Starry Knight (19 page)

His mouth, on hers now, tasted of salt and silver. She parted her lips and his tongue rushed in, engaging hers in a fervent tango. Her thoughts drifted back to her parents.

Her father was Aries, a ram ruled by Mars, while her mother was Cancer, a crab ruled by the Moon. Fire and water. Being fire, her father wanted an epic romance—
Romeo and Juliet
with a happy ending. Her mother, being emotion-driven water, wanted security and a comfortable home. Somewhere along the line, her mother withdrew into her shell and her father gave up butting his horns against her armor.

Yes, she understood what probably happened between her parents, but that didn’t mean she’d settle for the same kind of marriage herself. She’d much rather remain unattached than spend the remainder of her days in icy détente.

Callum, still thrusting into her, broke free of the kiss. He was breathing hard, as was she, and she could feel his breath, hot and damp, on her neck. The rest of her body was already ablaze.

Now giving him her full attention, she planted her hands on his sweat-moistened chest and ground against him as he slammed into her. Deep, hard, and merciless. Just the way she liked it.

Her pleasure climbed ever higher until it was almost too much to bear. Had her mother and father ever known passion like this? It wasn’t a thought she wished to entertain, especially when Callum was making those clenched pre-orgasmic noises of his.

“Eh, eh, eh.” Teeth gritting, face contorted, fingers digging into her hips. “Eh, eh, eh. Oh, lass. You feel so good.”

He felt good, too, but she was too breathless to say so. Each thrust was a battering ram against her battlements. A mortar-shattering orgasm broke the next second. He came at the same time, driving into her with such force she climaxed again. They shuddered into stillness together, both panting and slick with sweat. He pushed her hair from her face and peered into her eyes. His gaze was smoky, but spoke with a tenderness that tore her in two.

When the words sprang to her lips unbidden, she bit them back. As amorous as she felt in the sweet afterglow of sex, she wasn’t about to stake her whole future upon something as undependable as emotion.

* * * *

“Maybe it would be easier if you could hunt as something other than yourself,” Callum told Vanessa a couple of hours later as they walked toward the forest.

“You mean shape-shift?”

“Aye.”

“Into what?”

He shrugged, his bare shoulders glistening in the midday sun. She walked a few paces behind him in blue jeans, topsiders, and the sweatshirt she’d purchased at a PETA fundraiser.

Callum wore something he called a “plaide”—a big tartan blanket, basically, he’d belted around his waist. It was all she could do not to laugh while observing the ritual of putting the damn thing on. First, he laid the whole length of fabric on the floor atop a belt. Next, on his knees while buck naked, he’d pleated the greater part of it by hand. Finally, he’d laid on it and, using the belt, gathered the tartan around himself.

As she watched him now, striding along like some ancient Celtic warrior, mindful the goods were only a grab away, she truly understood the powerful sexual magnetism of a man in a kilt.

“What about a lioness? Then we could be like Simba and Nala from
The Lion King
.”

Callum walked on, saying nothing, until they stepped into a secluded clearing. It was a pastoral spot with knee-high grass and wildflowers protected by a circle of ash and oak. He threw a backward glance at her as he strode to the center and unbuckled his belt.

Desire hooked low and deep as the tartan slid to the ground. Her gaze roamed over his magnificent physique with a mixture of lust and curiosity. Stepping up to him, she set her hands on his chest, and lifted her face for a kiss. He gave her one, but only a quick peck, before stepping back, scooping up the plaide, and spreading it out across the meadow like a picnic blanket.

He then got down on it and squinted up at her. “Take off your clothes and sit down.”

With some hesitation, she peeled off her clothing and took a seat on the blanket, squirming a bit to find a position that didn’t give him a full-on beaver shot.

“Now what?”

“Close your eyes and picture yourself as a lioness.”

“That’s it? I simply imagine myself as a lioness and boom?”

He laughed. “Not quite. I’m going to teach you the Fith-Fath, a shapeshifting spell that’s been around as long as magic itself.”

Thrumming with anticipation, she shut her eyes and called from her memory the image of a lioness.

