She stayed put while he cut a swath through the field, though not in a straight line as she would have expected. He moved diagonally, one way and then the next, the lines created by his strokes crossing one another at specific points.
“A pentagram,” she murmured, feeling it more in her bones than seeing it with her eyes. She would have needed to be overhead to confirm it, but she would bet that he had carved out the symbol of her faith.
Moved by the power and symbolism of his act, she picked up a small handful of the cut wheat stalks and held them aloft toward whatever sky spirits he was addressing. She kept quiet as he had commanded, but she made a dance offering in thanks for the harvest, moving her body in the same side-to-side motion as the waving grain. In her head, she heard ritual drums, writhed to the imaginary beat, and her skin tingled with the ripples of magic. The field responded, the tall wheat bending more than the current breeze could explain, the amber stalks following her movements except when she turned herself about in circles.
The energies passing back and forth between human and nature stoked her enthusiasm, and the dance became faster, more primal. She was so caught up in the rhythm of her private ritual that she didn’t realize Feillor was watching until she opened her eyes to find him frozen in place, staring at her.
She stopped, breathless.
“What are you doing?” he asked. His eyes had darkened, and his voice was cold enough to blow in a storm over the remnants of afternoon sun.
She dropped to her knees, her head bowed. “A dance of thanks. I hope that wasn’t offensive.”
He didn’t answer. She just stayed that way, feeling the reeds dig into her knees.
“Come,” he said after a torturous stretch. “It is time for you to go back to earth.”
He turned and stalked away, and after a moment, she got up and trailed after him. She brushed dirt from her legs and stayed behind him, out of his eyesight. She’d long heard tales of how the gods could be temperamental, and Feillor certainly proved the point. She just wished she knew what she’d done wrong.
They reached the edge of the field, where he stopped suddenly. “I cannot take you where we need to go without garments.” He whooshed out an irritated breath and spun around. “But nor am I certain I should leave a human unattended in the sacred fields.”
“I suppose weaving me a skirt out of wheat grass is out of the question,” she said, trying for levity.
The attempt fell flat, judging by his ridged brow.
“Wait here. I will return with something suitable.” He paused and flicked a glance at the fields, which had gone still. “Try not to whip the sacred wheat into a frenzy while I am gone.” Then he turned and stalked away, leaving her alone with chaotic thoughts in a strange world.
***
“I knew it!” Shango had said when Feillor had gone briefly to the counsel temple to retrieve a simple tunic for Salina to wear. “I told you the Fates would find a way to involve you in their ploy.”
Perhaps he was right. It had been all Feillor could do to stop the acolyte from following him back to the field, where he found Salina cross-legged on the ground, a somber expression on her ethereal features and her long waves of golden hair outshining the grain. Her hair covered her with reasonable modesty, save the dip of her waist and round hips, curves his eyes seemed compelled to trace. She appeared to be meditating, her eyes closed, palms and face upturned toward the weakening rays of the sun. She gave no indication that she heard him as he strode toward her.
She thought him angry with her, and for good reason. Careless female, cavorting naked in the sacred fields. A witch of the old ways, seducing the very harvest into an erotic, undulating mimicry of her rhythm. Though the sabbat—and his carnal ritual—was still days away, his cock had gone stiff in an instant while he watched the pagan beauty dance for the season. She had no idea how perilously close he’d come to pinning her to the ground beneath him like an animal, a hunter claiming its prey rather than a harvest god plucking wheat buds from a field. Perhaps the similarities between him and his father stretched beyond the horns on his head.
In either case, it was time for her to go back home. Now.
He stood above her, his bulk shadowing her face, and cleared his throat while he held out the garment to her.
“Thank you,” she said, but he just shrugged and walked past her, toward the harvest.
Trying not to think about her sliding the linen tunic over her lithe body, he gathered some of the best wheat stalks until he had enough to bundle for the Lammas offering. He avoided the area where Salina had done her sensual dance. Who knew what her power, human as it was, might do to that section of the harvest.
“So what will you do with the wheat?” she asked, and he turned back to find her thankfully clothed. If only the sun weren’t tormenting him by shining through the thin fabric, outlining contours he’d rather remain hidden.
“I must present the first grain to be blessed,” he said. “As that is at the same place where we can obtain passage for you back to the earth realm, I may as well bring the offering along.”
The fact that the wheat blessing was more of a side quest to getting rid of Salina was not lost on him, and he pressed his lips together. She’d already thrown off the rhythm of his sacred calling. The sooner she went back to earth, the better. Especially the way she was looking at him with those dark, exotic tigress eyes.
“We’d best be underway if there is to be any hope of reaching the Fates before nightfall,” he said, glancing at her feet with a silent admonishment. “I neglected to obtain sandals for you. Can you make it barefoot?”
“I live barefoot,” she said with a small smile, flipping her hair back over her shoulder.
Something in the way she did it sent a trickle of intrigue through him, momentarily altering his typically steady heart.
