Thief of Light

by Denise Rossetti

  When she did so, he grunted. “Leather,” he said. “And what are these wires for? I’ve never seen any—Ow!” He snatched his fingers back and blew on them. “They burned me!”

  “She said they were dampers.” Prue shot him a glance from under her lashes. “For my air Magick.”

  He was frowning down at her shackles. “But you don’t have any Magick.”

  “That’s what I told them,” said Prue, as gently as she could. “But you do. Which is why the wires caused you pain.”

  Erik drew the knife at his waist. It had a long, wicked blade with an edge that glittered in the light. “Yes, I know,” he said absently. “Hold out your hands, sweetheart, and keep very still.”

  Prue obeyed, fixing her eyes on his face. If she looked down, she’d imagine the vivisection, the first slice, the first scream. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She had no right to feel hurt. She’d refused pointblank to believe in the Voice. What would make him think she’d believe this?

  “I only found out the full extent of it—don’t move, I said !—a few hours ago. There.”

  The leather bindings fell away. Prue stripped the wires off and tossed them to the bench, already feeling better on a number of levels.

  When she turned back, Erik was weighing the blade in his hand and staring thoughtfully at the Technomage, lying sprawled at their feet. “How did you get those cuts?”

  “What?”

  He touched her cheek, her neck, with his gentle fingertips. “Here. Someone slashed you.”

  “Oh, that.” Sweet Sister, she had to think for a minute. “That was the laundry men.” When he raised a brow, she added, “The kidnappers.”

  “Hmm,” said Erik, returning his attention to the limp form of the Technomage. “They’ll keep. What was in that tube? Will it kill her?”

  Prue rubbed her wrists, considering. “I don’t think so. She said it caused paralysis.” Every muscle protesting, she knelt next to the woman and peeled back an eyelid. See how you like it, bitch, she thought, enjoying every second without shame.

  “Well, well.” Prue sat back on her heels. “She’s awake in there and she’s terrified.” She let Erik pull her up, back into his arms. “Let’s go.”

  “Yes.” Swiftly, he pressed a kiss to her lips, fierce and hot and full of promise. “I love you, Prue. Don’t you dare forget it.” A pause while he stared intently into her face, as if cataloging her features. “From here on, don’t speak unless I tell you. Complete silence, all right?”

  She barely had time to nod before he slung an arm around her waist and half lifted, half carried her into the passage at a rapid jog trot. The door at the farther end was wedged open with a pile of thick books. It looked ordinary enough, but something in the immediate vicinity reeked like an abattoir. Erik went through first. A few seconds later, he beckoned. Gripping his hand, Prue pinched her nose shut with her fingers and slid through the gap.

  Holding a finger to his lips, he drew her over to a dark curtain and pulled it aside to reveal a set of bookcases. With the utmost caution, he tugged until the shelves moved noiselessly aside. A rich man’s study, it looked like, though all she could see was the merest slice of it.

  Apparently satisfied, Erik drew his blade, widened the space and stepped through, Prue right on his heels. The room smelled pleasantly of furniture polish, ink and flowers, undercut by the stale blood stink from the secret passageway. When Prue pushed the bookcase with a careful finger, it slid into place without a sound. Erik nodded his approval and reached for her hand.

  He pointed to tall, arched windows that framed the garden vista. Early morning sunlight streamed through the glass, illuminating the jewel tones in the carpets and gleaming on the patina of well-cared-for wood. Their bare feet made no noise on the plushy rugs, but glancing over her shoulder, Prue noticed they’d left impressions in the deep pile as if they’d tracked through damp grass.

  On the wide desk were three trays, all containing papers, an ink block carved from what she suspected was the finest grade of marly jade from Trinitaria and a matching brush. Everything was aligned with finicky precision.

  Intrigued, Prue tiptoed closer, but Erik tugged her back to the windows, his eyes bright. When Prue followed his gaze, she sagged with relief. Windows were a vulnerable point in any wealthy household. Naturally, they were locked—but from the inside. How very thoughtful.

  The click of the key turning sounded very loud in the quiet room, almost as if it had an echo.

  Prue turned her head, meeting the flat black gaze of the man who stood in the doorway.

