. 04

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Author's note

Part Seven moves the story to Spring. It is not necessary for you to have read earlier parts of the story, though things may make more sense if you have.

This is primarily an incest story, but it is also sci-fi/fantasy, and supernatural elements are not incidental to the plot. Additionally, many chapters will feature elements of other categories, particularly group sex and anal.

All sexual acts are consensual and involve parties who are at least eighteen years of age.

As ever, if you have questions feel free to email me or leave a comment. Either way, I'll try to respond in a timely manner.

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Later that night, the the father his brothers and sister had never met, and quite likely never would meet, called for him. It was the very first day he'd dwelt in Faerie, and the Prince of the Emerald Court was summoning him.

Arawn Dreamsmyth was not quite what Cahill expected. Never again would he think that he and Seamus looked a great deal alike. Not after laying eyes on the man who'd sired them. Their father looked more like Seamus than Seamus did. The two were of a height, had identical builds, and nearly identical faces. The prince had slightly darker skin, darker hair, and green eyes. He also had a few streaks of silver in his coal black hair and a few wrinkles in an otherwise handsome face. But aside from that, Cahill could almost believe he was gazing upon his brother rather than his father.

If his father wore his true form, anyway.

Arawn's fey guise was more similar to Cahill's than Seamus'. The satyr his father chose to appear as was the precursor to modern myths about the horned god. True, Cahill had a man's legs, and his great rack of antlers dwarfed the modest horns atop his father's head. But there was a similarity there all the same.

Cahill wondered if he might have chosen a different visage for himself had he known that. But, then, he hadn't really chosen after all. Not consciously. Perhaps it was precisely because of his father that he'd instinctively adopted those antlers. Something he'd inherited from the man he'd never met until this day.

The silver flute Cahill had crafted a lifetime ago, in another world, couldn't have looked more at home in his father's hands. What was a satyr without his pipes after all? It was then that he remembered that Liadan had told him that one of his father's other titles, besides the Prince of the Emerald Court, was the Piper of Dawn.

Flute, pipes, what difference did it make? It was the symbolism that mattered.

"I understand I have you to thank for this?" his father asked, holding the flute up.

Nice to meet you too, Dad.

"I hope it pleases his majesty," Cahill said, bowing low.

His father snorted in amusement. Cahill glanced up at the stone outcropping that looked down on the wondrous garden of his father's court. The prince gestured for him to rise.

"No need for that," his father said.

Of course not. Why should he assume that the man who was too good for his children, whose own sister described him as anything but modest, would expect a little subservience?

A split-second later, the tranquil pond and exotic flowers of his father's court disappeared. The sound of leaves rustling and birds chirping, the smell of damp soil, fresh pollen, and rich vegetation, and the palpable sense of life teeming all around him, all faded away. Cahill found himself in the Dreaming once more.

In Savannah.

He knew it at once, for they were at the musical festival. Cahill had never gotten this close to the main stage, but the setting was still quite familiar to him.

"I want you to see exactly what you've given me," his father said, resting a hand on his shoulder. "So that you'll understand what I must take from you."

It took Cahill a moment to notice what a strange thing to say that was. Or would have been, were they mortals.

Similarly, the change in their appearances didn't register as quickly as it should have. His father's chin beard and horns were gone, as were his goat legs. The enormous rack of nearly weightless antlers Cahill sometimes forgot entirely about was gone. They were just two uncommonly handsome mortal men, who looked to be almost of an age with one another. Anyone who knew the nature of their relationship would immediately recognize the absurdity, the impossibility, of his father's appearance. But otherwise, they'd have aroused no suspicion, even if it would be something of a stretch to say that their appearances were unremarkable. Their clothes had even changed to match mortal customs.

"Not that you'll remember I've taken it, of course," his father continued. "But that part's not so important."

Of course not. Why would it be?

Cahill started to protest, but it was already too late. The lead singer of the current act signaled for Arawn to come join them. And so the Piper of Dawn took the stage, silver flute in hand, prepared to literally enchant an unsuspecting crowd.

