He hadn’t thought it possible for someone without his gifts to commit murder with their eyes. The Necromancer almost laughed aloud. But that would never do.
While the sergeant called the next chit, he watched the singer and the witch from under his lashes. As they conferred with the hired sword—the man hadn’t known what they were going to say, judging by the careful immobility of his expression—the Necromancer considered his next step.
If his objective was the air witch, the singer constituted the primary obstacle. By Shaitan, look at the size of him, the fluid way he moved. His very presence fairly screamed health and virility, and he was no fool, Shaitan take him. He’d thought quickly enough, even when faced with the combined attention of the Cabal. But it was the stubborn jut of his jaw the Necromancer distrusted—no doubt, he was one of those who treasured their so-called honor. He wouldn’t give up, that was clear to see. He’d persist in making a nuisance of himself until he got a fair hearing. Eventually, someone would take him seriously and they’d all be seeing godsbedamned seelies.
The Necromancer ground his teeth.
Wordlessly, the witch pulled a large handkerchief from the pocket of her skirts and handed it to the singer. Taking it with a mutter of thanks, the big man wiped his face, his mouth contorted with disgust.
He’d have to destroy the singer to reach the witch. A regrettable circumstance, because he’d give a great deal for a body like that. Fingers tightening on his gavel, the Necromancer rolled the envy and hate around his mouth with sour relish.
Every move the singer made, every glance, every touch, declared his possession of the witch, his protection of what he considered to be his. Idly, the Necromancer wondered whether he’d die for her, given the choice.
Because he was about to.
The owner of a skiff fleet was droning on about something to do with tolls and fees. The Cabal listened with only half an ear. The Necromancer didn’t listen at all.
Gathering himself, he reached out with a dark tendril of power. It would be strange for a man so magnificently healthy to drop dead with no warning. If he was unlucky, there might be whispers of the Dark Arts. Necromancy was punishable by death in the Isles. He’d seen a man burned at the stake for it in Ged.
The memory made his lips thin with irritation. He’d been a fool, that apprentice, the reason the Necromancer now worked alone. If he hadn’t realized in time and taken the man’s tongue before he could be put to the question . . . Shaking his head, the Necromancer set it aside. The present situation was far from ideal, but the singer’s death couldn’t be traced to him, not even if the most skilled healer in the Enclave detected more than natural causes.
The decision made, he relaxed, a slight smile curving his lips. A little self-indulgence. He’d never been particularly good at curbing his appetites, especially when he could see no reason for self-restraint. And the temptation was so hard to resist—all six feet plus of it.
What was the harm really?
Half-closing his eyes, the Necromancer sent the black thread of his will snaking across the Hall. It brushed the arm of the fat woman who’d laughed, and she gasped, her face turning the color of putty. Those nearest caught her as she stumbled, and the stir drew the attention of the crowd. Necks craned as people fought to see.
Very good.
Now.
As he struck, the air witch stepped in front of the singer, going up on tiptoe to whisper something in his ear.
Cursing, the Necromancer jerked back. He blinked, absorbing the unexpected impact. By Shaitan, he’d been bruised. For all the world as if he’d collided with a solid wall.
He fumbled his water cup to his lips and sipped, aching somewhere inside he couldn’t touch.
No problem. An aberration, that was all.
Setting the cup down in the center of the Pentacle—by Shaitan, he’d grown to loathe the godsbedamned things!—he reached out again, more cautiously this time.
Shit, it was still there!
Yes, like a wall. Knitting his brows, he explored. Except . . . it didn’t seem to be aware of him. It was just . . . there, high and wide and obdurate. If he touched it, he hurt.
The blood beat loud in his ears, his fury made deliciously thrilling with the addition of genuine apprehension. Gods, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt anxious. She was nothing but a witch-whore. How could she wrong-foot him this way? It wasn’t possible.
But when he looked up, it was to see the broad back of the singer disappearing out the wide double doors, flanked by the witch and the hired sword. Not even a practitioner with his extraordinary skills could kill what he couldn’t see. Bubbling with rage, the Necromancer beckoned the clerk.
