Divine by Choice (29 page)

Propping the pillows up behind me, I burrowed under the extra blankets. They were those ultrasoft blankets that made me want to rub my face against them. I sighed in relief. It felt wonderful to be warm.

The channel changer was lying within the indention Clint's body had left next to me in the bed. Might as well channel surf while I was still in this world, and the Weather Channel certainly wasn't my idea of stimulating entertainment (nor, by the way, was MTV or any sports channel—unless they were showing figure skating).

The last fifteen minutes of a
Will and Grace
rerun made me laugh, and then I was thrilled to find that on TBS one of my favorite John Wayne movies,
The Angel and the Badman,
had just started. I snuggled down to enjoy.

The Duke was getting into some serious wooing of his little Quaker farm girl, when Clint finished in the bathroom. I glanced up at him. The robe made his shoulders look even broader. His dark hair was towel dried and adorably tousled. He wasn't looking at me, though. His attention was on the TV (typical guy).

“Old John Wayne movie?” he asked.

“Yep.”

He squinted. “Don't think I've seen this one.”

“You're kidding! It's one of my favorites.” I patted the spot next to me. “It just started, I'll fill you in.” Then I hesitated. “You
do
like John Wayne, don't you?”

“I'm getting by your tone that there's only one answer to that question.”

“Only one correct answer.”

“Shannon my girl, John Wayne is an American icon,” he said, placing his hand reverently over his heart, like he was going to recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

“Correct answer, Colonel Freeman. Have a seat.”

I quickly explained the plot to him, glad that he had quit acting like I was Medusa (or, for that matter, Medea). And I am always relaxed and agreeable when watching My Hero, unless it's one of the few movies in which he dies. Then I'm weepy and tend to drink too much. Good thing
The Cowboys
wasn't on—that one makes me cry so hard I snot on myself. No telling what watching it sober and pregnant would do to me.

Unfortunately, my eyelids didn't seem to understand they needed to cooperate and stay open. I vaguely remember them fluttering as the Duke helped his Quaker friends raise the barn, then Clint's deep voice said, “Just sleep, Shannon. I'll buy you the video and you can watch it later.” My lips curled up and I wanted to laugh and remind him that there are no DVDs in Partholon, but I gave up the fight against sleep and drifted down into the warmth of unconsciousness.

H
ugh Jackman and I were sprawled in the back of a buggy (much like the one John Wayne and his ladylove had driven off in during the closing scene of
The Angel and the Badman).
We lay on a delightfully fragrant bed of lavender. My head was in Wolverine's lap, and he was gently (but firmly) combing through my red tangles with his metallic-claw thingies while he explained to me that he never found women even vaguely interesting unless they were over thirty-five. I peeked through the buggy slats and saw that a human-headed donkey was drawing the carriage. I whistled and the ass turned to look back at the sound, which is when I realized it was my ex-husband's head. I was still laughing when I opened my eyes and found my spirit body hovering above the Best Western.

“Sometimes I crack myself up,” I guffawed, glancing around at the expanse of sleeping whiteness below me. I was glad I didn't feel the actual cold of the night except as a faint echo against the outline of where my body should be. The instant I began to move determinedly forward, the sky opened and kept the promise it had been threatening all day. Thick flakes drifted lazily to the already snow-laden world below.

Unfortunately, I thought I knew in what direction we were heading.

“Oh, Goddess, no! Please don't take me back there.” I could feel
my spirit quaking. I knew Epona would protect me, but I dreaded facing that creature's evil twice in one day.

Patience, Beloved.
She whispered comfort within my mind.

“But I know he's free, it's snowing again. Do I have to actually see him?”

You need not see Nuada, My Chosen One, but you shall witness what has freed him.

Now,
that
intrigued me. I felt a new determination as my spirit moved forward, picking up impossible speed as if I was being hurled from a slingshot. Soon a familiar skyline glittered like a fairy kingdom against the night. Chicago—here, too, it was snowing. Instead of stopping at the skyscraper I recognized from my earlier trip, my spirit changed course and floated silently past the section of downtown known worldwide as the Magnificent Mile. It looked like I was going to end up over Lake Michigan—I could see the lights of Navy Pier glittering off the water, then I abruptly turned right. Soon modern marvels gave way to soft lights and trees.

