Page 47 of Mountain of Mirrors and Starlight
“We seem to have turned morbid,” Caer announced. “I’d rather not go to bed on such a note.”
“Nor I,” Aislinn admitted. She turned her gaze upwards to the crystalline spray of stars, fine and bright as glittering dust. The moon hung like a pearl in a pot of ink.
“It’s a full moon,” Caer remarked. “I do believe you promised to tell me something on such an occasion.”
“Ah, yes, about the dancing and… blood bathing.”
“You lingered on blood bathing.”
“Did I?”
They shared a smirk.
“The blood bathing has been largely exaggerated,” Aislinn revealed. “The naked dancing under moonlight? Less so. It’s a common practice amongst some of the fae. It can enhance some of our magical energy.”
“Some? Not… you?”
Aislinn pursed her lips. “I may have… dabbled.”
“May?”
Aislinn went silent.
Caer smirked. “You’re a wicked tease.”
“‘I’m a wicked tease,’” Aislinn repeated. “Oh, my, apparently I am.”
She looked back at the moon, again at the fire, and cast her eyes over their sleeping companions. No one was watching.
She climbed to her feet, and unbuckled her belt and boots.
“Umm… what are you doing?”
“Taking off my clothes,” she said. “Relax, I won’t get fully naked.”
She shucked off everything but her undergarments and the thin, filmy slip she kept beneath her shirt. Cool night air licked at her limbs, the soft, dewy ground sponging beneath her feet.
You are a faerie,the wind seemed to whisper,nature given flesh.
Aislinn started to dance. No matter that there was no music, that no one was dancing with her—the planet played for her, accompanied her every movement. Earth beat like drums beneath her footfalls, the wind piped through the trees. The blades of grass bent like strings.
She was as supple as a willow, as malleable as clay, and the moonlight was a fire, a cold ignition, deep, deep in her centre.
She twirled, and found Caer standing in front of her, stripped to his waist.
She stilled.
She was used to well-formed, flawless, smooth fae bodies. She was used to seeing groups of them wearing nothing at all. She was not used tothis—toned, brown marble, softly rippling pectorals, a light dusting of fine, velvety hair across his carved abdomen.
Did he forge himself?She wondered dimly. He looked like something that ought to come from a forge; beautiful and dangerous, flecked with scars.
It occurred to her she’d been staring at him for far, far too long. “The blacksmithing has been good for you,” she admitted, her tongue thick as honey.
Caer smirked. That stupid, soft, wicked, rippling smirk. “The fighting has been good for you.”
Aislinn could think of nothing to say to that, and hated that a blush rushed to her face instead of words.
Caer’s gaze drifted towards the moon. “How does it work?” he said. “Can you feel it?”
