“Likewise, Mistress Rose.” He raised it to his lips and kissed it, a real kiss, Prue noted, not just a polite brush of the lips.
Setting her jaw, she said, “Be seated, Master Thorensen, and tell me why you want a bookkeeper.”
In the courtyard of the Sweet Manda, surrounded by smooth, healthy flesh and shining hair, the implied promise of pleasure, it had crossed Erik’s mind to wonder if he’d made a mistake about Prue McGuire. Why would the Dark Lady choose a no-nonsense woman like Prue to test his control? He’d been inclined to put last night’s thoughts down to wounded vanity, the astonishing challenge her resistance posed to both his masculinity and the strange powers the gods had given him.
But the goddess had made no mistake.
Her hair lay loose over her shoulders in a gleaming ripple of brown, held away from her face by a couple of simple braids. To his delight, it was soft and thick, with an enchanting wayward curl, making her look softer, younger. The effect was enhanced because she’d been laughing when he walked in, her eyes narrowed, sparkling with merriment like those of a mischievous child.
The delightful gurgle of it was infectious. When Mistress Prue laughed, she gave it all of herself, helpless with amusement, the dimple quivering. Like warm fingers, the sound slid into his trews and curled around his balls, until they drew up in anticipation. Once a man got past the barriers, she’d be a generous lover, abandoned in her pleasure. Gods, she might even strike a spark in the emptiness that was his soul.
She wore loose trousers and an over-tunic in a blue so dark it was nearly black, the outfit obviously intended for comfort while she worked. She probably thought the getup modest, but any man’s gaze would be drawn to the way the fine fabric pulled against the rounded curve of buttock and breast—unless he were dead, of course. Judging by the warmth and tightness in his trews, he’d be very much alive for some time yet.
To the seven hells with a bookkeeper, I just want you.
Instead, he fell back into role. He said mildly, “You called me Erik last night.”
“I may have done.” Seating herself behind the desk, she tapped the parchment, all traces of humor hidden from him. “Are there no bookkeepers in Concordia, Master Thorensen?”
Godsdammit, she was a prickly little thing. He’d hoped the music lessons would win her over, especially as Rose had been perfectly amenable. He should have known better. The Dark Lady’s challenge wouldn’t be worthy of the name if it was easy.
“Not one that I trust.”
She didn’t give an inch. “Why?”
“I’m a singer, Mistress Prue, not a mathematician.” He rearranged his features into a pleasant smile, which appeared to soften her not at all.
This wasn’t strictly true. Erik didn’t particularly enjoy it, but he was perfectly capable of keeping the Unearthly Opera’s accounts himself. In fact, he’d done so for years.
“I have a man,” he said, inventing as he went along, his mind racing. “There are things he does I don’t understand, but they don’t seem to . . . ah . . . add up . . .” Spreading his hands, he trailed off, doing his best to look confused and suitably helpless. “I worry that he’s cheating me. This is all confidential, of course.”
It didn’t seem possible, but the set of her shoulders grew stiffer. “Of course.”
Lord’s balls, but she had herself on a tight rein! Something small and petty within him capered with delight and he gave up trying to quash it. Because he’d lay odds it was something to do with him. At some deep, instinctive level, she’d already accepted she was prey, because the mere fact of his presence had her off balance.
Strangely content, Erik shifted his weight carefully in the spindly chair and looked around him with interest. The room was clearly an office, furnished with purpose-built shelves and cupboards with deep, sliding drawers. There were two other doors, one half-open. Through it, he could see a pleasant sitting room, cheerful sunlight spotlighting the rugs, spilling over one end of a large, squashy sofa. He wondered if she was tempted to curl up and take a nap there when work grew heavy. His lips twitched. No, not the conscientious Prue. She’d have to be persuaded. Difficult, but he was sure the right man could do it.
He watched in silence as Prue picked up her brush and moistened it in the water jar before loading it with ink from the ink block. She was aware of his scrutiny, that much was obvious. Little by little, the honey of her cheek flushed a darker pink, but she didn’t look up from her task. When she was satisfied, she signed the contract, every letter small and precisely formed, finishing off with an unexpected flourish at the end. She didn’t lack for nerve.
