Book
Description
Can
the love of a man heal the heart of a god?
Fertility
god Anthos, a shy and gentle three-hundred-year-old virgin, has grown
up in the shadow of his brutal older brother Dryas and spent his life
hiding from mortals, no matter how much his nature draws him to them.
Cleon,
a humble farmer who always has room in his heart and his bed, knows
that Lord Dryas is angry. The crops aren’t growing, and his family
is going to starve if he doesn’t give the god a worthy
sacrifice—his own body. But when he reaches the shrine, he finds a
very different god, the sweet, untouched Anthos.
Eager
to satisfy Anthos’ curiosity, Cleon shows him what sex is…and
what a relationship between them could be, with their instant
attraction blooming into love. But when Dryas returns with a
vengeance and Cleon’s life hangs in the balance, Anthos is forced
to make a choice.
Will
he bow once more before his brother’s rage, or take a stand for the
only man who has ever had faith in him?
Reader
advisory: This book contains scenes of abusive behavior, double
penetration, voyeurism, exhibitionism and violence.
Excerpt
Cleon’s
heart sank as he walked the rows of his family’s field, scanning
for a single green shoot and finding none. The barley was two weeks
late for sprouting—if it didn’t start growing soon, his family
would starve come winter.
“Anything?”
his little sister Amara asked as he left the field. Her hands were
wringing the fabric of her peplos skirt even as her eyes said she
knew the answer.
“Not
one,” he said. “Any eggs from the chickens?”
“Not
one,” she echoed. “The gods must be angry at us.”
That
was the only explanation Cleon could think of, too. Dryas, their
local fertility and forest god, was known for his temper. It would
take very little provocation for him to withdraw his blessings.
The
family gathered in front of their modest farmhouse, worried faces
gazing at their patriarch. Cleon, the eldest son and the only one
unmarried, glanced at the other members of the household. Amara sat
beside him, while his twin younger brothers sat with their wives,
both of whom were pregnant with their first children. They had no
servants, no field hands, just them.
“We
have to beg Lord Dryas for his forgiveness,” their father said,
pacing back and forth. “Someone must go to the shrine and pay
tribute. Whatever it takes, this curse on our farm must be lifted!”
“W-whatever
it takes?” Amara asked nervously.
“Yes,”
their father said gravely, words heavy with guilt. “Whatever it
takes.”
His
children looked at one another, eyes wide with anxiety. They wouldn’t
say it out loud for fear of angering the god, but they knew what
their father was asking. Dryas’ tastes in tribute were usually
carnal and never kind. None of them had any illusions about what
would happen to whoever went to plead their case, but there was no
other option.
Cleon
looked from face to face. Neither of his brothers had any taste for
men, and it would be cruel to send either of their wives to such a
fate, especially pregnant as they both were. As for Amara, the
thought made his stomach twist in disgust. There was only one choice.
“I’ll
go,” he said, getting to his feet.
“Are
you sure?” Amara asked. “You know what—what he’ll do to you.”
“I
know,” Cleon said, trying to sound brave. “But I’ve been with
men, so it won’t be so bad for me as it would be for one of you.”
It
was weak reasoning, but none of the others had anything better. Cleon
was tall and strong, hardy enough to take some punishment and tan
from hard labor in the sun. He was no Adonis, but he’d been called
ruggedly handsome by past lovers, and he’d earned every muscle on
his arms and chest. Dryas preferred pretty youths and maidens over
men in their late twenties, but hopefully the god would accept his
tribute anyway.
Cleon
bathed in the river, combed his black hair and trimmed his short
beard, brown eyes watching his reflection in a still pool. He
prepared his body as best he could with slick oil and shaking
fingers, hoping to reduce the inevitable pain. Finally, he donned
their newest, finest tunic, the one Amara had woven and each of his
brothers had worn for their weddings, and picked up their offerings
with white-knuckled hands. There was nothing left to do but go.
Cleon
gave his family the bravest smile he could muster, and they smiled
back with pinched, anxious faces—all save his father, whose eyes
were solemn and dark with guilt, and Amara, who was crying in his
arms. Cleon squared his shoulders and turned resolutely toward the
woods. He would face any terror and endure any hardship, if only he
could save his loved ones from starvation.
The
worn dirt path led deep into the forest, twisting and turning on the
way to the shrine. Dappled light slipped through the swaying branches
as chittering squirrels fled his passage to peer down at him from the
trees.
