Fey Born

by R. Garland Gray

  His mouth was hot against her neck, sipping at her collarbone, and then he ripped the green morning gown from her shoulders, exposing her breasts.

  Startled, Lana struggled against him but his mouth was insistent and covered the dusky center of her left breast. She choked back a cry of shock and pleasure, swept away by the sensitive agony of it. Eyes closed, she flung back her head, holding him to her. His large hands slid around her ribs, supporting her back, moving up and down her quivering flesh. He continued to suckle at her breast, sending ripples of desire through her. Then he latched onto the other nipple, his tongue firm and caressing, stealing her breath away. Never had she felt such a joyous yearning. Her hands tangled in the thick brown hair, holding on to him as if caught in a dream. The cauldron of flames within her grew while he continued to stroke and suckle her. She moaned, low and soft, fighting to have more of his hot mouth on her. He licked the underside of her breasts, her ribcage, and the flatness of her stomach. His mouth returned to the place on her jaw, creating an aching need. For a breathless moment, Lana thought he was going to initiate a mating claim upon her, her spirit eager and willing.

  His mouth moved away. Large hands skimmed the woolen gown up over her hips and then… he abruptly stopped, his thumb resting on the raised birthmark above her woman’s place.

  Lana froze, caught between womanly desire and genuine dread.

  She waited for his rejection, well aware of the mark of wickedness upon her unattractive flesh.

  He did not move.

  Her eyes fluttered open.

  His head was flung back, veins pulsing in his corded neck. His long hair, a soft sheen of brown, fell about his broad shoulders. He looked wild, feral, like a predator suddenly ensnared.

  Above her, his chest expanded as if with suffering and labored breathing.

  “By the white moon, a true host,” he said brusquely, and looked down, the harsh lines of a frown arching his fine dark brows.

  His eyes gleamed critically as she stared up at him.

  Lana blinked in confusion.

  His eyes.

  They seemed to be changing.

  Light grays swirling into cool fires of amethyst…

  The almond shape, elongating at the end, tilting upward…

  His lips parted.

  He snarled, baring white teeth.

  Lana’s eyes widened in maidenly fear. “Keegan?”

  Then he leaned down, gently crushing her, his mouth clamping on her jawline in the mating bite embrace, teeth sinking ever so lightly…

  She went rigid in surprise and quick discomfort, her hands clutching the tunic across his sturdy shoulders. She had expected a disgusted dismissal, not a mating bite, never a mating bite.

  Never this total seizing…

  Her heart thudded in her breast and the discomfort slid away, forgotten in the new bold stirring in her quaking limbs. Eyes closed, her head tilted back against his arm, his mouth remained insistent upon her. She felt the tantalizing heat of him through his clothes melting into her flesh, the scent of male, the scent of rain strong in her lungs.

  His mouth dropped away, the whisper of breath near her temple.

  “To you am I bound.” He took a ragged breath, the Claim of Binding echoing harshly in her ear. “To twilight. To honor. To land.”

  His decadent mouth returned to the throbbing in her jaw. The sensation was not unpleasant. She could feel the hard slope of his chest, warm and muscular, beneath his clothes. He suckled greedily at her jaw, forcing her head back further. Her world collapsed in upon itself. Her neck strained from his demands then a large hand wrapped around the back of her head in support.

  A few seconds later he released her.

  Breathing heavily, her eyelashes lifted and she froze at what she saw.

  In glorious majesty, a male faery rose slowly above her, his handsome face formed of firm male angles in the palest of shades. Dark brows arched over catlike, amethyst eyes that watched her without tenderness. Gleaming hair shone with the darkest of golds, reds, and browns, as if drenched in rainfall. The thick strands danced in the air, curling around pointed ears.

  He wore the silver webs of a moonlit night upon his body, showing the perfection of his male shape. Enormous wings of silver lace and black webs beat at his back in obvious agitation, spraying water upon her. He hovered above the white waves just in front of her, feet bare and humanlike.

