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by Mia Watts
Category: Erotica/Gay-Lesbian Erotica/Dark Fantasy
Description: The mystical Portal of the Gods transports Flynn Chula, shifter and descendant of the Cahokia Indians, six hundred years in the past. Right into a tribal feud between Amaro and Koda, warriors of the empire. While Flynn finds his new circumstances impossible, Amaro and Koda know exactly what to do. Their culture dictates that shifters have to be tested, proving their place among the people--as priests. Only one high priest can rule the empire at a time, but the current apprentice reigns with blood sacrifice and fear. As the sexual preparations begin, Koda and Amaro do their duty to rid him of any possible heterosexual leanings...by giving themselves to him wholly. Flynn, who's never wanted a woman in his life, can't believe his luck. Two hunky men can't get enough of him, and they're eager to learn all the tricks. When the blood priest discovers the plot to overthrow him, will Flynn, Koda, and Amaro escape alive, or will more than blood be lost on the altar?
eBook Publisher: Resplendence Publishing, LLC, 2011 March
eBookwise Release Date: April 2011
7 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [128 KB]
Reading time: 74-104 min.
"If you look out the van windows on the left, you'll see a ring of wooden planks sticking out of the ground. That's Woodhenge." The tour guide bubbled with the enthusiasm of an eighteen year old hopped up on caffeine, which she probably was, given the size of her travel coffee mug. And the unblinking stare.
Dead give-away, Flynn Chula thought.
The modified cargo van stopped almost immediately, between white parking lines. Weathered wood stood like stoic columns on his right. Behind them, traffic whizzed by on Collinsville Road, a modern day snub to the historical landmarks. Flynn shook his head. The scene was as sad as the weather. The clouds leaked sullenly like dirty, saturated cotton balls.
This is the extent of my family lineage? This? A half-devastated burial mound sliced by the Illinois Department of Transportation "go west" mantra next to a forgotten ceremonial circle?
They were urged from the vehicle to huddle in the grimy parking lot. Flynn turned, taking in the scope of what his mighty people had become. The proud Cahokia, a thriving civilization which had been larger than industrial London and disappeared before Columbus ever put foot on American soil, had been reduced to brown historical markers beside a freeway.
He trailed, last in line, toward The Mound, auspiciously labeled Mound 44. In the distance was one of the largest remaining vestiges of the ancient people, Monk's Mound. Underneath all that dirt, either rested more dirt or one of the long forgotten burial mounds filled with artifacts, the remains of a wealthy man and as many virgins as he could afford to have buried alive with him.
"Archeologists are set to dig on this site in the next few months. Measures are being taken to preserve the retrieved items in a local museum restoration chamber," the peppy girl-child harped.
"Why not leave it alone? Haven't their graves been desecrated enough?" Flynn muttered under his breath.
"Once this area had thousands of mounds, but as America was populated and land claimed, many of the mounds were leveled to make way for roads, farms, and small towns." The bubblegum solemnity of her wide, blue eyes didn't come close to feigning regret. "They're lost to us forever. That's why the historical society mission is to preserve the pieces of our history that still remain."
Our? There was nothing native in the girl's appearance. Certainly there'd been enough generations to pass along a host of recessive genes, but Flynn doubted her ancestors had ever coupled with a heathen. Hell, even he didn't look Native American, he reasoned. But here he was, one of the few remaining Cahokia Indians, a remnant shape shifter, checking out the history of the people he'd never known. Legends passed down through the generations, and a childhood fieldtrip to this spot with his dad, were all he had to work with.
That and the National Geographic article released in January of this year, which reminded him he had a history. As a kid, he hadn't been interested in some grassy hills and hunks of wood sticking out of the ground. The only memory he took of that day, was the creepy man who'd tried to coax him away from his father's side with candy.
Now, two months after that January article, his research into the Cahokia people had come to a dead end without so much as a match-flame of insight into how they'd disappeared, or any clarity on the stories he'd been told as a child. The stories he'd been told never to forget.
It'd been a strange youth of Little Bo Peep, The Gingerbread Man, and tales of human sacrifice to appease the gods. It hadn't been until later he found out that they'd mashed together in his memory and not every fairy tale ended with human massacre. It had been a relief to discover not all young children grew up with those images.
Flynn's father barely remembered the tales, but they'd been passed along like vaguely unfinished whispers, skipping some generations, drawn forth by aged grandparents who remembered "something from somewhere". Then their eyes would drift to faraway places as they dredged up nearly forgotten stories to pass along until it reached family who could shift forms. Trying to make sense of childhood memories they were the keepers of, as they reviewed Cahokia myth through the sketchy map-work of age.
It had seemed like an entire youth of solid American life with the oddly placed shadow of the unknown. Flynn's dark auburn hair certainly hadn't come from ancient Native American ancestry, nor had his green eyes and pale skin. Yet there was "something", and it echoed the two-syllable word in the emptiness of his understanding. As though memories could be inherited, yet had been diluted with time and mixed ancestry.
Flynn blinked past the vagueness, seeing wooden posts and mud-slicked rectangular mounds on either side of Tour Guide Barbie. She brought the absurdity screeching home-- her commercialism, her high-gloss look--amidst the silent whispers of the Cahokia. It was a mockery.
At least her mockery was plain to see. His blended in with the earth-tones, the pat of rain on pavement, mud the color of his hair and grass the color of his eyes. Flynn couldn't explain it, but he felt he'd insulted this holy land more than the four lane highway impinging on Monk's Mound.
Tour Guide Barbie wasn't supposed to know the emotional significance of where she stood. When the tour ended, she'd drive off and leave this place. Flynn, on the other hand, carried the blood of warriors, dead more than six hundred years. He was supposed to know. The shadow of incomplete tales murmured its garbled message, and he didn't speak the language. But he was supposed to, and the land knew it, shamed him for not grasping his own heritage.
Barbie led them around the smallish Woodhenge, walking on toward Mound 44. Flynn lagged behind, slipping through the planks to stand at the very center of the monument. Tipping his head back he looked up at the sky as droplets kissed his cheeks and forehead. He closed his eyes, wondering what this place had been like hundreds of years ago, in its prime.
The pitter pat of rain came faster, striking the planes of his face, the ancient angles he still shared with these lost people one of the few testaments of his lineage. The Cahokia were a mystery. Dead and gone with nothing more than pottery shards to guide the archeologists on their search for information. To the few like Flynn, the history was reverential, buried in sacred soil and recalled around the family table.
The clouds rumbled with displeasure and lit from within, detailing the smoky hues of the weather system. The tour group had moved away, their voices muffled by the solid dirt wall of Mound 44.
Flynn opened his eyes and whispered to the sky. "I want to know."
Lightning arced through the sky, forking from three different sources. The ground beneath his feet jumped with static electricity, raising the hairs on his legs. A loud crack dumbed his senses. Darkness spilled its ink over his mind. He was left with nothing but the smell of charred earth.