Goblin Fires
Chronicles of the Four Courts, 1
By Brantwijn Serrah
Paranormal Romance/Lesbian/F-/F
$3.99
Amazon: http://goo.gl/nZxnnn
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Champagne
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A Fae Knight's life
belongs to the Monarchies. For Reagan, a life is a small price to pay for the
princess she loves.
EXCERPT
The fairy ring in Central Park stood near the
zoo, a short walk from the scene of the accident. We attracted too many curious
onlookers until Erin started warding them off, casting glamours and illusions
around us to help avoid notice. At a snap of her fingers, whimsical misleading
birds took flight from the hedges near us, and women’s skirts fluttered up as
though a wild breeze caught them. Startled shouts erupted from the park-goers
and all eyes were drawn away from us.
The ring, as I said, belonged to our House, a
Ring of Herne: small white toadstools under a shady oak, dotting the ground in
a rough and playful circle. It would open into the deep realms of the Goblin
Court.
Normally Finn and his Ladies would not be
welcome to cross over into Herne’s part of Thairy without express invitation;
it violated the strict laws of fae etiquette, and faeries were unforgiving
where custom and courtesy were at stake. Ceridwen led our party though, which
would be permission enough.
My princess entered the ring and invoked a
thinning of the veil, imploring the spirit guards of the gates of Annwyn to let
us pass. We gathered in the ring with her, and as she beseeched them, the day
appeared to darken by degrees, as though the sun were going behind a thick
cloud cover. Then it kept getting darker, then darker still, until it might as
well have been night around us. The air changed from the lovely springtime
brightness and warmth to cool, brisk autumn chill. The scent of turning leaves
and damp soil surrounded us, perfumed with more distant notes of baked apples
and sweet wine. There were other smells, death
smells, graves and ghosts and wild things.
Then we were no longer standing in Central Park, New York. We were in
Annwyn, a close and shadowy realm, the lands of the Tylwyth Teg and the High
King of Goblins.
My home.
The fairy ring transported us directly into
the High King’s orchards, outside the castle of Arawn, former King before
Herne. The gray stone of the ancient fortress rose up against a bruised sky,
solid, indomitable, eternal. The moon, golden and far larger than it would ever
be seen from mortal Earth, hung in the night behind the castle like a leering
jack-o-lantern.
Puca, once again in the diminutive form of
the impish cat, assumed the lead immediately, scampering up the path to the
fortress gates. Finn followed and Nineva stayed close behind him. Erin began to
go up as well, but stopped when she saw Ceridwen hesitate, waiting for me.
The moment we’d stepped over into Annwyn, I’d
dropped to my knees to press my burning palms against the soil. The very air
soothed the iron blaze a little, like Erin’s magic, leaching the pain away with
slow relief. The surge of fear, anger, and violence began to wear off a little,
but I could still feel the thump and roil of animal power in my blood, the
hunger of a tigress running hot in my veins.
This is what it meant to be a child of The
Morrigan, the war goddess. We weren’t made to be great artists or musicians or
muses or sorcerers. I couldn’t hope to master the craft of enchantment like
Erin or play the poltergeist like Oberon’s jester Puck. I had a depth of my own
power: the power of a fighter, the magic of war. The blessing my Unbridled
nature afforded me, the power I had sworn in the service of High King Herne and
his daughter. It bled through me, a raging, thrilling
power. Sexual, almost: wild, hungry, predatory, and strong.
