The Becoming Trilogy Box Set (Books 1-3) (39 page)

‘What have you done?’
Connal’s eyes drew wide with horror. In his arms, Quillan was cold and still as
the grave. ‘No. No, no, NO!’ His eyes pleaded with her. ‘This is not what I
bargained for.’

‘No?’ She kicked up her jaw
and laughed coldly. ‘You bid me raise the dead.’ She motioned to the prowling,
reanimated corpses.

‘You said you would grant me
what my heart desires most! This is NOT ...’ Connal gritted his teeth, head
shaking. ‘You tricked me.’

‘No trickery here but your
own mind’s denial of what the heart holds, Warrior.’ So calmly she spoke, then
curled her hand into a fist and pressed it to the wolf-brand on his sternum.
Heat seared through his chest. ‘I have looked into your heart, Savage, and the
vengeance there is so dark, it obliterates any and all other desires. It is
that thirst for death that drew me to you, a beacon of beautiful darkness.'

No. She was lying,
manipulating him. Wasn’t she? Doubt gnawed, a rat in his chest. He couldn't
think with her crowding him. She was behind him once more, hands tunnelling
into his hair, her voice seductive, stroking his neck, again that feeling of
invisible wings, feather-grazing his skin.

‘Embrace your hatred, Connal
Savage. You despise MacTire. Look at what your own flesh and blood has reduced
you to, taken from you. You are the rightful King of the Fomorians. Your
brother is a usurper who denies you your legacy. I have given you the power to
take it back, by force.’ Her hands shot out once more, the gates of the arena
gaping wide at her command, and the great army of undead was unleashed.

M
acTire, anointed King of the Fomorian people, or what
was left of them, inflated powerful lungs and strode into the great banquet
hall, where his men were assembled. The clamour of feasting and debauchery rose
up, mingling with the familiar scents of roasting meat and caged masculinity.
Gathered along the drift-wood trestle tables were the sole survivors of a once
formidable race. Hunted and slaughtered to near extinction, they were without a
single female to breed a new generation. Until now. Unconscious in his
bedchamber, Ashling DeMorgan was the great hope of Fomor.

 A hush spread through the
crowd with each step the King took towards the top-table. Seated there were his
personal guard and four closest allies: Brandr; Fite; Rún and Tyr. Collectively
known as the
s
kuldalid,
a
more vicious, cunning and deadly band of warrior vargs you could not find, and
they were sworn in their loyalty to the King.

Brandr’s bearded face split
into a manic grin. He wiped his greasy mouth and dropped the leg of lamb he’d
been chewing on, pushing to a stand. As one, the collected crowd rose to their
feet with him.

‘All hail MacTire, Ruler of
Fomor, Slayer of raveners, Destroyer of our enemy, and future Sire to our next,
glorious generation!’ Brandr punched the air and the room erupted with cries of
‘All hail the King!’ Stamping their feet, the crowd raised their cups of ól to
a wild chorus of howls. MacTire’s attempts to silence them fell on deaf ears.
Instead, he locked wrists with each of his
s
kuldalid
in turn before taking his seat for
the celebratory feast.

One of the
thegn
servants settled a huge platter of roasted meat and a tankard before him, but
MacTire's appetite had deserted him. Concealed in the King’s closed fist was a
pendant: a Roman coin threaded on a woven thong. MacTire had torn it from his
half-brother’s throat when he ordered the traitor chained and tortured. All had
gathered to revel in the execution of their enemy, and in the capture of their
long-desired trophy: a breedable female.

Next to him, oblivious to
MacTire’s unease, Fite sank his canines into a hunk of cooked flesh, tearing it
from the bone and devouring it with relish. ‘Just think,’ he grinned, ‘as we
eat, Connal Savage’s bones are being picked clean by the raveners. A suitably
inglorious death for the son of a bitch who put us in this godforsaken prison,
don’t you think?’

‘With the luck of Balor, the
mutant ravens will choke on the bastard’s gristle. Kill two birds with the one
bone, so to speak.’ Tyr’s laughter rang hollow in MacTire’s ears.

‘Been a long time coming,’
Rún’s sharp eyes regarded the King in a way that made him wonder if he’d
projected his thoughts to the red-haired warrior.

‘A long-overdue favour
returned,’ MacTire nodded, looked away and drank deep.

‘We are so few now,’ Rún
said, ‘I recall a time when only the privileged feasted here. Now?’ His hand
swept over the hall. There were empty spaces all along the benches. Each a
fallen brother. The genocide had all but exterminated the Fomorian species. And
after? Connal Savage allied himself with the Morrígan, hunting what remained of
his own people off the streets of Dublin. Barely five score and fifty
full-blood vargs sat before them now.

The
thegn
didn’t
count. They were weak-blooded runts, tolerated
only to serve
the
wolves in their
spiritual and practical needs. Their flawed genetics allowed them to walk the
earth as free men, unlike the cursed full-bloods.

‘Has the DeMorgan female
spread her thighs for you yet, my Lord?’ Brandr leered, eyes glassy from the
drink. ‘Does her creamy flesh meet with the Royal approval?’

A growl stirred deep in
MacTire’s throat and a muscle in his jaw twitched. ‘So impatient for your
turn?’

Brandr’s hands went up in
surrender. ‘First rights are always the privilege of the King,’ he mumbled,
falling back on the plate of meat as though he could gag himself with it.

