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  Dark Moons Rising

  Nia Farrell

  Dark Moons Rising

  Copyright © 2016 Nia Farrell

  Published by Dark Hollows Press

  About the Book You Have Purchased

  All rights reserved. Without reserving the rights under copyright, reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or any other means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. Such action is in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law.

  Unauthorized reproduction of distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Dark Moons Rising

  Copyright © 2016 Nia Farrell

  ISBN 10: 1-944054-48-0

  ISBN 13: 978-1-944054-48-9

  Author: Nia Farrell

  Editor: Sydney Maples

  Publication Date: March 2016

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2016 by Dark Hollows Press

  Cover design by E. Connors

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Deidra pushed through the tangle of forest undergrowth, the fallen leaves crunching beneath her small, slippered feet. Occasionally she paused to catch her breath and listen for the sounds of pursuit or the rush of the river, now swollen from rains that had delayed the harvest in lands to the north.

  She needed water. And food. She’d had nothing beyond a few husknuts, to eat or to drink, since breaking her fast this morn. When the chance to escape came, she’d taken it, although sorely unprepared, preferring the risk of discovery and death to what surely awaited her, had she but stayed.

  Her lungs burned from the exertion of her desperate flight, but the waning light gave rise to a new foreboding. Although she’d escaped certain peril, other dangers threatened if she failed to find shelter before darkness fell. She’d heard the stories of these woods – nursery tales spun to frighten children into obedience. Other, more titillating versions, whispered behind delicate fingers and painted silk fans, described a race of giant men capable of changing form, dark shaggy beasts who’d love nothing more than to capture and mate with a daughter of light.

  Not that they’d recognize her as such. The fragile fabric of her garments was shredded by the brambles that had scored her legs with dozens of thin, bloodied lines. Her waist-length white-gold hair, scraped back and pinned in a knot, was hidden beneath a makeshift scarf – a torn width of creamy white cloth that had graced her dressing table. Her nails were broken, her hands caked with dirt. She’d clawed her way out of the partially collapsed tunnel that led to freedom – a secret escape route known only to a privileged few.

  Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

  She kept moving, finding and then following a narrow trail blazed by cloven hooves, trusting that it continued to lead away from the castle and the fate that awaited her, should she be captured and returned. Mordred would want her back. Above all, she was to have been his prize.

  Mordred’s attack had been months in planning. A surprise assault, the walls breached, brutal combat followed by wholesale slaughter of all save herself and a handful of servants deemed of use. More than lands, more than the castle that had been held by her family for generations, Mordred had wanted her and what strength he could steal from a daughter of light.

  He had thought that her kind was a myth, until a wandering minstrel came to his court with a story that his spies had confirmed. On the first market day of the season, the minstrel had come to the village and had seen her lay hands on a child who’d been trampled. Under her touch, the small broken body had quickened, mended, and was ultimately restored. She had saved a life that day, but at what cost? Her family had been murdered, her people massacred. She had been reduced to the status of slave, forced to train as a comforter, destined for the bed of a man who had no mercy, who thirsted for power and teemed with lust.

  Mordred wanted her. He would come for her. It was only a matter of time.

  She tread lightly, smelling the earthy, fecund scent of ancient growth and rotting, fallen timbers. Instinct made her pause, rattled by the distinct, disturbing feeling that she was being observed. She listened, freezing when she thought she heard the unnatural shift of crisp autumn leaves. When she could breathe again, she threw one more glance behind her and launched herself into full flight, tearing through the deepening forest, dodging low-hanging limbs of the massive oaks as she raced along the deer trail, any thought of stealth abandoned.

  Hunter and hunted, predator and prey, the distance between them closed. “Halt!” a voice ordered, low, gruff, decidedly masculine. Fueled by a sudden burst of energy born of desperation, she sped up, flying along the ground…until a massive arm snaked around her waist, plucked her up, and spun her around. Momentum carried them full circle.

  “Fool,” he growled in her ear, pointing at the trap that would have claimed her. Sharpened spikes lined the floor of the pit, dug into the forest floor along the path. “Poachers,” he spat. “I removed the cover to reveal it, but we’ve not yet had time to fill it in.”

  Deidra shook in the confines of his hold, overcome by emotion. She thought she’d lost everything but she’d still had life, and breath. Her dream of regained freedom lived, too, if only she could talk him into letting her go.

  She feared there would be no escaping him. The man was huge, with strength enough in his hair-dusted, muscle-roped arms that he held her as easily as he would a pet fenica weighing six stones. And he was fast – much quicker than the runners that her father had sent to summon aid…only to have their heads returned in a wicker basket with the demand to surrender or die.

