Feillor: God of Lammas (Sons of Herne, #6)

by J. Rose Allister

  “Why do they require saving?”

  “I told you, there are men coming who plan to destroy all of this. I was asking Herne for help in stopping them when the Fates stuck me in front of your blade.”

  She gathered up her items with reverence and cradled them against her. “I suppose you don’t have altars back on your world. You probably don’t go around praying to yourselves when you need a forest spared.”

  “Of course we have altars. There is much to pray for, and many powers that can bring it about. Just the intention alone can be powerful enough to manifest our will.”

  She glanced at him. “Exactly what I believe. Though sometimes, getting help can be even better. Come on. I’d like to be home before it starts getting dark.”

  Salina led the way through the woods, lost in a swirl of thoughts that she couldn’t quite make real for herself. A god had appeared to her in the flesh. Or rather, she had appeared to him. A hot-blooded god with an impressive rack of antlers and hard muscles he had pulled her against his body, shielding her return to earth. The whole thing seemed like a dream, as though she had fallen asleep while kneeling at the altar. But this was no dream. If it were, the god trailing her would be in a far better mood.

  “Is there no wider path?” he asked, shoving past low branches. “The trees keep snagging on my horns.”

  “This is the wider path,” she said. “I live in a forest. Trees are sort of the theme.”

  She heard him curse, and she turned to find him caught among some low branches. He glowered, with golden eyes that shone unnaturally in the fading daylight, while he twisted his head and reached up to try and free himself.

  “If I had known what agreeing to send you back here would cost me,” he said, tugging on his horns until pine needles rained down around him.

  “Then what?” Salina asked. “You’d have left me there, let the land I’m trying to protect be destroyed? Or else demand the Fates send me back regardless of the danger to me?”

  He leveled her with a glare. “Honestly, I do not know.”

  She stared right back at him. “And you think humans are barbaric.” He kept struggling with the branches snarled in his antlers, and she heaved out an impatient sigh. “Here. Let me do it. You’re just making it worse.”

  After putting down her altar implements, she moved close and pushed his hands away. Ignoring his intense gaze and the heat coming off his mostly bare skin, she examined the issue at hand. “How can you be related to a forest god and not be able to walk through the woods?” She pulled two spindly, crossed branches off one of the pointed forks of his antlers.

  “I am a harvest god. I spend my time among crops and fields, not low-hanging branches.”

  She stuck her hand between his antlers, shoving away more foliage. “If stags can do it, so can you.”

  “Most stags do not stand six-foot-two before the rise of their antlers.”

  “True. But Herne hunts in the woods. There. I think I’ve almost got it.” Taking hold of the base of both horns, Salina gave a good tug. Feillor came free, and the force of her downward motion pulled his face right to her cleavage. She let go immediately and backed away, feeling heat flood her cheeks. “Sorry.”

  When she had stepped away enough for a good look, a laugh escaped her before she could stop it. He was partly bent over, narrow sprigs of pine sticking out of his antlers like some kind of holiday adornment.

  “You find this amusing?” he asked, his brow ridged.

  “It’s an interesting look for you. You should keep it that way.”

  She strode off through the woods, hoping he would manage to keep his horns out of further entanglements. Her stomach was folding itself in half over having yanked him between her breasts.

  He fell in again behind her, so she didn’t have to see those gold eyes boring into her. Not that she didn’t feel his hot stare palpably against her back. They walked in silence, the chattering of birdsong growing in excitement as winged creatures trilled their sweetest calls. Their whistles rang out over the treetops, announcing to the forest that a deity was in their midst. How long, Salina wondered, had it been since a god had truly walked in the earthen woods? A while, perhaps, judging by Feillor’s low opinion of humankind.

  “How far is it?” he asked.

  “We’re about there. In fact, wait.” She lowered her voice when she was at the edge of the woods. “Stop here.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Shh. Don’t come out yet.”

