The Smoke Thief

by Shana Abe

  Rape or seduction. He would take either.

  With one arm beneath her and the other behind her, he raised her higher and then pulled her hard back down, lifting off his heels to impale her. Her fingers jerked in his hair.

  It hurt. Rue sucked in air, shocked, the sensation of burning invasion overwhelming her in waves. But he had lowered his mouth to her nipple again, was drawing on it in short, fierce tugs that sent a confusion of painful pleasure streaking through her blood—then his mouth gentled, tender kisses, his tongue lapping. Fierce again—his teeth bit and his arms bore down around her hips, pushing himself deeper inside, intensifying the burn. She twisted her fingers in his hair, a moan trapped in her chest. She wanted him to stop and she wanted him to go on. She wanted his wild, savage look and that coil of new pleasure that was unwinding through her, through the deepest part of her where he filled her and it hurt—but it didn't—

  From beyond the lacquered screen came the sound of the library door opening. Distant music flooded the room.

  Rue froze, mortified, staring down at Christoff, but he only glanced at the screen that concealed them and then back up at her. His lips made that devilish smile; he shook his head, just once. Silently, without evoking even a murmur from her rumpled skirts, he curved his fingers around her waist and drew her harder against him, his lashes lowering.

  She bit her lip to stop the moan, her legs flexed, arrested between agony and need.

  Someone was moving about the library. Someone was over by the desk. If only they walked around it to the chairs—

  Kit pulled her even closer, spreading her wider, sending her heels digging into the floor. He used his hands at her waist to force her to move, slowly, slowly, in such small degrees and with such aching intensity that she felt every inch of him, her throat closed in exhilaration and anxious, blazing excitement.

  There came the chink of crystal against crystal. The liquid purl of sherry being poured.

  They rocked together, part of her ready to Turn on an instant, but another part of her, the human part of her, growing breathless and eager, stretched sore with his movements, finding that coil of pleasure of before but better now, darker, a flickering elation that licked at her from the inside.

  She cupped her palms around Kit's face. He was marked with her touch, glimmer streaking his skin. He watched her with his sleepy look and that scant, clever smile.

  The person beyond the screen sighed, setting the sherry upon the desk. A leather chair squeaked.

  Her hands tightened; her eyes closed. She felt like someone else. She felt like her entire body was beyond her control, expanding, a desperate yearning lashing through her, and she couldn't breathe, she couldn't speak, she couldn't make a sound—

  The chair squeaked again. Footsteps sounded to the door.

  —but she was growing, growing, and he was deep and hard within her—

  Music rushed in. Voices rang out.

  —and if she couldn't breathe soon she was going to die, she was going to weep, because it was so near and she was so close, but she had to hold on—

  The door shut. Kit put his fingers on her nipple and pinched. Rue shattered.

  He watched it happen, felt her shudder and cry out, a low, beautiful sound that resonated all the way through him, that sent him to his own release with just one last powerful thrust. He clutched her to him and pressed his face against her chest, emptying himself into her, his seed, his life, his hopes. And she drew her arms up around his head and bent her cheek to his temple, her lips in his hair, her body a lovely, perfect bow over his.

  Rue-flower, his dragon queen. His bride.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The lord's house appeared dead dark, but Zane knew better than to trust in how things appeared. So he'd watched it for a good long while, crouched behind the stable doors, holding his cupped hands to his mouth to warm his face against the night. The stable was chilly and dank and impressively dismal. The hay mounded in the stalls smelled of mold. If Langford had horses there was no sign of them here, no water, no blankets or carriage, not even a few paltry flakes of spilled oats. He didn't even think there were rats.

  He would have thought it damned odd but for her. She had never kept cattle either.

  Haze was silver-plating the sky, obscuring the stars and turning the moon into an evil winking eye. It also thickened the shadows, which was fine for his purposes.

