She reached up, stroking the side of his face, and he froze, gaping down at her.
“You are so beautiful,” she murmured, her velvet-rich voice coating him. “And your wings—breathtaking.”
They were glowing now, already expanding with energy, but Jorandil could not focus on that now. He was staring at the woman who seemed quite cognizant of his presence, more than could be explained away by her talking in her sleep. Occasionally, women did murmur, most often with their eyes closed, but never had their gazes met. Never had they commented on his appearance. She knew he was there.
“Who are you?” she asked. “What’s your name?”
“I am Jorandil,” he heard himself saying, although his voice seemed detached from his body. “Son of Herne.”
“I’m Cadence. If you didn’t know already.”
He shook his head. His heart drummed, insistent, the lup-dup beats divided in purpose, one telling him to resume his duty, the other fluttering at the thought of her responding to him.
She took hold of his hips and ground hers against him, and her lips parted in a wanton groan. “Please don’t stop,” she whispered. “It feels so good.”
The deep moan in response was his own, and he pressed himself tighter, bending down to sample her lips. She opened for him, and their tongues met, his body filling with power, thrusting harder, her moans driving him into a wild frenzy. He was at the peak now, his duty almost complete, but he would not give in, not until he had achieved that which had never happened in a thousand years of ritual.
Long, deliberate thrusts accompanied the swirl of his tongue, and he held her hands above her head, capturing the moment, afraid to let it escape, shifting his focus onto the woman beneath him and the pleasure he might give her. Her movements matched his, hips grinding, mouths locked in a desperate struggle, their moans aligned to one purpose. Then she stiffened.
“My angel,” she called out. “Jorandil.”
The cry that came out of her throat shot right through him, for it was obvious that she had climaxed, spasming against his cock as she thrashed atop the sheets. His balls filled with unbearable pressure, then emptied in a burst that drove a scream from him. Their life forces combined, her virgin blood mixed with the essence of a god. His wings heated with power, growing, stretching forth, and he kept pushing into her, unwilling to stop, never wanting this to end. But the time came, he felt his wings expand, the power connecting to that of the winged angels stationed around the veil, where they would draw in his power and spread it to the next, all connected, all bringing power to bear on the thin membrane dividing the worlds. He had to pull back now, not just from the woman, but from the earth realm, for the solidified power sealing the veil would, for a time, trap him on the side he remained on when the task was finished.
His reluctance weighed on him, and he felt the heat ignite, welding the veil, coagulating the energies, knowing he had but moments left. That he even considered lingering came as a shock, but he paused, his cock still pulsing in aftermath inside her wet heat, until her eyes reopened and she smiled up at him.
Panic set in as he felt the veil set, and he could tarry no longer.
“Cadence,” he said, tracing her jaw with a finger. “I am sorry.”
Then he pulled away, focusing his intent on the portal in the chamber of Beltane.
“Wait!” she cried out, reaching for him as he withdrew. “I want to talk to you. Please don’t go.”
But he could not grant her wish.
Her puzzled expression growing smaller, fainter, until the veil thickened, parting them forever and their worlds for another season.
“What is it?” Andero said when Jorandil again stood in the chamber. “Your hair has gone white.”
“My hair has been white since birth.” A shiver went over him.
“You appear quite shaken. Was the choice so terrible to behold? Perhaps next time it would be best not to leave the matter to the Fates. They can be a tricky lot.”
“Fate’s choice,” Jorandil murmured, still feeling the silk of her warm skin against his while he belted the ties of the long ritual robes. “Yes. The Fates have done this. There is no other explanation.”
“Done what?”
Jorandil didn’t answer. He was lost in thoughts of her, of Cadence, the only woman to acknowledge him in a thousand years of ritual, just after he left it up to fate to choose his partner.
That consumed his thoughts, along with memories of what had just passed between him and the Beltane maiden, while he was aided in retracting the wings that had successfully united the four corners and sealed the veil until Samhain. Maybe it was coincidence that he had called on fate for this choice, but as he completed the Beltane traditions and snuffed out the flame before leaving the chamber, he had a most unsettled feeling in his stomach.