  “You are mine now, daughter of the sword spirit.”

  Lana struggled to collect herself and sat up in the looming shadow of him. With quivering hands, she held the torn morning gown over her bare breasts. She retreated, scooting back a bit, her mind slowly clearing from the compulsion of desire. She had heard tales of maidens being swept into passion with male faeries. Never had she believed it until now.

  Eminent danger studied her, yet a familiar silver sea cuff of fine metalworking gleamed upon a right wrist.

  “Keegan?” she whispered with barely a breath, unconsciously touching her jaw.

  He nodded and landed gracefully at her feet, his magnificent wings drawn close to his back. Unblinking eyes continued to regard her.

  She forced down her fear. Think. Doona let emotions rule. He shows his true form to me for a reason.

  “You are faery bred.” She stated the obvious, glad to hear the steady tone of her voice.

  He nodded, his eyes never wavering from hers. “Purebred.”

  Purebred. A new trembling gripped her. She heard many stories of the ancient purebred faeries and they were not at all comforting. She stared into his tilted eyes, feeling a long ago past, a glimpsing into a magical and predatory creature. She could not fathom him in any of the fearsome legends, which spoke of intolerances and spitefulness.

  “What have you done to me?” she asked in barely a whisper.

  His cool gaze slid to her jawline. “Made you mine.”

  Lana shifted uncomfortably, the rising sun warming one side of her face and bare shoulder. The rest of her felt chilled to the bone. Tales of male faeries lying with mortals never mentioned a mating claim, never mentioned anything like this.

  “Does my mating bite hurt you still?” he asked.

  She shook her head, mesmerized, and pulled back when he knelt beside her.

  But he only lowered his head and then before her very eyes, transformed back into the familiar form she knew. Silver light glowed around him and a green tunic and breeches replaced seductive silver webs. His wings vanished as if they had never been.

  When he looked up, she found his eyes returned to their normal shape and color. The amethyst marker of his fey kin was gone. Slowly, he reached across her and picked up the old brooch where it had fallen. Brushing the granules of sand away with his fingertips, he placed it gently on her lap.

  Lana held perfectly still.

  “I will not hurt you, Lana.”

  The urge to laugh hysterically locked in her throat.

  He seemed to be waiting for her to respond. She said the first thing that popped in her head. “Why do you hide your true form?”

  “My own reasons.”

  A large hand reached out and gently caught her chin, tipping it sidewise for inspection.

  “Why did you initiate a mating claim with me?” She looked at him from the corner of her eye.

  “You are a claíomh host” he answered simply as if she understood what he meant.

  She took in an uneven breath, unable to help herself. His touch was blistering on her skin, stirring the female places within her.

  His other hand slid over the place of her birthmark and Lana felt the heat of it through what remained of her morning gown.

  “Above the sacred woman place, you bear the fey mark of the sword host.” He sounded almost reverent.

  “You initiated a mating claim with me because of my… birthmark?”

  She could not believe it.

  Keegan could not believe it either.

  He felt lost in the haunting depths of her black eyes. “ ‘Tis the s
word spirit, Lana,” he explained softly, and saw she did not understand. An innocent mortal bearing an ancient magical mark did not sit well with him. Legend always said the claíomh host would be strong, would have some faery blood in the veins, even if but a drop. She had none.

  As he looked into her eyes, he felt a desire to comfort her, to touch her, emotions he never felt before. He blinked, letting them settle and dissolve within him, but still this strange yearning remained and his arms froze with indecision.

  Never did he feel.

  Not like this.

  Not hot and hurtful.

  He looked at her, confused by what she did to him.

  “Keegan?” she whispered, lighting a liquid ache in his blood.

  She seemed fragile to him, a creature easily broken. The sweet heather scent of her, like the sea itself, filled him with longing. She was unbled, a virgin waiting to be claimed by a male, or by a sword spirit.

  His hold tightened on her chin. “Who has seen this birthmark?” He needed to know.

  “The druidess and my parents.”

