Feillor: God of Lammas (Sons of Herne, #6) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Feillor: God of Lammas (Sons of Herne, #6)

  FEILLOR: GOD OF LAMMAS | SONS OF HERNE 6 | J. ROSE ALLISTER

  FEILLOR: GOD OF LAMMAS SONS OF HERNE 6 J. ROSE ALLISTER

  *The End*

  Read on for a look at the next tale... Anduron: God of Mabon: | ABOUT ANDURON: GOD OF MABON:

  Titles in the Sons of Herne Series:

  FEILLOR: GOD OF LAMMAS

  SONS OF HERNE 6

  J. ROSE ALLISTER

  Trapped in the last place he wanted to be...he would find the only thing he ever wanted.

  The sixth in a series of erotic romance fantasy novellas...

  Feillor, god of Lammas, is preparing to bring in the first harvest for his sabbat ritual, a task that has grown more deplorable now that humans no longer demonstrate respect for the old ways. He raises his scythe and nearly “harvests” a beautiful woman who appears out of nowhere. Sensing the Fates’ meddling hand in her sudden arrival, he demands that they return Salina to earth. The Fates agree on one condition: he must go with her and stay in the mortal realm for three days.

  Salina has no intention of letting a local developer destroy the precious woods where she conducts her most sacred pagan rituals. Her prayer for guidance is interrupted when she is taken to the immortal world—almost straight into the blade of a horned god’s scythe. She thought her prayers to Herne were being answered, but she learns that Feillor is actually Herne’s son, and that he has little interest in the matters of humans. When he is zapped to Earth with her for three days, she decides to convince him that her cause is worth fighting for—and that not all humans deserve his scorn.

  Feillor discovers much in his time with Salina, whose fiery beauty and passion for her cause—as well as for challenging his ideals—stirs something in him that he hadn’t felt for far too long. Admitting the truth about his view on humans could open his heart to the witch who is quickly enchanting him. But between the danger she finds herself in and the Fates returning him to his realm at the exact wrong moment, his epiphany alone won’t be enough to see her in his arms at last. He will have to use his power to act in the best interests of the race he had given up on.

  About the Sons of Herne series:

  The god Herne has appointed eight of his most virile, headstrong sons as keepers of the pagan holidays. To honor their sabbat, each must join with a mortal female in a ritual to maintain the balance between worlds.

  The Fates have secretly conspired to grant the gods one thing they lack—a true union of male and female that will last well beyond the fleeting passion of a sabbat joining.

  Herne’s sons will wrestle with the conflict between sacred duty and their own yearnings, a struggle that will not only challenge their beliefs, but may threaten the success of rituals that must be observed lest the realms of mortal and immortal collide in chaos.

  Genre: Erotic Romance/Fantasy

  Length: Around 34,876 words

  Copyright © 2016 by J. Rose Allister

  First Ebook Publication: July 2016

  Cover design by J. Rose Allister

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2016 by J. Rose Allister

  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.

  ABOUT THE E-BOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED: You do not have the right to distribute or resell this book without the prior written permission of the author. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred.

  FEILLOR: GOD OF LAMMAS

  SONS OF HERNE 6

  J. ROSE ALLISTER

  “The danger is real and upon you,” Shango said, scratching at his arms while he trailed Feillor through the field. “The last thing you should be worrying about is cutting wheat.”

  “Wheat is precisely what I should be worrying about,” Feillor replied, swinging the scythe for a test run. The sharp arc of the blade whooshed through the warm summer air, slicing neatly through a segment of tall, golden stalks that was separate from the rest. “I am a harvest god, after all. And you are distracting me from a sacred task.”

  Although no longer at its apex, the waning sun poured potent energy over the fields of Avinar, driving sweat from Feillor’s pores. Beads of perspiration ran in rivulets down his chest while his broad muscles flexed with the effort of harvest. The warmth and labor pleased him, as it did whenever he worked the fields. He paused for a moment to look out over the bountiful crop. Wide heads of grain bowed to the god, waving in a gentle breeze. There was a bumper crop this year, and he had much work ahead.

