Goddess Rising
Page 1
GODDESS RISING
A Skye Faden Novel
Alisha Ashton
Dedicated To:
ME.
And every other person out
there who has overcome
betrayal, pain, devastating losses,
trauma, heartbreak, etc.
yet STILL handles their shit,
never gives up, and
does right by their pack daily.
I see you. I’m proud of you.
Rock on, Queens and Kings.
Scots & Irish Gaelic:
Ailean
IPA Pronunciation: [alan]
Approximate Pronunciation*: AH-lan
Meaning: “rock” or “noble”
ainmhidh
IPA Pronunciation: [ɛnɛvɪ]
Approximate Pronunciation*: EH-NEH-vee
Meaning: wild beast
an-dràsta
IPA Pronunciation: [əNˈdraːsdə]
Approximate Pronunciation*: uhn-DRAA-stuh
Meaning: now, this minute
Aodh
IPA Pronunciation: [ɯːɣ]
Approximate Pronunciation*: UHGH
Meaning: fire
a stóirín
IPA Pronunciation: [ə sdɔːrʲiːnʲ]
Approximate Pronunciation*: uh STAW-reen
Meaning: my little darling
ban-dia na gealaich
IPA Pronunciation: [bãũNdʲiə nə gʲaLɪç]
Approximate Pronunciation*: BOUN-jeea nuh GYAL-eeh
Meaning: moon goddess
beadaidh searg
IPA Pronunciation: [bedɪ ʃɛrɛg]
Approximate Pronunciation*: BEH-dee SHUH-ruhg
Meaning: disrespectful, insignificant person
Brandubh
IPA Pronunciation: [branduh]
Approximate Pronunciation*: BRAN-doo
Meaning: black raven
brathadairean
IPA Pronunciation: [brahədɛrʲən]
Approximate Pronunciation*: BRA-huh-dur-un
Meaning: betrayers
Cathal
IPA Pronunciation: [kahəL]
Approximate Pronunciation*: KA-hull
Meaning: battle mighty
Ciaran
IPA Pronunciation: [kʲiəran]
Approximate Pronunciation*: KEEAR-un
Meaning: dark one
Donnach
IPA Pronunciation: [dɔNəx]
Approximate Pronunciation*: DOH-nukh
Meaning: brown warrior
Droch-draoidh
IPA Pronunciation: [drɔx drɯj]
Approximate Pronunciation*: DRAWKH-DUH-dree
Meaning: wicked druids
Drostan
IPA Pronunciation: [drosdan]
Approximate Pronunciation*: DRAW-stan
Meaning: (unknown – Pictish)
Eògan
IPA Pronunciation: [jɔːgan]
Approximate Pronunciation*: YAW-gun
Meaning: well born, youth
faol /
faoil
IPA Pronunciation: [fɯːL]
Approximate Pronunciation*: FUHL
Meaning: wolf
Faolan
IPA Pronunciation: [fɯːLan]
Approximate Pronunciation*: FUHL-an
Meaning: wolf
Faol Seunta
IPA Pronunciation: [fɯːL ʃiəNdə]
Approximate Pronunciation*: FUHL SHEEN-duh
Meaning: wolf protected by enchantments
fògarach /
fògaraich
IPA Pronunciation: [fɔːgərɪç]
Approximate Pronunciation*: FAW-gur-ikh
Meaning: banished ones
Latharn
IPA Pronunciation: [La.əRN]
Approximate Pronunciation*: LAH-urn
Meaning: fox
Luag
IPA Pronunciation: [Luəg]
Approximate Pronunciation*: LOO-ag
Meaning: brightness, light
Maon
IPA Pronunciation: [mɯːn]
Approximate Pronunciation*: MUHN
Meaning: hero
mo bhan-dia
IPA Pronunciation: [mə vãũNdʲiə]
Approximate Pronunciation*: muh VOUN-jeea
Meaning: my goddess
nasgadh
IPA Pronunciation: [Nasgəɣ]
Approximate Pronunciation*: NAS-gugh
Meaning: binding or joining together
Onchu
IPA Pronunciation: [ɔnɔxu]
Approximate Pronunciation*: AWE-NOH-khoo
Meaning: mighty dog
Ruarachan
IPA Pronunciation: [Ruərəxan]
Approximate Pronunciation*: ROOA-ruh-khun
Meaning: little red one
Sgitheanach
IPA Pronunciation: [sgʲi.ənɪç]
Approximate Pronunciation*: SGEE-yuh-nih
Meaning: Skye
Sitheag
IPA Pronunciation: [ʃi.ag]
Approximate Pronunciation*: SHEE-ag
Meaning: wolf
siuthad
IPA Pronunciation: [ʃu.əd]
Approximate Pronunciation*: SHOO-uhd
Meaning: go on
Sorcha
IPA Pronunciation: [sɔrɔxə]
Approximate Pronunciation*: SOH-ruh-khuh
Meaning: brightness, light
Tàcharain Fhaol
IPA Pronunciation: [taːxəran ˈfɯːl]
Approximate Pronunciation*: TAA-khur-an FUHL
Meaning: wolf changelings
Taran
IPA Pronunciation: [taran]
Approximate Pronunciation*: TAH-ran
Meaning: (unknown – Pictish King)
Teàrlach
IPA Pronunciation: [tʲaːRLəx]
Approximate Pronunciation*: CHAR-luhkh
Meaning: the instigator
*Approximate Pronunciations are provided by
author for reference only.