  Still, he waited. He'd kept watch like this countless times before, knew how to hold himself awake through the cold numbing hours. He curled his toes inside his boots, one by one, feeling the leather scrape against his nails. He made faces, squinting, opening his jaw, wrinkling his brow. He cracked his neck, and then his knuckles, two, three, four, five, stretching out his arms.

  The stink of the mold was a mounting pressure behind his eyes. Zane blinked the blur from his vision, staring hard at the mansion's black windows. Nothing moved. He'd been here two hours, and the stable yard and kitchen garden remained as lifeless as the house.

  Good enough.

  He crept out of the stable, skirting the yard to the fence and then the trees, sliding along the narrow side of the building to the front, where once again he lingered, alert to any traffic that might be passing along.

  The street was empty. A white-pillared place three doors down had the second story lit, but that was all. All the other homes were shuttered tight.

  In Zane's experience there were only two kinds of Quality: the ones what caroused all night like mad tomcats, and the ones what took to their beds early like wee fussy babes.

  He'd wager the Marquess of Langford was the tomcat-type. He'd had that animal glint in his eye.

  Zane himself neither drank nor slept; he was stone-sober awake. He stole to Langford's parlor window and pressed the heel of his palm to the weak spot of the jamb.

  Nothing.

  He pressed harder, glancing around and then risking a quick jump up to see if he could tell what was wrong. He jumped twice before he saw it, a wooden stick wedged against the lock.

  He cursed under his breath, subsiding. He never should have told her how he'd managed it before. She'd made it clear she didn't want to hear from him until she sent word, but things were dire. He had to talk to her, and away from that bloody marquess who hovered over her like a bloody Beefeater guarding the bloody crown jewels.

  He withdrew to the side of the house, but he already knew the other windows were secure. He'd tried them all before. He ran a hand over his mouth and considered what to do.

  The mist drifted dead-gray above. The moon glared down at him.

  Zane padded back to the kitchen door, jiggled the handle. Polished brass, fairly new, a tight keyhole; he pulled his tools from his pocket. It was better than breaking a window, but not much better. He'd be exposed like this for long crawling minutes, with the moon frosting his shadow along the porch steps and the plated light all over his back. Anyone looking out a window could see him. Grosvenor Square wouldn't be like Cheapside, or St. Giles. The nightwatch here would come quick at the first scream.

  Despite the cold, he began to sweat. Dirty Clem got caught like this, busting into a house in Mayfair. Thought he was the best bleedin' cracksman, used to boast about his fingers and his picks—ye'll never be nae good, ye soddin' whelp—and now he was rotting in Lud Gate and Zane, his former disciple, had the picks. Not like Clem was going to use them again anyways. Not with the gangrene eating his fingers—

  There. The lock released. The door sighed open. He stepped inside, closing it quick behind him with both hands.

  He slipped his knife from his belt. The kitchen was very, very cold.

  He knew the way to go now, down the side hall, up the main stairs, pausing at the slightest little creak—a floorboard—and distant wooden pop—the attic?—holding his breath for utter silence.

  But the marquess's bedchamber was empty. So were all the others, even the one that held her things. He recognized the peach-and-blue-striped valise straight off, the short row of
men's boots and ladies' shoes, all in her size, forming a neat line inside the armoire.

  The house was deserted. He'd been right about Langford. Tomcat.

  Zane went back to her room, smoothed a hand over the covers of the bed, took up a pillow, and held it to his face. It did smell of her, almost imperceptible. She'd come back.

  He glanced around the chamber and decided upon the chaise longue far back in a corner, its cushions covered in a shiny hard satin that had him slipping for purchase. It wasn't very comfortable, which was good. He leaned his head against the padding and studied the view past the windows until the moonlight began to burn. His lids drifted closed.

  They left the masquerade as they had joined it, stealing along shadows, Rue in her stocking feet and a hand clasped over her torn bodice, Christoff bothering only with his shirt and breeches, everything else bundled in his arms.

  They had exited through the library window. He hadn't even asked her; he'd only opened it wide and dropped his costume and their shoes to the gravel below, a crisp thunk that echoed alarmingly. When she lingered behind the screen, he crossed back to her, drawing her to the open glass without words, only a quick, fervent kiss that sent all the aches in her body throbbing.

