by Plum Pascal
She offers me a bundle of clothes, which I accept gratefully. The desert is growing more icy by the minute. Perhaps that’s the reason for the unreasonably large bonfire. To stop the maenads and the rest from freezing their tits or balls off. The sand that shifts beneath my toes is lukewarm at best, the air sweeping off Mount Vallis is colder. It cuts through the layers of clothing like blades. I grit my teeth against the cold. It’ll be a lot warmer where we’re going. I can take an hour of this before we infiltrate. A little observation will save our lives. It’s worth losing a testicle to save all of Fantasia from Morningstar’s machinations.
When we’re all dressed, we creep closer, cresting the dune with difficulty until we can peer over. The vantage point gives us a good overview of the camp. The bonfire is the central point, and figures range out from it. The maenads are nearest to the center, twisting in an utterly indecent dance before a pair of shapes.
I don’t think the man is Bacchus. Not fat enough, for one. The brief glimpses of him I’d gotten during the last war showed him to be a gourmand, twice as wide as he was tall, with hair that hung in greasy strings down his back and shoulders. Beady little eyes, a nose like a squashed tomato.
But still, these gods or goddesses aren’t to be trifled with, if Morningstar’s generals have left them in charge.
Ia pops her head up beside mine and examines the inner circle as well.
“Deianira and one of her lovers,” she says, almost seeming to echo my thoughts. “Bacchus’ daughter. Very powerful.”
“Any way to stop her?”
“Do you happen to have a bull’s horn handy?”
“No.”
“I could be one,” Neva says, cropping up on my other side.
“Won’t work,” Ia answers. “Has to be the genuine article, dear, not the rearranged molecules of a Chosen One.”
“Well, fuck.”
“Deianira can be injured any number of ways, but not killed without it.”
“As much as I hate to say it, we don’t need them dead,” Titus says, settling his weight on the top of the ridge, peering down with contempt at the revelers. “We just need the stones. It’s safer if we don’t charge in with the intent to slaughter.”
It goes against every promise we’ve ever made ourselves. The fuckers are laid out before us, helpfully illuminated by a massive fire. All it would take is a supply of arrows and a good crossbow to end the whole sorry lot of them. They’re like fish in a barrel. It wouldn’t even be sporting.
Titus is right.
And if the most impulsive member of our band can swallow the desire to slaughter them, I’ll do my best to swallow my pride and go along with the plan.
Or at least, that’s what I tell myself as I scan the rest of their number. The second ring of revelers is made up of a thin band of dark fae, the third composed of satyrs and the high priests and priestesses of the cult. The fourth is made up of rutting centaurs, fucking what look to be a few captured women repeatedly. One in particular stands out. A beefy fellow, with a chestnut cast to his skin, the pelt of a red roan, and a swishing tail the same black as the stuff on his head. His raucous laughter reaches my ears, even a half-mile away.
It’s the same laugh I heard all those years ago, when the revelry was in full sway, trampling everyone and everything in its path.
And that’s when the white hiss of sound fills my ears, my mind going blank with only one single thought scrolling across my mind.
Kill. Kill. Kill.
Because I’ve been searching for him for years, this creature. It’s been my life’s ambition to end him, and I’m not about to let him go. Not now. Not that he’s finally within my sight.
I launch myself over the dune, sliding down into the shadowy valley between, that same thought beating a tattoo against my skull.
I’m going to kill Arcadius.
Our original plan be damned.
TWENTY-ONE
CARMINE
“Oh, fuck,” Titus says, words low but fervent. “That fucking moron.”
I, for one, can’t stop staring at Sabre’s retreating back. What in the name of Avernus has possessed him to run into the revelry?
“We have to stop him!” I hiss.
“He’ll ruin everything!” Draven says.
“What’s gotten into the crazy bastard?” Malvolo mutters. “Wasn’t he the one advocating for taking it slow not so long ago?”
“Fuck,” Draven says. “It’s Arcadius. He’s here.”
