Moonlight Read online

  The hope that she would somehow give birth to a girl child drained out of him at the news. There would be no reprieve now.

  “How soon?”

  “When next the full moon shines.”

  Two nights hence, Navarre thought. A cold sense of dread speared through him. Two nights, and his life would be over.

  “Ahijah…”

  “Do not ask it of me.”

  “Please.”

  The guard let out a sigh of resignation. “Try, I will.”

  An hour later, Ahijah returned carrying a small bundle wrapped in a fleecy blue blanket. “Time you have for one quick look, that is all.”

  One quick look. Navarre devoured the child in a single glance, marveling at the infant’s tiny fingers and toes, at the thatch of curly black hair, the soft skin that was only slightly wrinkled and red. He felt his heart catch in his throat as the babe opened its eyes and looked at him.

  My son, Navarre thought. Joy mingled with despair as the baby’s tiny fist curled around his finger. Tears welled in his eyes as he imagined his son growing up in a cage, shut away from the rest of the world.

  “My son,” he murmured, “forgive me.”

  Ahijah cleared his throat. “Back I must take him before he is missed.”

  “I understand. Bless you, Ahijah, you for letting me see him.”

  “Remember your promise,” Ahijah said.

  “I remember,” Navarre replied, his gaze intent upon the infant. “A dozen sons and wealth beyond your imagination.”

  “Do you…is there anything you want me to tell his mother?”

  Slowly, Navarre shook his head. It had all been said.

  * * * * *

  The next two days were the longest and the shortest of his life.

  At dusk the second day, he was taken into a large room and stripped of his clothing. Moments later, a eunuch was sent in to bathe him. His body was rubbed with fragrant oils and spices. His hair was brushed until it gleamed like polished ebony.

  Symbols of fertility and long life were painted on his chest, and then the eunuch helped him into a pair of skin tight breeches made of delicate cloth of gold. A long cloak made of finely woven black wool lined with whisper-soft silk was draped across his shoulders.

  And then the priests entered the room. There were three of them, all clad in long gray robes, their faces hidden within the folds of their cowls.

  “You will present these requests to the goddess Shaylyn,” said the first of the priests. “You will beg her for a good harvest, for rain in due season.”

  “You will ask that our women and our beasts will be fertile, that our enemies will be weak, that our men will be strong in battle,” said the second.

  “You will ask that our crops will be fruitful, that his Eminence will live long, that our people will prosper in the land,” added the third.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “The woman Katlaina will be drawn and quartered, her still-beating heart torn from her breast. Your son will be raised by strangers.”

  “How will you know if I’ve delivered your message once I’m dead?”

  “The goddess has always granted our requests. Should she fail to do so, we will know that you displeased her,” the first priest replied.

  “And your mate’s life will be forfeit,” the second priest remarked, his voice as hard and cold as the stone floor at his feet.

  “I will do as you wish,” Navarre said.

  The three priests nodded. “We will pray for your soul, Navarre,” they said, their voices blending as one. “May the goddess Shaylyn accept your sacrifice, that your death will not be in vain, that the people of Kenn may prosper.”

  One of the priests offered him a goblet filled with wine. “May your death be as sweet as the fruit of the vine.”

  Navarre stared at the blood-red liquid for a long moment before he lifted the jewel-encrusted goblet to his lips.

  When he had drained the cup, the priests stepped forward, one by one, and placed their hands upon his head, and then they left the room, and he was alone.

  A short time later, two men clad in black came to escort him to the sacrificial chamber.

  It was in Navarre’s mind to resist, but his body felt strangely heavy. Only then did he realize that the wine had been drugged.

  The Temple of Shaylyn was located in a large building across the river behind Stone Hall Keep. He was hardly aware of the hands that grasped his arms as they led him across a narrow, wooden bridge.