It was true they shared their
women, out of want and necessity. And Ashling DeMorgan was not the first. There
had been other latent females: humans with promising genetics, lured to Fomor
in the vain hope of a successful mating. When, inevitably, no pregnancy ensued,
the woman would be passed through the ranks of his men until she was broken.
But this one, his Ashling? She brought out proprietorial instincts MacTire had
no right to entertain. He’d known it the moment her blood touched his lips. He
had yet to lay a hand on her, but his body resonated for her in ways he hadn’t
known in centuries. She had pure wolf-blood in her veins. He could taste it.

‘She is yet to awaken,’
MacTire, who rarely explained himself, felt obliged to now. ‘You yourself saw
the girl at the point of death when the Savage brought her through the black
waters. Hardly
surprising she needs time to recover from his attack.’

A growl of accord rumbled
down the line. Their hatred of Connal Savage united them.

‘Has the celibate fucker, Doc
Madden, been to see her?’ Fite asked, gnawing on what looked big enough to be
an ox’s thigh bone.

‘Celibate fucker? Isn’t that
an oxymoron?’ Tyr smirked.

Fite cut him a withering
glare. ‘The
thegn
doctor is the fucking moron. He let the girl escape.
If Savage hadn't bitten her, she might have been lost to us forever.’

MacTire pulled rank. ‘Madden
was punished for the mistake and bore that punishment honourably. It is done,
and we will speak no more of it.’ Fomorian justice was swift and brutal.
Anything less would lose face in the men's eyes. There were no saints amongst
this rabble, and no room for grudges.

Fite scowled, but knew better
than to push.

Tyr, as always, broke the
uncomfortable silence. ‘Has anyone actually seen Madden since we left the
shore?’

‘Probably crawled back
above-ground to lick his wounds,’ Rún spoke as he tipped the horn to refill
MacTire’s cup, ‘poor bastard.’

The King merely nodded,
scrubbing a hand over his nape. This was the way of things. Family brooked no
favouritism when his men walked such a thin line between order and barbarity.
And as brother to MacTire’s former queen, Aoife, Madden was technically family,
though it was regrettable the boy turned out defective and was forced to enter
thegn
life. Regardless, MacTire reserved the harshest punishments for those closest
to him.

It was no different in the
case of his blód-brother. Connal had it coming; he’d have known when he brought
Ashling to Fomor
, even if it was
to save her
,
that mercy wasn’t on the cards.
The coin cut into his fisted palm.

Call it divine retribution, a
mate for a mate. Ashling was his.

He stuffed the collar into a
pocket and two-handed a joint of meat, forcing himself to chew through the
tough flesh. There was no absolute necessity to eat. Fomorians had the blood of
the gods in their veins. They did not age or die, save by mortal injury, such
as having your head severed from your body.

Or your bones picked clean
by the raveners ...

MacTire dropped the meat and
drowned that image in a long draft of ól. They might not age, but they bled,
and hurt, and scarred like any mortal, and they still felt the primal desires
of thirst, hunger and lust. And so they ate meat their bodies did not need and
fucked human women incapable of carrying their cubs. Anything to fill the
interminable hours of incarceration.

The sound of cattle lowing
broke through the revelries.

‘There goes dinner,’ Brandr
laughed. A pair of steers was being led through the caverns, en route to be
butchered and spit-roasted for the celebrations. Their meat traversed the black
waters on the hoof. Inanimate objects didn’t travel well. Even living things
came through in a state of temporary paralysis, which was why larger animals,
such as beef cattle, were reserved for special occasions.

‘We’re killing the fatted
calves, I see,' the King said. Ironic, given he’d already slaughtered the prodigal
brother ... He drained his cup once more and refilled, obsidian eyes trained on
the door of the banqueting hall.

‘I tell you,’ Brandr said,
‘lugging fifteen hundred pounds of mature beef steer out of the tide before the
raveners get to you requires balls of steel.’

‘I should know,’ Rún smirked,
‘I’ve dragged your ass out of there often enough.’

Brandr clapped his
félag
on the back. ‘Aye, and I yours, my blód-brother,’ he laughed.

The brand on MacTire’s
sternum burned as he silently observed their banter.

‘I’ve always wanted to see
how the
thegn
smuggle livestock through the streets of Dublin. That
requires ingenuity,’ Fite pointed a bone in Brandr’s direction. ‘I mean, how do
you parade an animal that size through a city nightclub without drawing attention?’

‘Put it in a dress and
lipstick?’ Tyr’s innocent face trembled laughter that was contagious. The
entire
s
kuldalid,
MacTire
excepted, cracked up. ‘Seriously. Why don’t we just farm them here?’ the boy
asked.

‘And what would they graze
on?’ Fite’s voice took on a serious edge, ‘pastures of bone and blood? The
raveners consume all, Tyr.’

All drank deep and were
silent.

‘Besides,’ Brandr cracked a
smile, ‘we Fomorians are hunters to the core, not farmers. And if I am not
mistaken, the prey has just arrived.’

Hot on the heels of the
cattle came the other live commodity regularly trafficked through the black
conduits.
Thrall
girls, and the occasional male for those whose
preferences ran to cock. As with the livestock, it was a one-way ticket; Humans
could never know of their existence.

Once bitten though, they came
more than willingly ... and they
came
too
...over and over, in
shuddering ecstasy. The
eitr
in a wolf’s saliva was potently addictive
to humans, like sexual heroin. The naked girls filtered through the crowd now,
exuding their special brand of blatant sexuality, craving their next fix of
teeth in flesh. As they moved they were picked off, possessive arms circling
waists, bare buttocks slapped, breasts fondled. They were dragged into laps,
thighs hitched to straddle hips, laid out across the tables like food. As the
night progressed, the great hall would be transformed into a stadium of
fucking, with the vargs as gladiators, taking down their prey in a wet,
slapping orgy of rutting flesh.