by T. A. Pratt
“When I play, I play just as hard as I can,” she agreed.
“Are you playing with me now?” Joshua asked, as if the question was very serious.
“I’m not exactly what you’d call a hedonist, Joshua, but I’m not indifferent to pleasure, and, well…I’ve made love to a few men, and a couple of women, and even an incubus—that’s a story for another time—but they say sex with a lovetalker is an experience unlike any other.”
“According to the old stories, it ruins you for all other love,” Joshua said. “Those seduced by the Ganconer pine away unto death when their lovers leave them. But you don’t strike me as the pining type.”
“Guys who fall for me tend to get their hearts not so much broken as disintegrated into their component molecules. So watch yourself, Joshua.” Was that too presumptuous? Am I giving myself too much credit? He was a lovetalker. He could have anyone. Really, why would she assume she was anything more than a passing fancy for him?
But he only nodded, still serious, and said, “Duly noted. You know the way very wealthy people often worry whether anyone loves them for themselves, or if all who profess adoration for them are merely pretending love to disguise greed?”
“Sure,” Marla said, seeing where this was going, a little uneasy about how to respond.
“Well. You can imagine how it must be for me. I can never tell if anyone likes me for myself. Most people are wholly unaware of my ‘self.’ I am just…a projection to them. A smell, a taste, a touch, a fantasy, something they adore because it is my nature to be adored, and they do not look at me as a human being. But I am a person, Marla, and it can be very lonely to be universally loved. Sometimes, I wonder if it might be possible to rid myself of this power, and live the way other people do.” He paused. “But then I remember how much I enjoy oral sex and caviar on demand, and I resign myself to my lot.”
Marla laughed. “Joshua, I believe you just made a joke.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Sometimes I surprise even myself.”
The limo pulled up in front of her building, and Marla activated the intercom to speak to the driver. “We’ll let ourselves out. No need for you to go into the cold.” She opened her door and stepped onto the sidewalk, and Joshua scooted over to let himself out after her.
The limo drove away, a black shadow swallowed by the cold night, and Joshua looked up at Marla’s building. She saw it with fresh eyes, the way he surely did, as a battered old flophouse that probably warranted demolition. But she loved the place, and she pointed, saying, “See the gargoyles up there, on the corners by the roof? They’re replicas of famous gargoyles, from Notre Dame and Duke University, and other places. There’s only one that’s original, that one there on the left that looks like a lizard with a rooster comb. The gargoyles were the first thing that attracted me to this place. I’ve looked at the old building plans, and there’s no mention of that kind of architectural flourish. Somebody added them after the fact, and I don’t know who—the construction site boss, the first owner, who knows? They’re totally ornamental, not even real waterspouts.”
“Are they…magical?” Joshua said, clearly trying to understand the appeal. “Do they watch the street for you, or come to life, or anything like that?”
“Nah,” Marla said. “They’re just statues. I could make them come to life, but they wouldn’t move too gracefully, and they probably wouldn’t be inclined to hang out on my building anymore. Come on up. My place isn’t much to look at, but it’s private, and warm.” She led him through the dusty lobby to the elevator, slid open the grate, and gestured for him to enter. They rode up to the fifth floor in silence, and when they stepped out into her hallway, Joshua said, “You know, if you weren’t the undisputed ruler of the supernatural side of Felport, I would feel like I was slumming.”
“Yeah, well, I like to keep people guessing. Besides, compared to how I grew up, this is palatial. There’s a magical ward on the place to keep the roaches out, it’s likewise magically climate-controlled, the roof doesn’t leak, and best of all, I’ve got the whole building to myself.” Which wasn’t strictly true. The cantankerous ghost of a pensioner who’d died here in the flophouse days lived on the third floor, but he was only manifest two or three times a month. “I used to have magical wards set up to keep out intruders, but a couple of street kids got hurt when they tried to break in last winter, so now the nasty spells are limited to the doors and windows of my apartment. I don’t care if the occasional homeless guy seeks shelter in the lobby.”
