“Have you not noticed my need for you?” he growled against her lips. “Is it somehow not clear that I am most satisfied with the idea of you being my ritual partner?”
When he broke off their kiss, her breaths were coming in gasps and his loin cloth had risen up, exposing his massive erection. He covered himself and stared at her.
“I guess when you put it like that,” she said, pressing a finger to her swollen lips. “Forget what I said.”
“I cannot wait any longer,” he said, his eyes darkening. “The ritual will be at risk of failure if I do not begin soon.”
“What do I have to do?” she asked, breathless.
“The ritual must take place out of doors, on the ground. I was wondering whether the spot you took me to yesterday would afford us the privacy we need.”
She nodded. “People rarely go there.”
“Then let me take up the sacred bread and we shall go.” He grabbed hold of his cock, shifting it. “As quickly as possible.”
“I’ll get my car keys,” she said, dashing into the house ahead of him. Her pulse pounded with need, and she felt heat rising in her cheeks. This was it. It was really happening. She had spent so many years reaching out to the gods, calling on them, engaging in rituals to make her feel more in touch with them. Now she would be getting in touch in a very real, carnal sense.
Her purse was in the bedroom, and she stopped very briefly to check her reflection in the mirror over her dresser. Her eyes were wide and her cheeks flushed. Her flowing, loose yellow dress skimmed her curves lightly, flaring out to brush the ground. Beneath it, she wore nothing at all. She thought about Feillor’s reaction when he realized that little surprise. Her hair was down and could use a quick comb through, but she didn’t want to waste time. A god was waiting to make her his, even if just for a moment.
“I’m ready,” she said, coming out to the front room. The front door stood open, and the sacred bread was still wrapped in the bundle Feillor had prepared.
“Feillor?” She stuck her head in the bathroom, which was empty, and then wandered out the front door. “Feillor?”
Another search of the house turned up nothing, as did a walk-around of the exterior. She sat down on the front porch, staring at the spot where he had just assured her that he wanted her to be his sabbat partner.
“You lied,” she said. “You didn’t want me after all. You tricked me into running inside so I wouldn’t see you leave.” Then much louder, “Feillor! Damn you. Just come tell me the truth. To my face.”
Nothing. She clutched at her stomach.
After sitting there for several minutes, Salina got up, went inside, and closed the front door. She passed by the kitchen, stopping short when she saw the sacred bread was gone too. She headed for her room, intending to curl up on her bed and give in to the tears she was forcing down.
She hadn’t made it down the hall before her phone began buzzing. She grabbed it in a hurry, feeling ridiculous for the twinge of disappointment when it wasn’t Feillor’s name displayed on the screen. Gods didn’t have cellular service. Not that she knew of.
“Hi, Rogan,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment. “Now’s actually not a great time.”
“I thought you should know that it’s happening.”
“What’s happening?”
“That bastard Mars convinced the city to overturn your request and let him bring the land movers in. Said that because of the fire damage, the danger of trees falling is an imminent threat, blah, blah, bullshit, blah.”
She gripped the phone tighter. “When did this happen?”
“This morning. Janie phoned from the council office to give me a heads up. And this time, Mars isn’t taking any chances. The equipment is coming out today. Now.”
“Now?”
“If you want to do something, you’d better get out here.”
“Where?”
“By the falls.”
Her heart skipped. “Damn him.”
“Exactly what I said. I know Feillor said his powers were used up when he put the fire out, but is there anything he can do?”
Her stomach turned over. “Feillor’s gone.”
“Gone? What, like for good?”
“Apparently,” she spat out, not caring how bitter she sounded.
“Oh. Double damn. Just get here, then. Back to plan B?”
Her keys were in her hand. “Plan B it is.”
***
When Salina had started for the house to grab her keys, Feillor had thought to himself, this is it. Finally.
He had tossed and turned throughout the night thinking about calling forth the sabbat. Or rather, he was thinking of Salina, how he would make her the Lammas maiden, driving into her luscious body in a way that would mark her as his long after he had gone back to his own realm. They would be compatible, of that he had no doubt. Their time together had already proven that.
The turn of his thoughts was admittedly disturbing, and many times he had tried to redirect them back onto the sabbat itself rather than the woman he would be bedding. Long had it been since he had so greatly looked forward to the ritual of Lammas, the breaking of bread and physical celebration for the bounty of harvest. There was no use denying the reason he ached to complete the joining this year. He craved Salina with every inch of his hard, throbbing cock.
Salina might have died had it not been for his presence on earth, and for that he felt a swell of gratitude for his temporary banishment. Perhaps that had been the reason for the Fates’ interference all along. They could see the future. They knew what was in store for Salina, and they had sent Feillor to save a follower of the old ways. Gods knew they were a vanishing breed.