“Grant Park.” I smiled, remembering a wonderful trip I had made to Chicago one spring with a group of college friends. Chicago can be especially beautiful in late spring, provided the wind isn't blowing at its usual gale force, whipping freezing air off Lake Michigan. That particular trip to the City of Big Shoulders had the mild, sweet weather of an exceptionally lovely spring, and my group had spent hours exploring the city, mostly by foot (because we were attempting to walk off the copious amount of food and alcohol we kept ingesting).

I had never seen Grant Park at night, and as I descended slowly through the skeletal canopy of winter trees, I was amazed at how untamed it looked. It didn't seem possible that the heart of Chicago was only moments away. The park was dark and silent. Unnaturally silent.

“Come!” The word split the stillness like the crack of a whip, startling me with its unexpected command.

I recognized the voice immediately and mentally squared my shoulders. I was hovering about twenty feet above the ground. My body had quit moving, but at the sound of the voice I started forward again, drifting toward the flickering of a lone light. I broke through a stand of stately oaks, in the middle of which was a small clearing. Within the clearing was an old-fashioned campfire, wherein a tongue of flame flickered.

A circle had been drawn around the fire with something that had melted the snow.

Salt, I thought with surety, and then wondered how I had known.

Listen within, Chosen.

The fire wasn't large, and there was something odd about it. At first I couldn't figure it out. Then I realized the flame was flickering wildly, as if a brisk wind was blowing. But there was no wind. The snow was falling in a straight line from the sky.

She stepped out of the shadows and entered the circle. Rhiannon wore a full-length fox-fur coat. In the firelight the red-gold sheen of the fur mirrored her hair, which seemed to crackle and glow with a life of its own. Suddenly Rhiannon lifted her arms and flung off the coat.

She was butt-assed naked. Shit, she didn't even have on any shoes.

I gasped in surprise, but quickly stifled the sound. Intuitively I knew Epona did not want my presence betrayed this time. But I needn't have worried—it was obvious that Rhiannon's attention was elsewhere. She was oblivious to me.

Slowly, she started to dance, always being careful to stay within the circle. Her body undulated seductively, and I recognized the sensuous style of dance I had seen before when the Muse, Terpsichore, had performed at my marriage ceremony to ClanFintan. Well, Rhiannon was most definitely performing a mating dance, designed to produce a very specific reaction in those watching. But no one was there. Except for me, Rhiannon was alone.

Her tempo increased and her hands roamed suggestively down her body.

“Come!” she repeated the command.

I metaphorically crossed my arms and tapped my foot in irritation, thoroughly pissed that I didn't know how to dance like that. I'd always known my college education had been lacking something—at least now I knew what the hell it was.

Then a second figure entered the circle and I grimaced in disgust. It was Bres. He, too, was naked, and quite obviously found Rhiannon's dance more than a little appealing. His thick penis jutted away from his emaciated body in a tremendous erection. I remembered the smell of his nasty breath and shuddered, wishing I wasn't witnessing this bizarre little mating ritual.

At his appearance the trees that ringed the small clearing rustled, like their limbs momentarily shivered. Oaks surrounded us, and their size told me that they must have been old—certainly older than the little Bradford pears that had been so helpful to me earlier. Yet, except for that brief, uncomfortable movement of their branches, the clearing remained silent. Rhiannon was obviously performing some kind of magic, but she was doing it without the trees. They were not speaking to her.

Rhiannon undulated her way to where Bres was standing. He held something in his hand and I saw the firelight glint wickedly off the blade of a dagger.

What the hell?

Rhiannon took the knife and dropped fluidly to her knees in front of Bres. She grasped his hard shaft, and in one swift motion she drew the blade of the knife down the length of his penis, neatly slicing the taut, blood-filled flesh.

I flinched in horror, but Bres didn't move except to quiver in anticipation and moan low in his throat. His eyes were pressed firmly closed.

