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“You look insanely good today,” he said. I’d never heard him have a deep, almost gravelly tone to his voice before. His hand slid to my waist and he caressed me gently. “And I mean, good enough to make a grown man lose his mind.”
I wasn’t going to use now to point out that he was not a grown man. Not really. Not with me anyway. It didn’t feel like that kind of moment.
“Thank you,” I said to him, honestly meaning it.
The aim might have been to seduce Valen, but I wasn’t going say no to Apollo appreciating me.
He moved forward like he was about to kiss my lips, then tipped his head to kiss my cheek. “I’ll see you later.”
I nodded. “Later.”
He kept an extra tight hold of me when we were together for the rest of the day. Not so much in a possessive way, not like he was keeping meawayfrom other people, or them from me. More like he just wanted to keep me close because he wanted me with him. The distinction might have been small, but it was enough to make me feel a little bubble of happy in my chest.
A bubble of happy that even Valen’s insistent ignoring couldn’t put a dent in.
It did, however, make me more adamant to make a lasting impression the next night.
The main night of the Death Harvest Festival was always celebrated large and loud in Bieityn. It wasn’t as macabre as it sounded. Once upon a time, it had been two festivals: one celebrating the Harvest on November first; and a celebration of dead ancestors in mid-November. Over time, they’d been combined into one big festival that ran for a whole week in Bieityn.
The Saturday night, there was always a big bonfire and party. The music was always too loud for much else than dancing the night away. Until about nine, it was a family affair. But, once the kiddies had been ushered off to bed, that’s when things got…primal. It wasn’t a full-on orgy – people at least left for slightly more private areas to actually consummate their usually fleeting union – but it got pretty suggestive. For a town that had been under the influence of the Church for so long, they were still Pagans at heart.
“I think we need more smoke,” Florence said as she finished my makeup.
She’d outdone even herself. Her red hair was hanging in loose waves and she wore a flower crown in black and silver. It had two big ram-like horns that curled over her ears. She wore a tight, peasant shirt under a well-fitting black corset dress.
She’d made me a similar crown to hers but, instead of ram-like horns, she’d given me antlers. My outfit was a very short red plaid skirt and a cropped black top with a low neckline, long sleeves and a hood. I wore thigh high black socks, showing the slightest skin between them and my skirt, and big, chunky black heels. The festival’s pagan roots had turned somewhat Gothic over the years, and we’d used that to full effect.
We both wore black lipstick and had her perfected smoky eye going on. We’d spent all day painting our bodies with fake tattoos. Florence had found a perfect mix of marker and hairspray to keep them from smudging too much.
The Strawman was burning by the time we got there, and no kids were in sight. Already the dancing had become less disco and more tribal, as couples and groups twirled and spun around the Strawman in time with the music. It was what I could best describe as a trance-slash-techno kind of tribal beat.
Florence and I joined the crowds and completely lost track of time. At some point, God and his Angels found us. We pretended we weren’t really dancing with them, even when Florence stuck her tongue down Marco’s throat, making me and Apollo laugh. But this was the sort of time when they were good to hang out with as we all jumped and danced around the Strawman. At once point, I could almost have said I was dancing with Valen. His hand brushed my waist, and I could have sworn his nose went to my hair.
A little later, as I made my way through the crowd back to Florence, I ran full on into Valen. I didn’t see him until my hands were on his chest and his were on my waist to steady me. For the first time that night, I took him in properly. He wore nothing but dark trousers, big black boots, and a big black jacket that fell to his knees. His cross was stark against his sweat-shined skin, and he wore smudged eyeliner, though not quite as heavy as me or Florence. Like most of the partygoers at that time of the night, his hair was somewhat limp and damp.
The whole atmosphere of the place was doing a number on my libido. My heart beat rhythmically along with the music and I felt amped up on nothing more than adrenalin and ambience. I was horny. I was horny and standing in front of a guy who got my motor running at the most chaste of times. There was no way he didn’t see it on my face as I looked up at him.
Wordlessly, his hand skimmed lightly over the bare skin of my waist.
Our bodies swayed closer to each other.
My hand slid up his shoulder.
He licked his lips as he took me in.
“You might just be the death of me, Harlow Vanguard,” he said, his voice little more than a choked rasp.
“Does the big, bad wolf like that?” I asked softly.
A different kind of darkness came over him. “It’s the only way I want to go.”
“Admit it,” I begged, because itwasmore a beg than a plea. I didn’t just want to prove him wrong, I needed him to be wrong.
“Admit what?” he asked, playing along.
“Admit you want me. Even if you can’t have me.”
“I won’t do that, princess.”
