Thief of Light

by Denise Rossetti

  She’d never met a man this way before, as if she knew him on some level of the soul, had never even imagined such a match between passions was possible, his physical desperation triggering hers until her conscious self exploded in a raging red blur of fiery need. The vicious power of it blew through her, a deep, vibrating chord sung by a choir of bass voices, all primeval and male. Gods, the thrilling sounds he made, deep in his throat, the delicious, solid weight of him crammed against her!

  The Prue McGuire she knew went away, leaving only the quintessential female—flying, soaring high and free. She fumbled one hand into his hair, the way she’d longed to do from the first. Thick and soft, it feathered across her knuckles. Every sensation was magnified, from the warmth of his strong, hard skull against her palm to the cool silk of the tips brushing her knuckles.

  When he slid a hand under her nightgown, over her knee, her thigh and onto her bare buttock, she used his strength as a support, wrapping her leg around him as if he were a tree.

  Erik murmured and hitched her higher, his eager, burning length pressed against her. Ah, sweet Sister, it was good! She dug her fingers into his shoulders, her entire body a wet, empty space, yearning to be filled. A light breeze slid over her skin, caressing with fluttering, gossamer fingertips, driving her insane.

  “Yes,” he groaned, dusting searing kisses down her throat, nipping at her breast through the gown. “Fuck, yes!” Taking the golden flesh of his throat between her teeth, Prue worried at it, glorying in the strong arms that held her.

  Erik pushed with his hips, sliding up, then back, and Prue cried out with the tingling pleasure of it. When he repeated the action, he hit her clitoris at the top of the stroke. Even through the nightgown, the intensity of the spasm had her choking back a scream. She buried her head in the curve between his neck and his shoulder.

  “Gods, Prue.” Words surged out of him. “Let go and lie back.” The order was a deep, commanding vibration filling her head, making her brain spin, the tone she found so difficult to resist.

  His voice dropped even further, drowning out the struggling whisper of reason inside her. “Trust yourself to me.”

  Prue spread her arms wide against the wall and gave herself up. She caught a glimpse of Erik’s set face, his eyes burning like molten sapphires. Gods, he felt huge, mouthwateringly hard. When she tightened her legs about his hips, his cock leaped against her and she shivered with pleasure.

  Erik froze.

  The breeze died.

  Prue cranked her eyes open. “What?” She wriggled, glorying in her power as a woman, the response he couldn’t hide.

  He didn’t move. Sweat stood on his brow, the sexual flush fading from beneath his golden tan until his face was as white as her gown. He licked his lips. “I—I shouldn’t.”

  Prue stared, numb with shock. She couldn’t speak.

  “Not this way.” His whole body went rigid, as if he were dealing with excruciating pain. Very slowly, he stepped back, taking her weight, lowering her gently to the floor, pulling the gown down over her hips.

  Then he turned his back, rearranging himself in his trews.

  A creeping cold overtook her senses. “Get out.” The words came out of her mouth in a thin, strained whisper. She wanted the snug comfort of her bed, so she could wrap her arms about herself and weep under the covers like a child. Instead, she extended one hand behind her, resting her chilly fingertips against the wall. Because that was what Pruella Takimori McGuire did. Hold on to what was real. Go on living.

  After an eon, he turned. “I can’t,” he said, “not yet. I can’t explain what happened just then, Prue. But it’s not you, it’s me.”

  Why didn’t she just hand him her beating heart on a plate? It would be so much simpler. He could dig his strong thumbs into the skin and peel it like a ripe manda fruit.

  Prue bared her teeth. “Haven’t we all heard that one before?” If she could have trusted her legs, she would have stalked to the door and flung it open.

  “You’re wearing the shawl.” With a twisted smile, he nodded at the length of jade silk, still clinging to her shoulders.

  Prue wrenched it off and flung it at his chest with all her strength. “There! Now you have everything that’s yours. Go.”

  Erik’s mouth worked as though he tasted something foul, but his fingers closed hard on the silk. “I have to talk to you.”

  “There’s nothing to say.” Prue gripped her hands together ’til her knuckles creaked.

