bc

The Sacrifice

book_age0+
detail_authorizedAUTHORIZED
192
FOLLOW
1K
READ
bxb
gay
like
intro-logo
Blurb

"For years now the harvest has been less than it should be. Last year the people of Oisin's village sacrificed a goat, but their god did not come. Now, in desperation, a human sacrifice has been suggested, and Oisin, recently orphaned and feeling life is not worth living, volunteers.

But the god Belinos is not quite what he seems, and Oisin's sacrifice will not be what he expects, for Belinos first came out of the darkness to drink the sacrificial blood not because he was a god, but because he was a vampire.

This is just the beginning of the changes to Oisin's life, as he is drawn further and further into a world of gods and magic, where the most unexpected thing is not even his own blossoming talent, but the blossoming feelings he has for Belinos.

Love between mortal and immortal is not without its difficulties, though. As outright war among the gods threatens, Oisin will end up making a far greater difference in the conflict than he could ever have dreamed possible."

chap-preview
Free preview
Chapter 1
Chapter 1 The stone altar was cold enough to numb Oisin’s skin. His hands were numb too, where the ropes around his wrists were a little too tight. They weren’t necessary, really. He lay still, without the will to move even if he could have, and his soul seemed to be as numb as his body. Firas bent over him, the old man’s seamed face lit by the flickering light of the great bonfire. Oisin didn’t meet his eyes, he merely stared blankly past him to the dark, clouded sky above. The sharp scent of burning herbs filled the air. There had been chanting and the sound of drums only moments ago, but that was all over. Now there remained only the sacrifice itself. Oisin heard Firas calling out to the god, his hands raised to the sky. Firelight gleamed on the knife. Firas was not a shaman or a druid, the little village didn’t have one anymore. But Firas remembered the words. He had told the village children a thousand times about way they’d put a goat on the altar at Beltane in his youth, catching its blood in a copper bowl, and how the god would come out of the night to drink it and bless the crops. “Like a man,” he’d said, “but taller than any man. Stronger than any man. Stranger than any man.” Standing beside Firas, his wife Ailba held the bowl ready. That too was distant, like the memory of Firas’ stories. All this was a story, something that was happening to someone else, somewhere else, in some other time. The nighttime clouds above were closer, more real, than the knife, the fire, the waiting bowl, and Oisin’s eyes remained fixed there. Firas brought the knife down. It halted right above Oisin’s throat, and for a moment Oisin found himself bemusedly wondering why—and how—Firas had stopped that swift downward stroke. Then he saw the long, pale fingers wrapped around Firas’ wrist, and the looming dark form that suddenly stood on the other side of the altar. A murmur went through the gathered villagers, and Oisin heard it, still distantly. “The god,” they whispered, in tones of shock and fear and awe. “The god, Lord Belinos, the god, the god.” Their voices faded away, and there was a long, still moment, as Firas stood stock still, staring over the altar at the being who held his wrist in an iron-hard grip. Then the god reached out with his other hand and took the knife from Firas’ trembling fingers. “I have never asked for human sacrifice.” The voice was deep and powerful, yet soft. It dropped into the silence of the night like pebbles in a pool, sending rippling murmurs of shock and uncertainty through the crowd. “L-lord Belinos. Forgive us. But you didn’t come for the goat last year. The crops have failed twice now. We thought…There are tales…” Firas’ voice quavered with fear. The deep voice of the god was still calm, even. “I have taken men in times past. But I do not take men as I take goats.” He looked down at Oisin then, and their eyes met. The god’s eyes were pale, pale gray, set in a face that was also pale, white as bone and as unlined as a youth’s. Silver lashes framed those eyes, and his brows and hair were silver also, the latter very long, and with strands of strange, bright beads and crystals braided through it. Oisin’s own eyes were brown, ordinary, as was his dark hair and olive skin. He looked like any of the other villagers, nothing special. Nothing like the strange being whose eyes gazed piercingly into his, seeming to pin him to the altar more thoroughly than the ropes possibly could. He was frozen in that gaze, not even breathing. Suddenly the world was no longer a distant thing, it was real, immediate, and as Oisin drew in a sudden, shocking breath he felt intensely present in it, intensely alive. I nearly died, and he stopped the knife. Why? “If we have offended…” Firas still sounded terrified. Oisin felt his heart racing, but somehow what he felt wasn’t fear. He didn’t know what it was, but the whole world was shifting around him. The god reached out and touched the ropes that bound Oisin, one touch at each wrist, each ankle. They frayed away to nothing in an instant. Oisin did not rise. He stayed lying on the cold stone, staring up at the god above him. “Your sacrifice is acceptable,” said that deep, almost gentle voice, and then the god bent and picked up Oisin, lifting him like a child, though he was seventeen years of age and nearly a grown man. The god turned away from the bonfire with its circle of startled, watching villagers. His body cut off both the warm glow and the staring eyes. A moment later he strode briskly into the night and there was no light but the diffuse glow of the overcast sky above. Every detail of the night felt clear and distinct, from the coldness of the faint breeze, to the distant calls of