Autumn Moon

by Jan Delima

  “Not yet,” he clipped. “And you’re not wearing that.” Tempted to shred the thing, he fisted his hands by his side. “Take it off.”

  “What?” She closed the closet door and her skirts fanned about her to settle into each and every one of her divine curves.

  “That . . .” He paused, forcing a calming breath into his burning lungs. “That thing you’re wearing doesn’t protect you. Remove it.”

  “You’re overreacting,” she argued, unaware of her precarious position. “It’s dated, but I can move freely in it, and I’m fully covered.”

  Which only proved how misaligned this current culture was.

  He didn’t care a frog’s fuck about it being dated. It was provocative, and she intended to wear it in the company of their enemy—that’s all he cared about. Clothing that teased offered far more temptation than full nudity, and that thing she wore was designed for such a purpose.

  “Take it off,” he repeated for the third—and last—time. “Now.”

  “No.” Her spine straightened with determination, which only served to swell her breasts above the low neckline of the garment she wouldn’t be wearing for much longer. “It will insult Pendaran, and he’s been known to kill for less. I want to get through this evening without starting another war.”

  Her eyes widened when he closed the space between them. Slowly, he fisted the material of the skirt and pulled it up to bunch around her waist. Other than the brief moment when he’d held her hands, he’d never touched tender parts of her skin, and his hand itched to dive under the layers of fabric. The vanity mirror on the opposite wall provided a glimpse of her from behind. Lace undergarments covered her firm bottom, easily ripped off in seconds.

  “Cormack,” she hissed, “what are you doing?” The items she held fell to the ground as she braced her hands against his chest, clutching rather than pushing away.

  If only she’d pushed him away.

  A growl rumbled up his throat. “I’m proving a point.” He shoved his leg between her thighs. “This dress won’t protect you. And these . . .” He shifted the silken material of her skirts to one arm, hooked his thumb through the thin lace covering her ass and snapped, “What are these?”

  “Panties.” It came out as a breathless whisper as she squirmed against him. “And you’ve seen me in them before.”

  Oh yes, he’d seen her in her undergarments many times, but seeing and feeling were two different animals entirely. And the skin at her hip . . .

  He inhaled a ragged breath to control his sanity.

  The skin at her hip was warm and soft—and every fiber in his being lured him to flatten his palm and just feel. For almost an eternity, he’d longed to touch her. But Pendaran could just as easily be in this position by evening’s end, and the potential violation hung between them like rotten air.

  Lowering his mouth to the soft flesh under her ear, he growled, “I could bend you over and be inside you in less than a second.”

  He expected anger—wanted it, even. That had been his purpose, had it not? She needed anger in her blood if she was to face their enemy. What he did not predict was her sudden—and staggering—reaction.

  Her chest rose and fell on panted breaths as her body yielded with invitation. But then something changed as she leaned back and glared at him with accusation. “You’d have to be aroused to accomplish that.”

  She thinks I’m not? Obviously, her bunched skirts buffered the damning evidence. It took several moments to gather his wits, and guilt for his behavior followed. Pendaran would arrive soon, and he couldn’t allow her to greet him like this. He set her down and let her skirts fall to the floor, but continued to hold her arms while she found her balance.

  “If a man,” he began, but then amended his prejudice, “if a person wants to violate another, they don’t need to be aroused.”

  She stiffened, jarred by his crudity. “You insult me if you think I don’t know that.”

  Shit, he wasn’t handling this right. A frustrated sigh fell from his mouth as he tried to find the right words to explain his reaction. “I’ve seen things . . . secret things that you haven’t. You’ve always had a voice to share what you’ve observed. As a wolf who couldn’t speak, no one hid their perversions from me. And I’ve witnessed atrocities that . . .”

  He couldn’t go there. He couldn’t endure the thought of something hideous happening to her.

  “You forget who you’re talking to,” she said in a voice heavy with experience. Having been tortured as a child to call her wolf, she would understand some of it, but not all. “Those atrocities you mention will only get worse if war ensues. Wearing this dress is the least of my worries, but enough of one that I am planning to have pants on underneath just in case I need to dump it and hide.”

  A sudden yawn overtook her.

  “Those flimsy things?” He glared at the fallen items on the floor. “They’ll protect you no better than the ridiculous lace that barely covers your ass.”

  “Don’t underestimate the power of spandex,” she teased, but he knew it was an attempt to lighten the mood he’d created. “They’ll protect me as well, or as little, as any clothing. And they can’t be seen under the dress. The matching top is in my purse. Also, I believe Pendaran wants to control my gift”—her voice caught in another yawn—“not my body.”

  “Rape is about control.” But she was right; it wasn’t only her body that could be violated. The sudden enlightenment tightened his gut. Cormack had been too clouded by his own desire to consider Pendaran’s true objective. His apprehension increased when her eyes began to flutter close. “What’s wrong? Why are you acting tired?”

  She snapped them open, and then shook her head as if to remove remnants of sleep. “I don’t know.”

  “Talk to me,” he ordered. “What are you feeling?”

