Thief of Light

by Denise Rossetti

  It took him three attempts to get her name out. “Cenda?”

  Her head jerked up, joy turning her eyes to gold. “You’re awake! Oh, my dear.” Shyly, she bent to brush his cheek with warm lips.

  When he tried to speak again, she hushed him, supporting his head so he could sip water from the cup she held for him.

  Reading the questions in his eyes, she smiled, and suddenly, she was breathtakingly beautiful. “Yes,” she said. “Gray is here too.” The smile became wry. “We came with Deiter.”

  She whisked herself to the door. “Prue’s exhausted. She’s taking a nap. I’ll go wake her.”

  “D-don’t.” Gods, was that his voice, so rusty and unused?

  Cenda’s eyes danced. “She’s a terror, your Prue.” The fire witch gave a theatrical shudder. “Five-it, she made me promise—the minute you opened your eyes.” A final twinkle, and he heard her light footsteps running up a flight of stairs.

  No more than three minutes later, Prue hurtled through the door like a small tornado, her hair flying in a great tangle of glossy brown. She wore only a night shift, her arms and legs bare. “Erik!” She skidded to a stop beside the bed, stretched out a hand and let it drop. “You . . . you’re . . .”

  “Come here,” he managed, no more than a husky rasp. “Let me . . . hold you.”

  Prue stared, and all the breath left her in a shuddering sigh. Her face crumpling, she fell to her knees and laid her head next to his on the pillow. Sobs tore out of her, shaking her whole body, dampening his shoulder.

  Erik could do little except stroke her arm with the tips of his fingers and make soothing noises, but something warm and comforting settled inside him, the caress of it like sweet balm soaking into a bruise. Vaguely astonished, he puzzled over it, considering the sensation from every angle. All he could compare it with were the golden memories of childhood—cuddled up with Ma in the big bed while she told stories so outlandish he and his brothers forgot to wriggle and fight, their mouths falling open in wonder. Rolling over and over down a hill covered with warm summer grass, arriving at the bottom in a tangle of sweaty arms and legs, smelling the sweet crush of green and hearing Carl explode with laughter. A dim memory of toddler-hood, his father carrying him home after dark, big arms holding him safe.

  Good times. When everything was right, completely as it should be, as it was meant to be.

  But not in his adult life. Not until now.

  Very slowly because of the pain, Erik lifted his hand to rest on Prue’s bowed head. “Sshh,” he murmured.

  One side of his chest still hurt like a bitch. More aches and pains shrieked at him from every limb. He was thirsty again, and now that he came to think of it, hungry.

  But none of it mattered. Because this was what peace really was, sweet and easy as a perfumed bath. No fanfare, no fireworks.

  It wouldn’t last.

  The black tendril of apprehension was thin, but persistent, wriggling its way into his consciousness, a suckworm invading his paradise. Enjoy this while you can, it hissed. Because if you want her in your future, she’s going to have to know about Inga. And what you did.

  Every muscle in Erik’s body tensed. All his various hurts combined in a ghastly chorus, sung fortissimo.

  The Lady’s voice, echoing in his head like the music of a star. All that is left is to beg Prue’s forgiveness. Only then will you heal. Fuck, he didn’t have the guts. He’d been better off dead, at least the gods had forgiven him.

  But then Prue raised a tear-stained face and sniffed. “Erik?” She stroked his jaw. “Love?”

  No, the peace of death paled in comparison, not when he could have this. Even if it only lasted ’til she walked out the door, this joy was worth any struggle, any pain. Good, ah, gods, it was good. Blinking drowsily, he tried to smile.

  Prue brushed her lips over his stubbled cheek. Drawing back with a shaky smile, she said, “I should leave you to sleep. Purist Bartelm’s been very worried.”

  “Mm. Me too.”

  “You should have been better almost immediately. If it had been an ordinary man who stabbed you . . .” Her brows snapped together. “But it wasn’t, it was him.” Her lips trembled. “Just as well you’re so strong.”

  “How long have—?”

  “Two days and more. It’s not far off midnight. Here, take these.” She dosed him with four pellets of concentrated healall, washed down with more water.

  After swallowing obediently, he asked, “Where—?”

