"Gnnng, yes! Mark me as yours."
Herne smoothed his glowing flesh, and Tam all but melted beneath his touch. His palm struck again, a snap of pain seizing the air from Tam's lungs and jolting through his frame. A third followed swiftly, and then another. His flesh sang, the pain searing, the blood pounding in his arse cheeks and in his stiff, throbbing prick. Even so, instinct had him wriggling out of the way as he sensed Herne swinging toward his arse again. And then again. His struggles in vain, the pain grew searing, hot tears pushing in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. When the beating stopped, he panted all the more desperately.
For a moment, only wind whipped his arse, and Herne moved away. He missed the throb of Herne's proximity and heat. Then Herne returned, slipping between Tam's thighs to jerk his buttocks apart, and his every sense fell besieged.
With a single finger, Herne probed toward his entrance, circling and smearing his hole with something slippery that felt like fat or grease.
"Be still," he chided.
It proved hard to obey. Tam clenched and unclenched his arse, his body whirling with expectancy. Herne circled his ring, spreading the cold wetness. "Do not fight me," he murmured. Then he eased a finger inside.
Tam felt his body give, the stretching pain slight, much less than he'd endured when Herne struck him. Herne pulled his finger out and pushed it forward again, adding another until Tam shuddered…then yelped. Slowly and gently, Herne stroked his insides, launching waves of thus far unknown pleasure. Ah! He'd experimented with his finger and always imagined this would feel good, but he'd expected nothing so all-consuming. Herne's hand alone exceeded any bawdy gossip about the forbidden joys of sodomy. Why did ballad singers not tell of this?
"Yes…oh, yes!"
For a moment, he nearly surrendered. He wanted Herne's cock up there, nigh to hell with the consequences, not some substitution for the flesh he craved. He bit down hard on his tongue. Glancing back, he saw Herne had set his features tight, the strain evident. The wind howled through the crumbling stonework, low and rasping like an ailing wolf.
Too quickly, Herne removed his fingers and replaced them with the tip of the ginger. Small, sticklike, and unyielding, it felt hard, strange…and burned as sharply as vinegar on a bleeding scratch.
"Agh!" Tam gasped.
Herne groaned, and then he drove the root inside, a searing spindle plundering Tam as deeply as Herne had with his fingers. The root stretched his orifice as it swelled toward its bulbous head—and, oh sweet Goddess, it set his insides on fire, smarting and stinging. Hell, yes. Now he could feel.
He screamed, hoarse with surprise at the intensity, instinct driving him to repel this intrusion, but when he clenched, the burning in his passage became almost unbearable. It felt akin to being impaled on the hot spit, and he screamed all the louder, his every nerve shredded raw, his awareness reduced to the torture.
And to Herne, who held the plug firmly in place, calming him, touching with the same tender care with which he had bound his hand.
"It…it burns." Tam flexed with pain. "I…I…feel too much. I can't stand it…yet…yet…"
His shut his eyes, letting the torrent overwhelm him. He could barely muster a whimper, but it came from his heart. "P-please. More."
His world dissolved into a blur. Herne slapped his bottom. Tam squeezed his arse cheeks; instinct left him no choice. The ginger seared up his channel, and then Herne struck him once more. Hardest yet, his pain surged toward pure agony, and he squeezed tighter still about the root. When he finally relaxed, tears trickled from his eyes, and he well understood the purpose of the ginger.
He was tied up, helpless, hurting, and Herne offered him the choice between pleasured pain and pained pleasure, in a total mastery of his body and mind. Although each blow felt harsh and his insides blistered, the pain quickly subsided to sizzling heat, and the heat melted into something sublime.
A final, scorching blow rained on his buttocks, and he cried out again, the scrape of the barrel against his cock nearly enough to bring his rapture forth. Then Herne ceased his attentions on Tam's reddened flesh and pulled out the ginger with a swift jerk.
He felt instantly bereft.
And he could not keep his true desires from the begging look he shot Herne over his shoulder. Lightning flashed, illuminating a hundred gaping gargoyles, the thunder sounding as their laughter; and Herne stared back, his face a stony mask veiling his soul.
