An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
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Horn of the Unicorn
ISBN # 1-4199-0564-3
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Horn of the Unicorn Copyright© 2006 Rhyannon Byrd
Edited by Pamela Campbell.
Cover art by Christine Clavel.
Electronic book Publication: March 2006
This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Warning:
The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).
S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.
E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.
X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.
Horn of the Unicorn
Rhyannon Byrd
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the brilliant Madison Hayes: amazing author, best mate, critique goddess, and partner in crime at our Pure Magick Newsletter. I’m so blessed to have you in my life, Madi! Thank you for being such a creative inspiration and a constant source of unwavering support. You’re the best!
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Land Rover: Land Rover Company United Kingdom
Uzi: TAAS Israel Industries Ltd. Corporation
The History of The Wicket Wood and the Unicorn
“‘Do you know, I always thought unicorns were fabulous monsters, too? I never saw one alive before!’
‘Well, now that we have seen each other,’ said the unicorn, ‘if you’ll believe in me, I’ll believe in you.’”
Through the Looking Glass
Lewis Carroll
* * * * *
Like a lion, without fear of the howling pack;
Like a gust of wind, ne’er trapped in a snare;
Like a lotus blossom, ne’er sprinkled by water;
Like me, like a unicorn, in solitude roam.
Hymn of Buddha
Within a magical Irish wood, unseen by mortal eyes, live the last remaining traces of mystical races from days gone by. From shifters to the fae, gargoyles to dragons, these remaining legendary tribes seek refuge within The Wicket Wood from a world that no longer accepts them within the framework of its reality—from the mortal race that rules Earth with a prejudiced, dangerous hand. They are extraordinary creatures, from close-knit families to solitary warriors, each working for the survival of The Wood. And yet, as extraordinary as they are, perhaps the most fascinating of all is the lone unicorn.
Since the beginning of time, the unicorn has been a fanatically sought creature. His horn, the symbol of his awesome power, has been hunted by men, with their malevolent greed, through the rise of monstrous kingdoms and their inevitable falls. Time moves on, days into years into century upon century—and yet, man’s obsession with this fabulous beast knows no end.
Thought to possess the power to heal, the unicorn’s horn has been the manna for which desperate souls hunger—the answer to eternal life for those who fear to tread in the next.
But the unicorn is no fool creature. He has survived for centuries with his cunning and skill alone—a solitary beast even among the faerie folk who seek to keep him hidden from those who would destroy him. He is no frail creature of beauty, but a tremendous force of magnificent might. A great goliath of power and immortality. He knows no fear. Not of man…and certainly not of man’s petty attempts to entrap him.
Cursed to walk the lands of time in his beastly form, he is invincible, but for his one weakness. The unicorn has a hunger of his own, one that he cannot resist. It burns within his blood, pulsing in violent need from the tips of his mighty hooves to the razor sharp point atop his crown, demanding satisfaction.
Though this noble creature struggles to overcome a craving that knows no equal—he cannot deny his hunger for a mortal maiden’s blood to free him from his curse.
And like man’s eternal search for his horn, the unicorn’s desire threatens deadly dangers. For when he anoints his almighty horn within her innocence, only then can his true form be set free. The powerful sidhe warrior within his soul sheds its unicorn mantle. He stands tall and proud, a great silver-haired soldier with glowing skin and burning eyes, aching with the need to mount this fated woman who has proffered his release.
But as in all magical love stories, the unicorn’s struggle has only begun. Though he might find a magnificent passion in his maiden’s arms, he is now mortal. And unlike the immortal unicorn, the warrior courts death.
And if he dies before her love is given freely, he is lost forever…
Bound to an eternity of suffering, doomed to ache for his woman’s taste—lost, but for one hope.
Only through a sacrifice born from true love may the mighty warrior rise again. Only then may he slice the air with his deadly steel, wreaking an awful vengeance upon those who would dare to harm his mate. Only then, in the name of everlasting love, may he claim her heart for all eternity.
Prologue
The Maiden and the Unicorn
If you are the dreamer, I am what you dream.
But when you want to wake, I am your wish,
and I grow strong with all magnificence…
“I Am, O Anxious One”
The Book of Hours
Rainer Maria Rilke
She needed him inside her.
Him—the one who came to her in the safety of her dreams, where stark reality could never intrude. Too breathtaking for words, his hard, masculine beauty never failed to make her hurt deep inside, as if some necessary element for life was missing without him. From the strong angles of his mesmerizing face, with its high cheekbones, square chin and commanding jaw, to the sensual, provocative cut of his wide, wicked mouth and pure, azure blue eyes, he made her ache for things that lay always just beyond her reach.
