Page 21 of The Apples Hung Like Stars
“Not as in what do you fear; what do you dislike the most? What hurts you?”
My eyebrows go up, but I see what she’s getting at. The first trial had been about her losing control, and me facing my own fears. The second had been her encountering great magic andprevailing, and me giving up all control over the situation, and coping with it.
The third would have to comprise of some physical feat.
“Iron.” The Morrígan’s voice is low and hisses come from the surrounding banshee. “You fae hate iron the most.”
There’s truth in her words, for what good that will do us, for there’s iron in this club. No self-respecting fae would walk through the doors if there were.
“I’ve got some in my truck,” offers Ciara.
Everyone looks at her, horrified. “Why would you have iron in your truck?” I demand.
“You mean, aside from the fact that most cars are made from iron in some form or another? Red made me keep a chain of iron links in the back.”
All fae gazes turn to the Dark Goddess accusatorily. She shrugs. “just because I get on with some of you, doesn’t mean that I trust my Ciara with you. You’ve all got a pretty twisted sense of humour at times.”
She stares each fae down and we all drop our eyes, even me. I might have banshee-red eyes that glow when I’m angry, but she’s a triple goddess,theDark Goddess. There’s no challenging her.
“I’ll go get it from the truck,” she says, and then pauses and looks back at Janet. “Get yourself up on that cross; we’ll lash you to it with iron chains. There isn’t much else that the universe can throw at the two of you that would top that.”
Chapter Seventeen
Janet
There isn’t much time for me to truly comprehend what’s about to happen. For the second time this evening, I’m to be bound to a cross on a stage in a sex club.
And for the second time tonight, Clíodhna is going to untie me, and make me hers.
She’s gone pale though, paler even than where I heard her keen.
I step towards her. “Are you okay?”
She nods slowly. “I… I don’t think you know what this is going to be like. As a trial is a rough one, not just for me, but for you as well. If we’re going to pass it, if we’re going to persuade the universe that we get to be together, then we’re both going to suffer.”
That’s alarming. “I’m going to suffer?”
“Iron is… not great for fae. It burns. Literally. It won’t physically hurt you, but it’ll likely be an unpleasant experience. And if you can’t take it, that’s okay, Ciara and the Morrígan can untie you.”
I didn’t expect that. I didn’t realise how much it would physically hurt her. “I don’t want to hurt you—I don’t want toharmyou. Is it worth it? Isthisworth it?”
For all that we’ve gotten caught up in this weird trial thing, we haven’t even known each other for a full day. She’s going to test the limits of her body for what? A quick fuck?
It’s as if she’s the one who can hear voices because she gathers my face in her hands and kisses me sweetly. “Don’t think like that. You are worth it. You are worthallof it. You are sweet and stubborn and delicious when you submit, and I’m not above saying that I want you so very desperately.”
“But you’ve had me.” I’m scared, I realise. Scared that when this is all over, she’ll decided that she doesn’t want me anymore. “And at some point, the novelty of a mortal lover will wear off.”
“It’s not the novelty I crave,” she says, and then she speaks my words right back to me. “It’s you. I want you.”
We stand there, anchored to each other in the middle of a sex club, people running around, talking shouting, calling, and it’s as if the place is deserted and there’s no one there but us. We kiss, casting everything else aside, losing ourselves in the touch of each other, the feel of each other.
Clíodhna’s lips are cool against mine, insistent, and this is unlike any of the kisses that have come before it. This is a kiss brimming with hope, potential.
Someone clears their throat behind us, and the Morrígan stands there, a mass of iron in her arms. Clíodhna hisses and steps backwards, and I can see her hair rising in that red mass.
The club is now nearly as deserted as I’d imagined it. Just the Morrígan, Ciara, Clíodhna and I. Aoibheall comes striding back into the room, calling over her shoulder some instruction to the receptionist, and stops dead.
“Move it to the stage. Please,” she says, and her tanned skin has paled until it’s almost the same colour as her white-blonde hair. The Morrígan takes a step forward, but Ciara shakes her head and takes the iron chains from her.
