Nightingale

by E G Manetti

  Milord settles next to her. Propped on his side, he searches her face. “Are you well?”

  Beyond well. Do not. Do not. “Yes, milord.”

  As he speaks, milord reaches out to push back a lock of hair that has come loose. “There are passion aids in the oil. Stimulants. They are different from the wafers, but you appear to be sensitive.”

  Passion stimulants. She had not thought it, but it was odd to be so aroused in the shower after reaching release twice. No wonder he insisted on cleansing. The hand caressing her face enraptures her. She cannot resist feathering a kiss on milord’s palm. She wishes he would caress her in other places.

  Milord’s shaft moves against her hip and his eyes darken. “There appear to be lingering effects. We may as well enjoy them.”

  Milord’s mouth descends on her hers, passionate, plundering, igniting passion once again.

  »◊«

  Socraide’s sword, the woman’s passion was incredible. He has never known her to be so frenzied. So unrestrained. He will have Chin analyze the oil. Mind clearing, he releases Lilian’s wrists and rolls away, wincing at a sting across his shoulder. Touching the spot, he finds it scratched. She must have scored him at some point. Examining her sprawled form, he notes long scratches on one of her thighs. They do not bleed, but he suspects they burn as much as his. Thirsty, he leaves her dozing to raid the salon respite station.

  Returning with water and juice, he juggles the tray in surprise at the sight that greets him. Lilian is wrapped about a pillow, eyes wide and yearning, cheeks flushed. Aroused again? This is not well. Lucius’ desire is spent, the effects of the oil dissipated, but Lilian is yet in its thrall. Setting aside the tray, he joins her on the bed, pulling her free from the pillow. Hips bucking, she fists the sheets. “Milord, it does not ease.”

  Demon shit. After the way she marked them, he dares not let her passion build to frenzy. Putting his mouth to her, he brings Lilian completion.

  When her gray eyes open, they are clear and passion-free. He suspects it will not last. While she is able to answer, he asks, “Are you well? Have you pain or numbness?”

  Shaking her head, she pushes to her elbows. “Thirst, milord. Only thirst.”

  Lucius hands her a glass of water. As she swallows, he considers his course of action. The artificial passion will have its way. Had Lilian any other symptoms, he would summon a medic. As it is, all a medic could offer is a sedative, a course he knows from the kidnapping late in the prior year will endanger her. Nor is he eager to have her odd sensitivities known beyond the few who already hold the secret. She is too vulnerable as it is. It will not serve to have it broadcast how readily she may be poisoned.

  Lilian rolls the cool glass against her forehead. Is she rousing again? She presses it against her neck and passes it between her breasts. As he feared, the impact of the oil is far from done. Can the effects not be contained, they must be managed.

  Fixing his gaze on her face, he takes the sweating glass from her hand and sets it on the side table. He has no notion how she will react to his intentions. “Lilian, I am going to bind you.”

  Her eyes widen, but her expression holds naught but curiosity and mayhap expectation. Thank the Shades. “Lie down, hands by your shoulders.”

  The long, gauzy bed hangings are perfect for his purpose. They will provide constraint without discomfort. “I know not how long these effects will last. You have scored us both. I will risk no further damage.”

  Lilian yields her wrists to be bound in the gauze that drapes the bed. Her brow furrows as she examines the marks on his shoulders. “I beg pardon. I did not mean— I do not recall—”

  “It matters not.” Sliding a testing finger beneath the gauze, he decides it will serve. She will have some movement, but not enough to do harm and the bindings will not endanger her circulation. Lilian twists beneath him, her eyes filling with passion. She turns her hands and grips the gauze restraints, pressing her thighs together. “Do not fight it. Let it take you. I will help.”

  Milord runs a cool wet cloth along her heated skin, offering relief to her sensitized flesh and slowing the rise of desire. Anchored by the bindings, she releases her thighs, the wash of air across her hot and throbbing sex as arousing as it is soothing. The cool cloth runs across her breasts, turning the tips into hard points. She needs. She needs. “Milord!”

  Milord presses the icy cloth to her heated center and release snaps through her.

