“Okay,” she said, jotting down the number in relief. “Finished.”
“Clothing is quite complicated for humans. A waist wrap or robe would be much simpler.”
“Don’t you have pants in your realm?”
“Of course. Many often wear leggings.”
“But not you.”
He shrugged. “Not often. I prefer the freedom of what I’m currently wearing.”
She glanced up and accidentally noticed the lack of underwear. Feeling her cheeks burn at the glimpse of large, supple testicles, she got up and made a show of putting away her measuring tape. “If you’re finished insulting human fashion customs before you’ve even tried them, I’ll zip over to the store and see if they have something your size.”
“Do not be angry. I merely pointed out that your garments require more forethought in regards to fit.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Your face is red.”
She avoided mentioning that was because she’d just looked up his skirt and went to grab her purse. She was stuck with a god who was hotter than wildfire, but maddeningly clueless at times. She wondered what she had ever done to the Fates to make them so eager to drive her insane.
***
Feillor tugged at the waistband of the “jeans” Salina had assured him were a proper fit. He thought not. The fabric was tight and constricting to the point where he doubted he would be able to sit down. Although, as he walked stiffly out to the small alcove Salina was kneeling in front of, he saw she was perfectly able to sit on her heels while wearing similar jeans that hugged her graceful curves like skin.
He came up behind her with quiet steps while she knelt before the altar that was set into the wall. Her hair tumbled in shiny waves down her back, the round heaven of her ass peeking out from beneath. Her head was bowed, and she whispered words he couldn’t quite make out. Smoke from a stick of incense curled around her, drifting lazily in the air. The scent was heady and pleasing, with notes of frankincense—reminiscent of the sacred blend used in the sabbat chambers.
Salina’s main altar contained implements similar to the one she’d set up outdoors. There was a goblet and knife, candles and stones. This one, however, featured a carved wooden stag, a representation of the horned god. His father. Feillor waited, silent, wondering what Salina was asking for and why she bothered when he’d told her Herne was off in a far realm, too remote to be aware she was praying to him. These days, he wouldn’t likely know if he were in the next room. The god of the forest was preoccupied with many things, one of which being that it was the year of the Thousand Seasons. Celebrations and hunts and rituals of all sorts were taking place throughout the year.
Whether her prayers were heard or not, there was a presence around her altar, a thick flow of energy streaming in peaceful, but potent waves. Magic, enough to prickle the hair on his arms, surrounded her. Salina had power as a witch, an unusual thought for him to have about a human. Then again, he had noted other similarities between her and his mother, who’d had enough of a potent presence to attract his father’s notice—long enough to bear sons with her.
“I’m talking to your father right now,” Salina said aloud, her head still bowed. “Any message you’d like me to pass on?”
A tiny grin slid up his face. “You could send my plea for a search and rescue,” he replied.
“Why, am I that bad a hostess?”
The smile faded, and he ran his palms over the legs of the jeans, attempting to ease the pressure on his crotch. “You have been most gracious. Although your motives in choosing these garments for me are somewhat suspicious.”
Salina twisted to face him, her gaze sweeping over his snug pants and the short-sleeved knit shirt that also clung to him, but more softly. The appreciative manner of her assessment stirred some primal thoughts, as well as an even more fervent wish for breathing room below the waist.
“Wow,” she said. “What motive do you mean, making you look movie-star hot?”
The pants grew tighter, and his thoughts far less appropriate.
“They are too small,” he said.
She shook her head. “Not at all. They’re perfect.”
“Only if you intend to use restrictive attire as a torture device,” he said. “Perhaps you mean to get even for my remarks about humans.”
“I told you, this is what guys wear here.”
He raked a glance over her. “Women, too, apparently. I see you did not choose to pray naked this time.” Something that he would be unwise to dwell on should he have any hope of walking again.
She shot him a sly look. “I tend to reserve nudity for actual rituals, not daily prayer and meditation.”
