Like a Thief in the Night

by Bettie Sharpe

  He stopped and looked at Aniketos as he sat on the ground with Arden. “You’ll want to give her a proper burial. It’ll be a cremation if you keep standing around in shock like a newly minted widower. The building is on fire, Nikhil. Let’s take the body to the plane, shall we?”

  Chapter Eight

  Aniketos laid Arden in his bed when he returned to his compound. He knew he should bury her, but he wasn’t ready to let her go. He wiped the soot and smoke from her cold cheeks, he smoothed her hair and folded her hands across her chest.

  A shadow stirred in the periphery of his vision. He turned his head to face the translucent shade that had crept into his home when his back was turned.

  “Hello, Death.” They were old enemies, Aniketos and Death. He had lived a thousand stolen lifetimes, and Death wanted nothing more than to drag him beyond the veil once and for all.

  “Thief,” the shade greeted him. The shadows solidified into the form of a woman—into Arden’s form. In place of spectral black robes, it wore Arden’s black stealthsuit. In place of Arden’s weapons belt, it wore a wide leather belt low on its hips with a large ring of keys attached. There were countless doors between Life and Death, and this shade bore the keys to them all—all but one.

  Death wanted the last key back.

  “You dare wear her face?” Aniketos clenched his fists, but did not leave his place beside Arden’s body.

  The shade with Arden’s face tilted its head to the side, parted its pink lips in a sigh. “Death is a personal matter, Thief. When I finally come for you, I shall wear your face.”

  “We both know that will never happen.”

  Death stretched its lips into Arden’s version of Aniketos’ closemouthed smile. “You are so certain. Yet look at you, mooning over a corpse, yearning for the touch of a woman you will never hold again.”

  Death waved its hand over Arden’s body, and for a moment, yellowed bone showed through the illusion of flesh. A dark mist rose from Arden’s body and formed itself into a second copy of Aniketos’ dead lover.

  The second Arden was the true one. She looked down at the body on the bed, then up at Aniketos. Her lips moved, but the dead can make no sound. Her dark brows knit together. She tried to speak again with the same silent result.

  She turned to face Death. Her eyes widened in surprise before narrowing in anger as she surveyed Death’s imitation of her face and form. Her mouth twisted into a snide smile as she said something that made Death’s face go red with anger.

  Without warning, Aniketos’ lover pivoted and kicked her doppelganger in the head. Her foot passed through the spectral other, but Death still staggered back and rubbed its head.

  He laughed. Even in death, Arden was still feral and defiant. He could not let her go.

  “What do you want?” he asked. “What do you want in exchange for her life?”

  Arden’s shade shook her head and shouted silent denial.

  “You know what I want,” Death replied.

  “Her life in return for the key. And you shall come for me only when my body is injured or aged enough to die.”

  “Deal.”

  Aniketos seized a knife from Arden’s belt before he could rethink his decision. He cut open his shirt and plunged the knife into his chest, levering it across his sternum to break open his ribs and reveal his still-beating heart.

  The key was there, hidden beneath the scar in his chest, lodged in the very center of his heart. He pried it loose, holding tight to the slippery shard of glass. He would die if he let go of the key before his wound healed.

  He pressed his ribs back in place and his flesh knit together as though it had never been parted. The scar above his heart was gone.

  The key was still warm from the heat of his body, still wet with the red of his blood. He held the bloody bit of ancient glass out to Death.

  Arden’s shade shook her head and shouted at Death. She took Death’s shoulder and shook it, arguing.

  “Isn’t that sweet?” Death cooed. “She wants to save you.”

  Arden’s shade fell to her knees and folded her hands in a plea of supplication. She tugged at Death’s garment as tears streamed down her face. Death shook off her pleading hands and stepped forward to take the key.

  “Done and done,” Death said as it took the key. Arden’s visage melted away from Death’s form and it became a shadowed figure with skeletal hands and glowing red eyes beneath its cowled black hood.

