Tithed

by Megan Hart

  “Marrin is my wife,” said Keane without changing his tone.

  If the woman’s face could have blushed any more crimson, Marrin didn’t see how. Arlene Simpson stammered and stuttered and backed away like Keane had somehow insulted her when really, she was the one who’d put her foot in her mouth.

  It made Marrin feel no better to watch the other woman’s distress. Much of the time she could forget her husband was of a different race that didn’t age the same way Earthers did. She aged every day. Keane did not.

  Sworn virgin, instrument of the god’s vengeance—helpless in her target’s arms.

  Blood of the Volcano

  © 2011 Imogen Howson

  Maya, leader of the temple maenads, has learned nothing but contempt for the weakness of her human body. She lives for the ritual that transforms her into maenad form, ready to administer the vengeance of the volcano god.

  Killing a fugitive shifter is not just her duty, but her delight—until, against all odds, he captures her, trapping her in her worst nightmare. Her vulnerable, easily controlled human form.

  Marked for destruction by his forbidden gifts, empath and shifter Philos fled the city years ago to become a warrior for persecuted people like him. Now he has the enemy at his mercy—a maenad desperate to regain her power. But when they touch, he finds his empathic power not so much a gift as a terrible danger. To his people, and his heart.

  Gradually, Maya realizes Philos is not a monster deserving of death. Yet even as she hesitantly offers to help in the war against the priests, she can risk no more than the bare beginnings of friendship with the man she was supposed to kill. Anything more, and she will forever lose access to the power she cannot bear to live without…

  Warning: Contains violence, deadly spider-venom, sex that gets interrupted at the last minute, sex that doesn’t get interrupted at the last minute, and plenty of not-your-usual shape-shifters.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Blood of the Volcano:

  Maya watched him drink, cup water in his hands and splash it over his face, run wet fingers through the long strands of black hair. Longer than mine…but then he was not born to be a fighter.

  The shame ate at her, that he, a runaway, a condemned criminal, had kept her prisoner this long. It had been only luck and a spider bite that had reversed their positions, nothing to do with her god-given powers or her years of experience running with the maenad pack.

  She watched him, an ordinary man, maybe five years older than she. Prettier than most, with the sweep of glossy hair and the dark eyes she remembered staring, terrified, into hers, but nothing that should have made him able to beat her, nothing that should have allowed him to keep her prisoner for a whole night and day.

  Except he’s not ordinary. The thought held her still with sudden surprise. I’d forgotten that—forgotten why we were chasing him in the first place. There’s something wrong with him, some unholy power, demon- not god-begotten.

  She didn’t need to know. It was nothing to her. In a short while she’d pack up supplies and leave, and if she ever saw him again it would be because he’d been stupid enough to try returning, and she—or another of her pack—would tear him to pieces. There was no reason to want to understand more about him, how he’d been able to overpower her.

  There was even less reason to want to make him look at her, now that she was no longer helpless, pathetic and bound. No reason to want to make him remember her as in control, sitting here with the knife ready to her hand, on the spot where she’d successfully saved his life.

  And it’s stupid. I’ve already saved him when I should have let him die, am already letting him go when I should march him in chains back to my people. I do not need to talk to him, let him pretend to be a person.

  She said it anyway, as she’d known she was going to, and her warring thoughts came through into her voice, making the words shiver and run together so she sounded uncertain and almost afraid. “What is your power?”

  He turned. She was looking straight at him, so his eyes met hers. Her question must have taken him off guard, because for a moment his eyes held no wariness, nor fear, only an amusement that warmed his face. It reminded her suddenly of the laughter she’d heard in his voice yesterday, when they were fighting and she’d thought he meant to rape her, then he’d said something silly, too outlandish to take seriously, and she’d known that whatever else he might do, she would never need to fear that from him.

  “Did you not wonder before?” he said.

  She shrugged, not liking the feeling that his eyes could see into her. “No. I was busy being marched across the desert.”

  He smiled, just a little bit, one side of his mouth curling upwards. “I mean before, in the ravine. Did you not wonder why you could not find me when you first came there?”

  She blinked. She hadn’t wondered. She’d forgotten those strange minutes in the ravine, when she—in the full flood of the madness, all her senses enhanced—had neither been able to see nor hear nor smell him.

  He came over towards her, moving slowly, awkwardly—he would not be setting out today—then put his hand out, resting it on the rock face near where she sat. “Here. This is how. This is my gift.”

  She frowned at him. There was nothing, he was doing nothing. Whatever he was, it was not a shifter…

  “No.” He smiled again, a little bit more. “Don’t look at my face. Look at my hand.”

  She did so. The wide span of his fingers was pressed against the rock, leaving a wet handprint, black on grey. An edge of morning sunlight caught the fine hairs on the back of his hand, making them shine faint gold against the brown of his skin. Calluses showed on the inside of his thumb and forefinger. It might not be a fighter’s hand, but it was not a nobleman’s hand either—it knew hard work.

  She was still looking at it, wondering what she was supposed to be seeing, when it disappeared.