  Her eyes dilated. Like obsidian pools, the pupils obscured the winter blue outline with an unnatural defocusing. “Pendaran,” she slurred like she’d had too much wine. “He’s here. Not in flesh, or in fur, but in spirit. Tell Ms. Hafwen . . . she’s researching something in her library . . . her cottage is . . .”—another yawn—“under the hydrangeas.”

  “Elen, wake up.” He grabbed her shoulders and shook, but then flinched when her head fell backward too quickly. Cradling her neck, he shouted in her face, “Wake up!”

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Sophie turned the corner first, clutching the serpent whip at her waist. The scent of apple blossoms and old power filled the room. The ancient weapon had been a gift from Taliesin, and the wearer often received warnings from the Otherworld. “Pendaran is spirit traveling,” she panted. “And he’s here.”

  Elen made a garbled noise that resembled, “What have you done to me?” and then slumped in his arms, unconscious.

  Ten

  She sensed him before she saw him. He hovered as a spectral image, colorless like a faded photograph, but composed even while separated from his earthly body to travel in a space of death. Not that he would have been aware, because children were trained not to be seen, but she’d observed him in her youth—then much later at Avon. A slender man with green eyes clouded by his misdeeds, his hair had always been dark, but in this realm it appeared like a gray void above a pale face.

  “We meet again, my dear, but under better circumstances.” Exuding self-satisfaction, Pendaran’s voice came to her like a distant echo through fog.

  “What have you done to me?” Elen was still in her room but separated from her body. She could see Cormack’s tortured face as he hugged her lifeless form to his chest, and Sophie running to the stairs—to get Ms. Hafwen, she hoped.

  Pendaran asked, “Who is Ms. Hafwen?”

  “A friend.” She realized too late that thoughts and voice were intertwined in this realm, and she replaced hers with visions of her garden. She pictured her sage, with its velvet skin and pungent sent
, and hyssop, with its lavender blooms adored by bees, and heart-shaped foliage that made a lovely tea when dried.

  And her comfrey, so hardy it thrived alongside her native yarrow, both with healing properties but in different ways.

  “Enough,” he ordered. “Do not waste my time with a bloody catalog of your garden.” He turned toward the room, viewing the same scene. “I am pleased to see you wearing my gift, but the company you keep leaves much to be desired.”

  She had a sudden thought. “You’ve done this to spy on my family?”

  “I have been informed there’s some truth in the rumors I’ve been hearing, but it required a firsthand evaluation, and now I have one. The human wears the Serpent. The lad has the look of your kin and the command of a wolf. And the Bleidd is now a man. Merin’s progeny has grown powerful away from Cymru.”

  His precise assessment heightened her panic. “We shouldn’t be here.” Souls who wandered too long on the other side sometimes never returned. “I’m going back.”

  “Not just yet.” His tone resonated like glass, smooth and easily shattered. “We’ve yet to have our first dance. I did not come without notice. You received my invitation. If naught else, I am a gentleman. I will ask that you reciprocate in kind, and we will have a pleasant evening. If not . . .” He paused, letting that thought hang and his threat molder. “Well, let us hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Utter fear gnawed at her conscience, exacting truths as sure as any mortal facing their demise. “I don’t want to dance with you.” She made an attempt to leave, to focus on her loved ones and sink back to where she belonged.

  “You will dance if I ask you to,” he taunted. “And you will leave when I am ready to dismiss you.” He held her spirit firm with whatever he’d used to conjure her there. “Let us go for a meander, shall we? It is time we become better acquainted.”

  It was posed as a question, but she had no choice or control over the path he brought her down. They traveled around the outskirts of Rhuddin Hall, over the villagers’ homes, through the forest and up the great mountain. It was an assessment of their territory. A familiar building soon came into focus, built into the ground and concealed by trees. She tried to keep her spectral thoughts discreet. Her clinic, closed and quiet, appeared as devoid as she felt.

  Pendaran paused to investigate. “This hospital is your space.” He projected his voice with his thoughts. “I can sense your energy here almost as strong as in your garden. Why do you waste your time fixing the weak?”

  “Because you waste your time hurting them,” she challenged in return.

  “Ah, so that is how it will be.” Disappointment spread from his image like a murky cloud. “What I do is for the greater good of our race, and it is not a waste of time. Take your gauntlet, for example.”

  Curiosity proved difficult to contain. “What gauntlet?”

  “The one Merin supervised on your seventh year when you still hadn’t called your wolf. Surely, you remember. You weren’t all that young.”

  Only one memory came to mind from that year. “Are you referring to my torture?”

  “Torture?” A ghostly laugh resonated in the empty space. “Really, Elen . . . is that what you remember? You are prone to dramatics, I see. You will have to work on that flaw if we are to spend time together.”

  “I remember my mother holding me down while shoving rods into my spine.”

  His shadowy hand sent an absent wave. “Children undergo treatments all the time to strengthen them in their societies.”

  “Please spare me your philosophies.” The thought came unbidden, and before it had a chance to fully unravel, a wave of malevolence strangled whatever substance she retained in this place.

  His echo followed, soft but cruel. “I appreciate tenacity, but not disrespect. You will hear my views whether you care to or not, because you are ignorant and have much to learn. Do you understand?”

