Love Is Fear

Also by Caroline Hanson:

Love is Darkness

Bewitching the Werewolf

Copyright © Caroline Hanson 2011

Published by Host of the Hills Publishing

Cover Illustration by Phat Puppy Art. This is a work of fiction any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Prologue

August 18, 1587

Cerdewellyn, King of the Fey, smiled triumphantly at the baby’s first angry cry. The sound reverberated off the thin wooden walls of the primitive shelter. He looked around in disgust. It was nothing like the opulence they had been forced to leave behind. Two tallow candles were sputtering in the room, dimly illuminating the spent woman who held her newborn child. Eleanor, the child’s mother, murmured something soothing to the babe, then looked up as Cer approached.

“
A girl, just like you promised,” she said tiredly, but with a smile.

She doubted his word? 
Yes
, 
because no one fears the Fey any longer. 
“Do you have a name for the child?” he asked, ignoring the unintended slight.

“
Virginia. Virginia Dare is her name.”

His black eyebrows pulled together in a frown, giving him a satanic look in the guttural light. His inky hair fell forward into his eyes and he pushed it away absently. “What is the purpose of such a name? Why did you choose it?”

“
Because of the Queen, of course.”

The English Queen. A mortal. More regal, more deserving of having an infant named in her honor, than the Queen of the Fey.

Of course.

He nodded, watching absently as the baby whimpered and struggled, rooting around her mother’s chest.

Cer was pleased, felt a moment of gladness that this, at least, was going as it should. It was an omen for what was to come— it must be. Their lives depended upon it.

“
She is strong,” he said and turned to find the midwife watching him as if he was a rabid dog about to steal meat from the fire.

Her arms were crossed defensively and she made a sign at him, as though to ward away an evil spirit. As if a hand gesture could impact him in any way. Cer took a moment to study the deep crimson stains on her apron, eyeing it and her until she saw something in his expression that made her take a step back.

And she should fear me.

“
It’s not his place to be here,” the midwife said, never taking her eyes off him. “Seeing the babe before your husband, before your father.”

“
Hush, Martha. His Highness has been nothing but goodness to us.”

Martha shook her head and went back to Eleanor, pressing on the woman’s stomach repeatedly until the afterbirth, a huge glistening organ, spilled from her onto the bed.

Cer’s voice cut through the night like a blade. “You are done here. Go, Martha.”

Martha looked at him, then back to Eleanor. Did she really believe Eleanor’s wishes would trump his?

“
You are to leave. Now. This is mine. The child is mine. Do nothing to interfere or you will regret it.”

“
Are you threatening me?” the woman said, her bloody hand flying to her chest as she stumbled backwards towards the door. The confusion and fear on her simple face made him want to kill her and leave. But it would distress Eleanor, and, after the service she had done his people, he felt magnanimous.

“
No,” he said quietly, and then waited until her beefy shoulders slumped in relief. “I threaten you, your children and your man. You leave here and speak nothing of this. Nothing of me, nor the dark birth I will take with me. One whisper, one rumor of this and all you love will perish.”

“
You are the devil!” she cried and backed out the door, slamming it behind her. He heard her footsteps on the dry ground as she ran to the nearby huts of the other Roanoke settlers.

He placed the afterbirth into a bucket gently, gave the mother and child a blessing, then went to the woods, ready to reclaim his world. He’d promised Eleanor Dare a daughter and a husband, promised her that her family would prosper. He’d made it happen.

I still have the power to give someone a destiny.

But the Fey never gave away anything for free. Cer had helped the woman conceive for his own purposes—moving the Fey realm, and its living portal, required a host on the perilous journey across the sea.

Eleanor Dare had carried their magic to the New World just as she carried the babe in her womb. They had fled Europe, leaving from County Norfolk for a wilderness so vast and unreachable that no one could harm them.

She’d consumed Fey magic and the essence of their land until she was near to bursting with it. Most of his people—too weak to exist outside his realm—waited for him to complete the rite that would allow them back to the mortal world. And tonight, he’d do just that.

Cer walked into the woods, feeling the night air closing in around him, as though it wanted to meet him, lift him up and return him back to his former glory.

Waiting
.

How long had they been a civilization on the brink of extinction? How many had been slaughtered by Lucas over the long centuries?

When the time came, Cerdewellyn would kill him.

It was a death he imagined every waking moment. Akin to a fantasy of a woman he desired but had never taken—he would close his eyes and imagine killing 
him
. He didn’t care if he looked Lucas in the eyes, didn’t care if he stabbed Lucas in the back, didn’t even care if someone else forced the stake through his heart…so long as it was done.

He stepped into a clearing in the woods, where the trees and brush had been cut back by the settlers. The strongest of his people— those who had not needed to lock themselves away in the portal— fell to the ground, the Wolves howling in recognition. Cer could 
feel
 the expectation.

A fire raged in the middle of the circle, flames licking so high that they singed the nearest branches—an inferno under a witch’s control.

Tonight they would be reborn, put the past behind them and start again.

His witch, Nantanya, stepped forward and took the bucket that contained the bloody after birth—and all the magic of his people—and went to the fire.

Cer looked at the remnants of the Others. A handful of Empaths, a few Witches, and all that was left of the Wolves. Many of their loved ones were trapped in Cer’s dimension, never aging, nothing changing, as they waited for a way to return to the mortal world.

