Fae High Summer Hunt (5 page)

“Instinct, training—who knows? It seems your satyr and a few of his herd-mates are in pursuit.”

The teeth-grating screech of a sword being pulled from its metal scabbard hissed through the air. In Baylor’s hand his weapon glowed. The blade was slender until it widened at the end where the runes etched into the metal swirled in constant motion.

His men rode up beside them, weapons drawn, some with women astride their mounts in front of them. Far too few in Naeme’s opinion.

“It seems a scrimmage line is forming ahead of us and moving forward, sir,” The soberness in the young soldier’s intonation indicated that he was concerned.

“Is there now? There’s nothing like a swift brutal skirmish to make blood sing, eh, Frize?” At the tone of his voice Naeme twisted around to stare up at Baylor. His eyes glittered and a smile spread across his face. There was nothing fun-loving about his expression—it was filled with a dangerous anticipation. “Fall into battle formation, and protect the women at all costs. It seems this challenge is to prevent us from taking our fair ladies home. Cut down all who would stand in our way and then on to Havenglade. For Queen and Fae we fight tonight. Let no Fae blood spill, for we have the Greening to attend to. A long night of loving and living awaits us.”

A blinding flare lit up the night and the chime of metal plates snapping into place rang out. Clad in armour infused with moonbeams and magic, Baylor’s battalion glowed with a radiance that would daunt and hamper the vision of their enemies.

A moment later, Naeme found herself safeguarded in a similar manner. Curious, she took a swift glance down her body and pursed her lips. He’d fashioned it to exaggerate a female’s attributes. It made her top heavy.

She seared him with a skin-melting glower. “I look like an overblown Valkyrie. My breasts are nowhere near this size.”

“A man can dream, can’t he?” He laughed, but it transformed into a battle cry, and they cantered forward to meet the wave of satyrs swarming out of the underbrush.

Arrows rained down on them, on their armour and it sounded like hail on a roof. With deadly accurate slashes and thrusts, their attackers fell, many mortally wounded. Some dropped back out of the melee, but most fought on, driven by pride and the mindless frenzy conceived and fed by the heat of a battle.

Through the chaos, Naeme’s gaze collided with Panos’. Riveted like a ladybug caught in a spider’s inescapable web, she couldn’t look away.

He didn’t wield a weapon but stood back and watched with an avid greed, sly and rapacious, glittering with a malevolence that didn’t bode well for them. Power that no satyr came by naturally radiated from him.

How could she not have noticed the aberrance at his heart?

Baylor and his men beat back Panos’ kin. The coppery tang of blood preceded the death wails clamouring in the air.

Panos bared his teeth as the temperature dropped to an unseasonable coldness. An ominous crackling alerted them to the icicles taking shape on the branches around them. Frost crept over the ground to create a glassy sheet underfoot. The horses slid and slipped, making their riders disoriented and uncoordinated.

With growing horror Naeme watched the tide of the battle turn. Several Fae warriors slid off their mounts, but they fought on in spite of being outnumbered.

“You should take to the sky with the other women and flee,” Baylor shouted over the din.

Naeme shook her head. “It’s too cold. Our wings will become brittle in the frigid wind and shatter against the air currents’ pressure. Baylor, we need heat to counteract the Frost Queen’s actions. She is the only one who could do this.”

“And how do you suppose I can generate some in the midst of this fight?” Baylor lopped off a satyr’s head, and clamped his thighs to keep seated.

“Leave that to me.” Heat they needed, heat they would have. Who but a Fae knew how to stoke the fires of need, bring arousal to a boil and create an inferno of ecstasy? She pressed her hands to her armour and undid the spell he had used to craft it. She left herself unclad and unprotected.

Baylor gaped at her, almost apoplectic with fury. “Are you insane?” Baylor snarled. His baleful glower promised reprisals, but she didn’t have the luxury of second-guessing her intentions.

Lust generated heat and very few races were lustier than these horny half-men, half-billy goats. Naeme cupped her breasts and plucked her nipples until they puckered into plump buds begging for a suckling. Damn near irresistible if she did say so herself.

Everyone in the vicinity with a cock froze as if struck by lightning. The attention caught, now all she had to do was keep it focused, and heat things up a bit.

