“It’s as though nothing happened,” I marvel as we begin walking toward the avenue.
“Nothing did.” Ian’s hand is warm and strong around mine. He makes me feel safe and cared for even as he scatters my emotions to the four winds. When I look at him in bewilderment, he says, “You should read ‘1984’. It was written by George Orwell, a hell of a smart guy with a good take on how certain things that he saw happening in his own time would play out in the future. In it, history is constantly being revised. Anything that doesn’t fit with what the government wants people to believe gets flushed down the memory hole.”
This is a side of Ian I haven’t seen before. He’s said very little about his education apart from joining the military at the age of eighteen instead of entering the elite university that his father expected him to attend. His brilliance in weapons design is well known, suggesting prowess in engineering and mathematics. But now I glimpse an interest in literature that I hadn’t suspected, along with a willingness to engage with ideas that challenge the validity of a ruling elite.
Even so, I can’t believe that any such fictional scenario could actually come to pass. “That can’t work in real life. People were there, they know what happened. How can anyone pretend that it didn’t?”
He shrugs. “What happened at the Crystal Palace is so far outside their experience that they have no way of really processing it. They have to tell themselves that it was a one-time event, never to be repeated. It’s over and done with, everything is back to normal, and there’s nothing for them to worry about.”
“That’s how a child would react.”
“Look around. What do you think people whose lives are dedicated to self-indulgence really are? Mature adults?”
He has a point, one that I can’t deny. As young as I am in certain ways, I feel ages older than many of the people I see in the streets, men and women who seem intent on partying their lives away.
“No, I suppose not--”
I break off as a woman walks by covered in butterflies. They’re so vivid that I need a moment to realize that they aren’t real. They’re painted on her. Beautiful, multi-colored butterflies seem to flutter over every inch of her skin from the hollow at the base of her throat over the swell of her breasts down the curve of her hips and along her tapered legs. As lovely as they are, they can’t conceal the fact that she is entirely nude. Even her sex is adorned with an exquisite white butterfly that appears almost translucent, its wings spreading across her cleft.
I’m still gawking when Ian bursts out laughing. His eyes glisten with amusement. “I take it you didn’t know that Carnival is a clothing-optional event?”
“That must be obvious.” I answer stiffly, stung by his reminder of my naiveté. It’s the inevitable result of my lack of experience but that doesn’t make it any easier to accept.
“You may want to brace yourself, sweetheart.” His smile steals my breath. It’s wild, tempting, blatantly provocative, at once promising pleasure beyond any I have ever known and daring me to surrender myself to it. To him. Since the day we met, Ian has driven me to the heights of throbbing, screaming ecstasy over and over again. Surely, nothing can surpass what I’ve already experienced with him. Can it?
Holding my gaze, he says, “The night’s barely begun.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Amelia
The inaugural performance of Sergei’s “Medea” is held in a circular open-air theatre erected especially for the occasion in a park near the southern tip of the island. The sun is setting to the west over the harbor as Ian and I arrive. We join the crowd streaming into the amphitheatre, all residents of the city, I notice. The array of costumes shouldn’t surprise me after our encounter with the butterfly lady but I’m still not quite prepared for the lush displays of pampered flesh on the part of both sexes.
Our presence causes a stir. I don’t make the mistake of thinking that I have anything to do with it. People are surprised to see Ian, who rarely attends any sort of social event. In the aftermath of the attack on the Crystal Palace, the power he commands is bound to spark speculation and perhaps even hope. Despite all the bright lights, an undercurrent of fear runs through the city, made worse by the fact that it is suppressed and unspoken.
“No workers?” I ask as we take our seats amid the glittering crowd.
“Carnival is open to all,” he says, ignoring the attention we garner. “At least in the streets. Anything else, including events like this, is strictly for the chosen few.”
I nod, unsurprised. A society as precariously balanced as this one can’t afford the custom common in the ancient and medieval worlds whereby the slaves become the masters once a year. Here everyone has to remember his or her place or the center will not hold. The anarchy that Ian fears truly will be loosed on the world.
Contemplating the city and the forces at work within it, a sense of dread wells up in me without warning. I hear myself murmur, “Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer; things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”
Is this just another random bit of knowledge courtesy of Susannah? It feels more like a warning.
Ian looks surprised but a moment later his expression becomes closed. Apparently, he knows William Yeats’ poem envisioning a coming apocalypse as well as I do because he continues where I left off. “The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.”
He takes my hand, turning it over in his own and lightly strokes my palm. “Not a happy prospect for the world. But I have to admit that was my favorite poem when I was a kid.” As though he suddenly decides that he is being too serious, or perhaps revealing too much, he adds, “I had a thing for falcons.”
My throat is tight as I think of the child he was, caught in the riptide of his parents’ hellish marriage. “You should have one now. You could fly it from the top of Pinnacle House.”
He laughs. “I hate to think what that would do to the dove population.”
I frown as a thought flits through my mind. “Weren’t there pigeons in the city--before?” Back when Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs were home to teeming millions who came here to forge better lives for themselves. The remnants of that world exist all around me but they are fading fast, replaced by a strict hierarchy that serves only the fortunate few and leaves everyone else to fight over crumbs, not unlike the once voracious pigeons themselves.
