[Merry Gentry 04] - A Stroke of Midnight

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  “You have your human police. Even now Cromm Cruach has them using their science for you.”

  It took me a second to realize she was referring to Rhys, his original name.

  “Not his real name,” she said with my mouth, “but the last true name he owned.”

  “Rhys had a name older even than Cromm Cruach?”

  “Once, though few remember.”

  I started to ask the name, but I could feel her smile, and she said, “You are distracted by trivialities, Meredith.”

  “Forgive me,” I said.

  “I do not mean Cromm Cruach’s true name, I mean these deaths. They will be reborn, Child. Why do you mourn them so? Even true death is not an ending. Others can find your murderers and clues, but there are duties that only you can perform, Meredith, only you..”

  “And what exactly would those duties be?”

  She motioned at Amatheon. “Make my land live.”

  Amatheon offered his sword up to me again, and closed his eyes. He put his neck back at an angle where I could have a clean strike.

  “You’ve done this before,” I said.

  He opened his eyes just enough to look at me. “In vision, and for truth.”

  “Doesn’t it hurt?”

  “Yes.” Then he closed his eyes, and lifted the sword up higher, as if that would make me take it sooner.

  “He is a willing sacrifice, Meredith. There is no evil here.”

  I shook my head. “How is that you, who have all eternity, are so impatient, and I, who have only a few decades, want to take the longer road?”

  In that moment I felt her sigh, and her happiness at the same time. It had been a test of sorts, not of good versus evil, but of the direction this revival of power would take. She had offered me a quicker, more violent way to bring faerie back to its power. I knew with a knowledge as solid as the foundations of the world that Amatheon would die. It would be true death. The fact that he would rise from that grave, and be reborn to his “life,” did not change the fact that it would be my hand that slit his throat. My hand that spilled his blood hot across the earth, across my skin. I gazed down at him as he knelt, eyes closed, face peaceful.

  I took the sword by the hilt, and lifted it from his hands. Those hands went to his sides, limp, only a slight tension in the fingers letting me know that he was fighting the impulse to guard himself from the blow.

  He had gone from hating me for my mongrel blood to offering me up his pure sidhe flesh, and letting me spill that same pure blood in a hot wash across the ground.

  I leaned over him and pressed my mouth to his. His eyes opened, wide and startled. I think the kiss surprised him more than any blow could have. I smiled down at him. “There are other ways to make the grass grow, Amatheon.”

  He stared up at me, uncomprehending for a moment. Then the shadow of a smile caressed his lips. “You would refuse the call of the Goddess?”

  I shook my head. “Never, but the Goddess comes in many guises. Why choose pain and death when you can have pleasure and life?”

  The smile widened just a bit. He unbent his neck from its almost painful offering position, then looked from the sword in one hand to the chalice in the other. “What would you have of me, Princess, Goddess?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, and this time it wasn’t my lips. There was a hooded figure not far from us, her feet not touching the bare soil. In fact she was misty, and try as I might, I could not see her clearly. The hand that held the hood close was neither old nor young nor in between. She was all women and no woman. She was the Goddess. “Oh, no, Amatheon, she has made her choice. I will leave her to that decision. She does not need me to finish this task.” She gave a small chuckle that held something of the dryness of an old woman’s voice, the rich melodious sound of a woman in her prime, and the lightness of a girl. “I do not often agree with Andais, but in this I might. Bloody fertility goddesses.” But she laughed again.

  “I did not know that Andais still spoke with you, Goddess.”

  “I did not stop speaking to my people, they stopped listening to me, and after a time, they could no longer hear my voice. But I never stopped speaking to them. In dreams, or that moment between waking and sleep, there is my voice. In a song, the touch of another’s hand in theirs, I am there. I am Goddess, I am everywhere, and in everything. I cannot leave, nor can you lose me. But you can leave me, and you can turn your back on me.”

  “We did not mean to leave you alone, Mother,” Amatheon said.

