Succubus Shadows gk-5

by Richelle Mead

  I smiled back, my hands caressing the sides of his face. “I’m anything you want me to be. How do you want to treat me?”

  He thought about it, finally speaking in a hesitant voice. “I want…I want to think of you like a goddess…and take you like a whore….”

  My smile increased. That about summed up my life, I thought.

  “I’m anything you want me to be,” I repeated.

  Rising to his feet, he pushed me roughly against the bed, holding me down. He was ready again, though I could see the effort it took. Most men would have collapsed after that loss of life energy, but he was fighting through his exhaustion in order to take me again. I felt the hard press of him against me, and then he pushed—nearly shoved—himself into me, sliding almost effortlessly now that I was so wet.

  Moaning, I shifted myself up so that he could get a better position and take me deeper. His hands clutched my hips as he moved with an almost primal aggression, and the sound of our bodies hitting each other filled the room. My body responded to his, loving the way he filled me up and drove into me. My cries grew louder, his thrusts harder.

  And, oh, the life pouring into me. It was a river now, golden and scorching, renewing my own life and existence. Along with his energy, he yielded some of his emotions and thoughts, and I could literally feel his lust and affection for me.

  That life force warred with my own physical pleasure, both consuming me and driving me mad, so that I could barely think or even separate one from the other. The feeling grew and grew within me, burning my core, building up in such intensity that I could barely contain it. I pressed my face against him, smothering my cries.

  The fire within me swelled, and I made no more attempts to hold off my climax. It burst within me, exploding, enveloping my whole body in a terrible, wonderful ecstasy. Niccolò showed no mercy, never slowing as that pleasure wracked my body. I writhed against it, even as I screamed for more.

  Doing this might make Niccolò immoral in the eyes of the Church, but at the heart of what mattered, he was a decent man. He was kind to others and had a strong character whose principles were not easily shaken. As a result, he had had a lot of goodness and a lot of life to give, life I absorbed without remorse. It spread into me as our bodies moved together, sweeter than any nectar. It burned in my veins, making me feel alive, making me into the goddess he kept murmuring that I was.

  Unfortunately, the loss of such energy took its toll, and he lay immobile in my bed afterward, breathing shallow and face pale. Naked, I sat up and watched him, running a hand over his sweat-drenched forehead. He smiled.

  “I was going to write a sonnet about you…. I don’t think I can capture this with words.” He struggled to sit up, the motion causing him pain. The fact that he’d managed all of this was pretty remarkable. “I need to go…the city’s curfew…”

  “Forget it. You can stay here for the night.”

  “But your servants—”

  “—are well-paid for their discretion.” I brushed my lips over his skin. “Besides, don’t you want to…discuss more philosophy?”

  He closed his eyes, but the smile stayed. “Yes, of course. But I…I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I need to rest first….”

  I lay down beside him. “Then rest.”

  A pattern developed between us after that. He’d work on the fresco during the day—his progress slowing significantly—and spend his nights with me. That twang of guilt never left him, making the experience doubly exciting for me. My essence drank from his soul while my body enjoyed the skills of his.

  One day, he left to run errands—and didn’t come back. Two more days passed with no word from him, and my worry began to grow. When he showed up on the third night, there was an anxious, harried look to him. More concerned than ever, I hurried him inside, noting a bundle under his arm.

  “Where have you been? What is that?”

  Unwrapping his cloak, he revealed a stack of books. I sifted through them with the wonder I’d always had for such things. Boccaccio’s The Decameron. Ovid’s Amores. Countless others. Some I’d read. Some I’d longed to read. My heart gave a flutter, and my fingers itched to turn the pages.

  “I’ve gathered these from some of my friends,” he explained. “They’re worried Savonarola’s thugs will seize them.”

  I frowned at this reference to the city’s most powerful priest. “Savonarola?”

  “He’s gathering up ‘objects of sin’ in order to destroy them. Will you hide these here? No one would force them away from someone like you.”

