Blood-Bonded by Force (44 page)

She grinned. “We’ll try again in ten minutes and you’ll see.”

He studied her smile. “What’s that? It can’t be the look of a satisfied woman.”

She giggled. “I
am
happy. We’re married now, aren’t we?”

He paused, then exhaled a low chuckle. “My one, awesome pump did do that.”

She laughed, the joy of the moment soaring through her. At long last, she had her man.

He opened his mouth, as if to say something more, but a low growl rolled past his lips instead.

The smile was startled off her face. She’d never heard him make a sound like that before.

He looked as surprised by the noise as she was. Hefting himself off her, he knelt on the mattress at her feet, blinking, then he rubbed his eyes. “I’m seeing red,” he said.

She levered herself up on her elbows. “What does that mean?”

“I’m starting to go Rău. But it feels like it’s moving out of my control, like I’m drunk or something.” He pressed a palm to his ear. “Why in the heck—?”

She sat up. “Has this ever happened to you before?”

“No. Never.”

“Oh.” She looked down at her wrists, still chafed raw from being strung up in
Oţărât, her heart wringing through a sieve. “It’s me, isn’t it? You’re having a negative reaction to bonding with me.”

“Oh, crud.” The edges of his nostrils fluttered. “It
is
you.”

Of course it was, because her life had
just
got on the right track.

“You’re ovulating.”

She glanced up. “What?”

“And as I’m bonding to you and becoming your mate, I’m scenting it. Dang it, I’m going to glaze out and go into procreation mode on you, Faith, as soon as the bond is complete.”

Procreation mode…oh,
that
she remembered from the manual, it had struck her as so unfortunate that a male Vârcolac couldn’t be emotionally involved in the creation of his own baby. As soon as he scented his mate’s fertility, he checked out into a state of quasi-unconsciousness, a state in which he robotically had intercourse with his wife until she was impregnated. From what Faith had heard, the act could sometimes last quite a few uncomfortable hours.

Suddenly leaping off the bed, Nỵko charged over to the curtains that were closed across her balcony window and wrapped the cords around each of his wrists. “Go,” he ordered. “While you still can. When a half-Rău shifts into procreation mode our beast comes out.”

“But won’t that put you into bonding withdrawal?” She understood that well enough, too; the whole town had watched poor Thomal Costache go through it. Which meant that if she left, depriving Nỵko of the ability to scent her, he would have to endure more misery after all that he’d just gone through with a half-bond.

“I’ll deal with it. Now, go! I don’t want you to face down my Rău our first time together.”

She didn’t move, held immobile by a riot of emotions churning inside her. There was, of course, relief that Nỵko wasn’t having some kind of weird allergic reaction to their bond. Also frustration at herself for not following the manual’s stern warning about bonded females testing their fertility hormones daily—although it was a little late to discover that directive also applied to
prospective
bonded females. And angst over the thought of her man possibly suffering. But those feelings were almost immediately smothered by biological need. She was ovulating right now. It didn’t take a straight-A student to figure out that if she and Nỵko continued to make love, she’d get pregnant. And, yes, it was probably stupid and irresponsible of her to think of starting a family with a man she hardly knew. There was always plenty of time for babies and all that blah, blah, blah. But she ached to have a little being growing inside her.
This
man’s baby: this man who loved children so much. And who loved her.

“I think I’ll stay,” she said simply.

He pressed back against the balcony window and widened his eyes on her.

She positioned herself in the middle of the bed and lay flat on her back, wracking her brain for the manual’s guidelines on how a woman should conduct herself during Vârcolac mating. Sweat beaded her upper lip. How she wished she hadn’t skimmed that part.

A barbaric howl roared through the room and the curtain rods ripped out of the wall.

Chapter Forty-six

The
SHIFTED
World: Balboa Park, San Diego, four months later, December

Standing with his feet planted like he owned the Meeting Tree, his powerful arms crossed, Erigeron steadily lifted his upper lip into a sneer. Drawing his blade to deal with this assembly was taking on more and more appeal. He’d just cast a quick glance up through a tangled mesh of naked branches at the position of the new moon and discovered they’d been at this quibbling for an hour.

It was never a quiet affair when the head
custos
, or custodians, of the four clans met, but this was worse than usual. The topic currently under debate—the ongoing theft of Fianna warrior souls, which could equal death to them all—was understandably charged with emotion. Everyone had an opinion about the next step to take, and the racket of so many dissenting voices was coming close to splitting Erig’s head.

The lead
custos
of Clan Salix, the largest clan, and once the only—until
bellum libertatem
, or the War of Freedom, had divided them into four—was shaking his fist at the representative from Clan Tsuga.
Stupidus
. Tsuga might be the smallest band of Tuatha Dé Danann, but they were brutes, all.

Even the captain from Clan Kigelia, the most peace-loving and earth-nurturing, had his diamond-white eyebrows clamped in a frown.

Erig needed to end this. They were getting nowhere. He shot a quick, sideways glance at each of his two lieutenants.

Zigadenus was zipping around in short spurts, his red hair hanging forward in a sharp point down his nose. The churning prospect of violence had Zig in a state of hyper glee, but if the man didn’t stop his annoying, spastic flying, he was going to get swatted. If not by Erig, then someone.

Erig switched his attention to his other side to find Daucus hovering in the air about a foot away. Erig deepened his sneer.
Are we boring you
? Daucus was focused on something outside of the Meeting Tree, giving Erig a view of the back of his blue hair.

Erig shifted his focus to see what was so important.

Across the field, Clarkia had her face stuffed in a honeysuckle, her wings aglow, her bottom wiggling as she went deep for the nectar.

Getting drunk again, the
maldulsa
. Which meant Daucus would be dipping his stamen in her carpel later tonight…
if
the man could still function after the lesson Erig would be teaching him about the downfalls of distraction.

