Read Online Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) by Christian A. Brown - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christian A. Brown
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borne from who knew what distant wood. The flower lay at the sandy base of the stones like an offering.
“Brighten yourself, dear Fawn, and look.” Caenith slipped an arm over her, pointing to the flower. “I wanted to see if the she-wolf would bless my pursuit of you, and it seems that she has. Life amid death. I shall take that as a sign.”
They watched the flower for a time as it fluttered on the sand but seemed content to stay. They remained in their embrace even though the elements no longer demanded it. Eventually, the flower was taken by the wind again, and Morigan’s head began to droop as shadows started to lighten in the sky. They prepared to leave, and Morigan was up in his arms in an instant. She bid her mother a sleepy farewell and then shut her eyes. The warm wind that was Caenith was moving once more. How long the trip to Eod took, she could not say, for weariness drained the last of her adrenaline, and thistime she dozed off in the arms of her carrier. Now and again, he would stop to adjust her position as her arms dropped from his neck. Nonetheless, she might as well have been riding upon a mattress, so well was her comfort assured. In the flowing darkness of her dreams, she visited forests and ran with wolves; she flew over a cairn in the desert and there was her mother, standing atop the stones, pale and smiling.
“Morigan.”
Caenith’s stone-grinding whisper stirred her gently. She was quite hot, and he was slick with perspiration, too; he must have been running for a while. They slid off each other as she was set upright. Along with her cloak, Caenith’s ribbon had been lost to the night, and his hair was a tumbled mess.
The sun was fingering the sky with red, and sleepy folks and lazy carriages were starting to appear in the neighborhood of less kempt houses with eggshell-colored facades, dulled roofs, and pockmarked sidewalks—Morigan’s district, was she paying attention. A coach master and his gray-horned steed trotted past them as they stood in the middle of the road; he shook his fist at the couple before taking a second look at Caenith and quieting himself. They ignored him, as they did all of what was going on around them. Morigan felt as if Caenith was waiting for a command from her. She could sense it in his wistful gaze and the distress on his brow.
“My question,” he said.
She tried to remember what Caenith was referring to, but there were so many memories already blurring in her head that she couldn’t think. She was relieved and elated when he simply asked.
“Will you be my Fawn?”
“Yes,” she said.
Caenith leaned in, his wicked smile cracking, his teeth sharper than ever. His hands came to Morigan’s tiny waist, fitting it like a corset. She wandered her fingers into his hair. An hourglass might have passed as they breathed into each other’s faces, as she pressed into his heat and he sniffed her and curled his lip. At last the tension broke. Caenith licked her lips before he kissed them and then swallowed her tongue. She tasted sugary and he tasted harsher: like wood-aged brandy and smoke. Their hands pawed the other; touching ivory skin, tanned skin, the tender meat of a breast, and the hard rod—nothing like the puny muscles Morigan knew—of a prick. When it wasover, however many specks or sands she could not say, Caenith traced a wet line to her ear, bit the softest part of it, and then slid a promise inside.
The Great Hunt begins…until tonight
, my
Fawn
, he whispered, and then his warmth vanished like a cruelly pulled blanket.
If Morigan’s eyes had opened fast enough, she might have seen the man bound into the nearest alley and leap tens of strides high over a startled cat and onto a roof. She heard the animal hiss, but when she looked about, Caenith was nowhere to be seen. On the street, there were only two witnesses to their impropriety: an old woman who was clutching her kirtle as if she had seen an assault, and a younger lad standing on the
“Brighten yourself, dear Fawn, and look.” Caenith slipped an arm over her, pointing to the flower. “I wanted to see if the she-wolf would bless my pursuit of you, and it seems that she has. Life amid death. I shall take that as a sign.”
They watched the flower for a time as it fluttered on the sand but seemed content to stay. They remained in their embrace even though the elements no longer demanded it. Eventually, the flower was taken by the wind again, and Morigan’s head began to droop as shadows started to lighten in the sky. They prepared to leave, and Morigan was up in his arms in an instant. She bid her mother a sleepy farewell and then shut her eyes. The warm wind that was Caenith was moving once more. How long the trip to Eod took, she could not say, for weariness drained the last of her adrenaline, and thistime she dozed off in the arms of her carrier. Now and again, he would stop to adjust her position as her arms dropped from his neck. Nonetheless, she might as well have been riding upon a mattress, so well was her comfort assured. In the flowing darkness of her dreams, she visited forests and ran with wolves; she flew over a cairn in the desert and there was her mother, standing atop the stones, pale and smiling.
“Morigan.”
Caenith’s stone-grinding whisper stirred her gently. She was quite hot, and he was slick with perspiration, too; he must have been running for a while. They slid off each other as she was set upright. Along with her cloak, Caenith’s ribbon had been lost to the night, and his hair was a tumbled mess.
The sun was fingering the sky with red, and sleepy folks and lazy carriages were starting to appear in the neighborhood of less kempt houses with eggshell-colored facades, dulled roofs, and pockmarked sidewalks—Morigan’s district, was she paying attention. A coach master and his gray-horned steed trotted past them as they stood in the middle of the road; he shook his fist at the couple before taking a second look at Caenith and quieting himself. They ignored him, as they did all of what was going on around them. Morigan felt as if Caenith was waiting for a command from her. She could sense it in his wistful gaze and the distress on his brow.
“My question,” he said.
She tried to remember what Caenith was referring to, but there were so many memories already blurring in her head that she couldn’t think. She was relieved and elated when he simply asked.
“Will you be my Fawn?”
“Yes,” she said.
Caenith leaned in, his wicked smile cracking, his teeth sharper than ever. His hands came to Morigan’s tiny waist, fitting it like a corset. She wandered her fingers into his hair. An hourglass might have passed as they breathed into each other’s faces, as she pressed into his heat and he sniffed her and curled his lip. At last the tension broke. Caenith licked her lips before he kissed them and then swallowed her tongue. She tasted sugary and he tasted harsher: like wood-aged brandy and smoke. Their hands pawed the other; touching ivory skin, tanned skin, the tender meat of a breast, and the hard rod—nothing like the puny muscles Morigan knew—of a prick. When it wasover, however many specks or sands she could not say, Caenith traced a wet line to her ear, bit the softest part of it, and then slid a promise inside.
The Great Hunt begins…until tonight
, my
Fawn
, he whispered, and then his warmth vanished like a cruelly pulled blanket.
If Morigan’s eyes had opened fast enough, she might have seen the man bound into the nearest alley and leap tens of strides high over a startled cat and onto a roof. She heard the animal hiss, but when she looked about, Caenith was nowhere to be seen. On the street, there were only two witnesses to their impropriety: an old woman who was clutching her kirtle as if she had seen an assault, and a younger lad standing on the
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