  The books practically shone to me, far more valuable than the jewelry I’d amassed. I wanted to drop everything and start reading. “Of course.” I flipped through the pages of the Boccaccio. “I can’t believe anyone would want to destroy these.”

  “These are dark days,” he said, face hard. “If we aren’t careful, all knowledge will be lost. The ignorant will crush the learned.”

  I knew he spoke the truth. I’d seen it, over and over. Knowledge destroyed, trampled by those too stupid to know what they did. Sometimes it happened through forceful, bloody invasions; sometimes it happened through less violent but equally insidious means, like those of Fra Savonarola. I’d grown so accustomed to it that I barely noticed anymore. For some reason, it hit me harder this time. Maybe it was because I was seeing it through his urgent eyes and not just observing it from a distance.

  “Bianca?” Niccolò chuckled softly. “Are you even listening to me? I’d hoped to spend the night with you, but maybe you’d rather be with Boccaccio….”

  I dragged my eyes from the pages, feeling my lips quirk up into a half-smile. “Can’t I have you both?”

  Over the next few days, Niccolò continued to smuggle more and more goods to me. And not just books. Paintings accumulated in my home. Small sculptures. Even more superficial things like extravagant cloth and jewels, all deemed sinful.

  I felt as though I’d been allowed to cross through the gates of heaven. Hours would pass as I studied paintings and sculptures, marveling at the ingenuity of humans, jealous of a creativity I had never possessed, either as a mortal or immortal. That art filled me up with an indescribable joy, exquisite and sweet, almost reminding me of when my soul had been my own.

  And the books…oh, the books. My clerks and associates soon found their hands full of extra work as I neglected them. Who cared about accounts and shipments with so much knowledge at my fingertips? I drank it up, savoring the words—words the Church condemned as heresy. A secret smugness filled me over the role I played, protecting these treasures. I would pass on humanity’s knowledge and thwart Heaven’s agenda. The light of genius and creativity would not fade from this world, and best of all, I would get to enjoy it along the way.

  Things changed when Tavia showed up one day to check in. The demoness was pleased at the report of my conquests but puzzled when she noticed a small sculpture of Bacchus on a table. I hadn’t yet had a chance to hide the statue with my horde.

  Tavia demanded an explanation, and I told her about my role in protecting the contraband. As always, her response took a long time in coming, and when it did, my heart nearly stopped.

  “You need to cease this immediately.”

  “I—what?”

  “And you need to turn these items over to Father Betto.”

  I studied her incredulously, waiting for the joke to reveal itself. Father Betto was my local priest. “You can’t…you can’t mean that. This stuff can’t be destroyed. We’d be supporting the Church. We’re supposed to go against them.”

  Tavia raised a dark, pointed eyebrow. “We’re supposed to further evil in the world, my darling, which may or may not go along with the Church’s plans. In this case, it does.”

  “How?” I cried.

  “Because there is no greater evil than ignorance and the destruction of genius. Ignorance has been responsible for more death, more bigotry, and more sin than any other force. It is the destroyer of mankind.”

&n
bsp; “But Eve sinned when she sought knowledge…”

  The demoness smirked. “Are you sure? Do you truly know what is good and what is evil?”

  “I…I don’t know,” I whispered. “They seem kind of indistinguishable from one another.” It was the first time since becoming a succubus that the lines had really and truly grown so blurred for me. After the loss of my mortal life had darkened me, I’d thrown myself into being a succubus, never questioning Hell’s role or the corrupting of men like Niccolò.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Sometimes they are.” Her smile vanished. “This isn’t up for debate. You will yield your stash immediately. And maybe try to seduce Father Betto while you’re at it. That’d be a nice perk.”

  “But I—” The word “can’t” was on my lips, and I bit it off. Under the scrutiny of her stare and power, I felt very small and very weak. You don’t cross demons. I swallowed. “Yes, Tavia.”

