Feillor: God of Lammas: Sons of Herne, #6

By J. Rose Allister

Your next book boyfriend should be a god!

Trapped in the last place he wanted to be…he would find the only thing he ever wanted.

Feillor, god of Lammas, is preparing to bring in the first harvest for his sabbat ritual, a task that has grown more deplorable now that humans no longer demonstrate respect for the old ways. He raises his scythe and nearly “harvests” a beautiful woman who appears out of nowhere. Sensing the Fates’ meddling hand in her sudden arrival, he demands that they return Salina to earth. The Fates agree on one condition: he must go with her and stay in the mortal realm for three days.

Salina has no intention of letting a local developer destroy the precious woods where she conducts her most sacred pagan rituals. Her prayer for guidance is interrupted when she is taken to the immortal world—almost straight into the blade of a horned god’s scythe. She thought her prayers to Herne were being answered, but she learns that Feillor is actually Herne’s son, and that he has little interest in the matters of humans. When he is zapped to Earth with her for three days, she decides to convince him that her cause is worth fighting for—and that not all humans deserve his scorn.

Feillor discovers much in his time with Salina, whose fiery beauty and passion for her cause—as well as for challenging his ideals—stirs something in him that he hadn’t felt for far too long. Admitting the truth about his view on humans could open his heart to the witch who is quickly enchanting him. But between the danger she finds herself in and the Fates returning him to his realm at the exact wrong moment, his epiphany alone won’t be enough to see her in his arms at last. He will have to use his power to act in the best interests of the race he had given up on.

About the Sons of Herne series:

The god Herne has appointed eight of his most virile, headstrong sons as keepers of the pagan holidays. To honor their sabbat, each must join with a mortal female in a ritual to maintain the balance between worlds.

It is the year of The Thousand Seasons, and the Fates have secretly conspired to mark the end of an era by granting the gods one thing they lack--a true union of male and female that will last well beyond the fleeting passion of a sabbat joining.

Herne’s sons will wrestle with the conflict between sacred duty and their own yearnings, a struggle that will not only challenge their beliefs, but may threaten the success of rituals that must be observed lest the realms of mortal and immortal collide in chaos.

This is Book 6 of the Sons of Herne series.  Although the tales can be read as standalone romance, there is an overall plot arc that is best served by reading them in order. This series features pagan sex rituals, so if you prefer your romance sweet and behind closed doors, this one's not for you!

The series books in order:

1. Dominus: God of Yule (free)
2. Eradimus: God of Imbolc (subscriber exclusive)
3. Tallisun: God of Ostara
4. Jorandil: God of Beltane
5. Devinar: God of Litha
6. Feillor: God of Lammas
7. Anduron: God of Mabon
8. Archipellus: God of Samhain

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Rose Allister
• Release date: Jul 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533747938

Book preview

List of the Pagan Sabbats

WHILE THE RITUALS AND situations created for this series are purely fiction, they are based on actual holidays observed by a number of pagan paths. The eight pagan sabbats take place on or between an equinox or solstice. Dates vary based on the sun and hemisphere. Some pagans consider Yule the beginning of their year, while others begin with Samhain. For the purpose of this series, I used the Northern Hemisphere and Yule as the starting point.

Yule

(Dec 20-23) Winter Solstice, longest night of the year. A celebration of the rebirth of the sun, as the days will now get longer. Yule logs, wassail, and mistletoe are traditional, as is the holly king, who some believe is part of the Santa Claus legend.

Imbolc

(Feb 1-2) Also called Candlemas or St. Brighid’s Day. A time when ewes bring forth lambs, meaning spring is coming. Sacred to the goddess Brighid. Candles, St. Brighid crosses, and priapic wands are common associations.

Ostara

(Mar 20-23) During the Spring Equinox. Sacred to Eostre, lunar goddess. Spring has arrived, and new life is celebrated. Eggs, rabbits and flowers are traditional.

Beltane

(Apr 30-May 1) A sabbat honoring fertility. Summer arrives, when the god and goddess consummate their union and conceive life. Dancing around the maypole, bonfires, handfastings, and sexual revelry are common traditions.

Litha

(Jun 20-22) Summer Solstice or Midsummer. Longest day of the year. Said to be a time of high magic, especially among fairy lore. (Remember A Midsummer Night’s Dream?) The sun is at its strongest, but will weaken as it gives way to the darker half of the year.

Lammas

(Jul 31-Aug 1) Also called Lughnasadh, after the god Lugh (pronounced: Loo). The first of three harvest sabbats, it is a time to begin reaping what has been sown. Baking bread, corn dolls, and wheat are common traditions and symbols.

Mabon

(Sep 21-23) Fall Equinox. The pagan thanksgiving and second harvest sabbat. Crops are almost fully gathered now, many of which have been stored and turned into ciders, jams, and other goods. Named for the god Mabon, known for freeing captives.

Samhain

(Oct 31) Halloween/All Hallows. Summer is gone and dark days approach. The veil between worlds is thin, meaning spirits of departed souls may cross over/communicate. Apples, black cats, Jack-o-Lanterns, and brooms are common.

FEILLOR: GOD OF LAMMAS

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THE DANGER IS REAL and upon you, Shango said, scratching at his arms while he trailed Feillor through the field. The last thing you should be worrying about is cutting wheat.

Wheat is precisely what I should be worrying about, Feillor replied, swinging the scythe for a test run. The sharp arc of the blade whooshed through the warm summer air, slicing neatly through a segment of tall, golden stalks that were separate from the rest. I am a harvest god, after all. And you are distracting me from a sacred task.