  A line of light broke from the doorway; the hinges were inching open with the new draft. Someone chuckled, very near.

  Christoff Turned, gliding over the sill and down to the ground, shielded by the potted hedge of boxwood that grew between Marlbroke's mansion and the one a sidewalk away. Smoke gathered into man. He lifted his face to her, waiting.

  Rue placed a hand upon the sill. She did not want to Turn. She didn't want to lose the covering of her gown, as meager as it was. She felt bruised and shy and remotely amazed. But the library door was opening farther. There were a pair of men paused just outside it, speaking of horse races.

  Kit Turned again, smoke rising to encircle her, her hands and arms and hair. She'd never felt anything like it, she'd never imagined what it might be like to touch another drákon in this way. He was cool and blinding; she held her breath against him.

  The men grew more earnest in their discussion. Their shadows fell across the entry rug.

  “I'm going,” she muttered to Kit, and threw her legs over the sill, rotating carefully around—the cloth-of-gold wings caught on the wood, and she lost a few of the jet beads, heard them go bouncing along the floor—easing down until her feet were braced against the limestone wall and she hung by just her hands. She let go. It wasn't far, and Kit was there to catch her, snatching her up neatly to his chest.

  “Hell,” he said, and put her on her feet. He looked down at his stomach, a fresh scratch welling crimson along his skin, then up at the wings. “Those things are a bloody menace.”

  “I didn't ask you to catch me!”

  “You're so delightful when you're irrational. Of course I'm going to catch you.” He slid a hand behind her nape and kissed her again. “It's what I do.”

  And despite herself she leaned into him, offering herself to him with her throat arched and her heart like a drum that beat hard and close against her breastbone. He stepped nearer, breathing against her lips, his fingers spreading through her hair.

  “Clarissa Rue,” he whispered, making her name a hushed entreaty. “Come home with me. Let's go home.”

  She followed him down the line of boxwood, because when he spoke to her like that, heaven help her, she lost all logic and solid reason. She thought she might follow him forever.

  But the boxwood ended at the alley and Kit still had not dressed. Instead, he bent and shoved his coat and shoes past the branches into the last pot, then tore off his shirt and breeches and did the same to them.

  “We'll fetch it all tomorrow.” He glanced up at her. “What's amiss?”

  She didn't want to tell him the truth, that she felt like a stranger, that he was so beautiful, that the gown was her last shield. So she said, “You feel warm, and you're limping. Are you well?”

  “Considering that at the moment I'm only paces away from a very brightly lit ball—aye, very well.”

  “Perhaps it would be better not to fly. Perhaps we should hire a hackney.”

  His head tipped as he took her in, his hair stirring about his face as the wind whistled down the stone gutters and cobblestones of the alley.

  “Mouse,” he said, and smiled. “You steal my breath. But I fear hailing a coach for you now might present a difficulty. You look soundly ravished, my love.”

  Her cheeks began to heat. His smile darkened; he ran a finger along the torn rim of the bodice, trailing fire with his touch.

  “I vow I'm quite taken with it. I'll have to see what I can do to keep you looking this way.”

  The wind shifted, very cool against her face. She lowered her gaze and Turned, letting the dress and corset and stockings fall. He swept them up briskly and crammed them into the next pot, scattering leaves over the bright wings. Then he Turned too, and together they ascended up into the hazy sky.

  Grosvenor Square was fairly near. She thought they'd glide there, but to her surprise Christoff kept rising, a diaphanous veil through the thicker mist, prismed with moonlight. She trailed him, curious, as he broke through the layers of condensation and became dragon, soaring against the night.

  Surely his shadow was visible from below. Surely the moon revealed him, but if he knew he didn't care, because he wasn't even flying straight any longer, but circling and dipping, cutting wide, open circles around her, a streak of silvery green and indigo and scarlet, flashing eyes.

