Thief of Light

by Denise Rossetti

  Sister, what could it hurt? It was the least she could do, after all. Her brow furrowed, Prue walked the few steps into the adjoining bedchamber, her thoughts muzzy and confused. Vaguely, she wondered if she’d overeaten.

  Shivering, she shook out the shawl and draped it over her shoulders, stealing a moment to feel the fineness of the fabric between finger and thumb. When she looked up, her mouth dropped open in a soundless exclamation. Sister save her, it was true. The deep, vibrant jade made her eyes glitter like best-quality aquamarines, the ones the nobleladies of Caracole prized so highly. Her skin glowed, honey and roses, and her hair gleamed a rich, glossy brown.

  Embroidered the entire length of the shawl was a stylized school of seelies gamboling among the waves beneath the silvery light of the Sister’s sickle. Wonderingly, Prue rubbed a forefinger over the indigo silk the unknown artist had used for their pelts. As a child, she’d loved the old tales, and her favorites had always been the ones about seelies, with their bulgy eyes and naïve wisdom. “Silly as a seelie” went the saying, but in the stories, the seelie was the only character who saw what was truly just and right.

  Thank the Sister her head was clearing. Gods, he was clever! He couldn’t have made a more perfect choice. Unable to bear the sight of her reflection a moment longer, Prue spun around to face him. She tilted her chin. “I still can’t accept it. Now what?”

  Erik Thorensen gazed down at her, as calm as ever. “Welcome back, Prue,” he said. Which was decidedly odd, even on this strangest of days.

  He took a light, two-handed grip of the shawl around her shoulders and gave it a little shake, pulling her slightly closer. “Do you like my gift, Prue?” The unsettling twinkle had returned to his gaze.

  A hot chill ran straight up Prue’s spine and down again. She moistened her lips. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “How could I not?” When she shrugged, moving within the constraint of the jade silk held taut by his effortless strength, she had the mad urge to rear back against it, to fight. He’d pull her right into his broad chest, his hard thighs. In every fiber of her being, she knew it. And she wouldn’t have to think anymore.

  Gods, she was losing her mind!

  But instead, he turned her swiftly to face the mirror, her spine flush against his chest. “Look, sweet Prue.”

  When she opened her mouth, he placed a stern forefinger on her tingling lips. “Sshh.” Her head didn’t reach his shoulder. Towering above her, all charm and personality, his eyes danced, a bold, devilish blue.

  “Watch.” He raised the edge of the shawl and settled it over her hair, adjusting the folds on her shoulders. “See, you can use it as a head covering, the way Trinitarian girls do.”

  “Is that where it—?”

  “Quiet. The color deepens the color of your eyes. Gorgeous. She said it would, the stallholder, when I described you.” His lips curved with satisfaction.

  “But Erik, how mu—?”

  “A bargain. Let’s try it this way, like a good Trinitarian wife.” He drew a fold across her face. “Gods, that’s erotic. One look at those eyes and a man’d kill to see the rest.”

  Sister save her, she couldn’t keep up! Her frantic breath warmed the silk against her lips, her pulse a nagging beat that tightened her nipples and pattered low in her belly, between her thighs. Gods, it had been forever since she’d felt the sharp bite of desire! But why now? And for the Sister’s sake, why this man?

  Erik whipped the shawl away and draped one end around her neck, tossing the other over her shoulder. “A winter scarf, or”—his voice dropped—“a belt.”

  His long arms wrapped around her from behind, cinching her in a long swathe of fabric, once, twice, three times. He handled her with confidence, but so deftly his touch was barely there.

  “It’s too long,” she said stupidly.

  “No, it’s not, you’re small.”

  Their gazes met in the reflection, and Prue’s heart turned over. His lips curved, slowly, oh so slowly. Holding her breath, she watched Erik the Golden smile for the first time without reservation, slow and very sweet. It broke over his face gradually, like sunrise stealing over the city, transforming him, softening the hard angles and planes. He seemed to hover on the brink of joyous laughter.

  And yet, and yet . . . She knew she wasn’t perceptive. It was why she managed the business of The Garden and Rose the people. But something about this beautiful man made all the hair stand up on the back of her neck.

