Thief of Light

by Denise Rossetti

  The spiraling intensity of it quivered on the very cusp of culmination, a summer storm heavy with the potential for utter destruction. Prue forced her eyes open. Erik hung above her, his face fierce with passion, his shoulders and chest sheened with sweat and water. “I have to—” she gasped. “Gods, please!”

  “Yes. Ah, Prue, you’re . . . perfect.”

  A final twist of the hips, a long, hard stroke, and she was gone, the swell of sensation shattering, a hot, rushing wind that flashed up and down her spine, digging deep into her pelvis, her ass. She shrieked.

  “Fuck!” Abruptly, Erik grasped her calves and let her legs slip to his waist. He dropped to his elbows, gripping her head between his hands, and she heard his long groan as he jammed himself high and hard inside her, his buttocks clenching with the force of his orgasm. The deep, formless sound morphed into words, rumbling out of his chest, echoing around the chamber like thunder in the mountains, strong and imperative, a masculine command.

  “Love me, Prue. Gods, love me!”

  The Necromancer sat propped up in bed, a bank of pillows at his back, listening to the rain. Scowling, he reached forward to rub his knee, and his back twinged. He’d done his best to control his temper, but he had to admit he’d failed. He let out a breath, gusty with irritation. The Technomage Primus should have known better than to provoke him.

  For a start, she’d panicked all over him, and he couldn’t abide that. Flapping and wailing—faugh! She hadn’t even had the courtesy to say thank you. He’d relayed the singer’s story about the seelies out of the goodness of his heart, because he thought she’d be interested. All the more information for her Scientific mind. What did she call it? Data.

  But oh no—she’d gone pale, swaying where she stood. Then she’d begun to babble like a lunatic, spewing statistics and calculations like one of her own machines gone mad, darting from one end of the room to the other, gathering up sheets of transplas, putting them down again. Shouting at him, by Shaitan!

  He had to close the palazzo immediately. Right now! Her equipment, her records, her data. How could they be moved safely? The Technomage Tower would know, she said. They’d told Nasake—

  She’d bitten the words off, her face going a ghastly shade of gray, but it was too late.

  The Necromancer had smiled, inhaling the sour-sweat stink of fear. “My dear Dotty,” he said, “I own Nasake, soul and body, in this life and the next. Whatever made you think you could bribe him to run your silly messages?”

  The Technomage had braced herself, one hand on the back of her chair. “How do you expect me to work in isolation?” she demanded. “They don’t have to know about you.” Her eyes blazed with the intensity of her feelings. “But they could help, with the seelies, with the Magick reservoir. With everything.”

  “No.”

  “For Science’s sake!” She thumped the chair with her fist. “Why won’t you listen? I was right about the seelies, wasn’t I? I told you so!”

  Not the wisest thing to say to any man, particularly a tired, aching Necromancer at the end of his tether.

  He’d very nearly killed her, there and then. As it was, he wasn’t entirely sure she’d be in her right mind when she came around.

  Poor, foolish Dotty. She’d meant well.

  The Necromancer tipped his head back and closed his eyes. How old had he been the day the original Dotty brought the healer for his mam? Seven, eight?

  Slowly, his hand closed and the thick silk of the coverlet bunched under his fingers. Much good it had done, she’d died anyway—because neither of them could read the healer’s instructions on the drug vial. Between them, they’d dosed her to death. The smell of poverty and damp assaulted his nose. And he was there again, lost down the dark tunnel of the years, mired in memory, his life divided into before and after.

  He gritted his teeth. As always, he was grateful for the reminder of what ignorance truly was, what it meant—fiercely, bitterly grateful. Without it, without that pivotal moment, he would never have become what he was—a usurper whose very existence threatened the gods. His smile grew grim.

  “I cain’t let you stay here, lad,” Shima had said, all those years ago. “Not less’n you earn your keep.”

  When at last he’d raised his gaze from his mother’s limp body to meet the innkeeper’s eye, Shima took a step back, sucking in his breath. In his thin treble, the boy had said, “Teach me to read an’ I’ll do whatever you want.”