  The night air was warm, fragrant with myriad scents. A million stars twinkled high above. He heard the questing call of an owl, the song of a cricket, the rush of water beneath the bridge. The wood beneath his bare feet was cool and damp.

  The Temple was made of finely hewn black stone. Narrow windows were set high in the walls, the glass black and empty, like sightless eyes. A single torch, set in an iron holder, sent shadows dancing across the building’s façade.

  The thick iron-barred door opened without a sound, and they stepped into darkness.

  “May the goddess bless you,” said the guard on his right.

  “May the people prosper,” said the guard on his left.

  He felt a whisper of air as they closed the door behind him, heard the harsh clang as the heavy iron locking bar was dropped into place, and then he was alone in the darkness.

  It was his nightmare come true.

  He swallowed hard as a hundred candles suddenly burst into flame, and he saw the statue of the goddess, just as he had seen her in his dreams. She was dressed all in white, seated on a white marble throne. Her hair was as black as the night, her skin as smooth and pale as the marble itself. He shuddered with dread when he saw the long black altar located to the left of the throne, and behind the altar, an open casket made of dark oak lined in black silk.

  And then, very slowly, the goddess opened her eyes. She stared at him for a timeless moment, and then she was drifting down the stairs toward him.

  He heard the whisper of her silken robes swishing across the cold stone floor, the frantic beating of his own heart. He wanted to run, to hide, but he couldn’t draw his gaze from her face. She was a being of incomparable beauty, tall and slender, her movements filled with quiet grace as she glided toward him.

  Her voice was like the rustle of dead leaves. “Come to me, my Navarre,” she whispered. “Come, quench my thirst.”

  He wanted to refuse, but he could not speak.

  He wanted to run, but he lacked the power of movement.

  And then she was reaching for him, lifting him in her long, slender arms as though he weighed nothing at all. The touch of her skin was as cold as a tomb. The expression in her fathomless black eyes chilled him to the marrow of his bones.

  “Please…” Navarre forced the word past the terror in his throat. “Please…”

  “Yes,” she said, “you please me very well.”

  She placed him on the altar and removed his cloak.

  He shivered at the touch of her hands on his chest, gasped when her nails dug into the muscle of his left arm. She trailed her fingertips over his shoulders, across his belly, along the inside of his thigh.

  “Yes,” she said again. “You please me very well.”

  He couldn’t move, couldn’t take his gaze from her face, her eyes. She was beautiful, but her touch was as cold as death, and in the depths of her eyes, he saw the endless torment of hell.

  “Have those puny mortals sent me a message?” she asked.

  Navarre nodded.

  “Will you tell it to me?”

  “They ask that you will bless their fields, that their women and cattle will be fertile, that their crops will grow, that their enemies will be defeated.”

  “Always, it is the same.”

  She bent down, her eyes glowing, and he felt her tongue, hot and moist, skim over the wildly beating pulse in his throat.

  “What of you?” she asked. “Is there nothing you desire?”

  Through a fog of fear, he rem
embered his promise to Ahijah. “I ask that you bless Ahijah with sons and wealth.”

  “Nothing for yourself?”

  He was trembling now. “Only that my death might be quick and merciful.”

  “I am not going to kill you, my Navarre.”

  “No?” He felt a faint stirring of hope in his breast, a fluttering as faint as the wings of a fledgling chick.

  “No. I’ve killed all the others, but after a thousand years, I grow weary of death.”

  “You’re going to let me go, then?” That first faint ray of hope brightened within him, as radiant as Katlaina’s smile. He was going to live. He would see Katlaina again.

  The goddess looked down at him, a trace of pity in her eyes. “Yes, Navarre,” she murmured. “I’m going to give you a new life, one you never dreamed of.”

  Relief washed through him, warm and sweet, like honey kissed by the sun.

  “I’m not going to die, Katlaina,” he murmured, and he felt the sting of tears in his eyes.

  “Oh, yes.” The goddess caressed his cheek. “You must die, but for a moment only, my handsome one, and then you will be reborn into life eternal.”