  The next time Niccolò and I made love, he managed a tired but happy attempt at conversation in his post-sex exhaustion. “Lenzo’s going to bring me one of his paintings tomorrow. Wait until you see it. It shows Venus and Adonis—”

  “No.”

  He lifted his head up. “Hmm?”

  “No. Don’t bring me any more.” It was hard, oh God, it was so hard speaking to him in such a cold tone. I kept reminding myself of what I was and what I had to do.

  A frown crossed his handsome face. “What are you talking about? You’ve already collected so much—”

  “I don’t have them anymore. I gave them up to Savonarola.”

  “You…you’re joking.”

  I shook my head. “No. I contacted his Bands of Hope this morning. They came and took it all.”

  Niccolò struggled to sit up. “Stop it. This isn’t funny.”

  “It’s not a joke. They’re all gone. They’re going to the fire. They’re objects of sin. They need to be destroyed.”

  “You’re lying. Stop this, Bianca. You don’t mean—”

  My voice sharpened. “They’re wrong and heretical. They’re gone.”

  Our eyes locked, and as he studied my face, I could see that he was starting to realize that maybe, just maybe, I spoke the truth. And I did. Sort of. I was very good at making people—especially men—believe what I wanted them to.

  We dressed, and I took him to the storage room I’d previously hidden the objects in. He stared at the empty space, face pale and disbelieving. I stood nearby, arms crossed, maintaining a stiff and disapproving stance.

  Eyes wide, he turned to me. “How could you? How could you do this to me?”

  “I told you—”

  “I trusted you! You said you’d keep them safe!”

  “I was wrong. Satan clouded my judgment.”

  He gripped my arm painfully and leaned close to me. “What have they done to you? Did they threaten you? You wouldn’t do this. What are they holding against you? Is it that priest you’re always visiting?”

  “No one made me do this,” I replied bleakly. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  He pulled back, like he couldn’t stand my touch, and my heart lurched painfully at the look in his eyes. “Do you know what you’ve done? Some of those can never be replaced.”

  “I know. But it’s better this way.”

  Niccolò stared at me for several more seconds and then stumbled for the door, uncaring of the curfew or his weakened state. I watched him go, feeling dead inside. He’s just another man, I thought. Let him go. I’d had so many in my life; I’d have so many more. What did he matter?

  Swallowing tears, I crept downstairs to the lower level, careful not to wake the sleeping household. I’d made the same journey last night, painstakingly carrying part of the horde down here—a part that I didn’t give to the Church’s minions.

  Splitting the art and books had been like choosing which of my children had to live or die. The silks and velvets had been mindless; all of them went to Fra Savonarola. But the rest…that had been difficult. I’d let most of Ovid go. His works were so widespread, I had to believe copies of them would survive—if not in Florence, then perhaps some other place untouched by this bigotry. Other authors, those whom I feared had a limited run, stayed with me.

  The paintings and sculptures proved hardest of all. They were one of a kind. I couldn’t hope that other copies might exist. But I’d known I couldn’t keep them all either, not with Tavia checking in. And so, I’d chosen those which I thought most worth saving, protecting them from the Church. Niccolò couldn’t know that, though.

  I didn’t see him for almost three weeks, until we ran into each other at Savonarola’s great burning. History would later know it as the Bonfire of the Vanities. It was a great pyramid stuffed with fuel and sin. The zealous threw more and more items in as it blazed, seeming to have a never ending supply. I watched as Botticelli himself tossed one of his paintings in.

  Niccolò’s greeting was curt. “Bianca.”

  “Hello, Niccolò.” I kept my voice cold and crisp. Uncaring.

  He stood in front of me, gray eyes black in the flickering light. His face seemed to have aged since our last meeting. We both turned and silently observed the blaze again, watching as more and more of man’s finest things were sacrificed.

  “You have killed progress,” Niccolò said at last. “You betrayed me.”

  “I’ve delayed progress. And I had no obligations to you. Except for this.” Reaching into the folds of my dress, I handed over a purse heavy with florins. It was the last part in my plan. He took it, blinking at its weight.

