Harvest Hunting (6 page)

And with that, he leaned down and blew on the shining black crescent, and a vibration ran through me that played me like a harp, string by string. I let out a long gasp, wanting him, wanting to give up my breath to him, and he turned me around and slowly lowered his lips onto mine, enfolding me in his arms.

The world began to spin, a vortex of life and death and blood and bones, of leaves in a whirlwind, and all I could taste on his tongue were cognac and juniper and smoked venison stew. As I sank into the kiss, an ice-filled fire raced through me, filling every crevice, every niche, and my breasts began to tingle, igniting every point along my body.

As I pressed against him, he slid one leg between my knees, and I opened to him, but he did not reach for me, just let me rub gently against him as he sucked my life out with a single gasp and then—as I fought for breath—he pressed his lips to mine again and blew me gently back into my body and I came, moaning softly.

Spinning, the orgasm spread through me like melted butter, warm and vibrant, as smooth as glowing lava, crackling like a hearth fire. I gasped as he nuzzled my neck, his tongue playing each and every nerve in my body.

“My living bride, my living bride,” he whispered, his hands carefully holding me by the waist. “I can’t take you. Not yet—if I did, you’d die. But I want you. There will be a way . . . and then, one day, you’ll join me in my world.”

“You said you wanted me to bear your heir—how can I if you can’t . . . if we can’t . . .” I stared into his eyes, caught in the power of his spell.

“Oh, trust me, it
will
happen but not quite the way you expect. Until then, cry no more, my lovely panther. Cry no more.” And then Hi’ran backed away, and I reached for him. It seemed so simple in his world—it was life or death. He was one of the Harvestmen, an avatar of Death, and it would be easier just to walk into his world.

He shook his head. “No, it’s not your time. You have
so much
to do before I can think of claiming you to sit at my side. But I’ll always be with you, always feel you, always know what you’re thinking.” And then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

 

 

“Delilah? Delilah? Are you okay?”

Menolly’s voice echoed through me, bringing me back to myself. I turned, and she gasped and jumped back, her fangs lowering. Catching hold of herself, she closed her mouth.

“I’m . . .” I blushed, wondering if I’d put on a show in front of them, but Iris saw my fear and shook her head.

“Don’t try to explain,” Iris said, stepping in. “We can feel it on you. You’ve been with
him
? You were in a trance.”

I nodded. “Yes.” Slowly, I brought my hand to my neck where my skin still tingled from the touch of his tongue.

Menolly leaned closer to me and gave me a long look. “That was some message, by the look of your neck.”

I glanced back in the mirror and saw the massive hickey spreading across where he’d kissed me. “Uh, yeah . . . I guess it was.” I smiled then, blushing.

And then it all fell away, and I dropped to the floor, done in by the night, still smelling of skunk, with punked hair, and awaiting the arrival of . . . well, wherever it was the Autumn Lord was planning.

“Things are such a mess. Chase has changed so much since he took the Nectar of Life—”

“You and Camille saved his life. He would have died without it.” Iris bustled around, cleaning up the scattered strands of hair.

“Well, he’s not thanking me now. I think the reality of what it means is starting to hit him. And the lack of preparation—let me tell you,
that ain’t helping matters any
. I feel like something’s looming over me. The Autumn Lord has plans . . .” I couldn’t speak Hi’ran’s name aloud to anyone but him—it was a secret forged between us and kept solely for my use.

“What did Chase say?”

I shook my head. “Honestly, I blocked it out. He was so stiff, so aloof. Right now I can’t deal with his angst. That makes me a bad girlfriend, right?”

“No, that makes you half-human. If you were full-Fae, he’d be long gone by now.” Iris sat on the ottoman next to me. “Honey, Chase needs more help than you can give him. Let Sharah work her magic. She has the training to deal with matters like this.”

“I guess he’s in better hands with her. I’ll back off.” The thought still stung, but I couldn’t waste any more energy. I was exhausted by trying to help when my help wasn’t welcome.