  The next bells pass in a haze of erotic sensation. Need floods Lilian and is eventually sated. Milord’s hands and tongue caress her. Sponges take the place of cool cloth that soothed and then released her passion. Milord’s voice murmurs, “Peace, Lilian. Yield. Let the desire take you. It will be well.”

  In the brief moments of quietude between onslaughts, milord questions her. Again and again she replies, “I am well but for thirst.”

  Dark of night has chimed, and her passion yet rises. She cannot bear it. Milord’s featherlight caresses do not ease her, they torment. Milord has provided her release after release. It is not what she craves, what she needs. In a voice hoarse from repeated pleadings and cries of pleasure, Lilian begs, “Please, milord, please. Enjoy milord’s servant. Enter milord’s servant, please.”

  Milord rises over her, erect and beautiful. He surges into her, into the hot, wet, seething core of her. Yes. Yes. More than anything else this is what Lilian desires, milord hard and pounding within her, driving her to completion.

  Second bell chimes as Lucius unbinds Lilian’s wrists. She has slumbered for most of a bell. The effects of the oil are spent. There is no purpose to rousing her to find her bunk. He dares not leave her unattended. Dimming the lights, he finds his own rest.

  16. Poison

  It is a matter of historical record that the Five Warriors sealed the Code of Engagement and Governing Protocols with their blood. They then bound their retainers with blood oaths to abide by these Agreements of Order. To break a blood oath was to destroy all claim to honor. Those proven foresworn were declared anathema, all their existing contracts voided. The higher the rank of the foresworn, the greater the penalty, including banishment to the wastes and annihilation.

  In the modern era, the DNA imprint has replaced the blood oath in all but shrine rituals, but the penalties for the foresworn are as severe. Among the warriors, it is considered a betrayal of the Five Warriors and the Order. Those foresworn are destroyed along with immediate family to ensure the dishonor is contained. Even if not proven, the accusation can taint the accused and their family for decades, hindering commerce and advancement. A false accusation of oath breaking is treated with the same severity, lest the dishonest or spiteful be encouraged to overthrow the honorable. ~ excerpt from The Foundations of Order, a scholarly treatise.

  Sevenday 132, Day 1

  The cold is bitter. It tears across her skin as a blade. The darkness is endless. She has only distant awareness of her feet as she forces her way forward. Honor en . . . She desperately wishes even the slightest garment to cut the cruel wind. Hon . . . The words will not come. Does she stop, she will die.

  Ahead, the darkness takes form. Tall, broad shouldered. There is a fire-rifle loosely slung near his right hand. The long, dark coat swirls at his ankles.

  Afraid to hope, she continues to move. She prays it is not a phantom. He reaches for her and calls her name. Lilian.

  “Lilian, rouse.”

  Milord’s hands on her shoulders, his dark eyes sharp with concern. She cannot stop shivering. Milord pulls her from the bed. The bed? It is past seventh bell. Adelaide save her, was she so wayward as to fall asleep in milord’s bed?

  The hot spray of the shower stings abrasions. Recall of the prior night’s tempest crashes through her. The scratches are of her own doing as she attempted to calm her heated flesh. The abrasions on her wrists are the result of her wild thrashing against her bindings. The soreness in her muscles and between her legs requires no analysis.

  “. . . dream, Fortuna .
. .” Milord’s voice penetrates her confusion. His soap-filled hands stroke across her sore muscles.

  Facing the wall, she struggles to understand his question. The dream. “It was much as before. A moment before I woke, I thought I beheld a figure moving in the dark. I cannot be certain.”

  “You no longer shiver. Is it well with you?”

  Nodding, she swallows against embarrassment. Chagrin at her ungoverned passion combines with dismay that her evil dreams have once again disturbed milord’s slumber. Shampoo appears in her vision. Taking it, she quickly tends her hair as milord turns the sponge to his anatomy. As much as she enjoys the vision, she finishes quickly and begs for dismissal. She needs to dress and gather her emotions.

  »◊«

  Sipping his tea, Lucius taps out orders with one hand. At the sound of the servitor’s door, he looks up and watches as Lilian enters, shoulders square and expression shuttered. What ails her? At his gesture, she takes her place at his left, carefully avoiding his gaze. “What troubles you, woman?”

