Chapter Four
Ghostly mists drifted close, reminding him that when the full moon shone down upon the feast of Yule, the veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest. Which was he? That thought kept trickling back to haunt him, along with Analee’s warning that he could only have her for a little while—’til dawn. Their time was short, and he beat those thoughts back in the rapture of her embrace.
Lying on the cool ground, wet with dew, Garlon could almost feel the pulse beat of the land beneath him, for indeed it had a heart, thumping to the rhythm of his own. Under the Yuletide moon, the Otherworld had a sensual, profane throb. He’d never felt this connection in the real world, a sense of belonging here amongst these creatures of the forest. Even the trees had a beat—he could feel their roots stirring beneath him, moving in the soil beneath the tall, swaying grass. They were all celebrants in the winter ritual—a battle of living and dead, Fae and Mortal conjoined under the full round December moon that seemed to shine upon both worlds.
Analee’s arms were clasped about his neck as she rolled him over, and then straddled him. Raising her up with hands that spanned her narrow waist, he lowered her upon his body, watching her face as he entered her, made her a part of him, him a part of her. She, too, had a pulse. Right now, it beat for him.
But it would not always be so, a little voice reminded him.
This sorceress of the well had granted him this ecstasy, this passion—but only until dawn.
How glorious it would be if such a passion could be had amongst his own kind. To live in the arms of voluptuous flesh to the end of his days would be rapture, indeed. Such was the stuff of dreams, he knew, but his heart couldn’t stop crying out, hungrily ready to beg for more.
He could finally bear no more. Rolling her on her back, he raised, reveling in the power rising within him, of the maleness of being over his mate. He was barely aware, and she, once again, lifted the translucent wings and enfolded him, cocooned him. She matched him thrust for thrust, until the night was filled with their cries.
• ♥ •
All was still. Not even the wind sighed, though it fluttered the grass surrounding them. It was a moment before Garlon collapsed alongside her, his chest heaving as he gulped air into his lungs.
They were alone, but movement among the nearby trees caught in a moonbeam and called his eyes there. Someone, or something, had been watching them. Somehow, he hadn’t minded the other minions at the festivals being near. But this sent a cold chill up his spine. Now alert, he strained his eyes in the darkness, trying to make the image come clear.
A horse…no, a man…no, a centaur!
The pulse in the ground beneath them took on a new meter. The thudding of the creature’s heavy hooves reverberated through the grassy bed they lay upon. It had an angry rhythm, though the beast didn’t move from its position among the ash and oak trees in that quarter.
Garlon raised himself upon one elbow, taking stock of this strange watcher in the moonlight. It was a magnificent creature! Its body the dark four-legged form of a feather-footed destrier; its torso that of a muscular man, whose dark hair worn long was caught at the nape of his neck with a ribbon of vines. Their eyes met, and the creature pawed the ground. The gesture had a ring of warning to it.
“Who…what is that?” he said, nodding toward the centaur. He considered if the wine he’d drunk had had its way with him, or even if it had been drugged.
Analee moaned satisfaction, and then stretched like a cat sunning itself. “’Tis only Mòhr,” she said. “Pay him no heed. He’s out of sorts.”
“He appears a bit more than that,” Garlon observed. The creature looked about to charge, and they were in the open. He got to his feet and took her hand, raising her up alongside him. “I think we’d best find suitable shelter elsewhere,” he said. “I have no wish to be trampled. Those hooves of his look mean enough to do the job, and I have no sword to defend you.”
“There is no need,” Analee insisted. “I rule here, Garlon Trivelyan. Mòhr is jealous. Eons ago, he angered the Auld Ones. Ever since, on the seven nights of the full moon he becomes a centaur. That is his punishment. He, once upon a time, was my consort. But now, part of his punishment is he will never have me again. He sulks, and routs, and strikes the ground with his heavy hooves, but ’tis all bluster. He will not harm you—now. But this is the last night of the full moon, so he will assume human form with the first rays of the sun. When he is a man again, I cannot speak for your safety.”