He turned to follow Salina into the house, his entire body vibrating with anticipation. He would have to declare the ritual a little differently this year, as he would not have his sabbat robes, nor would he be in the Lammas chamber. The sacred loaf, artifact of the sabbat, would not sit in its place of honor on the crystal pedestal. He had tried during the night to contemplate how best to adapt the usual traditions, but his thoughts kept turning back to the woman who had bewitched him. Her long, flowing hair, those knowing eyes, the curve of her lips when they twisted into a smile. Her lush curves and full breasts had begged for his attention since the moment she’d appeared in the field, and he would at last answer that call. Perhaps then, when he had taken his fill and satisfied his duty to the sabbat, his constant thoughts of her would cease.
Salina went inside the house, and Feillor was halfway to the front door when the strange flash of light appeared again. He was in such a rush that he plunged right into it. Two more steps and he found himself in the midst of a familiar setting—but not the one he’d just been in.
His head whipped side to side, spying the relics adorning the walls of the Lammas chamber. He was back in his own realm.
“What the blazes?” he said. “Salina? Salina!”
“Welcome home, son of Herne,” came a chorus of voices.
He spun around to see the Fates floating in the rear of the chamber.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Your time is up,” Morta said. “You have fulfilled our requirement of spending three days in the land of mortals.”
“And now we have brought you back where you want to be,” Decuna added. “Perhaps a bit wiser, but no longer stuck in the dreaded human world.”
“The ritual,” he said.
“The ritual can now be undertaken as is your duty,” Nona said. “We have brought you back to the Counsel of Sabbats in time to don the robes and call forth the time of Lammas.”
“Without the sacred loaf that was already prepared and ready.”
“Look again,” Morta said, pointing behind him.
He turned to see the bread sitting on the crystal pedestal that was the focal point in the midst of the chamber.
“Lord Feillor!”
Feillor’s head jerked up to see Shango in the archway leading out of the chamber.
The acolyte’s eyes were wide. “You are here!”
“So it would seem,” he replied.
“The god of Lammas has returned,” Shango called out toward the corridor. Then to Feillor, “Thank the gods. The counsel members have been fraught with concern ever since your disappearance. Counselor Munsola has even been attempting to contact your father.”
Feillor threw the Fates a look. “I see you did not bother to inform the Counsel of your little game.”
“Game?” Shango asked in obvious panic. “What game?”
“Go, Shango,” Feillor said. “Tell the others the god of the sabbat has not forsaken his duty.”
With a quick bow, Shango hustled away.
“So?” Feillor asked. “Why did you not inform the counsel of your actions?”
Morta lifted her chin and floated a bit higher than the others. “Our ways are our own, son of Herne. We do not answer to the counsel, nor to any man.”
“So you allowed them to think I went missing three days before Lammas.”
“And now you are back,” Decuna said. “In plenty of time for the sabbat. No harm done.”
“All that remains is for you to step foot through the portal and claim a sabbat maiden,” Nona said. “There is a most promising island from which to make your choice.”
Their heads bobbed vigorously in agreement. “Yes, yes,” Decuna said. “Many ripe, willing females await you at something called a beach resort. The portal will take you straight there.”
“As you have just yanked me across the veil, I cannot make a portal transfer so soon.”
“This portal is different,” Nona said. “The energies on that island are unique.”
“You might need to remain a few extra hours at most,” Decuna said. “Cavorting with scantily clad maidens should not pose a problem, I trust?”
“No.” Feillor glared at them. “I will not go.”
They floated higher. “You dare defy the sacred calling of your Lammas duty?”
“I will not go anywhere but back to Salina.”
“The witch?” Morta laughed, her cackle echoing around the chamber. “She is nothing but a human that, as we recall, you were most anxious to get rid of.”
“What difference does it make if you bed her or any other, so long as the ceremonial union of male and female is satisfied?” Decuna asked.
He gritted his teeth as patience—and time—slipped away. “It makes a great difference to me.”
“Why?” Nona asked. “As you have said, one is the same as the next, all faithless and unworthy.”
“Not Salina,” he said. “She is...different.”
“She is human,” they said.
“She is more than just a human. She practices the old ways.”
“Ah, yes,” Decuna said. “Her magic combined with yours would make for a potent ritual.”
“And she has already agreed to break the bread,” he added, walking closer. “My disappearance will not likely have sat well with her.”
“Nonsense,” Decuna said. “She knew your time on earth was short.”
“More likely she is relieved to be free of your harsh words and unyielding prejudice about her kind,” Morta said, smiling sweetly.
Feillor yanked off the veil pendant. “Provide me with one that works,” he said. “Let me return to her.”
“So, it is true,” came another voice from the archway. “You have finally deigned to return.”
Feillor saw members of the counsel approaching. All three wore the hoods of their robes raised over their heads, in recognition of a sabbat day, but he could see clearly enough who was approaching. Munsola, Counselor of Lammas, had been speaking, and behind him trailed Sandovar and Veramus, the most senior members of the counsel. Aside from his father, that is, the honorary member who was considered the head of the rest. Behind them, Shango scurried along, Feillor’s sacred sabbat robes draped over his forearms.
“Where have you been?” Munsola asked, his greenish-yellow eyes glowing beneath the hood. “Your father has heard of your disappearance from the outer quarter. He is stepping through a portal to return here as we speak.”
