Archipellus: God of Samhain (A Sons of Herne romance)

by J. Rose Allister

  His brother followed him inside. “How much blood?”

  “I am not certain. A fair amount, at least.”

  The front display room, which was stuffed floor to ceiling with treasures collected by the dead nogrun, netted him a gleaming crystal goblet, large enough to require handles on the sides. Archipellus took the objects to the bedroom, where Andero held a crying Bethany against his chest. They parted immediately as the others came in.

  “Can you save her?” Bethany blurted out, sniffing back tears.

  Archipellus passed the couple and stood over the bed, gazing down at Melissa. He had hoped that while he was gone—however long that had been, since time did not function properly in the land of the dead—her condition might have begun improving. If anything, she looked worse. Her skin had grown leathery and grayer. Her body was leaner, more fragile. He prayed that he would not break her when he mounted her to attempt the cure.

  “Well?” Andero asked. “Did you find the answer you sought?”

  “Thanks to my mother, I know of the way,” he said, setting the chalice beside her on the nightstand. “But you both will want to leave.”

  “No way,” Bethany said. “My sister didn’t abandon me when I was the one in need of saving. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “What is involved in this cure?” Andero asked.

  Jorandil leaned closed and murmured in his ear. Andero eyed Archipellus and took Bethany by the arm.

  “We’ll be just outside the door,” he said. “Alert us if you need to.”

  “Wait!” Bethany said. “Andero, stop.”

  He tugged her outside and pulled the door closed behind them. There were raised voices for a moment, then silence.

  “You are certain this is the way?” Jorandil said.

  “The only way.” He unlaced one of the bracers from his forearm and tossed it aside. He plucked the jeweled knife from a wooden chest and held his wrist over the goblet. One cut would allow his blood to flow, at least until his supernatural healing began.

  “I will do my best to preserve her modesty,” Archipellus said. “Unconscious or not, she would not care to have an audience for this.”

  Jorandil turned aside. “Nor do I care to watch my incubus brother bed someone.”

  A scream outside the door froze him. Jorandil bolted for the door, but before he could tug it open, it slammed inward. Herne, the great forest god, stood in the doorway. His eyes were wide and gleaming in a fierce gold. His hair hit his shoulders in a wild tangle, looking as though he’d just been in a windstorm. His beard was short and scruffy, with leaves tucked in among the wiry strands. His antlers were too wide to allow him to stand squarely within the door frame, so his head was turned at an angle. A green cloak, loin cloth, and boots were all of his attire, along with a tall, gnarled staff that he rested on.

  “Father,” Jorandil said.

  His eyes raked Archipellus up and down, and his large chest expanded even farther with a deep sigh. “You are alive,” he said.

  Archipellus blinked. “Of course I am alive. I am immortal. What are you doing here?”

  “I sensed you pass over.” He clutched at his stomach. “I was certain you crossed the veil to the underworld. It felt just like it did once before, like a cold hand was tearing at my entrails. I began traveling by portals and veil breaches immediately, focusing on your presence, until I found myself here.”

  Archipellus knew exactly when the one other time had been that Herne had felt someone close to him cross into death.

  “I did cross over, but not in death. I went to see someone.” He paused. “My mother.”

  Herne’s gaze widened. “You saw Gwaneth?”

  “I did.”

  Herne entered the room but stopped when he glanced around, taking in the knife in Archipellus’s hand and the chalice on the table. His gaze fell on Melissa. “She told you, didn’t she? She told you of the night you were conceived.”

  “I had heard the story in my childhood, but I went to find out exactly how she restored you.”

  “And now you think you are going to recreate it?” His father walked up and snatched the knife from his hand. “You are the god of Samhain. It is not your place to waste such a foolish gesture. You do not even know what the consequences could be, for she is just a mortal.”

  “She is not just a mortal.” Archipellus turned to the woman lying on the bed. “She was my sabbat partner.”

  Herne’s head cocked as he regarded her. “And you did not finish draining her? She appears weak enough that she could cross over easily.”