  “Anyone else?”

  She frowned. “The head simpler too, long ago, when I was young.”

  “The simpler Rose, the tribe’s healer?”

  “Aye.” She tried to pull out of his hand. “Birthmarks are wicked and should be kept hidden.”

  “Your parents told you this?” Aye.

  “It is an old belief that these marks are the marks of evil. They are not.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Bending her back with casual ease, he sniffed at his first ever mating mark, feeling a wave of possession. “I must finish what I have begun. You should feel no discomfort from my touch.” He held her close, small breasts full against his chest.

  “Stop.”

  His mouth lowered over his mating mark again. She belonged to him now. This daughter of the sword would guide him to Valor. He must take good care of her.

  “Keegan, stop!”

  He stilled her struggles. “Let me finish.”

  “This mating claiming is forbidden,” she cried out, pushing against his chest. “You are purebred faery.”

  True, he thought, somewhere in the unseen reaches of his mind. “I have made my claim for you,” he breathed against her sweet flesh. In spite of the sword, in spite of what we will

  face. I will protect you.

  He hadn’t much time. Pulling back, he looked into her wide, night-hued eyes. “Lana,” he breathed, tasting the saltiness of tears staining her cheeks. “You must trust me for I need your help in finding the sword.”

  ———

  He needs my help to find a sword. What sword?

  Lana stood beside an open shutter in Derina’s thatched cottage, her eyes focused on the northern horizon. She was alone with the druidess. In her right hand, she held a goblet of water mixed with the blackish root of a supportive herb for her heart. It was late afternoon, the dark memory of Keegan’s touch still warm in her blood.

  It was not until after, when he brought her back to the druidess’s thatched cottage, the resentment and bodily weakness had come. She was careful to keep the fatigue hidden, but the druidess noticed all things.

  She looked down at the familiar old brown tunics and breeches Derina retrieved from the back room. She spent so much time helping the druidess with her chores that she always left a clean change of clothes here. Despite the warmth emanating from the fire circle at the center of the cottage, she continued to battle the trembling over what happened and the knowledge that came after.

  Keegan is a purebred faery and wants to handfast because he

  needs my help finding… the sword. Not a sword, she thought in dismay, but the sword. Whatever that meant.

  She finished her heart tonic and set the goblet aside. Lana wrapped her arms around herself. Ancient shadows and dangerous obscurity permeated Keegan’s presence, something best left hidden, except now she knew.

  Now she knew.

  Knew exactly what had watched her with an unemotional gaze.

  Knew exactly why he was so swift.

  Knew exactly why the perfection of his features lured her.

  He is faery.

  She continued to look out toward the northern horizon, trying to clear her mind and calm her fears.

  Hours before, Keegan brought her here and then left with a promise to return. What was she going to do?

  “I must go home,” she murmured to herself, turning away and walking over to the fire circle, unconsciously seeking its warmth.

  “You will,” the druidess replied from her right.

  Lana glanced over her shoulder into the withered face and felt a sense of dread.

  “He has claimed me,” she said in dismay, touching her jaw where the mating mark could still be seen. “He said the Claim of Binding to me.”

  “Aye, he has,” the ancient agreed. “A fine claiming it be, too.”

  Lana frowned at the druidess’s pleased tone. “He wishes to handfast.”

  “Aye.”

  “He doona know about my heart.”

  “I doona think so.”

  Lana bit her lip. “I should tell him.”

  “If you must.”

  She stared at the druidess. “This claiming is forbidden.”

  “Why?”

  She was unwilling to reveal Keegan’s secret, but something in the druidess’s face gave her pause. Her eyes widened. “You know what he is,” she accused.

  “I know.”

  “Ancient, he is a purebred faery,” she said aloud to make it real. “A faery,” she emphasized, still caught in disbelief.

  “Aye, young Lana, he be faery,” the druidess said gleefully. “I doona think you know how distinctive and dangerous he be.”

  Lana did not understand.

  “Do you know the legend of the fey guardians?” the druidess prompted.