As we sat there, a tableau illuminated by the Tiffany-style lamps that Morio had found in a thrift shop, the door opened, and Camille’s laughter echoed through the hall. I slowly picked myself off the floor and moved to one of the chairs, but still, when she darted into the room, she took one look at my face as she tossed her cloak over the back of the rocking chair and sat down beside me, grabbing my hand.

“What’s going on? Bad news? Was there news from home?”

That was her way of asking if our father had left a message through the Whispering Mirror. Reluctant to burst her bubble, I gave her a quick shake of the head. “No hon, no messages. Not that I know of.”

She stopped short, staring at me. “What the fuck happened to your hair?” And then she burst out laughing. “I love it—you’re so punk! You look great! But man, Iris was right.” Waving her hand in front of her face, she grimaced. “You got skunked bad, babe.”

“Yeah, but it was worse before.” As I stood up, Camille’s men came trooping in. At least they were polite enough to avoid commenting on my brand-new do and perfume, though I noticed Smoky’s lips curl into a smile, and Morio’s nose twitched. Trillian just offered to take the tray of debris from Iris and carry it into the kitchen for her.

“So . . . you going to keep it that way?” Camille walked around me, studying my hair. “I like it. Makes you seem more seasoned.”

I smiled softly. “I don’t know. Maybe. Everything’s changing, everything’s moving.”

As I looked in the mirror again, my image flashed. It was as if my panther self and my tabby self were superimposed over my face, and all sides of myself began to merge, blending together as the tattoo on my forehead glistened and flared brilliant red, then back to the shimmering black. A wave of heat rushed through me, and I grabbed the nearest chair to steady myself.

“Hell . . . what was that?” My entire body felt on fire, and I dropped my head back as I started to sweat. It was almost the same confusion I felt the first time I shifted into my black panther form, but this was less transformational energy and more . . . like I was a pillar of fire.

“Crap—what the . . . what’s happening?” And then everything went dark, and the last thing I felt was the floor coming up to meet me.

Blinking, I sat up, looking around. I was standing in a forest full of wild, overgrown bushes and undergrowth. The trees were incredibly tall, rising far into the sky, towering beyond my sight. Cedar, fir, oak, alder, and birch—their trunks were thick with moss and toadstools, and lacework moss dripped from the boughs, swaying in the faint breeze that wafted past me. The deciduous trees were covered with a medley of red and orange leaves, burnished gold and yellow, and from every branch dripped the last vestiges of some autumn rainstorm.

I stood, examining myself, but I seemed to be okay. No bumps, bruises, or cuts. I glanced around, wondering if I was dreaming. I seemed to be standing on a path that led deep into the forest, and a compulsion drove me to take off jogging down it. Wherever I was, there was something ahead waiting for me.

I raced along, my speed picking up as I ran. The trees flew by in a blur, and I realized how much I was enjoying the movement. My body felt so alive, zinging with energy, full with the chase. My muscles rejoiced, stretching, moving, pumping full with the blood that flowed through the veins in my body.

The sky was somewhere between twilight and dusk here—wherever
here
was—and even in the dim light, I had no problem seeing the scattered limbs and boughs that littered the trail. As I ran, I began to notice that I wasn’t out of breath. Nor was I tiring. I leapt over rocks the size of my head and hurdled a fallen trunk blocking the path before coming to where I could see the end of the trail.

The drive to run slowed, but the summons forward was no less strong. I headed toward the opening leading out of the woodland. At the edge of the tree line, I found myself staring into a dark circle—a grove of sorts, and in the center rested a circle of bronze, engraved with runes and symbols I could not read.

I approached it slowly, holding my breath, waiting to see what would happen. Magic filled this place; it surrounded me like a crackling vortex, and even though I wasn’t familiar with its workings, I could sense it racing through me, along my skin like a flurry of pinpricks, making the hair on my arms stand on end.