  Gray eyes flash to his. Dismay is replaced by resolve. “I beg milord’s pardon, I was unruly.”

  She is embarrassed? It is confounding. But for the binding, naught occurred the prior evening that has not occurred countless times. “Lilian, what distresses you in this? It was unanticipated, but naught passed that has not before.”

  Lilian fingers her conservator’s seal, her gaze drifting away. “Milord was compelled to bind me.”

  Did he err? She did not appear troubled at the time. “Did you find it unpleasant?”

  Lilian’s eyes return to his, holding naught but surprise. “Unpleasant? Nay, milord. It was a relief. I could not govern myself. I beg milord’s pardon that it was necessary.”

  He ponders her response. She has kept herself contained, hiding dangerous secrets since she was a girl. For the past three years she has needed iron discipline. He has not physically bound Lilian for sex play out of concern that she would find it one too many humiliations. Her words suggest she found it liberating. Recall of Lilian twisting in her bonds, begging him to enjoy her, sends a brief jolt of lust to his sex. He pushes it aside. It is a thought for another day. For now, he voices, “No pardon is required. I had much pleasure in the night, as did you.”

  Relief washes through Lilian. “Yes, milord.”

  Milord picks up his slate, releasing Lilian to her meal. Reluctantly she bypasses the strawberries for unseasoned oatmeal. Whatever was contained in the oil, it has left her stomach uncertain. She cares not for a repeat of the artichoke incident. After a moment, she activates her slate. They will be resident planet by midday. The alerts are collecting rapidly.

  Shortly before ninth bell, milord sets aside his slate. “Mistress Deidre will arrive soon. You are to remain within the suite.”

  She releases her slate and abandons the oatmeal. “Mistress Deidre, milord?”

  Milord places the vial of oil on the table, the contents reduced by their play. “There is no designation of a passion aid on the label. Did the dispensary aide make mention of it?”

  “No. I would not have failed to note it.” She cannot imagine how the aide could have overlooked such vital information. “Is it unusually potent for such a substance? I own no prior experience.”

  “I do not believe so,” milord says. “The light application I enjoyed produced the expected effect. I was more liberal with you, not realizing what it was. Even without your sensitivity you would have experienced a stronger response.”

  She frowns. “I am certain the aide encouraged liberal application.”

  “You recall correctly.” Milord echoes her frown. “It might have been an oversight on the dispensary’s part, but I suspect not.”

  Adelaide’s thorn! Another intrigue. “It made me ungoverned. In other circumstances it could have resulted in a severe bond violation.”

  Milord’s lips tighten. “A severe enough bond violation, and there will be no need of assassination. Deidre will discover the intent of the aide.”

  »◊«

  Deidre’s report is frustrating. The vial and label match an herbal oil the transport dispenses, but the contents do not. The oil should be pale green and have the scent of citrus and rosemary, not amber and scented with cloves. The transport’s medic offered to analyze the substance, but Lucius prefers to have Chin see to it.

  More disquieting is the monitor record of the aide. Her face is kept obscured. The transport medic is certain he does not recognize her voice.

  Lucius would like to order the transport sealed and every guest and crewmember interrogated, but a passion aid given in error is not sufficient cause. As it is, the captain is proving more than cooperative, giving Deidre access to the monitor records of all the departing passengers and permitting interrogation of the crew. Of course, having a rogue aide dispensing unauthorized substances is not a matter the Fire Sword or Golden Horizon will take lightly. Although harmless on this occasion, it might not be so in the next.

  »◊«

  Lilian holds out her wrist for Master Chin’s instrument, the medic’s customary detachment marred by the twitching of his lips. Were she not so embarrassed, she might share the medic’s amusement. It is rather silly to seek his treatment for stimulants introduced during acts of passion. Master Chin slants his black eyes toward milord, his twitching lips hiding a knowing smile. “I doubt there is lasting harm from the stimulants, at least not to Lilian’s metabolism.”

  Milord scowls from his chair next to the examination bench. “You were not there. She was overwrought.”

