by Joy Nash
She showed them up two flights of stairs into a short hall faced by three doors. The door on the right revealed a cramped bedroom under a steeply sloped ceiling. A double bed with a brass headboard and hand-knotted spread was pushed into one corner. A chest of drawers faced it. A framed photograph of a flock of sheep graced the wall above.
“Towels and such are in the dresser,” Mrs. Spencer said briskly. “Bath’s at the end of the hall. I run a proper house, I’ll have you know. Quiet and tidy. I’ll thank you both to keep it that way.”
“Of course.” Frowning, Arthur nodded toward the third hallway door. “Are there any other guests at present?”
She shrugged. “Had a foreign gent in there. He took himself off two days past. A historian.” She frowned. “Odd ring he wore, too. He had a heavy accent—German, I think, or perhaps Russian. Not that I heard much of his voice. Wasn’t much for tongue wagging, that one.”
Mrs. Spencer’s tongue, by contrast, seemed to be finally warming. “Just the family in tonight. Myself, the mister, and our grandson, Jack.” She sighed. “Might as well tell you now, the lad’s brain’s not so quick. He’s never said more’n a word or two here and there from the day he was born. But he’s an angel otherwise,” she added with a stiff glare, as if to head off any protest. “Good natured and a fine worker. A fine worker.”
“I’m sure he is,” Cybele murmured.
Mrs. Spencer gave a decisive nod. “That’s that, then. I’ll leave you to get settled. Supper’s in an hour.” She bustled off down the stair.
Cybele advanced a couple steps into the room. “Looks clean, at least.”
“Cleaner than we are.” Arthur dropped the backpack on the floor. “Just where did you get all that money, anyway?”
“Stole it from Evander, of course. Switched out dollars for pounds at Heathrow. I reckoned glamour and illusion wouldn’t always be convenient.”
He smiled slightly. “Always planning.”
“Damn straight.”
Rounding the foot of the bed, he braced his hands on the sill of the room’s single window and peered out. Merlin’s Hill was a dark rise of land beyond an open field. Cybele came up behind him.
“We’ll find it,” she said. “The cave, and the staff.”
“Go ahead and shower first,” he said without turning. “I’ll wait.”
***
Cybele’s absence was welcome. Arthur was almost at the end of his rope as far as restraint was concerned. He needed her too much. Her scent lingered in the air, taunting him. He wanted desperately to lay her down on the shabby bedspread and make love to her. But he couldn’t risk having another blackout when she was near.
Restless, he left the room and tried the door to the second guestroom. Unlocked. The space was similar to the one they’d been given. The bed was smaller, however, allowing room for a desk and chair. Though the furnishings were old, the room scrupulously clean. Everything was in perfect order—there wasn’t so much as a wrinkle on the bed covering or a speck of dust on the desktop. The woodwork shone dully, as if recently polished. And yet Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling that something was out of place.
Frowning, he opened all the drawers in the dresser and desk. He even got down on the ground to peer under the bed. It was a waste of effort. He found nothing.
He went to the window. Across a graveled yard stood a barn and a smaller structure that might’ve been a chicken coop. He noted a wagon, a pickup truck, and a well pump. A dirt road ran from the near corner of the barn, passing alongside a pasture before disappearing into a tangle of vegetation. Through the branches, he could just make out the collapsed roof and crumbled stone walls of a much older structure.
A sudden spill of light caught Arthur’s attention. One half of the barn’s double door had opened. A teenaged lad emerged, holding a lantern. He closed the door behind him and turned to trudge toward the house. Just before he passed under the window, Arthur caught a glimpse of his face, strangely illuminated, almost as if from within. Arthur frowned. Light from the lantern? From the window? Or from something else?
“Arthur?”
He turned. Cybele stood in the doorway, wrapped in nothing but two thin towels—one around her body, the other, turban-style, around her head. His gaze took on her bruises—one on her right shoulder, another on her forearm, a third on her thigh. There were bite marks, too. More than a few.
His stomach turned.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Nothing.” He couldn’t lift his eyes from her long, damp legs. He imagined them open, draped over his shoulders.
