The decision made, Erik relaxed into the music, smiling on the inside. She wouldn’t have a chance. He’d wrap her up, envelop her, overwhelm her with pleasure ’til she screamed.
Speculations rioted in his brain: What perfume did she wear? He loved the way women smelled. Was her voice light or deep? How would she look when she laughed? Or when she was poised on a pinnacle of pleasure, lost to propriety, gone beyond rational thought? He had to know.
Oh yes. That one. He’d never seen a courtesan quite like her before. A refreshing change. She’d do very well, very well indeed.
By the time it was all finished, the lullaby, the applause, the bows, he was alight, every vestige of depression washed away by the stimulation of performance. This was what filled the empty places—the thrill of it, the rush. How could the gods think he’d give it up?
By way of an encore, Erik the Golden sang a lullaby unaccompanied, his voice a thread of dark gold woven around the weeping heart.
Storm clouds gather, love,
In your eyes, in your pretty eyes.
Prue had always loved the “Lullaby for Stormy Eyes,” but she’d never heard it sung this way, like an exquisite, aching elegy. As the last notes fell away to a throbbing hush, she scrubbed at the tears on her cheeks.
The world seemed to hang suspended for a moment, as if the Sister Herself held Her breath. Someone clapped, hesitantly, then someone else. Suddenly, the Royal Theater was buried under an avalanche of noise—shouting, stamping, clapping, cheering. People stood and yelled at the tops of their voices. It made Prue’s head swim.
Erik Thorensen bowed again and again. He looked straight at the courtesans’ box, his eyes bright. Prue felt the impact of that glance as though he’d pressed his mouth between her open thighs, though she knew he had to be looking at Rose, because all men looked at the Dark Rose. They couldn’t help it.
A final bow and he blew a kiss in their general direction. Then he strode offstage and the lights went up. Prue pulled in a shuddering breath, folding her hands in her lap.
“Gods, that was wonderful. Here.” Rose sank back in her seat and thrust a handkerchief at Prue. “Blow your nose, you great softy.” She frowned, reaching out to undo the top two buttons of Prue’s one and only evening gown.
“Rose, what—?” Prue batted at her hands, but Rose persisted.
“We’re going to a party.” Briskly, Rose smoothed the fabric open, exposing the upper swell of Prue’s plump breasts.
“Rosarina!”
A dark brow arched and Rose’s strange, long-lashed eyes gleamed, dark and mysterious as moonslight on the sea canals of Caracole. Her lips twitched. “Erik the Golden just sent us an invitation to Her Majesty’s reception. Did I forget to tell you?”
Death Magick wasn’t all doom and gloom—a common, if ignorant assumption. The Necromancer’s lips twitched as he leaned back into the velvet embrace of his seat. Of course, a little terror, judiciously applied, was very sweet, but it wasn’t as if he was incapable of appreciating life and laughter.
Beauty.
His thoughtful gaze dipped below him to the left, to the dozen or so courtesans preparing to leave their private box, highlighted like a bed of exquisite blooms by the glowglobes. He moved on, to where the last two had risen to shake out their skirts. They were deep in conversation, their heads together in the manner of old friends, comfortable in each other’s space. The taller had a sweep of shining midnight hair, spilling soft and straight and thick all down her back, the other appeared to be short and softly curved, her hands gesturing busily as she spoke. From this angle, all he could see of her was one creamy rounded cheek, a determined little chin. Her hair was a gleaming nut brown, lightly confined in a net of gold, her gown a simple, severe black.
Then the tall woman turned her head. She was laughing, her face alight with pleasure and humor, and despite himself, the Necromancer’s brows rose. He’d never seen a woman more alluring, and Shaitan knew, he was immune to feminine charms.
Interesting. This had to be famous Dark Rose herself. The copper-satin skin, the lush mouth, the magnificent body clad in a simple burgundy gown of such surpassing elegance that it enticed even as it concealed.
