Gift of the Blood God- Dark Day by Sidney Whyte *Review
Posted by brriske
Gift of the Blood God – Dark Day (Book 2 Faelings Doom series)
Erotic fantasy story with a dash of the paranormal
As suggested by the name this story does contain some content that may not be for the faint of heart. Discretion is advised.
Twenty-two days ago the world changed for Lorrie and Melory Neilson – literally. Snatched from reality, from the safety of all that was familiar, the twins were set adrift in a world of mystery; primitive and dangerous, a world conjured by insanity; a place, a situation they should not believe in. A place called Abod le A’nor.
Pawns of intrigue and mysticism, the women had been separated from each other, for a purpose as yet unknown. Who had drawn them? Who in this world was there to put their faith in?
Could Lorrie trust her captors? The enigmatic and lethally enticing Captain, Tavis Eagle’s son, or the stalwart, handsome Mavishan traitor, Simeon Souls-ease? These men who had taken her against her will and yet had become all that was familiar; taken her on a journey that with this dawn’s light was now drawing to a fateful conclusion. What awaited her in the Faeling Wood? The fabled home of Tishan, and the fearsome ruler of their clans.
The fragile attachment Melory had developed for Kane, son of Dolan, Dreamer of Mavishan was that day sorely to be tested. Reeling from a devastating attack, the people of his village struck out with violence and malice. She had watched him struck down, felt hands imprison her. Would either survive the wrath of Mavishan judgment?
Torn by loyalties, plagued by disbelief, drawn irrevocably to sensuality and desire, how would the twins survive the promise of this ominous and fatefully dark day?
Please note: – this series contains swearing, sexual content and adult themes – suitable for persons over the age of 18 years
“’Tis called the Fae Wood,” Simeon had advised and she had turned her head as the words whispered a warm breath over her sensitive ear, her cheek almost caressing his lips with an intimate shudder for his closeness. God he had lovely lips! Equal to, or if she was honest with herself, even lovelier than those forbidding, perfect lips pressed taut about their tense leader’s mouth. And yet weren’t that man’s the features she caught herself studying more and more often as the days had passed since her rescue from the gorge, not Simeon’s. It was a morbid fascination, blatant curiosity and yes, tinged with fear for she had been unable to understand it. Why did she find herself looking at the man, that rough, hard, prohibitive exterior that shouted a cold and collected demeanour? What did she expect to see; hints of fiery passion churning hot enough to consume her? No! Of course not! Then, why? Why did she find herself doing that very thing so often?
They called him Tavis Eagle-born and while it seemed a strange title to Lorrie, a slightly primitive moniker, it felt eminently appropriate. Oh, dear, Lorrie had shaken herself and abruptly pulled away from Simeon only to turn into the flare of fiery brilliant green eyes that sent a blazing surge of guilt through her as Tavis came to a halt beside them. The man drew her attention like a scab beneath her fringe-line, to be thoughtlessly picked at with no effect than a further itch, prolonging the satisfaction of more pain and affliction…
Tavis growled and smashed his tankard to the table, ale spilling in a wash across its scarred surface. “What is he about that he will take whom he believes are mine from me? Has he not my father’s rule? Has he not command over my very person? And have I not served him these past years in all honour and with dignity, never to gainsay him, nor to depose him but only to offer him success after success. Why do I deserve such despite? He would use me for a fool and take the Gift of Rueble which was shown unto me; to me damn him, and never he. None will lay hand on her, hear you me. Not Thierry Brightstar, the Marshall of Ore and not Garth of the Panther. Let those who seek to subvert the prophecy beware, as I live and breathe, no one shall take her from me!” And as if to emphasise the fervour of his conviction, the tankard flew through the air, smashing resoundingly to the wall and falling with a tumultuous crash to the floor…
…“What has she done?” Tavis’ uncle’s voice was intense as he leaned across the table, gripping his nephew’s hand.