  “With all due respect, Lord Feillor, it is my sworn duty to serve Lammas,” Shango said. “And that includes seeing to the best interest of the sabbat keeper. I only wish to aid you.”

  Feillor gazed down at the acolyte and rested the handle of the scythe on his shoulder. Shango stood a head shorter than Feillor even before bowing in a posture of respect. “Yes, you are assigned to aid me, not trail after my every step. You are like an old nanny wringing her hands in fear that her charge will run in front of a carriage.” He eyed the young man, who was clawing his arm with brisk fury. “Should you even be out here, Shango? Are you not allergic to the fields?”

  Welts were rising, and the acolyte scratched at the red streaks. “A by-product of my human mother’s genetics, I’m afraid. This should tell you how determined I am. You must be wary of becoming the next victim in the Fates’ ploy to undermine the sabbat gods.”

  “Your dedication is noted. But your place is at the Counsel of Sabbats, not in the fields. No doubt Counselor Munsola is shouting your name in the halls, wanting to burden you with some task he will later claim he should have done himself.”

  Shango stood his ground. “What of my dream that you would leave the realm because of your sabbat maiden? What do you make of that?”

  “Yes, your dreams. Quite troublesome.” Feillor regarded him with his most serious expression. “I make of it that you should not indulge in Andurian wine so close to bedtime.”

  “But, my lord...”

  Feillor held up a hand. “Enough. I have no plans to leave the realm or my calling. And for someone who is so insistent that I fulfill my duty as a sabbat god, I should think you would not continue interrupting me from doing so.”

  Shango opened his mouth, but a small shake from the god’s head stopped him.

  “You obey me at last,” Feillor said. “I have heard your concerns. Little else from you, actually, ever since Jorandil sacrificed his wings for his Beltane lover. But fear not, for I do not have wings like my angel brother.” He reached up and grasped one of the protrusions from his head. “I have horns.”

  “I always thought of them as more of antlers, what with the branches.”

  “But they do not shed as my father’s once did. And I would rather cut them from my skull than run away with some human. Now, off with you before you have scratched the remaining skin from your limbs. If it will make you feel any better, I will blindfold myself and wear a veil pendant for the sabbat ritual. That way, the maiden and I shall not even see each other.”

  “Jorandil was hidden from his maiden’s sight.”

  “Jorandil was obsessed with the notion of bedding an earth female who would share his passion. I have no such inclination. Humans have not only abandoned the old ways, but they no longer have any care for the balance of nature.” There was an edge to his words that was as sharply honed as hi
s scythe. “Their lack of regard alone would be enough for me to steer clear, were it not necessary to join with a mortal to complete the ritual of first harvest.”

  Shango bowed. “As you say, my lord and my god.”

  Feillor caught the brief flicker in the man’s dark eyes. “I mean no disrespect to you, of course, when I speak of humans. Or to your mother.”

  Shango nodded. “Of course.”

  As he shuffled off through the fields, a surge of guilt beat down on Feillor like the afternoon sun. He should have held his tongue on the matter of humans, but Shango had a knack for flitting around his head like a buzzing insect who could not be easily batted away. Still, the acolyte was dedicated to the service of the sabbats, and he did not deserve Feillor’s scathing view of the human race.

  Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly helped ease the tension from the exchange, but not as much as he would have liked. Much as Shango feared otherwise, the fate of Feillor’s brothers had not escaped him. It was something he had discussed at length with the closest of his kin, his twin brother, Anduron. The two harvest gods had no wish to be consumed by the Fates’ latest trickery. A particularly potent wave of passion had been unleashed at Yule, sweeping every sabbat keeper since off his feet with love. It was said that the Fates had orchestrated the entire thing. Anduron had pointed out that of all eight brothers overseeing the pagan rites, he and Feillor had the greatest reason for concern. As part of their duties, each was required to engage the Fates directly. In Feillor’s case, when he presented the first grain for their blessing, he would be right in their sights.