  She gasped. Smoothly, but with astonishing rapidity, the man’s hand rose, holding a sleek metal object with a bulbous nose and a handle that fit snugly in the palm.

  “Down!” roared Erik, and what felt like a mountain hit her in the small of the back, bearing her down behind the desk.

  A sizzling beam of light crackled through the space they’d just vacated.

  Immediately, Erik rolled away. With one hand, he seized the tray of papers nearest the edge of the desk and flung it across the room.

  More crackling shots and the tiny whuff of papers disintegrating. Then a strange smell—a combination of scorched rug and something Prue couldn’t identify, acrid and somehow metallic, as if the air itself was burning. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Erik grab the ink block.

  “Come out,” said the man, his voice soft and even. “The master will wish to see you.”

  “Fuck you,” growled Erik, rising silently to a crouch.

  From under the desk, Prue could see the man’s boots, scuffed at the toes. He’d been dressed in unremarkable livery, a serviceable black. The master? Her spine crawled.

  The boots moved two steps closer and stopped. “This is a lasegun,” said the servant, still in that oddly emotionless voice. “It is set to heavy stun, not to kill. Come out and I won’t hurt you. But there is no escape.”

  “There are two of us and only one of you.” Watching Erik inch toward the far side of the desk, Prue projected her voice to cover any noise. “And we are not so fussy.”

  She had the impression the man was smiling, even though she couldn’t see his face. “I do not fear death,” he said simply. “Why should I fear you?” He came another pace closer.

  Erik rose from behind the desk like an avenging god and hurled the heavy ink block, straight at the man’s head. He followed it up by lunging across the room in a long, flat dive.

  The block missed, striking their enemy’s shoulder, so that his arm flew up and back. The lasegun discharged into the wall, scoring a long black line across what was undoubtedly a priceless tapestry.

  But Erik didn’t miss. He cannoned into the man in a driving tackle, sweeping his legs out from under him. They hit the floor with a jarring crash, Erik’s more than two hundred pounds of fury, muscle and bone on top.

  Her mouth open, Prue saw his arm draw back and his big fist connect with the point of the servant’s chin, every ounce of pent-up rage and terror behind it.

  A sickening crack and the man’s head lolled to the side, his hands falling limp, flopping on the rug like pale, upturned flowers.

  Shakily, Prue rose to lay a hand on Erik’s heaving shoulder. “Is he dead?”

  “Shit!” Erik fumbled under the man’s collar. He let out a whistling breath. “No, but I think I broke his jaw.” Slowly, he got to his feet, rubbing his knuckles. “Let’s get out of here before he comes ’round.”

  “Gods, yes.” Prue darted to the window and pushed it open. As she threw a leg over the low sill, she said, “You don’t want to meet the ‘master.’ ”

  Still shuddering, she stood blinking on a flagged path, her face lifted to the clear pale blue of the sky. How strange. She’d thought she’d never see it again. “What time is it?” she asked, as Erik took her hand and set off, striding out so rapidly she had to trot to keep up. “And where are we?”

  “A couple of hours after dawn, I’d say. And we’re on the Leaf of Nobility. Can you go fas
ter, sweetheart? I have a bad feeling.”

  At any other time, Prue would have enjoyed the beauty of the palazzo’s garden, but now the curved, jinking paths were no more than irritating obstacles. Plunging indiscriminately across lawns and flower beds, they left wholesale destruction in their wake.

  “You didn’t use the Voice,” said Prue.

  “Didn’t think of it until I was almost on top of him.” Erik slanted a bright blue gaze her way. “And then it was too late.” He inspected his bruised knuckles. “Anyway, I enjoyed the hell out of hitting him, the slimy little bastard. Though I may have overdone it.”

  He unlatched the wooden gate at the bottom of the garden and they stepped into an alley, a narrow back track for servants. “Who’s them?” he asked suddenly. “You said you told them you had no Magick. Was he one? The servant?”

  “No.” Prue glanced back over her shoulder. More lights shone in the windows of the palazzo, but every now and then, one of them was obscured by a shadow, as if something impenetrably black had passed before it. It was descending from floor to floor. Soon it would reach the study.

