Thief Of Light Part 21

Without opening his eyes, he said, "You screamed."

A light touch traced his collarbones, soft lips nuzzled the pit of his throat. "You bellowed."

"Did not."

"Did too." A yawn.

Erik opened one eye and chuckled. "It's pretty quiet out there. We've got the place to ourselves, I think. And the wind's dropped."

No reply.

Sweat stung in the scratches on his arms and chest. The rug was rucked up under his a.s.s in p.r.i.c.kly ridges, the floor cold and unyielding. From where he lay, all he need do was turn his head for a clear view of the dust clumps under the couch. A sneeze tickled his nose.

But none of that was important.

Prue McGuire lay sprawled over the top of him, completely limp. Her head was snuggled under his chin, where it fit perfectly. Every so often, a ladylike snuffle escaped her.

Erik's lips curved in a tired smile. How' d I do today on the task You gave me, Horned Lord How' d I do today on the task You gave me, Horned Lord? Great Lady Great Lady? I've been such a busy boy. Swimming with creatures straight out of a fairy tale, making Prue happy, making her come, breaking her heart. Oh, let's not forget the public ridicule, that was . . . interesting. And the excellent performance of a nursery rhyme I've been such a busy boy. Swimming with creatures straight out of a fairy tale, making Prue happy, making her come, breaking her heart. Oh, let's not forget the public ridicule, that was . . . interesting. And the excellent performance of a nursery rhyme.

But of course, They didn't answer. They never did unless it pleased Them and then only in his dreams.

He'd slipped at the end there. f.u.c.k me f.u.c.k me. Luckily, it had made no difference because that's where they'd been headed anyway. Wistfully, he relived the moments she'd writhed beneath him, the feel of her slim wrists in his grip, the knowledge of her willing helplessness spearing through him. f.u.c.k, it had been sublime, despite the fact it had only been the start of what he could teach her-if she'd trust him. His b.a.l.l.s contracted, his c.o.c.k giving a hard, hungry twitch.

Looked at dispa.s.sionately, f.u.c.king Prue McGuire had still been the best s.e.x of his life, the very best. Why was that? She'd been hot and sweet, nowhere near as conventional as he'd expected, but she wasn't the most experienced woman he'd had, not by a long way.

How pretty she'd look, bound in silken ropes while he painted her lush t.i.ts with strokes of his tongue. His breath came a little faster. The taut, pale curves of her b.u.t.tocks begged for the flat of his hand. Perhaps she'd defy him so he'd have no choice but to put her over his knee. A rueful grin quirked his lips. She'd be good at defiance, his Prue. Not too much, he'd get it just right, enough to warm, make her tingle, have her wet and pleading. He knew beyond any doubt her skin would color delightfully.

Ah, she'd love it.

Perhaps he could talk her into it-slowly, softly. She was already part of the way there, sleeping trustfully in his arms. He stroked a wayward curl with his forefinger, drawing the sweet smell of her deep into his lungs. But all she'd given him was her body. Despite the way she confronted life head-on, she was too frightened to risk more. Lord's b.a.l.l.s, human existence was complicated. After whatever it was that b.a.s.t.a.r.d had done to her . . . Erik's fists clenched.

Prue murmured into his skin, her breath warm and moist. Her palm slipped over his chest, her fingers brus.h.i.+ng over the talisman on its chain. Erik drew his fingertips along her spine, feeling the b.u.mps of her vertebrae.

Reaching out a long arm, he snagged the shawl from where it lay on the floor in a tumble of jade silk. As always, he was acutely conscious of his breath, of the steady power of his lungs, pumping. Such a precious commodity, air. He'd nearly died for the lack of it as a boy, more than once.

One-handed, he spread the shawl over Prue's body. There. His other arm was going to sleep and the floor hadn't got any b.l.o.o.d.y softer, but what the h.e.l.l-he'd pay the price, be her mattress for a while, keep her warm and safe.

She sighed in her sleep and her fingers curled loosely over the talisman.

Everything has a cost, the Horned Lord had said, all those years ago. And then He'd reached up into the vast antlers branching above His head. Snap! Snap!

