Chapter 6 #2
Finn draws me close, and after a stiff moment or two, I relax in his arms. We begin moving in the ways of our people, bodies arching and swaying in time, softly at first, but Finn’s movements quickly become more dominant.
He spins me around, my back against his chest, reveling in the music and cool night air as he moves me away from the light and into the shadows.
Taking a stardrop from my hair, he trails the white petals over the delicate lace trim sewn across my bodice’s neckline, before grazing the soft flower over the exposed swells of my breasts. “You look stunning, Raina.”
My breaths come faster, and gooseflesh rises across my skin as Finn slides his hand lower, down my bodice, pausing beneath my navel, making my pulse speed up. With a firm press, he tucks me against him, molding his hard body to mine.
Something inside me curls like a question needing an answer—something that shouldn’t be affected by Finn Owyn at all.
Not anymore. We haven’t been intimate in so long.
But the sultry tone of his voice at my ear is so familiar, as is the way his fingers rub small circles mere inches above a part of my anatomy he has learned well over the years.
Another chill rises when his breath rushes hot across my neck, and his hands slide down over my hips.
“So beautiful,” he whispers, dragging a hungry kiss over my pulse.
Those powerful fingers dig into my flesh; I can feel their strength through the fabric of my skirts.
“Gods, I’ve missed you,” he says, gripping me tight.
“All of you. Let me take you to the forge and show you how much. Let me use my body to say I’m sorry for today. For every day I’ve spent without you.”
Emotion rises inside me, and tears prick the backs of my eyes. I slip my hand over his stubbled jaw, threading my fingers into his thick hair.
The sensual slide of his tongue across my throat almost undoes me. I almost draw him even closer. Almost urge him on. It would be so easy.
But from somewhere deep inside Frostwater Wood, a white wolf lets out an echoing howl, like a signal for the celebration to truly begin. As the crowd comes alive, I pull away from Finn and kick off my shoes.
Much to my surprise, he locks those dark eyes on me and follows suit, and soon our dancing becomes something more. The music changes from strumming strings to softly pounding drums, and the revelry gives way to ceremony.
Hel, Emmitt, and several other Witch Walkers join in. The shift in every mind reverberates through me, instinct taking over, our bodies flowing in a circle around the fire. For the first time in so long, I feel free.
I close my eyes and will my dance to keep time with the drums, with the internal heartbeat of the earth as I sway and spin, reaching toward the stars to call down the moon. Finn glides against me. I’d be lying if I said the contact didn’t make my heart race, my blood heat.
Here, beneath the moon, with the pounding rhythm of life beating in my veins, the world falls away, any thought of the Witch Collector along with it.
Through ritual, we witches are connected: conduits between the Ancient Ones whose power radiates through the soil into the bare soles of our feet, and the deities in the heavens who shine down upon us.
For a time, that’s all I feel. There’s no Finn. No desire. No anxiety. No cold.
Nothing. Just connection.
It doesn’t last, though. From beyond my consciousness, worry drips a tingle down my spine, luring me back to the here and now. A smell floats on the wind—familiar and cloying.
Blinking at the stars, I dance harder, trying to reconnect, refusing to let anything poison this moment. It’ll all end soon enough, and I may never experience this again.
On the edge of my vision, Hel draws Emmitt into a kiss, then leads him toward the darkness to the east. The pair disappears into the shadows, hand in hand.
Live. The word forms in my mind, but I send it across the village to my friend. Maybe one of us will find the kind of peace that stays tonight.
Finally, reality dims once more, until I’m so close to deep connection that I see nothing but a kaleidoscope of colors and light, feel nothing but power and Finn’s touch and…
…a strange warmth radiating down my outer thigh.
Finn’s hands are everywhere, but then he’s discreetly gathering and lifting my skirts between us, his fingertips tickling the back of my thigh, drifting, drifting, drifting—
The connection snaps, the heat vanishes, and Finn lets go. For a moment, it’s like I’m falling, coming down from a high I’d forgotten existed.
Then I sense it—the absence. The source of the heat I’d felt is gone.
I spin around, only to find Finn slipping into the crowd.