  Abruptly, he collapsed into her office chair. In the full blaze of the lamplight, his face looked drawn and tired, the strong bone structure exposed. He was going to be a very handsome old man, Erik Thorensen—if a woman didn’t kill him before he reached his dotage.

  Shaking out the shawl, he held it up between them like a shield. “I need to talk to you. About . . . the seelies.”

  “Seelies?”

  He rested his head in his hands, pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve had an interesting afternoon, Prue. Swimming with seelies.” He looked up, his blue gaze very direct. “I need your help.”

  Prue goggled. The last few minutes of madness had swept every thought from her head, but now, clear as a bell, she heard Rose’s sensual chuckle. “Gods, sweetie, you should have seen him, standing there dripping wet. Only the Sister knows who put him through the wringer, but she’s smiling through happy tears, believe me. If I could, I’d stand him on a pedestal in The Garden, stripped, and people would pay just to look.” She’d gone on and on, damn her, describing every delicious swell of muscle, every long, graceful limb—especially the one between his thighs.

  “You must be mad,” Prue hissed. “Why would I help you do anything? Look at you!” She flung out an accusing finger. His shirt hung half off his shoulders—had she done that? Mercilessly exposed in the lamplight were deep reddish gouges on his shoulders, bruises, what could have been bite marks on the flat slabs of his pectorals. A gold chain winked cheerfully against the carnage.

  “She must have been a wild one. I see why I got boring so fast.”

  He set his jaw. “It wasn’t a woman. It was seelies.”

  “And I’m the Grand Pasha of Trinitaria.” She gave him her back.

  Fabric rustled. She didn’t hear him move, but suddenly a wide chest filled her vision, sprinkled with a silky mat of red gold fur. “Take a good look, Prue. No human did this.” He spun about so that her nose was an inch away from the strong knobs of his spine. Six parallel scratches ran down one shoulder blade, more desecrated the smooth, beautiful swell of his left bicep. They couldn’t possibly be fingernail marks; they were too broad, too deep.

  With a startled exclamation, Prue dragged his arm closer to the light. “This one’s already infected,” she said. “Serve you right if I left it to rot.” Cursing herself for being soft and stupid, she scorched him with a glare. “Don’t move.”

  Darting into her bedchamber, she rummaged in the dresser until she found the small vial of healall potion she’d bought from the healer in the Wizards’ Enclave when Katrin began her martial arts lessons. Hopefully it was still potent.

  “Tear a piece off your shirt,” she said as she returned, bottle in hand.

  “What’s that?” Erik ripped a sleeve straight off the shirt and handed it over.

  “Something to stop the infection.” Prue slammed a pad soaked in the stuff onto the wound.

  “Fuck!” Erik jerked, then froze. “It burns,” he said through gritted teeth.

  She’d thought she’d enjoy inflicting a little pain, a petty revenge for the body blow he’d dealt her. Instead, she had the same light-headed, trembly sensation she’d had the time Katrin sliced her palm open with Cook’s favorite carving knife.

  “Really?” she said, hoping her voice didn’t shake. “That means it’s working. Hold still.”

  Slowly, she circled his massive body, dabbing here and stroking there, feeling confused and even a little queasy as his jaw grew tighter and tighter and his great fists clenched.
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  She finished, standing directly in front of him, doctoring a shallow slice on his chest. “What’s this?” She flicked the pale object dangling from the golden chain. It looked like a piece of old bone, pearlescent and twisted into a flowing curve.

  “Nothing,” he said curtly. “Nothing of importance to anyone but me.”

  Prue bit her lip. She gazed at the almost glowing thing as it rested against a tawny expanse of hard muscle.

  Sister, he did have beautiful nipples, though she would never have thought she’d notice such a thing in a man. Disks as dark and smooth as the formal velvet worn at the Queen’s Court, nestled in that tempting sprinkle of hair. With tightly ruched peaks that made her mouth water.

  Godsdammit, she was pathetic!

  Prue slapped the vial down on the desk. “You’re done.”

  “No, I’m not. Don’t you want to know what happened?”

  “No,” she lied.

