“If he could be convinced to return them,” Nona said.
“We have seen into his heart,” Decuna said. “He has had a taste of how much the wings aid his own power.”
“Maybe if Jorandil took control of the Eye,” Cadence offered, stopping when the trio turned wicked gazes her way. “Just long enough to get back his wings.”
“No,” Morta said. “No one aside from the Three can be allowed the power to wield fate, no matter how good their intentions.”
“Then you can return my wings,” Jorandil said. “Once you have regained possession of the Eye.”
“Costeros has magic enough to block even our interference when he is at full power,” Decuna said. “He will need to be conquered first.”
Jorandil stood there, looking as much at a loss as Cadence felt. If he were to have any hope of retaking his wings, Costeros would have to be stripped of enough power for the Fates to intervene. But in order to strip that power, he had to rob Costeros of his wings. It was a vicious circle.
“Even while he struggles to master the Eye, his power is still formidable,” Nona said. “You are likely the only one who can get close to him.”
“And the only one capable of igniting—and wielding—the Beltane fire should all else fail,” Decuna added. “You must confront him soon. I feel his darkness spreading even now, a black and horrid stain that will grow until it overtakes all of the realm.”
“It is time, son of Herne,” the three said. “You must undo what has been done.”
Jorandil looked at Cadence, and her heart at once swelled and sank. His eyes held a finality, a look that told her he was going into the fire and would probably not come out again. Even if he did, she would not get her fantasy. Win or lose, she would never see him again. But he had saved her at a cost that staggered. She should be feeling grateful, not numb and bereft.
“Then this is goodbye,” she said, her hands clutching her upper arms as she tried to put on a brave face and hold herself together. “Thank you for saving me. I’ll never be able to repay you.”
“She must come along,” Nona said.
Jorandil’s head whipped around. “No. I just spared her from danger. I would not see her in the midst of it again.”
“It is not enough for you to light the torch,” Decuna said. “You will need her to recapture the essence of a true Beltane fire.”
The Fates’ eyes glimmered, and in their depths Cadence saw flickers of flame.
“There is no time,” Nona said before Jorandil finished opening his mouth to reply. “We will transport you directly to the Chamber of Sabbats.”
Cadence glanced over at Stella as mist from the Fates swirled out like a sudden maelstrom, engulfing the room. The psychic’s eyes were wide, but she gave a halting smile Cadence couldn’t manage to reciprocate. The fog swallowed everything until she could no longer see. She could barely breathe.
“Jorandil,” she sputtered. But he was gone.
Then, so was everything else.
***
Jorandil was arguing the notion of allowing Cadence through the veil when the mist deposited him into the brightly lit chamber. As the room came into view, he glanced around and saw Cadence as well. His stomach churned, and he told himself it was because he was displeased that the Fates had brought her. Yet Cadence’s hair gave off a reddish-gold glow under the lights of the domed Beltane chamber, a fiery shade most appropriate for the space she inhabited. Her expression bordered on awe, wide-eyed and innocent, with a pure beauty and childlike wonder while she glanced around the room. He rarely took notice of the decor anymore.
The Chamber of Sabbats was a sacred place comprised of a central room with eight spokes leading off to separate inner chambers for each of the pagan sabbats. They stood now in the Chamber of Beltane, which housed art and artifacts related to his sabbat, items that had been created in his world as well as Cadence’s own. His eyes followed hers to take in the giant straw Burning Man, the crystal maypole with the phallic head that was set too far into its alcove to dance around in the traditional fashion, and the carvings and holograms of Beltane fires and handfastings that graced the walls surrounding them. The orb of passage sat just beyond the arched doorway, the dark mists of time no longer visible in the silvery swirls of energy contained within. The orb would shift around the room, marking the time remaining until the following Beltane. When Jorandil, god of the sabbat, would have to choose another female to join with and seal the thinning veil once again.
