Seasons of Desire

Gaelic Goddess-2

Tom looked at her face and figure, and desired her beyond all measure. He wanted to gather her in his arms and to sooth away her fears. He wanted to protect her and to r****h her, both at the same time.

He took a step towards her, and stopped, as she backed away from him fearfully, crawling backwards on her hands and knees. He raised his hands to show that he meant her no harm, and then paused, taken aback by the sheer strangeness of the situation.

He frowned. “Who the heck are you? And how the hell did you get into my apartment?”

She bent her head down, touching her forehead down to the carpet, not unlike a religious fanatic giving obeisance to an unpleasant god.

“I am yours,” she said, her voice scraped raw with loathing and grief.

“Huh?”

“I. Am. Yours,” she repeated slowly and distinctly. “By the laws of inheritance, I pass into your ownership. Unless you choose to send me away. If that be your choice, I then have no recourse than to go to your cousins, and give myself over to them.”

Tom was half-tempted to open the door and demand that this crazy woman leave. But, “To Scott and Sean?” Tom shook his head. They were the twin sons of his Uncle Matthew, a pig of a man who had died of a stroke six years ago. The sons were no better than the father, and it was only by some miracle they had been sober enough to help carry the casket yesterday. God only knew what they would do to this woman, should she turn up in their house.

“Listen,” he said, shaking his head. “I don't know who you are or where you came from, but I can't talk to you like this. Stand up and I'll find something for you to wear.”

“My master is kind.”

Tom shot her a look as he went into his bedroom. Her voice had been deeply ironic, and her intelligent eyes held the slightest glimpse of amusement behind her fear.

He pulled a Cubs t-shirt and a pair of sleeping shorts out of his bureau, then walked back into his living room, and stopped, jaw flapping uselessly.

The woman was now standing, but she was no longer naked. Instead, she was dressed in pale green lingerie, the color of new leaves in spring. Stockings caressed the flesh of her legs, then gave way to a garter belt and panties which girdled her slim hips. Above, a delicate lace bra held and lifted her high, firm breasts. Her hair was now bound with green ribbons to match her garments, falling in a braid to the small of her back.

“What? How?”

“Does this not please my master?” she asked, eyes cast demurely low. “Perhaps another choice would suit.”

There was a ripple in the air, and she appeared again, this time dressed in the severe black habit of a nun. Then another, and she was a French maid, complete with feather duster. Then still another, and she was dressed as Marilyn Monroe in the famous photograph, hands vainly seeking to control her skirt, dark blue eyes looking at him wickedly over one shoulder.

Tom collapsed onto his sofa. “Please, stop,” he groaned, covering his eyes with his hand. He held out the clothes. “And please, put these on so we can talk.”

“He serves me with his own hands,” she murmured, her voice low. “My master is gracious.”

“Stop calling me that!”

She jumped backward, face fearful, as he snapped at her. He dared to look up, and she was dressed in the clothes he had handed to her. He rubbed his face with his hands.

“I am no one's master. I am a man, and my name is Tom. Please, call me by my name.” He waited until she nodded, her black hair, free again, hiding her face from him.

“Now,” he said, his voice gentle. “Suppose you start by telling me what your name is, and what you are doing here, in my apartment.”

The woman took a deep breath, then raised her face bravely to his and met his eyes.

“My name is Rhiannon. Or Riona. I am the youngest and least-regarded daughter of Brigid, daughter of the Dagda, High King of the Tuatha De Danann.”

Tom Phelan passed out.

*****

When he regained consciousness, he found himself looking at the ceiling of the apartment, his head pillowed by something warm and soft. He turned to the side, and blinked, realizing his head was cradled on Rhiannon's thighs, his face only bare inches from her groin. He scrambled to his feet, blushing fiercely. She remained on the sofa, eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

“You're of the Tuatha? One of the Sidhe? The fair folk? What the heck are you doing in Chicago?” Tom's head spun. Of his grandfather's redeeming qualities, which were not many, his vast knowledge of Irish folklore and mythology was the best. On the few nights when he was in a mellow mood, he would occasionally tell tales from the “old country” as he called it, even though he was a third-generation Irishman and the Phelans hadn't lived in Ireland since before the turn of the twentieth century. Stories of the Tuatha and the Sidhe were prominent among them.

“Your grandfather happened,” she said, her voice low and hating.

“As the youngest child of my mother, I was wild and foolish, and enamored of humans and the devices they wrought for easing their lives. How clever I thought them! So, more often than I should, I left the safety of Tyr-Na-Nog and ventured into the mortal realm.

“It was there that I met him, one night nearly fifty years ago. A storm had come up out of the west, and my beautiful white horse Sneachta was lame and tired. I was wet and weary and afraid.