  Feillor had only been half kidding when he’d told his aide that he would blindfold himself for the sabbat. Indeed, he would poke his own eyes out if that’s what it took to avoid the fate of his brothers. But then, the very idea of joining himself to a human outside of ritual necessity was ludicrous. His head was not so easily turned. Immersing himself in Shango’s paranoia would serve no purpose—especially when he had other matters to attend. For all its startling side effects, the year of the Thousand Seasons had brought forth a most bountiful harvest. With the proper observance and thanks, the abundance might last through several seasons to come. His observance began here and now, with the gathering of the first grain. The ritual had been disrupted by his acolyte, but he would simply begin again.

  He lifted the scythe from his shoulder and pointed it straight upward. While not in and of itself the sacred sabbat artifact, he considered the scythe a holy implement, that which would cut the first sheaves of harvest.

  “Sha-do ram, yo shai a lara Lammas,” he chanted up to the sky. “The god of Lammas comes with his scythe to reap the first of the year’s bounty. I give thanks for the golden grain and claim its boons for the nourishment of all.”

  A breeze stirred in reply, along with a shimmer in the air that appeared like a mirage, rippling in glimmers that skimmed the laden grain tops. It was an odd phenomenon, but one which he took as a good omen. He hoisted the scythe, preparing to take it in a wide arc to slice the stalks. The ripple widened, and as he glanced down to hone in on his target, a flash of light hit. He pulled back just in time to narrowly miss the large object that had appeared in the blade’s path.

  Feillor took a staggering step backward, thrown off balance by his last-minute change of course. It was a woman, down on her knees naked with her hands outstretched—but only for a moment. She saw him swinging the blade her way and gasped, ducking briefly before throwing herself prostrate on the ground. How had this woman popped into the middle of his field right out of thin air? Her body was perfection, every exquisite curve meant for holding, squeezing, and fucking.

  But she was human.

  His eyes narrowed as he took another step back and stared down at the intruder.

  ***

  Salina had only milliseconds in which to act to save her own life, throwing herself flat at the feet of the very deity she had just been begging for help. She saw the flare of anger, the steely determination in the greenish-gold eyes of the horned god as he swung the scythe to cut her down. She’d obviously done something wrong, but she couldn’t imagine what could have sparked such animosity. She’d burned the incense, made the usual offerings, purified and then humbled herself by stripping her clothes off before beginning the ritual. Her request had been for something worthy of a forest god’s attention. How had she pissed him off so badly?

  Something had stayed his hand at the last moment, however, because she’d seen his eyes widen and his arm pull back right as she prostrated herself. Now, face down in itchy reeds with the blade no longer on route to her neck, she was able to register the fact that she was not in the same place. The god had not come to her. He had brought her to wherever he was.

  A god. After all these years, a deity had actually shown himself in all his enraged, but admittedly erotic, fury. Her heart pounded.

  “Forgive me, oh great Herne,” she said, wondering how best to address a pagan god in the flesh. “I’m sorry for however I have offended you. My prayers were meant only for the good of the forest.”

  He didn’t reply, but she refused to let herself look at him again. She stayed in a posture of total submission.

  “I’m a servant of the old ways,” she went on, unable to stop herself from filling the silence. “If presuming to call upon you was wrong, forgive me.”

  “Either silence your tongue or rise up so I may hear it properly,” he said. “Your words are muffled within the stalks of sacred wheat you are crushing.”

  She shoved herself up on her knees, her long hair thankfully falling over the breasts she belatedly realized were exposed. She folded her hands over the thatch of hair between her legs and sat back on her heels.

  “I didn’t mean to damage your wheat. I...I don’t even know where I am.”

  “You are in the sacred fields of Avinar. Where no pure mortal has ever tread.” His voice was rich and deep, every bit as commanding and smoldering as she would have expected from a god.