At the brutal sound, Erik had flinched and fallen to his knees. He knew he was dead. He had to be. Lungspasm was an evil thing. No healer had the cure, not even the Technomages with all their Science. Only seventeen and his lungs had squeezed tight shut. No amount of gasping, of hideous, frantic struggling, would pry them open again. He'd been able to feel feel the life leaking out of him with the last trickle of air. Even now, he shuddered at the memory. The pain had been blinding, incredible, the terror all-encompa.s.sing. the life leaking out of him with the last trickle of air. Even now, he shuddered at the memory. The pain had been blinding, incredible, the terror all-encompa.s.sing.

Poor Ma. If he glanced over his shoulder, he could see her down there at the bedside, shaking his unresponsive body, weeping, crying out. "Erik! Erik! Erik!" His heart ached for her.

Are you listening to Me, boy? A mountain might speak like that, in a vast, subterranean rumble. When the G.o.d had called to him from down that long, bright tunnel, his soul had risen from his body and followed like an eager puppy.

Erik bowed his head. "Yes, Lord."

We have work for you to do, My Lady and I.

"Yes, Lord." He risked a sidelong glance, but it was like looking into the sun. His eyes teared.

An inquiring breeze caressed his cheek, a drift of dark, exquisite perfume. In the frozen deeps of s.p.a.ce, the stars danced in their cold beds. Another vast presence.

So young, She murmured. So strong. Are you strong enough, Erik? So strong. Are you strong enough, Erik?

Oh, the feminine, velvet beauty of that voice! Erik hardened, he couldn't help it. "I-I don't know, my Lady."

Ah, the hot blood of youth. But She didn't sound displeased.

Somewhere far off, he could hear the rus.h.i.+ng of a mighty wind. Erik licked his lips. "What . . . what would You have me do?"

An interminable pause, during which he imagined the G.o.ds exchanging glances, or speaking mind to mind-or living a hundred lifetimes. Who knew? Every cell in his body vibrated with awe and terror. His teeth chattered so hard, he had to clench them together.

At last, the Lady said, gently enough, We cannot tell you without altering the Pattern We cannot tell you without altering the Pattern.

The storm drew closer, turbulence plucking at Erik's hair, pus.h.i.+ng against his body. Pattern? What Pattern?

If you fail in this service, said the Lord, your death will be fodder for something foul. It will be interminable your death will be fodder for something foul. It will be interminable. A huge arm gestured at the shabby bedchamber. In comparison, this end is clean and good In comparison, this end is clean and good. You are well mourned. You are well mourned.

Involuntarily, Erik looked for Ma, but the room had grown small and blurry, as if viewed down the wrong end of a spygla.s.s. He squinted. His mother had thrown herself over his long frame, gut-wrenching sobs racking her body. Carl was standing by the bed, clutching his limp hand. G.o.ds, was he crying crying, his h.e.l.lion of a little brother? Where were Pieter and Lars? Oh there, with the healer, their backs pressed to the wall, their cheeks tear-stained.

We will give you your life, together with a gift, said the Horned Lord. A weapon, a tool, a pleasure. A curse. Up to you. A weapon, a tool, a pleasure. A curse. Up to you.

The air swirled, the pitch of the wind rising to an eldritch shriek. Ominous gray purple clouds filled the tunnel, obscuring the bedchamber. They roiled with lightning.

Quickly! urged the Lady. Decide Decide.

22.

"I want to live," said Erik.

Of course. The Lord chuckled, though there was little humor in it. Everyone does. Even Death Everyone does. Even Death.

Erik was still puzzling over that one when the Lord tossed him a small object. Automatically, he caught it.

A gleaming fragment of horn, intricately whorled and scored with fluting patterns. So beautiful. Erik's gaze flew to the deity. He winced, putting up a hand to s.h.i.+eld his eyes. "My Lord!"

Look carefully, said the G.o.d dryly. And remember that we all pay And remember that we all pay.