Marla touched certain runes hacked into the frame around her door, blocking her movements from Joshua’s view with her body, not because she distrusted him necessarily, but out of simple secret-keeping habit. The runes flared blue for a moment, then went dark, and she pushed open the door and gestured for Joshua to enter. She showed him where to find the bathroom when he asked, tried briefly to tidy up a bit, then quit, annoyed at herself for even making the effort.
When Joshua rejoined her in the living room, she pointed him toward the futon, currently folded to look more or less like a couch. He sank onto it with that persistent look of cognitive dissonance on his face. Marla could understand it—Hamil was her consiglieri, lower in the city’s hierarchy than herself, and his apartments were modern and comfortable. Marla resisted the urge to spout some justification about the state of her living space, something about the magical potential of relative squalor, but the truth was she just couldn’t be bothered to work on the place. It wasn’t like she spent much time at home, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually entertained a guest.
“Want a drink?” she asked instead, trying to wrest control of the situation back; letting Joshua take charge would be too much like letting water run downhill, so easy and obvious it felt like a law of nature. She crossed to her liquor cabinet—really just an old desk she’d liberated from a street corner. Marla very seldom drank, but she kept a few things on hand for when Hamil or Rondeau came over.
“Brandy?”
“Yeah, I think Hamil finally broke down and brought a bottle to keep here.”
Joshua stretched out his arms along the back of the futon, which suited him like a throne. Marla took a pair of slightly dusty shot glasses from a drawer, wiped them clean, and tipped out a measure of brandy. “No snifters. Around here, you have to improvise.” She handed him a drink.
“I’m good at improvisation. Cheers.” Joshua raised his glass.
Marla clinked hers against his and tossed her drink back, which wasn’t the right way to drink brandy, but whatever. It hit her stomach fast and fiery, and, if only psychologically, helped her relax a bit. She thought about Joshua, how pretty he was, how unknown, how brave he’d been when they fell down the rabbit hole into Genevieve’s world. Before that, he’d been merely tasty. Now, after seeing him deal with a crisis, she was beginning to think of him as a prospect. Marla had not hoped for love since she was a teenager. Romance was for other people. She believed romance was real, but that she was no more likely to succumb to it than she was to develop male pattern baldness or die from spontaneous human combustion. Now, with Joshua, she dared to hope, and even though she knew he had magics to win her heart and mind, she couldn’t help hoping there was something genuine underneath, a core of true connection. Maybe she was fooling herself. But then, he did choose to be with her tonight, when he could have had anyone. So screw it. Even if there was nothing more to this than a romp, didn’t she deserve a romp?
He leaned in toward her, cupping her chin in his hands, and murmured some compliment. They kissed, curling together, the taste of brandy on his mouth, on her lips; underneath, the taste of him, the delicious mouth of a lovetalker. After a while, she pulled away, and looked at him searchingly. His expression was open, inviting, up for anything. “Bedroom,” she said, tugging him up by the hand and leading him toward her room, a slow process as they paused along the way to pull each other’s clothes off. They tumbled onto the bed, their hands reaching everywhere, trying to touch
each other all over at once.
“I want—” Joshua said, and Marla had the presence of mind to slip a finger into his mouth to keep him quiet. He was a lovetalker, after all, impossible to resist, and Marla knew she’d be lost if he started giving her instructions. She wouldn’t be able to disobey, and then she’d be just another of his many conquests, an eager submissive desperate to please him, and whatever mystique she’d covered herself in by being a forceful dominant woman would disintegrate.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said, grinning, and managed to tear herself away long enough to get off the bed and kneel by a cabinet. She slid open a drawer and pawed through until she found what she was looking for, a bundle of black silk scarves. Joshua was spread out on her flannel sheets, eyes half-closed. Gods, he was luscious. She climbed into bed and draped a silk scarf over his belly, making him laugh. Maybe this was too kinky for him—her last relationship had been with an incubus, and that kind of involvement tended to skew one’s sense of propriety.
She held up a scarf. “Feeling playful?”
“Of course.”