Erik smiled. Got you!
Prue set the brush aside and raised those amazing, tip-tilted eyes to his. “When I engage to do something, Master Thorensen, I do it thoroughly. No shortcuts. You should know that before we begin.”
“Excellent, Mistress Prue,” he said affably, assailed by delicious visions of the thoroughness of her surrender, the throaty, helpless gasps, the evidence of control shattered, burned away in erotic fire. Gods, he was going to enjoy it, relish every smooth, round morsel of her.
Hauling in a breath, he settled himself. “I’m all in favor of thorough ,” he said. “I think we’ll suit, don’t you?”
Ignoring his remark, she laid her hands flat on the big ledger in front of her and leaned forward. Ink stained the first two fingers of her right hand. He found it oddly endearing. “Bring the books and all the relevant receipts, bills and documents tomorrow.” She shifted her gaze to a point on the wall over his left shoulder. “Good day, Master Thorensen.”
“I haven’t finished.” Because he hadn’t. There was still the greatest mystery of all—how had Prue McGuire resisted the Voice?
“I’m sorry, but I’m a busy woman. I have work to do.” She gave the leather-bound volume a brisk pat.
“So I see,” he said. “What is it you have there?”
“It’s The Garden’s tax records. The Queen’s Money demands them once a year. We’re not only ready, we’re a whole month early.” She smiled, an almost feline expression of satisfaction and pride.
“Congratulations,” he said. “Paying tax gets you excited?”
Her lips twitched, the dimple flashing in her cheek before she could master her response. Inwardly, Erik crowed with triumph. “I lead a simple life,” she said.
Slowly, he rose and held out a hand. “Will you show me the ledger?”
“No.” She didn’t miss a beat. “The Garden’s accounts are none of a stranger’s concern.”
“I won’t be a stranger for long, Prue.” First, make absolutely certain she wouldn’t do it, then . . .
Oh, gods.
“I’d like to see a sample of your work,” he said.
She shook her head, her hair shifting like a gleaming brown shawl on her shoulders. “You’ll see it soon enough.” Reaching for the ink brush, she effectively dismissed him.
Erik hauled in a breath and rested both hands on the edge of the desk, looming over her. “Open your private ledger, Prue, and show me.” The words thrummed in the air, deep and thrilling, sheer command echoing off the walls.
Prue’s head jerked up and her mouth fell open.
Those brilliant eyes clouded while Erik stared, his pulse hammering a mad tattoo. “Show me.”
She frowned. “It’s wrong.” Her knuckles went bone-white on the leather of the book. “I c-can’t.” Hauling in a huge breath, she rubbed at her eyes like a fretful child.
Erik could hardly bear to watch.
Another sharp inhalation. But this time, when she looked up, her gaze was once again as clear and hard as aquamarine. She laid her palms flat on the ledger, her lips thinning. “Very persuasive,” she said with scarcely a tremor, “but none of your godsbedamned business.”
Erik’s head spun—with relief? Disappointment? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that this time she might have wavered, felt the force of the Voice. And he felt like shit.
“I see that now,”
he said softly. “Forget it, sweetheart. I was out of line.”
No more than a heartbeat and she snapped back to her old self. “You seem to be out of line a good deal, Master Thorensen.” She shoved the ledger into a drawer and slammed it shut.
Yes, she might want him, but that didn’t mean she liked him.
More than a little piqued, Erik walked around the desk until he stood at her elbow. “Where I come from, we shake hands to seal a bargain.” He waited, his hand outstretched.
She thought about it for an endless moment, her teeth sunk into a plump lower lip. It gave her a curious air of innocence and seduction combined. Erik’s belly tightened with the desire to take control of that bite. And then kiss it better.
Finally she took his hand, her flesh warm and her grip firm.
Erik enveloped Prue’s hand in both of his and drew her gently to her feet, her sweet breasts almost brushing his chest. She smelled intoxicating, the scent she’d said was soap combined with something uniquely fresh and female. And a touch of ink. “I’m not so bad, Prue,” he said with a crooked smile. “I wish you’d trust me.”
