Erik released his death grip on the couch to clasp Prue’s curvy waist. “That better?”
Her sweet tits bobbed with the force of her breath. “Yes. Sister, you’re so, so . . . Nngh.” She sank down a little and his head reeled with the heat, the tight, creamy glove of her.
Reflexively, he arched up with his hips and she took another inch, gasping.
“Fuck it, Prue,” he panted. “How long has it been?”
“Five, no—six—years.” She shot him a glinting look. “But I haven’t forgotten—gods—how.”
It took them several agonizing, glorious minutes to work him all the way in, an inch at a time, her sex fluttering around him in panic and arousal.
Luxuriously, Erik ran his palms over her flanks, up over her ribs, to her breasts. Without a word, he buried his fingers in her hair and pulled her down, sealing her small body all along his. His cock thumping with the strut of his blood, he opened his mouth to devour hers, sinking into the kiss.
“Now,” she whispered into his mouth. “Now.”
“Yes. Fuck me.” More than a little of the Voice had escaped that time, he knew, but it hardly mattered, because she was already rising cautiously, using the support of his big hands around her waist.
She shivered, gooseflesh breaking out on her arms, her chest, ruch ing her nipples to tight, velvety points of desire. “Oh, you feel so good.” She slid down, releasing a small shriek. The sleek muscles in her thighs flexed. Back up, faster. Down. “I can feel you in my throat.”
Erik huffed out a laugh, punching up into the escalating rhythm, meeting her with the firm slap of his thighs against her buttocks. “That’s for later.” Fuck, he could see it all so clearly, Prue on her knees, suckling, licking, crooning in her throat, glorying in the erotic torture she dealt him. His hands deep in her hair, her sweet tongue moving over his flesh, loving him. The mistress of his pleasure, as much as he was the master of hers.
Impossibly, he swelled, thickening. Prue cried out, her back arching in a beautiful bow, her inner walls clamping on his girth. He’d never heard music sweeter than the formless, breathy noises she made in extremis, his prim and proper Prue. He wanted more, whole choruses of them, rising above the clamor of the storm. She must be close. As for him—he had only seconds left, the seed boiling against the tender skin of his balls.
Ruthlessly, he tightened his grip, increasing the pace, thrusting his whole brutal length in and out, to the root. “C’mon,” he panted. “Go over, love. Go over.”
“Nearly . . .” Prue keened. “Can’t, can’t.” She writhed, tears sheen ing her extraordinary eyes. The wind tossed her hair about in dark, silky skeins.
Erik slid one hand over the soft curve of her belly and furrowed down into her pubic hair. He paused, choking. Godsdammit. Her choice.
“Shall I touch?”
“Yes, yes!” She leaned back, opening herself to him, spreading that pretty pink cleft so he could help her.
When he rubbed, as gently as he knew how, Prue stiffened. A split second later, she was bouncing so vigorously, he had to steady her with the other hand. The pad of his forefinger slid over the small prow of her clitoris, thrillingly fast.
Mistress Prue McGuire threw her head back and screamed her pleasure, loud and long. Her sex clamped down on him so hard he saw stars.
He was gone, an extended rush from his swollen scrotum, flooding the length of his rapturous cock, spurting hot jets of relief. Fuck, so good, so good. It unraveled him, this mind-numbing pleasure. The air crackled with thunder. Every muscle in his body went slack and his head rolled on the rug. Ah, the aftershocks were exquisite, a series of delicious, pointy-tongued licks deep in his loins.
Prue had subsided on top of him in a boneless bundle. Erik stroked her shoulder, trailed his fingers down to her hip. Still breathing.
Gods, he’d got through it. No mistakes. Good for him. Contentedly, he drew wobbly circles over the cheeks of her luscious ass. Later, he thought muzzily.
Without opening his eyes, he said, “You screamed.”
A light touch traced his collarbones, soft lips nuzzled the pit of his throat. “You bellowed.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.” A yawn.
Erik opened one eye and chuckled. “It’s pretty quiet out there. We’ve got the place to ourselves, I think. And the wind’s dropped.”
No reply.