Her establishment was well named. The Garden of Nocturnal Delights was the most exclusive, expensive courtesan house in Caracole of the Leaves. Indeed, on Palimpsest itself. The Necromancer had never been to The Garden. Money was not an issue, but he had no need for the pleasures of the flesh, and no interest either, not from the moment he’d discovered the sublime taste of soul-death, the screaming, writhing, astonishing intensity of it, filling him, exalting him, sending him to the stars. Sex paled in comparison.
The Necromancer’s fingers flexed on the arm of his chair. He prided himself on his precision, though no audience had yet survived the performance to applaud his skill. The whores were in his line of sight. It would be child’s play to reach out, choose one—it made no matter which, the tall or the short—and then . . . Oh yes. He’d take her spinal cord between his invisible fingers and squeeze, oh so slowly. Those pretty eyes would open wide while her mouth contorted with agony and fear and her friends panicked all around her.
He’d drink her down at his leisure, sip her soul as if she were an aperitif. She’d squirm like a fish on a cruel hook, but by the end, he’d have her—everything she’d ever been, everything she’d ever known or thought or imagined or done.
His.
Tapping a forefinger against his lower lip, the Necromancer considered his options.
Erik’s lips quirked as he bowed and murmured greetings. The reception had started well. The elegant, chattering crowd milled around right on the stage, the good citizens of Caracole clearly titillated by their glimpse of the glamour behind the velvet curtains.
His blood still ran hot, rushing and tumbling through his veins. Where was she, his little courtesan? Lord’s balls, what he needed now was a soft body and a horizontal surface. No, fuck that, he’d have her standing up, against the wall, the door. Who cared? After the first urgency was out of the way, they’d negotiate the rest. He’d torture them both with pleasure for the rest of the night.
No sign of the women yet, though he knew the boy had conveyed his invitation. Gods, tonight it was actually good to be alive!
“Erik, perhaps you would sing one more for us?” A pause. “Erik? ”
It dawned on him he’d been peering over the queen’s elegantly coiffed gray braids toward the wings. Heads were turning in the same direction, one after the other.
A tall, graceful woman gowned all in burgundy emerged from the shadows. Erik’s gaze darted past her. Yes! The dark beauty paused by the curtain to whisper to the neat figure at her side.
“Delighted, Your Majesty,” said Erik promptly. “Would you care for a love song? Something light and charming?”
Queen Sikara looked him up and down with a shrewd twinkle, her approval so endearingly frank, he couldn’t possibly take offense. There’d only been time to remove the makeup, peel off the false beard and doff the jacket, so he was still clad in the dress shirt, now a trifle limp and sweaty, the breeches and those ridiculous boots.
“Excellent,” said the monarch with decision. “Whenever you’re ready.” Which meant, Now, idiot.
Smiling inwardly, Erik bowed and went to find the accompanist he preferred. By the time the man had tuned his lute, the crowd had thickened, buzzing. Inconspicuously, Erik flipped open the buttons at his throat and sucked in a succession of slow, deep breaths. He wasn’t nervous, that rarely happened these days, but he was keyed up, tense in a way foreign to his usual composure.
It was true what the Lady had said, the women did come and go in an endless procession. Sometimes, when all went well, there was more to the act than physical gratification—the merest flicker of connection, a pale shadow of something real. Just for that fleeting instant, the touch of it would soothe the hollow ache in his soul.
He still hadn’t been able to get a closer look at his quarry, tho
ugh he was preternaturally aware of her standing near one of the fake pillars stage left.
He’d have to be careful with her. It would be so easy to take both her wrists in one big hand and hold her helpless while he suckled her pretty breasts and she bucked and squirmed with the pleasure of it. Her skin would be warm, cream and honey and salt on his tongue, and she’d make wonderful noises. He might even use the flat of his hand, but carefully. Her plump little bottom would flush the prettiest pink while she sobbed with mingled shock and delight, and when he stroked her, she’d soak his fingers . . .
Right. Erik pinched the bridge of his nose. Focus on the music.