  But Shima had shaken his head. “I ain’t good enough. Anyways, I ain’t got the time. You need a man who knows his letters. Lemme think.” His face cleared. “Tolaf’ddo it. He’s a drunken sot, but he’s clever.” He hesitated, but only for an instant. “You know what he’s like. He’ll want you fer his bum-boy.”

  The child shrugged. It would hurt, he knew, but nothing came free in the slums.

  The Necromancer shuddered, and a silken pillow slipped out from under his arm and flopped to the floor. He sank deeper into the soft embrace of the mattress.

  Casting a final look at the still shape on the ramshackle bed, he’d trotted out of the room, hugging his treasure box to his chest. Knowledge was the key. The cost didn’t matter.

  Once he knew everything, everything there was to know, there would be no more mistakes.

  Inside the box was a pretty pebble, the skull of a cat and a live scuttleroach. It was quite a big one, blue brown and shiny. The day before, he’d touched it, cold and smooth and wriggly, and snapped off one of its legs to see what it would do. As it blundered around the box, careering off the walls, he’d come to the conclusion that scuttle-roaches were not very bright.

  By Shaitan, he could still hear it!

  The Necromancer shot bolt upright, his heart thumping.

  Someone was tapping at the door. “Master? Master, you said you wanted a report.”

  “Come in, Nasake,” said the Necromancer grimly. He had a bad feeling.

  Frozen with horror, his balls still pulsing with the last spurts of pleasure, Erik stared down into Prue’s vivid eyes. The richness of her soul was laid out before him, clear to the depths, like the clean, crystal beauty of a tropical sea.

  Shit, what had he done? His chest tightened in the way that used to presage an attack of lungspasm, leaving him breathless and dizzy.

  Prue’s dark lashes swept down, once, slowly. “Yes,” she said with an almost eerie calm. “I do.” Her hand shaking, she reached up to brush a lock of wet hair out of his eyes. “I do love you.” Her mouth twisted. “More fool me.”

  Oh, gods.

  Numb with shock, Erik let her touch him, let her trace his mouth with gentle fingertips. The dark laughter of the gods reverberated in his head, the voice of the Horned Lord. Everything has a cost. In the duel of wills, the Dark Lady had triumphed.

  “Erik, are you all right? Speak to me.” The warm clasp of Prue’s thighs slipped away from his body and at once, he felt bereft.

  He shook his head, everything inside him bruised, scraped bloody.

  It was all accomplished, Their vengeance. No, not vengeance, the Lord and Lady would call it justice—and They’d be right. Dropping his head, he buried his face in the damp, sweet-smelling mass of Prue’s hair.

  All his adult years, he’d fought a vicious guerilla campaign against memory, shoving the dreadful images aside, covering them over, ignoring them. Don’t think of it. Don’t think of her. With the practice, he’d become quick and deft, his gifts as much about willful forgetting as they were about music. There were some days when Inga’s name didn’t enter his head at all.

  But what else could he do? If he crippled himself with guilt, he’d go slowly, but surely mad. The gods wouldn’t want him doing Their work. Erik’s guts clenched.

  Would They?

  Because tonight he’d come full circle. The symmetry of his two crimes had an awful, dispassionate perfection, like the precision of the intricate locking mechanism on a cruel choke collar. First Inga, now Prue. He rubbed his fingertips over his throat
.

  All those years ago, the pockets of Inga’s winter coat had been lumpy with rocks. Staring, he’d reached out a trembling hand to touch the hard, bulky shapes under the soaked fabric, appalled with the first glimmerings of a terrible knowledge.

  A soul for a soul. His anguish as atonement for Inga’s.

  Tonight, the Voice had been Their instrument as much as his. He’d never come so hard in his life, a rush of intense physical sensation, unbearably amplified by the beauty of Prue’s surrender. It had swept him up, blown away every rational faculty, leaving only instinct. The Voice had roared out of his throat, as much a part of that incredible orgasm as his seed. He hadn’t even realized he’d spoken until it was too late, the damning words ringing loose around the chamber, like a great peal of baritone bells.

  Love me.