He shook off the thought and headed for the center of the room. The sabbat artifact was there, on the pedestal where he had left it. The flame had been extinguished as per custom. The torch would not, were this a typical year, be disturbed or lit again until the next Beltane. But thus far, the year of the Thousand Seasons had been anything but typical.
The Fates floated behind the pedestal, waiting with more grace and silent patience than Jorandil would have thought them capable of, all things considered. At least, until the moment he made eye contact.
“The time is now,” they said. “You must light the torch and keep it in hand.”
“The torch has not left this chamber for thousands of years,” Jorandil said.
“It is no longer just a sacred artifact,” Nona said. “It is a holy weapon wielded by a god.”
He looked at her, then at Cadence, whose attention was now on him. Their eyes met, sparking a catch in his breath and a skip of his heart. He could see that the wide eyes no longer held that innocent wonder, but something darker, more concerned.
“Why am I here?” she asked, now looking at the Fates. “What do I have to do?”
“You should do nothing,” Jorandil said, turning to the floating trio. “She is innocent in all this. I was the one who allowed Costeros his freedom. I alone should wage this battle.”
“I want to help,” she said, her voice ending in a determined echo that bounced through the chamber. “It’s my fault you got into this mess in the first place.”
“There is no time to debate blame,” Morta said, silencing Jorandil’s rebuttal. “You must light the torch now.”
“Your father is in danger,” Decuna said, bobbing in a rapid, agitated fashion. “Costeros will exact his vengeance on the god of the hunt before anything else.”
Jorandil set his jaw. “Then I shall light the flame.”
“Not just you.” The Fates shifted their dark gazes to settle on Cadence. “The two of you must ignite the flame together.”
“How?” Cadence asked.
“Son of Herne, use the power of male and female to bring forth the true light of a Beltane fire,” Nona said.
“With her?” he eyed Cadence. “But she is no longer a virgin.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Thanks to you.”
“After the torch is lit,” they said, ignoring the rest, “then you will use it to part Costeros from his power.”
The Fates vanished without another word, leaving him alone with Cadence.
“I did not mean offense,” he said. “Just that the Beltane ritual is rather specific in the partner that must be chosen.”
She shrugged and drew alongside him as he stood at the pedestal. She gazed down at the cold, unlit torch. Her scent, sweet and earthly, barely grazed him, but combined with her palpable presence so near, his concentration wavered. Images flooded him of their night together, him joining with her, her soft voice responding in pleasure. The kiss he could not help but steal when he had returned to save her. His body heated at the memory, coming to life as it did when the veil was thin.
“I don’t suppose you brought a match,” she said, apparently oblivious to his lust.
“The torch is not lit with flame as a human understands it,” he managed. “It is done by energy.”
“Like magic?”
He nodded, regarding the torch and the Fates’ words. “The power of male and female,” he whispered.
“Well, I don’t know any magic,” she said. “I don’t think I can help.”
He turned to her. “The Fates think you can.” He paused. “And so do I.”
Jorandil pulled her to him until they almost collided. She let out a little gasp, gazing up at him with those eyes, so pure, yet so arousing, and he felt his body respond. He lowered his face to hers and claimed her lips.
The energy spike was immediate and powerful, and he deepened the kiss by opening his mouth to sample the sweet velvet of her tongue. The moan she gave unlocked a primal urge inside him, and he almost crushed their bodies together. He wanted to be closer, touch every inch, elicit every pleasurable response, hear his name shouted on her lips. This was the power the Fates meant, the energy summoned by male and female, a carnal magic that was at its very source the celebration of Beltane itself.
His erection flared with a fury, as though it had been a year instead of mere days since it had last been sated. His cock demanded release, pulsing against Cadence’s heat, throbbing at the press of her pubic bone as she wriggled against him, apparently anxious to know the thrust of his hips once again.
