Lord of the Dark (25 page)

“Then no,” he said. “I cannot take chances with your safety. Ravelle could have slipped inside while you two were out. It’s best that I lock you in here now, just in case.”

“Gideon, Ravelle projected his image in the Outer Darkness forest and brought the elvers to terrorize us—and yes, I did think of my abhorrence of those creatures when I saw them as an entrée on his banquet table. If he could do that, mine my thoughts to extract my fears, and you know he did, what lock will bar him from this pool?”

“What other choice have we?” Gideon argued.

“You could take me with you,” she suggested.

“That I will not do!” he said. “I have no idea what we are facing in that forest out there. I have only seen this phenomenon twice before in all my years. Many trees were lost on both occasions. More loss must be prevented at all costs. Have you ever seen a tree spirit die? No? Well, I have. It is a gut-wrenching experience to watch an ancient entity writhe screaming—tethered in its deathbed by its own roots—its flaming branches pleading toward the heavens while the fire consumes it utterly. Marius has seen this also. By the gods, angst over that is no doubt what set him off and caused him to transform into the centaur. He doubtless feared that a stray watcher’s missile would strike one of those trees, trapping the spirit inside and causing a holocaust such as what has occurred in the past. I will not take you into the midst of such as that.”

“Then give me a means of escape if needs must.” Gideon hesitated, and she twisted free of his embrace. “You do not trust me!” she cried.

“I do not trust his magic!” he corrected her. “I do not know the depth of it, and when I fell I lost what powers I possessed that might have matched it, elsewise I would not need to consult with the rune caster.”

Seizing her in his arms again, he took her lips in a fiery kiss that drained her senses, his hot tongue teasing, thrusting into her, igniting fires at the core of her sex that started her juices flowing.

“I do not want to leave you,” he panted, thrusting his hand between her thighs, gliding his finger along her slit, riding her wetness.

Rhiannon groaned as he probed deeper, penetrating her swollen folds one at a time, opening the petals of her sex as he delved deeper, feeling the hot, moist walls of her vagina, reaching into the narrow void beyond for the womb his fingers were not long enough to touch.

Rhiannon groaned, leaning into his embrace, trying to take the probing fingers deeper. There was a glimmer of finality in his fondling, a facet of desperation that hit her as hard as if he’d actually struck her. That was more terrifying than her fear of Ravelle. His sudden bone-crushing embrace punctuated her fears, and she gripped his arms as he tore himself away.

“Gideon…don’t leave me!” she shrilled.

But it was too late. A cold, damp wind rushed at her, filling the space where his warm body had been. He didn’t answer. She blinked, and he was no more than a blur streaking through the pool chamber door.

The rasp of a key turning in the lock echoed over the warm, steamy water rising from the pool, then nothing. Except for the shrill reverberation of her pleading sobs and the dull thud of her tiny fists pounding on the ancient wood, there wasn’t another sound.

L
ocking Rhiannon away in the pool chamber against her will was the hardest thing Gideon had ever done, but he needed his wits about him, and the only way he could hope to do everything in his power to keep her out of harm’s way while he was about the business at hand.

Adrenaline surged through every fiber of his body, charged with the inevitability of the reckoning he feared, and the raw carnal need Rhiannon’s soft, willing flesh had ignited pumping through his veins. His need was acute, but there wasn’t time to address it. With Rhiannon’s pleadings ringing in his ears, he snatched up a handful of the oat cakes heaped on a plate in the middle of the table and burst out into the rain-swept midday semidarkness.

The rain had begun to slack by the time he reached the forest, sprinting across the clearing rather than taking to the air. Mercifully, the deluge had kept the watchers at bay until then. That it was slacking was not a good sign. He had hoped for more saturation in case of fire. His head was spinning. The peace of mind he’d hoped locking Rhiannon away out of danger would bring hadn’t come. In fact, he was more worried than ever. She had touched upon several valid points in her argument, and he wished he knew more of the demon’s capabilities. Making matters worse, the disembodied voices were ghosting across his mind again. He strained his ears to hear what they were saying, but it was for the most part garbled, though some sentences did come through. If only he knew what it all meant…

Surely, we can reveal ourselves now
, the first speaker said.
She knows
!

The other uttered an exasperated grunt.
Doesn’t matter a whit what she knows, it’s what he accepts that’s going to do it…if it can be done.

The first speaker sighed.
And you do not think he will accept it?

He’s a reckless sort, your Lord of the Dark,
the second speaker hedged.
I do not think we dare take that for granted. She tried to tell him. He wouldn’t even listen. He is too long a creature of habit in his own realm
.
I fear so vast a change may be too great for him to bear.

The first speaker sputtered.
Be fair
, he said.
What’s happening in that forest is the greater press.
The other didn’t answer, and the first speaker went on quickly,
All right, if you won’t reveal our identity, will you at least agree to call for reinforcements…if not for Gideon, for the Lord of the Forest…?