Beyond Clarkia, countless Fey lanterns twinkled, swaying from branches above and about the tree houses the Tuatha made for themselves. Clan lands sprawled out from this Meeting Tree like spokes from the hub of a wheel, sometimes covering more than a mile in certain directions before Balboa Park ended and civilization began. Save for due west. About five hundred yards in that direction, the territory of Erig’s people, the Dryads, or Tree Fairies, ended abruptly at a powerful ward demarcating them from the Earth Fairies…despicable fungi, every last one.

Between the Earth and the Tree, there were thousands of Tuatha Dé Danann living here. Yet should Middle World humans tromp through these lands—and in the daytime they sometimes did—they would see only tree upon endless tree with their humanoid eyes. Such was not the case with animals. Predatory birds, canines, and felines posed the only true danger to the Tuatha. Besides dark magic.

Erig turned back to the assembly and opened his mouth—

“Enough!” Conium bellowed, the leader of Clan Salix’s
custos
preempting Erig’s plan to put a stop to this mayhem. “It has been over a year since Fey power was first threatened. Too long. We’ve had meeting after meeting, and solved nothing. Eight warrior souls have now been stolen. Too many.” Conium’s fist came up. “Clan Salix will take over direct guardianship of the Stone, and
we
will resolve this.”

Erig’s wings went rigid, blasting a spray of golden dust into the air and lifting him several inches off his bough.

Daucus’ head snapped around, Clarkia’s rump forgotten.

Zig burst into a series of streaking zings, leaving angry contrails of glittering dust in his wake.

At least now there was silence. Anxious, breath-holding silence.

Guardianship of the Tuatha Dé Danann Treasure changed from clan to clan every one hundred years, and Erig’s clan, Cercis, had nearly seventy-five years left guarding the precious Stone. To have the responsibility taken away would be the highest insult. Just the suggestion was.

Eyes hot, Erig caressed the hilt of his dagger, his fingers lethally tracing the intricate hawk design: the heraldic emblem of his clan. “When the fifth element opens the portal in the Middle World,” he inquired mildly, “will Alnus be able to open a door on this side?”

Eyes shifted.

Conium’s face went red as a hibiscus all the way to the tips of his pointed ears.

Alnus was Clan Salix’s mage, and while Salix might be the most powerful clan in many respects, Erig’s boasted the most powerful of all the mages. The wise Picea. Everyone knew she was the only one with magic strong enough to manage a portal opening.

Even so, Salix’s leader clearly didn’t appreciate Erig calling attention to this lack. Conium’s wings stretched to their fullest extent and gave a huge
whomp
of a flap, the resulting swoosh of air sending a hapless Kigelian tumbling off into the next tree.

“It is now wintertime,” Erig said in a profound tone.

Everyone knew what this meant; it was the only season in which contact could be made with those of them in charge of the Stone. For a fifth element ritual to be successful, all four elements had to be in place: the season of winter, the direction of north, the element of earth, the Treasure of Stone.

“Clan Cercis,” Erig continued, “will soon have this resolved in battle. Picea has foreseen an interconnection in the near—”

“Look!” A Tsugian pointed a dirty finger skyward. “She comes!”

The assembly turned as one to look up.

Picea.

The queen mage was seated majestically on a carpet woven of sticks, leaves, moss, and flowers, carried along—for show alone—by four stout Cercisian attendants. The half dozen or so ladies of her court flitted gracefully around her, leaving sprinkles of fairy dust here and there. Picea was dressed in a flowing gown of indigo blue which rippled, wave-like, around her. Her blue-black hair, touched with grey in a pattern of neat checkerboards, was caught in an elaborate design of twists and curls.

Erig caught his breath.
Please say it is time
. He glided straight upward, revealing himself to his mistress out of the masses.

Picea met his look. “It is time.”

Erig exhaled a huge breath. He chopped a hard gesture at his ranks of Cercisian
custos
, who had been waiting in wing-humming anticipation just outside the Meeting Tree. “We go north!”

Erig and his men took flight, speeding their way through the moon-dappled darkness along aerial pathways the Tuatha had traveled for hundreds of years. Wind streamed through Erig’s short hair and occasionally whistled musically off his wings.

They arrived at the site of the portal well ahead of Picea and her attendants. Erig flew in an impatient, repetitive Z pattern while he waited. He gripped the hilt of his blade. His blood ran hot.

Picea finally arrived on her carpet and came to a floating halt. She held out her palm, and it filled as if from nowhere with a small pile of sparkling white dust—the only of its kind.

The mood went solemn.

Moving forward, the
custos
bowed their heads before her, bobbing lightly in the air, wings whispering.

“Tonight,” Picea said, “you fight for the
Sidhe
race. You fight for the humans who are our allies in magic. And you fight for the pride of your clan.”

Erig drew in a deep breath.

“
Boni vobiscum
,” Picea blessed them.

Erig slowly released his breath.

The grounding principle of the Stone of Destiny, the Treasure they guarded, was
The Stone knows the heart of man
. Only a Tuatha Dé Danann with an unblemished heart would succeed in this, and thus Picea had said,
Goodness be with you
.

Emotion expanded Erig’s chest. Although he might be tarnished in many ways—ways he wished he could forever forget—he never doubted the purity of his heart as a
custos
.

Picea tossed the white dust over their ranks.

Erig shut his eyes as a luxurious heat traveled through the tiny ribbed veins of his wings and flowed into his body, the strength of Picea’s magic coursing through him.

“You may pass,” Picea announced.

Erig lifted his head.

A long, cylindrical tunnel made of what looked like clear gel was now visible at the portal site. Where it terminated Erig couldn’t see, but it had to end with the fifth element on the Other Side. The portal couldn’t have been opened otherwise.