The Dracove (The Prophecy series) by N.L. Gervasio Page A

needed her. A little fun without biting her? Would it be possible? He had strength enough to do so.
    She was, after all, merely a sacrifice.
    A wide grin spread across his lips. He stared at the silver ring tumbling between his fingers. He’d taken it from her when he kissed her goodnight--a small token to remember her by. He always took something, although it was usually after he fed.
    Unlike other prey, he’d have to go out in the sun with this one. He didn’t care for the sun’s warmth. If everything went well at dinner, he shouldn’t have to see it again, other than his short trip to pick her up around dusk.
    But dusk he enjoyed because it was different. ‘Twas when the creatures of the night rose from their daylong slumber, and when the shadows had free reign of the night. He smiled, recalling a time when the Merlin taught him of these things. During his time with the Druids, he learned nothing compared to what she’d taught him. But it was ages ago when he’d met her, when he was a young man of twenty-three, although it felt like yesterday—
    * * * * *
     
    334 B.C.E., Ireland
    He treaded softly through the forest, listening to the leaves rustle in the breeze and the sound of the babbling brook not far off. They spoke if one knew how to listen.
    What was left of the sun’s golden rays slipped through the tree branches. Dandelion seeds and autumn leaves floated through them, lingering there, trapped in time. The world was magical to him, but then nature was magical. He crept around the large oak tree, touching it gently, carefully stepping over its roots to not disturb any gods still in the forest.
    He searched for the Mistletoe, a sacred plant meaning a great deal to him and the others. Difficult to find, but whence found, rejoicing was apt to occur. Once he knew where it was, he’d tell the others. They would hold a ritual ceremony, cutting the Mistletoe down with golden shears and catching it in a white cloth where it would be used later to make healing potions. He looked up into the giant oak tree and searched its branches carefully.
    “What is it you’re searchin’ for?”
    He turned around to find a beautiful woman standing nearby. Her hair was as golden as the sun’s rays, and her eyes as bright as the brightest blue sky. He was speechless, his voice taken by her beauty.
    “I ask ye, what is it ye search for?” Her melodious voice flowed from between ruby lips. She tilted her head to the side. With the motion, her hair fell, covering a small portion of her delicate face, and she pushed it back with her finger, awaiting an answer.
    “I, uh—” For the first time in his life, he couldn’t find words. He swallowed his heart.
    “D’ye know what you’re searchin’ for?”
    All he could do was nod. When he realized his mouth was agape, he shut it. I must look like a fool .
    “Not quite,” she said. “Ye look rather charmin’.”
    “How did ye—?”
    “Know what you were thinkin’?”
    “Aye.”
    “‘Tis a simple thing, really.” She waved a delicate hand, dismissing the complexity of what she’d done.
    “Then why do ye ask me what I’m searchin’ for if ye can search my mind for the answer?”
    She smiled. “That’d take away the pleasure.”
    “O’ what?”
    “Speakin’ with ye. Hearin’ your voice.”
    He smiled and wondered who the beautiful creature was who wished to speak with him. He’d not seen her before and wondered where she came from.
    “I am Cianán Lor—”
    “Lorcan MacLeer, I know,” she said. “I’ve been searchin’ for ye.”
    “For me? Why?”
    She smiled again, and it was radiance unmatched by any sunrise. “‘Tis difficult to explain. Best to show ye. Should you care for some wine? I’ve some just over that knoll” —she pointed toward the small hill— “an’ perhaps you’re hungry, as well. You’ve been treading through the forest for some time.”
    “How do ye know these things o’ me?”
    “In time, Cianán. Please, join me.”