Fey Born

by R. Garland Gray

  Lana lay breathless. She felt like she floated on air, except her guardian mate lay atop her. His nose pressed to her temple. She never knew her body could react that way. She felt calm and wonderful, a slight sticky throb between her thighs.

  “Keegan?”

  He grunted in her ear, having fallen into a healing sleep.

  Very slowly and, with some difficulty, she wiggled out from under him. First, her shoulders, waist, and hips, then she succeeded in freeing her legs. He did not move, but lay still as stone sleeping on his stomach. His back glistened with sweat; tangled strands of brown hair clung to his shoulder blades. Struggling, she managed to gently roll him over on to his back. Removing the stomach bandage, she inspected the wound and found it nearly healed. Only a thin red line remained of the previously slashed flesh. She did a quick check of his wounded arm and found it nearly healed as well. The druidess’s paste must include a magic spell, she concluded with relief.

  Covering him with the white pelts so he would not catch a chill, Lana walked down the grassy path to the flowing river. Kneeling at the edge, she began to wash. The waters felt cool upon her sensitive flesh and she experienced a little shiver. For a few moments, her mind drifted on the touch, feel, and taste of her guardian mate, but then her thoughts moved back to Valor. They must find the sword, return it to the king, fight the battle to come, and win. She had no doubt of victory. Only then could she allow herself to think of settling down with Keegan on a farm, or wherever her guardian mate wished.

  Lana splashed water on her arm and caught sight of a dragonfly hovering to her right. She turned toward it. Cradled among stalks of tall yellow flowers lay a gown of unusual hues, the blue green colors of the sea. Her gaze lifted to the dragonfly and she smiled. “Are you a messenger for MacLir, little one?”

  The dragonfly darted away in answer and Lana’s gaze settled atop a flat gray rock where there were beaded combs for her hair. They were in the same likeness as the girl faery had worn. She had no doubt then who had left the gifts.

  “My thanks, MacLir,” she whispered, and stepped down into the cleansing caress of the river.

  Waking slowly from a dream of vivid pleasure, Keegan breathed deeply of the sweet air. He felt surprisingly well rested for one who battled the poison of a Darkshade dagger. He became aware of soft fingers stroking his right hand and tracing the silver cuff at his wrist.

  He glanced down his chest.

  She caressed him again, inspecting his fingers and pale nails. He watched, too dazed to move. A single finger traced the smoothness of his palm, following the long line there, awakening all parts of his body with the searing memory of her.

  By the white moon!

  He remembered the mating and closed his eyes in misery.

  He had taken her, in greed and passion, his body straining to give her pleasure. And when those delicious female cries had subsided, she took his seed into her womb. If the sword spirit claimed her, the repercussions of this act were too horrific to consider. His eyelids cracked open and he tugged his hand free.

  Lovely long lashes lifted, stealing his heart. She gave him a strange smile, kindling the liquid blaze once more.

  His traitorous body hardened despite suffering the after effects of poison and physical weakness. He lifted a leg to mask his ardor. It started out as a dream, a joining he secretly craved, an unwilling desire, an idiotic infatuation he dare not act upon. She was forbidden, but now, having drank of her, he wanted more. She was becoming an obsession, one he dare not ever acknowledge, for both of their sakes.

  If at the end of all this, the sword spirit’s judgment proved unyielding, he silently vowed to take full responsibility for taking her virgin sheath, and endure whatever punishment was deemed. He would make sure to take full blame for this act of lunacy.

  “Keegan?”

  He blinked at her.

  “Thirsty?” she inquired.

  He nodded, suddenly mesmerized as she took a sip of water from a silver pail. What is she doing? He soon had his answer.

  Leaning over him, he found silken lips pressing upon his, a gentle request to open. Cool fresh water rushed into his mouth. He did not remember ever being fed like this and swallowed reflexively, only to have her lean over and perform the service again.

  She sat back, that golden mane of hair framing her shoulders, dark eyes alert and watchful. He felt his will seeping away, losing a piece of himself within her gaze.

