Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 9

  She settled herself down, her arms open and he moved against her. She clasped him protectively and he rested his head to her chest. In an instant he felt a companionship so natural it was like returning home.

  “Will you hear me?”

  “Yes,” he said dreamily, so calm now he could have almost slept. He reached a hand back to her face, captivated by her beauty. He could just fall into it.

  “I am divine,” she whispered, her hands moving down his chest.

  Yes, he agreed silently. You most certainly are.

  “I am a divine Sidhe,” she continued, her lips pressed to his head. Rufus stilled as the words sunk in. She wasn’t just any Sidhe—she was one of the Tuatha de Danaan, an original, immortal daughter of Danu. She was one of the faerie gods of whom Rufus had just so casually spoken. One of a set of beings so powerful, so ancient that many Harmatians didn’t even believe they existed.

  And yet here Rufus sat, entangled in her arms, as she moved her hands down his body. She felt real enough, though Rufus’s mind was so clouded, it was difficult to think straight. What little he knew of the Tuatha de Danaan he’d treated as barely tangible truth. Of course he remembered the tales of how these ancient Sidhe forefathers had come to Mag Mell—his mother had told it to him as a child. But he’d never given any of it much credence.

  The story went that the Tuatha de Danaan descended from the heavenly plane many years ago and lived, for a time, in the land beneath the sea, which they conquered from the Fomorii. Over the years, however, new invaders had arrived and pushed the Tuatha de Danaan out, until they fled back through the water to the shores of Mag Mell.

  Here they conquered again, taking the land of Avalon for their descendants, before retiring to live in splendour on the hidden Sidhe Islands of Tír na nÓg.

  Though Rufus had known the Tuatha de Danaan to take lovers, and produce descendants, such as the Delphi, it had never occurred to him that the earthly gods would leave their islands. He’d always felt that, like the Harmatian True Gods, they lived in their own plain of existence, disconnected from the real world. He’d certainly never expected to meet one. Never expected them to be so tangible—almost human.

  And yet she was so warm, warm where the world was cold, and Rufus was caught between his desire and his fear. As her lips touched his skin again, peppering him with gentle kisses, his desire won over.

  “W-who?” Rufus managed to stutter. “Which…?”

  “Which of the Tuatha de Danaan am I?” Her hands drew still. “You know that already. Say my name, Rufus.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Yes, you do. Do not think—feel. Who am I?”

  Rufus’s mind was clouded.

  “I…I really don’t—”

  “Rufus,” she almost pleaded, her hands entangled with his. “Clear your mind. What does your heart say?”

  All at once, the muffled warnings that had been tolling through Rufus stilled as a name came to the forefront of his mind. He found enough strength to push himself up and away, stumbling back.

  “Morrigan.”

  She nodded, remaining where she was.

  “You’re the patron of the Korrigans!” Rufus felt his faculties return to him, his mind growing clearer, free of the friendly haze.

  “Yes,” Morrigan said. “I am. I understand that you have an unfortunate history with my priestesses.”

  “They tortured me.” Rufus breath quickened. The memories of the Korrigans, however distant, always brought him out in a cold sweat. “They created the spell that killed Jionat! You—you—”

  “I do not answer for all of the actions of my followers,” Morrigan spoke over him. “What they do in my name is not always a reflection of my will. Calm yourself, mo chuisle. I had no ill-will to your Prince, just as I have no ill-will to you now.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “You know I cannot lie,” Morrigan reminded him, and Rufus’s knees grew weak.

  He sat back, facing Morrigan now, still closer than he should have been. His exhaustion caught up with him, and he glanced at Joshua to make sure the boy was alright. Morrigan followed his eyes.

  “How can I express my good intention?” she asked, leaning over and hovering a hand over the Prince.

  Rufus threw himself up, snatching the goddess’s wrist before she could touch Joshua.

  Morrigan didn’t seem to mind his steely grip.

  “I have already promised that I mean you no harm,” she said and, with fingers impossibly strong, she pried his hand away from her arm, gently resting her palm on Joshua’s forehead.