  “You’re at The Garden, in the Main Pavilion.” She gestured at the room. “This is—or was—the Spring Green Parlor on the ground floor.” Her straight, dark brows drew together, and for the first time, he noticed the shadows under her eyes, the pallor of her skin. She went on, “I had them bring a bed in here rather than try to get you up the stairs.”

  It was a big bed, he noted with approval, plenty of room for two. “You,” he said, wrapping his fingers around her wrist, “sleep here.” He didn’t intend to waste a moment of this precious, fragile peace.

  Prue shook her head. “I’ll jostle you.”

  “No,” insisted Erik, tightening his grip. “Not without you.”

  He frowned, thinking. The words had a familiar ring, important somehow.

  “Please?” he said.

  Prue capitulated, as he’d known she would, settling carefully at his side, linking their fingers together.

  After a few minutes, her breath deepened. She murmured something unintelligible into his neck and fell asleep. Erik lay a little longer, watching the double shadows move on the ceiling, listening to the lap of the dark water in the canal. The pain receded a little. Good stuff that healall.

  Eventually, he too dozed off, his brow furrowed.

  A day later—or was it two?—he was lying propped up on a pile of pillows, one hand drumming a tattoo on the sheet, frowning. Prue had brought him lunch, then pecked his cheek and departed at a brisk trot, admonishing him to sleep. But hell, he couldn’t. The livelihood of an entire company of players depended on him.

  The Voice was gone, as if it had never been, an aching absence like a phantom toothache. Deep in his bones, he knew it, though he’d only had the strength to hum a few bars. With a grunt, he squared his shoulders. Not so long ago, he would have been crushed, his life over, but now, although the loss grieved him, he couldn’t regret it. Vaguely, he wondered if it would hurt more as his wound healed.

  Very likely, but he’d deal with it then. He still had perfect pitch, though he wasn’t at all certain it wouldn’t drive him to distraction without the Voice to go with it.

  But nonetheless, he hadn’t realized what an intolerable burden he’d carried until it was taken from him. More a curse than a blessing. He felt . . . lighter . . . cleaner.

  With his usual calm, Gray had stepped into a hastily rearranged program and houses had been reasonable, but they couldn’t bank on the curiosity factor forever. In any case, Gray’s husky tenor was a crowd-pleaser, but not enough to carry an entire production. A grin curved Erik’s lips. It had been beyond good to see the other man. Someone whose self-contained good sense and loyalty he could count on. The spurt of humor fled.

  Godsdammit, Magick was a chancy thing—fuck, he should know—and now it seemed Gray was mired in it hip-deep as well. A man with a sentient shadow? Erik shook his head in disbelief, stopping with a curse when his wound pulled.

  He’d had a little time to become accustomed to Cenda before the Unearthly Opera left Concordia, and he’d approved. Not only was she a sweetheart, she was good for his friend. So what if rills of flame sparked from her palms and fiery salamanders danced in her hair? Gray and his fire witch were mated in such a way that having seen them together, he couldn’t imagine them apart.

  But a few hours ago, Gray had strolled into the Spring Green Parlor, followed by a dark replica of himself, and introduced his shadow to Erik, his eyes glinting silver with amusement. Damn him. Erik’s skin had pebbled, all the fine hairs rising on the back of his ne
ck.

  “Uh,” he’d said stupidly, “pleased to meet you.”

  Shad—gods, it even had a name!—had nodded pleasantly enough, and Erik had been embarrassingly relieved the shadow hadn’t offered its hand.

  By the Horned Lord, he hoped to hell Gray knew what he was doing. But when he’d asked why they’d come, his friend would not be drawn, merely raising those slanted brows and saying it had been Deiter’s idea. Erik rubbed his nose, brooding. The old reprobate never did anything without a reason—unless there was alcohol involved. And gods, the man was a Purist. The irony of it was incredible. Grimly amused, Erik snorted.

  The latch clicked and a figure in a shabby robe slipped through the door. Well, well, speak of a demon and he appears.

  “Purist Deiter,” said Erik. “I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you.”

  “Shut up,” said the old wizard. Cautiously, he cracked the door and peered out. “You’re supposed to be asleep.” He closed the door. “All clear. Gods, bossy women make me want to spit.” Framed by a neat gray beard tied off in three plaits, his mouth contorted as if he were about to do just that.

