Priestess Dreaming (An Otherworld Novel) (29 page)

I nodded. “Yes, I feel him waiting for us.” Without pausing to decide whether it was a good idea or a stupid one, my cousin and I stepped over the threshold and into the chamber. Mordred followed us, and then the others. The moment we all entered the building, the door slammed shut behind us. We were trapped, alone in a tomb as old as the hills. And by the sound of a low rustling skirting the perimeters of whatever room we were in, we weren’t alone.

“What the hell is that?” When the door slammed shut on us, the room was plunged into pitch black. I could hear the rustle of something swirling around the room, like wings brushing against fabric. But there was no sound of breath or voice or anything to give us a clue of what was locked in the room with us.

I had to do something. My fear seemed to translate into my staff and it jolted my hand enough for me to realize that I was still carrying it. With a sudden hunch, I struck the end of it against the floor, hitting it hard as I shouted, “Light!”

The energy I had basically downloaded into it from the lightning flared, and the crystal orb on the end blazed to life, shining like I’d just turned on the light switch. It glowed, sparkling with a clear lilac-colored light, illuminating the room enough for us to see where we were.

I immediately looked for whatever it was that had been making the rustling noise and there, to one side, I saw it—whatever
it
was. Tucked back against a corner, shying from the light, was a ghostly shape of a long, narrow serpent. But as we watched, it peered out, its head bobbing and weaving as it gazed at us. The form was translucent, but unmistakably sea green. Pale blue undertones blended through it, a lot like tie-dye. It was then that I noticed the vestigial wings.

“Is that . . . a dragon?” It couldn’t be—it looked like no dragon I’d ever seen. Not even Yvarr.

Morgaine let out a soft gasp. “Yes—but it’s a baby.”

As she spoke, she held out her hand and the creature slowly moved forward. Once it was out in the light, I could see she was correct. The baby dragon was pretty, almost cute, even though I knew it was probably older than everybody in this room. With wide eyes the color of toffee, it let out a soft sound that hovered somewhere between a mew and a growl, and it hiccupped, breathing out a puff of smoke from each nostril. By now, I recognized a lot of the Dragonkin, but this one . . . I had no real clue what class it belonged to and Smoky wasn’t here to tell me. At first I thought it might be a blue dragon, but the energy felt more grounded than the water beasts.

“What kind? I don’t recognize it—”

But Morgaine knew. “She, and I believe it
is
a girl, is a cross between blue and green. Water and earth. The elements of the Merlin.” She motioned toward the center of the room. “Look.”

In the center of the room rested a long crystal coffin, carved from flawless green glass. In the coffin, stretched out in repose, lay the body of a man. He might be dead, or he might be sleeping, but he was holding a staff and antlers rose from the headdress he wore. I stepped in for a closer look and the room began to hum. The dragon swirled around excitedly, accidentally knocking against me when she sped by. I stumbled, but caught myself before I went sprawling.

Morgaine stepped forward, but the dragon whirled with a flourish and nose-dived into her, driving her back. The creature growled then, baring her teeth. Even though she was a baby, she was bigger than we were. Morgaine tried to step around her, but the dragon had had enough, and this time, she bowled into Morgaine and knocked her off her feet.

Mordred moved to help his aunt, but the dragon growled again and he backed away. Morgaine scrambled back, fear on her face. Once again, the dragon turned to me again, ignoring her.

“Stay back,” I told the others. “Don’t interfere.”

Morio held Delilah back. We were linked enough for him to know I meant what I said. Tanne was keeping an eye on Bran and Arturo. Morgaine seemed to grasp that she wasn’t welcome. She and Mordred moved back with the others.

I waited, wondering what was going to happen next. It didn’t take long to find out. The dragon rustled through the air, like a fish through water, and stopped close enough for me to feel her breath on my neck. She leaned in, her brilliant yellow eyes swirling, and then gently reached forward and nose-bumped me. I stumbled toward the coffin. When I was leaning against the glass, the baby let out a muffled sound. Not sure what she wanted me to do, I turned around to gaze through the glass at the man inside.

He was the Merlin. I knew it in my heart. I knew it in my soul. His energy emanated from the casket even though he was still sleeping. He was beautiful—in a way—and terrifying. Great spiraling horns rose from his headdress, and from this position, I could see they were attached to the skull plate of an ancient elk.

Myrddin’s face was long and angular, not gaunt by any means but definitely British, with thick, full lips that beckoned me in a way I’d never quite felt before. His eyes were open—limpid and warm as liquid caramel.

As I stared at him, mesmerized, it was as though I could see the ages passing by in his silent gaze. He showed no sign that he saw me, but somehow, I felt he knew I was here. His chin was strong but not boxy, and a thin stubble of hair covered it—red sprinkled with a little gray. His hair curled down his bare chest, the locks the same deep burgundy as his beard. His chest was muscled and strong. He wore a cloak, open and fallen to the side, of green and brown, and trousers that looked like a brown suede.

As I gazed at him, the dragon began to circle the coffin, and me. Faster she moved, as if doing laps, her body streaming by in a smooth flowing cadence. She moved widdershins—counterclockwise—and my stomach began to knot as the floor swayed beneath my feet. And yet, I could not look away. There he lay, the most beautiful sorcerer of all time: the High Priest of the Hunter himself, locked within a crystal casket.

I clutched my staff. The echo of a drum reverberated in the background and, startled, I glanced to the side. A shadowy figure sat on the floor next to the foot of the coffin. He was playing a silver dumbak, with a stretched hide head. Around the base, embossed knotwork circled the drum. Cloaked in the shadows, the drummer focused on his task, and I closed my eyes as the voice of the drum began to sing to me.