Barely had he beckoned her to follow him than a bright flicker of light appeared in the field. This time, the light was higher, breaking open the air itself just above the grain. When the blinding flash was gone, three figures floated in its place.
The Fates were clad in their Lammas blessing attire: red and gold gowns fashioned from mist, their hair done up in snake-like plaits that wound around their heads. Each was crowned with gemstones of the harvest, sparkling citrine and rich, orange carnelian. Salina gasped and drew closer to him.
“Greetings, son of Herne,” the three said in tandem, their voices a loud hiss that lit the air like the crackle of electricity during a lightning storm. “The god of Lammas is late for the traditional blessing of grain. Most abnormal.”
He eyed them. “Then I am in good company, for it seems many sabbat traditions this year have strayed from the norm.”
They bobbed up and down lazily, as if riding an invisible wave. Morta, the tallest of the three, cocked her head. “And what is this? A human in the sacred fields?”
“One I am certain you were instrumental in bringing here,” he replied. “And she is leaving right now.”
Though all were old, the squat one in the center, Decuna, appeared the most weathered. “A human who has crossed the veil cannot withstand its energies twice in such rapid succession. She should remain here for seven days in order to endure the next passage unharmed.”
“Seven days!” Salina exclaimed. “You can’t expect me to stay with him that long!”
Feillor shot a sideways glance at her, a bit taken aback by the vehemence of her refusal. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really. Humans had rejected the pagan gods long ago. “Trust me, I am no more eager to have one of your kind lingering here,” he said. “Particularly not during the time of the sabbat.”
Salina returned his hard stare. “And just what’s wrong with my kind?”
“What is wrong with humans?” he chuffed out a laugh. “It would take the entire seven days to cover the subject.”
For a delicate lass, her jaw took on a most stubborn, determined edge while she turned back to the Fates. “If you have the power to send m
e back, you must be able to do make it so I can safely handle the energies. Some kind of shielding or something. Just let me get home, please. Before something terrible happens.”
He eyed her. “No harm would come to you here. What happened before with my scythe—I was not aiming at you. I was attempting to harvest the field when you popped in front of me.”
The fire in her gaze was almost like the immortal light of a god’s eyes. “This isn’t about me or my personal desires. There are bigger things at stake.”
His cock gave a faint twitch at the way the word “desires” rolled off her tongue.
She squared her shoulders. “Can you please help me?”
The Fates floated on the air, silent, their gazes fixed on the woman imploring them to help her get escape his realm. He wasn’t sure whether to feel delighted or outraged that she, a mere mortal, found the prospect of remaining in a land of gods so distasteful.
“I have to be there before the men come,” she went on. “I have to help convince them not to go through with their plan.”
“What men?” Feillor asked.
“The ones intent on destroying my home. If I’m not there before they show up...” she sighed. “There must be a way to send me back now.”
Morta cocked her head. “There is.” The eyes of the trio flicked back and forth between Salina and Feillor. “If the god of the sabbat is as willing as you are to see it done.”
“What have I to do with it?” he asked. “I did not bid her here in the first place.”
“Then you should be quite content to see her returned,” Decuna said.
“I would be content to be done with this so I may get back to sabbat preparations. Very well. Do what you must to send her.”
“That is your will?” Nona asked.
His eyes narrowed slightly. Since when were the Fates so concerned with a god’s wishes? “It is. So long as she will be safe and back on earth.”
“Take her in your arms,” Morta said.
“What?” Salina asked, stepping away from Feillor.
“You wish a shield to protect you from the veil’s energies?” Decuna asked, pointing a bony finger toward Feillor. “There it is.”
Salina eyed him.
“I do not understand,” Feillor said. “How am I to protect her?”
“Your energy will surround her, buoying her own essence during the transfer,” Morta said.
“It is quite simple, really,” Nona added, her shrug sending up a puff of mist from her dress.
“Perhaps a veil pendant,” he said. “The energies involved are...less potent.”
“The human would require three days before a pendant transfer would be safe,” Decuna said. “Do you wish our assistance or not?”
Feillor sighed and opened his arms. Without a word, Salina moved close, and he pulled her against his chest. The warmth of their bodies collided, her scent stirring in his nostrils, her curves soft as they molded to him. Blood began rushing to a zone that didn’t need rousing until the time of the carnal ritual. He shifted his hips away from her to disguise the reaction and closed his eyes to shut her out. The contact would be gone in moments, anyway, when she dissolved from his arms and went back to her own world.
A thick blast of air hit, first warm, and then cold, the very molecules around him charging with an electricity that tingled in his hair follicles. It was a feeling he knew. His eyes flew open, confirming what he feared. Gone were the amber fields of precious grain. He was surrounded by a foreign patch of woods, sunlight filtering down in playful dapples over the small clearing in which they stood. Salina was still in his arms, nestled against him, his hands clutching her to him protectively. Possessively.
He pulled back.
Salina gasped. “They did it. I’m here.” She glanced down at herself, running her hands over herself as though to reassure herself she was still intact. Her smile was warm, genuine. “Thank you so much.”