  “I was not alone, Child. I cannot be truly alone, but I can be lonely.”

  “What can I do, Mother, to repent?”

  “Repentance is an alien concept to us, Amatheon. But if you wish to make it up to me . . .”

  “Yes, Goddess, with all my heart.”

  “Make the earth live again, Amatheon. Spread your seed over that which is barren, and make it live again.” She began to fade like mist in the sun.

  “Goddess,” he said.

  Her voice floated to us. “Yes, Child.”

  “Will I see you again?”

  Just her voice now, young and old at the same time. “In the face of every woman you meet.” And she was gone.

  He gazed at the spot where she had been, and only when I let the sword fall to the ground did he turn to me.

  “What would you have of me, Princess? I am yours in any way you want me. Whether by my life, my blood, or my strong right arm, I will serve you.”

  “You sound as if you’re about to pledge me your sacred honor like some knight of old.”

  “I am a knight of old, Meredith, and if it is my honor you want, you may have it.”

  “You told Adair you had no honor, that the queen had taken it with your hair.”

  “I have touched the chalice and seen the face of the Goddess. Such blessings are not given to the unworthy.”

  “Are you saying your honor is intact because the Goddess treated you as one who is honorable?”

  A quick puzzled look flashed through his multicolored eyes, then he said, “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “Say what you are thinking.”

  He smiled, a quick flash of real humor, that made his face less perfectly handsome, but more real, more precious to my sight. “My honor was never gone, because no one can take your honor from you, not without your letting it go. I was going to say that you have given me back my honor, but I understand now.”

  I smiled at him. “No one can take your honor, but you can give it away.”

  The smile wilted around the edges. “Yes. I let fear take my honor from me.”

  I shook my head.

  He smiled again, almost embarrassed. “I mean that my fear became more important than my honor.”

  I stopped his words with a kiss. I wrapped my hands across his back, the chalice still held in my right hand. His arms came up tentatively, as if he wasn’t certain how to begin. I think the sex would have been slow and gentle, but I held the symbol of the Goddess, and I was the living symbol of the Goddess. An impatient Goddess. The chalice pulled us backwards as if there was some huge magnet underneath the ground. When the chalice met the earth, it went into the ground, and I was left holding nothing. Amatheon’s back hit the spot where the chalice had vanished, and his spine bowed, eyes fluttering closed, his fingers convulsing against my back, his body pushing against mine. The strength of his hands, the solidness of his body, and the raw need in his face, all of it pulled me down to him, put my mouth against his, my hands eager on his body. When my hand slid between our bodies so I could cup the hard, thick length of him, he shuddered and cried out. His eyes were wild when he looked up at me again.

  “Please, Princess.” His voice was so hoarse it didn’t sound like him.

  “Please what?” I whispered against his mouth.

  “I cannot promise how long I will last.”

  “What do you want, Amatheon?”

  “To serve you.”

  I shook my head, so close above him that my hair brushed his face when
I did it. “Say what it is you want, Amatheon.”

  He closed his eyes, and swallowed so hard it sounded painful. When he opened his eyes again, he was calmer, but there was something in those flower-petal eyes that was still cautious. His voice was a whisper, as if he didn’t want to speak his wish too loudly, as if someone might overhear him. “I want you to ride me, to press my naked body into the dirt. I want to watch your breasts dance above me. I want to feel your body slipped over mine like a sheath to a sword. I want to watch your skin shine, your eyes and hair dance with power while I shove myself into you as far and as often as I can. I want to hear you cry out my name in that voice that women use only at the height of their passion. I want to pour my seed inside your body until it spills down the sides of you, and trails down my own hips. That is what I want.”

  “Sounds wonderful to me,” I said.

  He gave a small frown.

  I smiled, and touched the lines between his eyes that would have been frown lines by now, if he’d been able to wrinkle. “What I mean, Amatheon, is yes. Let’s do all that.”

  “You mean I get my wish,” he said.