The voices trailed off to mumbling then. Gideon pricked up his ears to hear more, but the words were reduced to mumbling, like the droning of a thousand bees buzzing around in his head. He didn’t like that they’d brought Rhiannon into their conversation. They had never done that before. But there was no time to dwell on that then. The forest loomed before him, tall and silent. It was as if all the spirits of the Ancient Ones had already vacated their host trees. He almost wished that was the case, staring up at the lifeless branches dripping water as if it were the sad things’ tears.

Jolted back to the grim present, he beat back the strange voices’ message and made his way between the trees. Breaking up the oat cakes he’d taken from the lodge, he crumbled some in each of the stone basin shrines he passed to pay tribute as he moved through the wood, pausing at each in hopes of a response, but there was none. The trees remained unchanged, their aspects dismal and still. It was as if the pulse of the forest had ceased to beat.

Dry lightning speared down as he made his way among the trees. He assumed it was natural lightning, for he had never known the watchers to jeopardize the Ancient Ones before. Ravelle, on the other hand, would have no such consideration, and Gideon took a chill recalling a past devastation that the demon had caused.

Dropping to his knees before one of the larger stone basins, he left his tribute, and prayed. “Ancient One, what must I do to forestall whatever calamity it is that threatens here?” he murmured, gazing into the great pine’s still branches. What he wouldn’t give to feel those fragrant needles stroking him now—any response from the tree would be welcome. He was even willing to suffer a cuffing, but the tree remained motionless, its fragrance the only evidence of life.

“It is no use,” a voice said close beside him.

Gideon whipped around and surged to his feet to face Marius, whose restless hooves were tearing up the mulch underfoot, lifting pollen spores that had been held down by the rain until it looked like snow was falling all around them.

“Mica’s toenails! Where have you been?” Gideon blurted out.

“Trying to purge a very embarrassing incident,” the forest lord said.

“I know. I’ve been to the lodge,” Gideon said.

“Let us just say I was distressed over all this and trying to keep my word to you…and something snapped. Where is she?”

“I locked her in the pool chamber while we settle this. She wasn’t too receptive to that, but I need her safe until we settle this. What is happening here? I’ve left tributes in every basin I’ve passed hoping for a response, but it’s as if the spirits have all vacated their trees.”

“It is the same throughout the island,” Marius said. “That’s where I’ve been, checking the others, hoping we weren’t having a repeat of what happened the last time Ravelle was on the rampage. It does not bode well, Gideon. Unless I miss my guess, we are under siege here. The Ancient Ones know it too.”

“Have they vacated?”

“No,” Marius said. “Where are they to go? It is an ancient spiritual rite they perform. You cannot reach them now—no one can, not even myself. They prepare for death, for their journey to the afterlife.”

“This is not the watchers’ doing,” Gideon confirmed. “As insidious as they are, I cannot fathom them risking the Ancient Ones in such a way.”

“No, they are out for your blood, my friend, but they will not put the Ancient Ones to the hazard to get it. This is Ravelle. I just wish I knew if it was merely Outer Darkness glamour that has turned these old sentinels in upon themselves, or if that demon is actually among us.”

“What can we do?”

“There is nothing we can do,” Marius returned, “until it begins.”

Rhiannon leaned against the locked pool chamber door, touching the ancient wood. She was hoarse from calling out. It was no use anymore. She’d heard the lodge door slam shut outside. Gideon was gone, and there was nothing to do but wait for him to return.

Across the chamber, rising steam from the pool, rich in minerals, wafted toward her. Should she accept the invitation? Gideon had told her to refresh herself in the pool. She hadn’t purged the stink of Outer Darkness from her nostrils, she wondered if she ever would. A good soaking in that heavenly water silkened with minerals and rosemary was so appealing she couldn’t resist venturing closer.

Walking around the pool, she looked into the water lit by torches in their brackets on the wall, seeking the shallow end, where the color would appear lighter and hopefully would allow her to see the bottom. She needn’t have bothered. When she reached it, the shallow end was marked by a pile of cushions and fluffy towels, which she assumed Marius had set there for her convenience. Kneeling down, she fingered the fabric and tested the softness. Eiderdown. Of course they would be plumped with the gleanings from local birds. Nature was represented everywhere on the Forest Isle kindly and reverently.

The pool was inviting, but exhaustion won out. Rhiannon sank lower into the cushions and closed her eyes, listening to the soft lapping of the ripples on the breast of the water echoing musically. Sleep took her quickly, but it was a restless sleep fraught with strange murmurings and shadowy dreams that wouldn’t come clear except to project their eerie essence. She had no idea how long she had slept, or what wrenched her suddenly awake. Whatever it was, her breath was coming short and her heart was racing. Supposing it was due to the anxiety of worrying over what was happening in the forest, she swallowed her rapid heartbeat and struggled to a sitting position, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Beads of cold perspiration had broken out over her brow. It ran in rivulets between her breasts and down her spine. She was drenched in sweat, suffering strange recollections of Gideon’s hands upon her, petting her—arousing her.