“The idea is to invoke the magic cloak of invisibility belonging to Manannan mac Lir, the Celtic god of the sea, who had the power to control the mists and fog,” he explained as she continued to imagine herself as a queen of the jungle. “I told you about him, remember? The incantation asks for the loan of his cloak, to transform the object of the spell. In this case, ourselves. So, if you wish to be a lioness, you must visualize yourself as such while I recite the incantation.”

Nodding her understanding, she concentrated as hard as she could on the physical attributes of a female lion. Golden pelt, topaz eyes, pointed ears, huge paws, tufted tail, and so on. As she did this, her senses began to sharpen. She became more attuned and connected to her surroundings. Her body began to tense and twitch, her emotions to surge, swirl, and spike. Her breathing grew rapid and shallow. Then, she heard him say in a kind of sing-song chant,

“Mighty Manannan of the Sea,

For the loan of your cloak, we summon thee.

Into a lion my lady shall go

Brave in the face of every foe

And she shall go in the horned god’s name

Fith-Fath, Fith-Fath, Fith-Fath.”

The inside of her eyelids began to glow with soft golden light. The illumination filled her brain, obscuring the vivid image she’d been holding of the lioness. Her breathing deepened, her emotions soared, and her mind began to reel.

She felt a renewed sense of vigor. Her body began to quake, her bones to stretch and bend, her muscles to twist and pull, her head and features to reshape as if clay under a sculptor’s hand. When things stilled, she opened her eyes, startling when they fell on Callum. He wasn’t her golden haired Scot any longer. He now was the same African lion she’d seen in the garden, but with the same sweet expression in his eyes she’d come to adore. She looked down at herself, marveling at the transformation.

“Can we still talk? Oh, I guess I just answered my own question.”

“Come on,” he said with a noble toss of his head. “And stop talking before you scare off every deer within earshot. Not that they won’t catch our scent soon enough.”

“But I have questions,” she protested, following him toward the tree line.

At the edge of the forest, he stopped and waited for her, rubbing against her as she drew alongside. She started to purr, startling herself.

Lowering her voice, she asked, “Can we do it like this?”

“Do what?”

“You know. Have sex.”

He glared at her, incredulous. “That’s your question?”

“One of them.”

Her face tingled with embarrassment. She would have blushed had it been possible.

His eyes softened. “I never have, since there aren’t a lot of estrus lionesses prowling about the Highlands. But I imagine we could. Though, you should ken a few things about leonine mating habits before you get too enamored of the idea.”

She arched a furry brow. “Such as?”

“Such as the fact that a lion’s penis, like all cats, has spines that point backward. The average male lion ejaculates within seconds of penetration, and while he’s pulling out, the barbs on his cock rake the walls of his mate’s vagina to stimulate ovulation.”

“Oh.” She swallowed as the blood drained from her feline face. “And speaking of ovulation, will my pills still work?”

“I don’t know.” His whiskered lips curled to reveal enormous fangs. “Anything else?”

She nodded. “How do we turn back?”

“By invoking the counter spell, of course.”

* * * *

It wasn’t raining, thank the stars. When it rained, the paths were muddy, the bogs treacherous, and the pelting drops made it impossible to hear the movement of quarry. The earthy smell of wet mulch also made it difficult to scent prey, even with supernatural senses.

Callum the lion shot an apprehensive glance at Vanessa the lioness. In the wild, the females of the pride did most of the hunting and, if she stuck to her reckless plan to move to Louisiana, she’d have to do for herself, probably in the swamps. He didn’t like the idea in the least. There were alligators roaming those bloody bayous and crazy Cajuns with guns, not to mention
rougarous
—an uncivilized cross between a vampire, werewolf, and zombie.

Any number of tragedies could befall her, not the least of which was losing control of her appetites. The beast within could get out of hand when improperly fed.

In hindsight, he probably should have let her die of her injuries from the fall. Aye, he cared for her—more than he wished to admit at the moment—but that didn’t give him the right to unleash her on the denizens of New Orleans. They were still recovering from the devastation wrought by Hurricane Katrina; the last thing they needed was Typhoon Vanessa blowing through.

The faint thunder of wee cloven hooves brought him back to the forest. Though he couldn’t yet see the deer, he could scent their musk.