Intro: Homecoming…
PRESENT DAY – PHILADELPHIA, PA
Buildings and cars passed in a blur beyond the limousine’s tinted windows. The cacophony of the city washed over Skye like a long-forgotten symphony.
Centuries-old, stone-faced buildings nestled between modern, towering skyscrapers. Paved highways gave way to narrow, cobblestone streets. Everywhere you looked there was something to take in. This city was a melting pot of cultures, a tapestry of old and new woven together in unlikely rightness.
Skye closed her eyes and rolled down the window to breathe in the familiar scents. With her faol senses, she was able to perceive it all: the frosty Delaware River and hot food from innumerable restaurants and street vendors intermingled with the fumes of SEPTA buses and other vehicles. Ah, the scent of city in winter.
Taran watched her growing excitement and exchanged a smile with Ciaran. She was a bundle of nerves and energy, equally nervous and thrilled to be returning to the place of her birth.
Ciaran busied himself with the radio for a moment, hooking his phone up to the speakers. When he was finished, he glanced over at Skye and waited for the song to begin. Skye laughed and gave him a thumbs-up when Sir Elton John’s ‘Philadelphia Freedom’ began blasting. Ciaran opened the sunroof before snatching her hand and urging her to her feet. They enjoyed the wind in their hair as they sang along at the tops of their lungs.
Taran would have complained about the earsplitting volume of the music, were it not causing his beloved wee Queen to drop her guard for a moment and dance merrily.
Skye threw her arms up in the air. Her shout echoed off the buildings around them as she announced:
“Philly! I’m HOME!”
1: La Chienne Reine
Cold winter wind howled be
yond the doors of Club de la Chaleur, but its chill was not granted entry. The highly exclusive club was filled with amorous couples in various states of dress. Each pairing was made up of a coven member and their selected entrée for the evening.
At first unnoticed amidst the hundreds of blood-drinkers and their soon-to-be meals, a lone man passed through the crowd. His jet-black hair and crystalline eyes slowly drew attention. His youthful, beautiful features and ghostly pale skin made more than a few of the fògaraich abandon their current conquests in favor of pursuing him. He slipped between their ranks, seemingly deaf to their seductively whispered invitations, and made his way to, of all places, the bar.
A man and woman – the eldest fògaraich and leaders of the coven – exchanged glances at their good fortune. This delicious, little, mortal morsel had somehow managed to wander into their lair off the streets, completely oblivious to the danger. After uncurling themselves from one another, they stood from their booth. Approaching him at a leisurely pace, they discretely bared fangs at the younger coven members to make their claim known.
“Hark, ma tentatatrice. A seraph is delivered unto us,” Olivier whispered breathily to his mate behind the young man’s ear.
Janette smiled in delight at her lover’s words, as well as the young man’s reaction. Visibly startled by their proximity, the mortal turned to face them. The heavy scent of booze on his breath, as well as his difficulty focusing made his inebriation apparent.
“Ah, fear not, mon chéri,” Janette whispered soothingly to the mortal as she pressed a finger to his lips. “We simply could not bear to look upon such perfection from afar.”
The young man studied her in confusion as she ran her long, polished nails lightly down his cheek. Bringing her cherry red lips closer to his mouth, she smiled as he intently watched her forming her words.
“My husband swears you are an angel, descended from the heavens and come to our very door. But I think you a child, come in search of… play mates… no?” she teased and giggled wickedly as Olivier inhaled the man’s scent.
“You talk weird,” the mortal stated in a slurred Philly accent. He swayed on his feet slightly, leaning back against the bar for support as the couple continued running their hands over his shoulders and chest invitingly. “Where the hell are you supposed to be from?”
“La belle Ville de Paris,” Olivier answered. “Though, truth be told, it is far less beautiful today than it was in our time.”
“In ‘your time’?” the young man repeated incredulously. “Yous ain’t even that old!”
“Shush, it is not important,” Janette insisted with a wide smile. “What is important is how we are to rid you of these incommodious clothes.”
“Whoa – okay – no, no, no, no…” the man laughed as her cold hands wandered greedily beneath his shirt and began hiking up the material. He caught her by the wrists, urging her to stop as the couple began conversing in French.
“I very much like this one, my love. I think we shall keep him. What do you say?” Olivier asked as he ran his fingers through the mortal’s silken, black tresses.
“As a pet? Or one of our kind?” Janette posed, laughing when the mortal prevented her from unbuckling his belt.
“How about as neither?” the young man asked in French suddenly, causing them both to look at him in surprise.