Her cheeks turned pink. “There are very few people I trust.”
And wasn’t that the ring of truth he heard? Clear as a bell, right there.
When he lifted her hand to his lips, he did it slowly and in silence, so she could pull away if she wished, but apart from a subtle intake of breath, she didn’t move. When he pressed his open mouth to her knuckles, she trembled. Erik turned Prue’s hand over and kissed her wrist, where the skin was thin and the blood beat hot.
This time, the gasp was audible. “Erik!”
She tugged, and reluctantly, he let her go.
Judging by the feminine panic in her eyes, the expression on his face must be more predatory than reassuring. Completely intrigued, he watched her work to master her reaction and set it aside. The Dark Lady was clearly more devious than he’d ever imagined.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said coolly. “You have ink on your chin, by the way.”
Erik chuckled, his blood bubbling. “Do I? A small price to pay for something so delicious. Good morning, Mistress Prue.” Bowing, he turned on his heel.
8
By Shaitan, he’d waited long enough! Determined to pace himself, the Necromancer had made the wait an exercise in self-control, torturing himself all through the night with anticipation. As a result, he was light-headed with need, the blood fizzing and tumbling through his veins. These days, that sort of sensation was as near as he came to actually living.
Rolling up the sleeve of his embroidered gown, he paused, remembering a small boy in a slum, desperate to know, so focused on his ambition that he didn’t care what price he paid or how much it hurt. His lips curved in a slow smile. The beauty of necromancy, the perfect glory of it, was that these days others paid the price on his behalf.
If there were minor inconveniences—he smiled at the bucket standing in the corner of his study—such as carrying a thrashing seelie in a bucket of cold water up a long flight of stairs, well, he could rise above them.
Because every seelie brought him one step closer to full knowledge. It was as if the little creatures possessed some sort of key, an instinctive connection to something far greater than their own small, blue-furred selves—something universal, so grand it defeated even the compass of a divine intellect. There was a system to everything, an internal logic, a great Pattern. He believed that, absolutely.
Whatever it was, that piece of the puzzle, the Necromancer wanted it.
What’s more, he was going to have it, even if it required the death of every seelie on Palimpsest. A small cost, infinitesimal really, when the rewards were so great. The power to set a lever to the fulcrum of the cosmos and shove it the slightest bit off-kilter, just to see what happened.
Almost ready. His breath coming faster as greed clawed hard at his guts, he fixed the other sleeve and scooped up the length of oiled cloth Nasake had left on the desk. Then he reached into a bucket and drew out the squirming seelie, grimacing with distaste as its webbed fingers wrapped his bare forearm in a desperate, clammy embrace.
“Come, little one. Meet your destiny.” Settling into the carved chair near the window, he spread the cloth over his lap. Keeping a firm one-handed grip on the seelie, he placed a gentle finger on the ridge between its protuberant eyes. The animal quivered, making a thin noise, a cross between a hoot and a bleat.
Smiling, the Necromancer murmured, “Let’s see what you have for me.” The sound of his voice triggered a pleasant upwelling of terror.
Outside, the scent of flowers mingled piquantly with the clean, briny smell of the creature in his hands. Beyond the low wall at the end of the formal garden, canal water lapped and gurgled in a cheerful song. Snatches of distant conversation drifted by, a skiffman and his client, negotiating a fare, someone selling vegetables.
Such an ordinary day to unseat the gods.
He began gently, stroking his fingers through plush, cobalt fur, admiring the patterns he drew in the deep pelt. The seelie froze, panic coming off it in waves. The Necromancer shut his eyes, sending out a tendril of dark power, probing for the right spot.
Ah yes! There!
With a spectral thumb and forefinger, he tweaked.
The seelie gave a bubbling shriek, writhing on his lap. The hot fire streaking along her neural pathways melted whatever meager shields she had.