  Erik raised a cool brow. “You’re talking about my Prue?”

  “Her and that daughter of hers and that Rose woman. Not to mention Bartelm. Bah!” The drinker’s paunch wobbled beneath the robe.

  Erik fought the desire to smile. “Your eyes must be going if you think Bartelm’s a female.”

  “Bartelm’s as much an old woman as Nori.”

  “He saved my life. And Nori showed me how to use my—” Erik broke off. It still felt so strange to say it out loud. “Magick.”

  “Hmpf.” Sinking into a chair by the bed, Deiter scowled. “Yes, well. You don’t get to the rank of Purist by being a complete fool.” He settled back. “About the Magick—”

  “Get me out of here and we’ll talk.” Erik threw back the sheet and swung his legs to the floor, letting the breath whistle out from between his teeth. That wasn’t too bad.

  Deiter’s brows rose. “Don’t you think you’d better dress? You’re a lot of interesting colors, man, but you’re still, ah, interesting.” His rheumy gaze roamed the length of Erik’s torso in nostalgic appreciation. “Shit, getting old makes the Dark Arts look tempting.”

  “There’s a robe behind the door. Tansy brought it for me.”

  “She the tasty little morsel with the big eyes and sweet tits?” Deiter tossed the garment over.

  Erik grunted an affirmative, concentrating on working his bad arm into a wide sleeve.

  The old wizard grinned, watching him struggle. “I think she fancies me, that one.”

  Fuck, it still hurt to twist his upper body. “Sure, same way she fancies her granda.” With a vicious jerk, he sashed the robe around his waist.

  “I’m an old man,” said Deiter mildly. “You just said so yourself.” He rose to hold the door open. “I’ll yell for help if you fall. Where are you going, by the way?”

  Erik gripped the dresser, testing his legs. He didn’t need nursing, he was feeling stronger by the minute. Casting the patiently waiting wizard a dark glance, he said, “Where I belong. To Prue.” She’d be pissed with him, but too bad.

  The Main Pavilion drowsed in the afternoon sun, silent and apparently deserted. Erik negotiated the stairs, one determined step at a time, Deiter babbling all sorts of nonsense in his ear—fire Magick, his less than flattering opinion of the gods, pentacles, life and death on a cosmic scale, the future of civilization as he knew it. Erik let it all float past, and with a huff of exasperation, the old man fell silent.

  “Fookin’ ’ell,” whispered a voice from below.

  A second’s pause, the pattering rush of feet and a small, wiry body cannoned into him, skinny arms wrapping around his waist as far as they’d go.

  “Ow! Shit!” Pain lanced into Erik’s side and spread in a gleeful red-hot tide. Careful,” he grunted. “That hurts.”

  To his surprise, hard little hands patted his chest, dark eyes studied his face from under impossibly long lashes. “They sed ye was better,” said Florien accusingly.

  “I am.” Lord’s balls, the boy cared.

  The child snorted. “Ye look like shit.”

  Unexpectedly touched, Erik grinned and ruffled the dark hair. When the lad glared, smoothing it flat, he felt strangely reassured. His brother Lars had been like that, all swagger and bluff and cheek. His vision blurred for an instant.

  Deiter chuckled. “Out of the mouths of babes . . .”

  Florien shot the old man a killing glare. “Ain’t no fookin’ bebbe.”

  The shifting, transitory world of the theater had been his family for so long, but these feelings were different—warmer, closer, more demanding and exacting. Prue and Florien, even Katrin and Rose. Shit, he was collecting people!

  Unperturbed, Deiter stroked his beard. “Lad has promise.”

  “Don’ move, yah? I’ll git ’elp.”

  “There’s no need, don’t—” But the boy had already darted away toward the kitchen.

  Erik growled under his breath. Slowly, he climbed another couple of steps. Gods, he used to take them two at a time. But that was in another life.

  He heard Florien’s chatter approaching, a feminine voice responding. A moment of shocked silence and Katrin arrived beside him in a flurry of skirts. Wedging a strong young shoulder under his arm, she muttered, “For the Sister’s sake, Erik, what are you doing? Mam will kill you.”

  Erik grinned. “You think?” He liked it when Prue fussed.

