Freya's Gift

by Corrina Lawson

  He looked into her face, so strong. But fear lurked in her eyes. Not fear of death. Fear of him. Fear that he’d walk away.

  He pulled her against him, remembering her trembling hands before she drank the ritual potion that night. She’d been terrified, risking all to do what she thought would help her people. A true priestess, a true leader.

  She shuddered as he held her close. If she’d wanted Gerhard, if she’d thought him better, she could have chosen differently. She chose him instead. Her husband.

  This goddess-chosen woman wanted her husband.

  Gerhard knelt in front of them. “Any challenge I wanted to make to you was before my wife died,” he whispered. “But I would rather take an arrow in my heart to save you now, than allow either of you to come to harm.”

  “Gods, that’s a long speech, Gerhard.” Ragnor almost smiled. Gerhard felt bound to him, then? Well. Unexpected, but Gerhard always was. “Get up.”

  Gerhard stood. Keeping one hand tightly wrapped around Sif, Ragnor put his other hand on Gerhard’s shoulder. “My son will not be old enough to lead for many years.” He squeezed Gerhard’s shoulder tight. “I want you to swear to Freya that if I fall, you will take up leadership and do what is best for all. And take care of Sif.”

  “I don’t need Gerhard to take care of me,” Sif said.

  Gerhard, amused, almost smiled. No, Ragnor knew she would not want someone to take care of her like that.

  “I have you to take care of me,” she said.

  Ragnor smiled, feeling light for the first time in months. “So, then, Gerhard swear that you will protect the tribe at all costs, if I am gone.”

  Gerhard nodded, face tight, giving away nothing. “I swear.”

  “I will let it be known that you are the choice to follow me,” Ragnor said. “If needed.”

  “No choice, because you will be here.” Gerhard nodded and glanced over at Sif. “Thank you.” He turned and headed back into the woods.

  Sif curled herself around Ragnor with a deep sigh. He picked her off her feet. “I came close to hurting you.”

  “You were never close to that.” She kissed his lips.

  “Then why did you hide behind Gerhard?”

  She punched his shoulder. “Fool. I stayed behind him to let you and him sort it out. It seemed better to stay out of it and let you lance the wound instead of allowing it to fester.”

  He laughed. She hugged him. Perhaps Gerhard’s seed had been the seed to create the child. But it did not matter. It was still Ragnor’s child. Sif was still his. Always.

  “The goddess touched us all that night,” she said. “If anything, the child belongs to Freya.”

  He turned. “A divine child.”

  “A child raised by both of us, a divine gift to the tribe.”

  “Yes.”

  “The goddess borrowed me for a little while. But I—”

  “Shush.” He stared above them, awed. “Sif. Look up. Slowly.”

  She did. There, at the top of the rocks, stood the cougar once again.

  Freya’s messenger.

  Sif caught her breath. Ragnor’s grip around her tightened. A cub padded out into view. The mother licked its head while the cub drank. A cub! They could not have a better omen.

  More rustling. From the other side of the mother cat, a second cub appeared. Two? Sif let out her breath. Ragnor tried to keep from dancing. Two? Two!

  He put his hand over her stomach. She laid her hand over his.

  The mother cat turned her head and stared at them. They froze, returning the cat’s stare. Ragnor could not tell how long it was, only that he felt as if the cat laid a spell on him, rendering him unable to move.

  The spell broke when the mother cat nudged the cubs with her nose. She led the way back into the woods and the cubs followed her.

  “Twins!” Ragnor said.

  Sif laughed. “Twins! Now, that is a sign, yes. Twins, Ragnor. Two sons.”

  “Or girls, like their mother.” He turned her around, kissed her and lifted her to the sky. “Thank you, Freya!” He lowered her and kissed her again.

  She wrapped her arms around him and looked up into his eyes. “I love you, husband.”

  “I love you, wife.”

  About the Author

  Corrina Lawson is a former newspaper reporter with a degree in journalism from Boston University. When her twins were born, she needed a way to relax and began writing fiction. Being mostly a reader of science fiction and mystery stories, she surprised herself when she started writing romance instead. But it turned out to be a great deal of fun.

