“No.” There was a tinge of desperation in his father’s voice that hit him right in the core.
How Jorandil longed to burst into the room and shout a denial. But he kept a slow, silent descent, a quiver in his tense muscles barely restraining his rage. He hoped the light from his torch wouldn’t give him away before he got the chance to use it.
Two steps more, then three, and he could see his father. His eyes widened at the sight of the mighty Herne rendered helpless by one of his own devices. Once upon a time, Herne had not only been a hunter, but a guard, a peacekeeper in the mortal realm and the realms beyond. As peacekeeper, the lower level of his home held artifacts from that time, chains and cages and thick slabs of wood with metal restraints attached. He was secured to the latter, his arms, legs, and throat surrounded by wide cuffs to hold him in place. One eye was puffy and bruised, and blood had gathered and crusted over a corner of his mouth. His eyes still held a fire of defiance as he glared at Costeros, who stood before him. Jorandil could see his father from this angle, and a few moments later, Herne’s eyes flicked over the wizard’s shoulder and caught sight of him as well.
Jorandil raised a silencing finger to his lips and continued down the steps. There was a quick spark of a smile in his father’s gaze, though it was not betrayed by the rest of his sour expression.
“So what now, Costeros?” Herne said. “You kill me and take control of the realm? Even if I am dead, others will stop you.”
“I think not. With your son’s wings adding to my power and the Eye at my command, my reach has become quite long indeed. Any who tries to defy me shall be dealt with. Like you, son of Herne.”
His final comment came with Jorandil just two steps from the bottom, and before he could react, the wizard flung out his hand in a careless gesture behind him. Wicked, curved horns much like Herne’s antlers shot up from the floor, growing and reaching toward Jorandil, who backed up the stairs, away from the barrier. Horns thinned at the ends, entwined and entangled into a mass of sharp, writhing snake-like spikes.
From over the top of the spiked wall, Jorandil could see Costeros turn and stretch out his palm. The Eye blinked and fastened Jorandil with a dull stare. “You are about to experience great pain. In mere seconds, all you will know is an agony that will threaten to drive you mad.”
They stood, the wizard apparently waiting, his wide grin faltering when nothing happened. He stretched the Eye out farther, moving closer, and still nothing.
“You are not affected,” he said at last. “Why?” The last bellowed out to echo through the stone room.
Jorandil knew exactly why, but he was not in a sharing mood. “Perhaps you have underestimated the strength in the lineage of Herne.”
He saw his father’s shoulders square at that.
“Is that so? Then watch and see how little your father can resist my torment.”
The wizard whipped around and lashed out with magic. Herne grunted, but bit down on the agony Jorandil could see from the man’s expression. His muscles shook, his face grimaced and went red, and after a short while, a groan slipped out, growing louder into a scream.
Costeros laughed, his attention away from Jorandil for the moment. Now was the time. He tried to burn the spikes with his torch, but they would not light. Climbing was not an option—any purchase he tried to get resulted in the snake-like appendages biting in and then shifting position until he lost footing.
“Now, Herne, god of the forest,” Costeros said when he let up from his onslaught. “I shall finally have the pleasure of watching you die.”
His magical assault increased, and smoke rose from around Herne’s hair. His eyes fluttered as he let out choking noises.
The black wings opened wider as Costeros drew more power. The artifact was in Jorandil’s hand, burning bright, but useless without him being able to reach the wizard in time. But the torch might.
He reared back and heaved the artifact over the spiked barrier, aiming straight at those wings. The torch caught the man right in the center, and the fire of Beltane ignited trails of blue-orange flame that shot out along both sides of the wings. Jorandil shrieked in pain, the burning sear of holy fire consuming him in agony. He grabbed at the spikes for support, barely aware of how they dug in until blood dripped from his hands. He could see Costeros turn around, smelling and seeing the flames, but clearly not feeling the agony rapidly consuming Jorandil’s body. The wizard laughed, but the jagged smile faded when the thorn wall began to crumble, turning to ash. Jorandil lost footing and fell through the broken wall, tumbling until he was sprawled and writhing on the floor.