  “And that is of my own doing. She was not weakened at all before I touched her.”

  Silence fell for a couple of beats. “Your sacred duty calls for the draining of one who is already approaching the underworld.”

  “It is a long story, Father. One I do not have time for if I am to save her.”

  “Father, if I may,” Jorandil began.

  “You may not.” Herne turned a sharp gaze on his other son. “I would like to be surprised to see you here, an angel consorting with a demon. But after your actions at Beltane, I am not.”

  Jorandil had risked much to save his sabbat lover, it was true. In fact, he had unwittingly unleashed one of Herne’s greatest enemies in order to do so. It almost cost the realm as well as their father’s life. And there had been another cost as well—Jorandil’s wings. They had once been very real. Now, only phantom glimmers remained.

  “Please, let him save her,” they heard.

  Herne spun around to where Bethany stood in the doorway. “And who are you to ask the gods for such a thing?”

  “I’m the one Archipellus planned to drain for the ritual. Melissa is my sister. She substituted herself to spare me.”

  “And yet you are not sick either.”

  “I was. My body was diseased and weak, and I was ready for death. He came to me and offered me sweet release from the suffering.” She hugged herself and gave Archipellus a small smile. “But my sister wouldn’t let him touch me, offering herself instead. The veil was about to give out, so he didn’t have much choice.”

  Herne gave an indignant snort.

  “But he did more than seal that breach,” she went on. “He healed my illness.”

  “Impossible. Incubi are not healers.”

  “Your son is.”

  “It’s true, oh great god of the forest,” Andero said. “He infused a small amount of the power from his horns into Bethany during the ritual, and she was restored.”

  Herne gaped at his son. “Is this really so? How can it be?”

  Archipellus shrugged. “As my mother said, I am not only part of her. I am part of you as well. I believe it was my godly powers that allowed the healing to occur.” He turned to Melissa. “Unfortunately, it is not working for her.”

  “She was not diseased,” Herne said. “She was drained by supernatural means.” He raised his chin. “She sacrificed herself willingly for her sister and for the good of the realms. A noble gesture. Given time, she will probably recover. Leave it at that.”

  “She sacrificed herself for your son,” Andero said. “After the ritual, we came here to save Bethany from a nogrun who had stolen her through the veil. Your son was poisoned in the process, suffering great torment. Melissa gave her body to him to end his pain, knowing what it would cost her.”

  “And I in turn will do the same,” Archipellus said. “As I said, she is no mere human. She is a hero.”

  “And I sense she is something even more to you,” Herne said. “But you understand that even if you succeeded in restoring her, there can be no romantic future for one of your kind.” His eyes glittered. “I know firsthand the dangers of believing otherwise.”

  “I am aware of it. That is not why I am doing what must be done.”

  “Nothing must be done. Leave her to the care of her own kind. You have fulfilled your duty.”

  “I will not abandon her at her weakest.” The way you abandoned my mother, he wanted to say, but he
bit it back.

  Herne looked up at the ceiling. “Why will none of my sons listen to reason?” He looked back at Archipellus. “As admirable as her gesture may have been, she is a mortal. You are a sabbat keeper. I would not have you spill holy blood—the blood of my kin—in order to spare the life of a human.”

  “And what is worth sacrificing for, Father?” Archipellus asked. “What cause do you deem worthy enough for your sons? Was my mother’s actions in saving you a waste of her time? For she paid dearly enough for it.”

  The god’s eyes darkened. “Do not attempt to blame me for Gwaneth’s sins. They were many, and they were her own.”

  “Which she atoned for when she gave up immortality to save you.”

  “From a fate she herself was responsible for.”

  “Because she loved you. Because you loved her, and she could not bear the thought of losing you when you discovered what she was.”

  “She was a liar!” he thundered, striking his staff on the wood with a resounding crash. “And she betrayed me. She gave her body to other men—many others. Often no more than a single hour before climbing into my bed.”

  “Only in hopes of sparing you.”