Did the band know his father? Or only think they did because of some glamour he'd cast upon them? Not that it mattered either way, but Cahill found himself wondering how much truth there had been to the story Liadan had told him. There had to have been, else she'd have told an outright lie.

No, that wasn't true. She'd never really said that her brother was in a band. He'd simply inferred that. All she'd said was that the flute wasn't for her but for her brother.

That, and she'd told him that he "could say" that she was a roadie. Which could mean all sorts of things. Road techs never took center stage. They only played a supporting role. Wasn't that what the Puck did too?

Everyone went quiet, including the crowd. With a quick, almost violent stroke, the violinist opened up the next song. The bass and rhythm guitars jumped in almost at the same time, then the drums. A haunting tune quickly took shape. Even before his father added a supernatural dimension to it, the song cast a spell over the crowd. Cahill could feel the changes taking place. Feel their Libidos bottom out.

It hadn't even occurred to him before that mortals had Libidos as well. That they contained within them the same energy that he and his kind did.

From the very first note, it was clear that something extraordinary was happening. And if anyone in the crowd believed in the supernatural, they'd surely have begun to suspect that such forces were at work by the third note.

Some seemed to grow happy, others sad. More than a few experienced both emotions at the same time. Whatever they felt, though, most of them opened up. One by one, thin streamers of energy poured out from their chests, their mouths, their eyes. Shimmering ribbons filled the night sky, all converging on his father. Cahill could only assume that his father was enjoying a feast such as few immortals ever had.

Cahill had never seen the energy before. Not with his eyes. He'd felt it within him, sensed it leaving his Libido as he climaxed or entering him as he brought one of the women of his family to cum. But there'd never been anything outward sign of it like this.

He had only a moment to remark upon that before he felt old memories stirring. Happy ones and sad, poignant and quirky. Random moments in his life, both meaningful and mundane, flashed across his mind. The first time he and Mary Donovan had made love. Or when he'd sold a flute to an actual musician for the

second

time. Dull math classes and mediocre movies, tepid cups of coffee and rainy afternoons, all returned to him as vividly as if they'd been the most notable of experiences.

For a brief moment, he thought that perhaps the glamour was having a greater effect on him because he was attuned to its power. But as he saw the tears streaming down people's cheeks, watched men and women whisper final farewells to loved ones lost, and heard the sound of wistful laughter, he knew the truth. There was a reason that his father was also known as the Lord of Remembrance.

Only when he noticed that the ability to think coherent thoughts had returned to him did Cahill realize that the song had ended. Suddenly, he felt ashamed of himself for not trying to put an end to his father's playing. For allowing him to manipulate the thoughts of so many people. Letting him steal their energy like they but a field of crops, his to harvest, rather than human beings. He'd been powerless to act, but he wasn't sure if that was a reason not to be ashamed or a further indictment on him. In his stead, would Seamus have simply stood there? Would Fiona? Would their mother?

And then, just like that, Savannah faded away again. Like a dream. Cahill couldn't even have said whether the crowd applauded the band, or whether they'd booed and hissed. For all he knew, they were still standing there, all but catatonic.

His father, appearing in the form of a satyr once more, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now

that

was something." He held the flute up. "This is a truly wonderful gift, son."

Cahill wrenched his shoulder away.

"You can't-"

"I can," his father cut in. "And I'd remind you that you speak to your prince. Think carefully before you finish that sentence."

"What did you do to them?" he asked.

His father gave him a skeptical look, as if to say, "You don't really need to ask that, do you?" But after a brief hesitation, he simply said, "Made them remember. And in their remembering, many of them experienced an emotional state so overwhelming as to leave them just as vulnerable as they would be amidst the throes of ecstasy."

Okay, he really hadn't needed to ask.

"That's-"

"Horrible?" his father asked, interrupted him again. "Did you see the elderly widow who cried tears of joy upon seeing her husband's face again, if only in her mind's eye? Or the girl who had a chance to say goodbye to her grandmother, as she'd never had before? Are you, of all people, going to tell me that it's wrong to alter a mortal's memory? To help them call to mind sweet moments they'd prefer to never forget?"