She stepped past the door and into the room. Immediately, his lust was superseded by a deep feeling of wrongness. He didn’t want her in this room. Something wasn’t right. He backed her up into the hallway.
He shut the door behind him. “Don’t go in there.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure. Just...don’t.”
“All right,” she said slowly, eyeing the closed door. “If you say so.”
Once back in their own room, she unwound the towel from her head. Her hair fell, wet and snarled, to her waist. “Ugh,” she said. “I forgot conditioner. It’s going to take forever to comb out.”
Her bare shoulders, even despite the bruises, mesmerized. He went hard just from contemplating her collarbone. She half turned away. His gaze skimmed over the delicate lines of her shoulder blades. Only to freeze at the sight of three long red scratches, running diagonally across her back. Bloody hell.
His erection shriveled. Snatching up clean clothes, he mumbled a couple words and headed to the shower. When he returned, already dressed, it was to find Cybele sitting on the bed, cross-legged. She wore a flowery blouse and panties, and nothing else.
She’d made slow progress with her hair. Half of it was smooth, the other half remained a tangled mess. She looked up as he entered. “This is ridiculous. I should cut it.”
“Please don’t,” he said.
“It’d be a lot easier.”
There was no chair in the room, so he sat down on the bed, careful to keep some space between them. “I like it the way it is.”
She huffed. “You do it, then.” She held out the comb.
Against his better judgment, he took it. Scooting toward him, she turned and shook her damp hair down her back.
He passed the teeth of the comb through her hair, working up from the bottom. He could feel the damp heat of her skin though the thin cotton blouse. The faint scent of shampoo, the texture of the blond strands between his fingers, the sound of her breath hitching higher. The sensations spread like sparks across his awareness.
His hand began to shake. “I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” he muttered.
She glanced over her shoulder. Something in his expression must have given her pause, because she slowly drew back and took the comb from his hand.
“I’ll finish it,” she said, her eyes sliding away.
He watched her comb through the rest of the tangles, and then braid the lot of it into one thick rope. She hunted through her pack for a hair tie. As she was looping it on the end of the braid, she looked up and met his gaze.
“I wish we could make love,” she said.
He stood, abruptly, and put as much distance as he could between them without actually fleeing the room. Which was not, he thought grimly, nearly distance enough.
“Don’t you?” she persisted.
“Cybele. Don’t push.”
She grimaced and pulled the backpack closer, rooting through it for a clean pair of jeans. “Sorry.”
“So am I.”
She pulled on the pants and stood to zip and button them. “It’s just—I can’t stop thinking about last night. I’m still reeling. It was...” She blew out a breath. “I can’t wait to do it again.”
Neither could he, but... He grabbed her wet towel off the bed, shook it out, and draped it over the footboard. “How could you possibly want to do it again? You’re one big bruise.”<
br />
“A few bruises are nothing compared to that orgasm.”
“A couple broken bones won’t be worth it.” He grimaced. “Maybe I should sleep in the other room tonight.” Though that was the last thing he wanted to do. The thought of sleeping in that room jangled his nerves.
“So Mrs. Spencer can charge us another fifty pounds?” Cybele exclaimed. “No way. I didn’t bring unlimited cash.”
“We’ll sleep with our clothes on, then.”
She looked skeptical. “You really think that’ll make a difference?”
“It better,” he muttered.
Their gazes met. For a moment, they just stared at each other.
“Will it always be like this?” She hugged her torso. “Will we always want each other so badly?”
“Yes.” Arthur had no doubt. “At least, for me it will be. You’re the only woman I will ever want.”
“You can’t know that,” she said quietly. “And it’s not even likely. Nephilim don’t do monogamy.”
They didn’t, as a rule. But maybe if his parents had been lifebonded, if they hadn’t had other lovers, things would’ve turned out differently. But Tristan’s only goal had been to father a child of Merlin’s line. As for Alwen, she’d remained at Tŷ’r Cythraul mainly because of Arthur. Still, no matter how unhappy his mother had been, she might have restricted herself to Druid and human lovers. How could she have gone so far as to sleep with a rival Nephil? Had she hated his father that much?