“He drove up in his car as we walked by the side of the road. He was visiting Ireland at that time, and offered me a place to stay and stabling for Sneachta. But he was laying a trap.”

“I am told he could be a charming bastard, back when he was a younger man,” Tom murmured.

Rhiannon nodded.

“The High King alone knows how he guessed my name and lineage. He was every inch a gentleman that night, but in the morning I made a terrible mistake. As we ate our morning meal, I thanked him for his care.”

She shuddered. “Oh, Tom. The look in his eye when I spoke those words! It was as if a ravening beast had been given form in a human body. He knew too much of us. When I thanked him he smiled, and invoked the ancient ways; that by thanking him I owed him a debt.”

“It is dangerous to thank the Tuatha,” Tom recalled. “And if a human is ever thanked by one, that is a sign of great favor, as it puts the Tuatha at one's call.”

Rhiannon's eyes warmed slightly as Tom followed her story. “And as I was young and stupid and did not think anyone would dare do me harm, I agreed. He asked me to meet him three nights hence, and we would settle the account.”

“And you agreed?” His voice was disbelieving.

“I had no choice,” she said, meeting his eyes miserably. “I was bound by honor.

“Mick Phelan, however,” she said, her mouth twisted bitterly, “was not.”

“I came on the third night. And he had a contract with him. A piece of paper, he said, which would record what was owed. What did I care for scribbles on parchment, I thought. And I took up the pen and signed my name, and my life ended.”

“Oh, God,” Tom moaned. While Mick's main calling had been as a criminal defense attorney, his skill with contracts was legendary. Long, convoluted, and impenetrable, they could be read by a dozen different people in a dozen different ways. He had heard rumors that one of his grandfather's contracts had caused a lawsuit that lasted eleven years and drove two independent arbitrators into retirement.

“What did the contract say?”

“That I was his,” she said simply, as Tom raised his head and looked at her in horror. She met his eyes bleakly. “His until the day he died. And then I would pass to his blood-kin. And so on. Forever.

“And while I was his, I would serve him in any way he chose. Cook his meals. Clean his house. Service him sexually. Oh, yes,” she said as his stomach heaved. “He invoked that clause many, many times. Why else do you think I appeared before you this way? It was how he preferred I greet him when he came home every night.”

“Every night?” Tom whispered.

She nodded. “For forty-eight years.

“I tried to fight it, once he told me what I had done. I invoked my power and appealed to the High King himself. And he followed, gloating. And my own kin ruled against me, invoking the honor of the Tuatha. Saying that I had thanked him and acknowledged a debt owed of my own free will, and that I had been under no duress when I signed the contract.

“The High King told me that a mortal's life was short, when compared to the Tuatha, and since I was so taken with mortals, I might use the time usefully, to learn more about them.

“Fools. They did not look under Phelan's pleasant facade to see the monster who wore his form. So I was forced to come away with him.

“I have been his slave since that day.”

Tom took her hand, no desire in him now, only horror and pity.

“So why are you here?”

Rhiannon raised her brows, arching delicately. “You are your grandfather's heir. Your grandfather had three male children, did he not?”

Tom nodded. “My Uncle Matthew, my father, and my Uncle Mark.”

“Matthew would have been the heir. But he died.” Her lips curled in vicious satisfaction. “Your father would have been next. But he killed himself, poor man.” Her hand squeezed his in sympathy.

“What about Uncle Mark?” Tom asked. “Wouldn't he be next?”

“He was,” she said. “But I have learned a thing or two. Once your grandfather grew ill I set myself to the task of choosing who my next mast…” she caught herself. “Who I needed to hold my contract. It had to be you, Tom. You are the only male Phelan who I had thought might be able to withstand the temptation to make himself a master.

“And you have, wonderful man,” she said, daring to place her hand on his cheek. “So I had to rig the game.

“When I appeared to your uncle, is was not as I appeared to you. I came into his house early this morning, screaming and wild, throwing things at him and breaking everything I could see.

“He had no idea who I was, and demanded that I leave his house.

“That was enough,” she shrugged. “He had refused my service and cast me out. You were the next one in line.”

“But what if I do that? And the twins? Wouldn't you be free?”

“Tom, would you wager the next sixty or seventy years of your life on Scott and Sean doing the right thing?” Her lips curled in mockery.

“I took a gamble with your uncle, because the reward outweighed the risk. He is a cowardly drunk with no offspring. I will not roll dice when it means that I may be forced to spend decades with those two pieces of filth.”

Tom nodded grimly. Three years younger than he, Sean and Scott had already racked up five arrests between them, including one for s****l assault and another for aggravated battery. He would not care to place a bet on how Matthew's poisonous sons would react to the thought of having Rhiannon as their own.