  “Erik, I . . .” She ran down, unable to think of what she’d been about to say.

  “I bought it for you because I imagined you wearing it and the thought gave me pleasure. Also because I feel guilty about the state of the Opera’s accounts. But mostly because I knew you’d like it. It’s not a bribe, Prue, or a price.” His long fingers spanned her waist and his cheek nuzzled hers, his breath warm and sweet. “It’s a gift, freely given. Please, don’t spoil it.”

  “I don’t wish to be ungracious. Let me think about it and I’ll tell you tomorrow.” She’d speak with Rose, they’d work out a strategy between them.

  “There’s only one problem with that.”

  “What?” Prue glanced up in the mirror and fell into endless blue.

  “I thought I was a patient man,” said Erik Thorensen. “I just discovered I’m not.”

  Hooking his fingers into one side of the makeshift belt, he tugged. The silken clasp tightened and he pulled her around, right into his chest. Off balance, Prue flailed, clutching two fistfuls of shirt.

  Spreading a broad palm over her back to keep her steady, he bent his head. His mouth landed on hers so sweetly, so softly. How strange! She’d been sure she’d be consumed, that Erik Thorensen would devour her and she’d be lost forever in his strong blond beauty. Instead, it was a real first kiss, almost awkward, his lips warm and smooth, learning hers little by little—a nibble here, a nuzzle there. An unhurried lick over her bottom lip and she couldn’t help the hum of pleasure, deep in her throat.

  Only a kiss, nothing more. An experiment of sorts, an indulgence, then she’d come to her senses and return to the work she was meant to do.

  One arm slid around her waist and down to her buttock, hauling her flush into a wall of hot muscle, his erection prodding shamelessly into her belly. With the other hand, he cradled her skull, tilting her head at the perfect angle for his marauding tongue.

  Erik the Golden kissed the way he sang, with consummate artistry and overwhelming passion. Sweet Sister, his timing was uncanny! Every time Prue feared she might pass out with the sheer wicked pleasure of it, he’d pull back just enough to let her breathe, whether she wanted to or not.

  With every deft stroke, he stole another degree of control from her, until she was lost indeed, hanging in his arms, kissing him back with everything she had. He tasted so dark and sweet. The very air they exchanged was spiced with his potent masculinity. Dizzily, Prue wondered if she could simply lie in his arms forever and breathe him in. Nothing could hurt her then.

  The room spun as he picked her up and strode out of the bedchamber.

  What? Prue levered one eye open.

  “Sshh,” he murmured into her mouth. “I’ve got you.”

  With a booted foot, he pushed her big office chair around and sank into it, Prue curled close in his lap like an astonished kitten. “I thought you’d feel safer here,” he said calmly enough, though his chest rose and fell with his quick breaths. “Away from the bed.”

  The dazzle of sparks in her blood died away to a slow splutter. Gods, she was wrapped around him like a lover vine in high summer!

  She sat up, fumbling with the shawl, trying to rip it off.

  Wincing, Erik shot her a pained look. “Stop wriggling.” He untangled her, taking his time. “You’ll damage the silk. Not to mention me.”

  Kissing him had felt so good, so wonderful, and now look at him—smiling to himself as if he thought she’d believe him, all confident charm and golden good looks—leaving her perched on his knee like the silly
girl she’d once been. Surely she’d learned her lesson? For a split second, she was back in the Melting Pot, in the fetid dark, listening to heavy footfalls pass her hiding place, praying that Katrin wouldn’t cry.

  Neither she nor her baby had had the power to hold him. Both of them burdens Chavis couldn’t wait to shed. She hadn’t been enough.

  The memory sent her scrambling off Erik’s lap in a graceless rush. Using her anger as a shield, she faced him, gripping her hands together. “Merciful Sister, Erik, this isn’t a play. Who writes your lines?”

  10

  Erik’s smile evaporated. “Prue, don’t be frightened of what you want.”

  “Frightened?” It was a relief to feel the strengthening rush of anger. This was familiar ground. “I know all about men like you, Erik. I will not be manipulated. Or charmed, or patronized.”

  Erik rose to loom over her, and suddenly, he seemed more dark, more deadly than golden. “Who was he?”

