Bastian

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Authors: Elizabeth Amber

BOOK: Bastian
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Also by Elizabeth Amber:
DANE: The Lords of Satyr
DOMINIC: The Lords of Satyr
LYON: The Lords of Satyr
RAINE: The Lords of Satyr
NICHOLAS: The Lords of Satyr
BASTIAN: THE LORDS OF SATYR
ELIZABETH AMBER
APHRODISIA
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
For Nancy Bristow, Tracey Anderson, Annette Stone,
Dani Keith, Kimberley Sutton, Katie Seely, and the many
wonderful, supportive members of my e-newsletter group at
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ElizabethAmber
.
And for you. I hope you enjoy Bastian's story.
—Elizabeth Amber
The Satyr Clan in Rome
(Descended from Bacchus, the Roman God of Wine)
The Satyr Clan in Tuscany
(Descended from Bacchus, the Roman God of Wine)
PROLOGUE
I
n centuries past, many of the Satyr secretly dwelled throughout Italy, working in the vineyards of the wine god, Bacchus. After a Great Sickness arose, many perished, and few remain now to protect the sacred gate between Earth and ElseWorld, a parallel realm populated by creatures of myth.
Within a corridor of lands that extends from Tuscany southward to Rome, all is so thoroughly bespelled that ElseWorld immigrants largely go unnoticed. Still, the magic that cloaks this territory is fragile, and discovery by humans is a constant threat to a small clan of Satyr lords in Rome. These four brothers—Bastian, Sevin, Dane, and Lucien—are of ancient royal blood and have been entrusted with safeguarding their ancestors' artifacts and antiquities, which are now under excavation in the Roman Forum.
Upon the coming of each new month, their blood beckons them to heed the full moon's call to mate. To deny this carnal call is to perish. To heed it, bliss.
S
cena
A
ntica
I
February 2, 374
A.D.
Roman Forum
“Where are we going, Mother?” six-year-old Silvia asked, skipping excitedly. She had no inkling that her destiny was about to be decided as she walked with her parents toward the Roman Forum.
“Hush, child,” came the sharp reply.
“Father?” Silvia persisted, turning her clear blue eyes his way.
He sent her a pained expression. “Do as your mother says.”
But Silvia knew she could always coax him from his moods. She tried to take his hand, but for once, he shook her off.
Her mother sent him a condemning look. “I see how your eyes and hands linger on her; don't think I don't.”
“I love her.”
Her mother snorted. “A perverted love.”
Her father was rarely angry, but his voice turned tight with anger now. “She's my only daughter. I'm not going to do anything to hurt her.”
“Not today maybe, but she's only six,” her mother went on, her voice accusing. “What of when she's older?” She snatched Silvia by the wrist—careful not to touch the palm of her hand—and led her off again. Her father followed more slowly.
A crowd had gathered in the Forum near one of the temples. There were other girls there, too, all about her age, standing in a group. And in their midst stood her uncle, studying them with an intent gaze. Something about the avid, waiting quality of the onlookers frightened Silvia, reminding her of the bloodthirsty audiences in the Coliseum during the gladiator fights. She tried to hang back.
“It's the ceremony to choose the Virgins,” her mother scolded. “It's an honor to be considered.”
“No! I don't want to go!” Silvia jerked from her hold and ran to wrap her arms around her father's waist.
He groaned and held her away.
“Cara,
you can't stay with us, do you understand? If you do, I worry that I'll—I'll hurt you. Your mother is right about that.” He released her and gave her a shove toward her mother, who stood glowering at them.
“Don't you love me?” Silvia asked him in a small voice.
His gaze slid over her; then he ran a hand over his face, looking beaten. “Too much, Silvia. I love you too much. You're special. A temptation to any man. Service in the temple is what you were born for, with those hands of yours. Go. You are to do as your Uncle Pontifex instructs you. Don't ever return to us.” With that, he turned his back on her and left them for home.
But Silvia ran after him again, grabbing his arm, begging him not to leave her. “If I'm good and do as Pontifex bids me, will you let me come home again?”
Her mother wrenched her away from him and pulled her by the scruff of her neck toward the Forum again. “Don't touch him with your devil's hands, child.”