  She blinked, instinctively shook her head, thinking her eyes must have blurred, but his hand—no, his whole arm—did not reappear. And now the rest of his body, his face, his tunic seemed to dissolve, like a mirage dissolves when you get close to it.

  Then all at once her perception shifted. He wasn’t disappearing, he was changing. His skin and hair were taking on the colour and texture of the cliff face, matching each ridge and crack and tiny variation so exactly that if she hadn’t known he was there she’d have sworn she was looking at nothing but rock. The change—and that was stranger than all the rest—even crept out into his clothes, so there was nothing to show that a man stood there, silently, secretly watching.

  Only his eyes. They alone did not change, so she had the skin-crawling sensation that something—a demon, something not just half-human but not human at all—peered out of the cliff at her.

  She opened her mouth. “That—that’s your gift?”

  He nodded—she could see where the bit of the seeming-cliff that was really his head moved.

  “And is it just rock? Or can it be…” she made a vague gesture, unable to drag her gaze away, “…other things? Anything?”

  “Anything, more or less. Nothing moving—not water or sliding sand. I can’t match it quick enough for it to work. But anything that stays still long enough…yes.”

  He shut his eyes for a moment, and it was as if he’d vanished entirely. Almost doubting her own senses, she caught herself from reaching out to touch where he’d been. Then he swam back into visibility, his body seeming to coalesce from the air in front of her, changing to his normal self.

  His eyes opened. “It’s not the only part of it. You maenads—you’d have found me if that were my only gift—”

  “Not your only gift? You have…more than one?” She’d never heard of anyone having more than one gift…and black envy caught at her throat. If I had more than one, I would not feel so bereft. And why him? Why does he deserve—

  She got hold of herself. His gifts were unholy, unsanctioned—not something to be envied, no matter how many of them he had.

>   She looked back at his face. “You must have sinned appallingly.” The envy, not quite suppressed, coloured her voice with a harsh tone that sounded like contempt.

  “What?”

  “To have two gifts. It was your sin that brought that on you—”

  “It was not.”

  She stared at him, incredulous that he’d deny it. “You know it was. That’s why we were sent after you—you’ve been using unholy gifts, trying to conceal them—”

  He cut across her. “I know very well what brought you after me. I know my gifts are what the priests call unholy. I’m saying it was not sin that gave them to me.”

  At that, she laughed, scornful, a lifetime of teaching making her sure of her ground. “You’re saying you never sinned?”

  “I’m saying I got my gift when I was two years old.” His voice was like stone. “You tell me, what sin could I have committed by then?”

  For a moment she could think of nothing to say. It can’t be. The unholy gifts—they’re born from sin. It’s why they come at adolescence, when people move away from the innocence of childhood. Only the holy gifts can come earlier, given by the god, blessings rather than curses…

  “You’re lying.” She moved away from him, standing with a jerk.

  “I am not.”

  “You are. You’re lying. That can’t be true. Those gifts come from sin, they can’t come from anything else, they can’t.”

  He said nothing, his silence as much of an argument as words would have been. They were done, she and he, they’d not see each other again, why would he bother lying?

  She crossed her arms across herself, tight, like a barrier, hating how slight her muscles felt, how her fingers closed on little more than skin and bone. I shouldn’t even trouble to talk to him. I shouldn’t want to understand. I shouldn’t care at all.

  “How, then?” she said. “How did it happen?”

  An angry fairy queen trapped his body. A woman’s love could imprison his heart.

  Awaken

  © 2010 Anya Richards

  An Enchanted Story

  Prince Ryllio once lived so charmed a life, even he began to believe nothing bad could touch him. Then a moment’s indiscretion brought Queen Mab’s wrath raining down, encasing him in stone.

  Hundreds of years later, he is losing hope that anyone will find him, much less counter the spell. Until a beautiful young woman wanders into his hidden glade to privately discover the pleasures of her own body. Her sensual innocence reignites his acute longing for freedom.

  Lured into the old forest by an irresistible impulse, Myrina finds intimate communion with Ryllio’s imprisoned spirit. His whispered guidance weaves an erotic spell, rousing her to undreamed heights of ecstasy.

  The intertwining of their minds comes at a devastating price. As each encounter intensifies, Myrina falls in love with a man she can never touch. And Ryllio realizes he must give up the last vestiges of his humanity—or condemn her to life devoid of a flesh-and-blood lover…

  Warning: Bawdy faeries cause mayhem and wicked self-love abounds, as a voyeuristic prince and a shy but willing commoner both get a fine erotic comeuppance (put the emphasis in ‘comeuppance’ where you will)

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Awaken:

  “I can’t help thinking your friend was only partly right.”

  “In what way?” Myrina asked in surprise.

  “There are some things you can learn on your own, but others only a lover can teach.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  Ryllio’s voice grew low, caressing. “The touch of your own hands is unlike the touch of another. What you do to yourself cannot feel the same or give the same sensations as when a lover gives you pleasure.”

  Myrina shivered, her skin prickling to life, body growing warm and liquid inside. Words failed her, for she remembered the imagined ecstasy of his mouth on her quim, wondered if it could have been even better in reality.