  He sat up abruptly and reached for the pail of water.

  Before drinking, however, he quickly inspected its contents.

  “What are you doing, Keegan?”

  “Checking the water.” To make sure it is clear of fey born. One never knew where a water faery like MacLir would pop up. Undines could show up in ponds, mud puddles, or even in raindrops if they so choose.

  “I can get more water from the river,” she reassured, not understanding his need to check the pail. “You should drink all of it, Keegan.”

  He intended to do so and drank, quenching the dryness lingering within him, and set the pail down at his hip. They needed to get moving.

  “You should finish this, too.”

  In both hands, she held out another, smaller pail to him.

  The scent of honey and ancient healing herbs wafted into his nose, taunting him. He sniffed at the remotely familiar scents. No water faery would ever reside in there, he knew. “What is this?”

  He took the pail and sniffed again, his tongue grazing the cool rim. Garlic and numerous other herbs, he mused.

  “Derina sent it,” his fair one explained, seeing his hesitancy.

  “Derina?”

  “MacLir went to the ancient for help. You were not responding to her healing flower essences.”

  “What did she do, pop up in the druidess’s pail of water outside her entrance?”

  “I doona understand.”

  He shook his head. “Not important.”

  “MacLir is different from you, is she not?”

  He hesitated before answering, his attention suddenly riveted to her disturbingly sheer clothes. Crafted for mystery and allure, he immediately recognized the fey weave. The glimmering blue green shades, used exclusively by water faeries, appeared nearly translucent in this light. No mortal had ever worn clothes such as these, spun from cave crystals and seashells.

  The bodice was secured over her creamy breasts and small waist with tiny blue ribbons formed from sea grasses. Shirred folds, cast from the gauzy waves of the sea, fell down her hips and long shapely legs to her bare feet. His gaze lifted from her lovely pink toes and locked on the silver dragonfly cuffs gracing her upper arms. Fey cast and fey polished with swirling filigree, they were a gift of high approval from the water fey.

  “Keegan?”

  He could not look away from the delicacy of the metalworking. With this rare gift, the water fey sanctioned his mating with her. He swallowed hard.

  She leaned forward. “Keegan?” Crystal beads of the palest blue glittered in the combs pulling sun-kissed plaits away from her oval face.

  The fey clothes moved lithely with her, showing every slender curve.

  “Keegan, is MacLir a water faery?”

  “Aye,” he replied huskily, and cleared his throat. He had never known the water faeries to endorse any mortal for a mate. He found their preference extremely unsettling.

  “MacLir is an Undine?” he explained, regaining some of his composure. “She is an elemental water faery and can only be where there is water.”

  “Not on dry land?”

  “Not ever.”

  A delicate brow furrowed. “Keegan, why did you not tell me the true purpose of the Darkshade dagger?”

  He tipped the pail to his lips and finished the contents in several swallows. “There was nothing you could do. The blade cut me. The battle was my own.”

  “Foolishness.” She pulled the pail out of his hands and set it aside.

  He shrugged lightly at her glower, and breathed in the sugariness
of berries somewhere near.

  “Hungry?” she inquired all too sweetly, adjusting the dragonfly cuff on her right arm.

  He nodded, unable to keep his stomach from grumbling.

  “It seems you are.” She reached behind her and brought a white cloth to her lap. Untying it, she revealed a mound of blackberries, his favorite.

  Cupping a small handful, she put them in a cracked clay bowl the druidess must have sent, and proceeded to grind them up with some leaves.

  Scooping the squashed berries with three fingers, she leaned forward and pinched his nose. His mouth automatically opened and in went the berries.

  Releasing his nose, she sat back.

  Keegan closed his mouth reflexively and stared at her in disbelief.

  “Chew,” she commanded.

  He was not a child.

  “Chew.”

  He chewed. The sweet berries in his mouth gifted him with life’s renewal and the flavorful scent of her.

  “More?” she prompted, head tilting, eyes flashing, proving her point well enough.

