“Yes. Well. I’m going to call for an ambulance just in case. Head injuries can be tricky you know.” The short, portly man traipsed behind the counter and retrieved the handset to an ancient rotary phone. “I closed the store early. It’s been a slow day.”
“Don’t bother calling anyone. It’s already feeling better.” She probed the back of her head and noted the lump had shrunk by half. Weird, but welcome. “Why don’t you have a cell phone? That thing’s got to be fifty years old at least.”
He grimaced and revealed crooked, nicotine stained teeth. “Technology like wireless phones doesn’t like me. It’s why I ride a carbureted bike. Can’t keep the new fuel injected ones running.”
Apprehension trickled into her in a cold, disconcerting stream. She’d seen Howie use a cell phone plenty of times. The statement felt like a big, fat whopper of a lie. But it didn’t make any sense.
Add to that the fact they’d spoken many times when she visited the dealership about his motorcycle. He rode it because he loved it. Technology had nothing to do with it.
She waited until he turned his back and eased down off the stool. The wobbles in her legs were gone, and her elbow no longer throbbed. An intense, sudden need to get away from Howie and closer to Ian sprang to life.
Ian represented safety, and Howie...something... else.
The first few steps she managed a steady walk, but before she’d closed half the distance to the garage, she’d sped up to a run. Her fingers closed around the metal handle.
Cold seeped into her shoulder and the sharp stab of blades sunk into her flesh.
“Ian!”
Through the glass pane, she glimpsed a group of inhuman creatures like those found in the pages of a story book. Her story book, in fact. The book she’d begged her mother to read her every night at bed time.
All fairy tales unlike those preferred by other little girls. The fairy tales she liked told stories of ogres, leprechauns, phookas, Underhill, and the plight of those who fell into the trap of the Fae. Bloody, scary, and full of wild magic. Edith worried over her obsession with the book. But Peyton’d found it at a library book sale and never let it go.
She’d even taken it with her to college. The stories that captivated her the most were those of the Wild Hunt and its members, the maidens and country folk swept up in its wake and taken along for the ride of their lives with the Fae, the spirits of the dead, and all the raucous inhuman creatures in the Hunt’s ranks.
The Wild Hunt had come to Georgia.
Those monks she’d said a prayer to must be having a big ole party where they were hitting the sauce pretty hard. ‘Cause this was off the charts.
A huge black horse with a mane that flowed in non-existent wind reared on its hind legs. A man comprised of smoke and the glint of steel grinned, his body amorphous and changing. The twinkle of tiny, flitting lights, moving with intelligence and intent, circled the group. Two men so tall they had to be over seven feet, each with hair that flowed over their backs to their waist, brandished long, thin swords. A black ram pawed the ground, almost as large as the horse, with red eyes and flames under its hooves. Grey, white, and black coated hounds surrounded the legs of a man all in green who threw his head back and laughed. The last man wore leather from head to toe, and held a bloody curved knife in one hand, a battle axe in the other. All were terrifying in their own right, but she knew if she ran to the horse, she would be safe.
They turned as one and stared at her.
She tried to remember if she’d ever smoked crack or dropped acid or something that would explain the obvious hallucination.
Shock at what she’d seen through the door clouded out the pain in her shoulder until the shards of agony doubled. Wrenched around to face her attacker, she struck out with her fist and managed to connect a solid blow to his chin.
Gobbets of slobber flew from an oversized lower lip, and beady yellow eyes regarded her with cold hunger. The creature’s thick trunk-like legs were exposed by a filthy loin cloth.
An oversized hand tipped with talons that dripped with her blood struck out toward her cheek, but she ducked and scrambled across the floor on all fours.
The hollow clang of the door smashing into the wall registered, but fear drowned out a momentary burst of hope when the icy leather of the creature’s fist wrapped around her calf. The bellow of an enraged horse reached her ears, and she toppled a bar stool in an attempt to obtain a weapon. The stool rolled in a half circle, and the fingers gripping her leg scratched deep furrows into the muscle before lifting away.