In thick, gauzy webs of unconsciousness, her inner desires found the lust-fed fuel for fire—igniting into a blazing, blistering flame of need that seared painfully into her soul—never to be quenched. He was an undeniable ache within her belly, churning with hunger, but never fed…never satisfied. Without question the most intensely beautiful thing she’d ever known or imagined. Rugged and impossibly male, he exuded such raw, powerful and deliciously aggressive sexuality that it was all Tess could do not to promise her soul to the devil himself for the simple chance to touch him. To press her eager lips against the hot, hard heat of his muscled, sinew-ridged body. Taste the wicked sins of his carnal mouth and the decadent, provoc
ative pleasures of his magnificent shaft. Not that she’d seen any other than his, but there were just some things she supposed a woman knew by instinct alone, and there was no doubt he was brutally beautiful there as well. Long, massive and wrist-thick, mapped with dark veins that pumped the testament of his need and crowned with the bruised perfection of a ripe, blood-heavy head, his cock never failed to make her achingly aware of how hollow she was deep inside, without him, as if only that imposing organ could make her complete.
So empty that she would give anything—anything—just for that one physical stroke, touch, press of his warm skin against her damp, naked, needy flesh. But no matter how she writhed and tossed, struggling atop her sweat-soaked sheets, she could never reach him. Always…always he hovered there just beyond her reach, the heat flickering in his smoldering gaze so intense, she felt burned, even consumed by the primitive lust. The sheer mind-drugging, possessive desire that seemed to focus single-mindedly on her. And so she called him her own—her phantom—her bright angel who came to her burning within a blinding, silver white light of flame, his long, blue-streaked hair whipping around powerfully sensual features that spoke of a need as wrenching and raw as her own. A need that would twist upon itself forever…for all eternity…if it had to. Waiting for the one who could come and ease his suffering—his pain.
Waiting for her.
In the dawning light of morning, he might be gone, but her heart still felt the bruised emptiness of his loss, and her thrumming flesh burned for the moment when the dream would be broken and reality would come crashing in upon itself.
“Find me,” she pleaded with the tender, longing hope of one who knows they’re lost. “Please. Find me…”
Somehow…somewhere…Tess knew he would. And when he did, he would satisfy the sharp, wicked hunger within her that no other could ever possess the power to ease. To quench. To sate within the circle of his muscular arms, beneath the controlling weight and strength of his mouthwatering presence. Fill the void, the hollow emptiness that she had known far too long.
When the moment finally came, he would claim her for his own.
* * * * *
Mine. My own.
Zarnak awoke with a sweat-induced shiver within the confines of his imprisonment—the mortal maiden’s sweet, honeyed scent still warm within his throat, as if he could taste her upon his lips. It infuriated him, the way the imagined pleasure caused his muscles to clench with painful need. As he had gazed upon her writhing, twisting length of womanly perfection, he longed for the day—the stolen moment—when she would spill within his mouth, flooding against his face, the pulse of her release drumming against the greedy pad of his tongue. Virgin or no, he knew if he could reach her, it would be all he could do not to bury himself within her, wrapping his tortured cock possessively within the fist-tight bliss of her delicate, cream-soaked quim.
Yes, he thought with a quiet hiss. Through the eyes of countless dreams, he’d seen her treasure there between her legs as she’d spread them in her need, slender fingers rubbing through those pearly, pulsing pink folds as she struggled, frantic for release. It was always beyond beautiful, the demure lips and tiny, glistening mouth that he longed to break open and ravage with the penetration of his tongue, thick fingers and heavy, aching cock. Before his imprisonment, he’d never, despite the number of willing, exotic women he’d taken beneath him and enjoyed, gazed upon so precious a piece of woman—and since…
Since he’d come to live within his prison, he’d known none. Not a single female.
Hundreds of years worth of lust saved within this bloody thing, and yet, its only salvation to be found within a mortal virgin’s blood. Svarqak, it’s a fucking fool’s dream, he swore violently, thundering his anger upon the fertile floor of the forest until the ground rumbled beneath him, the pungent scents of the rich soil and lush greenery assailing his senses. He might as well put an end to the torture here and now, for it was hopeless. As these modern men would say, he didn’t stand a chance in hell.
He may have lived hidden away within The Wicket Wood for centuries—but he knew the way of the times as they passed day upon day, year upon year, in the mortal’s world.
No, virgins aren’t exactly an abundant treasure in the twenty-first century, are they, Zarn? You miserable, pathetic bastard.
Then again, virgins had hardly been abundant when he’d walked upon two legs. The only difference was that before he’d had no need of them, preferring a well-trained wench to slake his powerful lust. And now…
Now it was only within a virgin that he’d find any release at all.