With. My. Knife.
He glances over his shoulder. A smirk curls one side of his mouth as he flashes the white granite hilt of the blade now hidden in his jacket pocket.
Come and get it, he mouths. Then he runs toward the orchards, vanishing in a mass of villagers.
I ball my hands into fists. Damn, that man! This is not the time for games.
According to what I saw in the water and given the time it takes to ride from village to village, I expect the Witch Collector to arrive within the hour. I must get that knife.
I head in Finn’s direction, but in a single breath, everything changes. Over the drumbeats and howling guffaws, a strange sound shatters the night.
I stop. Listen. The sound mingles with the revelry and chanting but soon builds into a clamor that brings everyone—even the musicians and dancing folk—to a standstill.
Heart hammering, I shove my hair away from my sweat-dampened face and turn my gaze to the night sky to the west. My hands grow clammy with a cold fear that clings to my skin like the mist rolling in around our feet. I know that sound and those voices.
The children from earlier—the ones playing war.
They’re wailing.
Little screaming figures burst from the darkness at the edge of the village, red faces tear-stained and carved with panic, hands waving as if to swat us away.
Every person on the green stumbles around, stunned and confused, whether by ale and wine or from calling down the moon. Several parents gather their wherewithal and rush toward their crying children.
Everyone is focused on the little ones, on their nonsensical words, but I glance back to the darkness. This time, I pay attention to that familiar scent saturating the air.
It’s death.
Something moves in the shadows just outside the village. Beyond, along the horizon, shines what looks like a swarm of fireflies floating in the deep bend of the valley.
Mother stands on the other side of the fire pit. She bristles with energy, her skin glistening in the moonlight. I force every ounce of emotion I can onto my face and point west.
“Elders! Wardens!” Mother screams, reading my expression easily. The tendons in her throat strain with effort, but the people tasked with guarding our village sit at a table wearing lost expressions.
“Look! There!” A little girl points past the farrier’s cottage.
A horse, dark as night, charges into the light, hooves pounding the ground so hard that clumps of grass and earth fly up behind him. Villagers scramble out of the way. It’s as if the horse means to storm right through the green.
But the horse has a rider—a rider who jerks the reins and brings the looming animal to an earth-trembling halt.
A rider hidden beneath a black cloak.
The Witch Collector whips the massive beast around.
“Get your frail and young to the orchard!” His voice is so deep and commanding that every drunken villager sobers, including me.
“Wardens, gather your horses and weapons and all the weapons you can find! Witch Walkers, prepare your magick! Fill every bucket and pitcher with water from the troughs! Douse the thatch!” From his side, he frees a sword that carries the stain of blood and aims the blade toward the fiery amber orbs growing to the west. “Eastlanders are coming! And they’re going to set this village alight! Hurry!”
Parents scoop up their babes, and wardens finally run to find their blades and beasts.
Elders and Witch Walkers chant the opening refrains of protective songs, all while rushing to the troughs to fill buckets.
Families scatter into the night, heading for the orchard and vineyards, while others stumble around bewildered.
Mother rushes toward me and takes me by the arms. “We should go to the orchard,” she says, her eyes and face twisted with fear. “We don’t need to be here, Raina.”
I frown and shake my head, disbelieving that she would run away from this.
She grabs my hand, and we start across the green, but I look over my shoulder. Panic crawls down my throat and grips my heart as I scan the sea of faces for Finn, but I don’t see him. I need that damned knife. I also need him. I need to know he’s safe, but there’s such disorder, such confusion.
Gods, I should’ve watched the waters! I should’ve stayed true! I could’ve seen what was coming and stopped this.
I can’t go to the orchard. I must stand and fight.
When I jerk my mother to a halt, she gives me a bewildered look. “Raina, what are you doing? We must leave! You don’t understand!”
I glance around, searching not for an escape route or even a bucket to carry to the well. I’m searching for a weapon. There’s nothing save for musical instruments, drinking vessels, and too many dishes of food. I know where to find what I need, though.
Something sharp. Something deadly.
With that thought, I grab my mother’s hand, too scared to let her far from my sight, and run barefoot toward our cottage.