A Kiss of Shadows mg-1

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  I worked the silk of the nightshirt out from under my back, then pulled it over my body, over my head. I raised up, sitting above him. That dark knowledge in his eyes was gone, chased away by sheer need. It was so raw on his face, I knew I'd taken the game too far. I held the nightshirt in front of my breasts, not sure how to apologize without making things more awkward than they already were.

  "No," he said, "don't cover them. You surprised me, that's all."

  "No, Doyle. We can't finish this, and for you, especially... I'm sorry." I started to slip the shirt back on.

  His fingers tightened painfully around my thighs, fingertips digging into the skin. He made me gasp and look at him with the shirt only on my arms

  His voice was dark with command, a barely contained rage that made his eyes shine like black jewels. "No!"

  That one word froze me where I was, left me staring down at him with wide eyes and my heart beating like a trapped thing in my throat.

  "No," he said, voice only a breath less severe, "no, I want to see them. I'm going to make you writhe, my princess, and I want to watch your body while I do it."

  I let the shirt fall to the bed and sat up, as close to him as I could get. His grip on my thighs had passed the point of pleasure and become simply pain, but that, too, under the right set of circumstances, was a kind of pleasure.

  His fingers eased back just a little, and I saw that he'd left the marks of his fingernails in my thighs. The little half-moon marks filled with blood as I watched.

  He started to move his hands out from under my thighs, but I shook my head no. "You're down there, and I'm up here, remember."

  He didn't argue, just settled his hands back around my thighs, not hurting this time, just solid enough that I couldn't move away. I ran my hands over my stomach, upward to cup my breasts, then lay down propped against the pillows so he could see me.

  He stared at me for long seconds, as if he'd memorize the way my body lay among the dark-colored pillows, then his mouth settled against the wound. He licked it with thick, slow movements of his tongue. Then his mouth locked over the wound and he began to suck. He drew on the skin so tightly that it hurt, as if he were sucking some deep poison out or the wound.

  The pain raised me up, and he rolled his eyes to me full of that dark knowledge that he hadn't earned. I laid back against the bed with the pressure of his mouth on my thigh, his strong fingers digging into my thighs hard enough that I knew tomorrow I'd be bruised. My skin ha started to glow, glimmering in the soft bedroom light.

  I stared down at him, but his eyes were turned downward, concentrating on his work. The warmth began to grow under the pressure of his mouth, to fill the wound like warm water poured down the hole in my skin.

  Doyle began to glow. His bare skin shone like moonlight on a puddle of water at night. Except this moonlight was coming from inside him to shimmer in black shapes of light and dark underneath his skin.

  The warmth of the healing beat against my thigh like a second pulse. His mouth locked against me, pulling at that pulse, as if he'd suck me clean and empty. A warmth grew in the center of my body, and I realized that it was my own power, but it had never been like this before.

  The warmth in my thigh and the warmth in my body grew outward like two pools of heat, out and out, larger and larger until my body was eaten with heat, and my skin glowed white and pure with a dance underneath like water. The two powers flowed against each other, and for a heartbeat Doyle's healing warmth floated on the surface of my heat, then the two powers spilled into one another, merging into one rush of spine-bowing, skin-dancing, body-tightening magic.

  Doyle raised his face up from my thigh. He cried out, "Meredith, no!"

  But it was too late, the power poured through us both in a rush of warmth, of heat, that tightened things low in my body until there was no breath. Then the power spilled outward like a fist flinging open, straining for something it could not grasp. I cried out, and the power flowed out of me in a glow that left shadows in the room from my skin.

  I saw Doyle as if through a haze. He was on his knees. He had one hand up as if to ward off a blow, then the power smashed into him. I saw his head snap back, his body raise high on his knees as if the power had arms to lift him. The dance of moonlight under his skin grew until I could see a nimbus of black light, shining like a dark rainbow around his body. He stayed for an impossible second lifted, straining, a shining thing, so beautiful that you could only cry, or go blind as you watched. Then a scream was torn from his mouth, half of pain, half of pleasure. He sagged onto the bed, catching himself with his arms. That wondrous glow began to fade as if his skin were absorbing the light, sucking it back into the depths from whence it came.

