The Ruby Kiss (4 page)

Downstairs, her dogs barked like mad and the back door slammed. He was gone. An ache of missed opportunity hit her. Too late she feared she might have ruined something special.

Nightshade had spent the day tramping north through woodland. Now it was dark enough for him to take to the air, he flew between the rocky mountain peaks of the Scottish Highlands following the trail of silvery rivers through the glens. Somewhere in one of these valleys he should find the fairy Gathering of Kith and Kin.

He scowled down at the scenery, still smarting from Ruby’s inexplicable behavior. One minute she’d been panting in anticipation of mating, the next she’d shoved him away. The woman had looked at him as though he was a boggart that had just crawled out of the muck! What had he done wrong?

Well, it was Ruby’s loss if she didn’t want his son. If he’d found one woman with whom he wanted to mate, there must be another somewhere. Maybe he would meet a suitable female at the Gathering. Hosted jointly by the Scottish Seelie and Unseelie Fairy Courts, when his djinn friend Devin invited him he’d described it as the social event of the decade. Members of The Good People came from all over the world to attend the five-day celebration.

The sound of music reached him, and he saw points of light dancing in a valley to his right. He descended, noticing colorful tents and teepees between the trees. He circled, trying to spot his father in the crowd, but the campfires and lanterns did not shed enough light to identify Dragon among the thronging masses. With so many fairies in one place, it was impossible to pick out the psychic signature of an isolated individual.

Throughout the meeting ground, knots of people drank and talked around campfires. Their voices rose and fell, blending with the lilting sounds of flutes, drums, and stringed instruments. The crowd stretched along the southern bank of a loch. Above the eastern end of the Gathering hung a shimmering dome of blue-white light where the crowds concentrated around a pair of glittering thrones occupied by a glowing man and woman. Nightshade guessed these were the Seelie king and queen of the blessed Scottish Fairy Court, although in his experience light and beauty did not always equal goodness. And he knew for a fact that the Unseelie Fairy Court, renowned to be dark and dangerous, couldn’t be all bad; his friend Devin spent time there.

At the western end of the crowd, woven from twisted branches, a solitary dark throne stood empty in the center of a circle of swaying lanterns. A huge bonfire roared behind it, what must surely be the Unseelie king’s throne. Drunken revelers congregated nearby, around a group of musicians beating out a tribal rhythm on drums and backlit by flame.

On the south side of the Gathering, a long bar serving food and drinks divided the meeting area from the woodland. The crowd waiting to be served swarmed along the length of the bar, except for in a small oasis of space at the western end. Nightshade dropped lower and smiled when he recognized the glowing golden-haired man causing the break in the crowd: Troy the Deathless. He was immortal, and it had not surprised Nightshade to learn he was a Norse god. He supposed there must be other gods in the world, but he’d not met any—unless one counted his djinn friend, Devin, who sort of qualified. With Troy as a father and a scary djinn queen as a mother, Devin was one of the most powerful people he knew, though one would never guess to look at him. Like his father, Troy, Devin seemed to have a hand in many of the fairy courts in Britain and probably in other parts of the world. Although,
Nightshade had never been farther than Ireland so he didn’t know everything his friend got up to.

Even drunk, the merrymakers knew to keep a respectful distance from Troy. Luckily for Nightshade, the small clearing around Devin and his father made a perfect spot to land. He descended carefully, not wanting to create too much downdraft with his wings. The crowd scuttled back as he landed, obligingly giving him more space.

“You made it!” Devin shouted over the din, striding forward to embrace him. The fragrance of incense clung to his golden skin. Devin grinned and scooped an errant strand of dark hair behind his pointy ear. “When you didn’t come yesterday, I thought you’d chickened out.”

“You stink of perfume, djinn,” Nightshade teased.

His friend punched him on the shoulder. “You stink of woman, stalker. Pray tell me what—or who—you’ve been doing.”