The feeling told him that he would not forget Cadence any time soon, and that it was no accident that he had encountered her in the first place.
***
Jorandil, son of Herne.
The angel Jorandil.
Jorandil, sightings of.
Cadence refined her search strings over and over, feeling ridiculous for bothering, but not able to stop herself from this obsessive information hunt as she used her laptop to try once again to dig up something about her dream that made sense.
But then, it hadn’t been a dream, not really. A man, a gorgeous creature with rippling muscles, hair like pale white satin, and wings—huge, shimmering wings—had appeared out of nowhere while she had laid in bed, trying to fall asleep but too busy freaking out about college finals. He had asked for her consent, whispering in her ear with a deep, velvety voice that curled her toes even now. He had been quite plain in what he wanted. He knew she was a virgin, and he wanted to fix that situation. And holy maven, had he ever. Jorandil, son of Herne, had been an angel of mercy, relieving all sorts of anxiety about her life, school, and her lack of love life. Then he had gone away, shrinking into the distance, before she’d even been able to thank him. Or ask for a repeat performance.
“Wham bam, thank you ma’am,” she said, calling up a fresh search window on her laptop. “Jorandil,” she said aloud while she typed. “Man or myth?”
There had been this brief moment, when she woke up the next morning, when she’d wondered whether she had dreamed the whole thing. Maybe the stress of a double major and rapidly vanishing scholarship funds had made her snap. As soon as she’d shifted around in bed, however, she felt the soreness, and what she didn’t feel she could see on her pale green sheets. She had definitely had sex, quite vigorous sex, with a celestial lover who had barely given her his name before finishing his mind-blowing ride and taking his act on the road.
Again she searched, calling up the same results she’d already seen fifty times. Jorandil was no Internet sensation. His father, on the other hand, came up in numerous links. He was no angel, however. Herne was a god, pagan god of the wild hunt. A god of the forest. He didn’t have wings, but horns like a rack of antlers on his head. The horns had concerned her for a moment. A girl who’d gone to parochial school would be crazy not to see such a thing and wonder who had entered her bedroom and asked to have his way with her. A question she probably should have asked before happily consenting to have her virginity stripped away by a stranger. But he hadn’t felt like a stranger, nor had she been frightened. Stupid as it sounded, Jorandil’s presence had felt kind, safe. Reassuring. And so, she had given in, let him take her mind off things for a while. Now, she couldn’t get her mind back on any of the things that mattered.
Nothing was said in her research about Herne having a son named Jorandil, but the lore did reveal that he had many children. Apparently, he had a lot of time to spare when he wasn’t hunting and prowling the forests.
There were pictures of Herne, not actual photographs, of course, but many artistic renderings dating back a fair ways. Jorandil did not resemble his father much, and not only because he had wings rather than horns. Herne was most often
depicted as a harsh, weathered figure, with wild brown hair, sometimes a goatee beard, and wily, dark eyes. Typically, he was drawn or painted as a striking, handsome figure, but not always. Sometimes he was shown lean and muscled, sometimes bulked like an action hero. Jorandil definitely had good looks going for him, and he was tall and lean, but muscled like an athlete. His skin was much paler than his father, though perhaps he spent more time indoors. His hair and eye coloring was quite different, with the silvery gray hair, creamy skin, and pale eyes that were a blend of gray and pale aquamarine. Eyes that had met hers and taken her for a ride far away, off into a distant realm where angels deflowered virgins who were all too happy to oblige.
Her eyes drifted to the clock display on her screen. “Shit! Is that really the time?”
She shoved back from the desk and grabbed her backpack. Rain fell in gentle, but unrelenting sheets while she raced to the subway. She caught the train just before the pneumatic doors whooshed shut, sealing her in with the stale odor of too many people going too many directions. By some small miracle, she managed to find a seat. She shoved back the hood of her jacket and pulled out her textbook, reviewing the last chapter and her notes before her final—something she should have been doing instead of surfing the web for info on sexy immortals. Water dripped from her bangs onto the page of the text, and she blotted at it with a frown.
