WyndStones

by Wyndstone (lit)

  “I love you,” he said. “I never stopped loving you.”

  With his ear pressed to her body, he heard the low rumble of amusement that rippled through her body and lifted his head to look at her. The moment his eyes met hers, Cail McGregor scrambled off her body, scuttling away from her just as Daniel had the demon who had seduced him.

  Hands propelling him, the stench of sulfur rising around him, his boot heels digging into the decaying leaves, his eyes wide with terror, he scrambled backward to put distance between them.

  “What’s wrong, McGregor?” she asked, sitting up.

  Her hair was matted with the detritus from the forest floor—slick, wet leaves that bore the odor of methane, small twigs, and an earthworm torn from its wanderings. The gown was plastered to her lush figure, pushed up her thighs to reveal the nest of curls between her legs, glistening with his cum.

  “No,” Cail said, violently shaking his head from side to side. He came up against the fallen tree upon which he had sat and could go no farther. He froze for she was leaning forward, going to her knees to crawl toward him in the moonlight. He put up a staying hand caked with mud and decay. “Don’t.”

  But still she came toward him. Her mouth was a scarlet slash gleaming in the light of the moon. Her breasts swayed in the wet confines of her nightgown with every forward movement.

  “Please, no!” he begged, unable to move now. He felt a trickle of piss stain his pants and whimpered.

  She crawled to him, wedged herself between his legs and loomed over him. The ghastly smile that pulled her face filled him with panic. He began to tremble so violently, his teeth clicked together.

  It wasn’t her face that terrified him for it was just as lovely as it had always been. It wasn’t her body for it was as desirable as he remembered it to be. It was the grimace that passed for a smile and the unholy light that had turned her eyes a deep, scarlet red that sent McGregor into spasms of shock and dread.

  “You will stay here,” she said, her stare boring into his. “Stay until I come back for you. Do you understand?”

  He nodded eagerly, wanting nothing more than to have her gone.

  “Move one muscle and I will tear you apart piece by bloody piece. Is that clear in your feeble mind?”

  He could not stop bobbing his head in agreement.

  She cocked her head to one side. “You are a spineless worm, McGregor,” she whispered.

  Pushing to her feet, she stood over him with that awful smile plastered on her face. Cail couldn’t tear his eyes from her. His gaze was locked on that beautiful countenance and when it began to change before his very eyes, madness snaked out its claw to drag the Elder down into a swirling maelstrom.

  His scream was long and loud, echoing off the mountain.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lorna stood on the porch with her hands wrapped around an upright. Her gaze was directed into the shadows of the forest beyond. In the moonlight, the wyndstones were brightly lit, as white as chalk, gleaming in the darkness.

  He came striding from the greensward, his face set and hard yet the moment he saw her, a tired smile lit his countenance. Lifting a hand, he plowed it through his dark curls.

  “Where is he?” she asked. “I heard his screams.”

  Chrysty came to stand before her. “He is alive and well in body if not in mind, sweeting,” he said.

  She searched his amber gaze for the truth and knew he was not lying to her. Whatever he had done to Cail, the man still lived. She put out a hand to cup his cheek. “If he ceased to exist as his brother did, there might be suspicion from those in Dovertown.”

  The Nightwind nodded. “I will take his place although his body is smaller than mine.” He shrugged then turned his face so his lips caressed her palm. “I will make do.”

  “Did you…? Could you…?” She didn’t really know how to ask.

  He smiled. “I have what you want.” He reached out to hook an arm around her waist, lifting her clear of the porch and holding her against him as easily as if she were no more than an infant.

  Laying her head on his shoulder, bringing her legs up to lock around his hips, Lorna draped her arms around his neck as he turned and started walking toward the forest.

  “I will do anything for you, sweeting,” he told her. “But I never want to do that again.”

  She lifted her head, trying to see his expression in the night. “What did you have to do?”

  He was silent for a moment then she heard a long sigh push from somewhere deep inside him.

  “A Nightwind can take the shape of a female when he has need of a human male’s seed,” he said, his voice filled with bleakness. “He will hold it inside him until he can deposit it.”

  She felt him tremble and knew what had transpired between him and Cail had deeply shamed Chrysty. “I’m sorry you had to go through with that.”

  “It will have been worth it to give you the bairn you desire,” he said though his words held no small amount of sadness in them.

  “And will you give her a Mealladh when she is old enough?” she asked.

  “She will have the one holding you.”

  Lorna stiffened in his arms. “Chrysty, that isn’t .…”

  “One clan, one man,” he said, cutting her off. “That is the way She decreed it.” He stopped then looked down at her. “I will take another form for her, Lorna-love, but she is a Tabor and I am blood-sworn to the Tabor clan.”