  “Sparing me.” He spat the words out like rotten meat. “I will not debate this with you, my son. Just because she made what she believed was a grand sacrifice to right her wrongs does not mean you have to throw yourself at the feet of this human.”

  “I will throw myself at her feet because she is worthy of it, human or not,” he snapped. “I will do it because she deserves saving. Not just because I feel myself falling in love with her.”

  The room fell silent.

  “And there it is,” Herne said. “The truth at last. The Fates have had their one final joke at my expense. My son the incubus falling for the lover he can never have.”

  They stared at one another for a moment.

  “You may as well go, Father,” Archipellus said. “I am sorry I caused you worry when I crossed to the underworld. But there is nothing more you can do here.”

  “Nor you, if you were wise,” Herne snapped. Then he sighed. “But of course, you will not be. None of you have been when it comes to matters of love. Perhaps because you all share my blood.”

  “I will watch over him, Father,” Jorandil said. “I will ensure the god of Samhain comes to no lasting harm.”

  “The harm was already done,” Herne said. “The moment the Fates decided my sons should find love.”

  He turned and strode from the room, his cloak billowing behind him.

  “Was it this bad with Father when you sought to save your Beltane maiden?” Archipellus asked.

  Jorandil pushed back a sheet of his blond hair. “Worse. But he came around when I nearly died.”

  “Hopefully the same will be true for me.” He glanced up at Andero. “He took the dagger with him.”

  Andero reached into his belt and pulled out a small skinning knife. “I hope that will be the end of interruptions,” he said, handing it over. “Good luck.”

  Then he and Bethany left again and shut the door. Archipellus looked down at Melissa, who appeared even frailer now. He swore under his breath and climbed beneath the covers with her. He held up the knife, and grimacing, sliced it across his wrist.

  Jorandil gasped as they watched the immortal blood begin to flow.

  He held his wrist over the chalice for a time, until his arm ached from the emptying of blood. When the crystal was half full and his vision fogged, he wrapped a cloth around the cut and turned to the bed.

  Jorandil averted his gaze while Archipellus undid his pants and slid under the covers beside her, exposing her momentarily. He nudged her thighs apart with his knees, feeling his heart thud dully. For perhaps the first time in existence, an incubus was poised between the legs of a woman without a raging erection. His demon was, for the moment, silent, not demanding the usual carnal sacrifice.

  He leaned over her, careful not to crush her with his weight, closing his eyes and inhaling her scent. He pictured them together, her once again whole and vibrant. His arm throbbed and vision swam while he forced himself into the moment when he had first taken her. His body responded, his shaft stiffening until it brushed her pussy curls. “You will be as you were,” he murmured into her ear. “I will do what it takes to make it so.”

  He reached between them and stroked her silken nether lips, circling her clit. He felt it harden, and he kept stimulating her. After a short time, he slid a finger along her slit and dipped it inside, where she was hot and wet. Even without being conscious, she was aware enough of him to grow aroused.

  With a grunt, he pushed into her depths, his cock hardening painfully at the feel of molten honey surrounding him. He made long, slow thrusts, feeling his need for her grow, the hunger sharpen. The demon, sluggish from blood loss, stirred. Before long, he sucked in a breath. Power was flowing in, slowly, tricking like mud. His horns began to heat up. She faded, her sense drifting away.

  His hips pressed harder, faster. At least, that was his intention. He, too, was fading, losing strength despite the demon’s will. He felt the wetness on his arm, and saw that the bandage was soaked through. His healing was not happening fast enough. The arm holding his weight off Melissa shook with strain while he tried reaching for the crystal goblet. His strength began to fail, his hand falling limp over the edge of the bed.

  “Jorandil,” he whispered. “The goblet.”

  His brother crouched at the bedside, still averting his eyes out of respect, holding the crystal glass. “How do we get her to drink?” he asked.

  “I am not certain.”