“Noblelord?”
“Call them back,” he snarled.
“Yes, Noblelord.” A hesitation. “Ah, who?”
Too damn obvious. The silver handle of the gavel bent in his grip. Breathing heavily, the Necromancer released it. “Never mind.”
Suddenly exhausted, he braced his spine against the chair back. Whichever came first, deification or a new body, it couldn’t come soon enough. Not so long ago, he’d been able to visit victims in their sleep, when the barriers between consciousness, belief and Magick wore thin. While a sleeper dreamed, the experience was real, lived. In the Necromancer’s hands, dreams became nightmares, screams and death. Distance had been no barrier.
He still had his dark Magick. In fact, it had never been stronger. But as for this puny physical form—by Shaitan, it let him down at every turn.
Closing his eyes, the Necromancer took another sip of water. He rearranged his thoughts, examined his priorities.
First, the singer, who was, after all, merely human. Not worth soiling his hands with really, not when his time was so valuable.
He could take it easy on himself, seek professional assistance. The Guild of Assassins, for example. That’s what they were for, after all.
Out in the sun, the odor intensified, if that was possible. His skin itching, Erik resisted the temptation to dive off the Royal Bridge. The water looked so blue and clean and he smelled like a midden.
When Prue dropped his hand, he curled it into a fist. He didn’t blame her. She had any number of reasons to find his touch unwelcome—public ridicule, a five-hundred-credit fine, loss of face with a powerful official. The things he’d done to her, the things he intended to do. And the Leaf of Nobility was still dying.
The gods damn it all to hell.
One of the Queen’s Guard caught up with them before they stepped off the bridge. “Here,” she said without preamble, shoving a folded piece of heavy paper into Erik’s hand. “For you.”
She grinned at Dai. “You going to the Sailor’s Lay tonight?”
“Ah, Yachi, my love.” The swordsman pressed a hand to his heart and winked. “Sure thing.”
Yachi’s bold gaze flickered over Erik from his head to his heels. “I’ve never had a lunatic,” she said. “Let alone a good-looking one. Bring him too.”
“Better bathe him first,” said Prue. “You think?”
“I have a show to do,” said Erik. “Perhaps after that.”
“It’ll be a sellout, for sure.” The guard sketched a cheerful salute. “Good luck, friend. You’ll need it.”
As she trotted away, her boots ringing on the bridge, Erik unfolded the note and his brows rose. “The Money commands us to attend his office the day after tomorrow. Better than nothing.”
“Us?”
“You and me, Prue. Gods, it might actually have been worth it.” A little of the gloom lifted. Without thinking, he ran a hand through his hair, only to encounter something clumped and slimy. Swearing, he searched in vain for a clean place on his trews to wipe his fingers. “About the fine—” At the blaze of anger and guilt in her face, he broke off.
Her chin rose. “It was my mistake. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard. I’ll deal with it.”
Not if he had anything to do with the matter. “I’m the expert on mistakes,
” he said. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“Gods, man, you reek.” Dai leaned against the carved balustrade, all amusement gone. He glanced from Erik to Prue and back again. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you’ve both lost your minds?”
“Why?” demanded Prue. “What would you have done differently?”
“Seelies?” Dai continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Seelies?”He shook his head. “She was right, the old girl. You’re mad, the pair of you.”
Prue’s spine stiffened. “I don’t care if the whole world laughs in my face, including you, Dai. I know what I saw, and I saw seelies. Two of them, dancing.” Abruptly, her blue green eyes filled with tears, glittering like gems beneath a wave.
Erik reached out to draw her to his side before he remembered the filth on his person. He let his hand fall. “Can you swim, Dai?”
“Yes,” said the swordsman. “I’ve been down the tunnels and into the hollows in the Leaves. I was young and stupid. But I never saw a seelie.”
“Erik sang.” Prue’s voice was so husky he could barely hear it. “They came for him. It was so beautiful.”