The first fine spatters of rain dashed Tam's backside.
*~*~*
"Don't tempt me further," whispered Herne as the turmoil within him grew agonizing.
Water trickled across the sweep of Tam's back and shoulders, down his reddened arse, and between his parted thighs. Splayed over the barrel, prepared and ready for Herne's every pleasure, he even stretched his creamy neck out to be licked, sucked, and bitten. And would Tam never stop begging with those pretty eyes and long, tear-stained lashes?
He'd thought those scorching nights with Crea would haunt him forever. The sight of Tam flushing at his first explanation of the ginger made him realize he'd discovered one with whom his coupling could be more scorching still. Yet the strength of these feelings spoke of more than that. Goddess, he recalled that vision from long ago, the day the spirits saved him. Could Tam be that auburn-haired lad to whom he'd offered "forever"? Surely his memory failed him. This connection could only be an illusion born of his wishes.
When he'd slipped his fingers inside Tam, he'd barely resisted plunging his cock in after. He'd spent his seed once this night, but would once be enough? It never used to be. The rain lashed him, doing nothing to cool him. He cursed his fellow spirits, Taranis and Sucellus, who tossed thunder and lightning for play, and Sulis, who sent her rains to soothe the baking lands. Then he strained to hear the whispers beneath the wind.
Did the Wild Hunt ride? Did they call to him, with all the power of the Goddess on their side?
They'd encourage him to do what he wanted with this boy and then join them in oblivion. Though he'd sworn to never wreak their brand of destruction again, they offered solutions to all his problems. He could so easily fuck Tam, then drown himself in their chaos, forgetting about the death he'd leave Tam to face alone.
A dark part of him wanted that simplicity.
Because if he were to lose control of his appetite and release that power he'd kept suppressed for so long, Tam's fate would be far worse than death by fairy magic.
No. He'd learned to be strong. With a grunt, he shut his mind to temptation and fell to his knees. He'd started this, the lad deserved to be brought to rapture, and Herne well knew how to provide. Reaching between Tam's parted thighs, he grasped his cock, tugging and sliding. Then, growling, he inserted his fingers back inside Tam's stretched ring of muscle, pressing toward the upper surface of his channel, stroking with an expert touch.
*~*~*
Thunder raged, large drops of rain pattering down to mingle with the sweat streaming from Tam's brow. The wind wailed, strange and haunting, but he paid heed to none of it. He whimpered, racked with pleasure at the sensation of having Herne inside him once more.
After the ginger, Herne's fingers felt as sweet as honey, combined with the stretching and tormenting of his hole. Still, through every sinew of his trembling body, he grew as desperate to be fucked properly as he had for the oak to impale him. No, more so.
What if Herne experienced an equal urge?
Herne kneaded his insides, and Tam yelled out wordlessly, his troublesome fears dissolving. Ah, the wonderful squeezing took him by surprise. More intense than the ginger, Herne teased the upper side of his burning channel, wakening throbbing bliss that commanded his every faculty.
Herne's breath pounded the back of his neck, Herne's great body folding over him, possessing and engulfing him as he assaulted Tam with his hands. Tam felt his arousal build, bodily sensation holding sway. His cock wept in Herne's grasp, and he twisted and writhed, crying out for more between unsteady breaths. He cou
ld not hear his own thoughts when, deep inside him, Herne urged on pulses of ecstasy that quickened toward frenzy.
Rapture claimed him all too quickly, sweeping from his arse to his cock, where his seed burst forth.
"Sweet heaven," he said.
Slowly Herne eased his fingers out. Tam's body hummed with pleasure, but his contentment faded fast. Herne said nothing; he trembled violently, and his cock, ragingly erect, dug against the small of Tam's back.
Thunder clashed, nearly overhead now. And finally fear seized him. What madness had propelled him this night? Herne could kill him with a single fuck. Still he'd begged for it. He bit his lip to stop himself begging even now.
Herne's response vibrated through both their bodies. "I cannot. You tempt me too far."
Herne rose swiftly, stepped around the barrel, and then Tam saw a knife in his hand, gleaming with the reflection of fire and lightning.