“Open your mouth.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and she told him to sit up. She gave him a deep kiss, then pulled away, balled up the scarf, and tucked it into his still-open mouth. She used another scarf, tied around his head, to hold in the gag. “Too tight?” she asked, and he shook his head. She took Joshua’s wrist and bound it swiftly to the headboard with a scarf, not too tightly, then straddled his chest and bound the other wrist. She looked down at him. He was heavenly in the lamplight, his skin golden and unblemished (she thought fleetingly of her own many scars, and wanted him to kiss every one), the black scarves a gorgeous contrast to his flesh. And those eyes, begging her for pleasure, acknowledging her control over that pleasure; oh, yes, this was the essence of good sex. He was just as beautiful and supernaturally charismatic without his voice, but with him silenced, she could keep herself from fulfilling his every whim, and instead fulfill some of her own.
“My beautiful boy,” she murmured, and leaned down to kiss his neck. She reached down, touched him, guided him in, and began to move gently on his body. She was about to whisper something in his ear when she heard the rattle of coat hangers and a soft footstep from the closet.
Why now? She moaned inwardly, not with pleasure but with frustration, then rolled herself off Joshua so she could do whatever proved necessary.
9
Z ealand was first surprised, and then annoyed, when he heard a man’s voice coming from the living room along with Marla’s. He would almost certainly have to kill the man, too, and he hated killing people for free. He kept his eyes on the screen of his surveillance device, wishing he’d thought to bug the living room for audio—he hadn’t expected there to be conversation to overhear. He preferred knowing what to expect, but whatever happened, he’d deal with it—in his line of work, improvisation was often necessary.
Then Marla and the man—the beautiful, beautiful man, whom he’d never seen up close before—rushed naked into the bedroom and tumbled into bed. Zealand grunted. He hadn’t expected this. He’d gotten more of a warrior ascetic vibe from Marla, and Gregor had said that, as far as he knew, she had no lovers at the moment. Watching the lovemaking itself bored him, but this man was so incredibly captivating. Zealand’s own taste in men was broad and wide-ranging, but this was the most beautiful human being he’d ever seen. The slim hips, the artfully mussed hair, the skin…Zealand noticed himself beginning to breathe heavily and forced himself to look away from the screen until his exhalations were under control. He could still see the man in his mind, though, stretching languidly on the bed…and he had to be fucking Marla. Had to be a breeder. What a waste. Still, perhaps Zealand could eliminate Marla and keep the beautiful man alive, take him to Gregor, and exchange his fee for some sort of love spell…it wasn’t a terribly practical idea, but oh, it was appealing.
He looked back at the screen in time to see Marla gagging the man. Zealand could think of much better uses for such a mouth. Then Marla bound the boy to the bed with scarves and straddled him. Zealand wasn’t terribly kinky, himself, though he could see the appeal of power and control, and it didn’t surprise him to discover that Marla liked tying knots and being on top. And now that she was on top…
Ah. There was a possibility here. Zealand’s adjusted plan had been to wait for Marla and the man to fuck themselves into exhaustion, then creep out of the closet and put a knife through Marla’s eye, into her brain. But now the man was tied down—effectively neutralizing him as a threat—and Marla’s back was turned. She was gasping, and the man was moaning around his gag, and they both seemed utterly absorbed. What better time to strike than now?
Zealand set his surveillance screen aside and eased open the closet door, slowly, slowly, so as not to create any breeze against Marla’s bare back. He took a garrote from his pocket—the easiest strike from here would be to loop the wire around Marla’s throat from behind and jerk her backward off the man.
Then Marla leaned forward, laying her body on top of her lover, and Zealand stifled a sigh. He placed the garrote on the floor and unsheathed a hunting knife. He would creep a few steps closer, then leap onto the bed, landing his weight on Marla’s back and driving the blade through her back and into her heart, if his aim was good. And even if it wasn’t, well, he could just pull the knife out and plunge it in again. Marla was strong, but Zealand weighed about 240 pounds, and she wasn’t that strong. She’d have a hard time using magic on him with a knife ripping into her back, too.