  14

  “Prue.” When long fingers cradled her jaw, she jerked her head away. Erik sighed. “I know you hate me right now, but I don’t have anyone else to turn to. You have to hear me out.”

  Oh gods, no more, no more! She couldn’t take it. “Did you think The Garden was unprotected?” she said. “I’ll have you thrown in the canal. You can swim back to the theater.”

  “You could try.” Cautiously, he flexed one arm, the muscles moving fluidly under the skin. He sent her a grim smile. “But the process will be loud and noisy. Not to mention embarrassing.”

  He took a restless turn or two around the room while she watched in baffled fury. After a moment’s pause, he said in an entirely different tone, “I’m sorry, I know this sounds bad, but I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since last night. Can I—Godsdammit, never mind.”

  Prue ignored the question. “Seelies?” she said. “That’s a new one. You really must think me a fool.”

  Erik closed his eyes for an instant. His throat moved as he swallowed. “I’ll show you tomorrow if you like, my word on it.”

  Her head whirling, Prue tugged the bell pull. The taste of her grief and humiliation was so vile, so strong, her stomach roiled with it. Ruthlessly, she forced it down. She’d survived those terrifying nights on the slum streets, she’d created a new life and nurtured it to bright young adulthood, she’d built a business. There were worse things than rejection by a man as worthless as he was talented.

  Prue and Erik stared at each other in silence over the length of the room, her angry stare tangling with his steady blue one. She couldn’t read the expression on his face; it was as hard as granite and just as impenetrable. But a pulse ticked in the base of his throat, and after a few minutes, he crossed to the window and leaned his forehead against the glass, gazing out into the double-shadowed garden.

  When Tansy popped her head around the door, they were still standing in the same places.

  “Mistress Prue?”

  Godsdammit, why did it have to be Tansy? Prue bent a stern gaze on the little apprentice. “Ah, Tansy. Bring a meal, party leftovers is fine. And a fresh tisane with two cups.”

  Tansy’s doe eyes went very wide as she took in Erik, looming silent and half naked by the window, Prue in her nightgown, her feet bare. But that was all—Rose’s apprentices were well trained.

  She bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, Mistress Prue.”

  “And Tansy?”

  “Yes, Mistress?”

  “This is my business and mine only. Understood?”

  Another curtsey, another “Yes, Mistress.” A final flickering glance at Erik’s magnificent body and the girl trotted away down the passage.

  Without a word, Prue went to her bedchamber and fetched a robe. She had two, but she passed over her shabby old friend in favor of a splendid, deep-sleeved creation of terracotta brocade, with lapels and frogging in a deep, glowing cream. It had been a natal day gift from Rose, whose taste never erred. Prue tied the sash with a warrior’s resolve.

  “In here.” She marched into the sitting room, the skirts swishing imperiously behind her, and took the armchair near the empty fireplace. Erik followed slowly, sinking into the embrace of the sofa with a stifled sigh. He had the jade shawl bunched in one fist.

  “All right,” she said. “Talk.”

  He cleared his throat. “I hardly know where to begin.”

  Prue drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. Sister, he looked weary! Worn to the bone.

  “Do you know what a death swamp smells like?” he said eventually.

  There was a knock on the outer door, a couple of brisk raps. “Come in, Tansy,” called Prue, still attempting to comprehend the question.

  Erik was facing the door and when his expression went completely blank, she shot out of the chair, her heart hammering with a dreadful premonition. A tall young woman stood on the threshold, a covered tray in her hands and a bundle tucked under one arm.

  “So you’re Erik,” said Katrin. “I thought it was time we met.”

  Erik’s chest ached—inside and out. If he hadn’t been so ravenous, he would have stretched out full length on the floor and sought the welcome oblivion of sleep.

  “Yes,” he said, rising to take the tray and place it on a low table. The Voice had come out of fucking nowhere, completely beyond his control. Prue had done it to him—again. “I’ve been wanting to meet you too.” The shock of hearing the command echo around the room, of realizing how he’d failed, had destroyed his erection more effectively than an iced bath.

  “But Katrin, what—?”

  “Don’t blame Tansy, Mam.” Katrin bent to peck her mother on the cheek. “I was in the kitchen finishing up a cake and I didn’t give her a chance.”