  Archipellus was still now, no longer moving inside her. His wings were aching, the thin membranes supporting the interior capillaries collapsing from lack of blood. He felt them shrink, skin sticking against skin, irritating him.

  “Hurry, brother,” he croaked.

  Jorandil handed him the cup and stood aside. Slippery with crimson fluid dripping onto his hand, his fingers gripped the goblet while he tried to focus. One more thrust, and he felt her slip away to the veil, preparing to give up life and cross to what waited beyond. He sensed his mother waiting there, anxious, hoping she would not meet her son’s lover in the afterlife that night.

  He withdrew and slid off clumsily. Beside her, he tried to get her head upright enough to drink.

  The goblet slipped from his hand.

  Jorandil dashed forward, but he was too late. The crystal shattered, blood oozing and wasted.

  He unwrapped his arm, still bleeding freely, and pressed it to her lips. “You must drink,” he whispered. “Immortal blood will save you.”

  He parted her lips, which turned crimson, but his essence was not going down her throat.

  Archipellus’s whole body shook with profound fatigue now, but he blinked away the fuzzy vision and helped hold her head up while he tried to get her to drink.

  “Please,” he murmured. “Be restored.”

  Now his wrist was trying to heal, but every flex, every movement reopened it. His body was weakened, his powers not quite able to manage the task as readily as usual. So be it. If the wound never healed, if he had to live with it forever wrapped in bandages, at least he would know he had done what he could to save her.

  “She does not seem to be rallying,” Jorandil said.

  “More. Make her drink more.”

  “She is unable to swallow.”

  “She needs a feeding tube,” came Bethany’s voice.

  She and Andero stood in the doorway, watching in horror.

  “What is a feeding tube?” Jorandil asked.

  “When I was at my sickest, I was too weak to swallow. They had to put a tube down my throat and pour liquid nutrients through it.”

  Andero gasped. “I saw something in the other room.”

  He dashed out and returned with a long, decorative snake with its mouth open. He chopped the end of the tail off and held it up. The snake was hollow. Bethany grabbed and flexed it, and then
nodded. “This will work, if we’re careful.” She looked up at the others. “Tip her head way back.”

  She made a show of holding the tip of the snake roughly where Melissa’s stomach would be and then measuring the distance to her mouth. “Open her jaw wide. I need more light.”

  Jorandil closed his eyes, and his body brightened. Archipellus tried to help, but the room was swimming now, and he fell back weakly. They got the snake tube into Melissa’s throat, and Bethany grabbed his arm.

  “The bleeding stopped,” she said. “Damn it.”

  “Reopen the vein,” he said hoarsely.

  She grabbed the knife and sliced He winced and felt the hot blood streaming.

  She held it over the snake’s open mouth.

  “Shouldn’t it at least be mixed with wine or something?” Andero asked.

  “Diluting it will weaken the strength,” Bethany said. “Besides, I don’t think she cares about the taste right now.”

  When the flow slowed, she grabbed the weak, limp arm and squeezed hard.

  “That is truly disgusting,” Andero said, making a face. “You certainly do not seem to be squeamish about it.”

  “My sister’s life is at stake. Besides, I was in nursing school when I got sick. How much does she need?”

  “I am not certain,” Archipellus replied. He licked dry, cracked lips. He thirsted greatly, and he felt his body getting heavier, sinking into the mattress.

  “Maybe we should do the other arm.” She picked up the knife, but Jorandil grabbed it away.

  “That is enough, I should think,” he said. They gently slid the makeshift tube out of her throat and used the sponge to clean blood from her and Archipellus. Andero bound a fresh cloth tightly around the wound. “So what now? We just wait?”

  A moment later, Melissa began to seize. Her body went into spasms strong enough to shake the entire bed.

  “Is that supposed to happen?” Bethany shouted, holding down her sister’s shoulders.

  “I do not know,” Archipellus said. Alarms sounded in the back of his mind, and he wanted to grab her, soothe her body’s tremors. But his limbs would not respond.

  I am fair certain it would work, but not without consequences. And I know not what they would be.