  Corrina is currently a core contributor to the Geek Dad blog on Wired.com, a parenting blog which averages 1.5 million unique hits per month.

  She is a Golden Heart finalist and winner of several regional RWA contests. Freya’s Gift is her first published story. You can find her at her blog: http://corrinalaw.livejournal.com or at Geek Dad, www.wired.com/geekdad.

  A passion to appease the gods…or call down their vengeance.

  Ritual Passion

  © 2009 Cathryn Brunet

  The jungle-wrapped city of Challas is dying, crumbling under the weight of its corrupt priesthood and degenerate new gods. But an even greater threat looms on the horizon. Outside the city walls, a pestilence breeds. Unless stopped, it will crawl through the city’s decaying streets and destroy everyone.

  Phalandria wants to see her magnificent city reborn and freed from the perversion of the priests who murdered her father. And she wants Massilis, the man who has stood by her side since childhood. The man who’s developed into a magnificent, jungle-hardened warrior…and ignites her unquenchable desire. Although Massilis has always protected her, only once has he allowed his hunger for her to show.

  Now the water oracle has called for Phalandria and Massilis to perform the Concubitia, a sexual rite to propitiate the gods. But the priests suspect a conspiracy and will do anything to protect themselves. And Phalandria realizes that the priests are not the only ones sabotaging the ritual.

  The man she loves has an agenda of his own.

  Warning: This title contains steamy jungle sex with a magnificently proportioned warrior, sex with multiple partners, and sex in front of overexcited onlookers…who sometimes join in the fun. And many rude words your mother wouldn’t like you to read.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Ritual Passion:

  My mother smiles, unexpressed dreams fogging her eyes. “Perhaps tomorrow…”

  I know what she wants to say. That Massilis will offer to be my husband is my dream also.

  She shakes her head, straightens and places the brush on a side table as though by voicing her hopes she has embarrassed herself. “I will fetch you some nectar.”

  My breath becomes shallow. If ever I needed a reminder of the responsibility Massilis and I carry, she has just provided me with it. We bear the tomorrows of all Challasians on our young shoulders. Tomorrows that could end in ravaged bodies and putrefied corpses. A city and people destroyed by its blasphemous complicity and the whim of a fickle goddess.

  My mother returns with a cup. I take it from her hands and drink greedily. She picks up the brush to resume her ministrations, but I am discomposed by the dread that dries my throat and tangles my stomach, and want air. Even Challas’s thick, cloying stench is preferable to the confines of the house. I want Lake Muchato. I want to sit at the water’s edge and bathe my feet and feel a cool breeze caress my skin.

  I want to escape my troubled mind and retrieve the hope that has slipped through my fingers like sand.

  Abruptly, I stand up, surprising Mother. She stills, the brush held out, stroking air.

  “What is the matter?” Her tone is frightened, as though she thinks I am about to refuse the call of the Concubitia, that I am about to announce that I refuse to have sex with Massilis.

  If I weren’t so agitated, I would laugh at such a preposterous notion. But I cannot laugh. Not now. Tomorrow perhaps, when I can reflect on these moments
of awkwardness. But not now. “I am going to the lake, Mother.”

  She places the brush carefully on the side table before turning back to me. “You are afraid.”

  I am, but not of what she thinks. I shake my head and force a smile. “No.”

  Mother purses her lips as though disappointed in me. “Massilis will not hurt you. He is a good man. You know this.”

  I do. I know better than anyone. “Yes.”

  “So why are you frightened? It is unlike you to be afraid.”

  “I am sorry, Mother. I must have air.” I turn toward the door, angry with myself for being so transparent, for hurting her unnecessarily.

  It is not her fault she does not know the task that faces me. I have wanted Massilis for a very long time but I do not want it to be like this, heavy with responsibility. Our lovemaking will be about pleasure, yes, but it will be tainted with the need for survival.