He
suppressed a shiver. These woods were old and sacred, the domain of a
cruel and capricious god. At least Lord Dryas didn’t like live
animal sacrifices—Cleon would hate to make this trek with a
squawking, struggling chicken in his arms. Instead, he had a small
jug of spiced wine, a half-dozen honey cakes and his own body…no
matter how meager his offerings, they would have to be enough.
He
had been to the shrine before as part of the harvest festival,
placing the fruits of the year’s labors before the god’s great
throne. Those had been times of song and drink and dance, honoring
Dryas’ bounty and appeasing his temper with revelry and praise. The
god had always chosen one or more young worshippers for his pleasure,
and the thought made Cleon nearly sick. It always took them days to
recover, if not weeks, and their eyes remained haunted for far, far
longer.
This
time the shrine was empty, the ring of marble pillars standing silent
around the sacred oak. At the base was the god’s throne, grown out
of the living wood, made for a nine-foot giant of a being. Cleon
could remember looking up at him during the last festival—his eyes
dark and cold, his legs those of a black deer and his antlers
spreading like ancient, gnarled branches.
“Hello?”
Cleon called, looking around for the shrine’s priest. The little
hut next to the sacred circle was empty, but that shouldn’t have
been a surprise. Lord Dryas tended to discard his priests when they
turned twenty-five, and he must not have found a new one yet. It
seemed like Cleon would have to beg for divine intervention on his
own.
He
walked to the stone altar and tried to keep his hands from shaking as
he kindled the sacred flames. He doused the honey cakes in wine then
fed them to the fire. The offerings were more than his family could
really afford, but still they seemed too little. Finally, Cleon knelt
before the great throne, pressing his forehead to the grass and
trying to look as humble and pathetic as possible.
“Oh
Lord Dryas, god of the forest and the field,” he prayed. “I beg
your forgiveness! Whatever sin my family or I have committed against
you, I humbly offer these gifts to appease your wrath.”
There
was a deep, terrifying silence broken only by the blood pounding in
Cleon’s ears. He dug his fingers into the grass, eyes squeezed
shut, praying with all his might. If Dryas didn’t answer—
“Uh…yeah…”
The voice was so small and hesitant that Cleon almost missed it. “Not
your fault, really…”
Cleon’s
head snapped up and he scanned the treeline. He didn’t see the
speaker at first, looking for a taller shape, but when he finally
found him…
Oh
gods, the young man was exactly Cleon’s type. He looked to be
twenty or a little younger, cute and small and beardless, with
willowy arms and a bare, slender chest. His eyes were a vivid green
against sun-bronzed skin dusted with faint freckles, and his light
brown curls looked delightfully soft. He was blushing prettily,
shifting from foot to foot and biting his full, kissable lower lip.
“Um,
hello,” Cleon said when he could remember how words worked. He
struggled to stay on task—he was here to save his family, not get
distracted by a pretty face. “I don’t suppose you know where the
forest god is?”
“That’s
the thing,” the youth said, ducking his head bashfully. “I kind
of…am the forest god?”
Cleon
frowned at him. The young man might be cute, but he was clearly
delusional. Yes, the gods could take other forms, but the idea of
Lord Dryas becoming so small and adorable was ridiculous.
“I
wouldn’t say that if I were you,” Cleon said. “Lord Dryas is
not known for his merc—”
He
stopped, eyes widening as the young man stepped out into the clearing
on slender, delicate hooves. Deer hooves, just like Lord Dryas’.
Unlike Dryas, though, his flanks were dappled with faint white spots
and tawny brown to match his hair. What Cleon had assumed to be
branches above the youth’s head revealed themselves to be antlers,
short and nubby and covered in soft-looking velvet.
Cleon’s
heart plummeted like a stone. This was no mortal boy, or even a
common satyr. There was an aura about him—the trees leaning in just
a little to bask in his presence, the sunlight glowing off his skin.
He might be different from Dryas, but there was no denying that Cleon
was in the presence of a god.
“Please
forgive me, great one!” he cried, groveling once more in sudden
terror. He already had one god angry at him and he wouldn’t survive
a second. “I had no idea—I am so sorry—”
“No,
don’t be,” the youth said, sounding weary and miserable. “I’m
a pretty terrible god, to be honest.”
“What
do you mean, my lord?” Cleon asked, daring to raise his eyes from
the grass. The godling was shifting awkwardly from hoof to hoof, not
looking at Cleon.
“Your
farm,” he said. “It’s my fault nothing’s growing. My big
brother left last month and I…well…”
“You
mean Lord Dryas?” Cleon asked.