Cahill fell silent. How did his father know about that?

It didn't matter though. That hadn't been all his father had done. He'd pulled painful memories to the surface as surely as he had pleasant ones. And he'd done it all so that he could steal from them. Cahill had left Mary a gift. He'd taken nothing from her.

"Now, to repay the favor," his father said.

He tried to resist, but his father was surprisingly strong. Though he was shorter than Cahill and less heavily muscled, he easily wrestled Cahill to the ground. Once he did, he pressed his fingers against his son's temples,

into

them in fact.

Only one thought passed through Cahill's mind before everything went black. It didn't hurt to have his father push his fingers past skin and bone the way it should have. It hardly felt like anything at all.

#

"That's good, dear," his mother said with all of the enthusiasm of a wet towel.

Cahill allowed his two bodies to converge back into one. As his consciousness returned to a single vessel, deprived of half the sensory input it had been receiving just a moment ago, he nearly collapsed.

They'd been training for most of the day, every day, for close to a week. He wasn't sure how much harder he could push himself. And yet, he never sensed much of anything but disappointment from his mother.

Was he moving so slowly? What more should he have accomplished by now?

Brittany never spent any time training and hadn't yet begun to master half the glamours he could perform. Yet if the Matriarch of Clan Walker was as disappointed with her youngest daughter as she was with her youngest son, she did a good job of hiding it.

Sure, he still had a very long way to go. Though his mother assured him that he had the potential to be the most powerful among their clan, he still felt like a novice compared to Seamus and Fiona, let alone the red druidess. But in a short period of time, he'd learned a lot. And, no less importantly, he'd gained a great deal of discipline. Things he'd once been able to do only by accident, he could do on command, and nearly effortlessly.

"Maybe it's time for a break," Caronwyn said, resting a hand on his bare chest.

If he didn't know any better, he'd have thought that there was a request in her brown eyes. That she wasn't suggesting that they stop for his benefit, but because she wanted the release his body could offer her, if he'd but submit to her desires.

If he thought that was really how she felt, it would make it awfully selfish for him to avail himself of her time and talents this way while refusing to satisfy her sexual needs. But she couldn't really be looking for that. Gallech made sure her needs were well and thoroughly tended to. He often took part in Cahill's lessons, and not because he had a deep and abiding curiosity about glamours. No, Cahill's oldest brother just wanted to make sure that he was close by when their mother finished with him, so that he needn't delay the start of their nightly passions by so much as a moment.

Surely, then, she couldn't be feeling undersexed?

At least, he hoped she wasn't interested in that. Because the feeling wasn't mutual.

His mother was pretty enough. Gorgeous even, if you could look past the red hair. Which Cahill could not. And he supposed her hyper-feminine body was appealing too, though it struck him as a bit too much. Too cartoonish. That she was his mother didn't bother him, even though some part of him remembered the Dreaming well enough to know that he'd been raised to believe that incest was wrong. Virtually all he and his kind ever did was sleep with immediate members of their family. So that really wasn't an issue for him. But she just didn't arouse him. Never had. She was the only woman in the clan he hadn't fucked, and Cahill hoped it stayed that way.

"No, let's keep going," he said.

His mother let out a sigh and stepped away from him. She gave him the barest of nods then began tossing glamours at him left and right.

Waves of fire rolled over him harmlessly. Thorny vines whipped up from the ground, seeking to ensnare him but failing to do so. His vision blacked out for a fraction of a second. He saw things that weren't there. One after another, her glamours failed. But he was finding it harder and harder to keep up. The red druidess was laying it on thick. Giving him everything she had, or near enough as made no difference. And his mother had a lot to give. She was older than her sister, but that wasn't the reason Caronwyn was clan matriarch.

The smell of burning hair met his nostrils and Cahill realized that he'd only mostly succeeded in shielding himself from the last fiery attack. Distracted by the unbearable stench, he wasn't ready for her blinding glamour. And, unable to see, he had no hope of dodging the vine that coiled about his leg. Its thorns bit deep into his leg and it yanked, pulling his feet out from beneath him and laying him flat on his back.