  Only then did he realize how quickly hope could be crushed. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.” Her voice grew deep, husky, ominous. There was a sound, like the rushing of many tiny wings, and the candles went out, leaving them in darkness.

  He was truly afraid now. The darkness seemed to grow thicker, heavier, yet even in that thick blackness, he could see her face, her eyes…the eyes that had haunted his dreams. Red eyes, filled with an insatiable hunger and an unholy lust.

  “No!” He screamed the word even as he willed his body to move, to run before it was too late. But her hand rested heavy on his chest. Just her hand, holding him down as if he had no more strength than a newborn colt, and he could only lay there, the stone beneath him as cold as death.

  She bent over him, her eyes glowing. He gasped when he felt her teeth at his throat. His heartbeat roared like thunder in his ears. Her teeth pierced his flesh, and he felt the warmth of his blood trickle down his neck. He recoiled in horror when her tongue lapped it up, even as her touch stole his breath, his life.

  Helpless to move, Navarre felt the weight of eternity pressing him down, the loneliness of hell, the emptiness of death. And then, gradually, warmth crept back into him, and with it a sense of well-being, of strength, of life.

  He opened his eyes to darkness, and yet he could see clearly.

  The goddess, Shaylyn, sat on the end of the altar. Her cheeks were no longer pale, but the color of ripe peaches; her lips were as red as…blood. She regarded him through eyes that no longer glowed red, but were again a deep, endless black.

  “Welcome,” she said. “Welcome to the world of the undead.”

  Navarre sat up, muscles flexing. “What happened?”

  “I have given you eternal life, my brave Navarre. You need fear death no longer. You will stay as you are now forever. You will not age. You will never be sick. You will have the strength of a hundred men. If you are cut, you will heal.”

  “What nonsense is this?” Navarre demanded.

  “I assure you it is not nonsense.” She stood up and walked the length of the room, then returned to his side.

  “I have lived in this place for a thousand years,” she said, and her voice echoed off the walls. “A thousand years! It is enough.”

  “You want me to believe you are a thousand years old?”

  “No, my Navarre. I am far older than that. In the beginning, I needed to feed every night, but as the centuries went by, the need for nourishment grew less and when I grew weary of traveling, I came here. I spoke to the priests. I told them I would give them peace and plenty if they would provide me with a living male sacrifice every five and twenty years.”

  She glanced around the opulent room. “It has been a most satisfactory arrangement, but now I grow weary of being a goddess. I yearn to see the world again, to return to my homeland. You may come with me, and I will teach you what you must know, or you may stay here, and learn what you have become.”

  He did not understand her words, nor did he like the fear that congealed in his heart.

  “What?” he asked hoarsely. “What have I become?”

  “You are a creature of the night now, my Navarre. One of the undead. You have powers you cannot imagine. You must have blood to live. You will cast no shadow, no reflection. Sunlight is your enemy. Seek her light and she will most assuredly destroy you.”

  “And what of my father? And his father before him?”

  She frowned, perplexed by the question. “They were sacrificed, as you were.”

  “And are they… Did you do to them what you say you’ve done to me?”

  Soft laugher escaped her lips as she shook her head. “No, my Navarre. Never in a thousand years have I spared the life of one meant to be sacrificed.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.” She trailed her hand over his chest and shoulders, her touch sensuous, her fingertips lightly caressing the strong muscles that flexed beneath his dark skin. And then she held out her hand.

  “Come with me,” she purred, her voice low and husky and filled with the promise of rapture. “Together, we will explore the darkness of your new world.”

  Navarre stared at her slim white hand, but made no move to take it. “Katlaina…” He whispered her name as if it would banish the terror from his heart.

  “She will not have you now, my handsome one. Come with me! I will teach you to hunt the night.” She caressed his cheek. “I will show you the world.”