“We will stay together,” he said fiercely. “I won’t allow anything else.”
Her brows rose at that. “It’s not for you to allow or not allow. Unless you mean to enthrall me during my Ordeal.
He jerked as if struck. “What? No!” He was appalled she’d even think such a thing. In two strides he stood before her, gripping her shoulders. “I won’t control you, Cybele. Ever. If you don’t want to be with me, just say so.”
“Oh, Arthur. Of course I want to be with you. Only you. There could never be anyone else.”
He inhaled roughly. “In that case...” His eye fell on the faded photograph hanging on the wall. Releasing her shoulders, he grabbed it. The frame cracked in his hands. The thin glass shattered.
“Arthur. What are you—”
“This.” He stabbed a shard of glass into the center of his left palm. Blood oozed from the wound.
“Um...I have a knife, you know. Right here.” She slid it out of her boot. “There’s no need to go breaking things.”
He gave a terse shake of his head. “It’s done now. We can make our pledge.”
She tucked her blade back into its sheath. “You’re serious.”
“I am.” He swallowed. “Don’t you want to?”
“Yes.” Her chest rose and fell. “It’s just...Nephil lifebondings are so rare. And Mab’s forbidden them.”
“I don’t give a shit about Mab. Do you?”
“No, of course not, but...” She eyed the drop of blood welling in the center of his palm. “Who ever heard of an adept bonding with a dormant?”
“So what? I love you. You love me. That’s all that matters.”
She still didn’t look convinced. “Have you ever known a lifebonded pair?”
“My great-aunt, Morgana,” he said. “Her bondmate was—still is, I suppose—a human witch.”
Cybele eased the shard of glass from his fingers. “Are you sure you can handle the sight of my blood? Yesterday...the deathlust...”
He curled his hand into a fist, uncertainties rushing in on him. “You’re right. Maybe we should wait.”
“No.” She touched his jaw, urging him to meet her gaze. “Forget I said anything. I trust you. If you want to do it now, I want that, too.”
“Are you sure?”
She pressed her thumb against the broken glass, testing its edge. Then, with a decisive motion, she pierced her left palm.
“Yes.”
The scent of her blood made his nostrils flare. He hissed in a breath through his teeth. A fierce fire kindled in his gut. He wanted to grab her, wanted to... He shut his eyes and touched his mother’s moonstone.
“You okay?”
He opened his eyes. She stood before him, wounded, blood dripping down her palm. Her life was his for the taking. And he wanted to take it. Not in death, but in surrender. He wanted to dominate, control, own. The finest of lines separated sex, enthrallment, and death.
But she was Cybele, and he loved her. As long as he remembered that... “Yes,” he said. “I’m okay.”
She eyed him a little uncertainly. “How do we do this?”
He took her left hand and pressed it to his, palm to palm. “None but Thee, Cybele. Unto Oblivion.”
Her fingers curled around his hand. “None but Thee, Arthur. Unto Oblivion.”
The archaic vow, delivered in Cybele’s soft Southern drawl, caused his heart to clench. The lust to dominate hadn’t completely faded—it never would, he suspected—but he wouldn’t let it master him. If he did, he’d be no freer than she.
How long they stood there, palms clasped, eyes locked, he couldn’t have said. The press of their hands, skin on skin, blood mingling with blood, filled his senses. He held her life pulse in his hand. Each beat entwined their energy, their magic, and their lives.
Cybele was trembling. His own legs felt unsteady. The longer he looked into her eyes, the more he hated to look away. He’d thought he’d known the depth of his feelings for her. But until this moment, he hadn’t really understood how completely she’d become a part of him.
She spoke first, of course. She always did.
“I...your power. Your magic. I can feel it, Arthur, and it’s...immense.” She swallowed. “I feel like an ant, crawling on a massive oak.”
“It’s yours,” he said fiercely. “Myself, my magic. Everything I am. It all belongs to you.”