  He would not have survived without her tending. Nodding, he swallowed down the squashed berries.

  “Can you eat these berries without me squishing them?”

  He touched his nose. “Aye. I doona think my nose can take continual pinching.”

  “I dinna pinch it that hard.”

  She handed him the cloth containing the remainder of the fruit. He finished it in thoughtful silence, his gaze straying unerringly to the dragonfly cuffs.

  “Derina has sent some tripe, but I have not unwrapped it yet. Do you feel up to eating it? The slices are thin.”

  He shook his head. “I doona want sheep stomach in my stomach, ever.”

  “I gather then you doona like tripe.”

  “Not ever,” he said, considering the directness of her gaze. She was waiting for him to acknowledge their joining. “You tended me, Lana?” he inquired with slow deliberation.

  “Aye. I tended to all your needs.”

  It would be best for both of them if he let that remark pass.

  “It seems I am indebted to you.”

  The color of her cheeks deepened to a rosy hue.

  He felt her nearness with every fiber of his being, the soft heat of ivory flesh in his hands, the scent of woman laced with berries and heather… His gaze dropped to the white column of her throat and he saw the pulse quicken there. His body clenched with remembrance and desire. He imagined her under him once again, her slender thighs opening to receive his thrusts. He could almost feel…

  He reached for the silvery cloth near her hip and pressed it to his chest. Immediately, the cool press of a sleeveless tunic with laces up the side and front covered his chest. Long breeches of fey grayness slid down his legs and stretched painfully over his erect manhood.

  The tunic and breeches were not as finely crafted as her new fey clothes, but they served his purpose, covering his responsive flesh.

  She sat in silence, watching.

  “You are well?” he inquired into the ongoing silence.

  “I am well.”

  He nodded and looked away, searching for his sword and boots.

  “Your sword lies behind you, Keegan.”

  He found it, his hand sliding over the familiar hilt.

  “Do you feel free of the illness now?” she asked.

  He turned back to her. “I am not adapted to illness and suspect I made it difficult for you.”

  “A little.”

  He chuckled at her response. “I doubt that.”

  She smiled. “True.”

  “How long have I been down, Lana?”

  “Days.”

  “How many days?” He demanded, feeling the loss of even one day was too much.

  “Four days.”

  Muttering an oath under his breath, he tossed the pelts off, and stood abruptly. Unfortunately, his weakened body was not yet ready to charge off to do his bidding. The land shifted into wavering mist and he tilted to one side, losing consciousness.

  “Keegan!” Lana cried out in warning, reaching out to catch him.

  He fell on top of her, knocking her to the ground. His face mashed into her chest plate.

  Gasping for air, Lana took a moment to recover, which was difficult with a heavy guardian sprawled on top of her. Her right hip and elbow throbbed from the impact with the ground.

  “Keegan?” She grabbed a handful of thick brown hair and tugged.

  No response.

  He was unconscious.

  “Stubborn, thick-headed…” she muttered, wiggling out from under him and sitting up. He dinna even remember their mating!

  “Dagger not cut deep enough.”

  Lana turned at the sound of the familiar voice. “Cadman?”

  Pain exploded in the back of her head.

  CHAPTER 12

  DROPPING HIS ROCK, MASTER CADMAN Spriggan stared down at the claíomh host lying motionless on the ground. Had he hit her too hard? he wondered. That had not been his intention. Leaning down, he stuck his ear in her face and listened. She breathed still, her small breasts rising and falling beneath his hand. She moaned in pain. Mine now, he thought with gleeful satisfaction. He traced the silver dragonfly cuff on her slender arm and straightened. The water faeries had sanctioned her. How strange, he thought, scratching his bearded chin. She was not destined to become the mate of a water guardian. For that matter, no guardian had ever taken a mortal bride. It was forbidden to dilute the olden fey line.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Cadman saw the guardian roll to his stomach. He flinched in fear, turning to flee, and then stopped. The guardian lay still after that, locked in the throes of the dagger’s poison. Cadman smiled, baring his teeth.