She shifted her gaze to the women she could make eye contact with and sent them a speaking glance. Understanding cleared the dazed look in their eyes. They followed her lead and bared their bodies.

Naeme moistened her fingertips, trailed them over her collarbone, down between her full breasts. She smiled at the men as she slid her fingers over the curve of her stomach to bury them between her thighs. Naeme caressed her clit. She focused on her labia to rub, how much pressure she needed and the tempo of the strokes to bring herself to orgasm as fast as possible. She gave herself over to the pleasure, writhing in the saddle, and her head fell back on Baylor’s chest.

Baylor slid his hand across her belly to hold her close. The heat of his arousal warmed her back through the metal barrier separating her backside from him.

The satyrs dropped their bows, axes, blades, and grasped a more personal kind. They openly fondled their erect cocks, all thoughts of a fight forgotten. One inched closer, and earned the honed edge of a sword at his throat. As she intended, the air around them heated and tuned balmy.

“Enough,” Baylor growled. He snapped the reins, and his horse surged forward, knocking aside anyone in its path.

They raced towards safety. A joy so deep and strong filled her. Home, to court where she belonged, where she wanted to be, and with the man who might very well be her match.

Chapter Seven

Naeme felt the tug of her home long before she caught sight of it, and took comfort in the knowledge that it wasn’t far away. Her heart leapt in her chest when she saw Titania’s standard flying from the highest turret. The Queen’s personal flag with its crimson sunburst stitched into the cloth, woven from the purest Fae gold, shimmered under a brilliant moon. Havenglade—the city-state created from mother-of-pearl, each building more fanciful than the next—had never looked more beautiful to Naeme.

Light beamed from every window in the castle set high on a knoll. The nightly ball had commenced. Music rose to a crescendo, flute, harp and cymbals producing a familiar melody. Its lively tempo was composed to enthral. Its intricate steps would have her dancing in a dizzying spin until she was breathless to the point of euphoria.

They rode through the iridescent bubble that protected Havenglade and the sense of displacement haunting her fell away. She was home.

“We need to seek an audience with the Queen immediately,” Baylor murmured above her head as he galloped through the cobblestone streets.

Naeme glanced down at her body and grimaced with distaste. Her skin was reddened from windburn. She took a delicate sniff and caught the whiff of things she didn’t want to think about that clung to her body.

“If you’d give me a moment, I need to don something suitable to face Titania. She’d consider it an insult if I appeared before her dishevelled. You should do the same.”

“Let me take care of that for you.” Naeme felt the sensation of a brush swiping over her body, and the gown Baylor had fashioned for her earlier rippled over her skin.

“Oh really, this is no garment to wear to a ball.” The man would have her in a shroud.

“The Queen is in danger. I don’t have time to conjure some frivolous suit to accommodate your whims.”

“There is always time for frivolity, Baylor, and if we’re in danger, I can’t think of a better time to appear nonchalant. As a master strategist, you should appreciate a little misdirection.”

He tensed behind her and she could almost hear the clicks as a plot fell into place in his head. “Yes, you would provide that, wouldn’t you? Very well, Naeme, do as you will. But not so Titania thinks you are trying to outdo her.”

And she would—please herself as she always did. With a flutter of her fingertips, she wove silken skeins to replace her gown, cobwebby and gossamer-fine. The translucent material revealed most of her skin but was opaque just enough over her nipples and her cleft to shield them. From the air, she collected dewdrops, embedded them in lacy material, and with a thought, froze them in place. She secured her hair atop the crown of her head, and let the tresses flow freely down her back to form a silvery backdrop for her body.

Baylor reined to a halt, slid off his mount and lifted her to set her down before him. His eyes heated with need even as he let out an exasperated grunt. “You just have to tug at the lioness’s tail, don’t you?”

Naeme pasted an expression rife with false innocence on her face. “Don’t you like it? I rather thought it suited me.”

“Too well. Don’t leave my side. No matter what.” He held up his forearm and she placed her fingertips on the proffered limb. The footmen on duty snapped to attention and opened the oaken door to admit them.

The great hall was ablaze with light, shed by the fireflies hovering over their heads. The room was awash with colour as the couples swirled past them.