Dark blood flowed freely from the horn. Glowing like liquid fire, it covered Erik's palm, dripped over his wrist. A G.o.d's blood. His mouth fell open. "But-"

The Lady's huge, star-dappled hand closed around the back of his neck and jerked him forward. Helpless, Erik hung in Her grasp, his eyes clamped shut in terror. Soft lips touched his, the caress a torment so pleasurable it burned like fire and ice. A gust of sweet breath blew down his throat-summer and s.e.x, gra.s.s with the sap rising, flowers and the smell of rainbows.

When She dropped him, a storm picked him up and whirled him about, light as a dried leaf. It beat at his senses, punched him hard in the chest with a battering ram of air. Coughing, he opened his eyes, his mother's startled face inches from his own.

Beneath the covers, the seventeen-year-old Erik clenched his fist over the G.o.d's talisman.

In the dressing room under the Royal Theater, Erik laid his fingers over Prue's as she curled them over it.

How long would it be before he'd slip again? His track record with Prue wasn't exactly stellar. To make it worse, she was becoming temptingly susceptible to his control. Muzzling the Voice tonight had required the most severe exercise of his will. What the h.e.l.l was it about Prue McGuire that clawed at his soul, slicing his self-discipline to tattered ribbons? Was it the challenge of her? Or the comfort?

If he was vigilant, censoring every word that came out of his mouth, he might manage it for months, possibly a year or so. But no spontaneity, none of the joy of loving freely and well. He'd never had that, but G.o.dsdammit, until he'd glimpsed it, he hadn't realized the loss of that bright possibility would be so piercing.

The Voice came from somewhere so deeply hooked into his masculinity, it was woven all around what it was to be a man-to be Erik Th.o.r.ensen. Inevitably, it would happen, sooner or later, the end of anything real. The keener his desire, the greater the risk.

f.u.c.k, he couldn't bear it!

Erik wrapped both arms around Prue, holding her close, aching as if he'd been in a tavern brawl. Her compact body was so warm, her soft breath a balm against his skin. He rubbed his burning eyes. Just a little longer and he'd take her home to The Garden.As the skiff pa.s.sed beneath the delicate arch of the Bridge of Amours, the Necromancer caught sight of his servant waiting at the small water stair behind The Garden, as ordered. Springing forward, Nasake offered a steadying arm as the Necromancer climbed from the small craft. His master safely delivered to the top of the stairs, he ran back down the stairs, fumbling at his belt pouch.

"Wait," said the Necromancer. He detested waste. Especially when it came to money. Catching the skiffman's eye, he smiled. "Thank you, my friend."

As he spoke, he reached into the other man's mind and smeared his memory with a spectral thumb. Unfortunately, the Necromancer didn't have time for finesse, so the skiffman would likely find he was missing an entire day. Or two.

His eyes blank, the skiffman nodded. Leaning forward, he rested his head against the pole and drifted away under the Bridge of Amours and around the bend in the ca.n.a.l.

The Necromancer turned to survey the pretty pavilion situated next to the water. "This it?" A narrow, shady path meandered away around the perimeter of the Leaf in the general direction of the bridge.

"Yes, Master. Clouds and Rain it's called. The farthest from the Main Pavilion."

"And you hired it for how long?"

"All morning, Master. As you instructed."

Nasake's tongue crept out to flick his lips. "Last year, there was a murder inside. The pavilion's still not popular, though they gutted it. Everything's new."

The Necromancer c.o.c.ked a brow. "You felt traces?"

"Oh yes. There was . . . blood."

"Hmm." Violent death. Good. Every little bit helped. The Necromancer's lips curved with satisfaction. He could have had Nasake set up the meeting anywhere, but this little-used pavilion at the far end of The Garden? A stroke of genius. Moreover, it amused him to plot the witch-wh.o.r.e's destruction right under her pert little nose.

Nasake ushered him through a latticed gate and into a private courtyard.

"The a.s.sa.s.sin?"

"Five minutes."

The Necromancer's eye fell on a half-grown mongrel dog tethered to a purplemist tree that shaded the small s.p.a.ce with an umbrella cloud of lilac. "What's this?"

At the sound of his voice, the dog squatted and peed. Its eyes rolled so far the whites showed.