night-loving animals going about their business. Oisin felt the arms holding him up, strong and cold, as if he were being held by a statute and not a living thing. His head rested against the god’s chest, but he heard no heartbeat, no drawing of breath. The fabric of the black robe the god wore was unbelievably soft where it touched his no-longer-numb skin. He was silent, and the god was also, as he bore Oisin in that strange embrace through the darkness of fields and forests, to the great hill that rose above the village lands. There were standing stones atop it, raised before the memory of any who lived there, and it surprised Oisin not at all when the god climbed that grassy slope and approached the stones. Most stood singly, and a few were fallen, but one pair had a third set across them, like a door’s lintel, and it was to these that the god went, still carrying Oisin easily, as if he were no burden at all. But then he must not be, for it was obvious that the god was far, far taller than any mortal man. Oisin had dared to climb the hill before to approach the stones. He knew that stretching as tall as he could, he could just brush the lintel stone with his fingertips. But the god was nearly as tall as the stone and would need to duck to walk beneath it were he merely a palm’s width taller. The god halted and stood before the stones, the three dark slabs framing grass and sky beyond. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds for a moment, silvering the grass, though the light hardly seemed to touch the dark basalt of the stones. It glimmered brightly on the god’s silver hair and made his pale face stark and shining against the black of his robes. By that light Oisin could see that they were richly trimmed with embroidery, black thread on black fabric. Oisin heard the god draw breath, the sound strangely loud where his ear was pressed to the soft fabric over the god’s chest. When he spoke his voice was a rich and soft as ever, but the words were alien, in a tongue that Oisin had never heard before. A shimmer passed over the standing stones, leaving a film behind it, like a soap bubble, glimmering faintly in the moonlight, showing the grass and sky beyond faintly tinted, distorted, by its rainbow sheen. The god regarded this for a moment, then nodded and stepped forward. As they passed beneath the lintel stone, Oisin felt something pass over his entire body like a wave. It was a tingling, a pins-and-needles sensation, a shock like the static from petting a cat’s back overlong on a dry winter’s day. It crackled over his skin, and hummed beneath it too, but then was past. As it passed, the world passed with it, and he found himself elsewhere, still in the god’s arms. It was still night, and they still stood atop a hill, with a tall stone doorway behind them, but all else was changed. The sky above was perfectly clear, and there was no moon. The stars spread in unblemished glory from horizon to horizon, and they seemed brighter than Oisin had ever seen, like a thousand thousand jewels strewn across the midnight blue expanse. Beneath the god’s feet was a path of large, flat stones, which led across the hilltop to a great house which took up nearly half the space there. Oisin had never seen a palace, but this house was all of stone, even the roof was stone rather than thatch, and it was even taller than the church of the Christ-god that stood in the great town to the south of the village, so he thought it must be a palace. Certainly he could imagine a king living in such a splendid building. Of course it’s a palace, a god lives there, you fool, he told himself as he stared at it. The god set him down on the path, gently putting him on his feet. “Welcome to my home,” he said. “Call me Bel. What is your name, my sacrifice?” Oisin felt a shiver go through him, and for a moment it was difficult to keep his feet. The god still had a hand on his arm and supported him as he swayed. The god—Bel—had saved his life, but now he had called him his sacrifice. Did that mean he had brought him here to perform the rite he had stopped earlier? Oisin wasn’t afraid of death, not exactly, but with his shield of numbness gone, it was hard to stay calm in the face of it. “I-I am Oisin, sir,” he managed, despite his faintness and confusion. “Oisin?” Bel looked him up and down and nodded with a small smile. “It suits you. Follow me, my little deer.” He set off down the path, and Oisin went after him, having to trot to keep up with the tall god’s long stride. The great double doors proved to lead not into the palace itself, but into a courtyard, which had a garden, filled with flowers that Oisin had never seen before. The flowers were all held in stone-sided beds, with smooth stone paths between them. The broadest of these ran from the doors to the palace proper, where a single, arched door stood at the top of a short flight of broad stairs. With Oisin still at his heels, Bel opened the door and went inside. The halls inside were dim, lit by tiny hovering lights that had to be magic. The stone that lined them was smooth, with a satin texture that was polished enough to diffuse the lights, making the warm, golden stone almost seem to glow. Rich, plush rugs ran along the center of the halls and were scattered about the various rooms, and niches and little tables bore strange works of what must be art, many of them with themes of sun and moon, and some obviously depicting the god himself in many different styles and materials. Bel led him through a confusion of halls and rooms to a space that wasn’t warm and golden, but clean and white. The walls were stone here too, but white and gray, and polished to a higher sheen. The floor was tiled, and had no carpets. Everything seemed clean and bright and cold, warmed only by the soft glow of the little lights that hovered