So it was a female. And she had young. He could see an image of three kits in what passed for her mind, all big eyes and soft baby whiskers, huddled in a woven nest deep in a forest of floating weed. It was dim and cool down there, hundreds of feet below a floating Leaf as big as a city block. For all he knew, those babies were directly under the room where he sat, here on the Leaf of Nobility. Or it could be the Pleasure Leaf or the Monarch’s Own Leaf that blotted out the sunlight. Huge as they were, each Leaf was only one part of the gargantuan titanplant on which the city was built. The gods knew how old it was. Centuries? Millennia?
Well, it didn’t matter, did it? Because he was right and the Technomage Primus of Sybaris was wrong.
There were plenty more seelies where this one came from.
The seelie’s terror increased exponentially, almost as if she could read his mind. Abruptly, she was fighting, jerking and thrashing on the oiled cloth. One of the stubby claws on her hind leg caught in the fabric of his flapping sleeve, the raspy sound of the rip very loud in the quiet room.
The Necromancer spat an obscenity, something he did but rarely. He was particularly fond of this gown. Abandoning Magick for brute strength, he dug in with both thumbs.
Mortal terror exploded in the Necromancer’s head as the seelie convulsed. Drinking it in, he let the power of it snatch him up and away like a fever rampaging in the blood. Every cell in the creature’s body shrieked a desperate, screaming protest. His nostrils flared. He panted, hanging on, riding the crest of it, filled, exalted, whirling high among the stars.
Caracole of the Leaves lay beneath him as if sealed in a bubble, a toy created solely for his entertainment. There were the canals of clear blue water, the pierced white towers and graceful, curved rooflines. A hundred thousand souls going about their petty business—sniping, scrambling, cheating, dying. Such puny little lives, rocking on the bosom of the ocean, so futile, every one of them dying from the moment they were born.
In this moment, he was a god. No, greater than a god, because he was without worshippers, beyond the constraint of expectations. The dark Magick of Death set him free to do his will. It would take so little to awaken Caracole to terror, to uproot the Leaves like a kind, but ruthless, gardener, sweep all the little people away, relieving them of the burden of existence. A kind of weeding. He smiled at the conceit. Ah, the screams would deafen the heavens.
As he eased his grip, the seelie took a shuddering breath. She was strong, this one. Absently, he stroked her flank, his good humor fading, overtaken by a greater purpose.
Becau
se with a shift in perception, there before him was the weft and warp of existence, known only to the gods, and now to him. He had but to stretch out his hand. If he tugged that strand, knotted it here . . .
This required finesse. Carefully, precisely, the Necromancer applied a Magickal tourniquet to the seelie’s spinal cord, paralyzing her limbs. That was better, now he needn’t rush. Somehow, he was convinced if he fumbled this, performed with anything less than perfect grace, there’d never be another opportunity so fine. Stupid, but there it was.
Disciplining his breathing, he closed his eyes and compressed the seelie’s lungs. As the little creature screamed in bubbling silence, he slipped into the dark, bloody stream of her instinctive fight for life and let it carry him back to the foundation of all that was.
The Pattern glittered in the void, flirting with him like a capricious jade, advancing and retreating. Sternly, the Necromancer insisted, bearing down hard on the flailing soul in his grip. The shape of it swam slowly toward him, clearer than ever before.
Exalted, he drank it in. A Pentacle, a five-pointed thing of beauty, imprinted on the watching stars. So that was it.
A frown gathered, a tendril of disappointment unfurling within him, followed swiftly by contempt. Very pretty. Was this the best the gods could do, this . . . prettiness? Where was the glory? The power? Where was Death?
A long-tailed comet flashed by and the Pentacle burst into flame with a melodious roar, seeming to leap toward him out of the soft dark.
Despite himself, the Necromancer flinched. The seelie moaned.
By Shaitan, a taunt! He growled under his breath.
He’d heard the whisper of a name. Deiter of Concordia.
Deiter had the fire witch, Shaitan take him, the only true fire witch born for centuries. The Necromancer had become aware of her existence a fraction too late. Hell, the entities that called themselves the gods were rubbing his nose in his failure like a naughty puppy in a puddle of its own pee.
The fire subsided with a good-humored crackle, to be followed by a breath of fresh air. Literally. He could smell its light, sweet perfume, track its laughing presence as it swooshed around the Pentacle, tumbling and swirling with delight.
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