  I cross the room and embrace her tightly. She is bemused by my uncharacteristic show of affection and makes a husky sound in the back of her throat, one I have not heard for many years. I smile. It is a remonstration, her “foolish child” sound, but it is filled with affection, not reprobation. It is unique to her, and I want to thank her for giving it to me one last time. Whatever happens tonight, I will have this memory to treasure.

  I let her go, then on impulse, cup her face and kiss her forehead.

  “Phalandria—”

  “Goodbye, Mother.” I am out the door before she can protest further. Humidity hits me like a wet falling curtain and immediately I feel my skin prickle with moisture.

  The inner city’s air is always close and dense. No breeze flows through this area and the stench of rot and decay is everywhere. My feet make a slapping sound as they hit the stone pathways. It is foolhardy to run, but the cloying atmosphere is turning my stomach and I want the lake. I keep my hands out, ready to brace myself against a wall should I slip. My fingers skim the tufa, sliding over mossy walls, and I cannot help but wonder if this will be the last time I feel them on my skin.

  I burst into the marketplace, panting. It is late. The artisans, stallholders and merchants have packed their goods away for the night and returned home. The lack of noise confounds me. I did not realise it was so late.

  My skin contracts, as though suddenly affected by cold. Slowly, I turn to the left, toward the main avenue that leads to the Golden Temple. The gilded walls glow red, stained by the dropping sun. Around the base, the lawn lies in shadow, its thick sward the colour of congealed blood. A carrion bird circles the roof and squawks its ghoulish cry, then turns its head to regard me with savage eyes. Fear stalks its way into my heart and threads icy tentacles down my spine. This is either a message or a warning. My shivering heart tells me it is the latter.

  Menace lurks in the Golden Temple. Only this time, like my ill-fated friend, Delicaxia, I may not escape it.

  Someone grabs my hand from behind. I yelp and try to run but the grip is strong.

  “Come,” says Massilis.

  In my distress I have not sensed his approach, but I am glad for his presence in the eerie, empty marketplace. Massilis tugs at me and I have no choice but to follow.

  Only our footsteps break the quiet. Challas is preparing itself for the evening. The Zarbithnath are bathing and dressing for the ceremony. I can picture them washing genitals, applying parthenate and skin oils, humming the sacred chants under their breath, impatient for the night’s debauchery. This would be me also were I not their source of entertainment.

  A warm breeze touches my flesh and I look up. Lake Muchato spreads like rippling molten lead before me. The water stretches to the horizon and the brilliant sinking sun. In sections, the lake surface appears aflame, glittering gold and orange. It is stunningly beautiful and in an instant I feel my spirits rise.

  I glance at Massilis. He gazes across the water as if mesmerised, with the pyrites in his eyes glowing as though his irises are filled with stars. His shoulders are huge, the physique of a hunter, and shadows define the muscles of his magnificent arms and legs. His powerful, broad chest shines like polished timber, and I am overcome by how godlike he appears in the falling light. A mortal made divine by the lowering sun.

  But he is better than any god, for he is human and tonight his body will be mine to explore. I glance toward his loincloth. Although he is not erect, it bulges, the outline of his enormous penis clear. I ogle it unashamedly and let my desire simmer. I want him with a need that comes from the primordial sludge of human creation. Soon, some of my prayers will be answered, but I hope the gods will grant them all.

  “The lake is receding, Phalandria,” he says.

  I stare at him. It is an observation I have made many times, but one that engendered no concern in others.

  When I was young, the lake lapped at the very edge of the city. On stormy nights, it would rise and creep through the low-lying areas, washing the stinking alleys clean. But it has been many years since the last flood and now a sloping black pebble shore forms a border between the city and the water, and the city remains uncleansed.

  Massilis locks his eyes on mine. “We are surrounded by decay. Our lake is drying, our walls disintegrate before our eyes, and our city wallows in filth. Every day, the animals and fruit that sustain us become harder to find.” He sweeps an arm toward the shadowed, dangerous jungle. “The jungle draws ever closer. Soon, it will hold us in its deadly embrace. Our destruction is upon us and yet no one sees.”

