Chapter Six
Torchlight turned night into day, casting long shadows over the male Wizards assembled below the terraces.
Fragrant gardens spread from the foot of the massive marble staircase, past triple-tiered fountains, and down to the shore.
The area was transformed into a scene from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
There were fairies the size of hummingbirds, unicorns grazing in a meadow of wildflowers, and tents with identifying flags and banners crowding an open field.
Rowan was in hell. The last time he attended one of these Fertility Festivals he’d almost killed a guy.
Over a woman. Fortunately, Stryker had come to the rescue and knocked some sense into him.
Rowan had searched for the woman, to apologize, but she had vanished.
That was the last time he’d attended a Bealtaine festival.
He ground his teeth together. A better use of his time was tracking down a suspected paranormal bottom feeder who was trying to make the killings of male Wizards look like a drug overdose.
Detective Lyons had given Rowan the assignment to find those responsible.
Rowan thought about turning it down, but when Constantine contacted him with the same assignment, and the same theory that the killer might be attending the Bealtaine Festival, it piqued his interest. People were going to a lot of trouble to make sure he made an appearance.
Just as troubling was that his brother was here. Stryker avoided Bealtaine as much as he did.
Good news: The opening night of Bealtaine was packed with murder suspects, from smiling but overworked caterers and waiters dressed in medieval costumes, to male Wizards waiting for the festival to begin. At least that would keep him busy.
Rowan took a long pull of the wine, made at one of the Talons’ vineyards in Tuscany.
It was too sweet for his taste, but the wine was an essential element of the ritual, and therefore critical.
Abstaining would only draw unwanted attention.
After all, he was supposed to blend in. That part was easy.
He knew he looked like every other sex-starved male Wizard at the festival.
For male Wizards, human partners were off limits, and female Wizards were scarce.
He’d tried having a relationship with a female vampire, but it ended when they both realized they were each in love with someone else and only making themselves miserable.
He forced down another sip of wine. The icy wine was made from grapes harvested after an early frost and laced with a secret magical potion that dulled a Wizard’s power and made it impossible for him to recognize any of the female Wizards.
Both conditions were deemed a safety precaution.
Male Wizards were jealous by nature, as well as volatile and unpredictable.
Having full use of their powers during the festival added fuel to the fire.
A deadly combination in one of his kind.
Stryker, like Rowan, had moved to stand by himself. His brother slid a glance toward him and nodded. Rowan returned the gesture, recognizing the silent meaning. Whatever happened tonight, no one would die at their hands. At least that was their hope. Fire Wizards weren’t known for their restraint.
In theory, each man and woman would have multiple partners over the course of the week, magnifying the female’s chance of becoming pregnant.
Because multiple partners were involved, the Grey Council assured male Wizards that it was impossible to know if they had fathered a child.
The explanation was meant to absolve male Wizards of any guilt they might feel for potentially fathering a child.
The ploy worked for some, but not all. Rowan and Stryker counted themselves amongst those who wanted to connect with any children they might have sired.
Female Wizards, however, knew instinctively who had fathered their child, but were forbidden to disclose the information. In addition, with the spells and glamours they cast, a man never knew for sure if he slept with a different woman each night or the same one for the entire festival.
It bothered some—hell, it bothered him. When he was younger, he didn’t care so much about who he bedded.
But then he’d met a woman at Bealtaine, learned her name, broken rules to spend time with her after the festival, only to lose track of her when he was pulled away on assignment.
He had been told she died. But if that were true, why, even after all these years, did he still feel her presence in the early morning hours before dawn?
Trumpets broke through the quiet hum of conversations.
There was a heightened excitement vibrating through the throng of male Wizards crowded below the curtained terrace.
No one spoke, and the silence added to the tension.
The women had gathered behind a velvet barrier.
Rowan wondered if they were as eager for the festival to begin as the men.
Or was it duty, not passion, that drove them?
Duty. The word had a bitter aftertaste in Rowan’s mouth. Everything he’d ever done in his life, every decision he’d made, was measured by the Grey Council’s definition of that one word.
He took another swallow of the wine, downing the concoction like a small child might drink a foul-tasting medicine. The wine gave Rowan a headache. When the waiter walked by, he handed over his glass, declining a second.
Tonight, Rowan needed a clear head. He was not on the island for pleasure. He had a job to do. He had to catch a killer.
Besides, he reasoned, he was a late arrival and not likely to be chosen.
Female Wizards took the selection process seriously.
He felt a twinge of regret and shook the all-too-human emotion away.
It must be this place and the wine. Bealtaine shut out the dark realities of the outside world.
For the duration of the festival, a male Wizard could have his sexual fantasies fulfilled, experience pleasure and the illusion of love, all with the knowledge that for seven days he wouldn’t be hunted by those who wanted to extinguish all magical creatures.
Was this nameless, faceless organization behind the current Wizard murders?
****
A Celtic melody, sung by a chorus of young women, was carried on the fragrant air.
It started low and seductive, blending the voices and the haunting notes of a violin in perfect harmony.
All eyes focused on the massive arbor positioned on the edge of the stage.
Entwined with roses, daises, lilacs, lavender, and ivy, it marked where female Wizards would pass through to the awaiting male Wizards below.
The men believed the selection process was not random and that the females knew before they appeared who each would select.
Rowan suspected it was the magic property of the wine that heightened his anticipation.
He reminded himself he wouldn’t be selected, he was on assignment, but his core began to heat, nonetheless.
His mind was reason, his body primeval memories.
Memories raced to the beginning times when Bealtaine and its success meant the difference between survival of the race or extinction.
His frustration grew. The Fertility Festival had come full circle.
It still meant the survival or extinction of his kind.
He’d thought he was immune to the festival’s allure, but something had changed and that bothered him.
He was aroused and couldn’t deny the strong pull of Bealtaine.
The power and magic were unmistakable. But this felt different from the times he’d attended in the past. There was something personal he couldn’t explain, as though he’d received his own engraved invitation.
The ceremony was drenched in Wizard lore and history.
He tried to block out the hypnotic music and concentrate on duty.
He was here to find out if the Wizard killer had infiltrated the festival.
A voice in his head whispered. “It can wait.”
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, and although the voice was gone, the memory of the words remained.
The music invaded his thoughts again. He pushed the sound away and focused on his dual life to keep him distracted from the festival’s seduction.
By choice, he walked in two worlds. The first was as a soldier for the Talons and Grey Council, the second as an off-the-book undercover detective for Detective Lyons and the Seattle police department.
He lived in Belltown and owned a vintage motorcycle he was restoring.
Most days he enjoyed the work. Especially when he brought the bad guys to justice.
But it wasn’t always that simple. There were gray areas.
Like the time a woman killed her long-time abuser.
He hadn’t brought her in and made an excuse that the murderer had escaped.
The music grew louder.
Drums rolled and thundered through him, drowning out his thoughts, reminding him that he was a Fire Wizard. In this time and in this place that was the only reality that mattered.
His blood simmered as the first woman walked through the arbor.
The tempo of the music increased, and his pulse rate kept time.
More drums were added, pounding in his ears, vibrating through him.
The women descended the stairs in wave after wave of glorious color and surrounded by shimmering halos of light. He swallowed hard.
Each woman was dressed in sheer silk and gauze, ranging in shades from forest green, crimson, amethyst, and sapphire to silver or gold. He’d heard the shade didn’t necessarily reflect the color of the gown but could be the female Wizard’s dominant aura or a reflection of the spells in her glamour.