  “I know,” said Prue’s daughter, with a rueful twinkle. “Me too probably. All right, lean on me. Where are we going?”

  Erik held her blue gray gaze. “Where do you think?” There was a smudge of flour on her cheek. She’d been baking.

  “Oh.” The faintest tinge of pink crept into her cheeks. “Florien,” she said, “see if you can find Mam.”

  “Yah.” The boy trotted purposefully away.

  Stiffly, Erik disengaged himself from Katrin. “I’m fine.”

  “But—”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  Katrin’s spine straightened with an almost perceptible snap. “Right,” she said coolly. “I’ll go ahead. I’ve got a key.”

  Erik smiled wryly. Well, hell, he hadn’t thought of that, had he? A real fool he would have looked, beating his head on the wrong side of Prue’s door. Deiter ambled along beside him, mercifully silent as they negotiated the last few steps, the passage and the entry to her suite.

  Her expression studiously blank, Katrin appeared in the doorway of Prue’s bedchamber. “I’ve turned the bed down,” she said.

  “And very nice too,” said Deiter approvingly, peering around her. He prowled into the sitting room and gazed out the window. “Lovely view of the—Lord’s balls, the boy’s found her.” Backing toward the door, he favored Erik with a thin smile. “I’ll be off then.”

  He disappeared.

  “Erik?”

  “Yes.” He sank onto the couch with a grateful sigh.

  Katrin clasped her hands over the front of her apron. “Thank you.”

  He opened an eye. “What for?”

  Shyly, she reached out to touch his shoulder. “You saved her.”

  Erik opened both eyes. “If it wasn’t for me,” he said grimly, “your mother wouldn’t have needed saving in the first place. Anyway, she saved me too.”

  Katrin’s eyes misted. “Did she?” She drew up a chair. “I’m not surprised. How?”

  Erik hesitated. “She was . . . there, that’s all. When I needed her.” She’d refused to let him go, holding his fading soul captive with the power of sheer, bloody-minded love. The irresistible force and the immovable object.

  “Oh.” Katrin wiped away a tear. “Do you love her?” she said abruptly.

  “You’ve asked me that before.”

  Her jaw firmed. “I’m asking it again. There were a few hours . . . Bartelm thought we might lose you after all.” She fiddled with the edge
of her apron. “I saw her face.”

  Erik leaned forward to lay his hand over hers. “Yes,” he said simply. “I love her and I always will.”

  All the breath left Katrin in a gusty sigh. Her soft blue eyes went wide and starry. “Thank the Sister.”

  Something clenched in his chest, and it had nothing to do with his wound. “Don’t be grateful too soon,” he said.

  “I know.” Another tear trickled over her cheek. “You’ll take her away with you.” She sprang to her feet and took a couple of restless steps, skirts rustling. “But if she’s happy . . .” Katrin swallowed hard. “That’s all that matters.”

  Erik opened his mouth and closed it again. Reassurance would be a lie when he had no idea of what lay ahead. The little boy in him hoped desperately for forgiveness, absolution, but the man was certain it was too much to ask. Far too much.

  The door opened.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Erik Thorensen?” Prue skewered him with a blue green glare.

  Erik lifted his chin, fighting not to lapse into a besotted smile. “I came for my clothes,” he said coolly. His eye fell on the hands Prue had placed on her hips and everything within him went hunter-still. Silver and aquamarine circled each wrist.

  He raised his gaze to Prue’s. “On second thoughts . . .” he growled. The air thickened, he could see the sparkle of it. Experimentally, he sent a flow swirling toward her to flirt with her hair, brush her cheek.

  Katrin gave a funny little gasp. “I’ll be off then,” she said, making for the door, pausing only to drop a kiss on her mother’s cheek. “Be happy,” he heard her murmur. The door closed softly, the lock clicking home.

  Prue cleared her throat. “You should be in bed.”

  Erik bared his teeth. “Not without you.” Pleased to the marrow of his bones with his new skill, he wafted his little breeze over her shoulder and down over her breast, darkly delighted when her nipples beaded up. He nodded at the silver cuffs. “You’re wearing them.”

  “Yes, I—” Prue broke off, wetting her lips.

  “Come here, sweetheart.”

  “You’re in no condition—”