  The words had welled up from the deepest part of his subconscious, chosen intuitively and with devastating, pinpoint skill. Shaking, he pressed his cheek into the sweet curve where Prue’s neck met her shoulder. Murmuring something unintelligible, she stroked his back.

  At seventeen, he’d confused lust with love, but not now.

  Love me, Prue. Gods, love me!

  Oh gods, he loved Prue McGuire more than life itself. Everything he was—heart, soul, body and mind—yearned to know she loved him back.

  Yes, the required response had come out of her mouth, but the mess he’d made of his life wasn’t some hearts and flowers tale with a happy ending. He couldn’t afford to believe her—he couldn’t let himself believe and still retain his sanity. Because even if, by some amazing twist of fate, she’d told him true, he’d never know for sure.

  Command what you so deeply desire, the Horned Lord had said, and by its very nature, you can never be sure you have it. Neither trust, nor love.

  Trembling, Erik pressed a kiss to Prue’s forehead. Then to her eyes, one after the other, and lastly, her soft, sweet mouth. When she sighed in response, he thought he might cry, the small sound had such a wealth of weary acceptance in it.

  Ducking his head so he didn’t have to meet her eyes, he withdrew from her body as gently as possible, unable to prevent the shudder of pleasure as he slid out of her warm creaminess. Rolling over, he drew her into his arms, stroking wobbly circles across her shoulder blades with his fingertips. When she snuggled, throwing a leg over his, he caught his breath.

  He’d thought he’d discovered what anguish was. Guilt and bitter regret and shame. He’d been wrong.

  As if she’d read his mind, Prue took a brisk nip of the skin beneath his ear. “It’s all right,” she said. “Relax. I don’t expect you to say it back.” Her voice was tightly controlled, quiet and steady.

  27

  Propping himself up on one elbow, Erik gazed at her face, drinking her in as if he’d never seen her before—the straight, silky brows, that cushiony lower lip coupled with a determined chin. Exactly as the Horned Lord had said, he was finely caught indeed. Fucked to the seven hells and back.

  “Ah, Prue.” He forced a smile. “That’s the most beautiful compliment anyone ever paid me. But it isn’t true, you know. You don’t really love me, not deep down.”

  Prue sat up so rapidly he couldn’t help but watch her gorgeous tits quiver as her spine straightened with a snap. “How the hell would you know what I feel?” Spots of color burned on her cheeks.

  Erik flinched. It was such a secret part of him, the curse of the Voice, a burden he’d carried alone from the beginning. No one need know how he’d fouled the gods’ gift—especially Prue, with her clear-eyed honesty and courage. How would he bear it when her eyes darkened with judgment and she turned away, sickened by his crime? She might not intend to condemn, but she would. Gods, anyone would. No, he’d rather die.

  But he owed her some part of the truth.

  Drawing a fortifying breath, he grabbed her hands in both of his. “Shut up and listen to me. This is important. I commanded you to love me, Prue.”

  She sent him a level, steady look. “Yes, I heard you.”

  He struggled. “No, no. You don’t understand.”

  “Of course, I do. For the Sister’s sake, Erik, I know what you are.” This time, when she tugged her hands free, he allowed it. “I know you’ll go, sooner rather than later.”

  Erik wrapped his big hands around her shoulders and held on tight. “When I was a boy, I nearly died of the lungspasm.”

  Her eyes went wide and soft. “Sister, that’s awful.” She pressed a quick kiss to the inside of his arm. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what—”

  Erik pulled her forward until they were nose to nose. “The Lord and the Lady gave me a gift. Do you understand? A special Voice.”

  Her brow creased. “I love your voice,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Prue.” He forced himself to speak slowly. “The Voice gives me the power to command anyone to do anything.”

  Prue chuckled, though her amusement was threaded with uneasiness. “Don’t be silly. You know that can’t be true.”

  “You didn’t want to try the shawl on, but I commanded you. Remember?”

  She shrugged. “I changed my mind.”

  “I compelled you!”

  Prue made a noise suspiciously like a snort. “No one makes me do anything, Erik.” Her chin lifted. “Especially you.”

  Assailed by a creeping sense of unreality, Erik ran a hand through his damp hair. “I made Florien take a bath,” he said desperately.