  She left Feillor standing in the woods and headed toward the figure knocking on her door. “Salina?” he called out.

  “I’m here,” she said from behind him.

  Rogan spun around, his dark eyes widening as they slid over her. “Gods, Salina, you scared the shit out of me.”

  “You called, I answered,” she said, flashing him a grin. “How is that scary?”

  “I thought something happened to you.” He stepped closer. “I saw your altar out there in the woods, candles burning and everything, but you weren’t there. And I couldn’t find you here.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not like you to leave fire burning in the woods. Where were you?”

  “I didn’t leave it. Look, I’m right here.”

  “You didn’t answer when I called your name.”

  His eyes shifted over her shoulder, in the direction she’d come from. She stepped into his eye line again, hoping Feillor had stayed put. “I must not have heard. Was there something you needed?”

  Rogan, his shaggy hair blown over his eyes by a stray breeze, pushed his bangs back and shoved his hands in the pockets of worn jeans. “Most of the others want to move the meeting back.”

  “Move it back?” Salina shook her head. “We can’t afford to. Mars is coming in three days.”

  “Just to four o’clock tomorrow. That’s still plenty of time.”

  “I have an ugly feeling that three months wouldn’t be enough time.” She let out a sigh. “But okay. I hope you reminded everyone to spread the word. We’ll need as many people as possible to stop this.”

  “I told them.” He paused. “Do you really think we have a chance?”

  “I don’t know. But we have to try.”

  He took hold of her upper arms and planted a kiss on her forehead. “I hope you’re right. May the gods be on our side.”

  “May the gods be on our side,” she agreed.

  She stayed on the porch, watching him drive off. After he’d gone, she waved to Feillor, and he came out of the woods.

  “Sorry you had to wait,” she said as he joined her. “I wasn’t prepared to explain you to Rogan.”

  “Your lover would not understand you being in the company of another male.”

  “What? No. He’s my neighbor, sort of. And a pagan. But even so, I wasn’t quite sure how to tell him I visited another realm and brought back a god with horns.”

  He stood over her now, the immortal glow of his eyes far more noticeable from beneath the overhang of the porch. “He kissed you.”

  “On the forehead, in the location of the third eye. It’s a gesture of greeting and farewell among the local pagans. Shouldn’t a god know these things?”

  She took in his unreadable expression. If Rogan’s kiss had given him the wrong idea, she wondered briefly what he’d think of the Five-Fold kiss she’d seen local Wiccans practice during Beltane. Lips, breasts, genitals, knees, and feet were all involved in that one.

  She shifted the bundle in her arms. “Could you unlock the door? There’s a key under the mat. Unless you want to use your godly powers instead.”

  He eyed her. “I do not expend magic for such mundane matters. Should not a witch know these things?”

  Salina shot him a look and jerked her head toward the mat, where Feillor retrieved the key to let them inside. The house felt unnaturally quiet when she walked in, as though the walls themselves were struck dumb with wonder at the powerful being who trailed after her.

  “But he des
ires you, this Rogan,” Feillor said, shutting the door and leaving his palm flat against the wooden grain. “I could see it in his reaction.”

  She avoided his stare and moved over to the dining table, depositing her items there carefully. “What he desires is to see the woods saved from the chainsaws and land movers that are headed our way.” She turned to find him regarding the room. “I know this place isn’t much, probably far less luxurious than what you’re used to. But it’s home.”

  “It is...quaint,” he said, moving into the living room. His body, large and chiseled, with the span of antlers on top, filled the space as she’d never seen it before.

  “I suppose quaint about sums it up.” It was as nice a compliment as anyone could pay, particularly a god. The wood floors were in need of sanding, the stone hearth was in need of scrubbing, and a faint layer of dust coated the mantle and rustic furnishings. She hadn’t tackled the room with a dust cloth for over a week, not since the news had come that Mars had finally gained approval to tear down the woods.

