Page 102 of The King is Dead
He raises her up
He raises His daughter
She is His prize.
Who sees her? Who sees her?
Listen now, and watch…
Hear now, and see.
The daughter of the Most High comes
She brings his blessing.
She brings his strength.
Woe to the man who does not see
the gold and precious stones of she.
Take heed. Take heed.
She comes, walking in the shadow of God…
As they began another repetition of the whole song, my heart pounded in time with those heady drums. Then I finally caught sight of Yilan—just the dark gloss of her hair, her eyes lined and closed as she swayed in the inner circle, closer to the flames. The two lines of women met and began to weave in and out of each other, around the bonfire.
The drums beat in my head now, a rhythm the likes of which I had never heard before. Suddenly, the circles were complete and moving together, the women swaying and their bodies rippling. Calls and song rose from the older women in the crowd around me.
The tension and anticipation of the men around me was palpable. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
Then their deep voices rose, singing back—but instead of words, the bass, baritone, and tenor of the Shadekin males rose and fell in a deeply masculine, almost animalistic rhythm of grunts and huffs— spurring the women on.
Broad chests and dark throats lifting song without words.
Hungh-ah, hungh-ah, hungh-ah…
My skin prickled. There was something inherently sexual about the noises the men made, yet none of them moved except to lean in, inching closer, closing their circle to hem in the women around the fire so that they couldn’t leave without passing through the crowd.
Then those unbroken lines of women, the central circles around the fire, turned and swayed back in the opposite direction. Yilan was there, at the center, right in front of the flames that glowed behind her, sparking on her hair and haloing her silhouette in light.
It seemed every man inhaled and held his breath.
My jaw went slack as my eyes adjusted, and the women around Yilan parted just enough for me to finally see her form.
I had no idea what she was wearing, only that she was the only woman not draped in thin, billowing white. But instead, the fire glowed on her skin, its light flickering on the red fabric that hugged her body, making it look as if it were made of the flames.
As she moved and turned, her hair falling over her face, I saw glimpses of her skin, and my eyes flickered on moments when it seemed like I caught hints of her body under the fabric. But as quickly as the impression would land, it was already gone.
I was stunned senseless, unable to do anything but stand there, gaping at her.
She moved like a cat—or a serpent—hips and shoulders rolling, her hair drifting over her shoulders, falling forward when her chin dropped, then back like a velvet curtain when she raised it. As she lifted her hands and began to writhe, I was reminded of that night I’d caught her dancing in my tent. Only that night she’d seemed preoccupied, her movements small.
Tonight, while she undulated in the same, seemingly boneless ripple, there was far more intention behind her movements. A choreographed story she was telling with her body.
At some point I became aware that some of the other women moved in time with her. Many that had approached the fire with her had since fallen out of the lines, shuffling back to stand in rows between the gathered men and the flames, leaving a group in the middle—more than a dozen—still moving and dancing together.
I recognized Diadre right next to Yilan. But my eyes couldn’t leave my mate for more than a second. I was growing hard just watching her move. I had to swallow a growl, because I could feel the sexual tension in the clearing rising as the men watched thewomen dancing. Salivating, hungry, the men watched. Not just Yilan. But I had eyes only for my mate.
