It had felt so amazing, rubbing her body against his. And what did he expect? His bread kneading lesson had bordered on pornographic. Still, she’d thrown herself at him despite his need to stay pure. She’d taken what she wanted—some of it, at least—and then had outright announced she would be his sabbat partner. He hadn’t even asked. But the moment he had told her of his duty to make love to a human woman on Lammas, she had decided that she would be the one. As a pagan woman, it would be the highest honor to help a god uphold the sabbat. Beyond that, if she wanted to admit it, the idea of him asking anyone else made her queasy.
But what if he didn’t want her to be his sabbat lover? What if, once she gathered the nerve to go back out to the kitchen, he was waiting to let her down easy—or not so easy?
Frowning, she dragged her fingers through her wet locks, forcing apart persistent tangles. Her life had become one big snarl, hadn’t it? Poofed out of the woods she was trying to save right into the realm of the gods, dropped back again with a sexy male specimen who couldn’t stand humans, pissed off a developer with local pull and a dim view of women, and humped Feillor’s leg like a rabid dog.
“Mountain life used to be so simple,” she said, sneaking off to her bedroom to change clothes.
The house was already redolent with the heady aroma of baking bread, and her stomach growled in approval. She inhaled the enticing scent with closed eyes. There was an intoxicating depth to the aroma that she couldn’t explain, and she breathed it in again and again, filling her lungs and still not getting enough. There was much more to the scent than the homey, welcoming smell of baked goods. Feillor’s bread was special, of course, the food of the gods. The thought of eating that warm bread brought a smile to her lips. But then, that was assuming she would be partaking of Feillor’s sacred loaf at all. Or his sacred anything.
Night had fallen across the mountain, and between the wild orgasm, the long shower, and an even longer day, Salina found herself exhausted. She put on a floor-length dress of hand-dyed cotton while she thought about rooting around in the kitchen for supper, once Feillor was finished in there. With a yawn, she curled up on her bed.
“I’ll just shut my eyes for a few minutes,” she said.
Then she promptly dropped into a deep slumber.
***
Feillor was deep under.
He sat on the floor cross-legged, his back against the foot of the couch while he hummed the tones from deep in his chest. He floated within a trance designed to take him out of himself, which was what he desperately needed to survive the remaining hours until the sabbat.
His palms rested lightly on his knees, and for a rare treat since being thrown to earth, his eyes were closed without picturing all the ways he wanted to indulge hot, carnal relations with Salina. The background noises of the forest had faded, and he no longer heard the song of crickets or the calling of hoot owls. He was in the place between, his mind projecting him into the void between veils. Perhaps that space, with nothing but a hazy mist where neither this world nor the next existed, was where his horns had been sent. When he tightened his focus enough, he could almost see them there, waiting.
The time grew near when he would call forth the sabbat, break the bread, and join with a human before returning to his realm for another year. His body knew the hour approached, and even in his altered state, Feillor was aware that his cock lay long and hard against his thigh. Still he focused on the humming, taking deep, even breaths and droning in a deep baritone to keep him in a sort of spiritual stasis.
Salina had never reappeared after bread making had nearly turned to lovemaking, and while he felt relieved she’d kept her distance, he couldn’t help but feel concern. The look on her face before she’d raced out of the room had seemed stricken, remorseful. She’d regretted asking to be his sabbat partner almost as soon as the words were out, he could see it. But rather than admit her mistake, she’d stayed away. At least that had allowed him to get himself under better control. He had gone to check on her later, though, pausing at her bedroom door when he heard the even sounds of her breathing. He stopped himself from going in, unwilling to chance what he might do if he saw her lying on her bed. Instead he finished the bread and underwent the ritual purifying salt scrub, careful to avoid the painted symbols that would wash clean much more readily than the dyes used in his realm. Then he settled in to meditate.