Sweat stung in the scratches on his arms and chest. The rug was rucked up under his ass in prickly ridges, the floor cold and unyielding. From where he lay, all he need do was turn his head for a clear view of the dust clumps under the couch. A sneeze tickled his nose.
But none of that was important.
Prue McGuire lay sprawled over the top of him, completely limp. Her head was snuggled under his chin, where it fit perfectly. Every so often, a ladylike snuffle escaped her.
Erik’s lips curved in a tired smile. How’ d I do today on the task You gave me, Horned Lord? Great Lady? I’ve been such a busy boy. Swimming with creatures straight out of a fairy tale, making Prue happy, making her come, breaking her heart. Oh, let’s not forget the public ridicule, that was . . . interesting. And the excellent performance of a nursery rhyme.
But of course, They didn’t answer. They never did unless it pleased Them and then only in his dreams.
He’d slipped at the end there. Fuck me. Luckily, it had made no difference because that’s where they’d been headed anyway. Wistfully, he relived the moments she’d writhed beneath him, the feel of her slim wrists in his grip, the knowledge of her willing helplessness spearing through him. Fuck, it had been sublime, despite the fact it had only been the start of what he could teach her—if she’d trust him. His balls contracted, his cock giving a hard, hungry twitch.
Looked at dispassionately, fucking Prue McGuire had still been the best sex of his life, the very best. Why was that? She’d been hot and sweet, nowhere near as conventional as he’d expected, but she wasn’t the most experienced woman he’d had, not by a long way.
How pretty she’d look, bound in silken ropes while he painted her lush tits with strokes of his tongue. His breath came a little faster. The taut, pale curves of her buttocks begged for the flat of his hand. Perhaps she’d defy him so he’d have no choice but to put her over his knee. A rueful grin quirked his lips. She’d be good at defiance, his Prue. Not too much, he’d get it just right, enough to warm, make her tingle, have her wet and pleading. He knew beyond any doubt her skin would color delightfully.
Ah, she’d love it.
Perhaps he could talk her into it—slowly, softly. She was already part of the way there, sleeping trustfully in his arms. He stroked a wayward curl with his forefinger, drawing the sweet smell of her deep into his lungs. But all she’d given him was her body. Despite the way she confronted life head-on, she was too frightened to risk more. Lord’s balls, human existence was complicated. After whatever it was that bastard had done to her . . . Erik’s fists clenched.
Prue murmured into his skin, her breath warm and moist. Her palm slipped over his chest, her fingers brushing over the talisman on its chain. Erik drew his fingertips along her spine, feeling the bumps of her vertebrae.
Reaching out a long arm, he snagged the shawl from where it lay on the floor in a tumble of jade silk. As always, he was acutely conscious of his breath, of the steady power of his lungs, pumping. Such a precious commodity, air. He’d nearly died for the lack of it as a boy, more than once.
One-handed, he spread the shawl over Prue’s body. There. His other arm was going to sleep and the floor hadn’t got any bloody softer, but what the hell—he’d pay the price, be her mattress for a while, keep her warm and safe.
She sighed in her sleep and her fingers curled loosely over the talisman.
Everything has a cost, the Horned Lord had said, all those years ago. And then He’d reached up into the vast antlers branching above His head. Snap!
At the brutal sound, Erik had flinched and fallen to his knees. He kne
w he was dead. He had to be. Lungspasm was an evil thing. No healer had the cure, not even the Technomages with all their Science. Only seventeen and his lungs had squeezed tight shut. No amount of gasping, of hideous, frantic struggling, would pry them open again. He’d been able to feel the life leaking out of him with the last trickle of air. Even now, he shuddered at the memory. The pain had been blinding, incredible, the terror all-encompassing.
Poor Ma. If he glanced over his shoulder, he could see her down there at the bedside, shaking his unresponsive body, weeping, crying out. “Erik! Erik!” His heart ached for her.
Are you listening to Me, boy? A mountain might speak like that, in a vast, subterranean rumble. When the god had called to him from down that long, bright tunnel, his soul had risen from his body and followed like an eager puppy.
Erik bowed his head. “Yes, Lord.”
We have work for you to do, My Lady and I.
