“Especially not with Jorge watching over you.” He sounded pleased to have painted her into a logical corner.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll wait for him. I’ll be a good little girl. Now go away and leave me alone.” So I can cry in peace. Leave me that, at least. Just leave me alone so I can cry.
Nikolai rolled away from her, his arm sliding out from beneath her head. She heard him moving, getting into his clothes. She could imagine him getting dressed, pulling his jeans up, pulling his t-shirt back over his head, running his fingers back through his hair to push it back out of his face. Then his coat. She heard the sound of the heavy wool moving.
Best of both worlds. He has to go home before dawn. Can’t stay to make things sticky. And he’s so fucking careful not to damage me. Though I can take it, can’t I? It’s hard to kill me. With sex, at least.
He leaned over the bed to pull the sheet and the blankets up, tucking her in gently and efficiently. Finally, when the covers were smoothed, he settled on the side of the bed and touched her hair. Ran his fingers through the heavy mass, lifting it slightly, and gathering it all up, pulling it back from her face. He stroked her cheek with his fingertips, delicately. His claws didn’t prickle, but she knew they were there.
Go away. I have to cry first, then I will figure out what to do. Oh, God. Danny. Selene kept her eyes shut. Her breathing evened out. She hugged the pillow. Her right hand was under the covers, and she made a fist, her nails biting into her palm. Squeezed. Tighter. Tighter.
Finally, Nikolai touched the corner of her mouth with a fingertip. Selene didn’t open her eyes—but she did peek out through her lashes. Under the bedroom window shade, a faint grayness showed. Dawn was coming.
There was a slight sound—a breath of air. A cold breeze touched Selene’s cheek.
Nikolai was gone.
Selene drove her fingernails into her palms and took in a shuddering breath.
Now, at last, she could cry.
(LIKE A) VIRGIN OF THE SPRING
Susan Sizemore and Denise Little
GINGER WAS CERTAIN THAT THERE HAD BEEN A time in her life when she found public fornication shocking. That time was long behind her. Now, crossing the courtyard between the baths and the sanctuary of the sacred spring, she barely glanced at the naked couple coupling on the altar at the center.
What the pair was doing was a sacred rite meant to please the gods. She did take a moment to glance their way, and observed that the lad had a truly fine ass. The way his broad back narrowed down to his waist was a work of art. But the offering to the gods being shared out there with such energy was business, not pleasure—for her, at least.
It was spring, festival time, and people were crowding in to the stronghold from all over the countryside of southern Britain. It was a joyful season for most people, one that embraced relief at surviving the winter, appreciation of the new life emerging in field and flock, and enthusiastic participation in the fertility rites so important to the gods.
Ginger normally would have been overseeing the celebrations. But her knowledge of the darkness moving ever closer toward them overwhelmed her interest in this seasonal festival.
As priestess of the spring, she had responsibilities that ran far beyond the rites taking place on the altar. She already knew that the next few days were going to be hard on her, and she was certain that her talent as a seeress was going to be called upon on this day when she was supposed to be resting up for the festival.
The future was hers to see and to interpret for others. And now it seemed the gathering storm had managed to alarm even the highest power in this land. The Lord of Ched had called for his senior advisors to gather before him at the sanctuary. Lord Ched was there when she arrived, a big man going to fat, his grizzled gray hair cut short in the Roman manner. Despite being near to fifty, a great age, he was still handsome. It was obvious where his daughter Morga got her beauty.
Morga was chosen of the Mother and she and the Year King should have been here with her father, bracing for the coming storm, instead of outside worshiping on the altar. Ginger wondered at the exclusion, but it wasn’t just a warning from her extrasensory perception that twisted her belly with apprehension. She hadn’t always been the priestess of the well. At one time she’d been a student of history, a collector of the great stories from the past. She’d studied the manipulation of power by men strong enough to seize and keep it. Their names lived on in tales long after they died—Phillip of Macedonia, his son Alexander the Great, Caesar Augustus, Claudius, Constantius, even the cursed Vortigern, whose ill-fated dealings with the Saxons had torn Britannia apart less than a century ago.