  “Isn’t that what we used to do, grant people’s wishes,” I whispered, smiling.

  “No,” he said, “we, none of us, ever granted wishes.”

  “It was a joke,” I said.

  “Oh, I’m . . .”

  I put my finger on his lips and stopped him. “Let’s make the grass grow.”

  He frowned.

  “Fuck me,” I said, and removed my finger from his lips.

  He smiled that bright smile that made him seem younger and more . . . human. “If that is what you wish.”

  “Now who’s offering to grant wishes?”

  “I will grant anything that is within my power to give you.”

  I sat up and pressed my most intimate parts against his most intimate parts, and even through all our clothes, the sensation was amazing. He was so hard, so very hard, that it must have been a pleasure that was nearly pain.

  “Give me this,” I said, and it was my voice that was hoarse now.

  “Willingly. Let us get out of our clothes, and it will be done.”

  I stared down at his face with that eager hardness pressing up through my jeans. It sounded like a plan to me.

  CHAPTER 17

  OUR CLOTHES FELL TO THE EARTH LIKE THE RAIN THAT HAD FORGOTTEN THIS LAND.

  He lay back against that dry, parched earth, like a jewel laid upon a rough grey cloth. He had begun to glow before all his clothes had come off. When I brushed my hand over his bare arm, his skin glowed behind my fingers as if lightning flared underneath his skin, as if the lightest touch of my fingertips on even the most neutral parts of his body was almost too much. I wondered what he would do if I touched less neutral places.

  I laid the very tips of two fingers against the swell of his upper chest. Light blossomed at my touch. His whole body glowed bright white, but around my fingers the light glowed orange and red like true flame. Where I touched him, his body ran hotter, and that red, hot heat followed my fingers down his body. I traced down his stomach, and just the touch sped his breathing, made him writhe against the dry earth. His eyes fluttered shut and his hands scrabbled at the bare earth, and all I had done was trail fingers across his stomach. I lost patience then, I wanted to see what he would do when I wrapped my hands around that most intimate part of him.

  I think he expected me to at most trail my fingers across the long swollen bit of him, to give him some warning, but I didn’t.

  I wrapped my hand around him and squeezed. He cried out. His upper body came up off the ground, and the feel of him in my hand closed my eyes, bowed my back, because he was so much harder than I’d imagined. So hard, so terribly hard, that he felt more like smooth, hard marble, except he was so very warm.

  “Oh, don’t, don’t do that, Merry-girl, or I won’t last.”

  “So hard,” I said, and my voice sounded breathy and hoarse.

  “I know,” he whispered, “too hard. I will not last.”

  “Then don’t last,” I said.

  He frowned at me, eyes still wild. “What?”

  “Then don’t last, for this first time, meet your need. You can prove your stamina next time.”

  “Next time,” and he laughed. “I don’t believe in next times. All that’s real to me is you, here, now.”

  He sat up and leaned in toward me. We weren’t touching now, just close.

  “If I am not good enough, you won’t want me again.”

  I leaned in toward him, putting our faces very close together.

  “Did she judge you all on just one night?”

  His eyes widened. “Yes,” he whispered.

  “I don’t.”

  He smiled. “Are you saying that Frost and Doyle were less than spectacular the first time?”

  I had to smile. “No.”

  “Then who?”

  I shook my head. “Everyone was wonderful, some just got spectacular with practice.”

  He drew back far enough to see my face clearly. “You mean that?”

  “Yes.”

  “They can’t all have been amazing.”

  “If they weren’t, I’ll never tell.”

  “You won’t tell,” he whispered.

  I started to touch his face, but he pulled back just enough to be out of reach.

  “Tell what?” I asked.

  He gave me a look, a look eloquent with meaning.

  “Oh,” I said, and smiled again, but it was a gentler smile. “No, Amatheon, I won’t tell.”