  I sat up, reached for him with a hand that still held a hint of that soft white light.

  He jerked back from me, fell off the bed in his haste, looked over the edge of it at me with wide, frightened eyes. "What have you done?"

  "What's wrong, Doyle?"

  "What's wrong?" He got to his feet, leaning against the wall suddenly as if his legs weren't quite steady. "I am not allowed a sexual release, Meredith. Not by my hand, or anyone else's."

  "I never touched you there."

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. He spoke without looking at me. "Your magic did. It ran through me like a sword." He opened his eyes, stared at me. "Do you understand now what you've done?"

  I finally did. "You're saying that the queen will count this as sex."

  "I never meant for it... My power has never been like this before."

  "Was it like this the night you were with the roane?"

  I thought about that for a moment, then frowned. "Yes, and no. It wasn't exactly like this, but-" I stopped in midsentence and stared at his chest.

  My look must have been astonished, because it made him stare down at himself. "What? What do you see?"

  "Your chest wound, it's gone." My voice was soft with amazement.

  He ran his hands over his chest, searching the skin. "It's healed. I did not do this." He came to the edge of the bed. "Your arms."

  I looked down and saw the claw marks were gone. My arms were healed. I ran my hands over my thighs, and they weren't healed. The nail marks, filled with their small bits of blood; the red marks of his teeth; the press of his mouth that had brought a red stain to my thigh where the wound had been. "Why is everything else healed but these marks?"

  He shook his head. "I don't know."

  I stared up at him. "You said that my initiation into power healed Roane, but what if it's not just that first flush of power. What if it's part of my newfound magic?"

  I watched him try to make sense of it. "It could be, but healing by sex is not a gift of the Unseelie Court."

  "It is of the Seelie Court," I said.

  "You are of their bloodline," he said softly. "I must tell the queen."

  "Tell her what?" I asked.

  "Everything."

  I crawled forward on the bed, still half-naked, reaching for him. He moved out of reach, clutching at the wall as if I'd threatened him. "No, Meredith, no more. The queen may forgive us because it was accidental, and she will be pleased that you have more powers. It may save us, but if you touch me again..." He shook his head. "She will not have pity on us if we come together again this night."

  "I was just going to touch your arm, Doyle. I think we should talk before you go tattling to the queen."

  He moved back to the edge of the wall, just before it turned the corner out of sight. "I have just had the first release in more centuries that you can imagine and you sit there like that..." He shook his head again. "You would just touch my arm, but my self-control is not limitless-we've proven that already. No, Meredith, one touch, and I might fall upon you and do what I've been wanting to do since I saw your breasts trembling above me."

  "I can get dressed," I said.

  "That would be good," he said, "but I am still going to tell her what happened."

 
"What does she do-take a sperm count? We didn't have sex. Why tell her?"

  "She is the Queen of Air and Darkness; she will know. If we do not confess it, and then she finds out, the punishment will be a thousand times worse."

  "Punishment? It was an accident."

  "I know, and that may save us."

  "You are not seriously saying that she will invoke the same penalty for this as if we had made deliberate love?"

  "Death by torture," he said. "I hope not, but she is within her rights to call for it."

  I shook my head. "No, she would not lose you after a thousand years for an accident."

  "I hope not, Princess, I truly hope not." He started around the corner toward the bathroom.

  "Doyle," I called.

  He came back around the corner. "Yes, Princess?"

  "If she tells you that we're going to be executed for this, there is one bright spot."

  He put his head to one side in a birdlike movement, "And that would be?"

  "We can have sex, real sex, flesh into flesh. If we're going to be executed for something, we might as well be guilty of it."