Rhiannon scrambled to her feet and padded around the circumference of the little pool to the door. Frantically, she tried the latch handle, but it wouldn’t budge. The door was still locked. Gideon hadn’t returned. She was hoping that the sultry dreams charging her sex hadn’t all been dreams, hoping that Gideon had returned after all.

Still hopeful, she called out to him, but no answer came, and her posture collapsed as she returned to the shallow end of the pool, where writhing tufts of fragrant steam were rising from the water. She had slept, but she hadn’t rested. Her body ached from ordeal and exhaustion. How good it would feel to slip into that pool of silky water perfumed with pine tar and rosemary—scents of the wood, of the forest, heady and mysterious, so soothing to sore, tired flesh and aching muscles. Without giving it a second thought, she stripped off the wheat-colored homespun kirtle and stretched naked, like a lazy cat, at the edge of the pool. Then taking a deep breath, she submerged herself to the neck in the soothing flux of gentle ripples and drifting vapors in a desperate attempt to purge the stench of Outer Darkness from her nostrils.

The weight of her long hair pulled her down in the water. Adrenaline surged and she quickly felt for the bottom. It was there, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she began to tread the smooth rocky floor, feeling for the drop off. Being natural, this pool was carved out of the reefs that formed the understructure of the islands just like the others. No two were alike. She could feel the pull from the deep end, where the water flowed on, eventually finding its way to other pools and air pockets and levels of existence beneath the sea.

Mineral salt lines, ringing the inside edge of the pool, were visible where the rising and ebbing tide changed the level of the water. She was mindful of that in her explorations, judging from the residue that the tide must be rising now, and she swam back to the shallow end just to be sure. There, beside the cushions she found a shell holding a slab of soap that smelled of pine tar oil and a natural sea sponge. She raised the soap to her nose and inhaled deeply. It was a clean, crisp masculine scent, a testimony to the loneliness of the forest lord, whose bathing chamber she had invaded. No fripperies here, no feminine accessories or exotic oils, just subtle whispers of the forest, of the land, of Marius’s world. She took up the sponge and made a rich creamy lather with the soap that slid along her forearms as it burst into a profusion of tingling bubbles.

Her tiny feet dancing on the floor of the pool, she began soaping herself in concentric circles starting at the base of her throat, then over her chest and full, round breasts. The gentle roughness of the sea sponge delivering the lather scraped her nipples, bringing them erect. The dusky rose nubbins grew hard as she lingered over them until the areolae puckered, making them taller still. The craters and crevices in the soapy sponge stimulating the sensitive buds set off a firestorm at the epicenter of her sex, calling warm pulsations to radiate throughout her belly and turgid thighs. Rhiannon moaned softly as she moved the sponge lower, following the contours of her torso, caressing her narrow waist and the curvaceous shape of her hips.

Creating new lather, she soaped her belly, leisurely ringing the little hollow of her navel, as more riveting waves of sensation rippled through her sex. No crevice, no fissure would be left untouched by the wonderfully rich lather. Reaching behind, she concentrated upon the globes of her buttocks, gliding the sponge along the crease between, lingering over the dimples at the base of her spine. Soft murmurs leaked from her lips as she touched pleasure spots she’d all but forgotten, erogenous regions that Gideon had awakened for the first time, like the soft skin on the inside of her thighs, and the delicate creases behind her knees. Her toilette had become a sentient experience extraordinaire. She’d become totally enraptured. But why wouldn’t it chase the stench of Outer Darkness still clinging so stubbornly to her nostrils?

All around her, a ring of soapsuds defined her shape in the water, nudging her in little caresses as she soaped the sponge again and slid it lower, squeezing the lather through the little thatch of pubic curls over her mound and uncovering the hardened bud beneath. Spreading her legs, she probed deeper, sliding the sponge the length of her nether lips seeking her folds, swollen with arousal, from steely clitoris to the tight pucker of her anus.

The soap was rectangular in shape, a chunk evidently carved from a larger slab, its corners rounded from use. Rhiannon spread her nether lips and slipped it inside her, gripping it with the walls of her vagina, just as she had gripped Gideon’s penis when he was at the height of his climax. Again and again she tugged at it with her thickened folds, while sliding it in and out of her to the rhythmic demands of her need, until she lost her grip upon the slippery phallus it had become and drifted to the floor of the pool.

She could still touch bottom, and she held her breath and dove beneath the surface to retrieve it, groping the pool floor. The soap escaped her twice before she captured it successfully. In the silt she’d stirred up at the bottom, she saw motion. The image wouldn’t come clear through the dark fog of underwater debris, but it looked like another pair of feet was padding toward her. Her heart leaped inside, and she surged upward. Had Gideon returned after all?