Nightshade pivoted to greet Troy rather than answer any embarrassing questions. Devin’s father lounged indolently on a barstool, decked out extravagantly as usual. He wore a fitted blue tartan jacket and matching kilt—royal blue plaid shot through with golden thread—while his blond hair was fixed up on his head using a small gold sword with a matching tartan rosette on the pommel.

As Troy’s unearthly blue gaze met his, a grin spread across Nightshade’s face. “You’re wearing a
skirt,
man,” he roared.

Devin laughed, and an expectant hush fell over the watchers. All wanted to know how his father would react. Troy the Deathless was not known for acts of tolerance or benevolence. He normally displayed all the warmth and compassion of an assassin.

“When in Scotland . . .,” Troy intoned, his rich melodic drawl sliding down Nightshade’s spine like a caress. Then he
crooked a finger, beckoning Nightshade closer. “Devin tells me you’ve come here hoping to persuade Dragon to give up his rights to Rhys.”

Nightshade pressed his palm against the jeans pocket where he had stowed his father’s Magic Knot: three linked stones containing the essence of the fairy’s mind, body, and spirit. He’d acquired it the last time they had a fight. He hoped his father wanted it back badly enough to agree to his demands, although Nightshade didn’t expect to win without a struggle. He gave Troy a calculating look. Was it possible he might gain his assistance?

“The threat of Dragon returning to Cornwall to claim Rhys is hanging over the
whole
pisky troop,” he announced, trying to convey that Troy’s half-pisky grandsons were also under threat. “I must ensure Dragon leaves the piskies alone.”

Troy flicked a negligent hand at the bar staff. Immediately, a tankard of honey wine was set before him. Troy handed it to Nightshade and watched him quench his thirst.

“You didn’t fare well during your last battle with Dragon,” the immortal observed.

The soothing whisper of calm underlying Troy’s words defused Nightshade’s instinct to deny the claim. “He’s strengthened through his blood bond with his damn dragon. He didn’t fight fair.”

“And you think he will this time?” Troy raised a perfect golden eyebrow. “You, my friend, are living in cloud cuckoo land.”

Nightshade flushed, thankful that his black skin masked the reaction. “I’ll do whatever it takes to secure Rhys’s safe future.”

“I admire your honorable intentions if not your naive approach. Come to me, stalker.”

The immortal stared at Nightshade from beneath heavy-lidded
eyes, gestured him close, and the subtle compulsion of silver tongue lacing Troy’s words made Nightshade step forward against his will. Even though his fangs burned in his gums at the lure of a god’s blood, he was wary of Troy’s intentions.

“I’m going to help you.”

“You’ll stand with me against Dragon?”

“No.” Troy’s answer strummed an electric tension between them. “Dragon is a member of the Unseelie Court. The Unseelie king doesn’t like me interfering in his affairs. But I shall level the playing field for you, my friend. Dragon borrows power through the bond with his Welsh Red Dragon; you shall borrow power from me.” The immortal laughed, a sound Nightshade had never in his wildest dreams expected to hear, a low sensual rumble that felt like raw silk stroked across his nerve endings. Then Troy added, “I’m pleasantly languorous tonight. You may bite me.”

Nightshade’s fangs slid out of his gums on a groan; he’d fantasized about bringing this immensely powerful being to his knees with the rapture of his bite. To prove that he had power, power as great as the strongest of the strong. Yet, now that the time had come he was wary.

Despite his reservations, Nightshade closed the distance between them. From beneath long, luxuriant lashes, Troy’s eyes were the impossible blue of crushed sapphires in ice. His skin glowed, radiating power like a force field. He unfastened the buttons on his jacket and eased aside the ruff of lace at his throat. The smooth, pale column of his neck was exposed. Nightshade took another step closer. When he was unwell, taking blood could help heal him, but he wasn’t sure how Troy’s blood would give him power.

Troy’s hand shot out and gripped the back of his head in a punishing hold. “Do you fear me?” Troy whispered.

“No,” Nightshade snapped. He had learned as a child to never show fear when someone threatened him. His pride was
all he’d had. He resisted as Troy’s fingers dug into his scalp to pull him closer.