Silvia stared at her hands. Her wretched hands. Her own father had turned away from her because of them. She wished she could cut them off, if only it would make him look at her with affection again.
Instead, she did as her father wished and let her mother take her to the Forum and place her hand in that of her uncle, Pontifex Maximus. He felt its strange and terrible warmth, and smiled at her mother. “Yes, you were right about her. Even her hair is like fire.”
He smoothed his palm over Silvia's wild, red-gold hair and lifted her pointed chin. “Come,
Amata.
Come join the others.”
“I want to go home,” she whispered.
“This is your home now, little fey,” she was told. As he tugged her toward the temple, she watched her mother depart with a bag full of coins, payment for surrendering her.
And so it was that at the tender age of six, Silvia found herself inducted into the service of Vesta, Goddess of Fire.
1
Esquiline Hill, Rome, Italy
Earth World, February 1881
L
ord Bastian Satyr was certainly a big one.
With an experienced eye, Silvia sized him up in a long, sweeping glance as she stood at the foot of his bed, her arm loosely wrapped around a bedpost corded with carven grapevines.
Dark, cropped hair; broad, sculpted shoulders; a pronounced indentation running the length of his spine; powerful thighs and buttocks; flesh glistening from his exertions; knees dug into the bedcovers between the smooth, stockinged thighs of his bed partner.
Michaela looked so vulnerable and feminine lying in his enormous bed, under his enormous, straining warrior's body. Her slender calves hugged his hips. Her body was open to receive each thrust of his organ. Silvia could only employ her imagination regarding how sizable that portion of his male anatomy might be. From her vantage point, all she could see was his backside. His naked backside. His naked, flexing backside.
She swallowed, her throat strangely dry. By firelight, he was magnificent—a golden god. Which just possibly made him worthy of the woman he was riding. Michaela was her closest, dearest friend in both worlds. Had been since their childhood in Vesta's temple.
Silvia had always watched over her as best she could. And when it came to hedonistic matters such as these, had lived vicariously through her. Tonight was no exception.
Michaela had been born a Companion, a courtesan with the power to please any man. Like most in her profession, she had taken hundreds, if not thousands, of lovers over the centuries. She always chose them carefully. That in itself told Silvia that this particular specimen of manhood must be something quite extraordinary.
Confident that neither of them could see her in her current form, she meandered around the perimeter of the bed, pausing at the sight of the confectioner's box on the bedside table.
Cioccolato
.
Mmm.
There were few things that could have drawn her attention away from the carnal display on the bed, even momentarily, but chocolate was one of them. She bent and put her nose to it, inhaling deeply, wishing she could smell the sweet delicacies hidden inside the gay wrapping. But she was an Ephemeral, and when in a noncorporeal state as she was now, her sense of smell was nonexistent. She didn't dare partake of them or do anything else that might draw the notice of the room's other two occupants. But, Gods, she was starving.
At least the room was warm. The February wind was cruel outside these walls. She'd been half frozen on her way here. She moved to the hearth and held her hands to the fire.
Behind her, Lord Satyr was taking his time, rutting with long, vigorous strokes that caused his bed to lurch and shudder, and that had Michaela sighing with pleasure. She glanced over her shoulder at them. They looked so perfect together. His incredible masculine body moving on Michaela's exquisitely feminine one. His flesh darkened by his heritage and the sun. Hers a smooth, olive perfection that was so unlike Silvia's own flawed, pale flesh. She touched her fingers to her cheek briefly, a gesture made so often she no longer knew when she did it.
Lord Satyr's big hand slid under Michaela's bottom, tilting her in a way that better accommodated him. Silvia could only assume from her friend's soft, appreciative cries that it satisfied her as well.
Although copulation was a private matter, she had no qualms about observing them. She and Michaela had no secrets. At least, not until recently, when Michaela had severed all connection after leaving Venice. After she'd been able to wind up matters there, Silvia had rushed here to Rome, worried Michaela might be in some sort of trouble. But now it appeared that any trouble was more precisely
in
her.
She'd taken a Satyr as a lover, for Gods' sakes! And not just any Satyr. The eldest scion of the four wealthy, powerful brothers who were the de facto rulers of the ElseWorld community here in Rome. He was the man in charge of excavating the Roman Forum. His celebrated archaeological finds had made him the darling of human society. And had made him her next assignment.
