Lion in His Eyes
by
Thea Hutcheson
Includes complete bonus story
The Final Initiation
by
Linn Henderson
Lion in His Eyes
by
Thea Hutcheson
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Lilac Moon Books on Smashwords
Lion in His Eyes
Copyright (c) 2000 Thea Hutcheson
Cover by Laura Givens
Copyright (c) 2012 Laura Givens
http://www.lauragivens-artist.com
The Final Initiation
by
Linn Henderson
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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© 2012 Linn Henderson
PUBLISHED BY:
Lilac Moon Books
SMASHWORDS EDITION LICENSE NOTES
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Table of Contents
Melinda heard a low rumble rising all around her. Her computer began inching toward the edge of the table. She put down her tea and grabbed the notebook, falling into the table as she did. She could hear shouts from the other tents. The kerosene lamp began to shake on its hook. She stumbled toward it and blew it out. The bookshelf tipped over, spinning books, notebooks, files and miscellany at her, and she took the hint, scooting out the tent into the open space in the middle of the dig camp.
The rest of her team was out of the tents; she could see some of them making their way toward the storage and work rooms. As she began to yell for everyone to stay away from buildings and cars, it stopped.
Her voice petered out in the silence. Everyone started talking and laughing as the adrenaline reaction set in. She began to issue orders for inspection, clean up, an Internet check with the volcanologists at Stromboli some ten miles away from the dig on the northeastern coast of Sicily. Everyone wanted to rush off to the site. So did she, but she was responsible for the group, for their safety.
"No, it's too dangerous. That was a bad quake. We'll all go have a look see in the morning. Do your checks quickly and get yourselves situated for the night. Any big clean up can be done tomorrow. We'll leave by dawn."
Peter came to her as she walked away to begin her own inspection. "I'll get your tent cleaned up just as soon as I check on some of my own work. I observe the rules, I just wanna check, okay?"
"Don't worry about me. There'll be plenty of time later."
He nodded and smiled a big toothy grin at her as he broke off toward her tent. She went from group to group, tent to tent, shed to shed to survey the damage. Most was light. The volcanologists had warned them that things could get bumpy as the volcano became more active, so they followed careful procedures for their equipment, research and finds.
When everyone was finally winding down, she trudged back to her own tent. Peter was working there, which meant that his own was still trashed. He smiled a predatory grin.
"Here have some Tension Tamer." He offered her a cup which she took. He gestured around the tent and to the encampment at large.
"How is it?" he asked.
"It's not so bad. Tina's computer broke; Terry's work is a mess. One of her cameras and the enlarger broke," she answered as she sipped the tea and nodded. "What about your own?" The tea was good, sweet with a generous dollop of honey.
"Dave's workin' on it. We observe the procedures and neither of us have a lot of personal stuff. So it's not too bad." He came and sat on the bed and began to rub her shoulders.
"It could have been a whole lot worse."
"I think I'm gonna turn in," she said to avoid his fingers. "You turn in, too. There'll be lots to do tomorrow." He said goodnight and left, smiling at her with perfectly straight teeth which sparkled a bit in the light of the kerosene lamp. She settled herself on her cot. No use worrying about the disaster that could be waiting at dawn.
###
She walked out of the temple into the silver lit garden and turned to look back. Candles lit the frescoed walls, the stone balustrade, the tiled floor of the dais. The light gave the columns rising to the roof overhead clean, bright edges. All her senses were honed exquisitely fine. A breeze played through the hall and her skin reveled.
His warm breath came at her ear, his low voice rumbling in the center of her chest. "Like a moonbeam she came forth to him out of the house. He looked at her, rejoiced in her, took her in his arms and kissed her."
His presence was palpable even without the whispered chant. She drank it in. Warm lips brushed her shoulder, his breath warmer on her throat. A sharp stab arrowed into her belly from her solar plexus.
Forget the bits and piece of what they knew, she thought excitedly. He was very still again she leaned back slightly so her shoulders touched his chest.
He spoke. Again, it was ritual. His cadence was regular but his inflection made her sex beat hard like her heart. "Spring is at hand, my Lady. I would go with you to my garden. I would go with you to my orchard, I would go with you to my apple tree. There I would plant the sweet, honey-covered seed."
She whispered, "Lion, dear to my heart, goodly is your beauty, honey sweet. You have captivated me, let me stand tremblingly before you." She recognized his poem; her response was from a different poem, but the ritual name fit. And these were the feelings that engendered the ritual. Pottery would never give her this.