  Rufus watched tensely and then relaxed a little as he saw his brother do the same. Under Morrigan’s gentle hand, the sickly boy’s laboured breathing eased.

  “Before anything, the Korrigans were people of healing, an art in which I am familiar. It is a cold night for a child to be out,” Morrigan murmured. “He needs a bed. As do you.” She retracted her hand. “You are wary of me,” she noted. “That is wise. But take comfort—I can help you.”

  “Why would you do that?” Rufus whispered.

  “I know much of the sadness you suffer.” Morrigan rose up, reaching over to him and coaxed him closer, as if he were a trusting puppy. “Ask me anything. I will answer you. See my true intentions.”

  Rufus edged a little nearer. He couldn’t be away from her for long—she was as a fire to him.

  “When the Korrigans took me, they stole my blood. Was it for…was it…?” Rufus didn’t dare finish the question, his throat tight.

  “For the spell that revived Sverrin DuBlanche? Yes. They required the blood of Death itself—a child of Athea, in order to defy her. You are mortal—death is your promise at birth, but in your body is a drop of the divine.”

  Rufus could have wept. He’d always suspected that his blood had played a part in killing Jionat but to hear it confirmed was like a blow to the chest. Morrigan made a sympathetic noise and Rufus pulled himself from his grief.

  “The Korrigans took me on your behest,” he accused. “They told me they kept me alive for their master—you.”

  “Yes,” Morrigan said, almost with difficulty. “It is true. I have been waiting for you for a long time, Rufus. I felt your birth stir the heavens, felt the gods sigh. I saw what they intended for you…and I could not abide by it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know the fate that lies on children like you—the hatred for those born of Athea, ever the villains of your own tales. Blessed but forced down a path of woe. You are cursed with the God’s Luck. Do you know what that is?”

  Rufus couldn’t stop his eyes straying down her body, following her hands as they stroked from neck to chest, then down to the naval and the crib of her legs. “The God’s Luck,” he repeated moronically, trying to draw on his usually reliable memory. “An unbelievable luck that comes at the cost of those around you.”

  “For instance.” Morrigan’s hand skimmed down her leg across to his, her fingers light as she reached for his hand. “A man who survives despite the odds, yet loses both future wife and friend.”

  It was like great scoops were being taken from his chest. “Don’t,” Rufus begged, reliving each awful moment.

  “And I think there has been more. More loss?” she read in his face. “Another lover?”

  “Leave me be.” The memories came, unbidden, not as distant as he would have liked. Memories of a healing heart, the feel of a body next to his when he woke, tender kisses that were more than instigations. And laughter—laughter, above all—like loving arms. Yes, in the years between Harmatia and now, it hadn’t only been him and Joshua. There had been a time of companionship too. One of happiness. A lover with whom Rufus might have been content.

  “Unleash your grief, mo chuisle. I am here only for you,” Morrigan said. “Who were they?”

  Rufus shook his head, a lump in his throat. “A man.” He swallowed. “Howell.”

  “A Delphi Knight?”

  Rufus said nothing,
his eyes squeezed closed. Morrigan pressed her hand to his chest. The pressure was strangely comforting.

  “Did he die?” Morrigan asked. Rufus shook his head. “Then what has separated you?”

  “I couldn’t…We…The Kathraks…I changed.”

  “You have not changed since the day you were born.”

  “You mistake me for another.” Rufus’s hand found hers and gripped it fiercely. “You mistake me for Athea.”

  “You are Athea.”

  “I’m Rufus.”

  “Yes, but mo chuisle,” she knelt before him, tipping his head against hers, her free hand clenched so lovingly into his hair as she manipulated his body, as malleable as clay, “that is exactly the problem. That is why I am here. For Rufus you may be but that is but one drop of Athea. Her true nature burns within you as a temptation you cannot deny. You are a brick, a central piece of a grand plan on which you have no voice. Already you can feel it, can you not? This divide within you—Athea herself has worn your body. And that part of you is one you can no longer ignore. One that keeps you alive.”

