Author's note: Hi all! I did not intend to take the entire summer off, but I can't say I'm sorry for it. I got to spend a ton of time with the kiddos. But today is the first day of school and I now have 6 hours to myself five days a week. I see updates in the future. :)
So, this is one of those chapters that gave me absolute fits. I had no less than 5 different versions on my computer. I'll post some of the "deleted scenes" to Bits and Pieces. I must say a huge thank you to Suiren Shinju for reading over one of my more verbose drafts and setting me on a better track.
Revelry: Chapter Four
"I felt for the tormented whirlwinds, damned for their carnal sins, committed when they let their passions rule their reason."
-From Inferno by Dante Alighieri
Cedric raised his drink to his lips, taking a long, slow slip of burning liquor, and examined the woman seated before him. Confident but shy, bold and innocent, available yet somehow forbidden, she was temptation itself, and he'd never been good at resisting what didn't belong to him. He traced her facade with an indolent sweep of the eyes. The ruffled costume hugged her waist and bust, the neck line higher than most, offering only a hint of rounded cleavage. The hem was scandalous by court standards, up to her knee, but down right matronly for the Revelry. She gave the strong impression of a school girl fresh from seminary playing dress up in a harlot's clothes. Her only adornments lay in her feathered mask, the gauzy flowers sewn into the waist and edging of her skirts, and a black length of velvet ribbon tied around her throat. The color complimented her pale skin, as did the tell-tale magical glitter of her blond curls. The rest of her disguise was harder to discern, a seamless bind across her natural attributes. Her mouth toyed with a sultry smile, but the dimple of teeth biting into her lower lip suggested how unsure she felt playing the role of seductress.
Losing a bit of bravado after her cheeky declaration, Daphne managed to empty her glass. The dutiful bartender replaced it with a fresh drink and Cedric fought back the sudden urge to intervene. It wasn't his place to caution her against inebriation if that was her wish; she was assuredly grown. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that she needed some guidance in these uncertain surroundings.
"I'd pace myself, if I were you." He lifted his drink in explanation. "Alba scotch is more potent than it seems at first. It will hit you all at once."
"I think can decide that for myself," she sniffed, taking a deep swallow as if to prove the point. She barely hid a grimace at the taste.
"Suit yourself," he muttered, keeping an eye on her nonetheless.
He couldn't decide how he felt about her company. He'd have to be blind as well as daft not to find her attractive, but there was a nagging notion that something more was at work. Magic was his first suspicion, some manner of attraction spell cast about her person. But the enchantments surrounding her remained confined to appearance only, not radiating outward.
As much as he found the whole of her attractive, he couldn't stop trying to examine her eyes. Said to be the window to the soul, he felt strongly that the answer to the puzzle she presented lay there. But every time he tried to catch her gaze, she flitted them away, piquing both interest and suspicion.
The room had ceased to be their own. Revelers filtered in, those from the curtained off ballroom looking flushed and sated with drowsy satisfaction. Daphne peered about nervously, eyes bright and curious behind her heavy make-up. She was proving such a mix of contradictions that he found himself liking her, despite his reservations.
She reminded him of— Pain knifed through his chest, strangling the air from his lungs. No, he wasn't thinking about her.
"So," Daphne asked, breaking the silence that had fallen between them, "do you always come to the Revelry on Beltane?"
"No. This is the first time I've been in years," he found himself answering truthfully. "I much prefer the smaller, local celebrations, and the outdoor bonfires."
"Then, why …?"
"Why am I here? Ironically, because I wasn't looking for a companion for the night."
Her lips parted in a soft O of surprise. "You weren't?"
He swirled the dark liquid in the bottom of his glass. "Merely a few glasses of higher caliber liquor than my salary affords. That and to escape Wormwood's insufferable clucking."
Her eyes widened, giving her a slightly startled expression. He couldn't fathom why, except to explain that, "Wormwood's a raven. My familiar."
"Ah," she said, and nothing more.
"He'd make fine companion, except that many years ago I spilled a potion on him allowing him to talk. I don't believe he's shut up ever since."