“Wait here,” he told Vanessa, keeping his voice low.

He tracked the scent through the dense grove of pine, spruce, and sycamore until he sighted antlers. Crouching in the undergrowth, he waited, wound like a spring.

The herd bolted. He stood his ground, gaze following the fleeing animals, watching for laggards, and gauging the right moment to pounce. When it came, he gave chase, ran down a straggler, and leapt. In seconds, the doe was pinned beneath his weight.

“Come on.”

Vanessa was beside him in no time. “Oh, my God, did you have to take a doe? What if she has babies?”

“By the might of Mars,” he ground out, shaking his mane, “it’s not a fucking supermarket. You take what you can get. Now, bite down hard, near the throat, and start swallowing as soon as the blood pulses into your mouth. And don’t mind the pelt. You’ll get used to it in time.”

She screwed up her face in a gesture that was all too human. “Do we have to kill the poor thing? She’s so beautiful.”

“Aye. We have to kill the animals we feed upon.”

She turned on him with watery blue eyes. “But why? We don’t kill people.”

“I only know what I was told,” he returned, snarling with impatience. If she didn’t hurry, the doe would die in vain and he’d have to kill another.

“This is so awful,” she moaned. “How often do we have to do this?”

“Once a week or so, provided we’ve got each other to supplement. Every couple of days if there’s no other source.”

“I hate this.”

“I know.” He fought the urge to roll his eyes. “And I’m sorry. But believe me, lass, it’s by far the lesser of available evils.”

* * * *

While the deer’s coat was thick, coarse, and tasted vile, Vanessa found the blood surprisingly satisfying. When she’d had her fill, she backed off and let Callum take over. He drank his fill and released the doe seconds before the life left the animal’s lovely dark eyes.

“That ought to hold us for now,” he said. “Tomorrow, I’ll teach you how to take one down yourself.”

“I hate this,” Vanessa complained again, sickened by the deer’s demise.

“I get that,
mo dearbadan-de
.” His voice was soft with sympathy. “But it’s the way of things, no?”

The sun was starting to set by the time they reached the clearing where they’d left their clothes. He spoke the counter spell, and, after they’d dressed, tossed the car keys to her.

“Bring it around while I go retrieve the carcass. We’ll leave it at the kirk in Wick with an anonymous note telling the priest, as usual, to distribute the meat and hide among the parish poor.”

Callum looked up at the luminous pre-dawn sky, his chest weighted by dread. Another week had flown by since he’d taught Vanessa to hunt and, in another few minutes, they’d be setting off for London.

He’d succeeded in convincing her to extend her stay in Caithness, but, to his great distress, she’d refused to abandon her plan to take the job in New Orleans. To him, it seemed beyond absurd for a faery to conduct paranormal investigations, but she was determined to chase her dream. Now, he was driving her all the way back to Soho, where he would help her close up her flat. After that, he’d drop her and the Land Rover at Gatwick airport before taking the train back to Wick.

When she appeared on the castle’s front portico with her suitcases, he took a long, pining look at her, drinking in every detail of her flawless face and figure. How long would that snapshot have to serve him? She wore the same skirt and boots as that first day he took her sightseeing. Longing tightened his chest. Christ, but she looked radiant in the pale light of the breaking dawn. Bonnier even than when she was human, something he hadn’t believed possible.

“Have you got everything?” he called to her.

“Everything but my mobile,” she said. “I guess I’ll have to get a new one before I go. Or do you think I should wait until I get to America and avoid the roaming charges?”

“Neither,” he said, twinging with guilt. “I found your phone—at the bottom of the laundry hamper, oddly enough.”

“That is odd.” Suspicion clouded her eyes. “I wonder how it got there.”

He shrugged to augment the lie. “Who knows?”

With a determined set to her features, she descended the portico steps. As she approached, he offered her a faltering smile, fished her phone out of his pocket, and held it out to her.

Christ, how he hated that she was leaving and the thought of doing without her, but he hated even more the idea of her going so far away on her own when she was still a fledgling. He’d taught her the fundamentals of shifting and hunting, but she’d still need to find willing donors to satisfy her appetites.