He took a step—and then the vertigo that had assailed him on the street before hit him again, making him stumble. His shoulder touched a coat hanger, which clattered into another hanger, and for a moment the whole room flickered, replaced by a vast plain of yellowed ivory, dotted by a pool of green that might have been an algae-covered lake in the middle distance and mountains far beyond. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, opened them, and was relieved to see the room had returned to normal. His balance seemed mostly restored, too, the vertigo more a breaker than a tidal wave this time.
He was rather less relieved to see Marla roll off her lover and fall to the floor in a crouch. She spun to face him, then reached under the dresser and came out with a knife of her own—well, of course, she was the type to have weapons secreted around her room, wasn’t she? Zealand cursed. This wasn’t an assassination anymore. This was combat, and he was much less comfortable with that, though he could manage in a pinch. Marla’s lover was bleating through his gag and jerking around on the bed, trying to get out of his bonds, but for now, he was still irrelevant to the situation. Zealand hesitated for a moment over the choice of weapons—he had a pistol holstered under his arm and a stun gun hanging from his belt—and by then Marla had launched herself at him. He rolled out of the way, pulling the stun gun loose, and when she came at him again he brought the flat black device up, hitting her firmly in the breastbone, and pulled the trigger. Light pulsed from the weapon. There was a chance a stun gun to the heart could kill her, but she just cried out and fell to the ground, twitching and writhing. Only when she fell away did Zealand notice the bloody knife on the floor and register the pain in his arm—her knife-strike had hit his shoulder, the blade sliding across and gashing him. She’d been aiming for his neck, probably.
The beautiful man on the bed moaned.
Zealand took a moment to look at his body. “We’ll talk later. And maybe do more than talk. But first…” He glanced down at Marla, who was staring up at him, her body twisted at the foot of the bed. He reached for the pistol under his arm.
Fucking stun gun. Marla had been hit with one before, and it had taken her a couple of minutes to get her power of movement back then. She didn’t have a couple of minutes here. The knots holding Joshua weren’t all that tight, but even if he did free himself, he was a lover, not a fighter. And since he was gagged, he couldn’t even sweet-talk this man into laying down his arms.
The attacker was a str
anger to Marla—he was tall and broad, dressed casually, dark hair, face lined and middle-aged. He was clearly skilled, a pro, so—shit. “Zealand,” she slurred.
He looked at her, surprised, his pistol half drawn from its holster. She was gratified to see blood running down his arm. Made her wish she’d poisoned her knife, though having poisoned knives hidden around the place was a bad idea for obvious reasons. Then he nodded. “Ms. Mason. Nice to meet you. Sorry about all this. Just business.”
He was the renegade slow assassin, then, here in town for a job—and she was apparently the job. Who’d hired him? She didn’t bother asking. He wouldn’t answer willingly, and she didn’t have the leverage to force him.
It occurred to Marla that she was about to die with an assassin’s bullet in her head, and she wouldn’t even know who to blame.
She couldn’t work magic—she was too paralyzed for gestural spells, and purely vocal spells were beyond her ability at the moment, too. Incantatory magic tended to be complex, and she couldn’t manage much more than muttering curse words—
Or maybe even Curse words. Rondeau was teaching her to swear the way he did, misshapen syllables of creation that rippled reality. You could never be sure what the effects would be, but she was about to be killed, and it wasn’t likely to be worse than that.
So she Cursed, a string of guttural syllables that felt as if they tore her throat coming out.
The ornate mirror on the wall jumped, glass breaking as it moved, and slammed into Zealand’s back. He spun, looking behind him, and she Cursed again. The lamp on her bedside table exploded with a noise like a gunshot, and the iron bed-frame groaned as if it were bending, bringing a sound of alarm from the still-bound Joshua. Zealand looked around wildly, and Marla Cursed again. The room jolted as if in an earthquake, her night table fell over, and car alarms began going off in the street. Marla still couldn’t move, and by now Zealand had realized she was doing this, somehow. He pointed his gun at her.