That name dredges up a faint recollection. Me, sitting on Sabre’s lap not long after making love to Draven. Sabre telling me about his mother’s assault, the origin behind the feather he keeps in his braid. It’s coated in deadly poison, on the off chance that he ever runs across his mother’s murderer. And now Sabre’s found him. No wonder he’s gone off script.
“What do we do?” I ask, not sure if I’m seeking an answer from the others, or simply trying to puzzle it all out for myself.
“Nothing for it,” Draven mutters. “We have to go in after him. Neva, shift to blend. Hattie, go with the generals and whip up another glamour spell. Just a thin veneer will work. Dark fae would be best. I’ll go in with Titus on the other side and hopefully one of us can stop him from drawing attention. Carmine will stay here with Ia.”
“I will fucking not!” I burst out, the profanity slipping easily from my lips. “I am over this infantilizing shit, Draven. You can’t wrap me in cotton.”
He rounds on me, bringing our faces so close together, I can see flecks of burnished gold in the center of his eyes, standing out from the darkness. How had I never noticed it before?
His scent is thick in my nose, the warmth of him tantalizingly close. If we were alone, the palpable sense of danger emanating from him would have turned me on.
“I am trying to keep you alive, Carmine. It’s not time for you to face them. Your skills are underdeveloped. A handful of dark fae and a walking church brought your other half to the surface. You think you won’t be consumed by it if you have to face a stronger foe? If you survive at all?”
My body’s first, traitorous reaction is to flinch away from the accusation. Tears form in my eyes, willing to fall. I blink them back. How am I ever to prove myself if no one gives me the chance? It hurts all the more that it’s Draven saying these things. Draven, who’s always supported me, loved me from afar. If he doesn’t believe in me, how can I be sure of myself?
“I can make Sabre see sense, Draven. I know I can. And you’re wasting time arguing. We have to go now, if we want to salvage the situation and get those stones. So are you going to bitch at me, or are we going to seize the stones?”
I can see the struggle play out on his face, see the stubborn resolve waver as passion battles with duty. I can tell the exact moment his resolution buckles. I smile, faintly. Finally I’ve gained some sort of ground.
He jabs a finger at me. “You don’t go running into trouble. You just drag Sabre out, got it? We’ll get the stones.”
I give him a mock salute and a more genuine smile.
Draven steps closer, erasing the space between us. His large, rough hands cup either side of my face and then he kisses me. It’s a brief, tense liplock and then he releases me, turning on one heel so he can crest the dune as well. And as one, we all begin forward, some of us moving faster than others.
We’re fortunate in at least one regard. The sand makes moving slow, so by the time we’ve slid down the dune and started climbing another, we can still see Sabre, not quite at the edge of the revelry. We may just catch up to him before he can reach the line of centaurs. Maybe isn’t good enough for me, though. There has to be something I can do to salvage this situation…
It comes to me in a flash of insight and I crouch, placing my hand on the cooling sand. It’s more difficult to dredge up power here, where the land is so arid. The last time I tried this, it was as easy as breathing. The land in Wonderland is so fecund, almost anything can be coaxed from the soil. Not here though. Anything
I summon will wither and die in a matter of minutes. But those minutes could be the tipping point between a controlled mission and absolute anarchy.
Buquor, a spiny, highly poisonous desert plant I’ve only ever read about could possibly grow here. The problem? One prick of the thorns will be deadly to any of my compatriots. But, since I literally carry poison in my skin, I might be immune. It will hurt, but a little pain is worth it to stop the certain death that will follow our discovery. So I concentrate, pull my power to the fore and slam it into the ground, keeping the color illustration fixed firmly in front of my mind.
Moments later, a slab of the stuff, thick as a paving stone, springs up from the sand, seemingly with no roots beneath. It’ll wither the second I release it. It’s good enough. With more concentration, more Buquor appears, popping up through the sand like mushrooms after rain.
“Don’t walk on it,” I warn the rest as I climb on the first slab. “It’s poisoned.”
And then I run, biting my lip to contain cries of agony as the three-inch spines stab through my boots and into the tender arches of my feet. It’s not long before a small puddle of blood sloshes about in my boots, making the footing even trickier. I press on, because it’s faster than wading through sand.
