The Alphas settled and the feasting began. As the warriors carved up the game, I found myself looking for a certain two Berserkers. But Jarl and Fenrir weren’t among the warriors.
By the time the moon rose, we’d eaten our fill of the meat and sprawled out, half on the blanket, half on the grass. The younger ones dozed. I’d taken off my cloak to make a pillow for Aspen, Ivy, and Clover.
Down by the fire, the Alphas still ate and drank. A few Berserkers rolled up huge casks of mead. When the first opened, the honey liquid spilled to the ground and the warriors sent up a cheer.
That’s when I saw him, standing among his Berserker pack. Fenrir stood near the casks, sipping from a cup. A minute later Jarl joined him.
I knew I shouldn’t stare, but I couldn’t help it. They bent toward one another, then Fenrir’s head snapped up as if he suddenly sensed something. Before I could look away, he turned and looked straight at me.
I squirmed in my seat. Jarl looked up at me, too. His usual smirk spread across his face and he raised his horn of mead in a mock toast to me.
I looked away. I didn’t know why I’d sought them out in the first place. They didn’t matter to me. I needed to remember that.
Night had fallen. The bonfire had grown bigger, fed by whole trees. A single Berserker could fell a tree in seconds and carry it on their own. It seemed to be a competition among them, second only to competing to see who could drink a whole cask of mead.
I sighed and hugged my knees to my chest. Soon our warrior guard would come and escort us back to our beds. But for now, we would sit and watch the wild revelry. It was a welcome change from the stuffy lodge.
Then the drums began. First, a subtle throbbing, echoing over the hill. I did not know whence it came. The sound grew into a low pulse that seemed to shake the very ground from deep inside. The heartbeat of the earth.
A group of people wearing cloaks were coming up the hill toward our gathering. They pushed back their hoods as they entered the circle of the bonfire’s light. Most were women, but not any I recognized. Some were old and bent, others had smooth, ageless faces. One tall woman carried a huge snowy owl on her outstretched arm.
They were witches, I realized. The Alphas rose as one to greet them.
The rhythm of the drums intensified.
The newcomers settled into their own circle, some ways from the Alphas. The Berserkers were gathering in a larger circle around the witches and the whole bonfire. The firelight danced and licked over blonde heads and gleaming torcs, over axe heads and shields. The warrior’s dark tattoos seemed to come alive, the symbols writhing over the warriors’ skin.
A ripple went through the gathered warriors. Sabine walked from the Alphas’ seat toward the witches, accompanied by her two mates. When she reached the witches’ circle, she let her cloak fall away. She’d been painted with woad, her face and bare arms covered in blue symbols. She wore a white shift and nothing else. Her feet were bare.
The drums beat faster. The witch with the owl greeted Sabine, and raised her voice to the assembly. I couldn’t hear anything over the boom of the drums. Or maybe I didn’t want to hear.
I licked my lips. Behind me, the younger girls had fallen asleep, lulled by the pagan rhythms. Rosalind was standing now, her face a pale mask bathed in moonlight. Beside me, Fern curled tighter into a ball, rocking slightly.
In the circle of witches, Sabine began to dance. She twisted and turned, her bare feet striking the earth, her body dipping and flowing like a willow’s branches. At times, she raised her face and arms to the moon and the drums would pause, only to continue faster.
The rhythms built and built, and as one, the Berserkers raised their weapons to the sky. The witches sent up a chant and the Berserkers echoed it. They beat their axes and swords against their shields, adding to the rhythm of the drums.
A warrior entered the circle with Sabine. Ragnvald, one of the Alphas and one of her mates. He moved to her side. In a flash, he reached out and caught her, and drew her close with a fist in her bright hair. She stilled, rising on tiptoe to face him, her hands hanging by her sides, palms out turned.
The warrior Ragnvald held Sabine fast. His face moved over hers, hovering as he scented along her hairline. Even from my distance, I could see her eyes close. She quivered in his grip.
Slowly Ragnvald dipped his head and claimed her mouth. All the Berserker warriors broke into a war cry, shaking their weapons.
I jerked at the clamor and looked around. Hazel sat watching the ritual beside a giant golden-haired warrior. A few feet away, higher on the hill, Willow sat between two warriors, one dark, one redhead. As I watched, the redhead cupped her face and kissed her.
I gasped, a flush moving over me. A second went by, and another, but the kiss between Willow and her mate did not end. Beyond them, Laurel lay between her mates. Their large hands stroked back her hair and along the curve of her bosom.
I rose to my feet, a wave of heat pulsing over me. Hazel was now in her warrior’s lap, her small dress-clad frame dwarfed by his. Her warrior giant played with the torc around her neck, tugging it to draw her closer and lying back so she could straddle him.
I whirled to face the woods, my face burning. It was suddenly too hot. My nails scraped my chest as if I could peel out of my skin. My heartbeat boomed loud as the drums.
“Juliet?” It was Fern, concern in her voice. I shook my head at her and tried to speak, but the drums filled my ears.
The drums were driving me mad. I was nowhere near the bonfire, but my skin burned like I was in the middle of its molten mouth. Sweat dripped into my eyes and my eyes blurred.
I had to escape. There must be somewhere, anywhere I could hide.
I turned and raced toward the woods. The ground seemed to roll under my feet as I reached the treeline. I wore new boots; boots I’d found by the lodge three nights ago. They were welcome then, but now seemed too heavy on my feet.
I stumbled.
“Juliet.” Fenrir stepped out from behind a tree and caught me as I fell. I was in his arms, surrounded by his scent. His long hair swept over me. I pushed at the fine tangle until our faces were clear.
And then his mouth was on mine. His dark beard scratched my face. His hands cupped my jaw, turning my head this way and that as his tongue plundered. My arms went around his broad shoulders, gripping handfuls of his silky hair. Our bodies melded to each other. My aching breasts brushed his smooth chest.
His mouth broke from mine. We were both gasping. He propped me against a tree trunk. My hair caught on the rough bark.
Then Jarl was before me, shouldering Fenrir out of the way. He gripped my hair, hard. I gasped. He tugged my head back and sealed my lips with a brutal kiss. His mouth blazed a path down my neck. His teeth tested and gently bit my collarbone. He drew me away from the tree and Fenrir closed in again. Using my hair as a leash, Jarl turned my face to Fenrir’s for another soft kiss. Then back to his for a claiming one. Back and forth while the moon rose and the drumbeat throbbed between my legs. In a moment, they would drag me down and we’d tangle together on the ground. It would be so easy.
I wrenched away. Jarl growled, but Fenrir stopped him from jerking me back. I stumbled a few paces and both warriors let me.
“No,” I said, too soft for any man to hear. “I cannot.”
“Juliet,” Fenrir called.
I faced them with chin raised. “I have given my life to God.”
“A nun. We know.”