  Prue broke into a jerky trot, envying Erik his long legs. “He said he’s . . . the Necromancer,” she panted. “He’s not a man. Like a dark cloud . . . of evil. Darkness.”

  She slanted a sideways glance at him, her breath rasping in her throat. “I’m not mad.”

  Erik’s answering smile was grim. “After what I’ve just seen?” He huffed out a laugh without a trace of humor in it. “Fuck, after what I’ve done? I made a table dance in the air, right under the ceiling. I sang a demon to sleep. This”—he glanced back over his shoulder—“this is the task the gods gave me. I’d believe in anything now, up to and including death Magick.”

  They passed one palazzo, then another. A stout woman carrying a basket walked by, ostentatiously averting her eyes from Prue’s precariously fastened garment. But although she sniffed and tossed her head, she took a lingering look at Erik’s chest from under her lashes. A man pushing a delivery cart grinned, whistling softly from between his teeth.

  “In here.” Erik unlatched a spotlessly white gate.

  Breathing heavily, Prue stared into the fanatical neatness of the garden beyond. Surely she knew this place? “Where are we going?”

  “I’ve got a skiff moored at the water stairs here.”

  Prue clamped her lips shut on a giggle. If she started she wouldn’t stop. “Do you know whose palazzo this is?”

  “No,” said Erik. “And I don’t bloody care.”

  “The Queen’s Money lives here and I doubt he’ll like—” Over Erik’s shoulder she watched a dark cloud rise to drift over the tall roofs and obscure the sun. It floated and spun, as if it were looking, searching . . .

  “Holy Sister!” She clutched Erik’s arm. “Look! He’s coming! The Necromancer!”

  Erik whirled to follow her gaze. “Fuck!” Without ceremony, he shoved her bodily through the gate. “Get down to the water stairs. Can you pole a skiff?”

  “No, no!” Prue set her feet. “It’s not me he wants, it’s you!”

  Erik stared. “Me?”

  From farther down the alley came a thin scream, abruptly cut off, followed by a soundless vibration, like the silent laughter of a thunder demon. Gods, the stout woman! The bright morning grew dark. At Prue’s elbow, a touchme bush whimpered and died in a burst of brown rot.

  Prue grabbed Erik’s arms and shook, not that he moved so much as an inch. She fairly danced with impatience. “He said I was the bait. For you, Erik. For your air Magick! Oh gods, I can smell him!”

  Erik had gone pale to the lips, but he glared at the shadow racing over the rooftops, its edges spread like the wings of a gigantic corpsebird. “All right. If it’s me he wants, I’ll keep him busy. You run, Prue. You run.”

  The Voice compelled her feet to move. Prue covered her ears with both hands. She dug her bare toes into the grass, concentrating on the cool blades brushing her soles. “Forget it,” she gritted.

  Erik growled, picked her up and hustled her into a thick stand of ticklewhisker bushes.

  “Very sweet,” said an odiously familiar voice. The Necromancer glided toward them across the green velvet of the lawn, leaving a trail of scorched brown grass in his wake. “So . . .” The cowled head tilted to the side, the gesture naggingly familiar. “You are the air wizard. Perfect.”

  Erik folded his arms. An angry wind played with the foliage of the garden, tossing it about. “Perfect for what?”

  “For my private use.”

  The Necromancer hurtled forward, but not toward Erik. Prue squeaked. The dark arms elongated, reaching for her.

  With a roar, Erik flung out a hand and a small tornado erupted in front of the ticklewhisker bushes. Clods of earth, twigs and leaves whirled in a mad dance.

  With a dark chuckle, the Necromancer fell back. It had been a feint. “You know nothing,” he said, contempt thick in the toneless voice. “Less than nothing. You are a child.”

  Erik bared his teeth and the tornado subsided. “The young have strength, energy.” His lip curled, and his voice dropped. “But you’re old, aren’t you? Old and tired.”

  “With age comes experience. Knowledge.” The Necromancer swelled, his substance remaining dense and dark. “I am strong now, well fed.” He executed a mocking travesty of a bow. “My apologies. That is why I was late.”

  Prue stared, horror turning her blood to ice.