And then, as I watched, a figure appeared on the dais. It was a man dressed in a dark suit. He was young—he couldn’t be over thirty—and a lost, confused look spread across his face. I frowned. What the hell was I supposed to do now?

As I watched him, a soft voice whispered from behind me.

“Training day, darling.”

I whirled to find myself facing a petite woman dressed in a long, sheer robe the color of the twilight sky. Her hair was burnished copper, the same color as Menolly’s, and it curled past her shoulders in thick waves. A wreath of autumn leaves ringed her head. I caught my breath—on her forehead was the same Mark I bore, the same tattoo. Only hers flared with a brilliant flame that burned brightly in the center of the crescent. And on her arms—intricate vines and leaves inked in vivid black and orange twined their way up her skin, glimmering tattoos mirroring the black of the crescent on our foreheads.

“You . . . you’re . . .”

“A Death Maiden, like you. And yet, not like you. I am dead, yes, and yet as tangible and corporeal as you are.” Her gaze met mine as she swept over me like a scanner, taking me in, examining me, and—I felt—finding me wanting. I blushed and stared at my feet.

“My name is Greta, and I’ve been assigned to be your trainer.” She reached out, and her fingers brushed my chin. Greta could barely top five feet, but the power in her touch nearly knocked me flat.

“Tra . . . trainer?” The confidence I’d felt earlier seemed to flow away as her energy slammed into me. Like the Autumn Lord, and yet, not. She was steeped in his energy, but she didn’t carry the season in her wake—instead she was . . .
the huntress
. The hunter, the hound after the fox, the tiger after the gazelle, the cat after the mouse.

“Our Master has declared it time to begin your formal training. You are the only living Death Maiden who has ever graced his stable; therefore you must be trained cautiously and with care. I am the leader of the Death Maidens and the best choice to help you adjust to your duties.”

She circled the dais, staring at the man.

“I didn’t realize I had to train for anything. He summons me and tells me what to do.” I was so caught off guard that I didn’t realize she was creeping up on me. And then she was there, standing beside me, barely as tall as my shoulder.

“No more. Your training begins in earnest with me. Tonight, you learn what it truly means to be a Death Maiden. You watch. You listen. You feel. You begin your journey toward realizing the full potential of just what you are becoming.”

Before I could speak, she reached up and brushed her fingers over my mouth. “Silence. Speak not. Hush and be still.”

And I was still.

Greta moved toward the dais, toward the kneeling man. She leaned over the bronze circle. A frightened glimmer filled his eyes and he backed away, but a force—one I could feel from where I stood—kept his knees locked on the dais, and he struggled, trying to free himself.

“No, no, no, my friend.” Greta whispered, and her voice echoed through the glade, a trill of sex and desire and love. “Do you know who I am?”

He bit his lip. “I’m not ready. I’m not ready to go.” He swallowed, and when he spoke again, the tremor had faded. “It can’t be my time.”

“But it is. The natural balance demands it. The Harvestmen have sent me. You are a
brave man
, you have saved many lives today, but to balance the scales, the web demands your own death.” Greta’s voice danced in a singsong manner, tripping over her words. “Ronald Wyndhym Niece, I come for your soul.”

And then he was crying. “But I helped save them—I did everything I could, and now . . .”

As I watched, Greta stroked his face and murmured something I couldn’t catch. The tears dried instantly, and he looked up at her, a grateful and beautiful light filling his face. She leaned down, kissed him gently, then harder, and he opened his arms to her. As she slid against him, he embraced her, and their kiss turned long and luxurious.

I let out a long sigh, aware that I was getting aroused watching them.

Greta stroked his back, his arms, and the jacket was suddenly gone, and then she was holding him to her, and he was bare-chested—the shirt had vanished somewhere along with the jacket. I opened my lips slightly, sensing their passion, sensing the taste of his soul in my mouth . . .