  Death pointed its bony finger at Arden as it began to fade away. “I’ll see you in about seventy years.”

  Arden returned to life with a gasp. Her fingers were clenched beneath the tumble of blankets, her eyes were wet with the tears her shade had shed on the Thief’s behalf.

  She coughed twice as her lungs struggled to inflate. She began to shiver. Her body had cooled, her blood had stilled—she was alive, but she shouldn’t have been.

  Her soul had traveled through the ether of death and returned with more than just the memory of what it was to die. Beneath the blankets, she curled her hand more tightly around the souvenir, the miraculous memento mori, she’d brought back from her brief detour into death.

  When her eyes could focus, she turned them to Aniketos. She tried to glare, but her muscles twitched and stuttered as they awoke to her brain’s commands. He sat by the bed watching her. His eyes were narrow with interest where there should have been horror. She remembered that this was nothing new to him, this exquisite, painful sense of victory that came from cheating Death.

  His eyes had lost their strange, pale color when he’d given up the key. Now they were a dark and shadowed brown. But the intensity was still there; the unwavering obsession that had carried him through a thousand stolen lifetimes. She hated to see him trapped in fragile, perishable flesh.

  Her sluggish brain strained to make a connection. The next time Aniketos died would be the last.

  “You shouldn’t have made that deal.” Her voice sounded a thousand years old, dry and desiccated like something unearthed from a tomb.

  “I chose it.” The intensity of his eyes never wavered—it never had.

  “Why? Were you that desperate to hold me to my promise?”

  He looked away. “You are free of your promise. You died today. The rest of your life is your own.” His voice shook as though it had cost him a piece of his soul to say those words.

  From the very start he had wanted her, coveted her, craved her, watching her with a madman’s intensity and a starving man’s appetite. What did it cost him now to set her free? And, for that matter, why?

  He looked down at his clenched fists. “I was a fool to think I could steal you like a treasure and tame you like a wild thing. You were water in my hands. I closed them, and you slipped away.” He uncurled his fists. “I would like you to stay with me, but I cannot keep you. The choice is yours.”

  Choice? What did she know about choices? She knew Darkriver’s manipulations, and the rigged game that had brought her to Aniketos’s side. He was a fool to set her free. Didn’t he know she was dangerous?

  “I’m a killer, Thief. Dying didn’t change that. You’re mortal now. You know I could kill you, but you’re asking me to stay. Didn’t you tell me there was nothing worth dying for?”

  Aniketos ran his hand down the smooth skin of her cheek, his gaze no less intense for all that he’d set her free. “I did not choose to die for you. I chose to trust you with my life. It was no great sacrifice, you already have my heart.”

  Arden blinked. He’d given up eternity because he was in love with her. How fucked up was that?

  Deliciously fucked up. Perfectly twisted. She was not the only one who had come to crave what she couldn’t conquer, to want the one person she couldn’t tame. They’d known each other less than a week, but they could have spent all of the Thief’s stolen eternity fighting and fucking and laughing, and neither would have won. How could she leave him?

  “I don’t know if I have a heart for you to steal, Thief, but I do know
that I want to stay with you.” She pressed her hand over his mouth before he could say anything. “Don’t expect me to change, though. I’m still a killer and a cold-hearted bitch.”

  “Of course.” His lips slipped into that closemouthed smile—the one that drove her crazy. “Sacrificing yourself to get Jacob Wright away from Darkriver was only a temporary aberration into nobility. You may blame me, if you like. I have a habit of occasionally wandering into good deeds. I am a terrible influence.”

  “The worst,” she agreed.

  She thrust her free hand into his hair, holding tight, drawing his sly mouth down to hers. Theirs was no fairytale kiss. It wasn’t a sight fit for children, or for any adult foolish enough to believe that love is always gentle and kind. They were ferocious with each other, harsh and halting, struggling in a battle that neither would ever win—and that was the joy of it.

