Forsaken by the one person who was supposed to love her unconditionally, Red must brave the magic and monsters of the Wylds to find her true place in the world.
*****
Plague...
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"Arise, my loyal consort."
The words were startling, like a skipping stone shattering the perfect calm of an alpine lake. They sunk into obscurity just as quickly, leaving Rogan to wonder if he'd simply dreamed them. It wouldn't be the first time his feverish mind had conjured the likeness of the only woman he'd ever truly loved.
Indeed, it was becoming increasingly difficult to separate his short bursts of lucidity with the vivid dreams that haunted his sleep. Flashes of blood and fire morphed into the baleful red eyes of his firstborn son. Rogan felt a surge of pride for that calculated wariness, the seamless blend of animal instinct and human reason, only for the feeling to gutter when it swirled into the puppyish fear of his youngest. Hunter was the spitting image of his mother, with that dark hair and bronze skin, and the sight of her whirling grey eyes in the boy's face filled him with icy rage. If Sebastian was fire, then Hunter was smoke; a pale reflection of true violence and vitality.
Not for the first time, he cursed Carin for driving his true heir away, only weeks before Red was scheduled to arrive. The girl's presence would have grounded the feral boy, given him a reason to stay --
"Now," the voice sounded again, harsher this time. "I have need of you yet."
Rogan's eyes flew open to the herringbone ceiling of his personal lodgings. Not a mud-brick hut, like the rest of the village buildings, but a genuine house crafted from ashwood, with three bedrooms, a private bathing chamber, and generous living and kitchen spaces with ventilated fireplaces. He was in the master bedroom, the sheets tucked so tightly around his bandaged chest that he wondered briefly if he'd been strapped down.
Then all thoughts fled as he beheld the woman standing by his bedside, silhouetted by the moonlight streaming in through the open window. She was starlight given substance; not even the finest pearls could compare to her radiant, iridescent skin, which flowed over her hourglass figure with the effortless grace of a stream wending through the Wylds. The loose waves of her hair shone with a silver lustre, falling to her knees and undulating with a sensual life all their own, mist made manifest. In place of a crown, the eight holy phases of the lunar cycle orbited around her head, glowing with a life all their own.
It was her exquisite face that enraptured Rogan most of all, however, for it hadn't changed a day since she'd first appeared to him twenty-three years ago. Her lips had felt like a breath of life against his own, while the taste of cold winter nights had exploded in his mouth. How long had he spent reminiscing over those perfectly symmetrical features? The way she had felt and moved in his arms? Rogan slipped free of the covers only to drop to his knees before her, bowing his head to signify the unconditional offering of his heart, life and eternal soul.
"Everything I am is yours," he rasped, his longing bleeding into his voice. "But where have you been? It's been years since you last answered my prayers. I was beginning to get worried."