The spirit of the music swirled, beckoning me to join her dance as she raced through my body. I shivered, for a moment unsure of whether she was actually in my body, or whether I was in hers. Swaying to the beat, I allowed her to guide me on the journey.

Another spirit filtered out of the drum, and this one entered my staff—the ethereal shape slithering like a snake into the base of the yew and up to the crystal orb on top. I began to tap the staff’s butt on the floor and the orb sparkled with the colors of faerie fire, the colors of the magic deep within the ancient woodland.

Images began to flash through my mind as I journeyed back through the mists. They unfolded in my mind like a movie.

A line of drummers, keeping perfect synch with their rhythm as people circled around a huge bonfire. Men dressed in hides and antlers told stories with their dance, as others beat together bones, keeping up a rhythm with the drummers. Women joined in the ritual—some in long woven tunics, some bare-breasted with skirts—all the clothing adorned with intricate vining designs.

There was a hush, as I hovered, suspended over the scene, and then as I watched the dancers gave way, moving back.

A woman, pale as the night in skin, with hair as dark as the sky, entered the circle. She wore a black cloak over a gossamer dress that was pale violet with silver embroidery. She began to dance in front of one of the drums. As she danced, another figure bathed in shadows came into the scene.

Gasping, I pulled back, trying to shake myself out of the vision. Something was coming, something huge and wild and feral, and fear built in the pit of my stomach. But the dragon pushed me forward again, nudging against me, and I recovered the scene.

The figure emerged from the shadows. It was the Merlin, with his huge antlered headdress riding high, the rack thrusting into the air, tines sharpened and stately. He wore a long green cloak, and it fell open, revealing his chiseled and defined stomach, and below that, the perfect V leading to his erect cock—long and rigid, lined with veins that pulsed with desire.

He had eyes only for his lady, and as he moved toward her, she swept off her cloak. The sheer material of her dress parted in the center, and she swept it back, the thatch of her hair dark against her mound. She reached down to stroke herself, then raised her fingers to her lips and slowly licked them. At that, the Merlin moved in, stalking her as she began to tease him around the circle.

I caught my breath, feeling the fire rise as my hunger grew. The dragon stopped her circling, and I knew what I had to do.

I whirled, motioning to Morio. “Get over here. Now.”

He slipped into the circle and the dragon resumed her spinning, but now a wall of mist began to form around the coffin, cutting us off from the rest. I slid off my cloak, oblivious to the cold, and then shrugged out of my clothes. Morio asked no questions. One glance at the coffin and he seemed to understand exactly what we needed to do. He stripped, his chest glistening in the ghostly illumination of the pale green mist. I tapped the staff and the beating of the drums grew stronger. Morio began to sway to their rhythm and the bond between us—the Soul Symbiont bond—told me he could hear them through our connection.

I gasped as he stood naked before me. His long dark hair gleamed, a curtain of black against his skin. The slant of his eyes, the tint of his skin, the smooth, lithe muscled body, never failed to make me hunger. He reached out and gripped his cock firmly in one hand as his gaze never left my face. I couldn’t take my eyes off his hand as he roughly stroked himself, the look on his face hungry and demanding.

Like the priestess in my vision, I set aside my staff and began to circle the coffin, beckoning my priest to follow me.

Morio danced forward, the dance of the Hunter, the dance of the predator following his prey. He stalked me, deliberate and cunning, as I danced widdershins around the coffin. I began to clap to the drumbeat, then, using my body, I drummed on my thighs and my butt, teasing him, turning so he could see my ass, waiting till he was almost within reach and then darting away.

Around we went, the Hunter and the Priestess, weaving the magic with our bodies, with our passion, building the energy with our offering. The dragon circled still faster as Morio leaped toward me. I turned to run, leaving a wave of faerie fire in my wake. He inhaled deeply, sucking in the magic with his breath, and the haze of magic now sparkled from his eyes. And then—the energy was so strong that I couldn’t move. I froze, arms stretched wide to my sides, legs spread.

Morio dropped to his knees by my feet. He gazed up at me, longing and hunger, fire and passion all rolled into one look. “Honored Priestess, may I worship at your temple?”

The mood shifted and I closed my eyes, the energy crackling through my body like lightning incarnate. The scene from long ago faded, and now the only thing that existed in the world was my priest, myself, and the coffin beside us. And there was one way to wake up the ancient one who needed to be walking among us.

“You may.”

Morio kissed the tops of my feet. “Blessed are the feet of the Priestess, that she might walk the path of the Moon Mother.”

My feet began to tingle as his lips touched my skin, and I was running through the night, with the Hunt, wild and feral. The Moon Mother shrieked and her cry pierced me with longing and spurred me on, as I swept through the night.

Morio kissed my knees. “Blessed are the knees of the Priestess, that she might kneel at the sacred altars.”

My knees began to tingle, and I was kneeling before a bonfire that raged out of control, mirroring my lust and desire for the consort of the goddess—the Hunter was coming in from beyond the great mountains, from the ancient forests and deep woods, and he was driving a host before him.

Morio kissed below my belly button. “Blessed is the womb of the Priestess, that she might embody the passion of the Moon Mother.”

The drumming grew louder, and a lone, sinuous flute began to weave through the pounding rhythm. I began to breathe heavily, my body aching for release, hungry for touch. I wanted to fuck, to fuck the priest of the god and by doing so, fuck the God incarnate.

Morio stood. He faced me, then leaned down to kiss my breasts. “Blessed are the breasts of the Priestess, that the love of the Moon Mother might shine through her.”

A cold fire raced through me. Love—honest love, tough love, the love that both created and destroyed when it was time—blossomed forth. I wanted to embrace the world with my love and both destroy and create it anew.

Morio leaned in, and kissed my lips. He barely pulled away to whisper, “Blessed are the lips of the Priestess, that she might speak the words of the Moon Mother.”