She bowed to the god, moving to where a tree stump stuck up in the center of the clearing. On top were an assortment of items: a knife, a pair of candles, a goblet, and a collection of leaves, mushrooms, and flowers that appeared to have been gathered from the forest. “Dammit. The candles are still burning. That could have been a disaster.”
Feillor was more intent on looking for the beings that were not bobbing in the clearing. “I have done as you asked and shielded her during the crossing,” he called out. “Now send me back.”
Nothing.
“The sabbat god must prepare for the harvest,” he went on. “Return me at once.”
“Maybe they can’t hear you,” Salina said. She held a candle snuffer in her hand, and delicate wisps of smoke rose from the wicks she’d extinguished.
“They can hear me.” He frowned. “I demand that you bring me back at once. The god of Lammas commands you.”
A flicker of light shimmered in the air, and his lip curved in a satisfied smile when the Fates phased in. Their dresses shifted in nervous jolts, and their eyes were ablaze with orange light. “Demands? Commands?” They said in unison. “We do not answer to you, son of Herne.”
Maybe not, but it had been an effective way to summon their appearance. “You must take me back if I am to make ready for the sabbat.”
“You told us to send her here however we must,” Nona said. “This we have done.”
“It was by your own will,” Decuna added, her hoarse, graveled tone lighting with a note of jest.
He settled his hands on his hips. “It was my will that Salina be returned. Not that I be brought to Earth along with her.”
“How else would you have acted as a shield without making the journey?” Nona asked.
“And this I have done. Send me back.”
“Such a hurry,” Nona said, clucking her tongue over yellowed teeth.
“You know the sabbat is nigh.”
“I think your urgency has more to do with where you are than with when,” Decuna said. “You cannot get out of here fast enough. Yet even a god’s immortal body needs time to adjust after we have affected transport through the veil.”
“You said nothing of that when this deal was struck,” he said, clenching his fists.
“You did not ask,” Nona said.
“Long have you besmirched the humans your sabbat ritual aids,” Morta said. “It shall do you good to live among those you have condemned without trial.”
He shot forward. “Live among them? Never. Return me to the other realm immediately.”
“Or what?” Decuna asked. “You have no power over us.”
“And you have no right to keep me here. I can call upon my father to tell him of your latest plot.”
“Your father is out of reach, even for you,” Morta said. “He is in the outer realms, making arrangements for the harvest hunt.”
He clenched his fists, knowing their words were true. Herne was too far to be called upon. He was in this alone.
His breath came in shallow, enraged gasps. The Fates had been playing games with his brothers for months. Now, as both Anduron and Shango had warned, Feillor was next—and they had truly outdone themselves with this ploy to trap him in the last place he wanted to be.
“Fear not, son of Herne,” Nona said. “We have not bound you to Earth forever. You need only remain for three days, until which time your immortal body has stabilized enough for your return.”
Heat flared in his chest. “Impossible! The sabbat is in three days. The Counsel of Sabbats will hear of this. When they learn you have interfered with the sacred ritual...”
“We have interfered with nothing,” they said. “Make your preparations, god of Lammas. Salina can aid you.”
“Salina? But she is a human!” He shot the woman a glower. She had been regarding him with wide eyes, but they narrowed at the incredulity in his tone.
“And humans have just as much at stake in the success of your ritual,” Morta snapped.
“The decision is made,” Decuna added, folding her arms. “You shall rem
ain in the earthen realm for three days.”
“I have not even presented the sacred wheat,” he said, a weak argument that he was quickly losing. “This is most unsatisfactory.”
“You are the chosen sabbat keeper,” Nona said. “You will ensure that preparations are indeed satisfactory.”
“What of the rituals? The handfasting of god and grain? The sacred artifact needed for the declaration of the sabbat?”
“All will be revealed in the proper time,” the trio said. “Farewell, god of Lammas.”
Their images faded.
“Wait!” he called. “This is insane. You cannot seriously mean to leave me here!”
“Three days,” came a whisper over a breeze. Then they were gone.
***
Salina stood there, watching the horned god once more call out to an empty sky. He gave a grunt of disgust and pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a few moments. “I didn’t realize they meant to keep you here. Although, I suppose three days is a lot better than seven.”
He whirled on her. “A sabbat god stuck among barbaric humans for three days is far worse than a human granted the honor of seven days among the gods.”
She opened her mouth but shut it again. What a self-important ego! And for a god she’d never even heard of, no less. Still, he was a god, and she had been taught to respect the old ways.
“I guess I’ll have to take you to my place,” she said. “You can stay there until the three days are up. Just let me clear down my altar first.”
“Altar?” He barked out the word.
She nodded toward the tree stump and picked up the candlesticks. “Maybe not as grand as a god could hope for, but for me it’s more about the location than the trappings. I have altars at home, of course. But this is where I come for outdoor workings. It was definitely the perfect spot for a prayer ritual to ask for help in saving these woods.”
Feillor: God of Lammas (Sons of Herne, #6) Page 2