“What have you done?” Costeros cried out, but Jorandil couldn’t answer. He caught a surreal glimpse of the wizard, his wings ablaze like a flaming specter from his nightmares, as he stood staring at Jorandil in dismay. Then he seized up as a spike shot out through his chest, staining his robes with blood. His expression blanked, and he sagged. When he crumpled to the floor, the wings extinguished, and through the searing haze of pain, Jorandil saw his father, still restrained but his head bent forward and blood dripping from one of his antlers. It was over.
“Jorandil,” Herne shouted. “My son!”
Jorandil wanted to answer, needed to get to his father and free him. Pain closed in, however, and the strength to remain conscious left him.
***
Cadence gripped the edges of the pedestal, tired of pacing the room, hiding behind a giant straw statue whenever she heard footsteps, and now, staring at some crystal ball thing with milky wisps of cloud floating inside. Where was Jorandil? How long did it take to defeat an evil wizard? Had the god of Ostara been defeated?
Her stomach clenched. What would happen to her if he never came back? She would have to reveal her presence eventually. Would the inhabitants of this world take pity on her and send her home? Or would she be viewed as an unwelcome intruder and imprisoned—or worse?
She glanced over at the crystal pedestal standing in the center of the room, a display for the torch Jorandil had taken. What sort of weapon was that against a wizard? They had stood in front of that torch together, Jorandil kissing her senseless and walking her backward. Her attention turned to the wall he pinned her against while they had made rushed but passionate love. The memory brought heat to her cheeks and a throb between her legs. If he was gone—truly gone, then she would never experience that kind of fevered, aching need ever again. How could she move on from having an angel, a god, as a lover? Who could ever take his place? And why did she have the right to even consider it when Jorandil’s death would be her fault?
“It is done,” she heard, and she whirled around.
The Fates bobbed near the center of the room, their misty hair floating wild, but their skirts drooping like limp clouds near the floor.
“What happened?” Cadence asked. “Where’s Jorandil? Is he all right?”
Large, black eyes blinked without emotion. “The Eye has been returned,” the tallest, Morta, said. She glanced down, and Cadence saw that in the plunging neckline of the being’s gown, right in the center of her sternum, an eye stared back at her. Unlike the Fates’ own eyes, this one had visible white around the dark, red-ringed pupil.
“Jorandil,” she repeated, her fingernails digging into her palms. “Where is he?”
“You must come,” Nona said. The pity in her eyes drove goose bumps to the surface.
The room clouded with fog, and the queasy sensation of walls becoming floor overtook her again, just as it had when she’d been taken across the veil. Now, the air cleared to a sight far more distressing than the discovery of another world.
“Jorandil!
He lay on his back on an upholstered chaise, his eyes closed. His clothing was bloodied and in disarray. While she had the distinct impression they were indoors, the walls were lined with living trees that spread overhead to form the ceiling. Sounds of the night were evident, some familiar, like crickets, others not, like the insistent call of a night bird she did not recogniz
e. A toga-garbed attendant was kneeling on the brown marble floor beside the chaise, dabbing at ugly red wounds on Jorandil’s arm. A woman with golden armbands floated forward, her hair an elaborate waterfall of Greek-style ringlets, bearing a crystal bowl. She offered it to the servant and glided off, the folds of her white gown billowing behind her. Such exquisite women in Jorandil’s realm, and yet he had picked Cadence? She swallowed.
“The thorns were enchanted,” said a man who was staring down at Jorandil, though he did not appear to be speaking to Cadence. “He will not heal as readily as he should.”
The man, who was leaning heavily on a wooden staff, was dressed in a wild getup of loin cloth and boots that suited their surroundings quite well. Dirt and blood smeared his tanned, bare chest. His beard was long and pointed, and most notable of all, he sported a rack of antlers on his head.