“Liar.”

Then Troy laughed, breaking the tension. His fingers loosened their grip, and he smoothed down Nightshade’s ruffled hair. He leaned forward and pressed his cheek to Nightshade’s, whispering in his ear, “Centuries ago, I was blood-bonded to a nightstalker. Remind me of the decadent delights of a stalker’s bite. Drink from my poisoned chalice.”

The word ‘poison’ pierced Nightshade’s brain like a hot wire, but the instinct to bite overruled caution. His eyelids fell as he ran his tongue along Troy’s silky skin; he tasted of sunshine in the crystal clear air of an arctic morning. Troy’s carotid artery pulsed beneath the tip of his tongue.

He bit down. Power-charged blood surged over his tongue, sizzling his nerve endings. Although he didn’t need blood to survive, he yearned for the pleasure, like other men yearned for sex. Troy flexed against him with a groan of ecstatic surrender. Wrapping his arms protectively around his partner’s lean muscular body, Nightshade pulled the ornament from Troy’s hair, releasing the long silky strands to fall over his hand. Triumphant satisfaction filled him. The most powerful being he had ever encountered was swooning with pleasure under his bite. Troy might as well be kneeling at his feet in worship. If only the piskies who had tried to drive Nightshade away when he was a boy could see him now.

But he must not take too much. After a few minutes, he reluctantly stopped feeding, opened his jaws, and raised his head. Energy roared through his body like a hurricane. Troy remained unmoving, head angled to one side, eyes closed, lashes dense golden crescents against his pale cheeks.

Nightshade used his tongue to seal the puncture wounds that were weeping scarlet beads onto the god’s pearly skin. Troy dropped his forehead against Nightshade’s chest. Once before
he’d sensed Troy’s loneliness, but now the icy flames of his pain licked at Nightshade’s heart. Shocked and humbled at being allowed a glimpse of Troy’s vulnerability, he cupped his hands gently around the immortal’s golden head, wishing there was some way he could help. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Enough of this nonsense,” Troy mumbled. He leaned back, breaking the contact between them. “I’ve given you a double-edged sword. But you’re strong enough to use it for your benefit and survive.” Then, with a murmur of dismissal, he pushed Nightshade away.

Nightshade’s temples pounded with the force of the unfamiliar power now rushing through him. Normally when he took blood he formed a blood bond with his partner, a bond that gave him power to influence their behavior. But he doubted he could influence Troy. Although, he sensed a connection between them that had not been there before.

He found his friend Devin at the bar and blinked, trying to clear his head.

“Never seen him offer his throat in submission like that,” his friend said. “He must really trust you.”

Troy’s voice rang out: “I want a female.” The compulsion of his demand carried over the Gathering, and the clamor of voices fell, then peaked with excitement. Devin’s father then beckoned to someone in the crowd, and a slender female in a shimmering diaphanous dress of green and silver fabric as fine as spider silk drifted toward him trailing butterflies and tiny birds. She stepped between Troy’s splayed thighs and into his arms.

“Troy’s dicing with trouble tonight,” Devin continued. “Even he’s not immune to the seductive touch of a nature spirit.”

Nightshade downed some more honey wine. The buzzing beneath his skin made him fidgety and uncomfortable. He
gripped his metal tankard and closed his eyes, drawing in a slow calming breath.

“Careful, stalker!”

Devin’s voice snapped him to attention. His friend had jumped aside to avoid the liquid now dribbling off the bar, and Nightshade stared with disbelief at the crushed mug in his hand. What had Troy’s blood done to him? He swung his gaze back to the immortal now hungrily kissing the nature spirit. Her tiny birds and butterflies fluttered around them, making the air sparkle. She had one slender hand buried in Troy’s hair and the other underneath his kilt.

Nightshade averted his gaze with a sharp pulse of shock. Tonight he’d seen a side of Troy he had not expected. Another tankard was set in front of him, and he gulped down the contents. The world swayed. A slumberous heat invaded his chest and spread through his body, finally banishing the buzz of power.