Confusion clouding his expression, Tavis flushed suddenly embarrassed for his outburst. “Beg pardon?”
“What has she done that you would speak so? What sign has she bestowed?”
For a moment heat darkened the man’s gaze, pride, possessiveness; satisfaction. Until he met that of the Mavishan and his mouth turned to a hard line, his nostrils to a flare of fury and he looked his uncle in the eye and spat, “She has done naught, old man; what think you that she could do? She cannot even speak to me!”
In a black clearing, narrowed by the corridors of night, a small fire cast flickers of orange illumination across tired faces. Ten wretched visages, aged with horror and weariness, stared silent, their eyes misted like worshippers in a trance, at the dancing flames. An expectant hush hung in the air, filled with ghosts of thoughts; vague, scattered emotions.
Kane was dragged across the emptiness between imprisonment and judgment, the earth raking his limbs; scraping, bruising his body. He was heaved into their midst, thumping uncontrollably to the hard ground; void of all dignity. Booted feet pushed, trod, kicked him into the light beneath the benediction of his jailor’s disgust and bitterness – Jared Strong-hand and his son Lucan.
His wrists were again bound, this time before him so all could witness any struggle he might endeavour. Slowly he pushed himself upright and glared at those who would accuse him.
“Where is she? Where do you keep her?” He instantly demanded. The temerity of them, these villagers, his people; misguided, self-righteous. They had taken her captive and Kane would not stand for it. Never!
Had he not returned to his home as soon as he knew of their fate, that they had been attacked by a foe that had left them desolate, wounded, and bleeding? But in retribution they had thought to separate him from Melory. He had to see her, touch her, ensure she remained unharmed. They denied him sight, locking him behind solid granite in the food-store for hour upon hour, his Mavishan sight useless; they left him without access, without the ability to protect her…
…And then Melory had nearly drowned.
Still the visions had the audacity to assault her despite being surrounded by the chance of her own death; visions that filled her with dread along with a cold and paralysing truth. She had seen him die! Kane – the one and only thing that kept her here; kept her sane. His image filled her mind, skin pale, grey and spattered with blood. Thick ropes of gore had tangled in his long hair, that beautiful hair that she had run her fingers through so eagerly… now coloured fatal crimson. His brilliant blue eyes stared, vacant; seeing, knowing nothing…
No! No, it wasn’t true! Without Ginny it was all a lie. But grief and fear still dug at her heart, hot waves of despair searing her. Her cry of anguish was silent though she opened her mouth to wail but she couldn’t breathe. She was abandoned, parted from life and love and hope. Assaulted by terror, she ached in heart and head and body. What would she do without him? She cried harder, her tears glistening even as the strength of her emotion choked her. And then she screamed.
Arms snaked from the darkness, solid, strong. They pulled her into a fierce embrace. After missing a beat Melory’s heart hammered so hard she wondered it didn’t explode from her chest, until she heard him… heard his wonderful voice whispering assurances softly in her head. ”You are safe, you are safe, now…”
Sydney Whyte is a ground breaking new talent to arise in New Zealand erotic literature. A vivacious reader and passionate creative writer since early childhood, she began writing paranormal and fantasy stories as early as ten years old. As a shy and reserved child, she immersed herself in writing complex, fantastical worlds full of magic, mystery and intrigue as a means of escapism. When she reached her teenage years, thoughts of love and romance entered her life with an obsession known only to the hormonal and young, her writing took a significantly saucier (although highly naive) turn. Her increasingly shy demeanour and strict upbringing allowed her few opportunities to openly explore her youthful sexuality, writing became an important means for shaping her philosophies on love, men and romance. As she set out on her own into the world she never ceased to write, but her life, prose and perspective changed drastically. Widowed at twenty three, re married by twenty-seven, and a single mother of two before thirty five, her untainted youthful outlook on love, life and sex gave way to the exploration of the interconnectedness between beauty and pain, sensuality and shame, and love and despair, that shapes the unique human experience.