When she realized she’d been freed, she gained her feet, hobbled away, and concealed herself behind the counter. The clack and ring of hooves on cement mixed with hungry roars, a horse trumpeting, and the metallic clatter of what she assumed to be motorcycles falling over onto the show room floor.
All those pretty bikes were gonna be dented up. At least it wasn’t her fault.
Blood ran down her leg and back in a sticky red flow. The new leather jacket and chaps she wore had done little to protect her from the knife-sharp nails on her assailant’s hands. She shuddered, cold wracking her frame. Something inhuman attacked her, an enormous ring curved through its pig-like snout. Enormous tusks sprouted from its lower jaw, and it clutched a cleaver in its free hand. Dread overrode any pain from her injuries as she recalled some of the more gruesome stories in her book. The ones where the fairies ate people and each other. Whole scores of the sidhe were carnivorous, cannibalistic, and bloodthirsty.
Not that long ago she’d wondered if she was turning cannibal, but now she thought no, definitely not. No actual biting and chewing and swallowing would take place.
Fleshy thwacks and the crunch of shattering bones replaced the cacophony of battle. She grappled with the phone the thing masquerading as Howie had clutched and discovered a trail of wires hanging from the back. Not attached to anything.
“Why am I surrounded by technology that hates me? Fuck it all.” She slammed the handset down, and the bells inside the housing released a shrill clang. No help there.
She scooted across the floor toward the break room door in hopes of locking herself inside and calling for help. Perhaps the living participant of the brawl—most likely the horse—wasn’t interested in eating humans and would leave her alone. A call to the police and help would arrive. Yes, that’d do it. Why the hell didn’t the universal cell phone actually exist? Something that didn’t break after she’d owned it a month.
She’d take a nice vacation in a mental hospital or another state after explaining a fairy battle broke out in the motorcycle dealership. And one of them wanted to eat her, and he scratched her leg up and stabbed her shoulder, but then a big black horse charged in and stomped the first one to death, and the original one had taken the form of Howie Turner. So that meant Howie had probably been eaten himself, so they’d never find a body. But even if they did find it, it’d look like a piece of gnarled wood or something innocuous because the fairies would want to cover their tracks. And she’d heard Ian the motorcycle mechanic speaking in a weird foreign language that she’d never heard before and couldn’t speak herself, but she understood every word he’d said, and she was pretty sure he was the horse that wasn’t a horse at all but a phooka—
A soft puff of hot breath and the velvet skin of a horse’s nose nuzzled at the back of her neck. The thoughts cut off, and she shrieked.
“Get away from me. No eating! No! Go have some hay!” She increased her speed in her attempt to get to the break room. The horse whickered, soft and low, a sound she remembered from years of childhood riding lessons. Such a spoiled, indulged child she’d been. The father she’d never known provided well for her despite the estrangement between him and her mother until she’d reached adulthood.
Shaking so hard her teeth clacked together, she peeked over her shoulder.
The phooka’s black coat glittered and shone with blue highlights. Despite the thick gore splattered on its hooves, forelegs, and muzzle, she felt a
n irresistible draw to the creature. Large, velvety ears pricked forward, and huge, blood-red eyes rolled toward her.
It whickered again, and she made an attempt to control her breathing. The fae lowered its head toward her, and she reached out with one shaking hand. She traced the rim of one nostril and petted the super soft space between its ears, down its nose. Warm breath blew on her forearm in a soothing stream, and she scratched behind its jaw.
A quick peek confirmed the phooka’s sex, and she blushed when the suspicion that she’d been caught looking settled in. A sound like a deep chuckle reverberated from his chest, and she tried to throw that aside. Horses didn’t laugh.
But Ian would.
As the shock wore away, agony set in from the injuries in her leg and shoulder. The lumps and bumps on her head and elbow reported nothing at all to her nerve endings, but the Fae inflicted wounds blazed with fiery pain.