  “How did I get here?”

  “How indeed.”

  She risked a glance upward to find him staring down at her with the scythe hoisted casually over his shoulder. Blessed be, he was so...male. Every sun-bronzed, enticing inch was sculpted like the statues of gods immortalized in classic Greco-Roman fashion. He wasn’t much more clothed than she was, wearing some kind of suede cloth around his hips and ankle boots to match. Cuffs of hammered gold clung to his forearms. All his muscles were on display, each one a taut, bulging testament to his gender. He was the sort of male that sparked inside women the need to surrender to his touch, a desire to bear his very children.

  His dark, reddish-brown hair was pulled back, save for a few wayward strands that blew across his carved features. His eyes penetrated her with an intensity that stopped the breath in her lungs, very masculine, but far from human. As was the rack of horns on his head that had given away his identity the moment she saw him.

  “Didn’t you bring me here because you heard my prayer?” she asked.

  A touch of derision fired his gaze. “I did not.” He paused. “Whom do you believe you were praying to?”

  “To you. You’re Herne the hunter, god of the forest.”

  He arched his already raised brow. “You are mistaken, but only by generation. I am Feillor, god of the harvest. Herne is my father.”

  “Your father?” She blinked. “Then I really have no idea what I’m doing here.”

  “I think I do. And I am not amused by it,” he added, raising his head and calling out overhead. “Not in the least.”

  She glanced upward, seeing nothing but an impossibly colored gold and blue sky. “Who are you talking to?” she whispered. If there was something bigger and more intimidating out there than he was, she wasn’t sure she wanted it to answer him.

  He sighed and lowered the blade so it touched the ground. “The ones who will have to send you back.”

  “Can’t you do that? You said you’re a god.”

&nbs
p; His eyes narrowed. “Sending someone through the veil between worlds is not within my power. At least, not a human who has just weathered a crossing.” He lifted his chin. “Rise, she who prays to the old ones.”

  With a shiver, she got to her feet, feeling his scrutiny slide over every molecule. If only her hair had been a few inches longer, she could completely cover the key parts he lingered on. His stare felt like a palpable force, a possession of her flesh. The nipples her pale waves were barely concealing stiffened.

  “Do you always pray while naked?” he asked, and there was a faint whiff of humor in the tone. “Or did your clothing somehow stay on the other side?”

  She spread her hands a bit to better cover her pussy curls. “I often go skyclad for rituals. And my friends call me Salina, by the way. It rolls off the tongue easier than ‘she who prays naked.’”

  He blinked. “Rituals?”

  She nodded. “Especially ones that are this important.”

  The next tour of `her body was done with a different sort of regard. Then he said, “Not as important as the one you just interrupted.”

  He started to turn away.

  “That’s debatable,” she said, biting her tongue when he whipped back around with a hard glare.

  “If you feel it appropriate to debate with the gods, it is little wonder they do not answer.” He sighed. “Now, stand back and do not speak anymore. I shall attempt yet again to fulfill my task, preferably before winter arrives.”

  He raised the scythe toward the heavens. “Sha-do ram, yo shai a lara Lammas,” he called out. Goosebumps broke out over her skin, a hallmark of magical power in the air. “The god of Lammas reaps the first of the harvest. I give thanks for the bounty in this year of the Thousand Seasons, and I lay claim to its abundance for both this realm and the next.”

  The blade sliced through the air, cutting through the thick grain. Every stroke sent out shock waves of supernatural energy, warming the already sunbaked field. She stood there with her mouth open, letting the breeze caress her skin and blow back her hair while she watched a god perform a harvest ritual. As a pagan, she was overwhelmed by the honor of being the first human to set foot on such a sacred space. Not only that, but the god himself was mesmerizing, both with the skilled, confident swings of the scythe, and the way Feillor’s powerful muscles flexed and gleamed in the rays of afternoon sun.