breasts. Unexpected hunger tightened his belly. Stiffened his cock.
Grimly, he returned his gaze to her face. The children of the sea lived in the moment, following their
whims and desires like the pull of the tides. But Conn had ruled for nine hundred years in human form
from the tower of Caer Subai. He had learned—painfully—to control his nature, to weigh and calculate
and decide. He would not be distracted from his purpose.
He slid his knife from the sheath at his knee.
Corn stood around them in patches, skeletons of summer among the stakes and twine. Conn gathered a
sheaf in one arm and, bending, sliced it through in a single stroke close to the ground. He bound the dried
stalks together with twine, tying them to form a waist, a neck, legs. The shock at the top he left loose like
long, stiff hair.
He laid the corn maiden on the ground beside Lucy, measuring its length with his eyes. They were almost
the same size. He dressed the sheaf in the girl’s clothing, forcing the jeans over the stalks of its legs,
bundling its body into the shirt. He was sweating when he finished. Bits of dust and broken chaff clung to
his skin.
Kneeling beside Lucy, he gathered her hair in one hand the way he’d gathered the corn, counting the
strands across his palm, one, two, three . . . seven . Her face was still, her skin cold and pale.
An unexpected twinge caught him beneath the ribs. He used sex as a tool, a weapon. He did not expect
it to turn like a knife in his hand. But his feelings, her feelings, could not be allowed to matter. He did
what he must do.
Fisting his hand around the strands of her hair, he yanked it out by the roots.
Her breath escaped her lips in a silent cry. A drop of blood beaded at her scalp, but his magic compelled
her to continue sleeping.
He set his teeth, touching his finger to the blood and then to the center of the bundled corn, the claidheag
, where the corn maiden’s heart would beat. If such a creature had a heart. His fingertip burned. He felt
the heat flow upward through his arm, power building and pulsing like a headache. He tied the seven
strands of hair over the twine at the top.
“Know,” he commanded. The pressure hammered at his temples.
He blew into the featureless face. “Breathe.”
Page 26
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
He pressed the heel of his palm between Lucy’s legs, still wet with her essence and his seed. The magic
gripped his neck like claws, sinking fangs into his skull, squeezing his brain. He smeared his wet hand
over the dry husks of the claidheag , anointing it with life. “ Be. ”
He felt the surge, the shock of focused power, leap from him to the sheaf on the ground.
Done.
The power ebbed away, leaving him drained, his head throbbing with the aftermath of magic, and the
claidheag stiff and still.
Conn inhaled, holding his breath to fill the sudden emptiness of his chest.
Lucy slept, unknowing.
He lifted her body in his arms and carried her away, leaving his handiwork lying behind them in the field.
The dried stalks rattled together. Know.
The wind whispered. Breathe.
The earth radiated warmth. Be.
The breeze teased the bundle on the ground. The claidheag ’s hair, the pale gold of corn husks or straw,
fluttered, smoothing, softening. Beneath the swaddling clothes, its limbs swelled and grew supple, taking
on substance, taking on flesh.
From the branches of a spruce, a crow launched, squawking in protest or warning.
The corn maiden opened its eyes, the green-yellow of pumpkin vines. Lucy’s eyes, in Lucy’s face.
It lay in the field, watching the clouds chase across the sky, absorbing the last rays of the sun, listening to
the chatter of the wind.
A catbird landed on a nearby stake, cocked a fierce, bright eye, and flew away again. An ant, wandering
the furrows, traced a trail over the claidheag ’s motionless hand. Slowly, thought formed, a pale shoot
from a kernel of
Grimly, he returned his gaze to her face. The children of the sea lived in the moment, following their
whims and desires like the pull of the tides. But Conn had ruled for nine hundred years in human form
from the tower of Caer Subai. He had learned—painfully—to control his nature, to weigh and calculate
and decide. He would not be distracted from his purpose.
He slid his knife from the sheath at his knee.
Corn stood around them in patches, skeletons of summer among the stakes and twine. Conn gathered a
sheaf in one arm and, bending, sliced it through in a single stroke close to the ground. He bound the dried
stalks together with twine, tying them to form a waist, a neck, legs. The shock at the top he left loose like
long, stiff hair.
He laid the corn maiden on the ground beside Lucy, measuring its length with his eyes. They were almost
the same size. He dressed the sheaf in the girl’s clothing, forcing the jeans over the stalks of its legs,
bundling its body into the shirt. He was sweating when he finished. Bits of dust and broken chaff clung to
his skin.
Kneeling beside Lucy, he gathered her hair in one hand the way he’d gathered the corn, counting the
strands across his palm, one, two, three . . . seven . Her face was still, her skin cold and pale.
An unexpected twinge caught him beneath the ribs. He used sex as a tool, a weapon. He did not expect
it to turn like a knife in his hand. But his feelings, her feelings, could not be allowed to matter. He did
what he must do.
Fisting his hand around the strands of her hair, he yanked it out by the roots.
Her breath escaped her lips in a silent cry. A drop of blood beaded at her scalp, but his magic compelled
her to continue sleeping.
He set his teeth, touching his finger to the blood and then to the center of the bundled corn, the claidheag
, where the corn maiden’s heart would beat. If such a creature had a heart. His fingertip burned. He felt
the heat flow upward through his arm, power building and pulsing like a headache. He tied the seven
strands of hair over the twine at the top.
“Know,” he commanded. The pressure hammered at his temples.
He blew into the featureless face. “Breathe.”
Page 26
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
He pressed the heel of his palm between Lucy’s legs, still wet with her essence and his seed. The magic
gripped his neck like claws, sinking fangs into his skull, squeezing his brain. He smeared his wet hand
over the dry husks of the claidheag , anointing it with life. “ Be. ”
He felt the surge, the shock of focused power, leap from him to the sheaf on the ground.
Done.
The power ebbed away, leaving him drained, his head throbbing with the aftermath of magic, and the
claidheag stiff and still.
Conn inhaled, holding his breath to fill the sudden emptiness of his chest.
Lucy slept, unknowing.
He lifted her body in his arms and carried her away, leaving his handiwork lying behind them in the field.
The dried stalks rattled together. Know.
The wind whispered. Breathe.
The earth radiated warmth. Be.
The breeze teased the bundle on the ground. The claidheag ’s hair, the pale gold of corn husks or straw,
fluttered, smoothing, softening. Beneath the swaddling clothes, its limbs swelled and grew supple, taking
on substance, taking on flesh.
From the branches of a spruce, a crow launched, squawking in protest or warning.
The corn maiden opened its eyes, the green-yellow of pumpkin vines. Lucy’s eyes, in Lucy’s face.
It lay in the field, watching the clouds chase across the sky, absorbing the last rays of the sun, listening to
the chatter of the wind.
A catbird landed on a nearby stake, cocked a fierce, bright eye, and flew away again. An ant, wandering
the furrows, traced a trail over the claidheag ’s motionless hand. Slowly, thought formed, a pale shoot
from a kernel of
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