Chapter 7

Rowan

THE NIGHT SMELLS OF FLOWERS and woodsmoke, and the firelight dancing across the hilltop is almost hypnotizing. But nothing could put me in a trance like the May Queen. Like Aurora Silvermoon.

She stands at the other end of the bonfire, long green hair strewn with flowers, a pure white dress hugging her small frame. Her maidens have drifted into the crowd, and now it’s just the two of us.

The maiden and her hunter.

The queen and her god.

And when I meet her eyes, I can feel the power of her gaze crashing over me like waves over a sandy shore. When first I laid eyes on her in the mercantile those many weeks ago, I felt a draw that I’ve had little strength to resist. Each time we cross paths in the village, each time she glances my way, my desire for her grows.

And looking at her now, I can almost convince myself that she wants me too.

Her eyes reflect the fire, and as she starts to move, one foot crossing the other, her stare goes unbroken. With the drums beating a slow rhythm that reaches right into my soul, I match Aurora step for step.

She steps back, I step forward. She steps to her right, I step to my left.

The fire flashes in her eyes, and her pink lips quirk up in one corner—taunting, teasing. With a snapping of her skirt, she turns to flee, and my body reacts immediately, surging after her.

The hunt has begun.

I chase my queen about the fire. The contrast of darkness and light makes me dizzy, and the scent of smoke and the beat of the drums puts a spell on me.

With each turn about the fire, with the cheering and encouragement of the crowd, something inside me shifts.

My focus becomes wholly commanded by the May Queen. With each flash of her pale skirt against the darkening night, my excitement grows. Each time I draw near to her, so near I can almost reach out and touch her, she pulls just out of my grasp, escaping me for yet another dizzying ring around the fire. Her scent—like lavender and strawberry wine—dares me to draw closer, even as she continues to evade me.

Then, finally, she casts a look back at me, one of desire, of yearning, inviting me to pursue her, to catch her and make her my own.

And then she flees from the fire, toward the dark line of trees against the backdrop of the hill. Her long hair ripples like water about her shoulders, a shadowed veil falling across the pale fabric of her dress.

The revelers part around her, cheering as she runs. Likewise, they raise their voices as I chase after her, trailing her away from the light and warmth of the bonfire and into the stillness of the forest.

As the Horned God, the forest is my domain, the hunt my purpose. When they were painting my body and weaving leaves into my hair, I was laughing, smiling, perhaps even finding some small joke in the entire ritual.

Until I saw her .

And now that I’m here, darting around trees in pursuit of my fleeing maiden, something different comes over me, as if the man in me has become lost to the hunter.

I will catch the May Queen, and I will make her my bride.