Nasake's already pasty face went gray. "Master, you said a dog would do if I couldn't get a child. I . . . uh . . . There was so little . . ."

The Necromancer raised a hand and the manservant froze. "I'll deal with you later. I trust the a.s.sa.s.sin is more satisfactory?"

"Oh yes, n.o.blelord. She's skilled with poison. With the budget you gave me, the Guild Master said-"

"It's a woman? Oh, never mind."

A dog dog? It wasn't going to be as good, G.o.dsdammit. As he glared, the mongrel lifted a leg and scratched behind one flop ear. Disgusting creature. Full of bitemes, no doubt. With any luck, he'd be strong enough to do without it. Crossly, he stumped into the pavilion.

Nasake had everything in place, including an easy chair and a footstool. All the furnis.h.i.+ngs were elegant, gray or silver, with touches of lavender. The comforter on the bed looked as plump and soft as a cloud. A low table inlaid with light wood bore a tray piled high with sweetmeats, a tisane pot and cups, and a flask of spiced wine. The Necromancer's lip curled. By Shaitan, did the man think he was made of money?

"What's all this for?" he asked coldly.

"For her, n.o.blelord. Mehcredi the a.s.sa.s.sin. She likes fine food."

From outside came the sound of a heavy tread on the gravel of the path. With his usual efficiency, Nasake thrust the dog into the room and disappeared.

The Necromancer skewered the mongrel with an angry glare. "Sit." The animal collapsed, flat to the floor, as if every bone in its body had crumbled to dust.

Silently, the door swung open. The a.s.sa.s.sin would be waiting on the other side, a.s.sessing the situation. They were all trained like that. Much good would it do her.

Pulling in a breath, the Necromancer donned the cloak of his Dark Arts. "Enter," he called, his tone light and colorless.

A shadow darkened the doorway. When Mehcredi the a.s.sa.s.sin ducked her head and stepped inside, the Necromancer was hard put not to laugh aloud. The woman was broad shouldered, taller than most men. The many layers of clothing she wore exaggerated the bulky effect. She was so winter pale she had to be from the ice fields in the frozen north. A barbarian.

Her silver gaze scanned the pavilion and collided with his. The Necromancer wouldn't have thought it possible, but her ivory skin went a shade paler. Her mouth falling open, she stared into the darkness beneath his hood. "Take care, a.s.sa.s.sin," he said bitingly. "Curiosity shortens the life. Shut the door and sit. As you see, I have provided for you."

The woman blinked, taking in the pastries with their gleaming, sugared fruits, the small pies stuffed with savory meat. She swallowed.

The Necromancer waved a hand, enjoying himself. "The chairs are too flimsy. Take the bed."

As her rump made the mattress dip, Mehcredi said, "Who are you?"

"A client," said the Necromancer. "But I'm sure you're not supposed to ask that. Refreshments?"

The a.s.sa.s.sin shot a glance at the tray, but she didn't move.

"Here." He propelled the dog forward with a boot to its bony backside. "The food is safe, but you may use this if you are nervous." Although its tail was clamped between its legs, the animal's nose quivered as it raised its head. Beneath the scruffy fur, every rib showed. The Necromancer could have counted them had he been so inclined.

Mehcredi broke off a piece of noodle cake and dropped it on the floor. Inching forward on its belly, the dog stretched out its neck and s.n.a.t.c.hed. It fixed hopeful eyes on the a.s.sa.s.sin's face.

Watching the dog, the woman said, "What's the job?" She lobbed another morsel in the animal's direction. A pink tongue snaked out and licked it up.

"A singer. Erik the Golden, they call him."

A startled silver gaze flew toward him and skittered away again. "The crazy one?" she said. "Everyone's talking about him. The seelie man." She bit the side of her thumb, thinking about it. Under the lacquered windowsill, the water of the ca.n.a.l chuckled as it lapped along the garden wall. "Might cost more." Another sidelong glance.

Soundlessly, the Necromancer laughed and watched her rub the goose b.u.mps on her neck. "Indeed?" he said, genuinely amused. "What makes you think you're worth it? Are you a Master a.s.sa.s.sin, perhaps?"