  “You live here alone?”

  The note of surprise irked her. “Yep, happily so. I’m a modern woman with old world tastes. Go figure.”

  “You do not wish to marry, bear children?”

  What was it with him grilling her about relationship goals? “I’d love to have a family someday. But between running a business and this land development protest, my plate is rather full.” She sighed. “Not easy to meet the right guy these days, especially when you live in a sparsely populated area.”

  Feillor stopped behind the couch that faced the fireplace. “This is hand craft,” he said, picking up the afghan she’d thrown over the sofa back and examining the stitches. “I thought humans preferred the machinery of the Industrial Age.”

  She shrugged. “Not me. I like making things.”

  He glanced up. “You made this?”

  Her stomach felt a little pinch. “Don’t sound so surprised. I don’t just sit around praying all day. Even if I am a mere human.”

  “It is skillfully made.”

  “Thank you. I make crafts, soaps, and charms for a living. I sell them at fairs and over the computer.”

  He returned the blanket, smoothing the green and brown yarn with a respect she found surprising, considering the little barbs he liked to make about humans. He looked up and caught his breath, moving to the corner where the old spinning wheel stood.

  “I know this,” he said, stopping beside it. “My mother spent many hours spinning wool.”

  “It’s quite relaxing,” Salina said, folding her arms. “Very conducive for putting me in a meditative state. I spun the wool used to make that blanket, actually.”

  “You raise sheep?”

  “There’s a farm down the hill a ways where I get my wool. The sheep raised there have the softest fleece I’ve ever felt.”

  “My boyhood was spent largely on a farm.” He turned the wheel and watched it spin. “Our days were largely comprised of running through the fields, helping with the flock, and causing occasional mischief. Shearing season was my second favorite time of the year. The sheep’s fleece was taken just before the ewes put forth their lambs.”

  She cocked her head at that. She hadn’t really considered gods as having childhoods. And his tone right then was quite different from that of the egotistical, prejudiced man she’d first encountered. He sounded wistful, sentimental.

  “Who’s ‘we’?” she asked.

  He turned to her. “Me and my twin brother, Anduron.”

  “You have a twin?” Double trouble, that would be. Two Feillors. Lord help her.

  “Anduron is ten minutes older. He, too, is a god of the harvest. Mabon.”

  She nodded. “The time of giving thanks.”

  “As is the sabbat of Lammas. I gather the first wheat, Anduron the last.”

  “Are you similar in other ways? Do you look alike?”

  Feillor moved away from the spinning wheel. “We are not identical. Nor are we always of one mind.” He looked around, hands on his hips. “But he, too, would appreciate the rustic setting of your homestead.”

  “I’m glad you approve.” She glanced at him, and then the couch where she entertained a brief notion of putting him up overnight. No, that wouldn’t do. Not at all. “I’ll get changed, and then I’ll show you where you can sleep. Make yourself at home.”

  Salina moved off before he could answer, closing the bedroom door while she hurried to find something more suitable to wear than a shapeless linen tunic. But what was more suitable for playing host to a god? Clothes came out of the closet, tossed aside on the bed one after the other, until she settled on something she felt certain he would like. It was a harvest dress done in swirls of pale orange, green, and gold. The pattern was vaguely reminiscent of wheat buds, conjuring thoughts of how she’d danced naked in Feillor’s field of wheat. The way he’d looked at her when he’d seen what she was doing sent a shiver down her spine. For the briefest of moments, she’d wanted to lay herself down in that field and offer herself to a god.

  Shaking off the image, she frowned at the mess she’d created in looking for something to wear. She quickly stowed the reject pile and ran a brush through her long hair. She returned to find Feillor standing beside the reclaimed wood dining table, squinting at the bright orange flyer in his hand.

  “I had those put up all over town,” she said, picking up the topmost from the stack. “They’re meant to gain support for our cause.”