Garlon eyed the centaur dubiously. “Yes, well, I still would put some distance between us if it’s all the same to you,” he said, leading her away.
“No, not that way,” she said, turning him toward the sacred pool beyond the clearing. “Mòhr cannot follow there. The waters are too deep for the centaur. They are wider and deeper than they appear.”
“I fear no man or beast!” Garlon defended. “But I have no weapon to defend you, and unless my eyes deceive me, that thing is armed!”
“I have no need of defending,” Analee said. “Mòhr would never harm me. He knows the rules well—though he doesn’t like them much, I’ll own. But that is his fault, isn’t it? Come…”
Her words were scarcely out when the twang of an arrow whizzed through the air. It struck the ground inches from Garlon’s foot. Spinning around, he clenched both fists and started back toward the ash grove, but the goddess’s quick hand arrested him.
“Pay him no mind,” she said. Her voice was soothing and slow. “He will tire of the vigil. It has been thus for many ages. Believe me, he will not harm you, for then he would have to contend with me.”
“No harm, eh?” Garlon growled. “I just nearly lost a toe.”
“You did not,” Analee said, leading him away again. “If he wanted your toe, he would have hit it. Mòhr is an expert marksman. He always hits his quarry. You are a seasoned sailor, a Knight of the Realm, have you not ever had a warning shot fired across your bow upon the sea?”
Garlon considered it, a close eye upon the centaur. The irate creature had notched his longbow and taken aim again. Analee saw also. Stamping her foot, she spread her wings and spun into a whirling cyclone, parting the tall grass and lifting dead leaves and mulch off the forest floor where the centaur stood among the trees.
Puffing out her cheeks, she blew a mighty wind that bent the whitethorn, furze and bracken that hemmed the thicket. Bolting, the creature reared back on his hind legs, pawing the air amid the stinging blizzard of swirling leaves, twigs, acorns and pine needles her ire had raised, and galloped off deep into the forest.
They had reached the edge of the sacred pool. Overhead, the moon had risen to the pinnacle. It would begin its descent now, each moment bringing it closer to the dawn’s horizon. There wasn’t much time left in the arms of the goddess who had granted him this magical night.
He was a seasoned warrior, and he had known his carnal moments, also. Still, this was different. She had dazzled him with her magic and her spellbinding beauty, and though he knew it couldn’t last beyond the dawn, he had to believe there was a reason for her choosing him. Did she have some purpose? He wanted to demand the truth from her, but words faded as he stared at her. Dawn would bring answers.
This was winter, but the warmth of the pool reached out to welcome them. It was tepid, lapping at their feet and ankles as she pulled him forward. It made little sense, just as nothing else did in the mysterious Celtic Otherworld. It was in bizarre moments such as this when Garlon was sure it was all a dream.
Everyone knew the power of the Fae. Didn’t the Irish leave their front and back doors open a crack at night to give access to the wee folk, that they might pass through unhindered in their night revelries? And didn’t the Cornish pay tribute to the knockers in the tin mines to insure that those little folk would lead them to the richest veins of ore?
What had he bought with the tribute when he’d tossed the sigil ring into the dream well? Why did that make him the chosen one? What did it all mean? He longed to know, but feared to ask, and in asking, break the spell she had cast over him.
Analee had taken his hand. A little boat resting in the lapping surf appeared at the edge of the pool. She was dragging him toward it. Long and slender, in the shape of a swan, the boat bobbed gently as the calm ripples nudged it. Inside, it was made like a bed, with satin sheets and feather down quilts. Silver bowls heaped high with grapes, plums and hazelnuts set about the bow.
“Come, we will be safe upon the water,” she said as he handed her into it. “There is much I would show you before the dawn parts us, Garlon Trivelyan, but first, a moonlight sail.”
“That swan...boat is too small to hold us.” He balked at the tug of her hand.
Once again, she smiled with a knowledge that was beyond his understanding. It lent shadows and shapes to her face that almost marred her beauty. “Like the pool, but the little boat is bigger and stronger than it appears to a mortal’s eyes.”