  Emotions chased across his face-again I couldn't read them-then finally a smile. "I never thought I could face my queen with this news and have a divided mind on what I want her to say. You are a tempting thing, Meredith, a thing that a man might trade his life for."

  "I don't want your life, Doyle, just your body."

  That sent him laughing into the bathroom, which was better than crying. I had the nightshirt back on and was tucked under the covers by the time he came back out. He was solemn-faced, but said, "We are not going to be punished. Though she has made some hint that she would like to see you heal with this newfound power."

  "I don't do her little public sex shows," I said.

  "I know that, and so does she, but she is curious about it."

  "Let her be curious. So we aren't going to be executed, either of us?"

  "No," he said.

  "Why don't you look happier?" I asked.

  "I didn't bring a change of clothes."

  It took me a second to realize what he meant. I dug him out a pair of men's silk boxers. They were a little snug through the hips, because he and Roane were not really the same size, but they would fit.

  He took the boxers and went back into the bathroom. I thought he'd be quick and come back out to sleep, but I heard the shower turn on. I finally tossed down some pillows on top of the sleeping bags and turned over to try and sleep. I wasn't sure I would be able to sleep, but Doyle stayed in the bathroom a long time. The last thing I heard before sleep rolled over me was the sound of the blow dryer. I never heard him come out of the bathroom. I simply woke up the next day and he was standing over me with hot tea in one hand and our plane tickets in the other. I didn't know if Doyle had used the sleeping bags, or if he slept at all.

  Chapter 19

  DOYLE GRACIOUSLY LET ME TAKE THE WINDOW SEAT. HE SAT VERY straight in his chair, hands in a death grip on the arms, seat belt buckled. He closed his eyes when the plane took off. Normally, I like watching the ground get farther away, but today watching Doyle turn grey around the edges was much more fun.

  "How can you possibly be afraid of flying?" I asked.

  He kept his eyes closed, but answered me. "I am not afraid of flying. I am afraid of flying in airplanes." His voice sounded very reasonable, as if it all made perfect sense.

  "So you could ride a flying steed and not be afraid?"

  He nodded, finally opening his eyes as the plane leveled off. "I have ridden the beasts of the air many times."

  "So why do planes bother you?"

  He looked at me as if I should have known the answer. "It is the metal, Princess Meredith. I am not comfortable surrounded by so much man-made metal. It acts as a barrier between me and the earth, and I am a creature of the earth."

  "As you said, Doyle, there are benefits to not being pure sidhe. I don't have a problem with metal."

  He looked at me, turning just his head. "You can do major arcana within such a metal tomb?"

  I nodded. "I've never found any magic that I can't perform just as well inside a metal tomb, as I can outside of one."

  "That could be very useful, Princess."

  The flight attendant, a tall leggy blonde wearing nearly perfect makeup, paused by Doyle's seat, bending over enough to make sure he got a look at her cleavage, if he wanted it. She'd made sure he had a chance at a view every time she came by his seat. She'd come by three times in the last twenty minutes to ask if he wanted anything, anything at all. He declined. I asked for a red wine.

  She'd brought my wine this time. Because it was first class it was actually served in a long-stemmed glass. The better to spill it all over yourself when the plane hit turbulence, which it did.

  The plane bucked and swerved so badly that I gave the wine back to the flight attendant, and she gave me a handful of napkins for my hand.

  Doyle closed his eyes again and kept repeating to all her questions, "No, thank you, I'm fine." She didn't actually offer to throw off her clothes and have sex on the floor of the plane, but the invitation was clear. If Doyle heard the invitation he managed to ignore it beautifully. I don't know if he actually didn't realize she was hitting on him, or if he was just accustomed to human women acting like fools. She finally got the hint and wandered off. She had to grip the backs of the seats as she moved down the plane, or she'd have fallen.

  It was bad turbulence. Doyle looked greyish. I think it was his version of turning green. "Are you all right?"