“Yes, Lord.” He risked a sidelong glance, but it was like looking into the sun. His eyes teared.
An inquiring breeze caressed his cheek, a drift of dark, exquisite perfume. In the frozen deeps of space, the stars danced in their cold beds. Another vast presence.
So young, She murmured. So strong. Are you strong enough, Erik?
Oh, the feminine, velvet beauty of that voice! Erik hardened, he couldn’t help it. “I—I don’t know, my Lady.”
Ah, the hot blood of youth. But She didn’t sound displeased.
Somewhere far off, he could hear the rushing of a mighty wind. Erik licked his lips. “What . . . what would You have me do?”
An interminable pause, during which he imagined the gods exchanging glances, or speaking mind to mind—or living a hundred lifetimes. Who knew? Every cell in his body vibrated with awe and terror. His teeth chattered so hard, he had to clench them together.
At last, the Lady said, gently enough, We cannot tell you without altering the Pattern.
The storm drew closer, turbulence plucking at Erik’s hair, pushing against his body. Pattern? What Pattern?
If you fail in this service, said the Lord, your death will be fodder for something foul. It will be interminable. A huge arm gestured at the shabby bedchamber. In comparison, this end is clean and good. You are well mourned.
Involuntarily, Erik looked for Ma, but the room had grown small and blurry, as if viewed down the wrong end of a spyglass. He squinted. His mother had thrown herself over his long frame, gut-wrenching sobs racking her body. Carl was standing by the bed, clutching his limp hand. Gods, was he crying, his hellion of a little brother? Where were Pieter and Lars? Oh there, with the healer, their backs pressed to the wall, their cheeks tear-stained.
We will give you your life, together with a gift, said the Horned Lord. A weapon, a tool, a pleasure. A curse. Up to you.
The air swirled, the pitch of the wind rising to an eldritch shriek. Ominous gray purple clouds filled the tunnel, obscuring the bedchamber. They roiled with lightning.
Quickly! urged the Lady. Decide.
22
“I want to live,” said Erik.
Of course. The Lord chuckled, though there was little humor in it. Everyone does. Even Death.
Erik was still puzzling over that one when the Lord tossed him a small object. Automatically, he caught it.
A gleaming fragment of horn, intricately whorled and scored with fluting patterns. So beautiful. Erik’s gaze flew to the deity. He winced, putting up a hand to shield his eyes. “My Lord!”
Look carefully, said the god dryly. And remember that we all pay.
Dark blood flowed freely from the horn. Glowing like liquid fire, it covered Erik’s palm, dripped over his wrist. A god’s blood. His mouth fell open. “But—”
The Lady’s huge, star-dappled hand closed around the back of his neck and jerked him forward. Helpless, Erik hung in Her grasp, his eyes clamped shut in terror. Soft lips touched his, the caress a torment so pleasurable it burned like fire and ice. A gust of sweet breath blew down his throat—summer and sex, grass with the sap rising, flowers and the smell of rainbows.
When She dropped him, a storm picked him up and whirled him about, light as a dried leaf. It beat at his senses, punched him hard in the chest with a battering ram of air. Coughing, he opened his eyes, his mother’s startled face inches from his own.
Beneath the covers, the seventeen-year-old Erik clenched his fist over the god’s talisman.
In the dressing room under the Royal Theater, Erik laid his fingers over Prue’s as she curled them over it.
How long would it be before he’d slip again? His track record with Prue wasn’t exactly stellar. To make it worse, she was becoming temptingly susceptible to his control. Muzzling the Voice tonight had required the most severe exercise of his will. What the hell was it about Prue McGuire that clawed at his soul, slicing his self-discipline to tattered ribbons? Was it the challenge of her? Or the comfort?
If he was vigilant, censoring every word that came out of his mouth, he might manage it for months, possibly a year or so. But no spontaneity, none of the joy of loving freely and well. He’d never had that, but godsdammit, until he’d glimpsed it, he hadn’t realized the loss of that bright possibility would be so piercing.
The Voice came from somewhere so deeply hooked into his masculinity, it was woven all around what it was to be a man—to be Erik Thorensen. Inevitably, it would happen, sooner or later, the end of anything real. The keener his desire, the greater the risk.
