by Zoë Archer
Not everything. As if sensing his pull toward darkness, Zora’s hand came up to rest on his arm. The barest touch, yet it anchored him.
The geminus was within. This was a certainty. It stood between Whit and eternal damnation. He wanted to kick down the door and slam through the gaming hell until he came face-to-face with his dark double. Run the creature through. Whit envisioned the blood of the geminus on the blade of his saber. A vicious pleasure he craved.
“It can’t be killed.” Again, Zora knew his thoughts as they formed within his mind. “Not until we’ve gotten back your soul.”
He turned away, frustrated not with her but the truth of her words. He needed to think. This was not the place to do it. Not with the geminus—and temptation—so close.
“Whatever we plan,” he said lowly, “it must wait. Soon, the hell will be closing up for the day. Come.” He held out a hand, and it gratified him how readily she took it. “Nothing’s safe here.”
The glen was a sheltered spot, tucked between hills that lay a short distance from the city. Finding it had not been easy. Manchester grew like a beast, eating up the countryside as cotton fed manufacturing. In the years since Whit had last been in this city, it had changed, turning colder and colder with the onslaught of industry. Which made locating a piece of isolation all the more difficult.
He knew Manchester only a little, and the countryside around it not at all. But Zora possessed abilities he could not, and though she had never been to this part of England, she guided them both to this dale with confident ease.
Trees sheltered the small valley, their branches forming a canopy. Most of the trees’ limbs were bare, though a few hardy leaves still clung in resilient little groups that checked the cool wind. A breath of warmth lingered here, like the last inhalation before stepping out of doors and into a storm.
Consulting his pocket watch, he noted that the sun was still nearly an hour from rising. Soft violet light filled the glen. Zora made a slim, elegant shape as she glided through the tall grasses, seeing to the horses. Neither she nor Whit had spoken since they had left the gaming hell.
He felt the lure of gambling, felt the geminus within him, wanting to feed on the weaknesses of others. Yet he had to fight it.
She had taught him that, how to fight. He watched her move, her straight shoulders, her uptilted chin, as if she was ready to take on any opponent.
Now was no different. “We can’t attack the geminus head-on.” She moved to stand beside him.
“Gamblers always have a strategy. If you bet too aggressively, no one will play, and you’ve gained nothing.”
“So you think ahead.”
“Not so far that you cannot concentrate on the game being played at that moment.”
Her gentle, bold fingers traced along the line of his jaw. “There’s something we Rom call the hokano baro, the great trick. A confidence trick. It’s spoken of with pride, and whoever carries it out successfully is the object of much admiration.”
He tried to concentrate on her words, but her touch kept leading his thoughts—and body—astray. His hand came up to capture hers, and she smiled, a small, cunning smile, as if she knew precisely how she affected him.
“The hokano baro has three parts,” she continued. “Simple parts, truly, but it’s the simplest things that prove most challenging. Only the wisest and cleverest can perform them properly.”
“Including you.”
“A time or two. I don’t like to boast.”
“Tell me these three parts, my modest Gypsy.” He risked temptation by pressing a kiss to her fingertips, and was either rewarded or punished by a catch in her breath.
“First, find a way into the home of your gull.” She did sound a little winded, as affected by his touch as he was by hers.
“Break in.”
She shook her head. “Too messy, too dangerous. The hokano baro is about confidence and cunning, not brute force. There are other ways into someone’s house.”
“Ruses.”
“Ah, the gorgio is clever. Perhaps you’ve some Romani blood.” With her free hand, she stroked down the lapel of his coat as if unable to stop herself from touching him. “Usually, all it takes to get into your quarry’s home is to offer to dukker for them, but there are other ways, as well. Once inside, we come to the second part of the hokano baro. Remove the goods.”
“Which brings us to the third part.”
“Make sure the gull can’t do anything about what you’ve just done.”
He captured her other hand, too, yet he knew that while his physical strength was greater she had her own power. “I think you might be the most dangerous woman in England, Zora Grey.”
“Do you think so?” She tilted her head to the side, considering.
“The idea pleases you.”
“Only because you’re a dangerous man. It’s only fair.”
He needed this. This play and banter. Reminding him that there still existed a part of himself beyond the darkness, and Zora brought it to the fore with her soul of fire.
“Wafodu guero is sharp,” she continued. “We’ll be sharper.”
He took her hands and brought them up to link behind his neck. “What I have in mind requires a little more magic than either of us have.”
“We need Livia.” She raised a brow. “Or maybe it’s the summoning of her that you’re after.”
“Gamblers always have ulterior motives.” He ducked his head to kiss her. As their lips met, she raised up, pressing herself against him. He gave himself to this, to the feel of her slim, lush body, warm and alive. To the flavor of her, spicy and as sweet as cinnamon. To the heat and energy they created. To the hunger that grew with every taste and every touch. She responded to him like no other, stealing his breath, hardening his body.
Breaking the kiss was a torment, yet he saw a spectral glow in the corner of his vision. He exhaled.
“I almost wish our ghost had a less reliable means of summoning,” he muttered. For of a certain he could not stop himself from touching Zora. Passion between them was inevitable.
Livia raised her chin. “It is not by my design. I have little desire to watch what I cannot possess.” Haughty, her words, yet underscored by loneliness and yearning.
“We’ve need of you.” Zora stepped back, her hands sliding away. He wanted to pull her against him.
“Observe me,” said the ghost. She gestured to her elegant tunic and the golden circlet in her hair. “A high priestess and daughter of Rome. Not a lackey to fetch and carry as determined by your whims.”