He reached out and caught her arms at her sides, holding them lightly. She savored the immediacy of his masculinity. Her clitoris throbbed and swelled. He breathed lightly across her neck. She arched and presented it to him. He accepted, nuzzling her gently, his warmth and breath enveloping her. After a moment, she turned her head and he kissed her lips. She responded tenuously and he pressed harder, demanding full participation. She gave him what he wanted and his right hand released her arm to cup her cheek and chin. A soft coffee breeze surrounded them.
She opened her eyes. Peter eyed her, kneeling beside her cot as he took in her tousled hair, which had escaped its braid, making his lazy way to her legs and back up to smile into her eyes.
She blushed despite herself. He handed her the cup and ran a finger lightly across her neck. "Good morning," he said. His smile leered down at her.
She looked up at him sharply, the hot coffee sloshing over her hand. "I've asked you, Peter to stay out of my tent when I'm sleeping." He smiled.
"Okay, okay. But you really ought to loosen up. You study these people and their whole life was celebrating sex. You'd think --"
She looked at him hard. "That's enough, Peter. Get out of here and get ready." Even if I did it wouldn't be with you, she thought, which reminded her of Lion.
After brief toiletries and a rushed breakfast meeting, they all walked to the dig in the predawn spring morning. This dig was going to make many careers. The site was a Bronze Age artisan enclave dedicated to the Goddess Inanna. It had been destroyed and then covered in ash by the same volcano that had rumbled last night. The tools, stock, finished work, and work in progress were held in stasis for them to release from the ash. It was the discovery of a lifetime -- better than shards at any rate. You could only get so much from the props of lives, writing would be better and she had hopes here.
She stopped in dismay at the scene before her. The whole dig was now just so much scree. She looked down the hill. Debris clogged the base of the hill on which the village had sat. Everyone was making an outcry. She shook off her own anguish and began to issue commands for inspection. She slipped on some loose rock.
"Everyone be careful. There's no telling how unstable the hilltop is now. And there could be aftershocks. You all know the drill."
People spread out, went to work. She divided her time between the disaster downhill and up top. When she sat down to take a break, Peter brought her a thermos of tea. She drank two cups, savoring its honey sweetness as she mused upon this disaster.
Peter stroked her hair. "Don't worry. Everything will work out."
"Stop it, Peter."
The wind blew a lock of her hair past her face. He put up his finger and caught it. "Do you know," he said to her softly, "your hair is so beautiful, Melinda, so long and beautiful. I jerk off at night thinking about it wrapped around the head of my cock, your breasts rubbing on my thighs, your hands around me. I want you, Melinda. I want you so much." He leaned forward to kiss her. She put up her hand to ward off his mouth.
Everything was sharp, clear-edged and bright. Her mouth was dry, her palms sweaty. She had to remain professional. "Peter," she said slowly and calmly. The word seemed to cut the morning, then from now, this moment from that.
"I want to be perfectly clear this time. I do not desire your sexual advances. I consider them inappropriate and unprofessional. Leave me alone or I will ask you to leave the dig. You are excused."
"Ah, Melinda, I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by it. Here," he said holding out the thermos, "have some more tea."
"Please, go away." Because he continued to stare at her, smiling with those big shiny teeth in that oh, so handsome, plastic face, she turned and walked briskly away from him toward what had been the heart of the village. Her hands clenched. She stopped when she got to her own personal section. It was gone. The sculptor's workshop was now a flattened area scarred by the blocks that had slid through it. There was no sign of the fabulous archer she had been uncovering.
"No tears," she commanded herself. "Assess and move on," she told herself. She took several steps and was suddenly falling. She hit hard, the air knocked out of her, and lay gasping for a few moments. When she could breathe again, she rolled over and looked at where she was.
A heavily beamed ceiling with vague swirls of color canted at an angle over her, its columns buckled. The air was sour and musty but a fresh breeze from above was mixing with it. Dim light filtered from above. She stood and rooted through her pack for her flashlight. It was intact and its beam bounced off the jumble. Melinda sucked breath. The room was a mess of overturned braziers, lamps, and skeletons. The walls were painted with exquisite frescoes. The work was Minoan, 2000 BCE or thereabouts.
The wall to the right of a raised dais featured the Mother seated on a chair under a tree of life, her son/consort bending backwards in a classic gesture of worship. The image was framed by a pair of sacred reed knots. A crack ran through the left side from top to bottom. On the other side of the dais, the goddess stood on a mountain flanked by lions.