“Plus his powers are diminished,” said another man, this one older and appearing more human. His beard was longer, and he had no antlers or Tarzan-style attire. He wore brown robes trimmed in gold that were simple, yet fashioned of an expensive-looking fabric.
“I do not require a reminder of that fact every two minutes, Sandovar,” the wild man said.
Cadence came forward with slow steps, eager to be at Jorandil’s side, and yet afraid to know how badly he was hurt. “Costeros did this?” she asked in barely a whisper, sinking down onto the chaise beside him. She took his other hand gently, seeing it had been bandaged already. Jorandil didn’t stir.
Anger burst inside her, and her voice sharpened. “Where is he? Costeros.”
“Dead,” the antlered man replied. He was staring at her intently. “So. You are the one my son risked everything to protect.”
His son? Her head whipped around toward him. The god Herne was addressing her, and his disdain was obvious. The words spat out like hot acid, an accusation that seared her heart.
“I’m not what you expected, I’m sure.” She forced herself to tip her chin up and meet his golden-brown glare. “I can see you asking yourself why, and believe me, I don’t have an answer. I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”
The god’s eyes flared with what seemed to be golden rage. “He defied his own father, allowed himself to be mutilated...” the words faltered, and Herne trailed off.
“And he let loose the most dangerous man in the realm,” Sandovar said.
“The fault was my own,” Herne snapped. “I refused to see how desperate Jorandil was.” His gaze narrowed. “And ultimately, I should have killed that vile wizard ages ago, rather than imprisoning him. His escape was my own doing.”
Herne’s eyes softened as they shifted back to Jorandil, and she turned to the man lying prone beside her. He appeared peaceful in sleep, with only his wounds to show that anything was amiss. She reached out with trembling fingers to stroke his silvery hair, pushing it back from his face. “Jorandil,” she said. “It’s me. Wake up.”
He didn’t stir. A long scratch marred the perfection of his chiseled face, and she traced a fingertip alongside the red streak. His lips, pink and dry, were parted slightly, and she ran her thumb over the full bottom while her pulse thudded in her throat.
“How long has he been like this?” she asked, still staring down at him.
“About an hour,” Herne replied. He leaned down and slapped somewhat gently at the sides of Jorandil’s face. “Son. Son? Jorandil.” He rose and shook his head. “It took me some time to free myself in order to get to him. I was restrained when he burst in on Costeros. He was trying to save me.” His voice broke on the last.
“He does that,” she said, pulling his hand up to cradle it against her chest. “His wings?”
“Destroyed,” Herne said in a flat tone.
Her heart wobbled.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t worth all of this. I don’t know why he thought otherwise.”
“I think perhaps that we do.” She glanced up to see the men trading looks.
“If we are correct,” Sandovar said, “then it is not her fault.”
“I doubt blame could fall upon the human even if we are not,” Herne said. He sighed and turned to her. He tapped the staff onto the floor, gripping it with one hand while he set the other on his hip. “So tell me, earth woman. What are your intentions for my son?”
Words clogged in her throat. “My...intentions?”
“You must have encouraged him somehow to warrant all of this.”
“I thought you just said it wasn’t my fault?”
“Perhaps not. But I would not wish to hear he sacrificed his future for one who cares nothing for it.”
Heat rose in her gut. “I’m here, aren’t I? I may not be as beautiful as the women of your realm, but do I honestly look like someone who doesn’t care?”
Sandovar gave a strangled grunt. “I see she has the defiance of her kind. So little respect for the gods who have kept her world from collapsing into chaos.”
She clutched Jorandil’s hand tighter, feeling his palm slip through her own damp one. “I don’t mean disrespect. I just question the idea that Jorandil wasted his efforts on some floozy who doesn’t care about him.”
“I thought you said you weren’t worth the trouble,” Herne said.
Her nostrils flared. “Not because I don’t care.” She stroked his cheek again. “I didn’t ask for any of this. He came to me. I don’t know why he chose me. But he did.”
“He did not, actually,” Sandovar said. She fixed him with a stare. “Rumor in the Counsel of Sabbats says he did not choose you at all.”