"No!" screamed Tam.
Herne grabbed his hair, pulled him up, and then slashed the knife toward him. Tam shut his eyes, time neither to struggle nor chide himself for his folly, but the cut to his throat never came. The ropes holding his wrists fell slack, and he fell back over the barrel. By the time he dared open his eyes, Herne had gone.
*~*~*
Stalking from the ruins, Herne smelled the venison, crispy and more than ready to eat. By the Goddess, he felt ravenous, but he needed fresh meat. He needed blood. He tossed his chin back, his antlers rattling and slicing through the rain and wind, and howled his frustration toward the restless skies. He'd been so close to losing control. His passions must be quelled. He needed to kill.
The baying of the hounds filled his ears as he crossed the meadow in front of the abbey. It took him only a few minutes to reach the open scrub before the forest, where a crack in the cloud afforded moonlight enough to discern Edric pacing toward him, Godda at his side, and Yorick too, riding a two-headed pig.
Following close behind, more than a score of the Wild Hunt had found foul creatures to mount, even those who usually hunted as foot soldiers. Most swayed on their rides like drunkards, slurping from tankards, waving sticks in the air. They chanted their love of destruction like a pack of disgraced jesters, while the hounds swarmed about them, foaming at their mouths.
The monk poured milk down his crumbling gullet, white liquid flowing from his guts and glinting in the faint light. When he spotted Herne, he smacked at what remained of his lips beneath his cowl, waved his pitcher, and yelled, "London burns on the morrow!"
So they presumed they'd ride far tonight. Herne's rage nearly boiled over into violence. "Will you not leave me be?"
Thunder crashed after his words, a mere echo of the intensity of his fury. Yorick shrank back. Fear contorted Edric's face, but he proved impudent enough to shout over the storm. "I perceive you are ready to lead us. I knew I could trust my wife's powers of persuasion to get through to you in the end."
"You are wrong," answered Herne, the worst vitriol of his glare reserved for Godda. He struggled not to exact vengeance there and then for the pain she'd caused Tam. "I need to be alone."
"No, you do not." Edric edged close enough for Herne to observe his broken nose, as swollen and globular as one of the abbey's finest grotesques. "I smell the beast on your breath. Your blood is up, and that whelp has not satisfied you. Only we can bring a lord of vengeance what he needs. England must fall again."
"Not by my doing," growled Herne, as much as to himself as to Edric.
"But you are our leader." Godda stretched her thin hands toward him, as if in prayer.
"Surely you now see why I warned you. You have passed days with that child of these times. I pledge he whined for luxury, demanding sweets and silks as if he were a king's courtesan. He tempted you and tormented you, like those who fell when you survived. England deserves another tumble."
Yes, Tam had fuddled Herne's mind and had demanded much. And he was a child of his times. But worse, so much worse, if Tam must die, then a plundered kingdom might just assuage this new pain.
Maybe he could ride free and ruthless again, with the wind in his hair, the stench of fire and blood filling his nostrils, and forget his new loss. Temptation swept through him, and his tightly clenched fists shook.
"Join us," entreated Yorick, sliding down from his pig. "Plunder deep and hard with sword and cock, and you will forget him."
Herne slid his gaze to the white grin glowing beneath his black hood.
"And I will take care of that pretty knave," said Yorick. "The instant he steps from the abbey, he is mine."
Never.
At last Herne's fury consumed him. He grabbed Yorick's throat with a single hand, lifted him bodily, and tossed him ten yards across the heather. The hounds bayed; a goat bleated. Mounting his one-eyed mule to prepare for the charge, Edric laughed and clapped, and the rest of the hunt cheered.
"Come back to us." Godda danced with delight, her ragged skirts flying up to reveal legs, pus yellow and brittle as twigs, belying her magic strength. "Draw your knife, spill his festering blood, and become one of us again. Let's spill fresh blood together."
The monk stretched out his pitcher in offering. Herne swiped it to the ground, splashing sour milk through the tempest. The dead churchman staggered back. "Shame," he said.
"I will not lead you."