  “She’s a McGregor,” she corrected.

  He shook his head. “The lineage comes through the mother, not the seed bearer.”

  With that, he dropped to his knees, leaning forward to lay her gently on a soft mat of sweet-smelling ground cover.

  “We have but a short time, sweeting, else the seed with die within me,” he said and she realized he wanted no more talk. He seemed anxious to rid himself of what she knew he must consider vile.

  One moment she was clothed and the next they were both naked with the night air playing gently over their bodies. He ran a hand along her thigh, stroking her flesh gently then dipped his hands between them to caress her.

  She opened her legs wide to him as his thumb pressed against her clit. His very touch sent waves of burning desire racing through her loins. Her womb clenched in anticipation. Her blood raced. His fingers sliding slowly in and out to ready her for his shaft made her grind her hips against the ground. She wanted him so badly she could taste it and swept her tongue over her upper lip.

  “You are my Chosen,” he said, looking down into her eyes. “The one for whom I was created. I will never hurt you.”

  “And I will never betray you,” she said.

  “I love you, Lorna.”

  The words were spoken with deep feeling—a catch in his voice—and the evidence of that love gleaming in his golden eyes.

  “I know,” she acknowledged and arched her hips. “Now show me how much.”

  He needed no further encouragement. Nudging her thighs apart as far as they could, he positioned his cock at the entrance of her shaft. With one slow, sure move he slid into her until she felt the broad head of his rod pressed tight against her womb.

  “Tell me you love me,” he asked, beginning the slow, twisting glide in and out of her body. “Lie to me if you must but tell me you love me.”

  It was no lie, she realized. She did love him in her way. This man—though a demon and not truly alive—had been hurt once as badly as any man ever had. He had suffered. He had died. He had been brought back to serve the women of her line. She knew he would never bring harm to her or hers. She—as well as all the Tabor women before her—owed him a debt of gratitude they might never be able to repay.

  “I do love you, Chrysty Brell,” she whispered. “You belong to me.”

  A slow smile played over his handsome features. True happiness shown in his amber eyes and he lowered his mouth to hers, to admit his servitude to her, to seal their bargain.

  Lorna lifted her legs to circle his waist, clamping them tightly a
round him. Their mouths were joined—tongues mating—just as their bodies were joined. His cock was a thick sword sliding in an out of her sheath, stretching her, filling her, giving her exquisite pleasure. The feel of his manly weight pressing her to the ground, his strong arms around and under her as he hiked her hips upward for a deeper penetration, combined to make her shiver with need.

  She ran her nails down his back and onto the rise of his hard, tight rump and dug into his flesh. It was a goad he understood and accepted and increased the speed of his strokes until he was slamming into her with so much force and power it bordered on pain.

  At the moment he spilled Cail McGregor’s seed into her waiting body, he wrenched his mouth from hers and growled, with his lips skinned back from his teeth as his head fell back. The growl became a mighty roar as his cock pulsed and leapt until there was nothing left within it. A long, hard shudder went through him and when he lowered his head, his eyes were glowing blood-red.

  “Done,” he snarled yet it wasn’t a sound of anger but of relief that what had been inside him was now gone.

  And it was now seated deeply inside Lorna.

  He rolled to his back, taking her with him. With her body atop his, he tightened his grip on her, flinging one leg over hers as though to trap her against him for all time.

  Lorna put her head in the hollow of his shoulder, the fingers of one hand splayed against his thickly-matted chest. She ran the tip of one finger over the pucker of his nipple and felt him shiver.

  “Whatever it is you have planned,” she said softly, “don’t let it affect the people of the Hill.”

  He was silent for a long moment then he nodded. “It won’t.”

  “You swear it?”

  “I do,” he said and turned his face toward her so he could place a gentle kiss on her brow.

  “We don’t need the Reapers coming up here to snoop.”

  “They won’t. I’ll see to it.”

  “I want people to journey to the Hill but I don’t want any to desire to make it their home,” she said, circling his nipple with her fingernail.

  “It will be as you wish.”

  “Those young men the women decide on cannot stay, I want them gone before the week is out.”

  “Agreed,” he said.

  “And I want the women of the Hill to be able to go and come across the river as they want.”

  “They will have the freedom for which you ask.”

  “And the men .…” She pushed up so she could look down into his face, lock her eyes with his.

  “The men will be replaced with my kind,” he said, “though they will have the body of the one taken over.” He smiled teasingly. “Although the women might prefer the faces and bodies of their Mealladhs to those of the puny human males.”

