Лорел Гамильтон - Seduced by Moonlight

«Sex?»

«Yes, no.» He frowned, then he yelled, one wordless sound of frustration. «I don't know what I want.» Then he looked at me, puzzled. «I want you, but it's like you are food and drink and sex.»

I nodded and raised my hands until I cupped his arms. Even the skin of his elbows was soft. Had it been this soft before the wings came? I couldn't remember. It was as if I couldn't remember Nicca without the wings. As if he hadn't been real until they sprang from his back.

«She is the Goddess,» Doyle said from the doorway. «We all crave the touch of the divine.»

Through the unnatural calmness, I knew he was right. «I could make him into what the Goddess wants him to be, now, tonight.»

«But she is a goddess and you are mortal, and you need more sleep than she does,» he said, striding into the room like some moving piece of the darkness itself. He walked to the far side of the bed and, after a moment's hesitation, bent down. He stayed kneeling by the bed, but a pressure I hadn't known was there eased. I could breathe again, and my pulse was back to its frantic dance. The fear returned with a flash of adrenaline that left me light-headed, but the fear faded almost as fast as it had come. Nicca blinked at me, looking confused. «What happened, just now? What happened?» He let go of my arms and moved back carefully onto the bed, having to move with care because of the wings.

Doyle was still kneeling by the far side of the bed. «It seems the chalice has a mind of its own.»

«What do you mean?» I asked.

«It had unwrapped itself and fallen underneath the bed.»

I walked around the bed to see that he had pulled the cup out from under the bed by the edge of the silk it still lay upon, but it was uncovered. «I wrapped it up, Doyle. Even if it had fallen over, it couldn't have unwrapped that neatly, not so that the silk was a perfect rectangle again.»

He gazed up at me, still on one knee, his finger and thumb still holding the silk corner. «As I said, Merry, the chalice has a mind of its own, but I would move it farther from the bed if I were you. Otherwise you will have a busy night every time one of us comes to you.»

I shivered. «What's happening, Doyle?»

«The Goddess has decided to become busy among us once more, so it would seem.»

«Explain that,» I said.

He looked up at me. «The chalice has returned, and on the day of its return Her grace pours upon us once more. Cromm Cruach walks among us once more, as does Conchenn. Those of us who were gods are returning to our former glory, and some who were never gods are being visited with such powers as they never dreamt to have.»

«The Goddess is using Merry as a messenger,» Rhys said. He frowned and shook his head. «No, Merry is like the flesh version of the chalice. It fills with grace and pours upon us.»

«I had nothing to do with you coming back into your powers,» I said, hands on hips.

Rhys smiled. «Maybe not.»

«You were in the room,» Doyle said.

I looked at him and shook my head. «No, Doyle, what happened with Maeve and Frost was different from what happened to Rhys.»

Doyle stood up, brushing his hands down the front of his unbuttoned jeans, as if he were wiping the feel of something off his fingers. Wiping what away? Power, magic, the feel of the silk? I almost asked, then Sage spoke.

«Look at my eyes, Darkness. Look at my eyes, and see what our lovely Merry has done.» Sage walked around the bed so Doyle could see the eyes up close.

«Rhys told me that your eyes are tricolored.»

Sage's wings sagged a little, as if he were disappointed that his news had been spoiled. «I am sidhe now, Darkness, what do you think of that?»

A smile curled Doyle's lips, a smile I hadn't seen before. If it had been anyone else, I'd have said it was a cruel smile. «Have you tried to grow small since it happened?»

Sage frowned at him. «What does that matter?»

Doyle shrugged, and that smile deepened. «Have you tried to shift your form since your eyes changed? It is a simple question.»

Sage went very still as he stood between Doyle and me, then I saw his wings shiver, like flowers caressed by a strong wind. He shivered once, twice, then he threw back his head and wailed. Wordless, speechless, a hopeless, wrenching sound.

It wasn't until the last echoes of that scream faded from the room that I could move. «What's wrong?» I reached around his wings to touch his shoulder.

He jerked away from me. «Do not touch me!» He was backing away, toward the door. Frost appeared in the door behind him, and Sage began to back away from him, too. It was as if he was afraid of all of us.

«What's wrong?» I asked again.

«Being sidhe comes with a price for those with wings,» Doyle said, and there was a note of satisfaction in his voice. I'd always known there was some bitter history between the two of them, but I'd never realized just how bitter until that moment. I'd never seen Doyle be petty before.

Sage pointed at Nicca, who was still kneeling on the bed. «He knows nothing of wings. He has never flown above a spring meadow, or tasted how sweet and clean the wind can be.» He pounded his fist into his bare chest. «But I know! I know!»

«I'm missing something,» I said. «What difference does being sidhe mean for Sage?»

«You have stolen my wings from me, Merry,» he said, and there was a look on his face, of such unbearable loss, that I moved toward him. I had to hold him. Had to touch him. Had to try to take that look from his eyes.

He held a pale yellow hand out toward me. «No, no more, Merry. I have had enough of the sidhe for one night.»

Rhys cleared his throat, and the noise seemed to startle Sage. He turned to find Rhys almost behind him, having walked across the room to stand near the mirror. Sage looked wildly around the room as if we'd trapped him and he was seeking a way out. It was true that Frost was near the only door, but he wasn't trapped. Not in any way that I understood.

Sage pointed a finger at Nicca. «Do you know what we would call him if he had gotten his wings as a child?»

Everyone gave their version of blank face, though it looked like everything from humor to arrogance. It was Rhys who said, «I give up. What would you call Nicca if he'd gotten his wings as a kid?»

«Cursed.» Sage spat the word as if it was the worst thing he could ever call anyone.

«Cursed, how?» I asked.

«He has wings but he cannot fly, Merry. He is too heavy for the wings of a moth to carry him aloft» — he smacked his fist into his chest—"as I am too heavy for mine now.»

«What's happened?» Galen asked from the doorway. He was rubbing sleep from his eyes. His bedroom was the farthest away from this room.

Before any of us could answer, Sage marched to him, brushing past Frost. «Look, look at what has become of me!»

Galen gaped at Sage. «What. your eyes.»

Sage pushed past him, snarling one last phrase over his winged shoulder. «Wicked, wicked sidhe.» And he was gone.

«Rhys, go with him,» Doyle said. «See that he comes to no harm.»

Rhys went without a word. He was still nude, as was Sage. I had a moment to hope that there wasn't anyone outside the wall with a night-vision camera. Then I realized that bad publicity was the least of our worries. The fact that I'd thought of it at all proved that I'd been too long away from faerie, too long out among the humans.

«What harm could Sage come to?» I asked.

«His own,» Doyle said.

«You mean he'll harm himself because he can't fly.»

Doyle nodded. «I have known other winged fey to let themselves fade and die when they lost their wings.»

«I meant him no harm.»

«The sidhe are at their most dangerous when they mean us no harm,» Frost said, and his voice held a bitterness that I'd never heard before.