“Ah. Then that is something we have in common.”
Her brows went up. “Really? The harvest god does naked rituals?” The glimmer in her expression, particularly when it roamed over his body as though she were picturing him in just such a ritual, stoked the heat in his stomach.
“I think you’ll have to tell me more about these rituals of yours before you go back to your realm,” she went on, extinguishing the candles and incense before rising. “But later. We should get going if we want to make the meeting.”
So, she wanted to know about the Lammas ritual. A conversation he should be leery of engaging with her, since there was still a need for strict celibacy. Plus, as he ruminated over the subject, he felt a certain reluctance to mention that he would be bedding a random human woman as part of his duties. The thought of her knowing shouldn’t bother him, and he didn’t really have time to consider why it would. She was too busy all but dragging him out of the house moments later.
After a brief-but-bizarre journey up a winding road that hugged the mountain, riding in one of the vibrating, motorized boxes humans favored for transport, they stopped at a roadside turnoff and headed into a section of woods not far from Salina’s home. She led him into a dense area of forest, where Feillor’s horns would have proven a detriment if they’d still been on his head. He frowned and rubbed at the spot where they had been attached, wondering how the Fates had managed that particular trick. Phasing part of him out of existence, but not the rest? Wherever the horns had gone, they had better be kept safe and sound until his return.
Together they moved through the woods in silence, brushing against plant life and crunching leaves and dried pine needles underfoot. Salina’s presence held an air of reverence as she glided through the forest, and he had to respect her admiration for nature. On a more carnal note, he also had to respect the way her jeans hugged her luscious curves, and the way that her sleeveless, scoop-necked top skimmed her breasts in a most glorious celebration of the female figure. His cock twitched restlessly while he watched her hips sway with each step, and once more his stomach twisted when he thought of what to say the next time she pressed him about his ritual. The day after next, he would be required to mate with a human woman, an act his body generally began anticipating in advance. No doubt this was why he responded to Salina as strongly as he did, why his dick grew so restless around her and—oh, why had she insisted he wear these tight jeans?
“We’re here,” she said, cutting off his thoughts.
When they emerged into a clearing, Feillor stopped short and sucked in a breath. There were about ten humans around, but that wasn’t what had stunned him into silence. The setting was enchanting, with a small waterfall in the background and wildflowers painting swatches of reds and yellows—harvest colors—over green, lush grasses. A welcoming breeze caressed him, spurring nearby branches into a wave of greeting. He had forgotten the beauty of earth, or rather, he hadn’t really considered that places like this still existed. For many years, crossings to claim a harvest maiden found him in what his father called the “bleak, concrete prison” of civilization. He had spent many years phasing into large, sweeping cities that seemed to span the four corners of the earth, all but demolishing the glory of nature.
Humans sat in the grass in small groups of twos and threes, mu
rmuring among themselves. One of them was Rogan, who leaped to his feet when he saw Salina approaching. There was a gleam in the man’s pale eyes, a hunger in the smile he flashed at her as he came forward.
Rogan’s smile—and steps—faltered for a moment when he spotted Feillor coming up behind her, but he recovered quickly. “Hi there,” he said, giving Salina a hug while shooting a look over her shoulder to size up the newcomer. “You brought someone.”
“The more the merrier,” she said, stopping in front of the group. “Everyone, this is Feillor. Feillor, everyone. These people are here to help save the woods.”
“I thought we were going to meet at the Community Center,” a willowy blonde said.
“This seemed a more fitting spot,” Salina answered, raising her arms to indicate the setting. “I wanted us all to remember exactly what we’re fighting for. In two days, this spot and a lot more of the forest will be ruined. Mars will tear it all down to build his precious resort. I’m not going to sit by and let that happen.”
“None of us want that,” Another woman said. This one was wall, with short, dark hair. She had an infant balanced on her hip.
A short man nodded. “I don’t want some stupid hotel going up, but calls to the planning commission fall on deaf ears.”