Only by her blood that he’d ever again know freedom.
Only from her lips that he’d once more enjoy the decadent tastes of passion and pleasure as a man. The evocative, enveloping liquid heat of a woman’s flesh clenching around him, easing the raw, throbbing ache of lust within his starved flesh and roiling blood.
There was no hope, but for his dream maiden—the one woman he wanted as he’d never wanted anything. Once he’d set eyes upon her, he’d known no other would ever do. And yet, despite the hunger for her he carried within his soul, Zarnak was not entirely certain that he trusted his powerful needs enough not to have conjured her forth from the depths of hell.
Gods, how can she be real?
And if she was, how would he ever find her, trapped as he was within the body of a beast?
Chapter One
Malevolent Monsters
“Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge.”
Gauguin’s Intimate Journals
Paul Gauguin
I’m a prisoner of my own life, Tess Laurent thought with a sickening wave of rage. In sleep she could lose herself to the beautiful passion and mystery of her dreams, but the cold reality of day held little more than a black fury that burned continually within her, corroding her spirit, poisoning her soul. She sat upon the wide seat of her bedroom window, forehead pressed upon the cool frosted glass, looking down from four stories above the immaculate grounds of her uncle’s country estate. It was a cold, lifeless, seemingly endless house settled among the rolling hills and sparkling lakes of Wiltshire, England. This had been her home—no, her cell—for the last fifteen years of her life. Her prison since her parents’ untimely deaths upon the treacherous M4, making their way out of London. Her mother had been British, her father American, and the young family had often spent their time living between the two great nations.
Lifting her hand, she traced a swirling design into the thin layer of frost, watching the lines curl ever inward, until the creaking of a door off to her left announced her sister seconds before Emily dryly grumbled, “Doesn’t the sun ever do more than shine in this bloody country? Is it too much to ask for a little heat now and then? Some soul-warming sunshine?”
Tess turned to her sister with a smile, rubbing her palms along her upper arms to ward off the invasive cold. Despite her cashmere sweater and the roaring fire blazing in the hearth, the frosty window had allowed the icy fingers of cold from without to seep into her room, chilling her skin. “You know how cool it gets this time of year,” she answered, wondering if she and Emily would ever be able to think of any place as home again, or forever feel like outsiders displaced within a foreign land.
“Yeah, well, has the predacious old windbag made an appearance yet?” Emily snickered, throwing the slim, petite body that she forever complained about across the foot of Tess’ bed, her limbs flopping like a rag doll. Her black, glossy curls formed a wild, irreverent halo around her heart-shaped face, reminding Tess of their mother. Emily possessed her same frail beauty and shy, sparkling blue-grey eyes, and her fighting spirit too.
And as they now knew, there was no one Clarissa Laurent had despised more than the one who held them here.
Lord Randolph Montgomery, a man who called himself their “uncle”, though in truth he was no blood relation, imprisoned the Laurent sisters against their wills—and would continue to do so, until the time came for Tess’ purpose.
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Montgomery’s father had married their much younger maternal grandmother, Phillipa Stewart, after the death of Phillipa’s husband, when their mother was no more than five. On that day the vile Montgomery heir had become the beautiful little Clarissa Stewart’s stepbrother, though more than thirty years separated their ages. Throughout the years, he’d become a powerful man of influence within this country, and the government, already plagued by so many bureaucratic nightmares, had gladly passed the care of two little American orphans to the great philanthropist when Clarissa and Robert Laurent had passed. Within a fortnight of the “accidental” brake failure on her parents’ Land Rover, she and Emily had found themselves entrenched within these thick stone walls, never again to pass beyond the boundary of the security-laden estate.
“He’s yet to grace me with his disgusting presence, but I’m sure he’ll be here soon. You know how eager he’ll be to gloat,” she muttered, thinking of the news they had heard that morning. Since the dawning sun had crested the dew-dappled hills and splashed the colors of heaven across the sloping valleys on the horizon, the estate had been buzzing with the news. The key to the cavern riddle had finally been solved. Tomorrow they would set off for the verdant green glens of Ireland, to seek the mystical Wicket Wood for which Montgomery had spent his entire adult life searching.
Her sister made a choked sound of frustration in her pale throat and suddenly sat up, looking delicate and lost upon the vast expanse of the antique bed. “Honestly, sis, I don’t understand why we don’t just knife him now and be done with it. Just go ahead and put him out of his misery so we can get on with our lives before we’re too damn old to care any longer. I mean, Tess, if what we heard is true, we could be dead tomorrow,” she ended with a soft growl, slender hands fisted upon the dark sapphire of the chenille duvet.
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