  “I feel him,” Rufus admitted, his mouth close to hers. Her autumnal scent was so rich he could taste it on his lips. “When I’m scared, I feel him. DuGilles brought him to the surface and now he won’t be silenced. The darkness. The killer.”

  “He is not your enemy.” Morrigan’s lashes tickled his forehead as she kissed the scar around his eye. “All your life, you have been made to conform to an ideal, because the latter is perceived to be mindless. It is not—you are not—and I am here to prove that. I can show you how to master your power, this other half you perceive as a stranger, a killer. I will show you how to use it to your will, so that you may never again lose that which the gods would take from you.”

  Rufus groaned as he felt her full weight on him, her legs parting so that she could sit over his thighs, his arms entwined around her, as inseparable as the rooted embrace of the trees. “I don’t understand.”

  “You are both a Delphi and Child of Aramathea. The product of both the Sidhe and human gods. You were not born of coincidence but of necessity—to rebalance power. And yet, you would be muted through fear. You understand. What you are…it is not worth being ashamed of, not worth hiding. You should not fear your enemies, they should fear you.”

  Rufus couldn’t contain himself, the tantalising movements of her hips made him sick with lust. He gripped her thighs and pulled her tighter over him. She took his invitation and pressed her mouth aggressively to his. She tasted of wild berries and he kissed her greedily. In the back of his mind he could sense his brother close by and a sensible part of him recoiled at the thought of committing such acts here and now.

  “The True Gods, who rule from their heavenly plain, cannot directly interfere, unless through you. That is why you are here—you are their flesh on earth. But you are a power unto yourself. As a daughter of Danu, I am a god of my own and so might you be, Rufus Merle…By my side.” She spoke into his lips, sweet temptations, and he rolled and pushed her beneath him. She slid her hand under his shirt. Her touch brought his skin to life, his flesh humming beneath her fingers.

  “I don’t want to be a god.” He leant down to her exposed collarbone and ran his mouth along it. She arched up into him and his mind grew white-hot, thoughts disintegrating.

  “But you want me,” she said. “So be it, as long as I may have all of you in return.”

  Rufus growled wantonly. It turned into a long moan as her hands reached down to his belt, unbuckling it with quick fingered ease. He suddenly understood just what she was. She was a manifestation of emotion, of uncontrolled lust for all things, dangerous and beautiful. She was the weakness in every person, their deepest darkest desire brought to life, and for all her sweet-laced intentions, Rufus saw with a clarity that, as with all clever traps, she was enticing him with exactly what he wanted.

  He tried to pull away, but his body disobeyed him. He wanted to submit to her, though beyond the hot flush of flesh, he felt sickly and cold, as if drugged.

  “No.” He tore his mouth from hers. “I won’t. Stop this.”

  She grew stiller but didn’t cease her gentle caresses entirely, her hips swirling succulently until Rufus was seeing white. He tried to maintain himself, to look through the fog of this glamour-like lust.

  “What I offer you is limitless power. No more running, or hiding. I could give you an army to take back Harmatia. And all I want in return—all I ask—is you be mine and never stray from my side.”

  Stop! Rufus desperately tried to order himself, but his body was no longer his own. The intoxication reached a breaking point as she kissed him, passion running like life-blood through his veins as her scent overwhelmed him. She excited him in a way that was unfathomable, and his hands found their way up beneath her skirt to her hot thighs. He could feel the wetness between her legs and ached to be inside her.

  Please, stop, he begged. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want any of it, but he’d lost the will to fight the sweet tide. He could feel power strumming beneath her skin, and it was so well known to him, he might have been holding her all his life. She wrapped her legs around him and he kissed her again, savagely.

  Beneath his lips, he felt Morrigan smile and at last the cold clarity broke through his heavy limbs. Morrigan was beautiful, her voice luscious, and her promises even more so. But freedom couldn’t be bought in this way—Morrigan offered a lesser imprisonment. What would it be, to be hers? She made it seem so sweet, and yet Rufus could feel that there were truths beneath those berry-red lips that Morrigan had chosen to keep. Fighting the confusing cloud of lust, he was able to break his will through it and recapture control over his body.

