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“Thought I might share some supplies,” Ere said, offering the jars to the strangers.
“Our thanks,” the older man spoke, taking one of the jars.
His fingers lingered as their hands brushed, his eyes never leaving Ere, gaze roving shamelessly over Ere’s face and form.
Well, he could look, but heaven help him if he tried a more demanding touch, Ere thought. Sorin would break his wrist like a dry twig if he did more than graze. As it was, Ere could feel his Mate’s penetrating glare burn his hand where he and the stranger brushed each other.
Just to be safe, Ere stayed a few feet away from the two men. He was here to make friends and gather intel, after all (after indulging in a bout of horniness), not to start fights.
“You and your…” the young man started, then hesitated with a blush.
“Mate,” Ere supplied with an unabashed, toothy grin.
“Er, right,” the boy murmured. “You both are new to our village, are you not? I would have remembered your faces.”
He blushed again at the involuntary compliment.
“Indeed,” Ere said smoothly, saving him from further discomfiture. “We have just arrived from the western shores.”
The older man frowned.
“There are only mountains to the west.”
“I meant, the southern shores,” Ere threw out with a question at the end of his statement, grasping at straws.
“You mean from the Malian Gulf?” the boy asked.
“Right. That,” Ere quickly agreed. “Which brings me to these magnificent plains of…”
“Thessaly,” the young man supplied.
“Quite.” Ere nodded his head, as if that was exactly what he meant to say.
“You’ve chosen a poor time to visit,” the older man said.
“How so?”
“In three days, the Rite of Hippodameia will take place.”
Ere looked from one man to the other.
“And this is a bad thing?”
The young man blinked big brown eyes at him.
“You must truly be from far flung realms if you have not heard of the Rite.”
“Oh,veryfar indeed,” Ere murmured.
“Every four years, on the night of the Metageition, the August full moon, the centaurs descend from the Pelion Mountains to collect on our sacrifice.”
Ere’s ears practically tingled.
“What sort of sacrifice?”
“Two dozen of our most beauteous women. Virgins, of course. The centaurs demand nothing less.”
“And these equine beasts do what with your virginal maids?”