He was speaking now, his lips at Michaela's temple, murmuring to her in a mesmerizing blend of the ancient ElseWorld dialect, Latin, modern Italian, and if she wasn't mistaken, a hint of the Far East. At the sound of his voice, some wayward emotion began to wind tighter inside Silvia. Disturbed and restless, she went roaming in an effort to dispel it. The door to his armoire was ajar and she peeked inside. She found dark coats and trousers next to starched linen shirts, all hanging neatly in a row. Too neatly, with the same increment of space between each hanger. Lord Satyr was certainly fastidious!
She moved to his desk, an immense affair of polished olive wood. Her fingers itched to search its drawers, but he might hear. And if he turned his head, the desk was in his line of vision, which meant she dared not move anything. Drawers seemingly opening by themselves would require explanation. Until she assumed a corporeal shape, she would remain invisible to him. Even Michaela would not be able to see her until she chose to show herself.
Perching atop the desk, she lay on her side, propped her chin in one hand, and commenced reading several letters he'd left out. Two were from Italian ministers of government regarding the state of the excavations in the
Forum Romano.
It was the third that caught her eye. Written in typical long-winded ElseWorld Council fashion, it was addressed to Lord Satyr, and it fairly hummed with magic. She skimmed it, her attention caught by one particular passage:
Your recent letter was greeted with renewed hope that the fragile enchantments, which cloak and protect our Italian colonies, may soon be bolstered due to your efforts in Rome. We pray to the ancients that it will be so! I need not remind you of the grave repercussions—most particularly to your own family, but also to the health, welfare, and greatness of ElseWorld itself—should they falter. The task of safeguarding our heritage via the Forum excavations has fallen to you since the death of your father; and in view of your accomplishments over the last decade, we continue to believe them to be in excellent hands. It is with great enthusiasm that we await more news of your search for the Temple of Vesta, the adjacent House of the Vestal Virgins, and the relics themselves!
Gods be praised,
Minister Eighteen of the Artifact Recovery Bureau
The Worshipful Council of ElseWorld
So Lord Satyr was searching for the temple. Interesting! And how well suited to her own purposes. But she would make sure that any relics he found would find their way into her possession, not the Council's.
Michaela cried out, startling Silvia, and her eyes whipped Michaela's way, heart in her throat. But she quickly saw that it had only been a cry of passion, for the bodies upon the bed were moving in sensuous harmony—Bastian's giving, Michaela's receiving. Feminine palms smoothed over the well-defined musculature that was his chest, working their erotic magic.
Silvia's jaw dropped. Most men would have come instantly under Michaela's preternatural touch. Who was he that he could withstand her wiles so easily? And how much longer would this go on? The intensity of their coupling was beginning to make her distinctly uncomfortable.
She had pressing business to discuss with her longtime friend. Still, she hated to interrupt. Gods knew, Michaela deserved some fun. She'd nearly been killed by a jealous Harpie in Venice three months ago—the last time they'd been together.
Satyr's head lowered, and his lips trailed the length of Michaela's throat. She whimpered. Silvia's fingertips lifted to her own throat, tracing a similar path. Realizing what she was doing—what she was feeling—she snatched her hand away. Her face was flushed, hot. Fifty hells! She'd never known a man to take so much time chasing a single orgasm. Michaela's usual complaint was that they were too quick.
Hurry up, will you?
Silvia urged him under her breath.
To her astonishment, his body ground to a halt so abrupt that it visibly jolted both his partner and the bed frame. His head snapped around in Silvia's direction, his brow knit in confusion. She pushed up to a sitting position on the desk, alarmed.
Silver eyes pierced the dimness, like stars in a twilight sky, relentlessly shining in her direction. The almost brutal, carnal expression on his masculine face made her heart trip, her breath stop. For the first time, she took in his features full on—the strong blade of his nose, his straight brows, square jutting chin. And those lips! Sensual, yet sharply cut. An uneasy attraction stirred in her breast, and she shivered; this time not from the bone-deep cold she'd weathered to get here tonight.