She opened her mouth to speak, but swallowed the words. Legends of the phooka abounded, sometimes they helped humans, and sometimes they did not. But one thread ran through almost all of fairy lore: one did not thank the Fae. After a moment’s consideration, she wrapped her head around a suitable response to his intervention.
“I shall never forget what you have done for me this evening. You are quite the magnificent specimen of phooka. With a gorgeous, black, coat and strong, muscular physique.”
The phooka raised and lowered his head, tapped one hoof on the floor, and snorted. Despite her pain, she giggled and tried to remain upright.
“Aww, now, did I give you an ego boost? I think you know how wonderful you look without my praise.” She bent her uninjured leg and gripped the shelf built into the counter to try and stand. Talking to phookas, deadly battles, and clawed up body aside, being near the Fae compelled her to get on her feet and not appear helpless.
The phooka inserted his head under her arm pit, and she clenched his coal-black mane with both hands. He straightened, taking most of the weight for her as she got to a standing position, her knees quaked with exertion. The wounds on her lower leg released a new flow of blood down into her boot and soaked her sock.
She wound her arms around his neck and snuggled into the heat of muscles and a familiar, icy smell beneath the sweat and blood. Tingles crept over her body, marched along each inch of her skin, and raised the tiny hairs at the back of her neck. Energy compressed and tightened into a ball in her solar plexus, then released in a shower of fireworks that danced over her consciousness.
The equine neck and chest she’d plastered herself to disappeared and were replaced by the smooth skin of a man. Thick, corded arms circled her waist, and her nose pressed into a large, firm pectoral muscle. She leaned back and tilted her head to take in the face of her Fae protector. Strong, peaked eye brows over green eyes bright with an inner fire stared back. The wide, sensuous mouth was bracketed by small stress lines, and blood spattered his forehead and cheeks. Soft tendrils of black hair flowed over the back of her hands, and she sifted through the loose strands.
If a person had sex with another person who could be an animal, was it bestiality? Cause she’d break that law. Thousands of times with this guy.
He kept a light grip on her sides, but a hard, long cock swelled between them. Desire swam and ignited in her, magic bathed her aura, erased any worry over bleeding to death, and her nipples hardened. Creeping warmth swept over her, numbness replacing her pain.
“Ian?” She traced his cheekbone, wonder and amazement shutting out any fear.
He nodded.
“Am I going to die?”
“Not unless you want to.” He lowered his mouth toward hers and stopped when their lips were a millimeter apart. “I can save you, but there will be consequences. This fae had poisonous claws. They stab their victims, and then eat them while they’re still alive and half paralyzed.”
“So I don’t feel pain because the poison is shutting my body down?” Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she found she could not open them. Both legs went weak, and she dipped in his embrace.
“Yes. I’m sorry Peyton. But I want you to live.” He hauled her up tighter to him and cradled the back of her head in his hand. “I hope you forgive me.”
Tight bands of steel wrapped her chest, and she fought to gain a breath. The soft, sensuous glide of a tongue inserted between her lips, and coaxed her into a response. He plunged deeper and bit her mouth. The crest of a wave broke open in her, and the sensations she’d experienced before when he’d changed shapes from horse to man centered in her being.
She clenched his hair in her hands and managed a deeper breath. Icy cold and wild, his scent permeated her nostrils and flowed into her lungs. The throb of his erection ground into her abdomen.
Her clit pulsed, and wetness slicked her pussy as urgent need overtook her. Never had she felt this kind of sexual craving. It burned and soothed, claimed common sense and destroyed it on fires of passion. A whimper tore from her throat, and she went limp.
“Figures...” Of course she’d finally get the guy naked, right before she passed out and was half dead. She was a total failure at cougar-ing.
Chapter Four
He moved back and buried any sense of guilt or self-recrimination, taking stock of her injuries. She may hate him later for his actions, but nothing was as important as keeping her alive. A soul-deep sense of loss and panic embedded itself in him when he recognized the signs she was succumbing to the torsca troll’s venom. The torscas consumed other fae when they could; their toxin specialized for the physiology of their own kind.