  Dropping her gaze to her lap, she fingers the conservator’s seal. For all milord’s reassurance over the morning meal, he was not pleased by her uncontrolled desires. A hard hand lands on her knee. Raising her eyes to milord, she finds his scowl eased.

  “I voiced I was pleased. Do you dare doubt me?”

  I am the sum of my ancestors. She is being ridiculous. The lingering effects of the oil have left her out of sorts. “I beg pardon, milord. I am not myself.”

  “Which is why Chin will examine you,” milord replies, his expression softening.

  “Crevasse swallow the shadeless scum.” Master Chin’s low-voiced curse has them turning toward the analysis cabinet. The dark flush coloring the medic’s golden complexion accents his sharp cheekbones in his broad-featured face. Running a hand through his dark, tightly curling hair, he frowns as he opens the vial to deposit a small droplet in an evaluation dish. The cabinet indicators glow. His gaze flickers over Lilian, milord, and back to the cabinet. It is ill. He is almost fidgeting.

  The chime sounds, and the medic scans the results. “Hound of the Shades consume their young.”

  It is beyond ill.

  “Lilian,” Master Chin’s tone holds naught but detachment, “remove your jacket and recline. You require more than an injection.”

  The face Chin turns toward Lilian is as serene as she has come to expect. She is not deceived. The master medic is beyond displeased with her blood. Jacket abandoned, Lilian stretches out on the examination couch, her head on the raised rest. Milord has come to a stand and is regarding Chin with disfavor.

  The medic ignores His Preeminence’s displeasure as he attends to his duty. Taking Lilian’s left wrist, Chin attaches an injection unit and then connects it to small pouch about half the size of a juice pouch. “You must lie calm for the next twenty minutes, until the pouch is empty.”

  Turning to the tall man glowering at him, Chin says, “Lucius, you should sit. Offer your wrist.”

  Eyes narrowing, milord settles into the chair. “What say you?”

  Chin applies the diagnostic device to milord’s wrist. “You absorbed some of the oil?”

  Milord nods. “What goes forward? What have you discovered?

  “The stimulant in the oil contains more than a common passion aid. It is a readily available euphoric that has addictive properties. If not for Lilian’s sensitivities, it would have eased muscle strain and filled her with energy and a
sense of well-being that would have masked the deadly effects of the other substance with which the oil is heavily laced.”

  “Chin, do not prevaricate.”

  “Arsenic.”

  Milord’s eyes darken with rage, his voice silken. “Is she in danger?”

  “No.” Chin readies an injector as the cabinet hums. It is clear he has no doubt that milord is also affected. “The fluid flushing her system will rid her of the toxins and accelerate the correction of the damage.”

  The cabinet chimes and Master Chin nods. “It is as I hoped. Your milder exposure can be treated with a few injections.”

  Lucius swallows a string of profanity. It will serve no purpose and may further distress the woman lying pale and wide-eyed as Chin’s antidote scrubs her of toxins. As soon as the medic turns to Lilian, Lucius reaches for his slate. Trevelyan will have every resource he requires to locate the assassin disguised as a medic’s aide. His operatives must increase the security around Lilian and her household. He will not lose her.

  Raising his eyes from his slate, Lucius looks toward his apprentice. She meets his gaze with gray eyes clouded with worry. She suspects what he does. “I believe I maligned the Fire Sword kitchen. It is well you disliked the artichokes.”

  “Artichokes?” Chin asks.

  Waving Lilian silent, he answers, “The night before the arsenic oil, Lilian was ill from what she thought were artichokes and shellfish—a Fortuna delicacy featured by the Fire Sword.”

  Chin grunts. “Would not be arsenic, and ill-prepared shellfish often result in illness . . . In the circumstances, it is questionable. I will run another scan.”

  Ten minutes later, the console sounds.

  He meets Chin’s frown. “Is she endangered?”

  “No more than before. Whatever was in the shellfish was lost when she rejected it.” With a pointed glance, the medic applies ointment to the abrasions on Lilian’s wrists. “She requires another treatment tomorrow. I will tend her at Mistress Katleen’s house.”