Sabre has reached the edge of the revelry now, and there’s a naked blade in his hand. A shortsword or perhaps his signature saber. I can’t tell. He’s scanning the crowd with the keen eyes of a predator searching for prey. I don’t dare shout his name. I’m close, so I think he might hear me. Then again, the grunts and moans of rutting creatures are just one layer of the discordant sound the revelry makes. He may be deaf to anything but his own heartbeat.
I leap off my improvised pathway and land in the sand with a squelching sound. This close, the reek of spirits singes my nostrils and makes bile scald my throat. I’ve never liked spirits. I don’t like the smell, don’t like the taste, and I don’t like what it does to men. Now it seems like I’m set to wade into a river of it. Taking in the last semi-pure breath I’m likely to have for a while, I plunge into the crowd.
I’m almost knocked to the ground the second I do. I bump hard into the flank of a centaur, skid in mud, and barely avoid being whipped across the face by its tail. I’m incredibly fortunate to be crouching in an attempt to catch myself, because it’s scanning the area to see what’s just struck it.
He’s got a woman (perhaps a maenad?) speared on a cock that’s truly massive. She wriggles in his arms, face contorted in an expression that could be pleasure or pain. I don’t have long to examine it because I’m off, trying to keep sight of Sabre’s retreating back.
It’s almost a dance, trying to avoid the stomping hooves, the women being pushed this way and that, their backsides in the air, their heads thrown back in ecstasy. Sex fugs the air, thick and pungent here, the chorus of moans almost drowning out the thrumming beat of the drums and stringed instruments coming from further into the circle.
It’s so tempting to give into the pull of the music. Sway a little, perhaps try the wine. Just a sip… It would be incredible to be bent over and fucked properly, wouldn’t it? I could just…
I catch myself at last, just before I can approach a centaur. Draven might forgive me dalliances with his brothers, but I don’t think he could stand to see me being fucked violently by a malevolent enemy centaur.
Right… bad idea.
I trudge through the muck as best I can and finally tug Sabre to a stop. He whirls, blade flashing up from the line of his leg into a ready position as he turns on me. Reason doesn’t enter his eyes immediately, and there’s a terrifying second where I think he’ll stab me.
Then the point drops away from my throat and something like guilt seeps into those cold blue eyes.
“Carmine? What are you doing here?”
“Trying to stop you,” I hiss, counting on my voice to be drowned by the roar of the crowd. “We can’t be seen here, Sabre. If you kill Arcadius, you’re going to end up getting the rest of us slaughtered.”
He drops his gaze to the ground and takes a deep breath. When he lifts his eyes to mine again, they’re sober. “I... I wasn’t thinking.” His gaze flicks longingly toward a point just off to our right. “He’s just… so close, Carmine. I could…”
“Slay him in front of all of his friends? Yes, that will end well. Why don’t you just instigate a stampede? That will at least ensure the rest of us die more quickly.”
“I can’t let Arcadius live, Carmine.” He insists. “Not after what he did to my mother.”
I stay very still for a few seconds, trying to formulate a plan. It’s not a good idea.
But, I’m not able to get far with my less than great idea because I’m suddenly seized by my hair from behind. I turn to look and see a horse’s knobby knees pressing into my back.
“Too many clothes, girl,” a man’s voice says on a nicker. I don’t have to crane my neck to guess what’s behind me. “Strip and let a real man take you.”
“I’ve got one,” I snap, stepping into Sabre. With his hair half-loose from its usual tail and half-splattered with filth, he looks almost like one of the dark fae nearer the center.
A glance backwards confirms my suspicions. It’s a massive brute, with the coat and markings of a dapple gray, the bulging muscle of a male in his prime, and thick blonde hair that tumbles around his shoulders. He glares down at us suspiciously. I try to keep my head tucked down. I don’t know how many of these monsters will know me by sight, but it’s insane to risk it.
“Prove it then,” the centaur orders and then looks to Sabre before returning his gaze to me. “Fuck him, girl. What else are you here for?”