  “What? Who?”

  “The man who did this to you, hurt you so badly.”

  Stupidly, she wanted to cry. What was the use of denying what was clearly so obvious? “No matter, he’s long since dead.” Squaring her shoulders, she looked Erik in the eye. “In a strange way, I owe him everything I am. Because of our child, I had no choice but to go on.” She shrugged. “So here I am. A self-made woman, I suppose you’d say.”

  He went very still. “You have a child?”

  “Katrin.” He didn’t know her nearly as well as he thought he did. Prue gave him a thin smile. “She’s nineteen. My darling.”

  He was folding the jade shawl with smooth, efficient moves, avoiding her eye.

  “When does your engagement in Caracole finish?” she asked coolly. “I can send the Opera’s accounts after you easily enough.” There, that should do it. Her shoulders slumped.

  Erik crossed the office to place the small square of fabric on a shelf. Sister, he knew how to move, all long-limbed, dangerous grace! When he turned, the light from the window turned his hair into a glorious nimbus. “Tickets sales have been so good already, I’ve extended the run. Signed the contract this morning.”

  He came to stand before her and the twinkle was back in his eye. “I’d better get back for rehearsal.” Nudging her chin with his fist, he said, “Shut your mouth, sweetheart. Another two weeks, pretty Prue. I look forward to meeting your Katrin.”

  Swiftly, he pressed a kiss to her cheek, the one with the dimple. “See you tomorrow.” He strode from the room.

  Scarcely daring to breathe, the Necromancer crumpled, waiting it out, his cheek pressed ignominiously against the silken rug. It was almost an hour before he felt able to move and another fifteen minutes before he could get himself propped up in his chair. His chest aching, he tugged the bell pull that would summon Nasake.

  “Take a message to the rest of the Queen’s Cabal,” he said. “I’m working from home today.” He gestured at the lax bundle of blue in the corner. “Get rid of that.”

  His dark eyes flat and dull, the man bowed, expressionless as always.

  “Wait.”

  Nasake straightened, the seelie’s corpse dangling from one hand. “Master?”

  “Hand me that bundle of transplas from the desk. Oh, and Nasake?”

  “Master?”

  “You may have the creature. Do with it as you will.”

  The corners of Nasake’s lipless mouth lifted. He bowed. “Thank you, Noblelord.” He passed over the transplas, gathered up the bucket and the seelie and left as silently as he’d arrived.

  Unseeing, the Necromancer gazed down at the sheet of transplas he’d taken from the Technomage’s console. It trembled so much, he had to brace it against his knee before he could bring it into focus. The Scientist had drawn a plan for some other kind of trap, from several different angles, complete with captions, footnotes and tables. With a sigh, he closed his eyes. He couldn’t be bothered with Technomage nonsense now. Something was nagging at him and he’d learned never to discount his own instincts.

  What, in Shaitan’s name, had he missed? As if the fire witch hadn’t been irritating enough, the taste of air Magick still lingered in his mouth. Reaching for the carafe of wine on the desk, he paused.

  The familiar taste of air Magick.

  Where?

  His heart thudding, he disciplined himself to think. Somehow, somewhere, he’d touched it. Recently. He went out so seldom, reserving his energies for his high office and his dark Magick. Only when the queen insisted, did he—

  The Royal Command performance!

  He had a sudden, vivid recollection of gazing at the party in full swing on the stage, the monarch’s hand overly familiar on his shoulder. Bartelm and Nori, the Purists, other people milling about—the beautiful whore from The Garden with her little brown-haired friend, a gaggle of merchants and noblelords and ladies, the big blond singer, working the crowd. Come to think of it, the man was quite good. The Necromancer had felt the tug of something that might once have been feeling.

  He’d fumbled his play with the fire witch, through no fault of his own. So be it. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes with the air witch; he’d readjust, switch strategies. The dark fates were working with him now, because she had come to him, here in Caracole, he could swear to it. Again, he recalled the elusive, intriguing taste of Magick in the air that night. The gods were thumbing their divine noses at him. A direct challenge.

  Yes!

  The transplas fluttered out of his slack fingers and skated across the rug. Godsdammit! His back protesting, the Necromancer leaned forward to retrieve it and froze halfway, staring at the drawing.

