Knight of Cups (Knights of the Tarot Book 2)

by Nina Mason

  “Gwyndolen,” he rasped. “Where are you?”

  The door flew open, smacking him square in the face. A lightning bolt cracked through his sinuses, opening his nose like a faucet. Great. Losing more blood was just what he needed.

  Gwyndolen appeared before him, her face ashen and etched with concern. Her tear-filled gaze swept over him. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God. Should I go get Tom?”

  He pinched his bleeding nose and tilted back his head. The bullet was already working its way out of his chest.

  “Give me a minute.” Pained by speaking, he grimaced. “I’ll be all right. The only real damage is to my pride.”

  “What’s pride got to do with it? The man had a gun.”

  His thoughts felt like water circling a drain. He’d lost too much blood and was in no shape to hunt again. What the hell was he going to do?

  That was when he realized he’d not heard the motorbike start up again. Worry jabbing, he looked at Gwyndolen. She appeared upset, but unmolested.

  “What happened? What have you done? Where is he?”

  “When he started beating on you, I ran outside to look for something to hit him with. I saw a fallen tree branch and, as I grabbed it, I heard the gunshot.”

  “Oh, Leith. If anything were to happen to you, I would die.”

  He knew the feeling.

  “Gwyndolen,” he bit out, “what happened to the biker?”

  She sniffed again and swallowed. “I sort of clobbered him as he ran out.”

  “And…?”

  She moved in as if for a kiss, but instead licked the blood off his upper lip. “I knocked him out cold and dragged the big jerk back inside.

  * * * *

  When they had both taken their fill from the biker, Leith dragged the unconscious man into one of the stalls before returning to where Gwyndolen waited by the urinals. Taking her hand, he led her outside, into the trees, before suddenly lifting her knuckles to his mouth. He raised his head and she saw his desperate expression for an instant before he pulled her into his arms.

  As he held her against him, she could feel his heartbeat hammering as hard as her own. His hands moved up her back to her shoulders and pushed her away, so she was looking upward into his face.

  “I want you, Gwyndolen—so much I fear I might die if you refuse me.” He swallowed and cleared his throat. “Will you have me?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course I will.”

  “I think…” He tore loose the buttons on his fly, freeing his erection, but then looked up at her, fisting his hands at his sides. He spoke with effort and shook with the strain. “I’ll not be…as gentle with you as I’d like.”

  Before she could respond, he walked her backward toward a large pine and pinned her against the trunk. The abrading bark took her back to her foster father’s backyard games of hide-and-seek.

  Suddenly, she was there again, pinned against that tree with her foster father’s foul breath in her face. Her jeans came off, then her panties. He spread her thighs with his knee and buried himself to the root in a single thrust that made her whimper.

  She turned her head as he pressed her to the tree, hammering her with violent blows that pulverized her innocence and self-esteem. She writhed and moaned, desperate to expel the battering ram. She felt, now as then, that she had left her body and was floating up above herself, watching, numb and detached, as he savaged her.

  “No!” she cried from above. “Stop, please, you’re being too rough with her.”

  “You’re mine,” he said softly, pushing even deeper. “Forever mine, just as I am forever thine.”

  Leith’s voice, those words, brought her back into her body. It wasn’t her foster father savaging her, it was the man she loved, the man she would die for.

  “Yes,” she said, breathless and trembling. “Oh, yes. Forever mine, forever thine, forever ours.”

  “Aye, my darling,” he whispered. “I want to possess you, body and soul.”

  “You already do.”

  “Nay,” he said. “Not completely. But I mean to drive out that demon before I’m through with you.”

  Sweat streamed down his straining features, his teeth were buried in his lower lip, his hair was damp and disheveled, and his eyes were wild and lambent.

  With each blow, their flesh met with a slap. Her thighs ached from the force of the impact and her back felt raw, but he was an unrelenting exorcist.

  “Do not ask for mercy, my darling. You shall not have it. Not yet.” His breathing was hot and fast, but he showed no signs of relenting.