  She let his lips go so she could suck in a gasping breath. She pushed him away from her only so she would have room to unbutton his shirt. His hands were on her too, struggling with her stealthsuit, fighting the slippery fabric to bare her skin.

  He tasted her body as he uncovered it, centimeter by slow centimeter. His mouth lingered at the places where her pulse beat beneath her skin, traced the living veins to linger on the warmest, softest parts of her flesh. She shuddered beneath him, glorying in the feel of every touch.

  When Aniketos entered Arden, she was more than ready, hot and wet and full of life. He pressed his hands over her wrists, not to hold her down, but to feel her heartbeat while he made love to her. He savored the heat of her breath, the warmth of her body, the sight of her pulse pounding hard beneath the delicate skin of her throat. In Arden’s body, Aniketos forgot the world of shades and gods and patchwork-glass heavens, and found a haven of flesh and life.

  She shuddered beneath him and he followed her over the edge. They lay panting together in a tangle of sheets as the sweat dried on their bodies.

  A long time after, she asked, “Will you miss immortality?” She closed her eyes, as though she feared his answer.

  “I would have missed you more.”

  “Too bad you can’t have both.” She rolled onto her elbows and looked down at him. “If you could be immortal again without losing me, would you?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Do not ask questions you do not want answered.”

  “I want an answer.”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled. “You said you were a terrible influence on me.”

  He frowned at her, puzzled.

  “Your bad habits are contagious, Thief.” She rooted around in the tangle of blankets and sheets beneath them and produced a ring of keys.

  Death’s keys. There were keys of glass, keys of feathers, keys made of smoke and keys made of mirror. There were keys cut from diamond and keys cast from shadow. There was a key to every forgotten doorway to the Land of the Dead—every doorway save one.

  “How?”

  “Distraction.” Arden smiled. “That’s what you told Wright when you stole his gun. Death was so intent on your bargain, he didn’t notice when I stole his keys.”

  Aniketos kissed her hard.

  When they finally came up for air, Arden looked down at the keys as she turned them over in her hands. “Where do you suppose they lead?”

  “I do not know,” the Thief told the Assassin. “But we have forever to find out.”

  About the Author

  To learn more about Bettie, please visit www.bettiesharpe.com or send an email to bettiesharpe@gmail.com.

  Look for these titles

  Strangers in the Night

  The Valentine Effect, Bonnie Dee

  Erotics Anonymous, Veronica Wilde

  She joined a secret society of masks and sex games. What she found was a forbidden love.

  Erotics Anonymous

  © 2008 Veronica Wilde

  As a writing student at an exclusive college, Chelsea Becker isn’t into the normal, boring dating scene. Nor is she interested in pledging a sorority. But when a botched class assignment results in a chance to do some “extra credit”, she discovers a secret society of famous erotica writers on campus. As an aspiring erotica writer, she’s willing to do anything to join.

  Her initiation tests include the exploration of her most risqué fantasies—including wordless sex with a masked “muse” whose scorching touch betrays the passion they’re not supposed to feel.

  Her initiation into Erotics Anonymous is supposedly just a game. But the lust her muse evokes is erupting into forbidden love… a love that will come at a very dangerous price.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Erotics Anonymous

  The next night at ten o’clock, Chelsea stepped out of her dorm to find a silver limousine waiting for her.

  No driver stepped forth to open her door or usher her inside. After an awkward hesitation, she opened the door handle and climbed in. The warm and darkened interior was an inviting contrast to the cold January night. As she sank back into the cushioned leather seat, the limo pulled away and began the winding journey through the campus. No music played; the driver remained silent. Chelsea clutched her long, black leather trench coat around her and watched the lights of her dorm recede.

  Her instructions for tonight had arrived via an anonymous email that morning. It ordered her to dress in a short skirt with no stockings, the top of her choice, and a long coat to cover it all. Her destination was a popular bar right near campus. Tomorrow she was to write about the night’s events and submit her story to the same email address.