Fuck, he couldn’t bear it!
Erik wrapped both arms around Prue, holding her close, aching as if he’d been in a tavern brawl. Her compact body was so warm, her soft breath a balm against his skin. He rubbed his burning eyes. Just a little longer and he’d take her home to The Garden.
As the skiff passed beneath the delicate arch of the Bridge of Amours, the Necromancer caught sight of his servant waiting at the small water stair behind The Garden, as ordered. Springing forward, Nasake offered a steadying arm as the Necromancer climbed from the small craft. His master safely delivered to the top of the stairs, he ran back down the stairs, fumbling at his belt pouch.
“Wait,” said the Necromancer. He detested waste. Especially when it came to money. Catching the skiffman’s eye, he smiled. “Thank you, my friend.”
As he spoke, he reached into the other man’s mind and smeared his memory with a spectral thumb. Unfortunately, the Necromancer didn’t have time for finesse, so the skiffman would likely find he was missing an entire day. Or two.
His eyes blank, the skiffman nodded. Leaning forward, he rested his head against the pole and drifted away under the Bridge of Amours and around the bend in the canal.
The Necromancer turned to survey the pretty pavilion situated next to the water. “This it?” A narrow, shady path meandered away around the perimeter of the Leaf in the general direction of the bridge.
“Yes, Master. Clouds and Rain it’s called. The farthest from the Main Pavilion.”
“And you hired it for how long?”
“All morning, Master. As you instructed.”
Nasake’s tongue crept out to flick his lips. “Last year, there was a murder inside. The pavilion’s still not popular, though they gutted it. Everything’s new.”
The Necromancer cocked a brow. “You felt traces?”
“Oh yes. There was . . . blood.”
“Hmm.” Violent death. Good. Every little bit helped. The Necromancer’s lips curved with satisfaction. He could have had Nasake set up the meeting anywhere, but this little-used pavilion at the far end of The Garden? A stroke of genius. Moreover, it amused him to plot the witch-whore’s destruction right under her pert little nose.
Nasake ushered him through a latticed gate and into a private courtyard.
“The assassin?”
“Five minutes.”
The Necromancer’s eye fell on a half-grown mongrel dog tethered to a purplemist tree that shaded the small space with an umbrella cloud of lilac. “What’s this?”
; At the sound of his voice, the dog squatted and peed. Its eyes rolled so far the whites showed.
Nasake’s already pasty face went gray. “Master, you said a dog would do if I couldn’t get a child. I . . . uh . . . There was so little . . .”
The Necromancer raised a hand and the manservant froze. “I’ll deal with you later. I trust the assassin is more satisfactory?”
“Oh yes, Noblelord. She’s skilled with poison. With the budget you gave me, the Guild Master said—”
“It’s a woman? Oh, never mind.”
A dog? It wasn’t going to be as good, godsdammit. As he glared, the mongrel lifted a leg and scratched behind one flop ear. Disgusting creature. Full of bitemes, no doubt. With any luck, he’d be strong enough to do without it. Crossly, he stumped into the pavilion.
Nasake had everything in place, including an easy chair and a footstool. All the furnishings were elegant, gray or silver, with touches of lavender. The comforter on the bed looked as plump and soft as a cloud. A low table inlaid with light wood bore a tray piled high with sweetmeats, a tisane pot and cups, and a flask of spiced wine. The Necromancer’s lip curled. By Shaitan, did the man think he was made of money?
“What’s all this for?” he asked coldly.
“For her, Noblelord. Mehcredi the assassin. She likes fine food.”
From outside came the sound of a heavy tread on the gravel of the path. With his usual efficiency, Nasake thrust the dog into the room and disappeared.
The Necromancer skewered the mongrel with an angry glare. “Sit.” The animal collapsed, flat to the floor, as if every bone in its body had crumbled to dust.
Silently, the door swung open. The assassin would be waiting on the other side, assessing the situation. They were all trained like that. Much good would it do her.
Pulling in a breath, the Necromancer donned the cloak of his Dark Arts. “Enter,” he called, his tone light and colorless.
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