  “And,” he continued in the same low, seductive tone, “each lover is different, is inspired to do different things, or the same loving actions in different ways. It is only in the moment you can know whether these new sensations are pleasurable or not. But Elawen also was right. There can be no harm in learning your body’s desires for yourself.”

  Flushed with arousal, yet also embarrassed, Myrina thought it best to leave, but could not bring herself to go. It was not just the desire holding her in place, but a bone-deep reluctance to abandon Ryllio now that she knew of his lonely existence. There could be no harm in staying for a while, in being with him during this moonlit night, in asking him some of the questions burning in her mind.

  It took some courage, however, to finally reply, and her voice faltered from her throat. “Are lovers so different, one from the other, then?”

  “Yes, and you will be different with each one too. What one man will do to you without hesitation, another would never consider doing. And what you enjoy with one man, you will find repulsive if another tried.”

  Considering his words, Myrina realised he must have had many lovers before his punishment began, and a spark of something akin to jealousy came to life deep in her belly. It made her voice stronger, with a bit of a snap, when she spoke. “What kinds of things would a lover such as yourself never do? Surely there cannot be many?”

  But when he replied, his words doused the flame of her anger, even as they ignited a flash-fire of passion.

  “For you, with you, I would do everything, give you every liberty over my body, take whichever you would give in return. There is nothing I wouldn’t try in my quest to give you pleasure, to satisfy you, to make your desire burn so hot it incinerates us both with the ecstasy of our joining.”

  There was no need to ask what he meant, for in her mind she saw them together, in flickers of images conjured by his imagination. He was bent to her breasts, lips curved to receive her straining nipple—kissing her back, hands stroking her belly—kneeling between her legs, his hair dark against her thighs—curled around her from behind, the head of his cock poised for entry into her hungering body. She was tied, naked, to a bed—then he was likewise held immobilized for her pleasure. He was behind, in front, between—in her quim, her mouth, her hand, her arse. She was over, under, beside him, her hair unbound, trailing over his skin. Gentle here, masterful there—in control and ceding control—kissing, stroking, licking, sucking places Myrina never thought another would touch.

  She pressed trembling palms to her cheeks, trying to rise, wanting to flee, but finding her legs too weak. The images were so real they left her gasping, burning—titillated and confused.

  “I’ve shocked and frightened you.” His voice was rueful, but filled with such harsh longing the desire rampaging through her body climbed even higher. “I’m sorry. You are more innocent than I realised. Please—” he added, as Myrina once more tried to rise, “—don’t go.”

  She subsided, quivering, drawing her cloak closer around her as though it could protect her from the unfamiliar swirl of emotion between them. His words and images were like an iron chain, binding and drawing her further into an unknown world she desperately longed to explore.

  But there was also a sense of shame for being so ignorant. Jecil had been her only lover, coaxing until curiosity and the knowledge he would soon be leaving convinced her to accept his attentions. She had been tired of hearing Elawen’s stories and not having any of her own to share. Tired too of not knowing what it felt like to be held, caressed, loved. Now she realised she was still almost as naive as before Jecil breached her maidenhead.

  “You think me silly—like the old biddy Elawen accuses me of being.”

  “No, Myrina.” Sincerity gave his words a gentle edge. “Your inexperience is not something to be scorned.”

  “How can you say that when I could hardly understand what you showed me?” Tears prickled behind her eyes, and she hugged her knees beneath her cloak. “When I can hardly understand what I am feeling?”

  “
What do you feel?”

  How could she describe the heated sensitivity of her body, the need washing through her in rough, tempestuous waves? How to explain to Ryllio just the sound of his voice, the vision of his fantasies, had ignited a passionate conflagration within? In its light all other sensation dimmed, cast into insignificance.

  Gently, as mist creeps over the warmth of a slow flowing river, he cast a picture into her mind. Holding her cheeks, he tipped her face up so the deep green eyes with their slumberous lids and amorous gleam looked deep into hers.

  “So lovely,” he murmured, fingers tracing the lines of her brows, the curve of her lips. “So beautiful.”

  The feathery sensations came from her own hands, but still Myrina allowed the love-dream to pull her deep, gladly sinking into the drowning pleasure, leaving reality behind. Ryllio’s voice, tender and enthralling, guided her to discard constraint along with her cloak, inhibition with her shift.

  Loosening her hair to toss the heavy mass behind her shoulders, Myrina combed fingers through it as she raised her face to the star-flung sky. The movement lifted her breasts—an offering made to love’s primacy—and the puckered tips, kissed by moonlight and the warm night air, ached. At Ryllio’s sighing moan, the last of vestiges of reserve fell away, and she felt reborn—a woman desired and desiring, confident of her allure.

  Taking her time, Myrina stroked neck and breasts, belly and thighs—making contact with fluttering touches and sure, strong caresses. Ryllio’s whispers entreated her to search out and delight in the softness and sensitivity of her skin, the supple firmness of the muscles beneath.

  She felt like a wild thing, unfettered by rules and expectations, open only to the satisfaction of the moment. In the cradle of the night, Ryllio’s voice enfolded her, sheltering and freeing all at once.

  Tithed

  Megan Hart

  He loves her, or he loves her not. There's only one way to find out— take a chance.