Page 63 of Queen of the Shadow

“There is nothing demeaning about training with the Queen of Shadow. She is exemplary in all ways,” said Cuchulainn.

Her cold blue eyes narrowed. “Really? And why is that, Ulster’s hero? Could it be...” She paused and tapped her prettily rounded chin as if in thought. Then she smiled and continued, her sweet voice taking on a sharp edge. “I know! It’s because of anaccident of birth. My sister’s talents and yours, Hero of Ulster, are but a mistake of parentage. Both of you were born of divine blood. You didn’t work and push, strive and struggle for your abilities. You weregiftedthem.” She laughed. The sound held no lightness—no joy. “And in your case, you’re not even fully human when you use those gifts. You become an uncontrollable monster, do you not?”

Again, Cuchulainn didn’t answer. He continued to blink rapidly in an attempt to clear his vision. It did not clear. He saw three Aifes, and all three appeared almost ghostly. He could see through them; they flickered and wavered like candle flame.

As if he’d agreed with Aife, she nodded. “Yes, I heard about your berserker. He’s unstoppable. I warned my warriors, which is why you are here and they are not on their way to the Underworld after being torn apart by yourgiftfrom Lugh.”

“What do you want?” Cuchulainn asked. His head felt odd. It no longer hurt, but it was like he was being pulled down, submerged within a stifling reality that shifted strangely, drowning him in confusion.

“What do I want? So many things, but at the forefront is my desire to be Queen of Lethra and have my children rule after me for generations.”

Cuchulainn squinted, hoping that would help his queer vision. He shook his head, trying to clear it. His thoughts were a strange tide, ebbing and flowing. Aife kept changing. First there were three of her, then one, and then three again. Her voice echoed in his mind as he struggled to make sense of what was happening to him.

Aife undressed as she continued to speak. “Which means I also want the death of Scáthach. She is the boulder that blocks the path to my crown.”

“Scáthach does not want your crown.” He thought he spoke normally, but his words were no more than a rough whisper.

She stepped out of her embroidered overdress and kicked it aside. Behind her the firelight silhouetted her body, turning the chemise see-through. She tossed back her hair and walked slowly toward the bed. Her voice was sweet and beguiling even though her words were neither.

“Whether she wants my crown or not, she stands in the way. Like the power her divine blood gifts her, my sister didn’t need to work for the Lethra crown. No, it wasgivento her, as everything in her life has beengivento her.” She stopped at the foot of the bed pallet. “That is not how my life has been. You see, son of Lugh, when power isn’t an accident of birth, you must learn how to create your own power and make your own destiny.”

She traced her hands down her body, cupping her breasts through the sheer chemise and then following the curving path of her hips to caress her thighs and then up to the V between them as she continued.

“For instance, I could not come even close to besting you in a physical contest, yet here you are, utterly at my mercy. How did that happen?” She laughed, a seductive sound filled with desire, and her hands traveled up to caress her breasts again. “Not through inherited power, but through years of study.” The wooden mug from which she’d forced him to drink sat on a table near the bed, and she picked it up and sniffed it. Her delicate nose wrinkled, and she placed it back on the table. “Yes, it took years of trial and error and concentrated effort for me to get here.”

Cuchulainn couldn’t force his gaze from her. His sight was blurred, and it seemed he could see her words in the air between them. They were the color of old blood, the same color that haloed her body.

“I don’t understand.” He barely got the words past the dryness in his throat.

“That’s a shame. I’ll give you a hint. Did you know I’m a great breeder of horses? Under my guiding hand, Lethra has become famous for the speed and stamina of the herd I have created.”

He wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. Horses? A breeding program? What had that to do with him? Before he could form words, Aife continued.

“This is really no different from what I did for Lethra’s horses. I require divinity in my bloodline, and you will provide it. Can you imagine the child that would be created by being born of a mixture of both? Divine bloodandthe will to create his own power, to fashion his own destiny?” She untied the laces on the front of her chemise and let the diaphanous material slide down her body. “That child would grow up to be arealhero and a ruler who would sire hero after hero. He would uplift my name and hold Lethra’s crown uncontested. Never will he have to flee his home. Never will he have to endure being passed over for someone who has not set foot in Lethra for decades, who should have no claim to the throne and who would not except for an accident of birth.”

Instead of becoming clearer, Cuchulainn’s vision was increasingly changed. Aife’s words hung around him like smoke. Her naked body kept shifting as the firelight licked against her skin while she talked and talked and talked. Her soft words swirled around him, beguiling as much as they confused. The more she spoke, the more bewildered he became. He hadn’t even seen her move, but she was suddenly standing beside the bed, so close she reached out easily and traced with one finger the rope that cut into his wrists.

“You really shouldn’t struggle.” The end of her finger came away wet and scarlet. She held it up, studying it. “It would be a shame to waste even a drop of this precious, divine blood.” Holding his glassy gaze, Aife’s pink tongue flicked out to lick the scarlet tip of her finger and as she stared at Cuchulainn she drew the finger into her mouth, sucking it.

Cuchulainn’s body responded to her, even though he did not ask it to. Did not want it to. But it was as if he’d left his body and become an observer. He could not control the throbbing hardness between his legs any more than he could control his blurred vision or his muddled mind.

Aife’s gaze slid down his naked body. She licked the last of the blood from her lips and smiled hungrily. “Yes, that is better. You’re becoming ready for me.”

Cuchulainn shook his head again. His mind wouldn’t clear. His vision had turned Aife into a sprite—an ethereal, beguiling creature who shifted and changed and beckoned. “What do you want of me?”

“Oh, Cuchulainn, isn’t it obvious?” Aife bent and traced her finger from his chest slowly down his body. When she reached the hardness between his legs, she grasped him, stroking languidly as she spoke. “I want your seed, son of Lugh of the Long Arm, so that my child—my son—will enjoy the fruits of your divine blood, as well as my guidance. I will show him how to create his own power. And I have a gift for you in return.” She released him and walked languidly to the hearthfire. The flames cast shadows that caressed her body. She turned her back to him so that she faced the fire and spoke again in the same alluring voice.

“The gift I give is the one you desire the most. I am she. She is me. I am she. She is me. I am she. She is me.”

Cuchulainn’s mind couldn’t keep up. He was confused. He was inflamed. And then she turned to face him, and suddenly everything changed. Aife was gone. In her place stood Scáthach, naked, silhouetted by firelight.

“I am she.” Scáthach’s voice held Cuchulainn mesmerized. “She is me.” She walked toward him, slowly, seductively. “I am she. She is me.” Her voice was a caress. She reached the bed.

His breath came in great gulps as he strained against his bonds, trying to reach for her, trying to touch her. “Scáthach!” He called her name.

Her smile flashed. “Yes, Cuchulainn, I am she and she is me.” She bent and kissed him, and he moaned against her lips.

She knelt on the bed, exploring the hard planes and ridges of his body until his body was slick with sweat, his wrists and ankles bled freely, and his muscles trembled from pulling against the unmovable bonds. “I am she. She is me.” She purred the words as she straddled him and, with a triumphant shout, impaled herself on his hardness.