  “No.” He recoiled from her touch, from the predatory gleam in her eyes. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of this.”

  She drew herself up to her full height, her eyes blazing dark fire because he had scorned her.

  “You will believe, come the dawn,” she hissed. “Be happy in your new life, my Navarre. Mayhap we will meet again one day.”

  He stared at her, certain she must be mad, and then, as she dissolved into a mist and disappeared before his eyes, he was certain it was he who was mad.

  He ran to the doors, but there was no latch on the inside. Hands curled into fists, he pounded on the wood.

  “Let me out of here! For the love of God, let me out!” He screamed until his voice was raw, but to no avail.

  He felt the hours of the night passing, and then, to his amazement, he felt the coming of the dawn, felt the promise of its heat burning in his blood.

  With a hoarse cry, he beat his fists upon the doors again. Tears of frustration scalded his cheeks and when he wiped them away, he saw that his tears were tinged red with blood.

  Frightened and confused, he sank to his knees in the middle of the floor. His blood. He could feel it growing hotter in his veins. What was happening to him?

  He glanced up as a faint ray of sunshine struck the eastern windows, cried out as the brightness burned his eyes. And then a reflected ray of sunlight touched his skin. Pain shot up his arm and he scrambled to his feet, searching for a place to hide.

  But the room was empty save for the throne, the altar. And the coffin.

  He stared at it in horror and then, as he felt the heat of the sun scorch his bare back, he sprinted across the floor, jumped into the coffin, and quickly closed the lid.

  And still he felt the sun climbing in the sky, felt its heat drain his strength, felt his limbs grow heavy and unresponsive as the very life seemed to drain from his body.

  His last conscious thought was that she had lied, for surely this was death, and then blackness engulfed him, dragging him down, down, into a stygian sea of oblivion.

  Chapter Seven

  He woke to darkness. Disoriented, he remained still. And then he remembered where he was and panic raced through him. With a cry, he raised his hands, throwing back the lid of the coffin.

  Breathing heavily, he vaulted over the side. It hadn’t been a dream, after all.


  Taking a deep, calming breath, he walked to the door and pounded on it with his fists.

  “Hello? Is anyone out there?”

  Again and again, he pounded on the door, but there was no response.

  He glanced up at the windows, and saw that it was dark out. He had slept through the day.

  And he was hungry, hungry in a way he had never been before. A terrible searing pain lanced through his whole body, as if every nerve were on fire. His stomach clenched. He was hungry, so hungry. He felt as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks instead of hours.

  He prowled the room, his hands roaming over the thick stone, seeking a hidden passage that would lead him out, but there was nothing. Only cold stone walls, and windows that were beyond his reach.

  And the hunger, growing stronger, clawing relentlessly at his belly, until he thought he would go mad from the pain.

  He sat on the throne, his legs drawn up to his chest, shivering convulsively.

  He was going to die, after all, he thought, not at the hands of the goddess, but of pain and starvation.

  Driven by the agony that knifed through his body, he climbed down from the throne, staggered back and forth across the floor like a drunken man. It was then he saw it, an iron handle recessed in one of the stones. Thinking it might be a way out, he took hold of the iron ring, lifting the square of stone from the floor.

  He stared into the hole, too stunned to move, paralyzed by the sight that met his gaze. For there, piled one upon the other like pieces of firewood, were the skeletons of the men who had been sacrificed to the goddess, their decaying bones gleaming whitely in the darkness.

  He swallowed the nausea that rose in his throat as he realized that the scattering of bones lying on the top of the grotesque mound was all that was left of his father.

  Sickened, he turned away, the horror of what he’d seen smothered by the ever-increasing pain that gnawed at his vitals, drugging his senses, making coherent thought all but impossible.

  With the coming of dawn, he went to the door again, pounding on the thick wood with all his might, screaming for help, but to no avail. And at last, the burning rays of the dawn drove him to seek the protective darkness of the coffin once more.