The next deep inhalation brought with it something new, something that warranted attention. He tried to shut it out, automatically humming out the tones, focusing harder to hold his consciousness in the void. He was yanked back again with another breath. Soon, he realized the air had changed, acrid and harsh in his nostrils. His eyes popped open to find the mists were no longer restricted to the space between veils. There was a haze around him inside the house, and the atmosphere had grown thick and toxic.
Smoke.
“Salina,” he murmured. “Salina!”
Feillor jumped to his feet, rushing into the hallway where the smoke was thicker—and the air warmer.
“Salina,” he said, bursting through her door. She was lying on the bed, asleep or unconscious. An eerie orange glow lit up the window frame behind her.
He coughed on the fumes as he scooped her up and raced out, using a mental yank from his powers to pull open the front door while he carried Salina out of the house. This side of the forest was almost clear, and a shove with his powers drove off the withering smoke. He laid her down on the ground quickly to check her pulse.
“Salina!” He slapped her cheeks lightly. “Can you hear me?”
She didn’t respond.
He bent down, but felt no breath on his cheek. With a surge of terror flooding him, he opened her mouth and breathed life into her, not in the manner of humans attempting to save a life, but with immortal grace.
She coughed immediately, retching and gagging on whatever tar and soot had invaded her lungs.
“Thank the gods,” he said, holding her to him and kissing her forehead. “Come, Salina. We must leave at once.”
With a ragged gasp, Salina sat up straight with panicked eyes. “Feillor, look!” she cried out hoarsely, pointing beyond the house. “The forest is burning!”
Ash drifted around them as he glanced toward the rear of the house. It was back lit with reddish-orange light, as though a dragon’s breath had rained hell down on earth.
Salina grabbed his arm. “Can you do something? Please.”
“I will remove you to safety.”
“No.” Still coughing, she prostrated herself on the ground. “I pray to you, Feillor, god of the harvest. I know I’m just a human. But I beg you to help save this place.” She raised her head, her eyes imploring him. “And those who live in it.”
He stared at her for a moment. Then he rose, taking long strides around to the rear of the house. His power was not without limits, and he had used some of it already to aid Salina. Trees behind the house were in flames, the roar of rapid fire rising in his ears. The heat coming off the forest was intense, and without intervention, it would soon engulf her home.
The blaze accelerated, the smell of it overpowering even for a god who, technically speaking, required no breath to survive. The char of burning wood was evident, and he detected a noxious, chemical odor he couldn’t quite place. Feillor raised his hands, pouring his intention and power toward the blaze, willing the flames to douse themselves. The fire pushed back, enraged at his intervention. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he asserted his will again. A faint rush of air blew the nearest flames back momentarily, but then it faded. His energy was insufficient, compromised. The god of harvest was not whole. He was missing his horns, a source of immortal strength.
He took hold of the veil pendant around his neck, letting his bare palm come into contact with the stone that was fashioned from the energies of the veil. He focused on his horns, pictured them fusing together with him, two split entities becoming one. “Let this work,” he murmured. “May the actions of the Fates not hav
e doomed this place.”
As the imagery of Feillor reunited with his horns coalesced, he felt the weight of his horns settling on him again like a crown. He reached up, reassuring himself that they were indeed there.
His heart pounded as he opened his eyes, realizing that despite the smoke, his sight had sharpened. He lifted his arms again. “Do-shai rama, maya do inflamala,” he called out. “Do-shai maya roh, inyosoy maya!”
Power flowed from him, pulsing out of his arms and surging forth from his horns. The fire wavered, as if bowing to the god commanding it to still. Flames reduced in size, and the loud, rageful roar silenced. A loud hiss sounded from the woods as the last of the fire extinguished, sending up plumes of whitish smoke into the night.
A hacking cough came from behind him, and he turned to find Salina staring at him—and Rogan alongside, his eyes wide with shock.
“My lord,” he cried out, dropping to the ground and bowing to Feillor. “All hail the power of the horned god.”
Feillor, weary from the expenditure of energy, wandered closer and held out a hand to the man.