“As have public statements made to council meetings,” said an older, gray-haired man.
“It’s not enough for a few scattered people to phone in or show up to meetings, Manny,” Salina said, planting her hands on her hips. “We’re finished circulating the petition and have gotten three hundred signatures from people up here as well as the base of the mountain. We’ll submit it tomorrow, along with Andrea’s exhibit. It will give the city a chance to change its mind before the land movers come. By the way, Andrea, are you ready?”
The woman with the baby walked up. “It’s all done. A six-foot portable mural featuring one hundred photos taken of the sections of woods that would be affected by the proposed construction. I can show you photos I took with my phone. Here, could you hold him a minute while I go grab my bag?”
She thrust out the child, and Salina, who appeared stunned for a moment, recovered. “Oh. Okay. Sure. Come here, Nathan.”
The baby was handed over, and the woman walked back to where she’d been sitting.
“Wow, he’s getting so big,” Salina called out.
“My little tank,” Andrea called back, digging through a large bag. “He weighs a ton and eats almost as much.”
Feillor couldn’t disguise a smirk while he watched Salina bounce the boy on her hip, staring at him with a sort of dazed wonder. Still, there was an ease behind her awkwardness that told him she would make a fine mother someday.
The boy’s head turned toward him, and when he saw Feillor, he broke into a wide grin and reached up. Time and again he tried grabbing for something in the air just to the side of Feillor’s head, giggling when he missed.
“It’s almost like he’s reaching for your horns,” Salina whispered. “Do you think he can see them?”
Feillor blinked and reached up himself, feeling nothing but air. “I do not know how. Still, it has long been said that children have a different sight.”
Salina shifted him to her other hip. The child turned back toward her, burped, and promptly spit up on her.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, and Feillor bit back a laugh. “He erupted.”
“I’m sorry,” Andrea said, bustling back over. “I should have warned you not to bounce him. He just ate. Could you take him a minute, Feillor?”
The baby was thrust into his arms before he could object, and he held the tot while Andrea tackled Salina’s top with a small, moist cloth.
Little Nathan stared up at him, silent, his eyes about as wide as Feillor’s were. He reached up one more time to take hold of something invisible in the air, then grabbed Feillor’s nose instead and pulled.
“You have quite a grip,” he said, removing the boy’s tiny, yet remarkably strong fingers. “A strong lad like yourself would do well working the land.”
He glanced up to see Salina grinning at him.
“What?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Thanks,” Andrea said, taking the child back. “When he’s not my little tank, he’s my little volcano. So what do you think of the photos, Salina?”
Salina was looking at images on a rectangular device. “This is beautiful! You’ve captured the essence of nature here, almost like you’re revealing the forest’s soul.”
Andrea gave a wan smile. “Brings tears to the eyes, if I do say so. I hope it will give the city council a vision of what we’d be losing.”
“Will they even care?” Rogan asked, coming up beside Salina and looking over her shoulder at the photos. “The mural is amazing, Andrea, but the council has been going on and on about the project. They say it’ll bring in tourism dollars to revitalize the economy, maintain the state park and repave the roads.”
“They can find other ways to do that that won’t involve ripping up the natural beauty of the forest,” Salina said, handing the device back. “What’s the point of living here if it becomes nothing more than a resort and tourist trap?”
“Even if the petition and photographs work,” a diminutive redhead said, “the city will still bring in the land movers. The winter storms damaged a lot of the forests.”
Feillor blinked. “The winter storms?”
The older man Salina had called Manny nodded. “The bizarre winter we had is what started the latest talk of leveling and repurposing. Mars used the damage as an excuse to offer his proposal as a community service, removing all the dead trees and such. I might not agree with his plan, especially since the project spans well beyond the damaged areas, but something will have to be done sooner rather than later. All that dead, dry firewood lying around isn’t safe.”