"On second thought, maybe we're done for today," he said when he could breathe again.

Caronwyn glowered at him for a moment then strode off, her brown robes whisking softly.

#

Something was wrong.

Cahill wasn't sure what, exactly, but he knew there was. His mother wasn't disappointed in his progress. As rapidly as he was progressing, and as unconcerned as she was with his sister's lack of interest in studying glamours, that should have been clear to him straight off. No, she might be taking her frustration out on him during their training sessions, but it was something else that had her upset.

Nor had she nearly burned him to a crisp because he'd failed to take notice of her subtle sexual advances. That thought had briefly crossed his mind, but it just didn't make any sense. They'd never been physically intimate in the past, so why should she be so infuriated by him ignoring the hints she'd been dropping? If that even had been what she was doing.

The only thing he was sure of was that it had something to do with his father.

None of his siblings or his cousins had ever met the prince. Nor was there any obvious reason for him to have done so. Did his mother suspect him of betraying Clan Walker? Or perhaps think that he'd become an unwitting pawn of the Dreamsmyths? He wasn't sure, but one way or another, it seemed clear that it hadn't been Cahill she'd been tossing flames at, but her former husband.

What was he to do about it though?

Though Cahill was growing stronger by the day, and getting better at controlling that strength as well, Caronwyn had just provided him with a keen reminder of how limited his abilities remained. And though he wouldn't be too surprised if Arawn Dreamsmyth was less powerful than Clan Walker's matriarch, given how stunning his mother's command of glamours was, there was little reason to think that he himself was any sort of match for the prince. If his father really was the source of whatever had come between him and his mother, as seemed likely, there wasn't much Cahill could do about it.

At least not yet.

For the time being, he had focus on gathering some information. Before he did anything else, he had to figure out what his father wanted with him. Or had done to him.

Of course, the prince was no more likely to reveal his plans to Cahill than he was to let his son cow him into abandoning them. But there was

one

Dreamsmyth who might talk to Cahill. His cousin might not know anything, but it couldn't hurt to ask.

So he headed east.

The Emerald Court was one big forest, and each clan occupied a different pocket of it. The Walkers dwelled in the west, the Dreamsmyths in the east, and the lesser clans claimed the north, south, and various pockets in between the lands of the Walkers and the Dreamsmyths. Cahill took care not to trespass on any of their lands. It was getting to be surprisingly easy to sense the boundaries of the different clans, though there were no markers that would be visible to the naked eye. He sensed them the same way he saw through the illusions his mother threw at him.

It didn't take long to get there. Vast as the Emerald Court was, one could walk from end to end in a few minutes, if one knew the way. The trick was in knowing that, in Faerie, the shortest distance between two points was rarely a straight line.

He found Teagan dancing atop the surface of a gentle stream. At least, at first, it had seemed as though her delicate little feet weren't touching anything but the water. But as he drew closer, Cahill saw a few stones jutting up out of the river. Anyone but his cousin would have found them to offer insufficient foothold, but his cousin had never lacked for grace.

That she currently stood no more than three feet tall didn't hurt either. Nor did her gossamer little wings. They were too small, too insubstantial, for flight. But whenever a foot slipped on the slick surface of the stone, those flimsy little things would flitter furiously.

If her frock had been green rather than blue, she'd have looked just like Tinkerbell. A little taller and a little less shapely, perhaps, but there was definitely a strong resemblance.

A wave of guilt crashed into Cahill at the thought. True, he'd had carnal knowledge of his cousin before. This wasn't the first time that he'd thought to himself that Teagan was incredibly cute, but that her legs were like toothpicks, her ass flat, and her breasts too small. It didn't seem right to let such thoughts cross his mind while she was in this form though.

"Hey there cutie," he called out.

The sound of his voice abruptly shattering the silence clearly surprised her. But aside from whirling around a bit faster than the tempo of her dance demanded, she showed no other sign being disrupted. Any other woman might have just narrowly avoided taking a swim, arms windmilling and wings flapping to avoid the fate.