Jorandil’s fingers wound into the silk of her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat. He sampled it hungrily with lips and tongue, and she grabbed hold of his upper arms, her nails digging in when he began thrusting his hips against her. Time was short, but need and requirement allowed for this moment, and he succumbed to the heady fever with abandon.
They uncoupled barely long enough to undress, two savages all but tearing off garments until they stood naked and panting in the holy sabbat chamber. He took the torch, holder and all, from its pedestal and pushed her backward, her lithe, lush body, teasing, hard nipples, and red pussy curls beckoning while he positioned her against the wall. The Burning Man figure stood beside them with welcoming hands, and Jorandil set the torch holder into them before lifting Cadence up, sliding her plump ass up the wall, feeling his desperate cock slide between her legs. She was wet for him, and he groaned at the acknowledgment while he took hold of himself and found her entrance.
His wish was to take her fast and hard, but he tamed his wild fervor. She was still so near innocence that he could still cause her pain. He called upon patience he didn’t feel and slid in with slow, easy care, burying himself in fire and heaven. Power and emotion swirled through him, and he quivered under the force while he nuzzled her neck. She grazed his earlobe with her teeth, and his thick shaft pulsed inside her body.
He was the god of a sabbat whose very existence was a celebration of carnal union. Yet in a thousand years of ritual, he had never before embodied the spirit of that joining with such thorough understanding. Two becoming one. One melting inside the other until he could no longer suffer the thought of being without her. And he understood what that meant. He had thought the Fates had been toying with him out of boredom or some unfathomable motivation. But in fact, they had set his heart aflame. They had set him free.
She wriggled against him, apparently eager that he should not remain still.
“Cadence,” he murmured in warning. “I am trying to give you time to adjust to me.”
Her squirming increased. “Don’t.”
When he could bear her impatience no longer, he began to thrust.
She hissed through her teeth as he fucked her, first slowly, then sliding fast as her slippery pussy demanded a harder, more urgent lovemaking. She clung to him, her ankles hooked around his back, as he rode. He heard the desperate catch of her breath with each stroke, felt him lose himself deeper inside her the longer they stayed connected. Her moans surrounded him, permeating the air, driving him harder, growing more desperate and higher the closer she rose near her peak. Her hot, ready response drove his hips and his thoughts, nearly robbing him of his recollection of the real reason he was fucking his Beltane maiden inside the holy chamber.
“Tell me you feel me,” he said. “Tell me you know who I am.”
“Don’t stop,” she said. “And I won’t know anyone else ever again.”
Physical and intangible pleasure entwined in his gut. His balls tightened as her words brought him high, soaring above any heights he could have aspired to even with his wings. He felt the wings behind him, a phantom glow, energy gathering in that vacant aura in the way it did when he consummated a sabbat joining.
He bent his head to pull her nipple into his mouth. A loud cry left her throat, and he knew her moment was upon her. He sought out her hand and guided it to where the artifact waited. A guttural moan escaped his throat as he opened her fingers and slid them around the handle of the torch, and she groped it with the seductive gesture of one whose mind was on hard, willing cock. And by the gods, his cock had never been so willing.
“Jorandil!” she cried. And he was undone by it.
Together they held the torch while orgasm shook them, his hand covering hers. Bright light filled the chamber, visible even through his closed eyes, but the spark of curiosity was buried under waves of pleasure. He kept pumping, the sweat of their bodies slicking their skin, the heat of their sex threatening to consume him like fire. Power coursed along his arm, chilling and burning him in the same moment, pouring into the torch handle he was barely aware of while his balls emptied in delicious release.
When at last he was in enough control of his senses to ease off thrusting, Jorandil lowered Cadence. They still had hold of the torch handle, and he released his grip. She did the same, staring up at him, her breaths coming through moist, parted lips that he couldn’t stop himself from tasting once more.