  The girl was at least six inches taller than Prue, still coltish in a way he was certain Prue had never been. As a mature woman, Katrin would be calm and queenly rather than sparkling with life and energy like her mother. But with their heads together, he could see the resemblance between them—those exotic almond eyes, the stubborn shape of the chin. Her hair down in a wavy, glorious profusion, Prue didn’t look much older, but he knew she wouldn’t believe him if he told her.

  She was still pale and shaky. Gods, he was a bastard. He might as well have taken his big fist and rammed it into her stomach.

  Katrin ran a considering gaze over his torso, lingering on the scratches and abrasions, but all she said was, “Catch,” as she tossed the bundle in his direction. It turned out to be a cotton bathrobe, large enough to fit even him.

  Prue was fairly vibrating with agitation, Katrin as calm as milk. But the girl’s gaze was narrow with the unflinching judgment of the young. Erik was glad to shrug into the robe.

  But when she removed the cover from the tray, he could have kissed her. “You did this?” he asked, surveying the platter of bread and meat and cheese, the pastries and fruit. There was a jug of wine and two cups. His belly growled so loud the girl grinned.

  “I like to feed people,” she said, watching him lean forward to grab a plate and load it up.

  “Katrin’s our pastry chef,” said Prue. Not a courtesan, said her level stare.

  Erik nodded, his mouth full.

  “Sister save us, when did you last eat?” asked Katrin, fascinated.

  He chewed and swallowed, busied himself preparing another slab of bread and cheese. “Last night.” He darted a glance at Prue. “With you.”

  “But why?” A pause. “And what happened to you?” Katrin’s cheeks pinkened. “Especially your, um, chest?”

  But before he could reply, Prue patted her daughter on the hand. “Thanks, love. Better go now.”

  “Yes,” snarled Erik. “I might sully her ears.”

  “In that case, I’m sure I should stay.” With complete composure, Katrin sank to the rug and leaned back against her mother’s knee. Prue’s objections sailed over her head. Literally.

  Two pairs of tip-tilted eyes gazed at him expectantly, one set wide and blue, the other bright with suspicion and blue green as a wave shot with summe
r sun.

  He cleared his throat and began. “There’s a place on Concordia called Morte Swamp. Centuries ago, there was a dreadful battle there. Thousands were slain, some by cold steel, others dragged down by the weight of their armor and the evil of the bog. It stinks,” he said baldly. “Even now. Worse than anything you can imagine.”

  “But what has—?” Katrin’s brow wrinkled.

  “Sshh.” Prue laid a hand on the girl’s bright hair.

  “I haven’t been there since I was a lad, the night I ran—” He broke off. “Last night, as the tide turned, I smelled it again. This afternoon, the seelies showed me the source of the stench.”

  “Seelies?” Katrin gaped, then she giggled. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Begin at the beginning,” said Prue. “And don’t leave anything out.”

  By the time they’d finished with him, he felt as if they’d turned his skull inside out and scoured it clean, but only crumbs remained on the supper tray.

  Prue rose to pace, her movements jerky. “No one in their right mind would make up a story like that.” She cast him a narrow, sidelong glance. “Maybe.

  “Why are you the only one?” she went on. “To smell the . . . smell. Especially if it’s so bad.”

  “I don’t know.” He met her skeptical gaze. “I nearly died of the lungspasm as a lad. I’ve been incredibly sensitive to airborne odors ever since. Drives me crazy sometimes.”

  “Hmm.” She didn’t sound convinced.

  Katrin’s eyes shone with excitement. “What are we going to do, Mam?”

  Prue came to a halt. “I don’t believe what I can’t see. Prove it to me.” She challenged him with her level blue green stare.

  “In the morning,” he said. “First thing, I swear. And when I do, Mistress McGuire? What then?”

  “This is the business of the Queen’s City,” she said with decision. “He’ll know what to do, how to fix it.” Her voice rose. “He’s a client of ours. I can contact his office and arrange an appointment.”

  With a sigh, Erik rose and planted himself in front of her. “For tomorrow?”