  She drifted a while longer atop the mist, spreading herself thin with the moon bone-white above and the earth shifting sparks below, countless yellow flames from candles and lanterns softened through the atmosphere. Kit circled her once more, became sudden smoke that spiraled around her, drawing her upward, then dragon, flinging himself high into the heavens. At the end of her spiral she Turned and vaulted after him, her wings beating, her world an enchanted blend of warm and cold light, her body nearly weightless with the wind.

  Perhaps they could be seen. Somehow it wasn't important; she felt the return of that giddy freedom. They were so high, two faraway creatures crisscrossing the moon. They might be birds, or clouds, or fleeting imagination. No one had to know.

  He arced toward her, a living blade that sliced the air, rising up to fly beside her. He swept closer, and closer, then ducked under her wings to rub his jaw against hers, a swift, sweet caress before breaking off to swoop below and then above, directly above. She twisted her neck to look back at him but he was too near, so she veered left, closing her wings for the dive. Christoff copied her, matching her move for move even as he drew nearer to her back. She used her velocity to shoot upward, her wings fully opened, catching a shaft of wind that spun her in a slow tumble; he was there with her, a presence behind her, a weight. His talons found her shoulders and hips. He clutched her gently, pulling her to him. For a few wondrous minutes, as long as the wind cradled them, they were one creature, four wings, two tails, his head by hers, their cheeks touching.

  She closed her eyes with the feeling. She would have laughed if she could.

  The wind changed and Kit let her go. He lifted quickly above her only to ripple back down, descending to the mist, dipping a claw down into it to trace a loose, skimming curve, and then another one: a heart that flashed and dissolved back to vapor before he was even done.

  He glanced up to her and Turned, piercing the center of where the heart had been, vanishing from sight.

  She circled once and plunged after him, Turning only the very second before she would break free of the haze, a white-pearled dragon sailing across the London sky—

  But she was smoke instead. And Christoff was too, and Far Perch was an orderly cluster of peaked roofs and chimneys and twinkling windows just below them. Kit ignored the cupola they had used before; he went instead to a window that seemed sealed, until she noted the small chink in a corner of one of the panes.

  It was the window
to his bedroom. They Turned together, facing each other, and he didn't grant her any time to regain her modesty. He swept her up in his arms and carried her to his bed, his lean, muscular body stretching hot over hers.

  She awoke to the aroma of citrus, a faint tickle in her nose. A clean fragrance, lemony and a hint of winter orange, it lingered at the edge of the dream she'd just been having: lying on the grass on Blackstone Hill, with Christoff beside her and the afternoon sky like a blue glass bell all around. He was supple against her, breathing near her ear. His palm covered her shoulder. His legs tangled between hers.

  She was in his bed, not back in Darkfrith. Rue took a moment to process that: she was in his bed. He was wrapped around her. They had made love in a library, and then again here, in this huge feather bed.

  “Whatever you're thinking,” he said huskily, still by her ear, “keep thinking it.”

  His legs slipped from hers. His palm became a force, a gentle coercion, rolling her to her back. He took a moment to stretch—she felt that, the way all his muscles lengthened and shivered before relaxing again—and then eased on top of her. His lips grazed her nose, her chin, her mouth. When he tilted his head she felt his cheek against hers, his skin a warm scrape.

  “Good morning,” Kit murmured. He came between her legs and pushed into her, his face enthralled, his eyes closing.

  And it did not hurt. She was sore, aye, but it already was fading, replaced by a luxurious new pleasure invading her with every thrust. He filled her and she opened to it now, knew what to expect, where they were going. He went slowly, languorous, burying his face in her hair, inhaling against her skin. Rue arched her back. He lifted his head and sucked at her lips and moved with that dark, sweet magic that gathered in her belly and spread outward, tingling. She could not get enough of it.

  His weight shifted. He hooked an arm under one of her knees, drawing her leg up, leaning against his open palm while her calf rested over his shoulder. Her body tightened with the sensation. He could not go any deeper. She was pinned beneath him, captured, and the air had gone to fire.