  He hated them, the aloof guardians, hated their beauty and innate grace, hated their strength and absolute fierceness when threatened. Yet, most of all, he detested the way all females responded to their virile allure, spreading their legs in wanton abandonment. Why should he not be as the guardians? He had vigor and potency. He could ride a female for long hours and take his pleasure from her. And when Lord Bress returned to retake the land, not only would he be rewarded with a great treasure for stealing Valor, but he would be given the spriggan kingdom to rule. He looked down at the unconscious host, so lovely, so delicate. He would need a mate, a special female to carry on his unique bloodline.

  Kneeling beside her, he took her in his arms and stood to his full height. No longer would he keep his father’s squat shape. He was a half-blood. His spriggan father had taken a fancy to a young human female on a farm as he had taken a fancy to this one. His father tricked the female into eating spriggan’s covet bread and then rode her hard, not knowing her mate had already given his seed into her womb just hours before. Spriggan seed and human seed joined within the female’s womb, something that had never happened before. Blood that had always been incompatible and unsuited coupled, and nine months later she died giving birth to twins.

  His brother was born with a large spriggan head. Covered in the wet blood of birth, he died at the hands of his mother’s enraged mate. He, however, escaped the mate’s fury as he was human formed. During the first tender week of his life, his true spriggan father had come and carried him off, a great prize — to all others, an abomination. The spriggans reviled him. The humans loathed him.

  His father kept him separate from all others. Taught him the spriggan ways, taught him to shape change to his father’s short, bearded form. He even showed him how to structure a remembered place in his mind and then how to wink in using light and air. Unlike guardians, spriggans did not need wings to wink in and out of place. They were better than guardians were.

  It was not until he learned all he could from his spriggan father that he had killed him. A quick slash across the throat with a dagger and it was over. He felt no remorse for the supposedly heinous act, only blissful satisfaction. For all he endured, his father was to blame.

  Turning now, Cadman sneered down at th
e guardian. He thought of bashing him over the head with a rock, but a rock would never stop a guardian, and he had other things planned.

  He winked out instead, taking his lovely prize with him.

  ———

  Out of the cool dark shadows of unconsciousness and an approaching night, Keegan awoke slowly. He lay on his stomach, a sense of unease washing over him. Shifting his good arm in front of him, he raised his head with difficulty, feeling the dull achy pull at his healing stomach. In his clearing vision, gray mist became green fields of tall grasses and darkening skies of purple. He swatted at the few tufts of grass in his face.

  “Lana?” he called.

  No answer.

  He lifted his head higher. Nostrils flaring, he quickly pushed up from the ground, his sharp eyes sweeping over the rolling landscape.

  Warm winds moved through the rich green blades of grass.

  The decaying scent of a wrongful death stained the air.

  The river.

  Apprehension settled heavily in his blood. Despite his body’s weakness, muscles flexed, and he launched into the air, taking to his true form, wings beating furiously.

  He knew immediately he was too late. In the next moment he leaped down to the land, crashing through the tall grass and stalks of yellow and purple flowers, dropping down to his knees.

  Keegan stared down at the sight of the crumpled Undine.

  “MacLir?”

  The water faery did not move.

  Reaching out with trembling fingers, he caressed her pale cold cheek and felt the presence of a premature death. His hand balled into a fist. She lay on her side, curled up like a child, the shimmering of her life force gone. The back of her small head was caked in white blood.

  His jaw flexed, the bite of anger cutting, deepening. He cupped her head gently and lifted her in his arms, holding her broken body close to his heart.

  Whoever did this to her had to have been fey born.

  Whoever did this had taken Lana.

  Whoever did this was going to die.

  He looked down upon MacLir for long moments, feeling the loss of her and of Lana. The Undine had been dragged roughly out of the river, judging from the bruises on her wrists. Her body showed the signs of the painful wilting which happened to water faeries who dared walk on dry land. “Vengeance, I promise you, little one,” he said vehemently.