Primal Moon by Brooksley Borne Page A

brother.
    As far as filthy Scottish men
went, the laird’s brother was remotely mannered and not at all
bad to look at. In fact, Aziza thought he was quite stunning and it
made her curious as to how much he might look like the laird. The
brother had been just a boy when the laird left to fight in the Holy
Wars. But the boy was a giant now. A beautiful giant whose passing
glance stirred Aziza in the pit of her stomach and drew her up
between her legs from deep inside. Though Egyptians kept as little
body hair as possible, he, like the rest of Scots, was practically
carpeted. Aziza envied the bride or whatever she was. Not only
because her dress was that beautiful but in her day-to-day life, the
bride seemed to be the center of attention of an exquisite man.
Simply witnessing this line of moonlit forest trekkers conjured a
strange yearning in Aziza. She wished it were her turn for whatever
it was they were doing.
    The procession had all the feel
of a human sacrifice. If this scene had been taking place in her
land, that is exactly what it would be. Though their faces were
shrouded, Aziza suspected the identities of the men by their posture
and their gait, with the exception of a slightly larger man,
overseeing it all. Perhaps it was because she didn’t know who
he was and therefore she was curious that Aziza felt drawn to him
most of all. She could almost hear the connection between them snap
into place as she laid eyes on him. He turned his hooded profile
over his shoulder in her direction. Aziza recoiled, shrinking in the
cover of the shrubs.
    Just after the last of them
crossed her vista, unearthly moans and wails and shushes echoed up,
filling the sky. Wicked, animalistic sounds somewhere between the
mournful tones of livestock at slaughter and the grunting noises that
regularly drifted from her hosts' bed. She writhed on the ground in
a heady spell, fighting not to succumb to whatever it was that sought
her wits. She had to touch herself. Play with wetness between her
legs which sprang from a delicious ache, and stroke her firm full
breasts wantonly. Aziza needed something. She needed someone.
    She needed a man.
    She sat upright without regard
to being seen. She pressed her back against a tree, her body
suffering with such great need as strange and wonderful spasms washed
over her. She wept and gasped until they ebbed from her. It was a
visitation of a sweet sultry spirit that Aziza wished to summon
again. She smiled with gratitude. She dropped to her chest and
spied. Her livened, sensitive breasts and belly squirmed on the
damp, musty earth.
    All but the strange man/overseer
were in pairs, inspirited. They were mauling, joining each other,
stealing glances as the laird’s brother who, crying up to the
moon, appeared to ready himself to mate with his bride. She was
prepared, tethered to a marble alter. The laird’s brother took
pause to gaze upon her.
    Disturbed and enchanted, Aziza
had been relieved it was a marriage ceremony after all, uniting the
lovers in the fruitful phase of the great moon. She knew these clans
people, though mostly Christian, still marked their world by the
phases of the sky in their ancient custom. Not unlike her own
culture but in a much baser way. In a rare moment, she felt a sort
of communion with them.
    The priestess put her hands on
the overseer who by this point Aziza had chosen for herself. He
requited the priestess with a hot kiss that seared Aziza with
jealously. She savored his masterful control over affection, the way
his body inclined over the voluptuous priestess, the way his muscles
rippled, the way he rendered the priestess so defenseless against
him.
    “I wish he was kissing
me,” she found herself thinking out loud. She cast her words
to the ceremony. “I wish he were my husband.” As she
crept just a little closer for a better look, the laird’s
brother reared back, cried up to the moon, flared great white fangs.
    Algul! Aziza bit her
knuckle in horror. In Egypt, Algul