He loved the song he’d chosen, a lilting melody in an ancient form called a canzonetta. The rest of the work it came from was lost, the story of an unrepentant roué and his descent into hell. Only this and a few other fragments of genius remained.
The first notes rang out, building a perfect framework, all he had to do was slide into it and over it, as warm and smooth as heated caramel. Seduction, pure and simple—and when sung with the Voice, well nigh irresistible. But seduction with music was permissible, a spoken command was not. Erik touched his talisman as a reminder, took a breath and let the notes flow forth.
Come to the window, oh my treasure.
Casually, he strolled a little closer, watching her out of the corner of his eye, enjoying the warmth and weight of the crowd’s attention. Hell, he couldn’t quite see her face.
Oh, come and soothe my pain.
When he leaned carefully against the first of the fake columns, it creaked a bit, but it held. Women smiled and nodded in time with the music, their eyes intent. Brightly colored gowns swayed toward him, rustling like blossoms trembling beneath the caress of a summer breeze. No one spoke or even coughed. They were his, all of them in the palm of his hand, including the one he wanted most. Shit, it was fine! The best feeling in the world.
If you refuse me comfort . . .
Slowly, he turned his head. Ah. She was pretty enough, in a plump, round-faced sort of way. Nothing out of the ordinary, yet he liked the fresh, clear-skinned look of her. It gave her an air of grave innocence that was oddly tempting. Still, it was odd. He’d never had much of a yen for small brown hens before.
. . . I will die right before your eyes.
Her eyes were her most distinguishing feature—almond-shaped under strongly marked brows. But they weren’t dark as he’d expected. They shone a pure blue green, bright with interest and open admiration. Like most of the females standing around her, her mouth hung slightly open, her lower lip sweet and full, so cushiony, he had to smile as he sang the next line.
Your mouth is sweeter than honey.
She had a dimple, quivering in one soft cheek. What other parts of her would be tasty? Dimpled? His hungry gaze traveled over a rounded bosom, the hint of cleavage in the modest black gown.
Your heart is sweet as sugar.
He couldn’t be much more than ten feet away now. Erik straightened, pushing away from the pillar. He took a step closer. Another.
Ah, my delight, don’t be so cruel.
He drew the last syllable out forever, making the air throb with unrequited passion.
A storm of applause rolled past Erik and away.
She blinked, once, twice, as if emerging from a dream. Her mouth shut with an almost audible click, while those vivid eyes scanned him from the top of his blond head to the soles of his boots in a single comprehensive glance. No longer clouded with desire, they were intelligent, measuring. The dimple flashed in her cheek as if at a wry, private joke.
She turned away.
Well, hell. What was that about?
When a tall, saturnine man tapped him on the shoulder, Erik said, “What?” with a good deal less than his usual easy charm.
The man inclined his head. “I am the Queen’s Entertainment,” he said, as if it were a matter of grave import. “At other courts, I would be known as the Master of Ceremonies. Her Majesty wishes me to convey her apologies and her thanks for your performance.”
The man indicated the queen, who was leaving the theater surrounded by a gaggle of serious-looking people, including a man and a woman in elaborate uniforms. “She’s been called to an emergency meeting of the Cabal. Trinitarian corsairs again, I’m afraid. I’m sure you understand.”
Erik raised a brow. “Not really.”
The Queen’s Entertainment huffed with impatience. “Her Majesty wishes you to enjoy your stay. Allow me to introduce you to a number of nobleladies who have expressed the desire to meet you.”
Erik stared at the courtesans, now the center of a chattering, laughing group. “That’s the one I’d like to meet.”
The man’s gaze followed Erik’s, and his expression lightened. His mouth trembled on the brink of a smile before he got it back under control. “The Dark Rose?” he said. “She’s not a noblelady, though Her Majesty did offer to elevate her.”
“What? It’s the other—Hell, never mind.” Erik took the man’s elbow in a grip as unbreakable as it was friendly. “Introduce me.”