Peyton was a lost Fae, and despite the knowledge that he’d be saving her to watch her go to the arms of another man, he couldn’t let her die. When she recovered from her injuries... He grit his teeth. She may hate him for the rest of her existence. He had to wrench her remaining humanity away. A convulsion damn near tore him apart as he forced the magic of the rut aside.
His magic wrestled for control, the urge to bury his cock in her and fuck her...to own her...to leave his scent on her...in her...
“Daegus,” he screamed, agonized. His friends had stayed behind when he shifted and stormed into the show room, wise to stay out of his way. He’d have killed them. If ever he’d needed the Child of the Hunt, he needed him now.
Shadows and fog crawled along the floor and up the walls to combine, thickening until Daegus appeared, a creature formed of nothing but the energy of the Hunt. He clapped his hands once and a ram’s horn materialized. The vessel gleamed with a low shine formed from centuries of handling.
“You have to help her. Take care of her.” He sank to his knees, her torso limp, arms trailing to the floor. Blood tinted black with poison dripped from her wounds.
Daegus knelt, the horn in his left hand. Smoke twined around her, threads slid up her nose and into her mouth. Blood pumped from her wounds, almost all poison at first. “Ian, it is your job to care for her, not mine.” He offered the horn. “Drink, and awaken her.”
She lay unresponsive, the rise of her chest all but imperceptible. The rut pitched and heaved, hooking his guts, but he shut it away, accepting the horn cup.
He used his thumb to push her chin down and open her mouth, positioning the cup next to her cheek.
“No, I told you, you must drink.” Daegus shook his head. “A kiss, Ian.”
“I don’t know that I can control the rut, Daegus. If I kiss her...” Despair churned his guts. “Why didn’t I know about her sooner? I could have protected her.”
“I am but a product of the magic, not the source. This is the path before you.” The dark grey and black streamers of magic fog snapped back from her to rejoin with Daegus.
Golden liquid sloshed within the horn, and he sipped it, held the mouthful of pure Fae magic on his tongue. So long since he’d partaken of pure, unfettered magic, and the essence relieved a pain he’d lived with for so long he’d internalized and buried it.
Control. Control and care. Death crept through her flesh, if the rut took him now, he�
�d kill her accidentally. Two deep breaths, a silent prayer, and he kissed her, pushed his tongue past the cool flesh of her lips. The toxin moved through her body with each heartbeat, taking over more and more ground. He slid his tongue across hers.
“Again.”
He broke away and drank more from the cup, deeper, and trickled a small amount of the beverage between her parted lips. Nibbling, sucking, and finally sweeping his tongue into her mouth, she sighed and responded this time.
The rut battered the barriers he’d slammed down around it. Each time she met his thrusts and plunged her tongue into his mouth, tugged his hair, and angled her head to get closer, he waged a war with the magic of the Wild Hunt, a magic made even stronger by the consumption of the nectar-like substance in the hollowed ram’s horn.
“Stop. Stop, Peyton.” Twisting his face from left to right, he avoided her attempts to continue the embrace.
Confusion clouded her features. She reached for him with her injured arm, and sobbed in pain. “It hurts. What happened? Ian?”
He met Daegus’s eyes and grimaced. “More?”
The other man gave one short nod.
“Peyton, I need you to drink this. You have to drink this, or you’ll die.” He clutched the cup hard enough to have crushed a mundane object to hide the tremors in his hands. Soon, he’d succumb to the Wild Hunt’s indelible force, and lose control.
He didn’t know if he wanted to be near her when that happened or not. There was no way to know how she would react to the attack, losing her humanity, and finding out the Fae were real. He had to be ruthless with her now, if he would save her.
He tipped the cup to her lips, and she batted at his hands. “Hold her, Daegus.”
The cup would never empty, no matter how much he poured from it. Daegus caught both wrists and held her secure, both hands on her belly. She cried and mewled like a kitten. The golden liquid trickled into her mouth, down the corners, and across her cheeks and chin. She coughed and choked, but started to swallow.
Peyton's Ride (Riding With The Hunt, #1) Page 3