The rest of the pack encircled him. Herne looked from one death-mauled monster to another. A swollen purple face distorted with malice as his rejection sank in, and a flesh-stripped jaw fell slack. Their foul stench caught in his chest, and he nearly choked. When he turned his back, only to encounter a dozen more of them, their screeches of disappointment rose.
"Herne!"
"Free us, you dog."
"You poxy bastard—you're no better than us. Don't deny it."
He swiped away their grabbing hands, battering the Wild Hunt from his path with his elbows and fists. Godda's magic crackled through the air, lashing him with agony that would have brought a lesser being to his knees. Still he ran, his heavy tread crushing the dew-kissed heather into the mud. The hounds yapped at his heels, borne on the swiftness of the storm, and the Hunt kept gaining. Every time one of them stretched for him, shivers shot down his spine.
The cloud thickened once more. He could hardly see which creature scraped claws along his arms or dug in bony fingers and barbed nails so he had to twist and turn to break free. He kicked a final pursuer away, then ran on, his speed fuelled by the knowledge he had become the wretched prey. For the first time since his transformation, he lacked the strength to fight back.
He didn't slacken his pace as he hit the edge of the trees. Swift and sure as a stag, he wove between beech, ash, and tangled holly, penetrating deeply into the Greenwood night.
Chapter Thirteen
Herne hastened through the forest until he no longer discerned the Hunt behind him. He circled back to ensure they'd lost his trail, then kept running. The Wild Hunt might have grown in power, but Herne's skills of tracking and evading surpassed their knowledge.
He would have to act soon, either with or against them. Only blood could satiate him now, fresh meat or…
No, he would not ride with them. He would become the hunter again, before his passions reached such a bestial pitch he knew not what he did.
He hunted, and then he feasted alone, brooding on the stars, the dark shapes shifting in the forest, on the cries of the owls. He even thought about Crea, although the memories faded fast now, and his antlers diminished soon enough after. Recalling Crea left him cold as ice.
He pondered anything and everything. He may not be able to find Calleagh and save Tam. If so, he could not fight his destiny with the Wild Hunt much longer, however abominable it proved. His calling had been to lead them before. Most likely it would be that way again.
When he finally returned to Beaumont Abbey, a pink dawn spread across the eastern sky. To the west, in the direction of Little Lyndton, an orange light glowed, clouded with black smoke.
So the Wild Hunt now thrashed across the Greenwood realm. The wet would quell the worst of the fires, but the air already hung thick with the odour of wasted corn and smouldering thatch.
So much for never again.
Herne felt that his fate grew inevitable, that his hand was being forced. But he refused to lift his horn to his lips and rein them in, even to lead them back to the depths of the Greenwood. He had business to finish.
Calleagh did not linger outside the abbey, so he raked the ruins to find Tam. He had not slept in the refectory, where Herne had spent many a night. Had he set forth after him with the Wild Hunt at large? Or had he gone with Calleagh alone? Herne's search became frantic. Tam had not tried riding out on Cernunnos, still grazing, but there was no sign of Dewer either.
As he hurried down the spiral staircase toward the library vault, the abbey's aura of calm finally overcame him. Quiet as possible, he stepped inside the room. Tam nestled in the blanket, resting his head on his well-healed hand, which in turn he rested on a pile of books. Dewer curled against Tam's stomach and rolled her black eyes toward Herne.
Tam exhaled heavily, puffing his hair away from his face, though he did not wake. The wood of the writing desk gleamed as new. Herne also noticed how the dust and cobwebs had been swept away, and under the niches, Tam had blocked the rat holes with rocks. He had rendered even this dreary vault a little like a home.
The dog uttered a soft whine. Herne raised a finger to his lips.
That's right, girl. It was good to watch over him for me these last few days. But he cannot be with us any longer. So come now. Quietly, mind.
He patted his thigh, and Dewer padded over. Tam frowned, pulling his bedding to the now chilled spot where the dog had lain, but the lad remained slumbering. Herne hauled the door shut behind him and closed his eyes. He longed to hold Tam again, but he could not trust himself even to speak to him. Neither could he risk Tam being fool or brave enough to come after him.
So Calleagh had not answered their call. And if she could not be found, the betrothal left unbroken?
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