The
youth nodded, biting his lower lip in an adorable way, and Cleon
couldn’t help a twinge of relief. His farm was still in trouble,
but at least this god seemed willing to help.
“I’ve
been trying, I really have,” the godling said, running his hands
through his hair. The gesture revealed adorable little pointed ears,
and Cleon had to fight to stay focused. “I just don’t know how to
make it work!”
“My
lord—” Cleon started, sitting back up on his knees.
“Anthos,
please.” The god ducked his head. “I’m not used to…it feels
weird.”
“Anthos,”
Cleon said, “what exactly is the problem?”
Anthos
sighed, walking over and sitting on the grass a few feet from Cleon.
He pulled his fuzzy knees up to his chest, hugging them close and
staring at the ground.
“I’m
a fertility god,” Anthos explained. “I’m in charge of new life,
new growth…or I am now. My brother took care of things for so many
centuries that I never learned how to do it. Now he’s gone, it’s
my job, and I can’t do anything.”
“He
never taught you?” Cleon asked.
“We’re
not Olympians!” Anthos cried, eyes flicking up to Cleon and face
turning bright red. “Only the highest gods do…that with their
siblings.”
“Oh,”
Cleon said, blushing too. “Uh, sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No,
no, it’s fine,” Anthos said, dropping his gaze again. “But
that’s the problem—it requires personal experience. I can’t
make things fertile until I’ve, you know…had sex.”
“Oh,”
Cleon breathed. His heart was beating faster now, his throat going
dry as he stared at Anthos. “Would a mortal do? A man?”
“Yeah,”
Anthos said with a mirthless little chuckle, “if anyone wanted me.
Big brother always said nobody would want to sleep with a puny,
pathetic runt.”
Rage
flared up in Cleon, all the hotter for its rarity. He’d revered and
feared Lord Dryas all his life, burying resentment deep in his heart.
The gods could be cruel or kind to mortals—that was their right—but
this? The thought of treating his own siblings like this made Cleon
ball his hands into fists, and a lifetime of suppressed hatred boiled
over. For the first time in his life, he spoke ill of a god.
“You’re
not a runt!” Cleon cried. “Your brother was a cruel bastard! He
made whole families starve…he set wolves on their flocks and took
any man or woman he pleased! I bet he cut down your confidence
because he was scared of you. Anyone would prefer a god like you over
him!”
“R-really?”
Anthos gasped, looking up with wide, shocked eyes.
“As
long as you don’t send a famine when there aren’t enough dancing
girls at your festival,” Cleon said, belly clenching in remembered
hunger. “We worshipped him because we were afraid, but nobody liked
him.”
“And
you…you like…me?” Anthos asked, voice soft and hopeful.
Cleon
opened his mouth then closed it again, unsure of what to say. His
flirting experience said this was going pretty well, but how was he
supposed to proposition a god? He was just a farmer, rough and rugged
and no great beauty. Anthos was so out of his league it wasn’t even
funny.
Still,
in for an obol, in for a drachma. The god didn’t seem like the type
to curse someone for asking, and if he said yes…
“I
like you a lot,” Cleon said earnestly, “and I’d really like to
kiss you.”
“I…”
Anthos licked his lips, his gaze lowering. “I’d like that too.”
Cleon
scooted forward slowly, like he was approaching a skittish deer. He
reached out to cup one cheek, tawny-gold and warm. Sun-dappled lashes
fluttered, the godling’s green eyes falling closed as he leaned in
with bated breath.
The
first kiss was soft and gentle, just a chaste brush of lips. It was a
little thing, but it still sent a thrill through Cleon, a surge of
desire. His body knew what Anthos was, something wild, ancient and
divine. By the time they pulled away, his cock was hard and
twitching.
Anthos
let out a soft little sigh when they parted. He gave Cleon a shy
smile, nervous and sweet.
“Again?”
he asked, as though Cleon might say no. Could say no.
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About
the Author
AT
Lander has loved stories, both the reading and the telling, since she
was a child. Born in upstate New York to an English professor and a
former librarian, she now lives in the queerest part of
Massachusetts. She never leaves home without a knitting project or a
pencil, and she’s never met a cat she doesn’t like.
She
has worked as an history museum guide, a professional storyteller,
and an actress, sharing tales of what was, what could have been, and
what can only be imagined. World mythology is her driving passion, as
what better way to understand a people than through the tales they
tell?
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AT Lander on Twitter and Facebook.
Author
Links
AT
Lander -
https://www.firstforromance.com/index.php?route=product/author/info&author_id=11782
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