  “All too well.” And for the first time in a long while, her heart wept for her mother. How many times had Merin endured Pendaran’s perverted opinions to keep them safe?

  “Perverted? My dear,” he said, his tone teasing more than chastising, “you have not seen me perverted. But let us resume before your insolence becomes a waste of my time.”

  Her goal was not to insult and she tried to quiet her thoughts.

  Mollified, he continued, “For instance, those mouth brackets modern humans put on their children to straighten their teeth. Are they not metal vises that cause pain for years? What purpose do they serve other than vanity, and to help them attract better mates?” He shook his head as if he actually cared. “But you have studied human medicine, have you not? Let me think of an analogy you might understand.”

  Eagerness abounded from his direction. Whether it came from his imparted wisdom, or the prospect of punishing her for not appreciating it properly, she wasn’t sure. She only knew that either possibility posed an agreeable outlook in his mind.

  “I have one,” he declared, overly satisfied with his own brilliance. It shimmered in the space between them like diseased fireflies. “Some humans are born with curvatures of their spines, is this not true? And they are required to wear a brace with only one hour’s relief a day. While others sleep with devices that send currents to contract their muscles while they grow. Are these not tortures done to make them stronger? Would you deny their pain only to keep them weak and malformed?” He challenged, “What is the difference between their intentions and mine?”

  She thought of Cormack and the other Bleidd hunted throughout their lives. And the Hen Was forced to be slaves. “The difference is a conscience.”

  “You profess that as if it’s a good thing.” A frown blotted his pale reflection. “And does not man’s history prove otherwise? I would say my standards are purer, and unbridled by the frivolous weakness of emotion.”

  How was she to debate with a sociopath? And why was she even trying? “You are vile.” Even as the thought formed, she knew her attempts at peace were doomed. This place bared her soul and her opinion was impossible to hide.

  “Sometimes,” he admitted. “If only our kind had the yearly migration of your ruby-throated hummingbirds, then my hand would not be forced.” A wistful sigh echoed like wind in a wasteland with nothing to hinder its travels. “Alas, nature would have done it for me. Even now, they are feeding in your garden, preparing for their great flight south. The weak die naturally during the course of their journey, so only the strong return each year to breed. They are one of nature’s most divine solutions, if you ask me.”

  He flicked his hand, and several tiny winged hummers appeared, faded and crazed, circling in disjointed separation.

  “Return them,” she pleaded, “or they will die for no purpose.”

  Arrogant and uncaring, he continued to lecture, “Our gauntlets were given to help trigger the change, but I do believe yours may have generated something more interesting. You can thank me for that. Your mother agreed to perform your procedure only after she’d learned I had plans to implement it myself. You should be grateful for my interest, because look where it has brought you.”

  One by one, he pulled the wild spirits of the hummingbirds from her garden. Without momentum, she suspected their tiny earthbound bodies fell to the ground to die of starvation, unable to feed in the hasty intervals they needed to survive.

  “And you wonder why the Goddess has rejected you,” she accused, abandoning all pretense of civility.

  A dark wave of rage encircled her soul, vindictive and insidious. “You dare preach to me of Ceridwen.” Old language echoed from his frenzied ire. “Ignorant Drwgddyddwg, I am not the abandoned one.”

  Meaning “Evil Bringer.” A sad irony, to be sure, that it was the Guardians, and perhaps Pendaran himself, who had coined the insult for non-shifters like herself. “It is you who is evil, not me.”

  The element of Air brush
ed against her, even here, like a warm breeze on a winter night, letting her know that the elements were not hindered by conventions as limiting as life and death. They existed universally. But it withdrew once it sensed her anguish. Air was a spirited element, and it didn’t respond to negative emotions.

  The notion made her change tactics. And as loathsome as it was, she reached out her senses in this void with playful intent. Pendaran’s essence drew her as much as it revolted her; like the darkness to her light, one did not exist without the other. It welcomed her approach.

  She felt his surprise, followed by interest, and then his ultimate withdrawal.

  But it was too late. His control weakened the moment she claimed her side of the connection. Gaining strength, her vision spread down the long journey Pendaran had taken to find her, over an ocean and through the rugged mountains and lush valleys of her homeland. Cymru had been touched by modern development, just as the rest of the world. But it still called to her, as it always had. She didn’t know if he continued to share her thoughts, nor did she care. She was home.

  Pendaran’s empty shell lay within an overly groomed forest. Now whole after the battle of Avon, his arms were folded crosswise over his infamous sword. Merin had removed his hand on Avon’s bridge, but limbs were able to regenerate during a shift. Not completely infallible, they did require strengthening for days, sometimes weeks; like atrophied muscles, they needed exercise to rebuild. Their race was born of human flesh, after all, and even the first Guardians retained some of that fragility. And vital organs, like brains and hearts, continued to be their ultimate weakness.

  Hochmead Manor loomed in the distance, Pendaran’s stronghold since the days of dragons, when an older castle had stood in its place; and a hill-fort before then. He was the very image of an ancient Viking, only laid to rest on ground instead of sea, preparing for his journey to Valhalla.