She let out an ungainly snort, covering her mouth to keep from spitting out her drink. Once she managed to swallow, her laughter tinkled like a chorus of silver bells. He couldn't help but smile with her.
"How dreadful. And, does Wormwood," the name rolled long on her accented voice, "not approve of your plans for the night?"
"He doesn't seem to approve of much that I do lately, but a sorcerer staying in on Beltane was too much for a familiar to bear, apparently. He insisted I go somewhere, anywhere, and stop moping about—"
When he stopped abruptly, Daphne shifted in her seat. "Are we observing your father's rule again?"
He felt an honest stab of guilt. A stranger though she might be, but it was still uncouth to insinuate that he was thinking of another woman. "Yes," he answered firmly, "we are."
"Good." She smiled. "I like that rule."
He smirked at her easy humor. "And what are you usually doing on Beltane? And, Merlin's Mushroom, please tell me you are at least old enough to have experiences one or two."
"Yes," she answered a little defensive. "I've been out on Beltane before. I was at a bonfire last year. I'm only here now because of a promise to help a friend. She needed moral support and I offered my services. When she and her date appeared on good footing, I tactfully made my exit.
"To be honest, I'm not sure I like it here," she murmured, peering about at the growing collection of revelers, all ostentatious in costume, no matter how little clothing their outfit entailed. Their excess could rival the royal courts any day. "I was curious, naturally, but I feel it's not for me. I'd much rather be somewhere outside, surrounded by friends, warmed by a bonfire."
"Yes," he agreed, taking in the room with a dismissive wave, "It's all a bit impersonal here, for all the familiar behavior."
She colored, perhaps remembering what ever lurid scenes she'd witnessed in the ballroom. "I was always taught that Beltane was about the spring, a celebration signifying the world bursting back to life after the long, cold days of winter," she remarked wistfully. "It's one of my favorite holidays, all the colors and flowers, the ribbons and decorations."
"Charming, but your description if one of almost infantile innocence," he remarked dryly, the alcohol dulling his sense of proper decorum. "Put all the pretty ribbons you like on it, Beltane at its core is nothing more than a fertility ritual."
"I know that," she sniped.
"Beltane is both older and darker than your rendition gives it credit for. Children dance about the May pole weaving ribbons and stuffing their faces with honey cakes—"
"Are you claiming you don't like honey cakes?" she interjected archly, almost as if she knew they were his favorite and daring him to deny it.
"That is besides the point. The festivities are for the young and innocent. At its heart, the true ritual of Beltane mirrors the flow of nature. And what does nature do during the spring?" He arched a brow, not expecting an answer. "Simply put, it fucks, be it bees, birds, or beasts. Spring is about propagation of the species. Beltane is merely the human face of forces older and stronger than our brains can comprehend. It comes from the gut, the need ingrained. The festivity of it is just the polite face we put over it to make our baser desires more palatable. Beltane is a convenient excuse allowing us free reign to indulge in those things we want to do, but are too civilized to admit to the other 364 days of the year."
Her lips thinned, blue eyes going hard as diamonds and he cursed his loose tongue. A few drinks had the unsavory effect of brutal honesty on his part. She was sure to storm off in an offended huff, seeing beneath his polite veneer to the malcontent that lay beneath.
Instead, her lips twisted into a wry smile. "I very much doubt the Revelry has much to do with propagation. I'd wager everyone here is charmed to the hilt against it."
"In that you are correct," he conceded with a sly smirk. That she wasn't intimidated or offended by his more morose tendencies automatically rose her in his esteem. "The Revelry is an entity unto its self. There are no ancient rites being observed here, just pure good old fashioned overindulgence."
"Yet, despite your passionate defense of the true intent of the holiday, you didn't come here to partake of its famed debauchery?"
"It was not my intent, no. I've found I've lost my taste for it. The shine has worn off over the years. Debauchery for debauchery's sake is not as alluring as it once was. It feels ... empty. It's all pleasure and no purpose."
"It seems to me," she said, seeming to choose her words with care, "that pleasure is a thing worth exploring. That there must be some inherent redemption in experiencing pleasure for pleasure's sake."
"A thing worth exploring, I like that," he mused. "I take it this is a thing that you'd like to explore?"