  Her entire body convulsed, legs rising to wrap around him, seeking to yield to him and the purging.

  She could feel the jolt of each stroke deep in his flesh, her blood, her bones. The sensations pulsing through her were continuous spirals of pleasure and pain. The hammering was torture, but also transcendent. Like the self-flagellation practiced by saints. He was mortifying her flesh, purifying her soul, releasing her from her suffering and her chains.

  ‘Yes,” she cried. “Oh God, Leith, yes!” He gripped her hair and forced her to meet his eyes, which glowed with the sacred fires of purification.

  “Aye, lass,” he rasped. “Free yourself. Let it go.”

  His hands dropped to her breasts, squeezing and caressing before sliding down to her buttocks. His full weight threatened to crush her as he cupped and lifted her hips for even deeper penetration.

  It was too much, too intense. She was burning alive. She opened her mouth to scream, but he muted her cries with his tongue. The kiss was as violent as his thrusts. He forced her mouth open, bruising her lips and grating her face with his whiskers.

  His blows picked up speed. He was claiming her soul along with her body. She wanted him to, wanted to be baptized in the fire and flood of consuming passion. She thrust her hips upward to meet his, pound for pound. She bit his lips, tasting blood.

  He moved his mouth to her neck and bit down. She dug her nails into his back, raking his flesh, ravaging him in the desperate need to pull him into herself, to be joined, body and blood, to be redeemed. Her cries of rapture mingled with his as she found her deliverance at long last in the glorious transformative power of mutual love.

  Chapter 15

  With only fifteen minutes to go until midnight, Tom turned the van into the parking lot at Callanish. Tom found an out-of-the way spot and killed the engine. As all three exited the vehicle, Leith grabbed Gwyn by the arm, pulled her to him, and pressed his lips against hers. The kiss was brief, but heartfelt.

  “Good luck and Godspeed,” he whispered as they broke apart.

  The storm in his eyes mirrored the turbulence in her gut. Having just fed and made love, she felt physically fortified. Emotionally, however, she was a wreck. Not about crossing the vale, but about separating from Leith. Leaving him behind wasn’t just hard, it was torture.

  Heavy hearted, Gwyn started up the grassy slope after Tom. Turning, she took a long look at her beautiful black-haired knight. He was leaning up against the van, arms folded across his chest, his amethyst stare fixed on her. She could have sworn there were tears in his eyes, though perhaps it was only the moonlight playing a trick.

  Black is the color of my true love’s hair…

  She swallowed hard and tore her gaze away. If she didn’t hurry, she’d miss her chance. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks as she continued up the hill toward the standing stones. A soft breeze cooled her burning face, but the fire inside raged on. What if she couldn’t cross over or, worse, couldn’t get back from the other side?

  The stone circle came into view. Midnight loomed. She bit her lip and lifted her gaze to the dark, star-dusted sky. Please God, let this work. If it didn’t, they were out of options.

  Drawing on her courage, she continued up the hill. On the crest, the stones stood in a circle like monks in granite robes. They appeared to be gazing toward the horizon, as if expecting someone’s return. The moon cast an ethereal silver light across their featureless f
aces. A flood of awe swept away Gwyn’s anguish.

  The night air, cool and damp, smelled of grass and the sea, which whispered in the distance. Pale mist swirled around her feet. Sucking in a bracing breath, she passed between two of the petrified priests and looked around for Tom.

  She found him across the circle, walking backward around the inside perimeter of the stones, pouring the nawglen onto the ground from a leather pouch. After completing the circle, he moved toward the center stones. When he motioned for her to join him, she hurried over.

  A tremor went through her as he took both her hands in his. “Are you ready, Miss Darling? It’s almost time.”

  She swallowed and forced herself to smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Only Leith had ever called her Miss Darling. A backward glance toward the parking lot found him still leaning against the van. Dread closed around her heart even as it swelled with affection.

  Fear whispered, “It’s not too late to turn back.”

  She tightened her grip on Tom’s hands. No. She wasn’t going anywhere. She could do this. She had to. There was no other way to be with her knight.