  “More trees, less development,” he read. “Stop Mars from turning our forest into an urban jungle.” He looked up. “Mars?”

  “That’s the name of the developer. Shawn Mars. He plans to level the forest to build a vacation resort not a half-mile from here.”

  “And this bothers you.”

  She blinked at him. “Of course it bothers me. Doesn’t it bother you? You’re a nature god.”

  “I thought humans preferred structures to nature.” Such was his experience. Humans were infamous for ripping open the earth to erect their monstrosities. Then they had the disgusting audacity to call it “improvement.”

  “Some do. But I’m not one of them. That’s why I’m planning to fight Mars on this.”

  He gave her a hard look. “Mars is also a god of war.”

  She set down the paper. “True. And fitting, now that you mention it.” She nodded up the hallway. “Come on. I’ll show you the bedroom.”

  It wasn’t until they were inside there together than she thought twice about being alone in her house, let alone the bedroom, with a mostly naked, completely sensual male. They both stared at the four-poster bed, and already she could see that the queen size mattress would barely be big enough to contain his large body.

  “Um, here,” she said. “I’ll sleep out on the couch.”

  He frowned at her. “You have no bedchamber of your own?”

  “This is my bedchamber. I don’t have a bed in the spare room. I use it as a combination crafts room and office.”

  He raised his chin. “I shall take the couch.”

  She laughed. “Have you seen yourself? You’ll never fit on that old thing.”

  “Then is this bed not big enough for us both?”

  “Both!” Her heart wobbled, as did her legs. She reached out and grabbed hold of one of the wooden poster spindles to steady herself. “That wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  He stood on the opposite side of the bed. “You have no worry of my attempting to seduce you. Even were you not human, such temptation is not possible for me.”

  She swallowed, wishing Feillor wasn’t between her and the door. Discussing sex while they stood over her bed...could things be more awkward between them?

  But then his words struck.

  “What do you mean, even if I wasn’t human? Are you saying you don’t find humans desirable? Is it because you’re a god?”

  His unnaturally intense, golden eyes swept over her body, and she gripped the post tighter. “Bedding mortals is not unhear
d of for my kind, even outside ritual requirement.”

  “Ritual requirement?” she asked, not keeping the irritation out of her voice. “It’s not like you’re the god of Beltane. Sex and fertility rites aren’t part of Lammas.”

  His expression hardened, and she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. “All sabbats hold symbolism involving the balance of male and female. Such demonstrates respect for the act that brings forth all life. One who truly practices the old ways should understand this.”

  Heat flared in her chest. “Yeah, well, it seems there’s a lot we both don’t understand about each other’s culture.”

  Why was she getting so bent over this? It wasn’t like Feillor’s sex life was any of her business.

  They stared at each other over the mattress, which seemed to stretch between them now like an impassable precipice.

  “I have offended you,” he said. “I am sorry.”

  “I’m not offended,” she said, her nostrils flaring slightly. “I could care less whether you find humans attractive or not.”

  He met her gaze. “I would not be able to perform carnal rituals with humans if they were incapable of arousing me.”

  “And now we’re oversharing.” She vaulted away from the bed, headed for the door. “Let’s just finish this up by saying I’m sleeping on the couch. But first, I’m starved. I’ll make us some supper.”

  ***

  Feillor stood over the couch, staring down at Salina while she slept. Her breathing was soft and even between pink, parted lips. The curve of her hip was visible beneath the hand crafted cover. Her palm had slid beneath her cheek, and her long hair had been braided and lay over one shoulder. She was truly a stunning woman, one who thought him incapable of noticing the perfection of her ripe body. He had noticed, all right. The moment she’d appeared naked in the field.

  His cock stirred, proving the point. But he had not been sent to earth to make her the harvest maiden, nor had he come out to her living area to torture himself with an erection he was two days away from doing something about.

  Her eyelids opened a crack, and she spotted him in the darkness. She sat straight up with a muffled shriek.