  Prue gave a short laugh. “Oh, well done. You frightened him half to death, I imagine. Sweet Sister, he’s a little boy. You could break him over your knee. What did you expect?”

  Her eyes narrowed and she tilted her head. “If you have this amazing power, why aren’t you lord of the universe?”

  “Because I have rules!”

  “Rules?” Her brows rose. “Right.”

  Erik sprang off the bed, breathing hard. “Do you think I’m mad?” he demanded.

  “A little, perhaps,” she said calmly enough, but he had the sense she was picking her words with care. “You’ve been acting the demon king too long, I think.” She sighed. “But the way you sing, I don’t doubt your voice is a gods-given gift. Almost like Magick.”

  “You told me you didn’t believe in Magick until you saw the seelies.”

  “I still don’t.” She shrugged again. “The seelies are real. Flesh and blood and fur.” Her expression became thoughtful. “It’s funny though, Purist Bartelm said Magick believes in me even if I don’t believe in it.”

  Erik stared at her as she sat bolt upright on the bed, framed by sumptuous, bloodred hangings. Her hair was beginning to curl wildly as it dried, a dark cloud around her piquant face.

  “You’re the only person who’s ever resisted, even for a moment. I wasn’t ready for that,” he said slowly, thinking it through. “You don’t believe in much, do you, Prue? Not even the gods?”

  “I believe in hard work. The gods help those who help themselves, my da used to say.” A fleeting expression of pain crossed her face. “When I was little, I loved the idea of the Sister watching over me, so wise and lovely in the sky. I had a Sisterbook, all blue and silver and gilt, a gift on my birth from my grandmother. Mam used to . . .” She traced a pattern on the quilt with one finger.

  “And then?”

  She looked up, her eyes gem-bright with the tears she refused to shed. “I met Chavis. Came to the big city and grew up in a hurry. When I finally went back—” Her breath caught. “They were both . . . gone, my parents. The winter ague was bad that year, and they were old. Sad with missing me.”

  “Sweetheart.” Erik came to stand beside her, tucking a curl behind her ear. He let his hand linger on the softness of her hair.

  “Don’t pity me. I have all I need.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A place in life. People I love, who love me in return. Katrin, Rose.” Her voice shook. “Work to d-do.” Prue sniffed, blinking furiously. Slowly, so slowly, tears welled up, spa
rkling on her lashes.

  It was the small, defiant sniff that broke him.

  “I love you, you know,” he said.

  Prue’s face went stiff. She stared fixedly at the end of the bed. The words hung in the air, flat and dull.

  Reaching out, Erik wrapped his fingers around a bedpost, anchoring himself. “Sorry, I only realized a minute ago.”

  “That’s nice.” Prue grabbed for a pillow and hugged it into her body, concealing her sweet curves, hiding from him. “But I told you. You’re not obliged. I might be a fool, Erik Thorensen, but I’m not that stupid.” Her sweet lips took on an ugly line. “You’ve got what you wanted. You don’t have to say it again.”

  Swinging her legs around, she rose. “There should be clean robes in the cupboard.”

  “Fuck it!” He ran a hand through his hair, took a turn about the room. “All right, all right. The seelies were real enough, weren’t they? Suppose I could prove it’s all true—the power of the Voice, how much I love you?”

  “Erik,” she said, her brow creasing. “This command thing, it’s a delusion. Impossible.”

  “Godsdammit! Get back on the bed!”

  For the space of a single heartbeat, Prue wavered.

  “Do it!” The bed hangings billowed in an unseen breeze.

  Her eyes wide, she scrambled back and knelt in the middle of the bed. Then she pulled in a steadying breath and looked him dead in the eye. “So much for sheer volume. Now what?”

  “Do you trust me, Prue?”

  The silence dragged on and on. Eventually, she said, “Physically I’m sure I’m safe enough, but that’s not really what you mean, is it?”

  “No,” he said heavily. “It’s not.” He took both her hands in his. “Prue, I could command you to do things, feel things, you’ve never dreamed of.” He paused, his heart thundering. “In bed.”

  “Nonsense,” she said sturdily.