  “This is more than you owe me. And I won’t finish the fresco.”

  “I know. It’s all right. Take it. Go somewhere else, somewhere away from this. Paint. Write. Create something beautiful. Whatever it takes to make you happy. I don’t really care.”

  He stared, and I feared he’d give the money back. “I still don’t understand. How can you not care about any of this? How can you be so cruel? Why did you do it?”

  I studied the fire again. Humans, I realized idly, liked to burn things. Objects. Each other. “Because men cannot surpass the gods. Not yet anyway.”

  “Prometheus never intended his gift to be used like this.”

  I smiled without humor, remembering an old debate of ours about classical mythology, back during our sweeter days. “No. I suppose not.”

  We said nothing else. A moment later, he walked away, disappearing into the darkness. For a heartbeat, I considered telling him the truth, that much of his treasure was still safe. I’d paid well for it to be smuggled out of Florence, away from this mad destruction.

  In fact, I’d actually sent the goods to an angel. I didn’t like angels as a general rule, but this one was a scholar, one I’d met in England and tolerated. Heretical or no, the books and art would appeal to him as much as to me. He would keep them safe. How ironic, I thought, that I would turn to the enemy for help. Tavia had been right. Sometimes good and evil were impossible to distinguish from one another. And if she’d known what I had done, my existence would probably be over.

  So I couldn’t tell anyone. The secret had to stay with me and the angel, no matter how much I wished I could share it with Niccolò and comfort him. I had to live with the knowledge that I had taken his life, soul, and hope. He would hate me forever, and it was a sting I would likewise carry with me forever—one that would slowly make my existence more and more miserable.

  My world dissolved into darkness. I was back in my box, still cramped and uncomfortable. As usual, I couldn’t see anything, but my cheeks were wet with tears yet again. I felt exhausted, even a little disoriented, and my heart ached with a pain that I could never put into words. I didn’t see the Oneroi, but something told me they were probably around.

  “That was truth,” I whispered. “That really happened.”

  As suspected, a voice answered me in the darkness, and I suddenly knew the real reason they kept showing me true dreams.

  “Your truths are worse than your l
ies.”

  Chapter 13

  I woke up next to Seth, and for the space of heartbeat, I thought I truly was waking—waking up from an awful, awful dream about the Oneroi and everything else that had happened since Seth and I had broken up. He lay asleep in bed with the sheets tangled around him, his light brown hair glinting reddish in the morning sun. He slept only in boxers, and his chest looked warm and smooth and perfect for cuddling against.

  His breathing was even, his posture still and relaxed. I drank it all in, all the little Seth details I’d been missing for months. I swore that I could even smell him. Did dreams have smells? This one did, I was certain. That soft woodsy-apple scent wrapped around me like an embrace.

  After a few moments, he began to stir and sleepily open his eyes. He squinted at the light and rolled onto his back, stifling a yawn. I wanted to roll right over to him and snuggle against his warmth, telling him all about the nightmares I’d been having.

  Then, I realized there was no way I could go to him. I couldn’t move. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. There was more to it than that. I just didn’t have a body. I was an observer only, like the invisible camera I’d been with Roman and Jerome. This apparently was not a dream I was active in, and the realization of that drove home the terrible truth: this was still an Oneroi dream. I hadn’t imagined them. I hadn’t imagined Seth and me breaking up.

  He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. It was such a familiar, nostalgic sight. Getting up was always hard for him, largely because of the bizarre writing hours he kept. He glanced over at the clock, which was near the direction from which I was “watching.” His eyes passed right over where I would have been. Yes. I was just a ghost in this. But what was “this” exactly? Truth or lie?

  The time on the clock—nine in the morning—must have been motivation enough for him to drag himself out of bed. Still in boxers, he stumbled into the bathroom, miraculously not walking into anything in his sleepy state. While brushing his teeth, he noticed a note on the counter. I immediately recognized the writing because I saw it all the time at the bookstore.