“There was no need to recall him,” Feillor said, holding out his arms while he allowed Shango to slip on the white silk robe that was expertly embroidered and trimmed with the colors of harvest. “I have been on earth.”
“Whatever for?” Veramus asked. His eyes were steely gray and narrow. “Why did you tell no one?”
Feillor folded his arms. “Ask them,” he replied, nodding to the Fates. “For it was by their doing.”
The counsel members eyed the bobbing trio. “What is all this about?” Sandovar asked. “Why did you interfere with the sabbat?”
Decuna hissed, showing jagged, yellowed teeth. “Here you see the god of Lammas standing before you in the chamber, ready for his sabbat, the sacred loaf waiting on the pedestal. How have we interfered?”
“You have interfered with every sabbat thus far in the year of the Thousand Seasons,” came a booming voice. “Why should this one be any different?”
Herne entered the room, his staff striking the marble floors with each purposeful stride. He wore hunting leggings, a cloak fastened at the neck that billowed behind him, and a necklace of bone and crystal that hung over his bare, muscled chest. His horns were adorned with greenery from vines woven through them.
Herne stroked his short beard and regarded Feillor with a questioning gaze. “What have they done this time, my son?”
Feillor heaved a sigh. “They sent me to earth to help transport a human who suddenly appeared in our realm. The price for returning the mortal immediately was that I had to remain there for three days, during which time I was called upon to save the human’s life.”
Herne’s eyes shifted to the Fates. “And this human. Did she happen to be a female?”
Feillor hesitated.
“I see,” Herne said.
“One who practices the old ways,” Feillor said. “She was praying for your guidance when our paths crossed.”
“A witch,” Herne murmured, appearing lost in thought for a moment. “And just how did she wind up in our realm?”
“The Fates, I have no doubt,” Feillor replied. “They wanted me to save her life.”
“Well?” Herne asked. “You three are uncustomarily quiet in all this. What have you to say?”
“We say what must be said in our dealings,” Morta said. “No more, no less.”
He pointed his staff at them. “You will answer this.”
“Or what?” Decuna asked, cackling like an old hen. “You no longer have power to control our will.”
She pulled apart the neckline of her dress, exposing an eye that peered out, unblinking, from her wrinkled sternum.
The Eye of Fate, Feillor realized. He had heard that his father had, for a time, acquired the Eye, and with it, the ability to control the Fates. He had threatened to use it against them when Feillor’s brother, Jorandil, had asked for passage to the earth realm.
“There is no further need for our presence here,” Morta said.
Their images began to fade.
“No, wait,” Feillor said, jumping forward. “You have to send me back, for the ritual.”
“A portal already awaits,” Munsola said.
Feillor ignored the man. “You know where I must go,” he said to the trio. “You have known all along.” He held up the pendant. “Please.”
“I think you will find the veil pendant functions quite well again,” Morta said. She looked away, as though seeing something in the distance. “And if you hurry, it can help you do more than find your ritual partner.”
The three vanished, leaving him alone with the counsel members who were all staring at him.
“What are they talking about?” Herne asked.
“I do not know,” Feillor said. “But the day of Lammas wanes, and there is no time to wonder about their eccentric ways. I must declare the sabbat in all haste.”
He tied the pendant
back around his neck. Herne moved closer and took hold of his arm. “Are you certain about this?”
“As certain as I am about anything.” He turned to the pedestal and lifted the sacred loaf, now considered the Lammas artifact, the item that was imbued with the power of the sabbat.
“Sha-do ram, yo shai a lara Lammas,” he called out, staring up at the loaf. He felt the pull of magic, the immortal power that lived in the air in his realm. He pulled inward, reinvigorating more and more of the magic that had been depleted on earth. “The god of Lammas declares the sabbat, the time of thanks and of harvest. I go forth to break bread and join with a mortal in a celebration of the year’s bounty. Lammas, a mon noi shara tapal.”
The bread shimmered briefly, illuminated from within by a crystalline glow that shone down over and around the pedestal. The strength of the sabbat god was fully restored.
He lowered his arms, holding the loaf while he regarded those present in the room. His father, still clasping his staff, gave a single nod. The rest looked up.
“Shall we escort you to the island portal?” Munsola asked.
“No need,” Feillor said, taking hold of the veil pendant. “I know right where I must go.”
He focused on the woman he wanted and phased out of the realm.
***
“You can’t do this!” Andrea shouted. The woman was chained to a tree in front of the land mover, glaring at Shawn Mars. “The city said they were going to let us use volunteers to clear the land!”
“They agreed only to postpone until they could discuss it further,” Mars said. “They had an emergency meeting this morning due to the fire. With the danger from dead vegetation, along with the damage already caused by the blaze, they’ve agreed that immediate intervention is required. This is for the best.”
“Best for you,” Salina said. “How convenient.”
His eyes flashed at her. “I have the necessary permits right here,” he said, waving a bundle of papers. “Step aside or I’ll have you arrested.” His expression turned into a sneer. “With great personal satisfaction, I might add.”
Feillor: God of Lammas (Sons of Herne, #6) Page 9