Ian nods. “They shat too much and they weren’t as pretty as doves so they were exterminated and replaced.”
Just like that, an entire species of bird wiped out on the whim of the privileged elite. In the overall scheme of things, I tell myself it could be much worse. But the fact is I know that it will be if Davos has his way.
The dimming of lights around us distracts me. The ballet is about to begin. Sergei has crafted it around the music of Samuel Barber, a 20th century American composer whose work I know. The first notes of “Medea” are haunting, if also deliberately discordant. I’m drawn quickly into the story of passionate love shattered by wrenching betrayal that is followed by an act of destruction so in violation of the natural order that I can barely stand to watch it play out. Around us, the audience is hushed and rapt, hanging on the final denouement. As Medea takes the lives of her own children to punish her husband for betraying her, I hear more than a few gasps and even some sobs.
Averting my eyes, I discover that Ian isn’t watching the events on stage. His gaze is focused only on me. I flush at being the object of such intense attention but I can’t look away. I’m trapped, a moth to his flame, with no desire to escape.
“Heavy duty stuff,” he murmurs as we rise to leave. “What’s your Russian up to?”
Glad of any distraction, I say, “Why don’t you ask him? I’d like to go back stage.”
For a moment, Ian looks about to refuse but he only shrugs and takes my arm. Sergei is holding court in a tent adjacent to the amphitheatre. He smil
es warmly when he sees me but an instant later his expression changes.
“Ian Slade,” he says as the two men shake hands. It’s obvious that Sergei knows who Ian is. They eye each other bluntly, neither giving ground. The male dominance display cloaked in a thin veneer of civility goes on long enough to be tiresome. Finally, each releases his grip and bares his teeth in what only the most innocent would take for smiles.
“Sergei Zharkov,” Ian says. “Amelia’s told me a great deal about you.”
“Really?” An eyebrow rises toward that leonine mane. “She hasn’t said a word about you. But then she didn’t have to. Her bouts of distraction and emotional turbulence have made it all too clear what sort of man she’s involved with.”
Ian stiffens, as do I. The wave of anger that rolls off him makes me instantly apprehensive. But after a moment, it unexpectedly eases. This new, buoyant Ian isn’t so easy to offend. With a note of amusement, he says, “You like to rattle people, don’t you? Yank them out of their comfort zone and confront them. That’s what tonight’s ballet is about.”
Despite himself, Sergei looks impressed but he tries to hide it. With a shrug, he says, “‘Medea’ is a tempestuous work, lots of sex and violence, well suited to this crowd. That’s all.”
“I don’t think so,” Ian counters. “It’s about the almost unimaginable violence that can come in response to betrayal. But there’s a warning in it as well, isn’t there? Ultimately such violence leads to the destruction of innocents. The future is sacrificed and in the end, no one wins.”
Reluctantly, Sergei says, “You surprise me, Slade. Isn’t violence your trade?”
“The control and containment of it is. Violence is a part of the human condition. Unless we change what it fundamentally means to be human, it will always be with us. The best we can do is channel it in the most positive directions.”
“While protecting the innocents?” Sergei asks. He shifts his gaze to me.
Around us the crowd chatters on, intent on throwing off whatever dark forebodings the performance has evoked.
“Always,” Ian says. He slips an arm around my waist. “We won’t keep you any longer. No doubt there are many others waiting to offer their congratulations.”
“No doubt,” Sergei murmurs. “But I very much doubt if they have your understanding of what they’ve just seen.” To me, he says, “Be well, Amelia. I hope to see you in class soon.”
I assure him that I hope the same. As Ian draws me away, I glance back over my shoulder. Sergei is surrounded by well-wishers vying for his attention. Even so, our eyes meet. In his I see the genuine concern of a friend that does not entirely conceal a hint of longing.
I can’t think about that. Ian commands all my attention. Or he does until we leave the grounds of the park and re-enter the streets where Carnival is in full swing. At once, I realize that he wasn’t exaggerating when he called it a clothing-optional event. Judging by what I can see around me, Ian and I are over dressed.
Body paint seems to be one of the preferred means of expression. A tall, shapely brunette strolls by sporting a thick green serpent that twines from around her throat over her nude body to cleave her sex and wrap around one thigh. A man passes us wearing only a golden tan and a spray of painted leaves that seem intended not to conceal his genitalia so much as to draw attention to them. My eyes widen a bit when I notice that he is semi-erect.
Ian’s hand slides down to cup my hip, his fingers splayed out over my belly. I feel the pressure of them in my groin. A tremor runs through me.
“Carnival is all about license,” he says softly. “Letting go of inhibitions. There’s something to be said for that, don’t you think?”
“In private,” I agree. My cheeks flush as I remember a night we shared in my golden bedroom at the palazzo, not to mention more recent encounters. “But so openly, in the streets?” I can’t imagine ever making such a display of myself. Yet I would be a hypocrite if I tried to deny a certain fascination with the sensual spectacle unfolding all around me.
