THE FOREST LORD By Susan Krinard

She tore the buttons from his waistcoat and shirt and spread her palms against his chest. He took her supple waist between his hands. Her thighs pressed tight to his hips, and she rocked up to position herself for his entry.

They remained so for minutes, or perhaps hours, their gazes locked. Hartley could see all the way to her generous and very human soul. That magnificent spirit had no room for hatred, even now. Even for him.

He slipped into a shadow world between mortal and Fane, his body neither one nor the other, an ethereal construct filled with very real memories. He remembered Tir-na-nog, and his ageless mother, and the Fane he had known who had abandoned the earth. He remembered Hartsmere: the common people with their unexpected complexity, the horses in the stable and the sheep on the fell, Mrs. Byrne and her uncommonly wise advice.

He remembered Donal in Eden’s arms. Eden in his, as she was now.

He closed his eyes. Her hand traced across his cheek in a gesture almost like farewell, and then she came down upon him. She rode him like an Amazon astride her stallion, wild and wanton. Her hot body gripped his, tightened and released, driving him to ecstasies even Tir-na-nog could not match. And when she shuddered with release, flinging back her head on a silent cry, he was with her. His essence poured into her like molten flame. And into him poured everything she was: all the love she possessed in such abundance—love for her tenants, for Donal…

And for him.

In the small, private park beyond the window, a bird sang to herald the dawn. With the song came renewal and hope. Hartley sat up, pulling Eden against his chest, and buried his face in her hair.

It was over. Eden’s breathing steadied and slowed, and her arms dropped to her sides. She had given of herself freely and asked for nothing in return but that he help her save their son.

But this had been their last moment of peace together. Eden’s selfless love still reverberated through his body, sustaining him, restoring the powers he had lost. Yet in the very midst of his potency, he suffered from a wetness in his eyes and the weight of bitter despair.

For he understood, at last, that love was more important to Eden—to all her kind—than life itself. This—this blinding comprehension—was what Fane sought when they mated with men, or stole them away to the Faerie realm, or took mortal children. It was this dazzling flame that drew immortals to seek the one gift nature had denied them.

He wished with all his inhuman soul that understanding was enough. But it was not. He couldn’t give Eden the one thing she valued most.

That last day at Caldwick, he had made a decision to remain with her on this earth. But love, such as men knew it, had been no part of that choice. The magic of mortal love was more powerful than any Fane enchantment. Neither Fane nor man could live in two worlds at once. To surrender to love was to reject all that was Fane and embrace all that was mortal, irrevocably, for himself and his son. There would be no turning back.

And so he recognized himself for what he was: a coward. Fane were masters of illusion; they believed themselves superior to every mud-crawling human ever born. They pretended amusement at the mortal passions they imitated, yet they feared those very passions. They had fled the earth rather than face the dominance of men or make any truce with humanity. No mortal could enter Tir-na-nog to taint its purity unless he carried the blood of the Fane.

Self-sacrifice was a quality unknown among Hartley’s people, like humility. Like true love. He was no better than the rest.

Eden deserved so much more than the mockery of human emotion he could give her.

He gently lifted Eden from his hips. Their physical parting seemed to tear something inside him. She rolled away and slipped from the bed, her face closed to him as if the last minutes had never happened.

“Can you find Donal now?” she asked.

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