Sabre opens his mouth, begins to protest, but doesn’t get a word out before I push myself at him. I smack hard against his chest and almost wince. Good Gods, are they all built of bricks rather than muscle? I’ve never met another body with less yield than my hunstmen.
Sabre’s arms lock around me almost at once, bracketing my waist, holding us so we touch from the chest down. We’re so close, I can feel the ragged beat of his heart, hear the labored breaths he drags in.
“Carmine…” he whispers, the sound too low to be heard over the crowd. “We can’t. I won’t impugn your honor in such a fashion.”
“I’m not worried about my virtue, Sabre,” I murmur, tracing the shell of his ear with my lips. I nip the lobe and he actually draws in a sharp breath. “Are you worried about yours?”
“No.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
“Draven,” he starts.
“Will understand,” I answer and then look up at the centaur who still stares down at me. I turn back to Sabre. “Draven would much rather it be you inside me than him.”
Sabre nods, almost to himself. He lets me step back and I begin stripping off my layers the moment I have confirmation from him, dropping them to the ground. They’re almost immediately swallowed by the mud. I think I toss the coat far enough away for it to be salvageable, but the remnants of my shirt, which I’d been using to bind my breasts, are lost immediately in the mire. The trousers are trampled in the next few seconds. It really doesn’t matter so long as I can salvage the coat, with its many roomy, magicked pockets. There are weapons I can use in some, and plenty of space to store the stones as well.
My smallclothes come off last, fluttering to the muddy ground like a thin strip of paper, immediately lost to the filth. Eyes fix on me from all sides, and I fight not to let the embarrassment show on my face when lewd comments are tossed my way. Several centaurs elucidate in excruciating detail what they’d love to do to my ass. I ignore them, seeking out the only pair of eyes that truly matter in this chaos.
Sabre’s gaze is fastened on me and his tongue flicks out to lick his bottom lip in an almost anxious fashion. He still makes no move to do more. I suppose I’ll have to be the instigator then. I leap at him, wanting him to take me to the ground. He lets out a soft sound of surprise as we topple toward the ground. Mud splatters
in every direction, and allows us a little room as the centaurs circle to avoid it hitting their magnificent tails or the partners they’re currently inside. The white brilliance of Sabre’s hair is lost in the muck, but it doesn’t seem to upset him.
His eyes grow a little round when I clamber on top of him, hugging his hips between my thighs. Hunger flickers in his gaze when I trace a hand down my body, drawing his eyes across all the things he could be touching if he weren’t so intent on being a gentleman. An actual moan tears its way from his throat when I find my clit and begin stroking slow circles over it, rolling my hips over his.
“Fuck, Carmine...”
“That’s the idea,” I say with a small smirk. “Are you going to get to it, or shall I?”
Sabre reaches for his belt at last, struggling with the latch even as our audience laughs. For the first time, I’m incredibly grateful this place stinks and is filthy. They can barely see us, can barely hear us, and we’re only two bodies in the crowd. I never imagined having an audience for this, but if it keeps us alive...
And I can’t deny I’ve wanted to experience Sabre from the first time I saw him. Would I have pined for them equally if I’d met them all at the same time? I think so. Neva’s brief conversations with me had been illuminating. I’d always believed the tales of two people being destined for one another. I’d always thought it would be Draven and me. But now I know the heart can grow, can accept more people than the limited number I’ve assigned mine. I could love Draven and his brothers.
In fact, I already do.
Sabre finally gets the belt free and unfastens his buttons, shoving the trousers down the second he can. His manhood springs free and... Gods, how are they all so large? I’m afraid it will split me in two. Not as intimidating as a centaur’s cock, perhaps, but close. Still, I don’t let it deter me for long. Shimmying back up his hips, I poise just above him, letting his head slide between my folds teasingly before easing the tip of him inside.
He lets out a swear word so loud, it draws more snickers from the centaurs around us. I ease myself, inch by inch, down his shaft, moaning a little as he fills me completely. I shudder and still when he’s completely inside. I can’t help but shift a few inches to ease the feeling that I might simply combust. He’s so big...