She wrapped her free hand around the back of his neck. He pulled her flush against his body, trapping their hands and their mingled blood between them. Her chin rose. His head dipped. Their lips met.
She opened her mouth and, moaning, sucked in his tongue. He delved deep, stroking, consuming. His cock hardened. White lights raced inside his skull...
The scent of her blood took on a new quality. No. That wasn’t it. It was his own nature, changing. The demon inside him was rising, expanding, demanding life in sacrifice to its power. Magic, dark and fathomless, surged. It tossed his human nature like so much flotsam, to flounder on a stormy sea, past control, past reason.
Deathlust surged, roaring in his ears, flashing in his vision, twisting in his gut. He wanted death. Needed it. But this was Cybele. He clung to the thought like a mantra. Cybele.
With the last shred of his humanity, he shoved her toward the bed. She slid across the coverlet and smacked her skull against the headboard. He lurched backward; his shoulders hit the door with enough force to crack the wood frame. Opal lights consumed his skin. His vision went red. White sparks erupted in his hands.
Cybele scrambled to her knees on the bed. Their eyes locked. Arthur’s chest heaved, his breath coming harshly. The scent of her blood surrounded him, consumed him. His eyes dropped, drawn to the red smear on her palm. She balled up her hand and shoved it behind her back.
Death tasted so sweet. He craved it. Fuck. He never should have risked this. Would he never learn?
“Bandage,” he croaked. “Now.”
After the briefest hesitation, she lunged toward him and snatched up the towel he’d draped over the footboard. As she had in Tŷ’r Cythraul, she used her teeth and her good hand to rip off a strip and wind it around her wound.
He wrapped his fist around the moonstone and forced himself to look away, to shove his demon back into hiding. It was a near thing, but in the end, he succeeded. The lights under his skin faded, his eyes cooled. He slumped against the door. A shuddering sigh of relief left his lungs.
Silence reigned.
“Well,” Cybele said eventually. “That was interesting.” He lo
oked up to find her tying off the ends of the bandage. She pulled the knot tight with her teeth.
He laughed weakly. “Only you would call nearly getting your head ripped off ‘interesting.’”
“You wouldn’t have done it. Not to me.”
“Let’s hope not.”
Her faith in him overwhelmed him. She leaned over and touched him with her bandaged hand. If he’d ever entertained doubts about her courage, they vanished in that instant. Her absolute trust humbled him. Would he ever be worthy of it?
“Arthur?”
He looked up. “Yes?”
“Are we...” The expression in her green eyes was uncharacteristically shy. “We’re really bondmates?”
He couldn’t repress a smile. “For better or for worse.”
TWELVE
“Whatever happened to your hand?”
Mrs. Spencer was not pleased to see Cybele and Arthur appear in the dining room a full fifteen minutes past the appointed time. Mr. Spencer, slightly balding, his expression mild, sat at the head of the table. His grandson, Jack, to his right, had his eyes trained on his empty bowl. The basket of bread and the covered stew pot were apparently untouched. The meal had been awaiting their arrival.
Cybele donned her most conciliatory smile. While the wound on Arthur’s hand had already vanished, hers remained bandaged. “I...um...knocked the photograph in our room off the wall,” she improvised. “The glass broke. When I tried to pick it up...” She shrugged and looked ruefully at her hand. “I’m afraid I cut myself.”
Mrs. Spencer’s eyes narrowed. “Is that my towel you’ve wrapped it with?”
“Uh...yes. Sorry, ma’am. It was the first thing I grabbed to stop the bleeding. We’ll pay for it, of course. And for the picture frame.”
The promise of more money forthcoming seemed to mollify the woman. “I must say, you made a very poor job of the bandaging. Come to the kitchen and let me do it up proper. Your friend can visit with the mister and Jack.”
Cybele darted a look at Arthur. He wasn’t exactly in a social mood. His entire body was tense. Mr. Spencer, who sat at the table’s head, waved him into the chair at his left, opposite his grandson. Jack looked up, taking in the visitors with guileless blue eyes. He was probably close to Arthur’s age. The thought was laughable. He looked years younger and, somehow, centuries more innocent.