He made eye contact with each of them, feeling the weight of loss and ruin in their worn clothing and lean faces. The journey to the New World had been hard, and Roanoke was not as plentiful as they had hoped. But once the portal was opened, that would change.

“
With this birth, our fortunes change. Our new life begins. Bonded together by death, we are no longer enemies, but kin. All of our kind forged together in a fire of despair.” Cer paused, letting the men and women think about what they had left behind. How dire their situation had become. There had been only one choice.

Leave. Because Lucas and his horde had destroyed them all.

The silence gave way to the slight crackle of leaves underfoot. His Queen approached, their witch leading her by the hand. She was naked and walked forward slowly, flowers twined in her long, honey-colored hair.

The trip had been especially hard on her, and as he watched her come forward, he noticed that she was thinner than usual—her stomach concave and her breasts smaller.

He felt a moment of unease. 
A true goddess is unaffected by mortal coils. 
But they’d been together for hundreds of years, had dozens of children together, and as she smiled at him, all his doubts disappeared.

The witch chanted, sliced her palm with a sharp knife, her blood dripping into the fire with a hiss. She lifted the afterbirth from the bucket, holding it suspended over the fire.

The witch had cast the spell allowing their dimension to be moved, but Cer and his Queen were the ones who would break it, allowing the Fey to come and go between the two dimensions.

Nantanya knelt down and cut into the bloody mass, slicing off two small pieces before casting them into the fire. They burned with a flourish, a cascade of rainbow-colored flames sparking bright.

Cer felt the magic rise from the fire like smoke, knew the moment it touched him— thickened him, his cock pulsing in time to his heart and the witch’s chant.

A breeze rustled across his skin and his Queen’s hair flitted across him arm, twining around his hand. The fire crackled again and he was hard as obsidian. The urge to mate with his Queen an overwhelming need.

Magic and power flooded the night. He drew it into him, channeling it into pure desire, before throwing it into the land, aware of it touching each person in the clearing. Their sudden moans of carnal hunger, a primitive song in the night.

The witch approached, a strip of meat dangling on the edge of her blade. He inhaled, the smell of blood and power potent and intoxicating. Without question, thought or hesitation he swallowed it whole, felt it burn through him.

The magic needed an outlet. The magic was half him and half his Queen. Only their joining would make the magic whole. Cerdewellyn watched as his Queen opened her mouth, taking the flesh between her lips. She closed her eyes in bliss and raised her hand, covering her mouth as though she savored every drop. 
Or as if she might retch. No, impossible.

Women came to him from the crowd, helping him take off his clothing, stroking his body. They touched him everywhere, their passion growing as he fed his desire to them.

A woman tugged the sleeve of his shirt away, then touched his chest, her finger grazing his nipple. Another unfastened his pants, pulling the laces free, her hand touching his cock, sliding her fingers across the damp head. He was ready and full, potent and eager to mount his Queen.

With this offering, with their release, they would all be free.

His Queen closed her eyes and made a choking noise, an expression he couldn’t identify scraping across her features. But it wasn’t joy. Uncertainty flooded him and he shoved it away. This was their chance. Their realm hinged on this night. There was no time for uncertainty or doubt, no going back. The rite would work.

Because there was no alternative. Male hands caressed her flesh and stroked her hair. Readying her. With a cry, she swallowed, tears running down her cheeks.

He knew that pleasure: When his body was so overrun with verdant desire that he could barely function beyond the moment and his own urgency.

Cer grabbed his Queen around the waist, her back to his front, his fingers going around her body and plunging between her thighs.

She was hot and wet. A Queen built for desire. He pushed his fingers into her, opening her, making her wide for him.

No gentleness, no hesitation. It was unnecessary because she was Queen of the Fey, as ready and hot as he was. She was his equal—a mirror for his desire.

She cried out at his blunt invasion, struggling closer. He settled her on the ground, raising her hips into the air as he impaled her from behind in one, swift move.

Like a dagger plunged to the hilt.

Like the last gasp of a dying man.

That connection was everything.

Cer thrust within her, slow then pounding, feeling the magic course through him. It was building, growing.

Wrong.

He felt it even as the orgasm gathered in his cock.

He was buffeted by sex and violent urges as his followers mated around him. The men took the women hard, the wolves half-transformed, all control wiped away and fed to the magic. There were not enough women and several of the men were pleasuring each other, holding tight fists around their pricks, their motions quick and greedy.

Bodies writhed while their groans rent the air. He heard the witch chanting, felt the fire grow, consuming the very air around them, urging them towards completion.

His Queen was below him, her body milking him, fingers sunk deep into the earth.

Wrong.

Through the fire of lust he knew 
this
 was not right, that something was out of balance. With a hoarse yell, he pulled out of her, flipping her onto her back and sinking his face between her thighs. He kissed her and licked her, ate at her with a passion driven by the elements.

She clenched hard, exploding around him. Her taste burned him, scalded him, tasted…. 
Wrong
.

He ignored it, still driven to come, to break the spell that kept the Fey trapped in another dimension. He loomed over her, looking down at her perfect face, and caught a flash of 
something.

It was as though she wasn’t there. As though she’d faded and was covered head-to-toe in an illusion of death. Her skin gray and mottled, her eyes wide in her sunken flesh. The leaves she wore, dead and rotting. He blinked, and the image disappeared. His Queen was whole and beautiful before him, body lush and spread, ripe as spring, hot as summer.