Although no longer at its apex, the waning sun poured potent energy over the fields of Avinar, driving sweat from Feillor’s pores. Beads of perspiration ran in rivulets down his chest while his broad muscles flexed with the effort of harvest. The warmth and labor pleased him, as it did whenever he worked the fields. He paused for a moment to look out over the bountiful crop. Wide heads of grain bowed to the god, waving in a gentle breeze. There was a bumper crop this year, and he had much work ahead.

With all due respect, Lord Feillor, it is my sworn duty to serve Lammas, Shango said. And that includes seeing to the best interest of the sabbat keeper. I only wish to aid you.

Feillor gazed down at the acolyte and rested the handle of the scythe on his shoulder. Shango stood a head shorter than Feillor even before bowing in a posture of respect. Yes, you are assigned to aid me, not trail after my every step. You are like an old nanny wringing her hands in fear that her charge will run in front of a carriage. He eyed the young man, who was clawing his arm with brisk fury. Should you even be out here, Shango? Are you not allergic to the fields?

Welts were rising, and the acolyte scratched at the red streaks. A by-product of my human mother’s genetics, I’m afraid. This should tell you how determined I am. You must be wary of becoming the next victim in the Fates’ ploy to undermine the sabbat gods.

Your dedication is noted. But your place is at the Counsel of Sabbats, not in the fields. No doubt Counselor Munsola is shouting your name in the halls, wanting to burden you with some task he will later claim credit for himself.

Shango stood his ground. What of my dream that you would leave the realm because of your sabbat maiden? What do you make of that?

Yes, your dreams. Quite troublesome. Feillor regarded him with his most serious expression. I make of it that you should not indulge in Andurian wine so close to bedtime.

But, my lord...

Feillor held up a hand. Enough. I have no plans to leave the realm or my calling. And for someone who is so insistent that I fulfill my duty as a sabbat god, I should think you would not continue interrupting me from doing so.

Shango opened his mouth, but a small shake from the god’s head stopped him.

You obey me at last, Feillor said. I have heard your concerns. Little else from you, actually, since Jorandil sacrificed his wings for his Beltane lover. But fear not, for I do not have wings like my angel brother. He reached up and grasped one of the protrusions from his head. I have horns.

I always thought of them as more of antlers, what with the branches.

But they do not shed as my father’s once did. And I would rather cut them from my skull than run away with some human. Now, off with you before you have scratched the remaining skin from your limbs. If it will make you feel any better, I will blindfold myself and wear a veil pendant for the sabbat ritual. That way, the maiden and I shall not even see each other.

Jorandil was hidden from his maiden’s sight.

Jorandil was obsessed with the notion of bedding an earth female who would share his passion. I have no such inclination. Humans have not only abandoned the old ways, but they no longer have any care for the balance of nature. There was an edge to his words that was as sharply honed as his scythe. Their lack of regard alone would be enough for me to steer clear, were it not necessary to join with a mortal to complete the ritual of first harvest.

Shango bowed. As you say, my lord and my god.

Feillor caught the brief flicker in the man’s dark eyes. I mean no disrespect to you, of course, when I speak of humans. Or to your mother.

Shango nodded. Of course.

As he shuffled off through the fields, a surge of guilt beat down on Feillor like the afternoon sun. He should have held his tongue on the matter of humans, but Shango had a knack for flitting around his head like a buzzing insect who could not be easily batted away. Still, the acolyte was dedicated to the service of the sabbats, and he did not deserve Feillor’s scathing view of the human race.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly helped ease the tension from the exchange, but not as much as he would have liked. Much as Shango feared otherwise, the fate of Feillor’s brothers had not escaped him. It was something he had discussed at length with the closest of his kin, his twin brother, Anduron. The two harvest gods had no wish to be consumed by the Fates’ latest trickery. A particularly potent wave of passion had been unleashed at Yule, sweeping every sabbat keeper off his feet during his ritual. It was said that the Fates had orchestrated the entire thing. Anduron had pointed out that of all eight brothers overseeing the pagan rites, he and Feillor had the greatest reason for concern. As part of their duties, each was required to engage the Fates directly. In Feillor’s case, that would be today, when he presented the first grain for their blessing.

Feillor had only been half kidding when he’d told his aide that he would blindfold himself for the sabbat. Indeed, he would poke his own eyes out if that’s what it took to avoid the fate of his brothers. But then, the very idea of joining himself to a human outside of ritual was ludicrous. His head was not so easily turned, and sharing Shango’s paranoia would serve no purpose other than to interfere with his duties.

For all its startling side effects, the year of the Thousand Seasons had brought forth a most bountiful harvest. With the proper observance and thanks, the abundance might last through several seasons to come. His observance began here and now, with the gathering of the first grain. The ritual had been disrupted by his acolyte, but he would simply begin again.

He lifted the scythe from his shoulder and pointed it straight upward. While not in and of itself the sacred sabbat artifact, he considered the scythe a holy implement, that which would cut the first sheaves of harvest.

"Sha-do ram, yo shai a lara Lammas, he chanted up to the sky. The god of Lammas comes with his scythe to reap the first of the year’s bounty. I give thanks for the golden grain and claim its boons for the nourishment of all."

A breeze stirred in reply, along with a shimmer in the air that appeared like a mirage, rippling in glimmers that skimmed the laden grain tops. It was an odd phenomenon, but one which he took as a good omen. He hoisted the scythe, preparing to take it in a wide arc to slice the stalks. The ripple widened, and as he glanced down to hone in on his target, a flash of light hit. He pulled away just in time to narrowly miss the large object that had appeared in the blade’s path.

Feillor took a staggering step backward, thrown off balance by his last-minute change of course. It was a woman, naked and on her knees