A crimson line had sprouted where the thin blade had cut, and blood was dripping steadily onto the white of the snow-covered ground. There seemed to be a stirring in the shadows at the edge
of the circle, and my attention was pulled there. All around the outside of the melted snow, darkness within darkness moved. It reminded me of the scene from the movie,
Ghost
(with Demi Moore and Patrick I'm-So-Yummy Swayze), when demons grabbed an evil soul and pulled it to hell. I had a feeling the analogy was appropriate.

“Come!” This time her command was a sexual purr. “Using the knowledge of ancient darkness, I awakened you. I called you forth from death. Now with this Servant of Pryderi's pain and pleasure, his blood and seed, I command you, Nuada. I order you to the place of power!”

My stomach lurched in nausea as Rhiannon lowered her mouth to the scarlet penis and began sucking rhythmically.

Enough of this perversion.
The Goddess's voice speared my mind and I was lifted swiftly from that tainted glade.

 

I sat straight up in bed. The TV was muted, and the blue shapes of the Weather Channel cast odd shadows over the mound that lay next to me.

“Rhiannon's calling Nuada to her.” I threw the blankets back and stomped into the bathroom, filling a glass with cold water. “And she's definitely using dark powers to do it.”

“What's going on, Shannon?” Clint ran a hand through his bed-head, blinking sleep from his eyes.

“I watched it.” I didn't hide the disgust in my voice. “She's calling him. Somehow through Bres she's using Pryderi's power. She friggin brought Nuada here.” I paced in front of the bed. “No wonder he's obsessed with me. He thinks
I'm
the one who wants him.
Yeesh.
There is one thing we can be pretty damn sure of, after the spell, or whatever, I watched her cast tonight. He won't be hanging around here messing with Dad.” I drank the rest of the water, liking the way its coldness cleared my mouth. It was almost as if I could taste…

“Oh, God, I'm going to be—” At least this time I made it to the toilet in time.

Clint handed me a damp washcloth and I heard him refilling the glass with water. He flushed the toilet and helped me stand up.

“Here, rinse your mouth out with this.” I did as he told me to do. “After you brush your teeth you can use this.” He unwrapped the plastic seal around the top of the complementary minisize mouthwash and opened it for me.

“Thanks,” I said after I'd spit.

I felt tense and preoccupied as he steered me back to the bed and covered me gently with the soft blankets. Then he sat on my side of the bed, facing me. But instead of sitting up close to me, he scooted down to the foot of the bed.

“Here, give me your feet.”

“What?”

“Your feet,” he repeated. When I sat there and stared stupidly at him, he sighed and pulled the blankets aside to expose my bare feet. Matter-of-factly he took one of them and began rubbing my instep with sure, firm strokes.

I blinked in confusion at him (as my body melted from the feet up).

“It'll make you relax,” he said simply.

I started to ask how the hell he knew that, but he beat me to a question.

“Could you tell where she was?”

Oh, yeah. Back to Rhiannon the Pervert.

“Chicago—she was in Grant Park. Bres was with her.” I made a face like I'd just licked a lemon. “You would not friggin believe what she did.”

“Yes, I would.” His voice was flat, and I wondered just exactly what all he had experienced with Rhiannon. And I decided that I most definitely didn't want to know—ever.

A sudden thought struck me. “At first it sounded like she was calling Nuada to her there, but at the end she said she was calling him to—” I struggled to remember her exact words “—to the place of power, I think that's what she said.”

“The grove.” Clint sounded sure. “She thinks that's where we are. She knows I don't like to leave the forest, and you made it clear that you and I are together.”

I nodded in agreement, trying to ignore the double meaning of his words, which was damn hard to do while he was rubbing my feet and looking at me with those amazing eyes. So I pulled my feet out of his intimate grasp, and forced my gaze from his.

“Thanks, I'm all relaxed now.” I forced a yawn. “We better go back to sleep, we have a long, snowy trip tomorrow.” I curled up on my side and closed my eyes.

He didn't move or say anything at first. Then I could feel him stand. He retucked the blanket securely around my feet and turned off the TV. In the darkness the bed sagged under his weight.

“Good night, Shannon my girl.”

“Good night,” I whispered.