She ducked her head, a shy little gesture that made his heart flutter and his loins twitch. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. A fine furrow dimpled between her brows, making her appear almost pained when she ventured, "What of the woman you mentioned before? If you are interested in more than physical release, perhaps this is a conversation you should be having with her."
"Ah," he answered slowly, wishing he'd never brought it up. It was getting on past midnight, and Daphne had proved a successful distraction against images of towering bonfires and pale limbs entwined on the grass. "Your concern is kind, but misplaced. She is … unattainable."
"There's really no hope? Are you certain?"
"Quite," he answered firmly. "It is an infatuation I'd been trying to rid myself of for some time."
"Well," she said softly, as if testing each word on her tongue for the first time, or perhaps just this new insinuation, "I've always been eager to help a friend in need."
Her lashes fluttered upward, catching him with that bright sapphire gaze that wound around his heart and squeezed it painfully tight. Her top teeth worried that little dimple into lush fullness of her bottom lip again. The uncertain gesture made him want to lean in and bite it himself. He imagined she'd taste like fresh summer strawberries with cream.
Fuck, something about this woman was turning his brain into knots. There she sat, the picture of temptation, only to discover hiding beneath the soul of innocence. It's like she'd been dropped out of the heavens just to torment him. She was so much like— He couldn't imagine her in a place like this. But then he was having an increasingly difficult time imagining Daphne in a place like this, and she was actually there. Was it Daphne's innocence that attracted him to her, or merely the similarities to someone else?
"I can't help but feeling that I should send you away," he told her honestly. "That we'd both be better off if I did."
"If you don't want— That is, if you're not interested …" she trailed off, her downcast eyes not merely disappointed, but somehow heartbreaking.
They were past the theoretical now, past suggestion and banter; the time to decide had arrived. He reached out, laying a hand lightly upon her wrist. She startled, staring down where his bare skin touched hers. She was warm and smooth, her skin scented softly with something floral and alluring. When her wide eyes skipped up to meet his, he held her gaze, telling her distinctly, "I didn't say that."
They stared at each other a moment. As hard as he'd worked to catch those skittish blue eyes, he was hard pressed to hold them when the hitch in her breath pushed her breasts against the edge of her corseted bodice. Night had thickened around the hotel, leaving only the low candlelight and the fickle incandesce of the bonfires lit beyond the windows in the outdoor courtyard. The scene could be intimate, except for the increasingly intruding din of the other revelers.
At just that moment a raucous group of red painted men burst from the hallway, heading for the bar, demanding drinks. Daphne blinked, tearing her eyes away, and he was sorry for their loss. There was something to her gaze. Something that called to him. He shook his head, seeing such thoughts as nothing but nonsense and whimsy. Still, he pressed the rest of his drink away, deciding he'd had enough.
The red men struck up a bawdy tavern ditty, some lewd rendition about a maiden bathing in a river, unaware of being watched from the bushes by a young man. The lyrics were jaunty, and the unlikely chorus clasped each other about the shoulders, swinging their tankards and spilling a great quantity of ale upon the bar. Daphne narrowly avoided being doused when he had the foresight to grab her by the elbows, fairly pulling her on top of him.
One of the men disentangled himself from the group long enough to tip a contrite, exaggerated bow. His words slurred with too much drink, "Begging your pardon, my dear lady."
Rather than taking offense, Daphne giggled, flush with impish humor at the lewd lyrics and enthusiastic concert. A rosy flush colored her cheeks and Cedric suspected he'd been right about the alcohol coming upon her all at once. When she turned towards him, her eyes shown bright with mirth, a wide, amused grin on her lips, she seemed nothing but pleasantly surprised to find herself nearly in his lap.
Her expression sobered suddenly when she reached up and brushed a lock of silvery hair back from his brow. "Your hair is as soft as it looks. I've always wondered."
"Thank you, I think." He quirked her an odd look. "Exactly how much had you had to drink before this?"
"Only a glass of mead. I'm not inebriated beyond reason, if that's what you're concerned with. Merely, pleasantly relaxed."
She looked more than pleasantly relaxed. "Are you certain?"