  She answered his smile. “What they do in the privacy of their bedrooms is their business,” she told him.

  He nodded. “Agreed.”

  Her smile wavered. “What of children, Chrysty? If you take over their bodies .…”

  “There is always a trade-off, Lorna-love,” he said. “If the women want children, those seeds must come from beyond the Hill.” He smoothed a hand down her bare back. “Leave the choosing of the seed bearer to mine. They will find the best of the best to give their women.”

  She relaxed in his arms again and they were silent for a long time. The night sounds of nocturnal animals foraging along the forest floor and the play of the wind against the low-lying bushes and leafy spread of the trees was peaceful, soothing.

  “What haven’t you told me, Chrysty?” she asked at last. “You are keeping something from me. I can feel it.”

  She heard him sigh. His hand continued to run up and down her back.

  “For two thousand years he’s been imprisoned in the Abyss,” he said. “He was the first Nightwind and as such he is the most powerful. Love for a feckless woman cast him into a place you could never imagine, Lorna. It is as cold as the deepest arctic steppe and as black as pitch. The stench? The stench is so horrible no human could endure it without going mad. The feel of the slime against your body, the way it seeps into your flesh…” He shuddered. “It is a punishment unlike any other.”

  “You are going to bring him out of his imprisonment.”

  “He is the Nightwind Prime,” the demon said. “He should never have been thrust back into the Abyss.”

  “What will he do once he is released?”

  “Whatever he wants,” Chrysty said with a brittle smile. “Whatever the hell he wants.”

  Epilogue

  They gathered deep in the forest in a clearing that circled a low stone altar stained red with the blood of many sacrifices. There were twelve Mealladhs and one Nightwind Prime who stood ranged around the altar. Each was tall, dark, and virile, each a handsome specimen of his kind. Behind them—stretched out in all directions—were a thousand more just like them.

  And behind them, a thousand others.

  Clad in midnight blue robes, all but one—wrapped in a robe of scarlet that stood out sharply in the moonlight—stood with his hands tucked into the billowing sleeves of his garment. Heads lowered, the pointed cowl of the robe’s hood tilted earthward, they were as still as statues.

  One stepped out of the circle and the others lifted their heads, their eyes tracking his every movement. He lifted his hands to throw back the covering from his midnight black hair. Like his brethren, he threaded his hands into the long sleeves of his robe and began to speak in a low, mesmerizing voice upon which each ear was attuned.

  “They will call to you,” he said. “Thousands of them every night. They are the legion of hopeless, burdened women whose souls are blighted, withering on the vines of life. Their names are unimportant. It is their pitiful sobbing, their breaking hearts, and their utter loneliness that will catch your attention. You must listen closely, your mind reaching out across time and space and millennia to find them. Their entreaties will fill you like cool, sweet water does a thirsty man. They will tempt your thirst for further knowledge of the human race and fill your mind with a multitude of possibilities.”

  The dark ember in his eyes flared.

  “The ache in their hearts will be a sentient life form thrusting up through the heavens, speeding toward your lair. It will cry out in mournful whimpers of surrender, granting you entry, promising all. The sound will strike a chord deep in your being.”

  He turned his face toward civilization.

  “Search amongst all the womanly cries for help, the sobs of need, the whimpers of female defeat and frustration and failure and find her. Send your vision traveling swiftly from land to land, from coast to coast, mountain to mountain, river to dale. Strain to catch that one tiny, fluttering essence of grief.”

  He swept his piercing gaze over those assembled.

  “You will find her among the strident discord of humanity. The moment you go to her, her sobbing will cease; her desolation, the emptiness that called out to you, begged you, beckoned you, needed you, will be no more.”

  The dark evil in his soul blazed to life.

  “And she will be yours to do with as you will.”

  The Nightwind Prime, Syntian Cree, who had spent two thousand years in the filthy belly of the Abyss smiled savagely, the moonlight glinting on his sharp fangs.

  “Use the Book to keep your real purpose from her. Cloud her mind so she will not discern your true purpose. Give her your love if she is your Chosen but do not let her sway you from what needs to be done. Eliminate her enemies and those who have abused her but do not allow her to learn of the deed. Protect her from what you do. Keep it from her.”

  He slid his hands from the sleeves of his robe and raised them high above his head, his fists clenched tightly, arms rigidly extended.

  “Destruction to the disloyal!” he shouted and those around him echoed his battle cry.

  “Destruction to the disloyal,” they shouted

  His eyes turned crimson in the moonlight.

  “And d
eath to the selfish betrayers of men!”

  The End