When the major-domo announced their arrival, a sudden fraught silence fell over the room and everyone in it came to a standstill. It couldn’t be just her gown or the fact that Baylor and his men were still in their armour. Something was brewing. The crowd parted, and Naeme faced Titania.

She sat on her throne woven from branches of the living oak at her back. Her hair, a river of red, gold and rich dense brown, rippled down past her heels. Her dress, fashioned from the petals of roses, clung to her voluptuous body. The fragrance she exuded was the most enticing to a Fae, the scent of rich loamy earth, the greenness of grass and the purity of water. She stared at Naeme with eyes as blue as a summer sky but cool and unwelcoming. Yet, even with the chilly reception, a heat radiated from her that drew Naeme like a moth to a flame.

By her side, Oberon lounged casually, wickedly handsome, decadent, carnal and enticing. He grinned at her, his eyes narrowing with renewed interest. Naeme looked away swiftly—she didn’t want to get singed by him again. She would do her best to avoid him. Beside the king stood Valen with a plea in his eyes, advising cautiousness. 

This was going to be harder than she’d thought. It rankled that she might have to humble herself before the haughty bitch.

With a careless wave, Titania motioned them forward. “You come before me armed and with the stink of battle on you, my captain. Why is that?”

“We were attacked by the satyrs, with help, I believe, from the Frost Queen, your majesty. Valen should have brought the news ahead that the numbers of female Fae inhabiting the woods are greatly diminished.”

“Yes, he did.” Titania laughed, the sound as sweet as birdsong. She pinned Oberon with an amused glance. “Your recent peccadilloes are causing me no end of trouble. I told you it was a bad idea to invite the Frost Queen to the winter court.”

“Yes, but her presence added so much to the décor, and the nip in the air made for some good romps between the furs, my love.” Unrepentant, Oberon smirked, dismissing any problems he might have instigated.

“Hmmph, which you spread around too lavishly—it seems that icy bitch got a taste of you and wants more. I hope you won’t oblige her caprice. She is beginning to irritate me.” Oberon gave his Queen a careless shrug, signalling his acquiescence, which seemed to satisfy her. “If she wants to diminish my powers by preventing me from warming Mother Earth and bringing on an earlier winter, I am afraid she is going to be disappointed.”

“My lady, if you give me leave, my men and I will ride out to call in more of your subjects. We need every Fae at the gathering,” Baylor ventured to suggest.

“No, anyone who has not made it back to the homeplace will make their way in if they are able. You will have another task to keep you occupied since you claimed this impudent wench.” She turned to Naeme, finally acknowledging her. “You look well after your extended sojourn on the fringes, Naeme. You’ve neglected your obligations by staying away for so long. Was your pride so pricked you sulked?”

She was a fine one to talk about pride. Naeme schooled her face into a mask of stoicism and curtsied, dropping her eyes in a show of submission. “I was unaware of the passage of time, my lady. I thought only a year had passed.”

“Really.” Titania drew out the word and her voice dropped in timbre, which meant Titania was building up into a rage. “Someone has been toying with my subjects. Now how will I show them that we Fae are not to be played with?” A lethal smile spread across the Queen’s face. “Dart,” she snapped.

The head of the Queen’s household scuttled up. “Yes, milady?”

“If I were to take an accounting, will we have enough couples attending the gathering?”

“The men outnumber our women at a ratio of three to two, ma’am.” He licked his lips nervously.

“Not too bad, but it’s not good either.” She rose to her feet and studied the hushed throng. “In two nights hence, the moon will be at her zenith. We will congregate. Send out an invitation to all the kings and queens of the immortals. Make sure the King of the Satyrs gets one and you are to place another in the hand of the Frost Queen. I fear they must be taught some manners. ”

“My lady, that’s dangerous considering what happened earlier,” Baylor cut in, his face tight with frustration.

“Yes, my faithful Baylor, it is. But we will demonstrate that they are not to use my people in a quest for power. We will love and generate heat.” A malicious sneer twisted Titania’s lips. “No Fae woman will gift her loving to any male but one of our own unless I grant permission. Let them see what we have wrought—and want, yearn and crave for what we withhold.”