“Rise, human,” he said, and Rogan blinked when he looked up. He took Feillor’s hand with the briefest pause and got to his feet. “You need not prostrate yourself.”
Feillor glanced at Salina. “Your request for aid has been granted. Although not, I fear, without consequence. I may not be able to lend power to your efforts in clearing the storm-damaged lands. Not for a while.”
She stifled another rough cough. “If it wasn’t for you, there wouldn’t be anything left to clear. I wouldn’t have a home—and I might not have survived, even with Rogan rushing here to see if I was okay. Thank you, Feillor. You’ve saved everything.”
She put her arms around him. Over her head, he saw Rogan still gaping at him.
The horned god stepped back and regarded the two humans. “I believe I have power enough to finish clearing your lungs and drive the toxic air from the house,” he said. He eyed Rogan. “Do you require such assistance as well?”
Rogan shook his head. “I live below the fire line, my lord, and wasn’t exposed to as much smoke.”
Feillor smiled. “It is not necessary for you to address me as lord.”
“But it is. I follow the old ways, just like Salina.” He turned to her. “You knew Feillor was a god, didn’t you? That’s why you let him stay with you.”
“I knew he was a son of Herne. But I wasn’t sure anyone else would understand, pagan or not, which is why I didn’t say anything to you. Speaking of which, it’s probably a good idea not to mention how the fire got put out.”
Rogan nodded. “Agreed.” He lowered his head. “Consider me a faithful servant, son of Herne. If you ever need anything here on earth, I’ll be honored to hear your call.”
“Thank you.”
Salina coughed again, and he turned to her. He pressed his mouth to hers, not to breathe life in, but to draw deathly toxins out. He inhaled, feeling the soot detach from her trachea and lungs, pulling into his own body. She clutched his arms as carbon monoxide scrubbed itself from her bloodstream, flooding into him and then dissolving. The pain was real, making him gag, but as a god, smoke inhalation had no true effect on him.
Rogan stood by, silent, his expression flickering between awe and resignation while Feillor ministered to Salina. When he pulled back, she blinked, her mouth still agape, staring up at him.
“Do you fare better now?” he asked.
She nodded. “I..I’m fine. Normal. How did you do that?”
“I told you, I have a different sort of power.”
“Fay magic,” she said.
He shrugged and turned to the man who had just stifled a cough. “Thanks anyway,” Rogan said, holding up a hand. “But I don’t need mouth-to-mouth from another guy. Even if he is a god.”
Despite himself, Feillor laughed before turning to address the issue of the house. The air in the forest was already circulating, driving away the smoke. But inside the house was another matter. It would need to be cleansed before it was safe for Salina.
As Feillor returned to the house to purify the air, his limbs were trembling. Expending so much power had fatigued him, especially when he was used to holding back from using magic at all. But he recognized something more in that quaking—the aftermath of fear. He’d thought Salina might die, and he wanted nothing more than pull her to him again and keep her there, make sure she stayed safe. And perhaps, his kiss to heal Salina would convince Rogan that she was not meant for him. Nor was she meant for any other man.
The thought startled him. What was he thinking? What did he want from her?
These were questions that echoed for him long into the night, until the dawn broke on the sabbat day that marked the end of his time on earth.
***
The morning was crisp as Salina stood outdoors, holding her shawl around her shoulders, but that wasn’t what made her shiver. She had almost died last night, likely would have if Feillor hadn’t saved her. He had expended his powers to heal her and spare the forest from the ravages of fire. Even now, just hours later, she could barely detect any hint of the smoke that had overcome her. Not here, at least. If she were to walk around the side of the house, as she had done when she’d first come outside, she would see the blackened trees and smell the wood char that still hung heavy in the air. But out front, there was no trace. The rest of the woods had no idea how close it had come to being consumed. Tragedy had been spared, thanks to the power of a god she would be sleeping with before the day’s end.