  “Please,” she whispered. Choking back the tears she’d refused to shed when the walls were breached, she softened the death grip she realized that she had on his arm. “And thank you,” she added, bracing to throw herself on the mercy of a man who might well have none. She turned her head, moving her gaze up her captor’s arm, over muscles that tested the seams of his hunting jerkin, past the whorls of black hair that peaked from the v of his shirt. Above the thick column of neck, his beard-shadowed jaw was strong and square, his chin firm and cleft in the middle. His full, sensuous lips were as perfect as those carved by a master sculptor’s hand. She risked a quick look higher and glimpsed thick black lashes framing eyes as blue as the waters of Saint Illian’s spring. She resisted the urge to see if they were just as deep and mysterious.

  The man was huge, at least six and a half feet tall, his long black hair tied with a leather lace that had come loose in their chase. His long bow and a quiver of arrows remained slung firmly across his back. His clothes were clean enough to have been put on fresh this morning. He smelled of the forest – woods and sweat, linen and leather. His skin was either naturally dark or he was well-kissed by the sun goddess, Sola. Laugh lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes bespoke a nature much kinder than Mordred’s.

  It could be worse.

  “My name is Deidra,” she whispered, forcing herself to keep her gaze lowered, giving the appearance of meekness, at least. “I seek sanctuary. Can you give it?”

  He lifted her chin and crooked a smile. “Perhaps. If I can trust you to follow and obey.
If not…” The lines of his mouth flattened, underscoring the weight of his words. “We’ll have to spend the night here, at our peril. Which is it to be?”

  With dark moons rising, she had no choice. The things that hunted on the night of the full moons were nothing compared to what fed in the blackest hours – especially this time of year, when the veils between the planes were thinnest. “I will do my best to match your stride, if you will lead, my lord.”

  “Thorne,” he said, relaxing his hold so that she stood before him, dwarfed by his size. “Keep your eyes on me. Step where I step. If you start to fall behind, let me know at once. Understood?”

  “Aye,” she said, refusing to think of anything else but surviving, one step at a time.

  Chapter Two

  She was too slow.

  Tears stung her eyes when Deidra realized the danger she was putting them both in. The sun was lowering. Darkness was coming, and with it, all manner of vile, evil things.

  “Thorne,” she rasped, her throat parched from lack of water. “I can’t keep up. Go on without me. Please. Do not put yourself in peril on my account.”

  Thorne spun on his heel and returned to her side. “I’m not leaving you,” he said, hardly winded.

  “You cannot stay. It’s too dangerous.”

  “You’re right. It is dangerous. But if you’ll trust me, I can get us to safety. Just…turn around,” he said, reaching for the laces on his breeches.

  “What?”

  “Turn!” he barked.

  Behind her, she heard the rustle of clothing, the shift of leaves, a hiss of breath, and finally Thorne’s voice. “All right. You can look now.”

  She braced herself, not knowing what to expect. Whatever her fertile mind imagined, it was not this…him…still dressed in his shirt, his bow and quiver still banding his chest, but below his waist, he was no longer a man but an animal.

  Half man, half horse.

  A centaur. Thorne was a centaur.

  The horse part of him was huge and black, with a shiny coat, a long flowing tail of slightly wavy hair, and luxurious feathering below his knees that nearly covered his hooves.

  If he was handsome as a man, he was stunning as a manbeast.

  Thorne eyed her closely, watching her reaction just as surely as she was watching his. Clearly a centaur and clearly a stallion. His extended phallus was as thick as her forearm.

  “Can you ride?” he asked, breaking the spell of seeing him thus.

  Deidra blinked. “Um. Yes. Yes, I can.”

  He bent his front legs until he was kneeling on the ground. “Come on, then. Unless you want to stay...?”

  He did not have to ask twice.

  Half an hour later, as the last bit of sunlight drowned in a sea of autumn leaves that yet clung to the ancient trees, they reached what appeared to be a stone and timber-framed hunting lodge. Thorne swung her off his back and warned her that he would be shifting, giving her the option to turn away, if she chose.

  But curiosity was in her nature, and a show of trust might aid her cause, if she hoped to find safe haven here. Still, she could not help blushing.

  Thorne smiled and pulled on his breeks. Not bothering to fasten them, he snatched up his boots with his stockings still tucked inside them. “Follow me.”

  Deidra saw movement in a window, just before the heavy oaken door was flung wide on its hinges and another dark-haired giant hurled himself outside, flying over the steps to tackle Thorne.

  “About time,” he growled, pausing in his grappling when he saw that Thorne’s pants were not laced.

  He followed Thorne’s line of sight, until he saw her. “What’s this, brother?” the dark giant asked. Releasing Thorne, he approached her, keeping his eyes on her face, for the most part. “Definitely not the venison you claimed to be craving.”

  Thorne gave his brother’s back a friendly slap and winked at her, putting her mind at ease. “Ragan, this is Deidra. I found her running on the far edge of the western forest. In her haste, she almost went into a poacher’s pit. We’ll need to go back tomorrow and fill it. Meanwhile, she petitions for sanctuary.”

  Ragan looked at her with the assessing gaze of a man used to making swift, sure judgments. His examination was brief yet thorough; his gaze was most definitely unsettling. She held her breath, even after he nodded his approval.