here in great profusion, making the ceiling seem spangled with stars. The room held a kind of platform, also covered in white tiles, in the center of which was a hollow space. Bell touched a spot on the wall and it slid aside, and water began pouring from it, filling the hollow, making a kind of pool. Oisin had never seen anything like it. He’d bathed in winter in a little knee-deep basin, filled with water heated over the fire, and as steam began to rise from the water filling the pool, he realized this must be something similar. “Strip,” said Bel, his tone still soft but commanding. Oisin stared at him for a moment, his cheeks heating. Then he gave a short, awkward nod and undid his belt, then pulled his simple tunic off over his head. His hose and then his breeks followed, the latter somewhat more slowly, and their absence made his cheeks heat further. But Bel only gave a short nod and pointed to the basin, now more than half full of warm water. “Wash yourself. I value cleanliness.” “Uhm. Yes, sir.” Oisin wondered if “sir” was the right thing to call a god, but Bel made no objection. He climbed into the water and sighed as he felt its soothing warmth close over him. It was strange, unlike anything he’d ever felt, but very pleasant. “There is soap here,” said Bel, tapping a little box of fragrant wood—sandalwood?—that sat on the tiled platform the tub was set into. Then he turned and exited the room, closing the door and leaving Oisin alone in the vast basin. The water halted of its own accord as the tub neared full, no doubt worked by some strange magic. Everything and anything might be magic here, in the home of a god. Oisin didn’t know what to think of his sudden change in circumstances. He leaned his head back against the tub’s rim, his body floating in wonderfully warm water, and tried to somehow organize his thoughts. Only one day past he’d been in mourning, then he’d agreed to become the sacrifice that the village’s elders had decided was required, and now he was here, floating in warm water in a god’s abode. Perhaps he might yet be sacrificed, perhaps the god merely wanted him to be properly cleaned and anointed first, yet that seemed unlikely. Bel had halted the knife. That image, of the god’s pale fingers around the old man’s brown wrist, was seared into Oisin’s mind indelibly. He floated for a long time, just soaking in the warmth, letting feelings and thoughts wash through him and drain away again. The last traces of the cold numbness of the altar soon left him entirely, but eventually the keyed-up awareness he’d experienced after that left as well, and he simply drifted for a long time as the water slowly cooled. After a time he opened up the little box and pulled out the fine, fragrant soap he found there. He scrubbed himself all over with the soft bar, the herbal scent of it clinging to him even after the water washed the foamy suds away. Rising dripping from the water, he looked around, and then yelped as a towel floated up into the air in front of him. “What?” There was a faint sound of insubstantial giggles, and the towel wrapped itself around him. He stepped out of the tub, feeling very off balance. There were more giggles and a second towel rubbed his dark, untidy hair dry, while the first tied itself around his waist. “Uh…thank you?” he said to the invisible whatever it was. More giggles sounded, but they faded away, and he felt like he was alone again. “The house sprites say that you are finished.” Oisin jumped, spinning around to find Bel once again standing in the room, his dark robes a stark contrast to the white and pale gray stone all around him. “Come, no doubt you are tired and hungry. I will show you to your room.” “Uhm. Thank you, sir.” Bel didn’t reply, he simply turned and went down another long corridor of golden stone, with Oisin trailing tiredly after him. He came to a door of golden wood, short enough that he had to duck to enter it. Inside was a simple chamber with a bed, a small table beside it, and a second table with a chair before it. A broad window above that table looked out into the clear summer night. The bed immediately had Oisin’s full attention. It was of wood, and raised above the ground, not a low pallet as he was used to. But all he knew was that he was tired, and it looked soft and comfortable. Then his eyes fixed on the table beside it and saw a tray there, with bread and cheese and a wooden cup on it. He went to it instantly, like iron to a lodestone. Bel chuckled softly. “Eat, and sleep, and I shall see you when you have rested.” “Thank you, sir,” said Oisin, almost absently. Bel only chuckled again and stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Oisin ate every scrap of bread and cheese, the food feeling like a feast after the long famine he’d known, and downed the cup too. It proved to hold something sweet, a little like fruit juice, a little like wine. He didn’t have time to know if it would go to his head, though, for he was in bed before it had time for any such effect. Not before one more strangeness, though, for once again there was faint, invisible laughter, and his towel was tugged from him, to be replaced by a robe of some very fine, dark brown fabric. It was softer than anything he’d ever felt, and he snuggled into it as invisible hands wrapped it around him. Those same hands turned back the bed’s covers, and he climbed in and was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

editor-pick
Dreame-Editor's pick

bc

Mail Order Brides of Slate Springs Boxed Set: Books 1 - 3

read
83.0K
bc

Beast

read
9.8K
bc

Devil: Demons MC

read
53.4K
bc

Urban Vampire

read
98.0K
bc

Small Town Romance Boxed Set: Books 1 - 5

read
68.1K
bc

Lyon(Lyon#1)

read
742.4K
bc

Completion

read
121.7K

Scan code to download app

download_iosApp Store
google icon
Google Play
Facebook