  “No.” He pushed himself up from her, prying her legs from his waist. “No!” He repeated, louder.

  She gave him a playful, tantalising smile. “Why?”

  “Because it’s not up to others to tell me who I am, nor will I be the price of another’s dictation.” He managed to get loose of their tangled legs and stood. “If the gods truly have an agenda—and gave me this power to fulfil it—then you are an unnecessary medium.”

  She looked at him calmly, and then tossed back her head with a feral laugh.

  “Silly pup.” In the next second she was gone from beneath him.

  He jumped, startled, and found her immaculately dressed once more, towering over him as he scrabbled away.

  “If that is your will, so be it—say it thrice and the deed will be done. I will return twice more. Perhaps next time, you will see more sense, mo chuisle.”

  Rufus sat bolt upright, hands clasped to his chest as his heart thundered. He stared wildly around the glade, which was filled with the early bright light of a cold spring morning. The fire smoked lazily, down to its last embers, and Joshua shifted in sleep. Rufus held his breath and then released it slowly, lying back down and throwing his arm over his eyes.

  “Say it thrice and the deed will be done…”

  He wasn’t sure if he could cope with two more encounters from Morrigan, be they dream or reality.

  The monastery was filled with worshippers. Rufus and Joshua blended in easily amongst the crowd. The Prince sat on Rufus’s knees, sunken into his chest, his feverish forehead tucked beneath the Magi’s chin.

  The monastery service was as familiar to Rufus as walking, and yet the responses and hymns felt foreign to his tongue. Rufus partook all the same, anxious not to be herded back out into the rain by tutting priests. He muttered the prayers over and over, bobbing his head like a madman, drunk on sorrow.

  From where he was swaddled against Rufus’s chest, Joshua murmured, face buried in the soft fabric of Rufus’s shirt. Rufus kissed him on the brow, rocking him.

  Beside him, his neighbours had noticed and were glancing across, their eyes sweeping up Rufus’s long, grim form, from his tattered cloak to his unkempt beard. Rufus paid them no mind, his stomach growling with hunger. He hadn’t eaten properly in days but he’d been on longer stin
ts of such self-abuse and could forgo food a while more. The fact of the matter was they had no money. In their haste to escape the assassin, Rufus had left most of his belongings in Beshuwa, including his fiddle.

  Unfortunately, where they might find shelter in the forest, the nights were getting cold. As Morrigan advised, Joshua needed a warm bed.

  The congregation began to sing again. Rufus tipped on his heels, almost falling as he struggled to maintain his balance. It had been several days since Morrigan had come to him and Joshua’s condition had steadily worsened. Rufus hadn’t slept for worry and, at last, unable to risk the bad weather, they’d returned to civilisation. He didn’t know where they were but the monastery was inviting and warm.

  Joshua’s hand curled around Rufus’s arm. “Rufus…” he wheezed. “Too hot, I’m going to be sick.”

  Rufus nodded and slipped out into the aisle. He ignored the disapproving frowns and tuts as he carried his brother clear.

  Joshua was sick the moment Rufus put him down outside. The Magi knelt beside him and rubbed his back. Joshua quivered like a leaf. There had been little in his stomach already, so the retching was hard and painful. Rufus cleaned his brother’s face and mouth with a handkerchief and carried him back to their horse. They couldn’t return to the monastery now without attracting attention, so Rufus placed Joshua in the saddle and led the horse on through the town. The streets were blissfully empty, an old rickety inn-sign rocked eerily in the wet wind. They couldn’t afford to go in. Even if Rufus had enough coin, inns were hardly centres of discretion. Rufus pulled his hood down lower and continued on until they came upon a whore-house. Rufus stopped, considered it, then lifted Joshua down to his side and strode forward. He knocked on the door.

  A Gancanagh responded.

  Or, what Rufus presumed to be at least a halfling, for though he felt the familiar amorous tug as he took in the tall, muscular man, his pale skin didn’t have that strangely bluish undertone, and he’d aged beyond a point that most Gancanagh did. The halfling eyed Rufus keenly, until he spotted Joshua bundled at his side. Instantly his face fell.