  He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me in against him. His back was covered in the dry, powdery dirt. I expected it to be rough, but it wasn’t. It was smooth and fine like the softest talcum powder. It did not distract from the warm smoothness of his skin but seemed to add texture like icing spread over warm, rich cake.

  I pulled back enough to show him my hands covered in the soft, dry powder.

  “So soft.” I looked up at him.

  “Does it feel as soft against other places as it does on my hands?”

  He drew me close, and just before his lips touched me, he whispered, “Let’s find out.”

  CHAPTER 18

  WE ROLLED OURSELVES IN IT UNTIL WE LOOKED LIKE GREY ghosts. The shine of our magic was dimmed by it like Christmas lights shining through snow.

  He pressed his hardness against the front of my body and the back of me. He was almost painfully hard, pressed between our bodies. He thrust against my stomach, my ass, but he would not enter me. He rubbed his body over me as if his manhood were another way to caress my skin. Even his balls were high and tight, and the few times he let me touch him there, he quivered, shivering with his need. My hand found that a second pulse lay in his groin, beating against the palm of my hand. He moved my hand away from him. He pressed and teased against me, doing a parody of position after position, but he would not enter me. He would not give himself to my hand or my mouth.

  When he had covered us, nearly head to foot, in the soft, powdery dust and shown me the promise of his body, the strength of it, he pushed himself against and across my body, and I begged him to enter me.

  “Please, Amatheon, please, no more teasing. Enter me, take me.”

  “I thought you were going to be on top.” His voice was teasing and full of pleasure.

  “Lie down for me and I’ll be on top.” I tried to push him to the ground, but he stayed on his knees and would not be forced to the ground.

  His hair lay in rich coppery waves around his face, caressing his broad shoulders. Even the greyish-white of the dust could not dim the rich color of that hair. The multilayered colors of his eyes glowed like individual jewels, sapphire, emerald, ruby, amber, and amethyst. Even the black pupil seemed polished and shining with power.

  When his hair had first broken free of the French braid, Amatheon had tried to stop, tried to pull away, as if his shoulder-length hair were something shameful. I had shown him with my gaze, with my
hands, that he was beautiful, all of him.

  By the time he knelt shimmering with power through his coating of dust, there was nothing left of that hurt. But still he denied me.

  “Please, Amatheon, please, lie down for me, or take me.” If he’d had a shirt, I would have grabbed him by it, but what I tried to grab to help persuade him, he would not let me touch. He trapped my hands between his and said, “It has been forever since a woman, any woman, has begged for my touch.”

  He pressed our hands against his chest and closed his eyes. His breath went out in a long sigh. “The land has been too long untended, Meredith, too long unloved. It fears it is too late and there is no life to awaken.”

  “You are the land, Amatheon,” I said, “and you live. Yield to me and I will love you. Please, please, Amatheon, please let me love you.”

  “You speak of love so easily, do you mean sex?”

  I closed my eyes and laid my forehead against his hands where they still trapped mine.

  “I am no longer certain what I mean. I think I would say almost anything, do almost anything, in this moment, if it would make you say yes.”

  “Yes to what?” but his voice held that teasing note again.

  “Fuck me,” I said, still with my eyes closed, my head pressed against his hands.

  He used his grip on my wrists to swing me around. He flung me to the ground. I barely caught myself with my hands in the dirt, barely kept my face above the ground. I drew breath to protest, but his weight was suddenly on top of me, pressing me to the ground. He jerked me up on my knees, so that I was on all fours. He shoved himself against my body, I think he meant to shove inside me, but the angle wasn’t quite right. and he had to use his hands to move my hips ever so slightly. Again I started to say something, but he had his angle, and he shoved himself inside me, as hard and fast as he could. He shoved himself in until his balls smacked against my ass. I screamed, because he was too hard, and the angle was sharp, and I knew that as much as I’d begged, if he kept this position, I would be begging him to go before many thrusts. I’d felt men be hard and eager before, but never this hard. So hard, I wondered if it hurt him, too?