4
The Necromancer’s lip curled. Killing a single doxy, no matter how bedable, was nothing—a mite, a speck, in comparison with the dark triumph ahead. The Royal Theater and the thousand people in it meant no more to him than a nest of bitemes. Already, he held the queen and her Cabal in the palm of his hand, though they were blissfully unaware, the fools.
A satisfied breath whispered out of him. Life didn’t get much better than this.
The Technomages now . . . The Necromancer rubbed his chin. On every known world, the political landscape was a three-way struggle for power between State, Science, and Magick, though in Caracole, Sikara was canny enough to hold her own.
Whereas on Sybaris, the State was nonexistent and the wizards were as weak as water, Technomage Towers everywhere. But the Technomage Primus of Sybaris had come all the way from her home world to find him. Exactly as he’d intended she should. His smile congealed. A pity she was such an irritating woman. If he could refrain from killing her before their work was done, it would be a miracle. Nonetheless, just as he’d planned, he had a tame Scientist of his own now, puddling about in the secret laboratory he’d built for her in his grand palazzo.
That left only the Wizards’ Enclave. The Purists might pose a problem, they weren’t all stupid—Magick was their business, after all—and he’d heard rumors . . .
The Necromancer frowned.
He’d missed the fire witch by the merest fraction, Shaitan take it.
Knowing she must be an integral part of the great Pattern, he’d scryed for the shape in blood still warm, seen it swirling, swimming out of the murk of causality, shifting and blurring. At the moment, all he had was an inkling, he couldn’t make out the precise shape, the formless stuff of the universe too vast and complex for him to quite comprehend.
Yet.
One day, he too would see it clearly, every curve and node intimately known, mastered. His. He’d be a god, more than a god . . . Death Incarnate, the end of it all, the black hole at the center of existence . . . He’d take the universe apart, dismantle it, piece by piece, until its workings were exposed like a stripped clock and there was nothing left to defy him, nothing he did not control.
Rising, the Necromancer walked slowly to the door and paused to look back at the animated throng on the stage. He didn’t regret missing the party; such human foolishness had always bored him. But there was something there, hovering like smoke around the crowd, the merest taste of it in the air. He inhaled.
Yes, Magick.
But different, elusive. Intriguing.
His gaze flicked over a pair of soberly dressed Purists, a man and a woman. Bartelm was staring across the stage, looking down his high-bridged nose as if something rotten had appeared right underneath it. Old Nori’s hands were clenched around the handle of her cane. The Necromancer knew the flavor of their wizards’ Magick almost as well as his own. It wasn’t them.
> No, it felt . . . decidedly odd.
Interesting.
Someone laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. “Come, old friend,” said the queen. “Don’t concern yourself, Entertainment will make our apologies. Time for the Cabal to go to work.”
The Necromancer bowed his head lest she see the disgust and contempt in his eyes. His skin crawled. She couldn’t keep her hands to herself, the silly bitch.
“Yes, Majesty,” he said dutifully.
Erik the Golden worked the crowd like a master, she had to give him that. Rose herself could have done no better. Every now and then, his deep chuckle would ripple beneath the shriller sound of feminine laughter, and all the hair on Prue’s arms would rise. The singer had the philanderer’s gift of immediate empathy, his head bent attentively as he conversed with an elderly, well-dressed couple and their plump, flustered daughter. Prue watched out of the corner of her eye as he set the girl at ease, made her smile and flush with pleasure.
Nothing was as flattering as genuine interest. Nicely done.
A final bow and Erik detached himself, tapped Entertainment’s bony shoulder and nodded in Rose’s direction.
Praise be to the Sister, now he was no longer singing, the spell of that sumptuous voice had broken. She couldn’t believe it—Prue McGuire, languishing over a pair of pretty blue eyes and a feckless grin. That way lay disaster.
Never again.
She shook her head. His voice had been a dream, nothing more, but wisps of its sensual beauty lingered like a lover’s touch, a deep internal stroking. She could only be grateful that as Erik had finished the song and strolled closer, the mists had cleared and she’d seen him.
Thief of Light Page 3