Janette’s smile faded as she tilted her head and studied him curiously. “You play games, sweet boy. You pretend you do not speak French, yet you understand just fine.” After a moment, her smile returned, and she giggled. “Oh, you shall be fun! I rather like surprises…” she cooed.
The young man leaned closer to her, bringing his lips just a hair’s breadth from hers. “Then you would surely love me,” he taunted in flawless French, “for I am full of surprises.”
She gasped in delight at his playfulness and eagerly leaned closer, attempting to claim his mouth with her own.
He pulled away before switching back to English – only this time, he spoke with a jarringly unexpected Irish lilt. “But I’m sorry to report tha I’m just nah on the menu. Nah only are ya both a bit too deceased for me taste, I’m also what ya might call a ‘kept man’. And tha lady love of mine…” He shook his head and laughed. “Well, let’s just say she’s none too partial to the notion of sharing me.”
“Un Irlandais?” Olivier breathed worriedly as he relaxed his hold of the man and took a step back.
Unlike her mate, Janette failed to stop and consider the possibly fatal implications of his accent. “But surely your ‘lady love’ would not deprive other women the pleasure of your company?” she teased as she tried to slide her hands under his shirt again.
“Hey, Ciaran!” a woman shouted authoritatively from atop the entryway stairs. “How do you say, ‘No means no, you skanky, undead whore’ in French?”
Janette spun toward the speaker in startled fury. Even if she had been unable to sense the power emanating from this woman or the wolf within her blood, Janette would have recognized her. This stranger matched the descriptions given in the terrified rumors currently circulating amongst the fògarach ranks.
A long braid of blonde hair was draped over the woman’s shoulder. Her blue and yellow eyes surveyed her surroundings coldly. She wore her trademark attire: form-fitting black tactical gear and a heavy pair of combat boots.
Janette’s senses now began to perceive the many faoil surrounding the building. As the beasts – wearing the guises of humans – made their way into the club, Janette and her brethren screeched in warning.
“It is the bitch Queen!” Olivier hissed.
“She actually prefers ‘Queen Bitch’,” Ciaran advised wryly before grinning and waving up at Skye. “Hey, a stóirín!”
Janette spun back to face him in outrage. “You!” she spat venomously and gripped his throat, cutting off his attempts to speak. “You are the pet of the bitch Queen?” she demanded, though her current hold prevented him from responding. “In that case, draining you of life will bring me far more pleasure than I originally anticipated!”
Janette’s eyes swirled to blackness. She glared back at Skye and smiled ruefully, baring her fangs before turning to bite the young man in her grasp. She faltered when she focused on him. The man whom she had originally believed to be mortal – the man whom her senses perceived as mortal – was now staring back at her with the golden eyes of a faol.
“Surprise!” he managed to whisper dangerously against her grip before he triggered the transformation.
Janette shrieked in fury as his throat rapidly expanded. In an instant, it was too large for her to maintain her grip. Ciaran towered over her in faol form, leaving her to stare up at him in horror. Transfixed by the sight of him, Janette could only watch with wide eyes as he snarled and snapped at her.
The mortals present were now screaming and running in terror, but the familiar, gruff Scottish brogue of Eògan could still be heard clearly over the chaos.
“Listen up! Oi! I said listen up! If ya’ve a pulse and are nah one of ours, I’ll thank ya to kindly GET. THE. FOOK. OUT!”
Seeking to use the mortals as hostages and bargaining chips, several fògaraich snatched innocents as they tried to flee.
“Ah, ah, ah… Do tha and my wee Queen is liable to lose her sense of humor,” warned Taran, Skye’s hot Scots mate and – as a result of their union – the King of the Tàcharain Fhaol Clan. His jaw flexed angrily as he inclined his head to her.
After nodding that it was true, Skye allowed her power to show through in her eyes. For just a fraction of a second, white light flickered in her gaze. At the sight of it, several blood-drinkers cried out in alarm. All the mortals were promptly released.
Skye waited patiently as they raced past her, through the blockade of muscle at her back, and out the doors to safety. Once they were gone, the doors were pulled shut again. She smiled at what the mortals were going to encounter when they reached the street. The Ashers, as well as several of her clansmen, were posted around the
perimeter. As they had done with the past two covens they cleared since arriving state-side, they greeted the escaping mortals with checks and laughs, assuring them that they had just been set up as a prank for an upcoming reality TV show. To Skye’s amusement, she had once been informed by a burly man (who had run screaming from the first coven, mind you) that the special effects used for the transformations needed improvement. Apparently, the ‘animatronics’ used for the werewolves were ‘lame’ and would not fool anyone.
Laughing to herself at the memory, Skye returned her attention to the problem at hand. Movement off to the side had caught her eye, but she knew she did not have to move a muscle.
Two of the fògaraich had just decided to test their luck. The undead creatures shrieked as they launched for her. Ruarachan – their fiery-haired mountain of a clansman and Taran’s right-hand – moved to handle them, but Taran snarled once, ordering him to stand down. In a swift, effortless motion, Taran stepped forward and caught them both by their throats. He tore the blood-drinkers apart in less than a minute, then was right back beside her.