  Her mouth was dry, her bare thighs were shaking and her panties clung to her wet sex. She was almost sick with trepidation at the mysterious initiation test she faced tonight—yet she was more deeply aroused than she had ever been in her life.

  The selection of the bar startled her. It was a dark and malty dive, packed to standing room only every night of the week with students. It was the least erotic or elegant locale she could think of. So why would the Society ask her to go there? It didn’t make sense. All the same, she was determined to fulfill their instructions. All last night she had tossed restlessly in her bed, thinking of the sexual and professional benefits membership in the Society could bring her. Not only would the literary contacts be amazing, but it would be a relief to associate with people who viewed sex as an adventure and an art—not a beer-fused hookup between two students who wouldn’t even acknowledge each other in the dining hall the next day.

  And, of course, there was the possibility—the probability, even—that she would meet the man of her dreams, Jonathan Danvers.

  The limo pulled up outside the bar. The neon lights glowed in the frosty night. Taking a deep breath, she climbed out and headed inside.

  The bar was a sweltering den of darkness, noise and heat. As she squeezed through the crowd, she could barely hear the jukebox over the roar of conversation, laughter and clinking glasses. The surrounding faces were hard to make out in the dim glow emanating from red light bulbs over the wooden booths. She cast a wary glance around her, wondering what exactly she was supposed to do. Was it possible that Professor Deveaux had been playing a joke on her? This entire environment was appallingly crass.

  A tall, beefy guy in a baseball cap headed her way. “Hey, I know you,” he yelled over the din. “You’re in my sociology class. Are you here alone?”

  She shook her head and moved toward the back of the bar. Dressed in her long leather coat, cashmere sweater and short skirt, she was growing hot and flushed from the swarm of bodies around her. Feeling thirsty, she joined the crowd of people three-deep around the polished wooden bar trying to attract the bartender’s limited attention. Squeezed among much taller men, she felt unseen and unnoticed. At last, she found herself pushed up against the bar itself. A flutter of claustrophobia ran through her as the crowd closed in on all sides of her. Helplessly, she tried to push back and claim some breathing room, but to no avail. Nor did the bartender seem to notice her.

  The person b
ehind her pushed her coat to the side and caressed the soft curve of her ass.

  Chelsea froze. How dare he? Who was this jerk who was so arrogant as to go around feeling up girls in public? She tried to turn around and confront him, but the damp bodies surrounding her were pushed too closely together. She was trapped.

  The anonymous hand began to stroke her thighs, running two fingers up her firm muscles that quivered with both indignation and excitement. She waited breathlessly as the strange hand continued its ascent underneath her short skirt. Mortified by her own arousal, she jerked against him, signaling her displeasure in the only way she could. This was completely unacceptable behavior, no matter how nice it felt. Yet the stranger only ran his hands under the delectable cheeks of her bottom, and gently flicked his fingers between her legs, signaling her to open her legs. She understood. This was her test and he was her Muse.

  Closing her eyes as her face burned hot, she spread her thighs for his hand.

  The stranger was stroking her through her panties now, playing with her pussy more masterfully than anything she had ever experienced. As he fingered her clit, her thighs became wet with a warm surge of arousal. His touch was so intimate, as if he already knew the needs and responses of her body. Who was this man? Once more she tried to twist around to see his face. But the crowd was so intense that she could only view the men on each side of her, both absorbed in their own conversations. She wiggled helplessly, both wanting him to continue and appalled at her own complicity.

  Gently, he dragged her panties down her thighs, stopping them just before the hem of her short skirt. She swallowed, another wave of fever staining her face as he brushed his fingers over her exposed sex. Never in her life had she allowed anyone to take down her panties in a bar or feel her up in public or arouse her so fiercely without even showing his face…

  A man whose passionate heart has been torn apart. A woman who’s never risked hers. Can love bring them a new beginning?