Unaccountably nervous, she tucked her knees to her chin, wrapping both arms around her calves. He couldn't see her. Of course not. Yet those eyes of his seemed to bore into her very soul!
“No! Don't stop. I beg you, Bastian,” Michaela protested. Her palm cupped his cheek, tugging his attention back down to her. Her other hand clenched on his back, as if she feared he might leave her.
Leave her?
Leave the most accomplished Companion in the history of the Vestals? No man had ever left Michaela before she was ready for him to go. What was going on here?
With an almost imperceptible reluctance, Michaela's lover returned his full attention to her. Easing onto his back in a subtle shift of perfectly honed muscle, he brought her up to ride him. Her frilly white gown slipped low on her shoulders. Its lacy hem bunched on his thighs, like snow drifting over granite. Somewhere under the fall of her gown, his big hands cupped her bottom, moving her on him now in a powerful rolling motion. His gaze was hot on the lush upper curves of breasts that peeked from her bodice.
Michaela shrugged, baring them for him, her own expression hidden by her silken hair. As if she couldn't help herself, she bent and nuzzled her cheek along his shadowed jaw. Something about her pose suggested a deep affection. The beginnings of fear crept up Silvia's spine. Is this what had delayed her? Had she fallen in love? With this man—this
Satyr?
Her gaze was sharp on him now, weighing his intentions. His chin was high, his throat arched. Silver eyes slitted by passion were shielded by long, dark lashes, as he hunted his pleasure within her most cherished friend. Did he even recognize how precious she was? Did he sufficiently appreciate the gift she offered him of her body and heart?
The sounds of their coupling escalated. Harsh breathing, soft moans. Flesh slapping in slick, staccato pulses. Without corporeal form, Silvia could not scent their lovemaking. But their erotic hunger hung thick in the room now like a voluptuous fog.
She'd witnessed others mating before. Had seen Michaela under a man countless times. But it had never affected her like this. Each thrum of her heart boomed in her ears and sent heat to rouge her cheeks. She was beset by faint shivers, and her eyes grew dry, for they refused to blink lest they miss something. Somehow, she'd managed to remain virginal throughout her life. Not by choice. But she'd taken vows. And the penalty for breaking them was dire. Because fornication was forbidden to her, her vicarious enjoyment of Michaela's lovers had always been a decadent delight. Tonight, it felt like something more . . . dangerous.
Silvia's hands dropped to clench on the edge of his desk on either side of her. She squeezed her thighs together; felt a gentle throb in her most private places, where tissues had engorged and flushed, wet and hot. She was horrified to realize she could almost feel his movements herself. Feel her passage yield . . . Gods! What was wrong with her? This man was Michaela's! She had no right to feel an attraction to him. It was only that they were so beautiful together, she assured herself. Anyone would be affected by the sight of them. Anyone.
Slipping lithely to the floor, she fled the room, telling herself she had better things to do. She would use the time they spent in coitus to make a systematic search of the rooms along the corridor.
But first things first. Assuming corporeal form, she went downstairs to the kitchen. Earlier this morning, she'd rushed past it on her way upstairs, anxious to be certain Michaela was all right. Now she helped herself to some wine grapes and a sandwich of thinly sliced meat, bread, and cheese. Keeping her ears open for any trouble, she gobbled the repast hastily, for she could eat only when she was visible and had to render herself so before satisfying her hunger.
Afterward, she rinsed her mouth and went invisible again. Padding across a gleaming floor tiled in black, gold-veined Portoro marble, she opened doors as she passed, glancing into various chambers. What she sought here in this city wouldn't be easy to find on her own. Had Satyr already discovered it for himself? Until she spoke to Michaela, this question must go unanswered. Still, she continued her search along the hall, and each small act of invasion calmed her; felt normal and right. Michaela's business might be entertaining men, but her own talents lay in investigating them.
His home was something of a museum, its every room lined with fascinating artifacts. She entered the most promising of them—his study. Inside, she found gilt-edged books, ancient maps, and a desk twice as large as the one in his bedchamber. Paper, pens, a letter opener, and other tools of business were neatly aligned upon it. She smiled slightly at this further evidence of Lord Satyr's obsessive neatness.

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