That produced another shudder as she tipped the contents of the tiny bottle into her hand. This was the last of her wishing powder, a blend of magic ingredients that she used only on Lammas as part of her own sabbat ritual.
Turning in a circle three times, she whispered her wish while the powder blew through her fingers on a soft breeze. She pictured the healthy, strong woods, their natural beauty unspoiled by man for ages to come. The spell depended on her solid, unbroken intention, but images of Feillor kept popping up, of their time together, his touch and lips bringing her into a new understanding of life. But there was nothing to wish for involving the two of them. He would be gone once they had shared the sacred bread—and their bodies. If, in fact, that was even the plan. He hadn’t actually accepted her offer. She would be smart to keep that in mind.
If she was even smarter, she’d give Feillor an out before he had a chance to waver. She was ashamed to think how brazen she’d been, barely giving him a choice about who his sabbat partner would be. Part of her hoped that he didn’t argue because he was content with her, and the way he’d pulled her to him when he’d revived her during the fire seemed to suggest as much. But then, he might have just been doing what was right to help a woman who’d taken him in.
On the third spin, she spotted Feillor on the porch and stopped short. He was watching her, his lips pressed together, the veil pendant glimmering around his neck. Aside from the pendant, he was dressed only in his loin cloth and boots. The symbols she’d painted still adorned his torso.
Her heart stopped along with her motion. Every muscle was so perfectly defined, the bulge below his waist prominent, taunting her with the promise of having him—all of him—before long. The rest of the wishing powder blew from her hand as they stood looking at one another.
“I did not intend to interrupt your magic,” he said. “I only wished to reassure myself that you are well.”
“I feel fine, thanks to you,” she said, wiping her hands on her skirt. “How did you know I was doing magic?”
“I could feel the energy flowing out. I can almost see your magic, if my vision was not somewhat diminished in this form.” He stepped down from the porch, touching a hand to his head to show his horns were again invisible. “You have a power about you that is exceptional for a human. I felt it just now buoying my own strength.”
“How is your strength? Have you recovered at all after using magic to put out the fire?”
�
�I have, somewhat. Rest, even if but for a few hours, helped.”
He was approaching her, and for a moment, she fought off a swell of fear and the urge to race into the woods. But why be afraid of him now? Was she frightened of the ritual he was about to undertake? Or scared that he might choose to do it with someone else?
She straightened her knees and held fast when he stopped in front of her. “What was the purpose of your magic, if I might ask?”
Salina held up the empty vial. “Another sabbat tradition. Each year, I release some of the wishing powder along with my thanks and hope for another season of good harvest.” She looked up at him. “You probably think that’s silly, compared to what you’re used to.”
He shook his head. “On the contrary. The god of Lammas approves most heartily. If you recall, I, too, observe rituals to secure another season of nature’s bounty.”
She swallowed. “About that. I wanted to say that you don’t have to do the ritual with me.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t.”
“No.” She sucked in a breath and spit the humiliation out. “I’m sorry I practically forced myself on you. I appreciate you trying to be nice rather than embarrass me about it. But I know guys generally like to do the asking, and I’m betting your request is an important part of the ritual. So I won’t hold you to making me your partner just because I insisted.”
There. It was out now.
He stared down at her, a muscle working in his jaw. “So you no longer consent to being my sabbat maiden?”
“Yes. No. I mean, maybe.”
“I do not understand.”
“I’m trying to give you a way out. I don’t want you feeling pressured into sleeping with me just because I pushed my way into the job.”
Feillor stepped right into her space, gazing down at her from close enough to feel his body heat. “And if I agreed to your proposal because I want you so badly I cannot stand it, would that make a difference?”
Her lips parted. “I suppose it would.”
He claimed her mouth with an almost angry roughness, pulling her against him and grunting in what sounded like annoyance. His cock ground against her, hard as iron, making her clit throb. That explained his impatience and frustration.
Feillor: God of Lammas (Sons of Herne, #6) Page 8