  “I only took the merest sip,” murmured the Necromancer, greasy as an illicit fondle, “but you wouldn’t believe how the Technomage screamed. Of course, that was only on the inside. Because, thanks to you, my dears, she couldn’t move a muscle.”

  Gods, she was going to vomit. Here and now. Prue clapped a hand over her mouth.

  The Necromancer sighed. “A remarkably irritating woman, the Primus. It’s a pity she’s so useful. I had to leave, ah, a portion.” He brightened. “But the taste was worth the wait. I promised myself that particular indulgence a long, long time ago, and I simply couldn’t rush it. Sorry.”

  Prue swallowed hard. “And your servant? He said he didn’t fear death.”

  “Nasake?” Another good-humored chuckle. “He does now.” The Necromancer made a repulsive sound, as though he’d licked his lips.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Erik. “You included the Doorkeeper.”

  “A cultivated taste, demons. They’re a trifle, ah, thorny.”

  Erik’s fists clenched. “Well, you’re not having Prue. Over my dead body.”

  “Oh, it won’t be dead,” drawled the Necromancer, and Prue saw Erik’s eyes widen in appalled comprehension. Beads of sweat popped on his brow.

  She thrust the bushes aside and stepped forward. “It’s not a problem,” she said. “Because he can’t touch me without those damper things.” Trying desperately to hold her nerve, she stared deep into the fathomless darkness of the hood. “Can you?”

  The Necromancer waved a dismissive hand. “Only Shaitan knows what you really are. Some mongrel aberration, I imagine. Fortunately, you’re not worth soiling my hands.”

  Without any preamble, he rose and dropped over Erik like a filthy blanket woven of purest evil.

  39

  The pain of the Necromancer’s touch was indescribable. The wrongness of it seared like fiery claws, raking and gouging at the core of what formed the essential Erik, a unique and beloved creation of the gods.

  His guts heaved, his entire body rebelled, and a blast of air Magick burst from him with a sound like a thunderclap. The concussion made his ears ring, but it flung the Necromancer back into a bed of bright summer blooms. They crisped and died.

  Slowly, Erik got to his feet, never taking his eye from the threat. “Prue?”

  “Y-yes?” Her voice came from behind him.

  “Get clear. Quick, love.”

  “All right.” A shuddering breath. The rustle of bushes as she retreated a short distance.

  Erik flexed his shoulders. Magick was ins
tinctive, or so Purist Nori had said. It seemed he did best if he worked from his emotions, the more primitive the better. Well then . . .

  “So much for finesse.” The Necromancer floated a few feet above the ruined garden bed, his outline contracting and expanding as if he breathed. “You’re an amateur, boy.”

  Erik brought the image of Prue as he’d found her to the forefront of his mind. The expression on her face when she first looked up from the floor, the flash of incredulous hope, her wounded soul shining out of her eyes. So cruelly used, so small—so indomitable. Gods, a woman in a million!

  Growling, he let the rage boil over him, submerged himself in it, relished it, bathed in it. The Voice erupted from his chest, louder than thunder. The air cracked from top to bottom with invisible lightning, winds howled, trees moaned and creaked, their branches thrashing. Erik tracked the movement of the manic silvery flows all about him, sustaining the note as they grew darker and darker, until each was edged with the nimbus-purple of storm.

  By the Horned Lord, yes!

  But the Necromancer laughed, folding his arms. Flickers of a familiar acid green sparkled over his shadowy form, and the flows parted around him, leaving him untouched.

  Cursing, Erik flung out a hand. A furious purple cable of air arced across the garden and coiled itself around a stone sundial set in the center of a parterre bed. With a sucking groan, the sundial came free of the soil and shot across the garden with blinding speed.

  The Necromancer skipped aside at the last moment, but the stone edge caught him across one hip before thudding to the ground, half buried in the lawn.

  Crouching behind a cedderwood tree, Prue was almost certain she heard the crunch of bone, their adversary’s sudden intake of breath. The Necromancer’s outline wavered and a garden bench came hurtling from the opposite direction, striking him squarely across the small of the back with a sickening crack. Emitting a strangled scream, he spun head over heels in the air.

  Cautiously, Prue came to her feet. Erik stood, panting, sweat matting the hair on his chest, the talisman gleaming like pale ivory.