Her eyes caught and held his own, their sapphire luster piercing something deep and primal within his brain, tickling with recognition. Their oceanic depths darkened with desire, and any notion of familiarity was stripped away. "Yes, I am certain."
He swallowed, or perhaps gulped. She was even more enchanting, and far more irresistible in close quarters. He couldn't help winding a corkscrew curl around his finger, deciding if she had one undesirable quality, it was her hair. He didn't care for the style nor the color, despite its enchanted shimmer.
"Seeing as neither of us were particularly set on this course from the onset," he murmured, "perhaps we should hazard some experimentation before committing ourselves."
She blinked slowly, her eyes going liquid and drowsy when he loosed her curl, which promptly sprung back, and brushed the back of one finger down her neck. "Experiment?" she breathed, making his stomach clench. "What did you have in mind?"
His right brow raised, several possibilities coming to mind. "How about a kiss?"
"Just one?"
Her dismay at the prospect of only one kiss forced a fond snicker from him. "I suppose that depends on how the first one goes."
She stared, hopeful but frozen. When he dipped his mouth towards hers she shook off her reverie, pursing her lips in a subtle, sensuous pout. She noised a small, helpless whimper when his lips touched hers with a softness usually reserved for emotions much deeper than those between two strangers.
Persephone's Pomegranates, he could lose himself in the feel of those lips. But then she parted them on a dreamy sigh, and – fuck. Fuck. Her tongue met his in a tentative, wet flourish and for the first time he gave serious consideration to the tales of fairy maidens come out of their mounds and wooden glens on Beltane to enchant unwitting men. She tilted her head, taking him deeper. Her innocent sensuality brought him stumbling abruptly back to reality, desire ricocheting throughout his entire being. A tight knot of need gathered low in his belly.
She didn't seem human. She didn't seem real. Too perfect, by far.
He managed to pull away just far enough to whisper, "What are you doing here?"
She froze, her eyes coming alive, the pulse beneath his fingertips racing. "W-what do you mean?"
"You're much too sweet for a place like this. Certainly, for someone like me, I assure you."
"Perhaps that's the problem," she murmured, eyes softening. She leaned towards him, sweet breath whispering over that last bare inch between them, "I've had my fill of things like sweetness and innocence. Maybe I want something else. Maybe I crave a little—," she hesitated, searching, before settling on, "Darkness. I want a taste of you."
Those sooty, kohl lined lashes fluttered closed and she swayed forward. Even if he'd wanted, he couldn't resist her for all the gold in the collected kingdoms. Like the last, this kiss seared with restrained heat, the promise of it burning inside his brain. His hand slid into her hair, bringing shivers in its wake. Cupping the back of her head, he angled her for better possession by his mouth. His other hands touched lightly on her knee, sliding ever so slowly upwards. When his thumb brushed the interior of her thigh, she pulled back on a gasp.
"What have you done to me?" His tone— gone husky with want, and need, and now, yes, gods— made her pupils dilate, giving her a wide-eyed appearance. "The things I want to do to you. Things I feel quite strongly I shouldn't want, but you are making me forget myself."
He captured her mouth again, scattering any response she might have made. When he pulled away this time she tried to follow his retreating lips. She groaned at the loss. His lung dragged in a ragged breath, straining for control. "Should we relocate then, to somewhere more private?"
Her slow, heavy lidded blink trapped him, her eyes two drowning pools of ocean and starlight. The warm breath fanning over his face smelled faintly of honey and scotch and promise and sin. Her answer, when it came, was nearly a moan, "Yes."
Author's Note: Next chapter should be out within the week.
Side note about the red men: At modern Beltane festivals in places like Edinbourough, The Reds, as they are known, are a group of men and women who dress up in red clothing and/or cover their bodies in red paint. They are meant to represent the spirit of chaos and misrule. As per the official Beltane Fire Festiavl website, the Reds, "… have this single night each year to make merry, tempt, seduce, carry out acts of wantoness and inspire the revellers to cast aside their thoughts of the next day and abandon themselves to the excesses of the night." I'm uncertain how far back this tradition goes.
Reviews, pretty please!
