart quickens, my breaths growing shallow with panic. Dark and cold and stone. A trap with no escape. No air.
Coal. I make my breaths slow. The fear of the small space is Coal’s, not mine. Or was Coal’s. Apparently he shared. I force myself to stand, my legs shaking. Coal escaped a much worse cell than this pitiful little basement, didn’t he?
Walking up to the wall for the third time, I plan my route before heading up. Find every crevice before stepping up again, my fingers straining with the effort of holding me to the stone. Legs. I need to use my legs—push up, not pull up. That’s what Tye told me during training. I press my hips close to the stone, feeling my balance shift. Better.
My right toe finds a sad excuse for a hold and I dig into it, pushing my weight onto my leg while only my fingers keep me anchored to the wall. Left foot. Right again. I realize I’ve been holding my breath only when my hands clasp the window ledge. My leg slips. Catches against the opposite wall, stretching me painfully. I push up with a final heave that sets my knee on the ledge, and I grip one of the metal bars.
I stay still for a moment, relief flooding my body, and then I kneel. Taking the sword from the back of my sash, I go to break the window but discover that the glass hasn’t made it into the Gloom. Small fortune. Tossing the sword through the opening first, I slide after it, the slit between the window bars barely large enough for my small frame.
One long scrape along my spine later, I am outside on all fours, gasping for air. A thin streak of pain burns my back, but I little care. If I never see another cellar again for the rest of my life, it will be too soon. Shaking myself free of that thought, I survey my new world. A ghost of a town main street, if the road’s generous width and the three-story stone buildings lining its sides are any indication. My jaw tightens.
The understanding was for us to be dropped in the same locations as Kora’s quint, though the elders could not reveal exactly where each of us would land without negating trial rules. Yet this little looks like the neutral territory that Kora’s quint is believed to have wandered away from. It looks like a well-built town. A mining town. Either the elders lied about where they dropped Kora, or they lied about where they would drop us. And what did you expect exactly?
I return my attention to what can only be Karnish.
A shiver runs through me at the emptiness, the dull echo of what I imagine is a vibrant place in the Light. Or perhaps not. Most fae might lack the ability and interest to step into the Gloom, but if what Klarissa said about the attacks is true, then Karnish’s inhabitants might not be here in the Light either.
I start down the street, looking for a good place to settle. The sun should be setting here within the next couple hours, but in the eerie twilit grayness, I’m not sure I’ll even notice the difference. The Gloom muffles my steps, washing the world of colors and smells. Green grass is a muddy brown; the trunks of stout, neatly manicured trees that line the street are a tarnished black; the
wooden signs are shades of listless gray. One sign that looks to be advertising a mercantile swings in its frame with a dull, eerie creak, though I can’t feel the breeze that moves it. Spotting stacks of firewood beside what must be an inn, I decide to set my nest there. Crossing the street as if moving through a fog, I’ve just reached the wood piles when a familiar stench of rotten meat hits my nose.
Sclices. My heart stutters and pounds against my ribs, memories of salivating fangs and hog-like snouts racing through me. Ducking quickly behind the wood, I pull my shirt over my mouth and nose to muffle the stench of Mors’s rodents. Bloody stars, first the tomb of a room I woke in and now this. Will the sclices’ smell throw Shade off my scent? Or worse, will my own attract the beasts right to me? My hand closes stupidly around my rusty sword. I don’t think I can hold my own against a single sclice, and the rodents usually travel in packs.
Upwind. Yes, I should move upwind. If nothing else, it will give me something to work toward instead of sitting here, stewing in terror.
Peeking out from between the stacks, I survey the street, looking for movement. Nothing. Even the tattered Blaze flag hangs limply from its pole. I’ve just located a new hiding place in a lean-to structure twenty paces away when a shadow falls over the road. I hunch back down, holding my breath as I peer between the chucks of firewood.
The shadow moves, still too rough to hint at who—or what—is casting it. A sclice beast? One of the mercenaries patrolling the Gloom? Surely my males would be more careful than this. The shadow hesitates then quickens, its owner finally stepping into my line of sight.
Blood drains from my face. My heart gallops, my breath caught in painfully stretched lungs. No. Impossible. It can’t be. And yet . . . yet there it is. Webbed hind legs. Leathery gray skin. Standing upright. An expressionless cave of a face with a round maw of needle-sharp teeth pointing in all directions. The beast from Coal’s nightmares—a qoru. Here in Lunos, despite everything River and the council and all the males said.