Major storms. Feillor thought of that last winter, how the earth had been prepared to do its worst to humans when his brother, Eradimus, had nearly failed the sabbat. And it was all because of the restrictions Herne had placed on Eradimus’s relationship with his lover.
“This was my father’s fault,” he murmured, and Salina shot him a hard look.
“What was that?” Rogan asked.
“Nothing,” Feillor said. “What if you offered to clear the storm-ravaged areas yourselves?” he said to the group. To Salina he added, “You have enough power now to manage it.”
She gazed up at him. “You would do that?”
“We all would,” Rogan replied, taking her by the hand.
In turn, Salina surprised Feillor by sliding her palm into his. A jolt went up his arm at the contact. But then, she was a witch. Her energy would no doubt affect anyone she touched.
She held their clasped hands up. “You heard the man. How many more of you are willing to help on a volunteer clearing crew? And to get as many friends, neighbors, and other locals on board for it as well?”
More hands went up all around, and Salina beamed. “Good. If the city hears we’re willing to do the work for free, maybe they’ll forget about the rest of Mars’ plans.”
“And if they don’t?” asked the blonde whose name Feillor hadn’t caught.
Salina dropped hands and huffed out a sigh. “I’ll stand in front of the land movers if I have to. We all know what’s at stake. Many of you here follow a pagan path. We’ve done all sorts of rituals out in these woods, and we’ve embraced its spirit. Even those who aren’t pagan have felt the magic of this place.”
Feillor nodded in agreement. Nature held its own power in all its forms, and this forest practically hummed with it.
“We love our woods,” Rogan said, “and tearing them down for the sake of progress isn’t acceptable. We’re not going to stand for it, are we?”
The crowd let out a whoop. Baby Nathan clapped his fat little hands.
“Great,” Salina said. “Then let’s get to work. We’re out of time.”
The meeting adjourned, and people
shook hands all around. Salina beamed at everyone as she excitedly made plans.
“So,” Rogan said, folding his arms when he came up to Feillor. “How do you know Salina?”
“It’s all settled,” Salina said, bounding up unaware that she’d interrupted. “Rogan, can you be in charge of organizing how much equipment we can beg, borrow, etcetera?”
“Sure. Anything to see this done.” He gave her a wide smile, almost too wide for his face. “Maybe the two of us should talk about it over dinner, you know, as co-organizers?”
Feillor stepped closer. “We have other plans to discuss once we get back home,” Feillor said.
Rogan’s head snapped to Feillor, then back to Salina almost hard enough to unseat his skull. “Home? Is he living with you?”
The blaze of heat in the glance she shot Feillor might have left scorch marks had he not been immortal. “It’s just temporary. He needed a place to stay for a couple days.”
Rogan didn’t even attempt to hide a sneer. “You took in some stray homeless guy? How did you even meet him?”
Feillor tensed, but Salina put a hand on his arm. “We’re getting off the subject. Thank you for the dinner offer, Rogan, but there’s so much to do that it’s probably best if we just get right to it. Call you tomorrow?”
He worked his jaw, and it seemed to Feillor that he was going to argue with her. Instead, he nodded. “You know you can call any time.” He eyed Feillor. “I’m two minutes away if you ever need help.”
When he walked away, Feillor found himself sneering at the guy’s retreating back. He didn’t like Rogan’s presumption where Salina was concerned. Or was it all presumption?
That unsettling thought accompanied him while Salina babbled on about plans during the ride home.
***
Salina collapsed on the couch, dropping her head over the back and rubbing her temples. She hadn’t slept well for the second night in a row since Feillor had been under her roof. Plus it had been a very long morning, and it wasn’t even noon yet. Still, her efforts seemed to be paying off.
“You know, this whole thing might just work out without taking desperate measures,” she said, letting her head sink into the cushion and shutting her eyes. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t one hell of an annoying visit to City Hall.”
Feillor: God of Lammas (Sons of Herne, #6) Page 5