“Organic chem gave me that exact same expression,” a male voice said. “And nightmares about biological hazards in the environment.”
She glanced up and caught a damp sheen of long, pale hair, and she snapped her head up for a double take. No, the guy seated across from her wasn’t Jorandil. Why would it have been? Angels didn’t ride the subway. Nor did her virginity stealer have a British accent. Jorandil did speak in a lilting, attractive tone, but in an old style that made it obvious he hadn’t grown up in the cement jungle she called home. For now, at least. Until she could get her degree, spread her own wings, and fly off to wherever she wanted.
The guy who’s spoken wore a black leather jacket and motorcycle boots, and his bleached hair hung straight along a square jawline.
“What’s your major?” he asked.
She wanted to say “silence,” which is what she wanted from him. Not that there was anything inherently wrong with him. He seemed okay. Somewhat intelligent, probably, if he’d taken organic chemistry. She might have been flattered by what was likely an attempt to hit on her, had it come at some other point in time. But not in the middle of finals, thanks. Especially not just after she’d had her understanding of life, love, and the planet Earth turned on its head. It had been a week already, but it would take far longer than that to get Jorandil out from under her skin.
“Organic chemistry is my major,” she offered, shuffling note cards. Along with biology, but no need to bring that up and inspire additional chitchat.
“Focus?”
“Forensic Analysis. Hopefully working with toxins in soil samples.”
“A solid choice. It’s a growing field.”
“That’s the plan.”
“I thought pre-med was my path, but I veered off and went computer science instead.”
She smiled before going back to her flashcards, but it was a thin effort that she hoped would give him a hint. She really needed to jam some facts into her brain, not focus on strange men breezing into her life. Especially ones she would never see again. This guy would get off the subway and disappear into the press of bodies. Of course, with him there was the possibility of exchanging phone numbers. Jorandil had vanished into a whole other dimension, as far as she knew. He was a ghost she had no way of contacting.
“Would a Grignard reaction with nitrile substrates yield a substantive amount of ketones?” she asked aloud, reading off her homemade flash card.
“I don’t think so, no,” he said. “But again, nightmares for weeks. I wouldn’t trust my repressed memories.”
She glanced away from the card, trying to think of the answer. Her eyes landed on an ad slick above the guy’s head. Find Your Life Path, it read. Free Trial Reading. On the ad was a psychedelic drawing of a palm with an eye embedded in it. A variety of metaphysical services were listed, along with a name and phone number.
“A psychic,” she murmured.
“I don’t think a psychic will help you pass chemistry. But if I’d thought of it at the time, I probably would have tried it. Desperate measures and all that.”
She ignored the guy, who was smiling at her, and grabbed her phone. The subway stopped, and he got up. People pushed past while he held a strap overhead, then he held out a card.
“I’m Stuart, by the way. Call me if you want to get some coffee sometime. Or maybe something stronger.”
She stared at the card for a moment of awkward silence. She snatched it to be polite. Then he was gone.
Stuart Markson, the business card said. Information Systems. His cell was listed beneath a picture of a laptop with smoke coming out of it.
There it was, her invite to get in touch with him. She glanced up again, raised her phone, and snapped a photo of the psychic ad. Maybe there was a way to get in touch with someone else.
She made herself a deal then and there. If she did well on her exams, she would reward herself. Yeah. Pass the chem final, win a visit to the psychic. If nothing else, maybe a gypsy with a third eye could help her unravel the dream-that-was-totally-real.
Flash cards shuffled faster, and she was as ready as she could be by the time her train let her off near the university.
***
The mountain was high, but not an insurmountable task when one had wings. Jorandil soared up, his wings feeling the strain, but he enjoyed every minute. He indulged himself in gliding high whenever he had an opportunity, glad to use his wings for the purpose in which they were created as opposed to infusing energy into the barrier between worlds. Air whipped past like a jet stream, stinging his eyes and chilling his skin. His smile did not waver, however. The freedom of flight was a sensation like no other, and now, as he made his way to the pinnacle, he allowed the enjoyment infuse every inch of his being.
