Prologue

Ronan

October 31

Wintervale, County Meath, Ireland

Change is coming.

I feel it, making it difficult to play my expected role to perfection. Tonight, I yearn for my bed and a warm woman to sink in to. Maybe pounding into a wet pussy will ease some of the heavy tension I carry on my shoulders—like the health and happiness of the entire town of Wintervale. Most days, this responsibility feels like the weight of the entire world, even though it’s just a small, backwoods grove.

“This night, we remember those who ‘av lived and died afore us, those who ‘av crossed through the veil, those who are nay longer with us. We will remember.”

“We will remember,” I echo along with my friends and my older sister by rote, my breath escaping in wispy clouds of vapor to the chill autumn air.

The solemn words of the Cailleach Beare holds sway over the group of twelve worshipers as we encircle the spire of flames, enraptured by our midnight ritual. As their leader, I hold myself rigid, knowing all eyes are on me, judging my reactions. My followers look to me for guidance and safety.

“Spirits of the earth, we welcome yer, knowin’ you will envelop us in death. Spirits of air, we call upon yer, knowin’ yer will be with us as we depart life. Spirits of fire, we welcome yer, knowin’ yer will transform us in death. Spirits of water, we welcome yer, knowin’ yer will carry us through the ebbs and flows of our life.”

“We welcome yer, oh mighty spirits.”

“And on this most powerful night, we seek to divine the future of our community in the New Year ahead, to discern the fortunes of our Order, and for he who leads us, whether good or ill. Spirits grant us this sight.”

“Grant us this sight.”

I’m not sure I’m open for anyone peering into my personal future, but it’s part of the ritual so I play along. In the midst of all of my pagan rituals, the visions of the seer lay lowest on the scale of importance as far as I’m concerned.

A column of sparks fly skyward as I lead the ritual, casting my pound-weight stone into the fire and proceeding to a water-filled cauldron that stands aside in the clearing. For a blissful moment, I allow the words and actions of the centuries old ceremony to flow over me, enveloping me in tradition like an old cloak. This night and in the future, I pray it will protect me from the dangers of a rash and forbidden world. One I want no part in supporting. Here, in Wintervale, I’m safe from the evils of society. And I’ll protect my lifestyle and that of my townspeople with everything in me. Even if that includes the ultimate sacrifice.

Clad in fur and silhouetted by the firelight, I gather the Cailleach and my brethren around the vessel. Following my lead, they each pluck a bobbing red fruit from its frigid depths.

“In the morrow, all will be revealed, and we will make ready for what is to come. May the bounty of this harvest impart its knowledge to one and all. Blessed be the fruit.”

“Blessed be the fruit,” they echo.

After the blessing of the fruit, I draw my knife and split the ripened symbol of truth and plenty wide open, carving my large apple into nine wedges. The forest lies dark, save for the crackling firelight and the cauldron’s contents as black as a bottomless well. I lean over its rim, staring into the inky smoothness, and eat the first wedge with a resounding crunch of teeth.

It tastes both tart and sweet, reminding me of this life that contains both joy and sorrow. Pleasure and pain. But the New Year dawns within the hour, signifying the rebirth of all things, as it always does, which gives me hope. I gaze into the pool of darkness, seeing no reflection as I consume the second piece of fruit, then the third, and the fourth. My stomach feels no hunger or fullness, as the harvest has been plentiful, and the evening’s feast of roasted lamb has already filled my belly to sated perfection. The smell of the animal’s burning bones still belch from the bonfire’s flames with each snap, crackle, and pop.

What I hunger for doesn’t come from the field, the stream, or the sky. If food for one’s tortured soul exists, I am uncertain of what form that might take. At last, only the ninth wedge remains in my huge palm, and I scan the water’s infinite depths with keen interest as I toss it over my left shoulder.

The cauldron’s rim seems to expand as though inviting me inside, offering to drown me in the depths of my own thoughts, hopes and desires, all for a fleeting glimpse of what might await me in my future. From deep within, a spark of light flares and spreads into a glowing cloud, floating tantalizingly below the surface, just out of reach. I can’t stop a sharp inhale, unable to tear my eyes from the undulating illumination that coalesces into a startling vision.

Raven-black hair frames the ivory-skinned face possessing a pointed chin and high cheekbones. Her plump lips are the translucent red of pomegranate seeds, and her round, luminous green eyes stare at me from beneath a shadowed brow, piercing me as though accusing me of something nefarious and dark.

Unbidden, my cock stirs, and I imagine her lush mouth sucking it into her long throat. I shake my head, ridding myself of the image, but something about the vision won’t release me. Won’t let me return to the pillar of wisdom and strength I am to these people. My people. This nameless seductress bewitches me in a way I’ve never known, and all thoughts of harvest rituals and protecting my brethren fly out of my mind on the wings of lust and want.

Her lips move and mouth my name in an irresistible siren’s song. On impulse, I dip my hand into the water, yearning to touch her, feel her silken skin beneath my fingertips. Brand her with my claim for all eternity. The need to connect with her overwhelms me, but the motion of reaching deep within instantly destroys my vision, leaving me with an emptiness I can’t understand or describe. Before I can withdraw, the beautiful visage ripples away and dissolves back into the depths from which it came.

Unsteady on my feet, I stumble backward as if drunk, shaken by the intensity of the reflection. Is it only a reflection? It seems more real than that, but the veil between the worlds of light and dark, the living and the dead, stays razor thin this night.

Is that not the true reason we gather here?

I should expect nothing less than magic unbound, the suspension of the laws of time and space at this eighth and most spiritual interval of the year.

“What did you see, Bard?” the Cailleach asks, her voice harshened by age and wisdom. “Yer expression indicates yer seen a ghost.”

“I saw…I saw…” I steady my thoughts with a deep inhalation of autumn air. “’Twas nothin’.”

The Cailleach Beare smiles a toothless grin, made all the more gruesome in the dancing firelight of the secluded forest circle.

“Come, let us not wait ‘til mornin’ to chase away the ghosts of the future,” she cackles, tugging at the ragged pelt I’m wearing about my tense shoulders. “Let us examine yer stone now. I will fetch it from the fire.”

As if hypnotized, I leave the others waiting their turn at the cauldron and return to the bonfire. “That one,” I advise, pointing to the stone I’d cast into the flames. The Cailleach prods it loose with a poker and crouches low to examine it, waving away the rising steam with a wizened hand.

“’Tis true,” she confirms after a moment, rising to lift her arms to the sky. “Love and happiness shall abound for the Order, bringin’ forward a soul mate for the Bard, our leader, this Yule.”

She looks down into my eyes, widened with surprise by this revelation, and brings her clawed fingers to my shoulders in praise.

“Blessed be.”