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Nicca gazed back over his shoulder at me, then at Doyle. "We will speak of this later, Darkness." Again,
it didn't seem like Nicca's voice, and even the look in his eyes was something I'd never seen.
Doyle actually took a step back, holding me against him. "Gladly, but not tonight."
Frost had moved up beside Doyle, his own problems forgotten in the wonder of seeing Nicca threaten
Doyle. "Leave now, Nicca," Frost said.
Nicca turned his gaze on the other man. "I will speak to you, too, Killing Frost, if you wish it."
"Don't challenge them, Nicca, please don't," I said.
He turned that look on me, and his gaze went up and down my body. There was something in his look
that was almost frightening, as if he wasn't thinking just about sex, but something more permanent. It was
a look that held ownership.
"You beg me not to challenge them while you stand like that pressed against Doyle's half-naked body."
His expression was one I'd never seen on him before, as if some stranger were inside Nicca's body using
his face. He turned that stranger's face to Frost. "And you, who were never meant to be a god, would
you now be king over us all? If you are the only man in her bed night after night, you will be." His voice
was thick with a jealousy so harsh it was near hatred.
Frost moved a little in front of us. "I have not seen that look for many a long year, but I remember your
envy, and what it cost us all."
It was Doyle who said, "Dian Cecht. Somehow you are in the power of Dian Cecht."
I didn't understand what was happening, but it wasn't good, that much even I knew. "Dian Cecht was
one of the original Tuatha De Danaan, the healing god, but why do you name this power him?"
"Do you know the rest of his story?" Doyle asked.
"He slew his own son out of jealousy, because the son had surpassed the father in his healing skills."
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Doyle nodded.
Nicca hissed at us, and his face, for a moment, was monstrous. Then he was handsome again, except for
the hatred in his eyes.
"He's possessed," I said, and my voice was soft with the awfulness of it.
"You stopped the process before it finished," Frost said. "Has that caused this abomination?"
"I do not know," Doyle said, again, but I could feel his heart pounding against my hair. I knew he was
afraid, but only the speeding of his pulse showed it.
Nicca slumped, almost swooned, then raised his face upward, and I saw terror there. "I was angry that
you stopped us. I was jealous. The chalice brings to you what you bring to it. My anger has done this."
He moaned. "I cannot fight this."
I prayed a prayer I'd spoken a thousand times before: "Mother help him." The moment the words left
me, I felt the world tighten, as if the universe had caught its breath. There was a glow from across the
room, as if the moon had risen beside our bed. We all turned and looked. The chalice sat against the wall
where Doyle had dragged it, but there was light coming from it. I remembered my dream where the
chalice had first appeared, remembered the taste of pure light, pure power, on my tongue.
"Let me go, Doyle," I said. His hands fell away from me. I don't know if it was to obey me, or because
of the moonlit glow coming from that silver cup.
Nicca's face was his own again, but I knew, somehow, that the reprieve was temporary. That when the
glow died away, Dian Cecht would return. We needed to be finished before that.
I started to take his hand, to lean into his body, but a hint of ugliness crossed his face. Dian Cecht was
still in there, and Nicca's body was strong enough to tear through walls. "Kneel," I said, and because it
was Nicca, he simply dropped to his knees without question. He had a moment where he had to settle
the tips of his wings along the floor so they would not bend, then he gazed up at me, face patient, waiting.
"Someone hold his wrists."
"Why?" Frost asked, but it was Doyle who simply came to my side. It was Doyle who took Nicca's
wrists in his dark hands and held them out in front of the other man.
I moved behind Nicca, stepping carefully over the delicate grace of his wings as they lay across the
floor. I pushed my bare feet between his legs, and he widened his knees, so that I could stand between
his legs, my body pressed against his buttocks, his waist, his shoulders, his head resting against my
breasts. He fanned his wings and for a moment I was lost between them, and that velvet brush left a
dazzling spray of color on my skin. I slid my hand up the back of his neck into his hair, plunged my hand
through the warmth of it, dug my fingers in against his skin, so I could feel the heat of his body. I drew his
head backward with a handful of his own hair like a handle to pry his face back, and to stretch his neck
in a long perfect line. I gazed into his brown eyes, his mouth already slack when I bent toward him.
There was a moment when that other person tried to use his face, tried to spread hate and envy through
those gentle eyes, but I held him by the hair, his face trapped for kissing, and Doyle held his wrists, like
black rope. Dian Cecht struggled, but it was too late. I kissed that mouth, and felt power go from my lips
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to his. It was as if my breath itself were magic, and I breathed it into his mouth in a long, shuddering sigh.
Nicca's wings closed around me like a velvet shroud, soft and restricting, because I was afraid to fight
against them, afraid I'd tear them to bits. His body trembled under my mouth, and his wings shuddered [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]