  I blink and stare mutely at him, surprised by his words. This is something I know from the water oracle and yet Massilis has mouthed it like a truth, as if he too is aware of our approaching extinction.

  I shiver and feel my confidence slide once more. I do not want to die. I want tomorrow to rise bright and clean and fill me with joy, but I know it may not.

  “Will we fail, Massilis?” My voice is tremulous, afraid, and I hate the sound of my weakness but suddenly I cannot control my fear.

  He regards me with an odd expression, as though he thinks the question strange. But it is not. He does not know of the pestilence.

  “It is possible. For the priests, the omens have been unfavourable of late. They are frightened and want us to fail. They do not forgive us the things we know. Or our fathers.”

  I take a deep breath and speak before my nerve further fails me. “Then I must tell you something. I cannot let this moment pass with my secret unspoken.” I pause, ready to say the words, but Massilis interrupts.

  “Do you love your people, Phalandria?”

  I swallow and stare back out over the lake. Massilis does not want to hear my confession. Like a stupid infatuated girl, I have made a fool of myself.

  “Yes,” I say, but only to fill the painful silence.

  “Then keep your counsel. We have a task ahead. There can be no distractions.”

  I nod, but humiliation creeps over my skin like fire ants. I have mistaken tenderness and friendship for something more. Massilis will never be mine, but for this one night.

  I square my shoulders and clench my jaw. So be it. But I will take this night and savour it like no other. And then the gods may do as they desire. For after burning so long in the fire of my lust, I will at last see it quenched.

  Massilis turns from the water, his face set like mine, determined, resolute.

  “It is time.” He reaches for my hand and squeezes it, then smiles at me as though he knows of my embarrassment and wants to give comfort. “Be strong, Phalandria. Hold faith. Perhaps your wish will be granted.”

  “Yes. Perhaps it will. It is in the gods’ hands.”

  “No, Phalandria.” He marches off the pebbled shore like a warrior heading for battle, dragging me behind. “It is in ours.”

  Her arrival stirs something deep and dark. Perhaps even deadly…

  Face of the Maiden

  © 2008 Emma Wildes

  Celia Fairmont’s new home on the wild coast of Cornwall is a sprawling ancient mansion steeped in history and deep, dark
secrets. From the first night her dreams are plagued by images of clandestine meetings with a handsome, reckless lover. The man in her visions looks disturbingly like the oldest son of her new guardian, the Earl of Ashbourne, but there the resemblance stops. Phillip Leighton is practical to a fault and too preoccupied with estate business to even notice her presence.

  Phillip Leighton does not have time for illogical romantic fantasies about his father’s young ward. The very lovely Miss Fairmont is unsophisticated and innocent—not at all suited to be the next Countess of Ashbourne. And besides, he is practically engaged to a titled widow. But erotic dreams disturb his nights, and by day she preoccupies his thoughts, and he finds himself fascinated against his will.

  Phillip can’t seem to keep Celia out of his head—or out of his arms. When a series of puzzling accidents begins to happen, he knows with chilling certainty that their future is on a collision course with the past…

  Warning: This title contains explicit sensual love scenes, sexy ghosts, violence, some bad language in a polite Regency way, and a devilish wayward rake or two.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Face of the Maiden:

  The mist sent long tendrils like ghostly fingers out of the darkness to cross the path. It hung in gray banks over the trees, shrouding the surroundings and making everything seem still and dead. As she ran along, something moved in the black shadows to her right, snapping twigs and rustling leaves. She paused, her heart beginning to pound the blood through her body in a rush, panic rising on a knife-edge of control, when some creature shot out of the bushes and streaked into the night. Her breath went out in an audible whistle of relief and she caught up her heavy skirts in her hands, hurrying forward.

  She was late. Again.

  Excitement and anticipation grew, overcoming some of her fear over the solitary walk in the eerie fog. Ahead she could see vague shapes begin to take form, squares suggestive of human mortality, and she swallowed down a quick shiver.

  She should have insisted on a different meeting place, she thought, weaving her way through the headstones. Discretion was one thing…this flair for the dramatic was another.