  Tom lifted his face to the sky, calling out in a booming voice: “St. Bride, keeper of the sacred flame, the shape-fire. We have arrived at the crossroads between the worlds. We make our entreaty in peace and in the name of truth and justice. Please help us cross over the threshold in safety.”

  He got quiet, but kept hold of her hands. She shook all over. Nothing happened for several moments and then the ground began to vibrate. She looked down, starting a little. Eerie, swirling mist covered the ground.

  Her palms grew damp in Tom’s big, warm grip as the rising vapor swallowed her legs, her waist, and her shoulders. Her breath left her as the fog engulfed her head, encasing her in a dense screen of billowing white.

  “Shut your eyes.” Tom’s brogue echoed out of the vapor. “They’re letting us through.”

  Breathless, she squeezed shut her eyes. The druids were admitting her, the first win. Her head began to spin, slowly at first and then faster and faster until she felt trapped inside the eye of a cyclone. She could feel nothing, sense nothing around her. She began to break apart as if she’d been carved out of stone. The pieces got smaller and smaller. Chunks broke into pebbles and pebbles into particles.

  An invisible force pulled her down. The touch was light, the pressure gentle. Peace washed over her, followed by nothingness.

  As she landed softly on her feet, sensation crashed over her like a tidal wave. She opened her eyes, surprised to find Tom still before her, still holding her hands.

  The stone circle had disappeared. In its place were pillars. They were standing in the center of a small Grecian folly. A dense grove of trees surrounded the monument. Thick vines coiled among their gnarled branches like paralyzed snakes. Moss and ferns grew between their twisted roots. The air, alive with birdsong, smelled of fertile earth. Whispering water accompanied the melodious chirping.

  A stone chair carved with ancient symbols and feet resembling the talons of a bird of prey sat atop a starburst mosaic at the center of the temple. Gwyn gasped and stepped back when the chair began to radiate. As the light grew more brilliant, she squinted against the brightness, but couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes. She did not want to miss whatever was taking place.

  The air above the chair began to shimmer and soon solidified into a robed priest with flowing white hair and a long silver beard. Obsidian eyes looked out from under heavy gray brows. He wore an emerald-green robe edged in ancient symbols in golden embroidery. In one hand, he held a silver tree branch on which were tied a profusion of tiny brass bells.

  “Welcome to Brocaliande.” His accent was Irish. “I am Cathbad, sage and seer.”

  Her pulse quickened under the druid’s dark gaze. Psychic tentacles probed her mind. After several uncomfortable moments of this, Cathbad beckoned her to come forward.

  Heart hammering, she did as he bade. When she was close enough to touch him, he shook the branch, setting off a sweet chorus of tinkling. He then set his free hand on her belly and closed his eyes. His touch triggered feelings of violation, but she couldn’t bring herself to object. This man, or whatever he was, held the key to her happy future. She couldn’t risk giving offense.

  “The child you carry is a lassie.”

  The pronouncement jolted. “Will I live to see her born?”

  “That will depend.”

  Heaviness settled over Gwyn’s heart. “On what?”

  “On whether you prove yourself worthy of the magic you seek.”

  Gwyn blinked at him, her mouth suddenly dry. “And if I do, you will break the curse?”

  “I will,” he said with a nod, “but first you must perform a series of trials.”

  Panic blossomed in her chest. “What kind of trials?”

  “The first will be a series of riddles,” Cathbad told her.

  Her mouth went dry. “And if I can’t answer them?”

  He gave her a cold, distant smile. “You will return to the Hitherworld to face your fate.”

  There was no way she was going to let that happen. Especially now that she knew for a fact she carried Leith’s child. She could do this. Thanks to all the roleplaying games she played, she was a whiz at solving riddles.

  “I shall start with an easy one.” His smile warmed her a smidge. “From her heavenly throne, she wields powers unseen; though ever-changing, she is a constant queen. What is she?”