Dai fixed his green gold gaze on her face. “You saw them? Truly?”
“Yes.”
“And the Leaf of Nobility is rotten?”
“If Erik says so.”
The swordsman blew out a breath. “That’s it then.” Gracefully, he pushed away from the rail. “It’ll be sunset soon,” he said. “Which is closer, Erik, The Garden or wherever you’re staying?”
“My clothes are at the boarding house,” said Erik absently. “What do you mean, that’s it?”
“It means I’m with you.” Dai smiled crookedly. “Well, only because Mistress Prue is, to be honest.” He glanced at her with unmistakable affection. “You’re the most straightforward, sensible person I’ve ever met, Mistress. If you say a troupe of seelies joined hands and danced around the moons, I believe it.”
Erik’s mouth went dry. “Is that true? Are you with me, Prue?”
Her tip-tilted gaze met his. “Yes,” she said. “In this.” She looked away. “I should go.”
Erik caught up with her in a single stride. “Come to the opera tonight.”
Prue kept walking. “No.”
“Why not? I know you enjoyed it last time.”
She stopped so abruptly, he overshot and had to turn back. “They’ll crucify you.”
A grin tugged at his mouth. “You don’t want to watch?”
She set off again, with brisk steps. “There’s a water stair around the next corner.”
“I’ll send the boy to collect you. Prue?”
She wouldn’t look at him. “What?”
“Is there a song about seelies? Something everyone knows?”
Her elbow hit him in the belly, bringing him to an abrupt halt. She tilted her head back to search his face, her eyes wide. “You wouldn’t!”
“Don’t bet on it.” A weight lifting from his heart, Erik chuckled. “It’s no use looking so prim, sweetheart. Not when there’s evidence to the contrary.” He raised his dirty hand to touch her dimpled cheek and let it drop. Godsdammit.
“There’s the ‘Seelie Song,’ ” said Dai thoughtfully, “but it’s a nursery rhyme.”
Prue gurgled, an enchanting sound deep in her throat.
“Sing it for me,” demanded Erik.
Prue shook her head. “I can’t sing. I really can’t.”
“Nonsense, everyone can sing. But I’ll let it go for the moment. Dai?”
Grinning, the swordsman drew them into a doorway.
Before he’d reached the end of the first line, Erik was smiling too. “I know the tune,” he said. “But on Concordia, it’s about a little star that twinkles. The gods know how long children have been singing it. Centuries, I imagine. Thanks.” With grim relish, he clapped Dai on the shoulder. “It’s perfect.”
19
Erik had been right. The “Seelie Song” was perfect.
In the shadows of the Royal Box, Prue sat breathing hard, listening to a storm of applause so loud the walls of the theater vibrated. Sitting inside a huge bass drum must be like this. Dai would have said Erik the Golden had balls. Her lips twitched. When he wore the demon king’s breeches, there could be no question of what he had.
She’d never seen anything to beat tonight’s performance for sheer, bloody-minded gall. Erik had started with a hostile, curious crowd, baying for blood. And he’d made them his. Gods, by the final curtain, he owned their souls, right down to the last rough workingman out for trouble and a night on the town.
Ever the consummate showman, he’d strode on in the breeches and tall boots, his golden head held high, ignoring the heaving clamor emanating from the stalls.
A hoarse voice yelled, “Is that a seelie in yer pocket, mate?”
And another, “Or are ye jest happy to see us?”
Gales of cruel laughter.
Prue had flinched. Merciful Sister, if she felt flayed on Erik’s behalf, what was it like for him? She’d have given almost anything to be tucked up in bed with the covers drawn up to her chin. But Florien had been insistent, escorting her to the stage door, accompanying her to the box and planting himself at her side. She shot a glance to her right. The lad was perched cross-legged on the fine brocade seat, his dirty boots doing the Sister knew what damage to the queen’s upholstery.
When she’d asked what he thought he was about, he’d only muttered, “I promised. Shook ’ands.”
Onstage, Erik had opened his mouth and the notes had poured forth, an exquisite, airy ribbon of melody, redolent of virile power, flavored with the titillating wickedness of the demon king.