The kiss started a new throb between his thighs, and he considered doing something about this. They were not in the chamber for lovemaking alone, however. It was a means to an end. His mission again crystallized in his thoughts, sobering his passion, and he drew back. The two of them glanced over to see the red-blue flames dancing on the torch tip, a mushroom flame that enhanced the artifact’s phallic appearance.
“Oh,” Cadence murmured in a soft, velvet voice that tantalized despite his resolve. “I guess it worked.”
He let out a sigh, wishing he could linger in the aftermath. With a brief hesitation, he pulled on his garments. “I must go.”
“What about me?” Cadence asked, buttoning the pants that gave her curved a gentle, yet endearing hug. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Stay here.” He plucked the torch from its holder and glanced around. “You will be safe enough in the Chamber of Sabbats until I return.”
“And do what, pace around wondering if you’ll ever come back?” Her eyes held a look of pleading. “What if you don’t?”
His jaw tightened. “Have faith. If the Fates say the Beltane artifact will let me triumph over Costeros, then I believe them. So must you.”
“Triumph? They expect you to destroy your own wings.”
He eyed her. “If that is the price that must be paid.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to be responsible for such a terrible thing. There has to be another way.”
“Not one I can conceive of in time to stop him from using that box. Once he succeeds in controlling the Eye of Fate, I fear nothing can stop him.”
“I’m so sorry.” Her voice went flat, her eyes dulled despite reflecting the burning flame in his hand. “You must hate me for costing you so much trouble.”
“I think you know by now that is not true.” He leaned down and claimed her lips one last time. Then he broke off, forcing himself to shut out the feel of her mouth and the sound of her parting words lest he lose the will to leave her side. He exited the chamber with the Beltane flame held aloft.
He should not have been, but he was surprised nonetheless to find the Fates awaiting him in the main antechamber. They were huddled together in tight formation, speaking in low murmurs, but broke apart the moment he entered the room.
“Make haste, god of Beltane,” they said. “Costeros is near to unlocking the secret of the Eye.”
He nodded. “Then send me to him without delay.”
“Are you sure they can’t do it?” came a voice from behi
nd him.
He turned to see Cadence in the archway. “If the Fates know where he is, can’t they use their powers to get that box back without you having to sacrifice your wings?”
Decuna hissed at the young girl. “Naive human.”
“We have already confessed that we lost the power to intervene,” Nona said, her voice as soft as Decuna’s had been abrasive. “That is why we need the box returned safely.”
“We can see what lies ahead, but we cannot change it,” Morta added. “And even with our powers combined, we are, at the moment, no match for Costeros.”
“But Jorandil is?” Cadence persisted. “Without his wings?”
“The fire that burns is no ordinary flame,” Decuna said. “It can work—if he moves quickly.”
“Do it now,” Jorandil said, glancing at Cadence.
“Wait!” she rushed to him. “Just one more thing.”
She got up on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his. He responded, but just for a heartbeat. Then he drew back.
“No more delays,” Nona said.
“We will send you right to his side,” Morta added.
Jorandil’s brows rose. “Is that wise? Perhaps out of sight would be better.”
“He will sense you,” Decuna added. “The element of surprise will give you momentary advantage.”
“Which may be all you have where a wizard is concerned,” Nona said. “Now go.”
Jorandil nodded. After a final glance at Cadence, he held the torch a short distance away at eye level, gazing into the flames.
The three blew outward, and fog surrounded him. He vanished in a heartbeat, before Cadence could say more, leaving her alone with the wildly bobbing Fates.
“You cling to him,” Nona said to her. “Seeking hope he will still want you when this is through.”
“I seek hope that he will still be alive when this is through,” she said, hugging herself.
The women disappeared, and Cadence was alone in a strange realm. Eerie quiet swelled to fill the space, permeating every inch of her, taunting her with whispers of Jorandil never returning, or succeeding and not bothering to come back for her. What if she couldn’t return? What if she did and never saw him again?
Jorandil: God of Beltane (Sons of Herne, #4) Page 9
