The Angel Stone

We fell asleep in front of the cottage’s fire. At some point, when I felt William’s body relax, I stretched out beside him and brushed the damp hair from his brow. Fresh washed with tears, gilded by the light of the smoldering embers, he looked like a boy, not a monster. I felt like Psyche gazing at her lover by lamplight, astonished to find a beautiful youth instead of the beast she had feared. But as beautiful as he was and as much as this man looked like Bill, he wasn’t Bill. And now that I’d saved him from a cursed existence as an incubus, he would never become Liam or Bill. I should have been glad that I’d spared him years more of servitude to the Fairy Queen, but all I felt was a pang for the man William would never become. I let slumber overtake me, my own tears falling on his breast like the oil from Psyche’s lamp, all the while feeling the beat of his heart under my cheek.

From the warmth of the fire, I drifted into the dream-heat of the sun filtering through the trees of the Greenwood, the crackle of the dying fire becoming the snap of branches as I frantically ran through the dense underbrush, the beat of William’s heart becoming the pounding of horses’ hooves in pursuit.

The hunt was on my heels. I heard the baying of the hounds, their jaws snapping, hungry for my blood. If they got to me, first they would rip me limb from limb. But they weren’t the only creatures hungry for me. The horses’ riders wanted to devour me, too. I fled in terror. Heedless of branches slapping my face and thorns tearing at my flesh, I left a trail of blood behind me. I could smell it—and smell the excitement of the hounds as they picked up the scent. Any second they would be upon me, their sharp teeth sinking into my flesh …

A white horse crashed through the brush in front of me, splitting the dark-green leaves like a beam of moonlight slicing through the night. The rider, cloaked in black, leaned down and scooped me up in his arms. He swung me onto the back of the horse with a supernatural ease that should have alarmed me but only made me glad to be above the snapping dogs, sheltered behind the rider’s broad back. As we rode through the woods, I held on to him without knowing what I held on to. Only when we came to the glade with the stone ruins of a door did I begin to remember. He helped me down from the horse, murmuring reassuring words. We were safe, he told me; the hunt couldn’t find us. His lips were warm on my skin, his hands gentle as he laid me down on the soft green moss. The sun was behind him, his hair falling in loose waves that hid his face. I reached up and pushed his hair away … and found myself looking into the hungry eyes of a savage beast.

I startled awake in the cottage, in William’s arms. I felt the jerk of him waking, too, saw his eyes widen in the dim glow of the coals from the dying fire.

“You!” he gasped. “You were with me in the Greenwood. I became a monster!”

I lifted a shaking hand to his lips to quiet him. “It was just a dream. You’re not a monster.”

I felt his breath on my hand as his lips parted and he kissed my fingertips. “Only because you saved me.” He lowered his lips to mine. They were soft, not the hard, snapping jaws of a monster. I opened my lips and tasted him. He tasted like honeysuckle and heather. When I closed my eyes, I saw the Greenwood ringed around us, keeping us safe from the hunt. His arms gathered me up, strong as the serpent’s hold, not crushing me but encircling me with his warmth. I wrapped my arms around him, pressing myself against his smooth, hard chest. No lion’s fur, but a lion’s heart beating hard and steady as I wrapped my legs around his waist. I wanted to be the serpent encircling him, the lion ravishing him, the fire branding him. I wanted to burn away everything that had happened to him in Faerie these last seven years. I heard him gasp as my legs locked around his back. He dragged my shift over my head and his nightshirt over his so we could press bare skin against bare skin, our hearts pounding as fast as hoofbeats. I felt him hard against me. He slid his hands under my hips and gathered me up as he’d scooped me up onto the horse in my—our—dream. Were we dreaming now? I wondered as he hovered above me. The moment seemed to stretch as I opened up for him—as if we both had left time and gravity behind, outside the circle of the Greenwood, where the dogs bayed for our blood and winged monsters beat at the trees above our heads and we were always together on the brink of him entering me …

And then we came together, meeting in midair like dragonflies mating, and I felt the strong hot length of him entering me, and I knew it wasn’t a dream. This was real—us rocking together on the hard stone floor beside a dying fire, kindling our own heat from flesh and blood. Even if the cry he made as he came inside me didn’t sound quite human, that was okay. Neither did mine.

When I awoke in the morning, I was alone. I sat up, pushing aside a wool blanket. A fresh log burned on the fire. Something bubbled in a cast-iron pot hanging from a hook in the fireplace. I sniffed and recognized the comforting aroma of oatmeal.

The back door opened and William entered, wearing the long nightshirt I’d found for him last night and a blanket tied around his waist like a kilt. I was suddenly aware that I was naked beneath the blankets—and remembered why. Memories of last night came rushing back—the soreness between my legs told me that part hadn’t been a dream. Probably the second time we’d done it hadn’t been a dream, either.

I pulled the blanket up over my breasts, feeling completely abashed. In some ways I’d known this man forever, but in other, more practical ways, I’d met him for the first time only last night. Worst of all, I felt disloyal to Bill.

“Ah, you’re awake!” William said, coming to sit on the stone ledge in front of the hearth. He kept his back to me as he stirred the oatmeal in the pot. Maybe he was also feeling a little shy after our impromptu lovemaking in the middle of the night. Or maybe he’d forgotten …

He turned to me and smiled. “I thought ye might be hungry after … weel, the exertions of last night.” He blushed—or perhaps it was the glow of the fire on his face. He rubbed his chin. “And I found I needed a shave. I’m afraid I’m a wee bit out of practice. My hair never grew in Faerie. What do ye think?” He slid down beside me, taking my hand and holding it up to his smooth shaven cheek. “Do I feel like a beast to you this morning?”

“You’re not a beast,” I told him.

He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it. “I was afraid ye would think I was after how I behaved last night. I promised myself I wouldn’t take advantage of you, and then I ravished you like a wild animal.”

I started to laugh, but, realizing that he was serious, I cleared my throat and pretended it was a cough instead. “As I recall, I did some of the ravishing.”

He grinned. “Aye, I thought so! But then I told myself this morning I must have conjured up that part. I didn’t wish to presume … weel, I feel as if I have known you a long time, but perhaps you do not feel the same for me.”

“I feel as if I’ve known you for a long time, too,” I said. “But … well, I suppose it will take some time before we figure out what we know and what we don’t know about each other, and I’m not sure how long we’ll have.”

His face darkened. “And where will you be off to then?”

“Back home,” I said. “My friends are in danger. I have to find the angel stone and return to save them.”

“Back through Faerie?”

“Yes …” I began.

“But did ye not hear the Fairy Queen’s curse?” he demanded. “She cursed us both. She said if ye ever set foot in Faerie again, she’d pluck out your eyes and heart and replace them with eyes and heart of wood.”

I smiled at the arcane language of the curse, but I felt a chill remembering the Fairy Queen’s blazing green eyes. “When it comes time, I’ll deal with Fiona,” I said with more conviction than I felt. “But first I must find the angel stone.”

“And do you know where to find this stone?”

I admitted I didn’t.

“Weel, then,” he said, his mood restored. “You’d best eat your parritch to keep your strength up. Who knows how long it will take to find one wee stone amongst all the stones in Scotland? But I know where we’ll start. We’ll go and ask my auntie.”

Besides a prodigious collection of vintage underwear and nighties, Mordag possessed no other clothes, so I had to put on my costume from last night. William found an old, much patched and baggy pair of trousers—that he referred to as breeks—which he wore with his nightshirt tucked in and a pair of misshapen clogs he’d found by the back door. No doubt we looked a strange sight as we headed down the road,