  “The legend speaks of the fey guardians as being living shields. Many believe they served the Gods and Goddesses in the long ago time but now serve the High King of the Faeries. They are deadly and fiercely protective of the natural ways and of all living creatures. They are among the oldest of the faeries, yet something far more mysterious and magical. All my tribe believes in them.”

  “And wisely so.” Derina scratched her chin.

  “They live in mist and shadow,” Lana added, “rarely seen except in matters of justice.”

  “True.”

  “Are you saying Keegan is a guardian then?” she asked.

  “Aye, Keegan be a first guardian of the waters.”

  “A first guardian of the waters?” she echoed in amazement.

  “Do you know what that means?”

  “He protects all of our waters, the lochs, seas, rains, all of it.”

  “Aye, he does,” the ancient said, satisfied by her knowledge.

  Lana shivered, hugging herself tighter. No mortal ever survived a battle with a guardian, let alone a first guardian.

  “A first guardian of the waters,” she said again, more softly this time, still unable to believe it even though she knew she must. Derina never lied. First guardians were the wisest and most powerful of the fey guardians. They were also the most intolerant of weakness.

  The ancient motioned her to sit at the long table where a small pot of stew waited.

  Lana glanced at the table, feeling slightly sick.

  “Come eat,” the druidess said. “You must stay strong.”

  “Why does he want me?” she said, voicing her thoughts aloud.

  “Sit, young Lana.”

  “I am not hungry.”

  “You will be.”

  Reluctantly, Lana walked over to the table. Her mouth watered at the tantalizing scent of stew stock, mutton, and herbs. Beside the cooling pot, a long round loaf of spotted barm brack bread rested on a plate, waiting. She remembered the flavor of the light and spongy texture of the bread. The last time she had a slice had been in Deireadh Fhómhair, the end of autumn, October, during the cel
ebration of Samhain. The festival of the dead welcomed the onset of winter’s darkness and of in-between, a time when boundaries were broken and the dead roamed the land. She much preferred the smell of flowers and spring. Reluctantly, she sat down at the table.

  The druidess cooked whatever she wished, whenever she wished, regardless of the season. Even though everyone else waited for Samhain to prepare bram brack bread, the druidess made it all year long. Sitting with her back to the wall, Lana ran a finger along the smooth edge of the plate holding the bread.

  “Eat. You will feel better,” the druidess encouraged.

  Reaching out, Lana took a slice of bread and found she was ravenous. Derina poured some of the stew onto a plate and Lana ate. After a time, when her hunger was sated, she looked up. The ancient had taken a seat across from her and waited, watching with empty eye sockets.

  She pushed the plate aside, feeling better.

  “My food be tasty?”

  “Always.” Lana smiled.

  The ancient nodded and folded her hands on the table. “Now, I answer your questions.”

  “Tell me why this has happened.”

  “The guardian does the telling.”

  Lana curtailed her frustration. “Tell me then, why does a fey guardian live among us?”

  The druidess rose, retrieved a bronze goblet, and returned to the table. She sat back down, her face grave. For a long moment, she tugged on her white plaits as if settling things in her own mind and then reached for the goblet to take a sip of its contents.

  “I canna say, Lana.”

  “Please, Derina. He has initiated a mating claim with me and wishes to handfast.”

  The druidess took a deep breath and nodded to herself. “Keegan yearns for that which be lost to him.”

  “I doona understand.”

  A strange sadness curled the edges of the druidess’s mouth. “He yearns for those things mortals take for granted.”

  “Like what?”

  “Surprise and wonder, for sure. Imagine standing among some the trees. Suddenly a tiny songbird lands on a branch just above you. Would you not be pleasantly surprised?”

  “Aye, I would.”

  “The guardian would not. He senses the bird’s approach, hears the flutter of wings, and therefore knows of its coming. He sees the delicate beauty of the feathers and hears the bird’s song, but the wonder and simple awe of it escapes him. Can you understand this?”