He had them in the palm of his hand long before he’d finished the first aria, Prue included. Surely she knew him better than anyone else in the city? Godsdammit, why wasn’t she immune? In fact, she could swear the effect was worse tonight. As the demon king died, singing superbly right through his death throes, all she could think of was the tender lightness of Erik Thorensen’s touch, the taste of his skin, his mouth sending her to the stars. Her bones melted with yearning, her blood burned slow and hot, and stupid tears brimmed in her eyes.
And then . . . Sister give her strength, she couldn’t believe the nerve of the man.
He’d gazed out over the footlights, hands on hips, and announced blandly he had something special for an encore. Even now, Prue didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Gods, he’d shoved the “Seelie Song” down their throats and made them love it.
By the second repetition, he had them singing the sweet, childish words with him.
Seelie wash, seelie clean.
Where you hide, you’re never seen.
Lovely fur, flash of blue.
If I could swim, I’dplay with you.
After that, he let the audience carry the tune, while his magnificent baritone provided a kind of descant, swooping over and under the simple melody, decorating and embellishing, until the entire effect was almost too lovely to be borne.
Seelie dance, seelie joy.
Beloved friend of girl and boy.
A nursery rhyme! Sister save her!
They’d sung it a dozen times over before Erik held up his hand. “Thank you, my friends,” he said into an expectant hush, his voice perfectly pitched, calm and deep. He bowed, extravagantly low. “Today, before the Open Cabal, I spoke the truth. The Leaf of Nobility is dying. Seelies exist.”
No one moved. Or spoke.
“I wanted you to know that.” Another bow and a level, challenging look. He stepped back and the curtains swished together in a swathe of red velvet.
Dizzy with relief and awe, Prue sagged in her seat.
The tumult broke before she could draw her next breath. Some stood on their seats and clapped. Others shouted and stamped, Erik’s name on every lip.
He’d created a sensation. The entire city would be buzzing with it. Laughter bubbled up in her throat, and she pressed her lips together lest it escape.
Beside her, Florien let out a shaky breath. “Fookin’ ’ell.”
“Exactly.” Then she recollected herself. Gods, the child had a filthy mouth. “Florien—”
Correctly interpreting her expression, he cut her off. “Don’ bother.” He hopped out of the chair. “Comin’?”
Prue blinked. “Where?”
“T’ Erik. T’ talk about t’ meeting wit’ t’ Money man.”
“Not necessary.”
Rising, Prue settled the shawl across her shoulders so the embroidered seelies gamboling happily all the way to the fringed ends were clear to see. She had no idea why she’d worn it, except that, in a strange way, it seemed right, a gesture of solidarity. Besides, it was an extremely versatile garment. Abruptly, even the light touch of the silk was more warmth than she could bear. Letting the shawl slip back to her elbows, she inhaled carefully. What would it be like to feel him deep inside, to have him wrap her up, take over her senses until she was no more than a bundle of quivering sensation? To give herself over to his control, to the gentle restraint of silk?
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll take a skiff home.”
Florien grabbed her sleeve. “He sed you’d say thet. An’ he sed t’ say . . .” His brow furrowed with concentration. “He’ll give t’ five ’undred he owes ye t’ Rose.” The dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction at a job well done.
So that was the way he intended to play it? She couldn’t decide whether she was more irritated with Erik for such an obvious ploy or with herself for falling for it. By the Sister, she was going to give Master Thorensen a piece of her mind! And she wouldn’t be charmed into smiling, let alone laughing. Even if it killed her.
“Lead on,” she said resolutely.
Without a word, the lad trotted out of the box, taking a set of narrow back stairs down several flights to a warren of small, poky rooms. They brushed by men carrying mysterious toolboxes and a stout, harried fellow with a sheaf of papers. Everyone had a greeting for the boy, a curious glance for Prue. One of the scantily clad dancers, a lissome blonde with endless legs, reached out to ruffle Florien’s hair.
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