Page 97 of Feast of Sparks (Thornchapel 2)
I toss my hair out of my eyes and puff out a breath. “I don’t know, Auden.”
He gives me a look, and I cross my arms defensively over my chest. “I really don’t. In fact, if I had an answer, I probably wouldn’t need to do it.”
He sighs, but then he smiles a little. “That’s very wise, actually.”
I didn’t say it to be wise, I said it to be honest, but the feeling of being complimented by Auden is too good to risk by correcting him.
“Maybe that’s how I feel too,” he says. “I don’t have answers about Thornchapel or horned gods or anything else. But I guess I feel like I have a chance of finding them if I play the part of believer.”
Sir James jumps in the basin and splashes around for a moment before jumping back out again. “No—” Auden begins in a stern warning, but the dog doesn’t listen. Instead he plants his paws and shakes his entire body, sending spray everywhere.
“Ugh,” Auden says, wiping his face. Sir James sits back down and pants happily at us, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.
“This is a very abstract conversation to be having before we spend the night fucking in the woods,” I say.
He laughs. “I know. But I think I really just wanted to know, before we began, how real you think it all is.”
“The Great Rite?”
“All of it. The feasting and the sex and the hunt before it.”
I have the sudden image of Auden in the forest, standing over me with a bared, sweaty chest and sides heaving from the chase. A thick erection waiting for me and antlers coming from his head. His hazel eyes wild like the wood itself, all green and brown and feral pleasure.
If I were caught by the stag king . . . if he stood over me like a god accepting his sacrifice . . . would I really be capable of not believing then?
I pull my lip piercing into my mouth once and then let it go. “If I think it’s real enough to put on antlers and let you chase me through the woods, then does it matter about all the rest?”
“Fine, fine,” Auden laughs, and turns toward the stairs. “Play your cards close to the chest. I suppose I’ll see how much you believe when I’ve caught you.”
“What are you going to do when you catch me?” I ask. It’s the one thing we haven’t discussed, and I assumed we’d just walk back to the ruins to join the others, but now seeing the hunger in Auden’s expression, I’m beginning to doubt it’ll be that simple or easy.
“Why, whatever I want,” Auden replies and then disappears down the steps.
When we get to the chapel ruins, everything is prepared and ready. Rebecca has gathered together branches of nine different kinds of wood—birch, rowan, ash, alder, willow, hawthorn, oak, holly, hazel—and wrapped them in different colored ribbons. They decorate the hollow tower of logs that will become the heart of the bonfire tonight.
There are buckets of water and a fire extinguisher, which Auden brought up earlier, and deeper into the ruins, our platform is piled high with fresh blankets and pillows. Two cool boxes and a basket attest to Abby’s contribution, and I know no one will go hungry or thirsty tonight. Sir James included. There’s already a dish of dog food and a big bowl of water set out for him.
Someone—Becket maybe—has brought a hand drum.
Someone else—Delphine almost certainly—has brought some bottles of good champagne and wedged them in a bucket of ice. A bottle of Auden’s favorite Scotch sits next to them.
With the essential matters seen to, it’s impossible not to notice how deeply and profoundly the ruins have changed since Imbolc. Not only the altar at the end, which is now half-exposed, and the spot behind it, which is covered in conspicuously new grass, but the affectionate kiss of spring has made everything green and shady and staggeringly idyllic. Bluebells carpet the forest floor and push up everywhere inside the ruins, and the roses covering the crumbled chapel walls have begun blooming, white and pink pushing out among the deep green of the leaves.
The silence of the chapel in winter has been broken. Birds chirp and the breeze rustles at the flowers and grass and branches. Distantly, in the gaps between breezes, one can hear the burble of the river and snatches of May Day music from the village. And maybe I can hear . . . snoring?
Confused, I look around the chapel again, and then I realize that the pile of fresh blankets is actually a pile of fresh blankets plus Proserpina, who’s tucked into a nest of pillows and fast asleep. Seeing his best friend, Sir James runs over to the platform and settles himself into a giant puppy crescent next to an oblivious Poe. With a happy sigh, he closes his eyes and falls asleep too, as if he didn’t spend the morning asleep under Poe’s favorite chair in the library.
“I’ll wake her up before we start,” Rebecca says, joining us by the platform. She’s wearing a loose white dress and has h
er braids down and her feet bare. She looks more relaxed than I can ever remember seeing her. “But it’ll be a late night. I thought it best to let her sleep.”
“Was she okay earlier?” Auden asks in a low voice. “When she got here? The last time we did this . . .”
Rebecca gives a nod that is very Domme-to-Dom. “She cried a little, but she said she thinks tonight will be good. Making good memories and all that.”
“If we need to stop or she needs to leave, I’ll see to it,” Auden says. “But while I’m on the hunt, will you . . . ?”
“Yes,” Rebecca says. “We will, Auden. We all love her too, you know. We’ll get her home if it’s too much.”
