Or, shit, maybe this lunar-walk sensation was because he had some brain-fry going on.
When they crested a hill, an amphitheater was revealed down below. As were the Chosen.
Oh, Jesus... The forty or so females were dressed in identical white robes with their hair up and their hands gloved. Their coloring varied from blond to brunette to redhead, yet they seemed to be all the same person because of their long, lean builds and those matching robes. Split into two groups, they lined either side of the amphitheater, presenting themselves at a three-quarter turn with their right feet out slightly. They reminded him of the caryatids of Roman architecture, those sculptures of females that supported pediments or roofs on their regal heads.
Staring at them now, he wondered whether they had hearts that beat and lungs that pumped. Because they were as still as the air.
See, this was the problem with the Other Side, he thought. Nothing ever moved here. There was life… without life.
"Come forward," the Scribe Virgin commanded. "The presentation awaits."
Oh… God… He couldn't breathe again.
Phury's hand landed on his shoulder. "You need a minute?"
Fuck a minute; he needed centuries-although even assuming he had that kind of time, it wasn't going to change the outcome. With a sense of destiny, he pictured that civilian vampire he'd found in the alley, the one who he'd come upon that night he'd been shot, the one who he'd killed that lesser to avenge.
They needed more in the Brotherhood, he thought as he started to walk again. And it wasn't like the stork was going to get the job done.
Down in front there was only one seat in the house, a golden thronelike production that was positioned up close to the lip of the amphitheater's stage. From this vantage point, he realized that what he'd assumed was a blank white wall at the back was really a vast white velvet curtain that hung down as motionless as if it had been painted on a mural.
"You. Sit," the Scribe Virgin said to him, obviously beyond sick of his ass.
Funny, he felt the same way about her.
V planted it as Phury took root like a tree behind the throne.
The Scribe Virgin floated over to the right, assuming a position at the side of the stage, a Shakespearean director, the driver of all the drama.
Man, what he wouldn't give for an asp right about now.
"Proceed," she called out in a clipped voice.
The curtain split down the middle and retracted, revealing a female covered in jeweled robes from head to foot. Flanked by two Chosen, his intended seemed to be standing at an odd angle. Or maybe she wasn't standing. Jesus, it appeared as though she was on some kind of slab that had been tilted upright for viewing. Like a butterfly mounted.
As she was rolled forward, it became clear that she was in fact fixed on something. There were bands around her upper arms, ones that were camouflaged with jewels to match her robes, ones that appeared to be holding her up.
Must be part of the ceremony. Because what was under that robe was not only prepared for this presentation and the mating ritual that would follow, but no doubt was psyched as hell to be the number one female: The Primale's first Chosen had special rights, and he could only imagine what a rocking good time that would be for her.
Even though it might not be fair, he resented the hell out of what was under that splendor.
The Scribe Virgin nodded, and the Chosen to the left and the right of his intended started to undo the robing. As they went to work, a rush of energy rippled through the stillness of the amphitheater, the culmination of decades of the Chosen waiting for the old ways to start up again.
V watched with no care whatsoever as the jeweled robes were pulled back to reveal a stunningly beautiful female form draped in a gossamer-thin sheath. His intended's face was kept hooded, according to tradition, for it was not her that was being given but all of the Chosen.
"Is she to your liking?" the Scribe Virgin asked dryly, as if she knew that the female was utter perfection.
"Whatever."
A murmur of disquiet went through the Chosen, a chilly breeze through stiff reeds.
"Perhaps you shall choose your words anew?" the Scribe Virgin snapped.
"She'll do."
After an awkward pause, a Chosen came forward with an incense burner and a white feather. As she chanted, she wafted smoke over the female from hooded head to bare feet, going around once for the past, once for the present, once for the future.
As the ritual progressed, V frowned and leaned forward. The front of his intended's gossamer-thin sheath was wet.
Probably oils from when she'd been prepared for him.
He eased back in the throne. Shit, he hated the ancient ways. Hated this whole fucking thing.
Underneath the hood, Cormia was in a state of desperation. The air she breathed was hot and wet and smothering, worse in that regard than having nothing at all to inhale. Her knees were loose as blades of grass, her palms wringing wet. If not for the restraints, she would have crumpled.
Following her panicked bid for escape in the baths, and her eventual capture, a bitter drink had been forced down her throat at the Directrix's command. It had calmed her for a time, but the elixir was now wearing weak, and her fear was spiking once again.
As was the degradation. When she'd felt hands going down the front of the robing to free the golden toggles, she'd wept for the violation of a stranger's gaze upon her private skin. Then the two heavy halves of the robe had been pulled apart from her body and she'd felt coolness on her skin, something that was in no way a relief from the weight of what had been draped all over her.
The Primale's eyes had been upon her as the Scribe Virgin's voice had called out: "Is she to your liking?"
Cormia had waited for the Brother's response, praying for some warmth within it.
There was absolutely none: "Whatever."
"Perhaps you shall choose your words anew?"
"She'll do."
Upon hearing the words, Cormia's heart stopped beating, fear replaced by terror. Vishous, son of the Bloodletter, had a cold voice, one that suggested proclivities far worse than even his father's reputation had detailed.
How would she survive the mating, much less represent well the venerable Chosen during the course of it? In the bath, the Directrix had been brutal in her wording of all that Cormia would disgrace if she did not comport herself with appropriate dignity. If she didn't carry out her responsibility. If she was not the proper representative of the whole.
How could she bear this all?
Cormia heard the Scribe Virgin speak again: "Vishous, your stead has not tendered his gaze. Phury, son of Ahgony, you must view the Chosen that is offered as the Primale's witness."
Cormia trembled, afeared of yet another set of unknown male eyes upon her form. She felt unclean though she had been so carefully washed; dirty, though no filth dripped from her. Under the hood she wished she were small, so small she would shame the head of a pin.
For if she were small, their eyes wouldn't find her. If she were tiny, she could hide amongst larger things… disappear from all of this.
Phury's eyes were glued to the back of the golden throne, and he really didn't want them anywhere else. This whole thing was wrong. All wrong.
"Phury, son of Ahgony?" The Scribe Virgin pronounced his father's name as if the weight of the family's entire lineage rested on whether Phury got with the program.
He flipped his lids up to the female-
Every one of his mental processes ground to a halt.
His body was what responded. Instantly. He thickened in his silk pants, his erection popping up fast as a breath even as he was utterly ashamed of himself. How could he be so cruel? He dropped his lids, crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to figure out how he could manage to kick his own ass and still remain standing.