  He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut. "I will be fine once we are safely on the ground."

  "Is there anything I can do to help the time pass quicker?"

  He opened his eyes just a slit. "I think the stewardess made that offer already."

  "Stewardess is a sexist term," I said. "It's flight attendant. So you did pick up on her hints."

  "I don't think squeezing my thigh and brushing my shoulder with her breasts count as hints-more invitations."

  "You ignored her beautifully."

  "I have had much practice." The plane rocked violently enough that even I wasn't happy. Doyle squeezed his eyes shut again. "Do you really want to help this flight pass more quickly?"

  "I owe you at least that much after you flashed your official Guard badge and we both got on the plane with our weapons. I know legally we're both allowed to carry in the U. S., but it doesn't usually go that smooth or that quick."

  "It helped that the police escorted us to the gates, Princess." He'd been very carefully calling me Princess, or Princess Meredith, since I woke up this morning. We were no longer on a first-name basis.

  "The cops seemed eager to get me on the plane."

  "They feared you might get assassinated on their... turf. They did not want the responsibility for your safety."

  "So that's how you got me on the plane armed."

  He nodded, eyes still closed. "I told them that with only one bodyguard, it would be safer if you, yourself, were armed. Everyone agreed."

  Sholto had dropped off the LadySmith 9 mm. I actually had an inner pants holster for it that fit nicely for a front cross-draw. I usually wore it at my back covered by a jacket, but the police had given me carte blanche to carry weapons, so I didn't have to worry about hiding it.

  I had a ten-inch knife in a side sheath, the tip of which was tied around my leg with a leather thong for a fast draw, like an Old West gun-fighter. The leather thong also made the sheath fit the movement of my leg better. Without a sheath tied off, you ended up having to move it every time you shifted position, or it tended to poke into your body or get caught on things.

  I had a Spyderco folding knife clipped over the underwire of my bra. I always carried at least two blades at court, just a rule. The guns would only be allowed in certain parts of the sithen, the faerie mounds. But I'd be allowed to keep the knives. Before the banquet tonight, in my honor so Doyle informed me, I'd add more blades. A girl could never have to
o much jewelry or too much weaponry.

  Doyle had Mortal Dread in the back sheath, the hilt sticking out from under his shoulder for a cross-draw like a gun shoulder holster. He had his own gym bag full of weapons. When I'd asked him why he hadn't used them against the sluagh, he'd said, "Nothing else I had with me would bring them true death. I wanted them to know that I was serious." Frankly, I've always found that blowing a hole bigger than a fist out someone's back lets them know you're serious. But many of the Guard feel that guns are inferior weapons. They carry them out among the humans, but guns are almost never used among ourselves, except in times of war. That Doyle had even packed a gun meant that things were bad, or maybe there'd been a policy change while I was away. If the other guards were carrying guns, then I'd know.

  The plane dipped so suddenly that even I gasped. Doyle moaned. "Talk to me, Meredith."

  "About what?"

  "Anything," he said, voice tight.

  "We could talk about last night," I said.

  He opened his eyes just enough to glare at me, the plane took another dive, his eyes snapped shut, and he almost whispered, "Tell me a story."

  "I'm not very good at stories."

  "Please, Meredith."

  He'd called me Meredith, an improvement. "I can tell you a story that you already know."

  "Fine," he said.

  "My grandfather on my mother's side is Uar the Cruel. Other than being a complete and utter bastard, he earned the name because he fathered three sons that were monsters even by fey standards. No blooded fey woman would sleep with him after the birth of his sons. He'd been told that he could father normal children if he found someone of fey blood who would willingly sleep with him."

  I peered at Doyle's closed eyes and blank face. "Please continue," he said.

  "Gran is half brownie and half human. She was willing to sleep with him, because she wanted more than anything to be a part of the Seelie Court." Silently, because it wasn't part of the story, I didn't blame Gran. She more than even myself understood what it was like to tread two very different worlds.