  It wasn’t so much a trap, as a reservoir.

  Uncaring of his dignity, he lurched forward to his knees on the rug, the gown billowing around him.

  By Shaitan, a reservoir for Magick! His brain racing, he devoured the explanatory notes, skipping the data tables he didn’t understand. Stumbling to the desk, he picked up the wine jug with a hand that shook. When he poured, a few ruby red drops spilled like blood. It took him almost an hour to work through all the sheets, but in the end, he had the gist of it.

  A glass of wine in his hand, the Necromancer sat on the rug in his study, glowing with satisfaction. Perfect! More than perfect! The solution to all his problems in a single elegant package, profoundly selfish, profoundly evil. It had a sublimely wicked symmetry he adored. He couldn’t fault it.

  He’d own the air witch, her Magick, her soul—her body.

  The Technomage Primus of Sybaris had made good use of the time she’d had the fire witch under her control. Her analysis of the physical nature of fire Magick was brilliant, he had to admit, though it was nothing if not abstruse. Metabolic rate? Membranous exchange?

  No matter.

  Because his pet Scientist had devised a method to harvest Magick. And if she could siphon it from one individual, then the converse must also be true—she could transfer it into another.

  His breath caught, thinking of the possibilities. He couldn’t imagine life as a female, had never even contemplated it, but he wouldn’t quibble if it meant being healthy and flexible again. It might even be . . . piquant, despite the obvious disadvantages. Wistfully, he remembered the splendid breadth of the singer’s shoulders, the muscle in his thigh. Now there was a magnificent male animal. Ah well, it couldn’t be helped.

  Gods, he hoped it was the tall whore.

  Erik lay back in the skiff, gazing up moodily at the Sibling Moons. They might wear different faces on different worlds, but They were bloody everywhere, the gods. The Lady and the Lord—the Sister and the Brother. Prue swore by the Sister, and he’d noticed men in Caracole swore by the Brother, as he did by the Horned Lord.

  His lips curved in a tired smile. Another full house, another dozen encores. One woman had climbed onto her seat, reached up under her gown and flung some filmy piece of nothing toward the stage. Falling short, it had fluttered into the orchestra pit to drape like a bizarre flag of surrender ov
er the drummer’s bald head.

  Surrender.

  Gods, he couldn’t decide whether he was an utter bastard or a lunatic or both. Scowling, he thumped his clenched fist against the side of the craft, scraping his knuckles. He’d pushed Prue ruthlessly this morning and she’d fought with everything in her. The strength of her resistance still astonished him, but watching her bright face cloud had made his heart twist.

  Fine. He’d established the facts. Mistress Prue McGuire might be the most bloody-minded subject he’d ever had, but godsdammit, the Lord and the Lady hadn’t taken the Voice from him. She’d gone under. Only for a few moments, true, but she had.

  He exhaled. Never again. By the Horned Lord, he’d never use the Voice on her again. He’d taken an oath. From now on, she’d come to him of her own free will, or not at all. Let me kiss it. He’d been shocked to the core, the words spilling out of him without conscious volition. Erik gritted his teeth. All right, he’d simply exercise greater discipline, scrutinize every impulse, stifle every instinct. I swear it.

  The Dark Lady’s deep, silvery laughter echoed in his head.

  “You wanta go by the Meltin’ Pot?” asked the skiffwoman, the same one he’d had the first night. She’d got into the way of waiting at the water stair outside the theater. “Bettsa,” she’d said. “Call me Bettsa.”

  “Yah!” Florien sat up straight.

  Erik frowned. What was the lad doing here? He’d been so preoccupied he hadn’t noticed Florien sneak on board. “No,” he said repressively.

  Florien patted the pocket of his grubby trousers. “I’ll teach ye t’ Sybarite shell game.”

  “No!”

  Bettsa chuckled and poled out into the current, working with the outgoing tide.

  Prue’s plump little tits had pressed so hard against the fine fabric of her tunic, he could close his eyes now and recall the precise shape of her nipples. He might have another two weeks available for the seduction, but he had no intention of waiting. Her tongue had been like velvet twining and flirting with his, her whole lush body pressed ardently against him.