He banked off as he neared the top, circling once to locate a landing spot. When he touched down, he folded his wings and glanced around.
The Fates valued their privacy, and so their abode loomed high, high enough that he could look over the edge and see wisps of cloud below. Few knew where to find the Fates, and fewer still could successfully navigate the steep, craggy black rock, forged from the molten fires that had overtaken his world in the dark days of the god wars. When the Fates had something to say, they delivered the message themselves. They came to call, one did not call upon them.
Herne was one of those who were privileged to know the Fates’ location, but Jorandil had not wished to ask his father for the information. It would call up far too many questions as to why he sought their counsel, and when his father was in pursuit of answers, he could be most insistent—and annoying, should he not care for the answers he got. Jorandil’s business with the Fates was his own, and he did not need Herne to hear of his reasons for seeking them out—or of his suspicions. Perhaps his father suspected as well, for though he was not omnipotent, the forest god was a wily soul. Beltane was the fourth sabbat of the year, if one counted Yule as the start as Jorandil did, and thus far, the four sabbats had all had something new and disturbing in common.
Jorandil was not particularly close with his brothers—few of them were, but they were gods of the sabbats, and when one stayed near the Counsel of Sabbats, gossip was not easy to avoid. As had been discussed rather openly, the sabbat gods had, in turn, been swept clean of their senses and overcome by love for their sabbat partners. Dominus’s row with their father over the Yule mother had thus far been the most talked about, for the god had not only given up his title, but his ties to the immortal plane. He had bound himself to the earth realm to be with his lover. Even more important, there were whispers among the members of the Counsel, closely guarded but audible
when one stood around the proper corners, that Dominus’s actions during the sabbat had set loose a powerful rebound effect that could touch them all.
He had scoffed at such an idea at first. Imbolc came, along with storms that had almost spelled disaster. Eradimus’s mate had no longer remembered her calling. In this case, Jorandil had concurred that Eradimus and Brighid deserved freedom from Herne’s ludicrous punishment of parting the lovers for every generation. The consequences of that parting had nearly been grave, and Herne had relented and granted the pair the right to be together. As Eradimus had been in love with Brighid since the days of old, Jorandil could not in fairness attribute his feelings to the odd turn of events at Yule. Still, the fact that Eradimus had won the right to keep Brighid during this particular turn of the wheel was somewhat suspect.
Then Ostara had come, the sabbat of Tallisun, who had never taken his calling seriously. Perhaps there was too much of his trickster mother in him, but Jorandil could never relate to how cavalier his brother had been about his duties. Tallisun had other aspirations, however, and he did not hide them. He wanted to follow his father’s footsteps, become a god of the forest and hunt. He and Jorandil did share one thing in common with the sabbats, however, and that was their belief that the identity of the maidens they joined with were unimportant. In Jorandil’s case, she must be a virgin, but that was the only true requirement. Tallisun didn’t even have that restriction. He, too, believed that one sabbat maiden was the same as the next. Then, suddenly, he became enamored of his ritual partner, and as a result was reinvigorated as to his purpose as a sabbat god. Now dedicated to the cause, he and his maiden had remained together, and as rumor had it, would stay that way for many Ostaras to come.
This third anomaly Jorandil could not ignore. Something was at work, something he did not quite comprehend. Still, he was a different case than his brothers. Sealing the veil at Beltane required no mere joining of bodies, but the blood of an untouched female. He could not stay with the same woman and unite with her the following Beltane, for she would no longer be a virgin. Nor could he imagine trotting off to bed virgin after virgin while a mate sat at home, waiting. His calling was sacred, his purpose of vital importance in order to preserve the safety of the realms, but he would not betray a partner for it. He chose to honor duty above personal desires for comfort in the arms of a woman. For these reasons, he considered himself immune to whatever love sickness had infected his sabbat brothers.
Jorandil: God of Beltane (Sons of Herne, #4) Page 2