  Gwyn took a moment to absorb the clues. He was right; it was an easy one. “The moon.”

  “Very good.” His dark eyes glimmered, worrying her. “Here’s the next one. Emeralds and diamonds. Lost by the moon, found by the sun, and picked up soon.”

  This one, luckily, was one of her father’s. “Dew.”

  “Excellent.”

  Why did she get the sinking feeling this was only a warm up? The third riddle confirmed her suspicion.

  “We four are brothers: the first can eat almost anything, but is always hungry. The second can drink any liquid, but his thirst is never quenched. The third sings a song that is displeasing to the ear. And the fourth can overcome any obstacle in his path. Who are the four brothers?”

  Oh, dear. Four brothers. The four directions? No, that didn’t fit. The four horsemen of the apocalypse? No, she knew that riddle and this wasn’t it. Nor did the descriptions fit them. Four card suits? The four Grail Hallows? Nope, those didn’t fit either.

  Damn, this was a tough one.

  She bit her lip and scratched her head, thinking hard. Maybe if she could get just one, the others would fall into place. Ate anything but stayed hungry. An abyss? No, an abyss had no brothers that she knew of. Drank any liquid but never quenched its thirst? A sponge? That couldn’t be right. What siblings did a sponge have?

  Pooh. If she didn’t get this, she’d lose everything. And something told her it wouldn’t be the last of his riddles—nor the most difficult.

  She racked her brain. She had to get this, had to. Her life and that of her unborn daughter were at stake.

  A soft breeze ruffled her hair and whispered the answer. Wind sang a tune displeasing to the ear. And wind had three brothers. Fire, which ate almost anything and was still hungry; earth, which absorbed any liquid; and water, which could surmount any obstacle.

  “The four elements.” She beamed with pride.

  He gave her a superior smile. “Not bad, but let us see if you can get this next one. Though sightless and unarmed, I combat evil and chaos. Balance is the goal I seek in trials big and small. What am I?”

  Biting her lip, Gwyn took a moment to piece together the clues. Blindness. Balance. Trials. The answer was obvious.

  “Justice.”

  He nodded. “You are clever, lass, but let’s see if you can guess this final riddle. The answer is a word. The first two letters suggest a man; the first three, a woman; the first four a man of courage and honor; the whole, a woman in a leading role. What is t
he word?”

  She fought the smile tugging at her mouth. She knew this one. In fact, the riddle was her all-time favorite.

  “Heroine.”

  “Indeed,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “which is what you must prove yourself to be in the final task.”

  Uh-oh. That didn’t sound good. As harrowing images from The Hunger Games flashed behind her eyes, she blinked them away. Despite her mounting dread, she had to know. “What might that be?”

  The dark shadow that crossed his face raised goosebumps across Gwyn’s flesh. “You must bring me the enchanted chalice of the Queen of Avalon. For as a spell is cast, so must it be broken.”

  * * * *

  Gwyn and her escort, a raven-haired druid who was far from hard on the eyes, left the grove an hour ago and were moving deeper into the forest. The druid, whose eyes were as clear and blue as an autumn sky, would take her on horseback though the borderlands to the edge of the channel separating the two islands.

  Once there, she would be on her own.

  Ancient trees towered all around, their great gnarled roots snaking across the path here and there. Moss and lichen clung to the grooved bark on one side of their massive trunks. Vines entwined their branches. A thick carpet of ferns covered the forest floor, encroaching on the narrow path. The whole scene had a primordial feel about it.

  “How long before we reach the water?” she asked her companion.

  His name was Bran, which meant “raven” in Gaelic—on account of his hair, presumably.

  “Two or three days, depending on what we encounter,” he replied in his baritone brogue.

  “What might we encounter?” Her stomach knotted as her imagination conjured possibilities ranging from the Orcs of Lord of the Rings to the Rodents of Unusual Size from The Princess Bride.

  “The borderlands are home to roving bands of Goblin marauders who can make trouble for travelers.” His serene tone did not match his statement.

  Her eyebrows drew together. “What kind of trouble?”