When Ian moves closer and lightly grazes his mouth along the curve of my jaw, a low moan escapes me. I arch my neck, giving him better access. He obliges, trailing a line of fire from the hollow behind my ear to my collarbone. My eyes close as pleasure rushes through me but they open suddenly as his hands cup my breasts. I don’t want anyone to see us like this but no one appears to be taking any notice. They’re too busy being part of the passing show.
As Ian’s thumbs graze over my nipples, an elegant woman with upswept ebony hair and wearing a collar made of multiple strands of pearls walks by. Beneath the collar, a transparent length of black silk creates the illusion of a cloak covering her back. The upper part of her torso is bare. Another length of the black silk falls below her breasts, suspended at two points from the small gold rings that pierce her nipples. She isn’t alone. The young, muscular man with her is naked except for the black leather harness stretched tightly over his chest and the length of gold chain that is wrapped around his testicles. A leash is attached to the chain. The lady in black holds the other end.
“Dominatrix,” Ian says in a tone that leaves no doubt he is enjoying my shock. “Something I have to admit I’ve never tried.”
I can’t imagine Ian ever allowing any woman to dominate him. But I have seen him come apart in my arms often enough to be confident that the acute need building in me is not mine alone. He may be unsurprised by what is going on around us but that doesn’t mean he is unaffected.
I have proof of that a moment later when he presses me back against a nearby lamp post, thrusts his thigh between my legs, and says, “You’d look exquisite in those black veils but I wouldn’t want your nipples pierced. They’re perfect exactly as they are.”
Shocked by the mere thought, I answer tartly. “That’s good because I would never consider any such thing.”
He laughs and wraps an arm around me. My feet barely brush the ground as he strides into the shadows that conceal a nearby alley. In an instant, he strips off his jacket, drapes it over my shoulders, and presses me against a wall. I can feel the roughness of brick along my back even as the jacket protects me from it.
“You’re exquisite, Amelia. I want you in every possible way,” he says. Without warning, his hand tugs up my dress and slips under it. A grunt of satisfaction escapes him. “You want the same. You’re wet, so ready, so hot.”
I gasp at his audacity but before I can tell him to stop, the surge of pleasure ignited by his touch overwhelms me. Instinctively, my pelvis arches against his hand. He chuckles softly and strokes me, teasing my clit with the tip of one circling finger. Everything in me quickens. I moan helplessly, The build-up to orgasm is so familiar by now that I have no trouble recognizing it but the sensation is fleeting. Almost as soon as it begins, Ian removes his hand and steps away. As quickly as I have begun to soar, I crash back down again.
I glare at him with embarrassed frustration mingling with bewilderment. Why is he doing this?
He smiles, well aware of my predicament and seemingly amused by it. Only the dark glitter of desire in his eyes hints that his emotions run deeper.
“Touch yourself,” he says huskily. “I want to see you make yourself come.”
I gap at him in astonishment. He isn’t serious, is he? It’s not that I’ve never done what he’s demanding. I have but only a little, when I was most desperate for him, and never, ever when anyone else was present. We’re in an alley, for heaven’s sake! It’s bad enough that I allowed myself to forget that even for a moment and now he wants--
“I can’t.”
His look is implacable. “You can, you will. You need this, Amelia. You know you do. Think how good release will feel.”
I can scarcely think of anything else, except-- “What about you?”
“If that’s an offer, I have to say no, for now. No one’s going to watch you give me head.”
“But someone could watch me?”
“No one will see.” He moves swiftly, ang
ling his body so that I am blocked from the view of anyone who might glance down the alley.
He takes my hand, guiding it to where his was. I feel my own heat and slickness even as I realize how desperately I need what he is demanding of me. Even so, I’m not really considering doing as he says. Someone could step into the alley at any moment.
At the thought of being discovered in such a compromising position, a spurt of excitement ripples through me. I want to put it down to the carnal atmosphere but I know it’s really my own wildness, spurred on by the heat in Ian’s eyes and the challenge implicit in the curve of his so-tempting mouth.
“Slip your fingers into your panties,” he murmurs. “Imagine that it’s me touching you.”
I moan at the thought of him doing so. I know his touch so well. My body has been conditioned to respond to it. Even the sound of his voice or the scent of his skin is enough to arouse me. My head falls back against the wall. My eyes close. Slowly, hesitantly, the tip of my finger eases below the lacy edge of my panties…slides a little lower over my bare mound…and finds my clit. I’m shocked by how hot it feels, how swollen and slick. Tentatively, I make a light, circular motion, imagining all the while that it is Ian touching me. His hard, compelling body pressed against mine, his touch circling…pressing lightly at first…,a little harder… A few strokes and I’m struggling not to cry out. I have to stop. But Ian is having none of that.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, stepping closer so that I feel the warmth of his breath on my skin. “The most exquisite, sensual, giving woman I’ve ever known. No one has ever come close to you.”
Emboldened by his praise, my finger moves more quickly, circling round and round. Pleasing myself, I am pleasing him. I can hear that in his thickening voice, murmuring to me gently. “That’s it, sweetheart. You’re close, aren’t you? I can smell that sweet, honeyed musk. I’d like to have my tongue on you right now, tasting you, making you come--”
Anew: Book Two: Hunted Page 21