  Thorne thumped the meaty joint of his shoulder. “She can tell us her story once she’s settled. Any more should wait until we’re inside.”

  Already the night sounds were shifting. When unearthly cries sounded in the nearby trees, Thorne grasped her wrist and pulled her into the lodge. Ragan slammed the door shut behind them, bolted it, then braced its width, dropping a thick oaken spar in the forged wall brackets that flanked the timber frame. She was locked in a house with two virtual strangers, but for the first time in weeks, Deidra felt strangely safe.

  Thorne ordered her to sit at a sturdy trestle table that would easily accommodate eight. Eschewing a seat, he balanced on one foot at a time to pull on his stockings and slip into his boots. Fully dressed once more, he was about to pull out the chair next to hers when Ragan motioned for him to come. Excusing themselves, the brothers withdrew to an adjacent room, locked in quiet conversation.

  Deidra used the time alone to study her surroundings. The main room was a goodly size, well appointed but not ostentatious. The quality of its furnishings spoke to the elevated station of its owner. This was no humble lodge, and these were no ordinary men, whatever their race, of that she was certain. Their looks were too refined. Ragan was every bit as handsome as Thorne, though perhaps an inch shorter, with eyes of a shade darker blue. Their garments, fashioned from cloth of the first quality, had been tailored to fit their massive frames. Their boots were finely turned, cobbled to fit feet that must be size fourteen or fifteen, at least.

  At five feet five inches, she was considered tall for her race, but these men towered above her. She remembered the stories of dark giants that had once frightened, then intrigued her, and knew she could only hide her nature for so long. If they wanted her, they would take her. If they took her, they would know.

  It did not make her decision any easier, but revealing herself sooner rather than later might work to her advantage. Oddly, she could thank Mordred for the training he’d ordered her to undertake these past weeks while his custom mark was being made. The lessons were meant to prepare her for his possession. She never dreamed that she would use them to try to tempt a man, yet she now found herself preparing to seduce two. And not just men. They were another race altogether. Dark lords. Manbeasts. Centaurs who would split her asunder, if they chose to take her in that form.

  The thought made her tremble, but she had to risk it. She’d made her choice when she’d climbed on Thorne’s back and wrapped her arms around his waist, breathing in his heady male scent as he galloped through the forest at breakneck speed, carrying her to safety.

  Casting a glance about the room, Deidra spied a ewer of water on a sideboard. Untying the length of linen from her hair, she unpinned her knot and loosened her locks, finger-combing them into some semblance of order. Thirstier than she’d been in her life, she could not resist stealing a few sips of water before wetting the cloth and scrubbing her face, neck, and hands. She moistened it again, as needed, cleaning her fingernails, one by one, as best she could. Helpless to do more without the proper tools, she turned her attention to her poor legs and was tending the worst of her scratches when the brothers came back.

  Immediately she dropped to her knees, with head bowed and her hands locked behind her, presenting herself as she had been trained, except that she was still dressed. One of them – Thorne, she thought – whistled softly.

  “Well, well,” he murmured. “What have we here? Speak, femina.”

  “Sires, this girl was born Deidra of Ravenhill. Her father Fallyn is – was – lord there, until Mordred, bastard of Owain ap Coel, captured it. He plans to take what no man has had and mark this girl as his
. Please, my lords, this girl would rather die than suffer his touch. No amount of training will change that.”

  Expletives blistered the air as Ragan cursed her father’s murderer. “We have heard of this Mordred. I take it, you were being made ready for him?”

  “Aye, milord. For him, and, he threatened, for his friends. Becoming a comforter requires much preparation. Advanced training allows one girl to satisfy multiple partners,” she added meaningfully. She’d only just begun that phase when she managed to escape, thanks to the floral bouquet she’d been allowed to pick for her room. The natural sedative from one plant had rendered her guard unconscious, long enough for her to access the hidden passage.

  She had never seen such motion in stillness, yet both men remained exactly where they were.

  “He will come,” Thorne grated, clenching his fists, his chest heaving with each hot breath. “He will want her.”

  “Perhaps not,” she whispered. “Mordred wants what no man has had. If that changes…”

  The words remained unspoken, hovering in the air between them, the silence thickening with each passing second. Now or never, she told herself. Inhaling, she drew her thoughts inward, tapped into her core, and focused on her heart center, drawing the energy there first, then feeling the luminescence spread throughout her body, until her skin glowed softly and her fingertips were limned in light. “Please.” Breaking protocol, rejecting the objectification of this girl and reclaiming the birthright of her true self, she boldly met their gazes and pleaded, “Help me, Thorne, Ragan! I beg you!”

  When they did not punish or correct her, she exhaled softly. As the tension drained from her body, she glowed even brighter.

  Thorne hooked a bent finger under her chin and lifted her radiant face, his gaze locking with hers, truly seeing her for the first time, from her amethyst eyes to the thick, shining waves of white-gold hair. With her head tilted back, it pooled in her clasped hands and spilled over to brush her hips.