“He didn’t?”
“But I know who did,” Herne said with a grim edge. “That is why Jorandil was at the mountain tower when I showed up.”
“The Fates,” Sandovar said, and Herne nodded.
“Fate chose me?” she asked with a raised brow.
“It seems that in this year of the Thousand Seasons, the Fates have decided to meddle in the love lives of the sabbat gods,” Herne said. “My sons.”
“So the Fates used me to do what, exactly?” she asked. “Play some awful trick on Jorandil?”
“No,” came a weak voice. “Not a trick.”
Everyone started and crowded the chaise, where a pair of pale blue eyes with golden highlights were half open and focused on Cadence.
“Jorandil!” she squeezed his hand tighter, then set it down when she saw a strange look come over him.
“Son,” Herne said. “You have awakened.”
“I am not certain,” Jorandil croaked. “I may be dreaming that my father and Cadence are both at my side.”
“We were concerned about you,” Sandovar said. “The thorns you were damaged upon were possessed of a strong enchantment.”
Jorandil’s eyes flew open. “Costeros. I have to stop him.” He shoved himself upright, groaned, and laid back again.
“Easy, son,” Herne said. “You hit your head on the floor when the thorns gave way. Had you been human, you might have sustained far worse injury.”
“Where is he?” he asked.
“He is no more,” Herne said. “Thanks to your brave distraction, I was able to gore him with my antlers.”
Jorandil nodded. “Why have I not healed?” he asked, licking dry lips.
“The wizard’s dark magic pierced your skin and entered the blood stream like a poison,” Sandovar said. “We have sent for the healers.”
“But he’ll be all right, won’t he?” Cadence asked. “They can cure him?”
“They can draw out the magic, yes,” Herne said. “How well he will be when all is finished remains to be seen.”
“My wings,” Jorandil said. His eyes were clearing, and Cadence could see in the flickers of emotion that memories of the fight must be returning.
“They are gone,” Herne said. “I’m sorry.”
“Which brings up the issue of his appointment as god of Beltane,” Sandovar said.
“Not right now, it doesn’t,” Herne barked, and Cadence stiffened.
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“Time will be required to select and prepare a new keeper,” Sandovar said.
“Not now.” The god’s eyes flared with a golden flame that silenced the other man.
She blinked in horror. No. She had cost Jorandil his wings, nearly his life, and had gotten his father captured. Now Jorandil’s identity as god of Beltane would be stripped away? How much more would one stupid, crazy whim of hers cost the man she’d fallen for?
And she had fallen, she knew. Talk about crazy and stupid. But the way he made her feel, the joining of her soul to his when they were together, the fear she’d felt when she thought he wouldn’t come back...well, it certainly wasn’t the fleeting satisfaction of a one-night stand. She wanted to know this being, inside and out. She couldn’t think of returning to her own world and never seeing him again. Even now, her heart fluttered at the memory of him claiming her in the chamber, their bodies sliding together, his large cock pushing deeper, drowning out everything that wasn’t his presence in her life.
Her attention short-circuited when Jorandil’s hand slid up to her face, cupping her cheek. “It is done, then. The realm is safe. You are safe.”
“But what about you?” she said.
“I would say I have played quite nicely into the Fates’ gnarled hands,” he said, but his attempt at a smile brought a frown to her lips.
“The Fates,” she said. “That’s all any of this was, apparently. Some game they were playing.”
“I thought so too, at first,” he said. “But in the chamber, when we were lighting the torch together, the truth crystallized. They did not pick you at random in order to use me as a pawn. They chose the one they knew was capable of lighting a true Beltane fire inside of me.”
“I don’t know about that,” she whispered.
“I do.”
He pulled her down with surprising strength for someone who’d been poisoned, and their lips crushed together. She gasped in alarm, knowing Herne was standing over them, watching, but the feel of Jorandil’s warm body, the desperation in his lips, melted away everything else.
Jorandil: God of Beltane (Sons of Herne, #4) Page 11