“Reclaiming my soul is no whim.” His own anger came quickly. “This is to fight a dark power that you first summoned.”
Livia’s eyes narrowed; she was all readiness now. “My power gains slowly, but I shall endeavor to do whatever is required.”
In measured and deliberate words, he outlined his ideas. Zora quickly understood his objective, and provided her own additions to the scheme. Indeed, she knew the mechanics of the ploy far better than he, though they needed tailoring for the circumstances. Between them both, they strategized a plan. It was perilous, and it was all they had.
“You are both as mad as I,” the ghost said after they concluded, a note of admiration in her voice.
“Can you do it?” Zora pressed.
“The working of such a spell will drain me. If you do manage to face the geminus, I shall be unable to assist you.”
“I will see to the geminus.” The creature was Whit’s to destroy. He glanced toward the eastern horizon, where the sun lightened the sky from black to indigo. “The gaming hell opens its doors again at nightfall. We will need you then.”
“How shall you make use of the intervening hours?” asked Livia.
He reached out and threaded his fingers with Zora’s. A blush stained her cheeks, but he saw in the brightness of her eyes that hers was the blush of arousal, not embarrassment.
The priestess smiled, wry and sad. “I shall stand guard.”
“T
hank you.” There was no irony in Whit’s gratitude. Safety, he had come to learn, was scarce. If not unattainable. He would seize whatever fragments of it he could.
With a regal nod, Livia flickered, then disappeared. Likely her disappearance was only an illusion. Yet he would gladly suspend his disbelief if it meant having these last moments with Zora, more precious than anything he had ever won.
Pulling Zora closer, Whit felt a tension in her arm. Yet it was a drawing out of the moment, not reluctance, that made her slightly resist. Proving that neither of them led the dance, but moved in the steps together. Slowly, steadily, he brought her nearer. When only a few inches separated them, he released her hand. She held his gaze as his fingers moved over her face, down her throat, around the delicate architecture of her ears.
“I envy these,” he said, circling an earring. He leaned close and touched the tip of his tongue to the soft flesh of her earlobe, tasting her flesh and gold. “They touch you every moment of every day.”
She stroked up his chest, where his heart thundered. “If there was a way for you and I to have the same ...”
“I’ll give you everything I can.” His hand covered the back of her neck and he urged her mouth to meet his.
They kissed, liquid and deep. The control for which he ruthlessly fought broke apart into hot, jagged pieces. He held her close, one arm around her waist, the other still cradling her head. She pressed into him, wordlessly asking for more.
He cupped the curve of her buttocks and brought their hips together. A groan ripped from him as she moved against the thick, hard length of his cock. She was perfect, exactly what he wanted, what he needed. She felt the desire between them and reveled in it. Womanly, unafraid, hungry—she was this, and more as she cradled him, her hips writhing in an echo of what they both desperately craved.
If he could touch her everywhere, he would. But he was only a man, bound by the limitations of his body, so he had to relinquish one part of her to touch another. His hand slid from her neck down her throat, over her collarbones, lower. He undid the lacing of her bodice, loosening it. Then he allowed himself a reward for his patience, filling his hand with the faultless weight of her breast.
Through the fabric of her blouse, he stroked and rubbed, teasing the hardened point of her nipple. Her sounds of ecstasy shot straight to his groin as his other hand performed the same service for her other breast.
Yet she was neither idle nor passive. Her hands moved over him boldly, taking in his muscles and the structure of his body. A body that seemed to give her pleasure, and so he was grateful for it. She stroked his shoulders, his chest. She undid the buttons of his waistcoat and pressed her hands to the hard planes of his pectorals. His breath came staccato as she tugged his shirt from the waistband of his breeches, then stroked his bare skin.
She knew him. As he knew her. Not simply what gave each other pleasure, but the why of it. It sheltered them now, protected them. I give myself to you. My body. My heart.
When her hand glided down to stroke him through his breeches, he made a low, feral sound. Her confident touch brought him close to madness. His wits disappeared entirely when she opened the fall of his breeches and wrapped her hand around his cock. God, the feel of her fingers on him ... She stroked him as if he, and his cock, belonged to her.
She made a sound of protest when he took his hands from her breasts, but her protests fell away as he gathered up her skirts. He found her wet, tropically hot. She was soaked silk beneath his fingers as he caressed her, and knowing how to touch her made everything all the sweeter. Here she wanted a firm stroke. Here she wanted just the tip of his finger. He knew the sound she would make when he sank two fingers into her heat, and when he did, and when she did, deep satisfaction rolled through him.
A cry broke from her. She tightened around his fingers, her body taut and beautiful in its release.
He moved to bring her over again, but she nudged his hand away.
“I want something, too,” she gasped.
He was tense and dazed, sharp edged, yet he allowed her to lead him. She guided him to a stout tree and wordlessly directed him to lean back against it. For a moment, he felt a little ridiculous leaning against a tree with his hard, upright cock jutting out. Then she knelt in front of him, and he didn’t feel ridiculous at all.
For a moment, she stared up at him, and he down at her. Neither of them believed that her kneeling gave her any less power.
She wrapped one hand around the base of his shaft. Lowered her head. Took him into her mouth.
Was it possible to die from pleasure? He’d known nothing like this, like her. She swirled her tongue around the head, then dipped lower, taking him more fully. His fingers dug into the rough bark of the tree trunk, yet his hips would not remain still. As she licked and sucked, he pushed forward. She did not retreat, but lapped at him eagerly.
Dawn lightened the sky, and he stared up at the branches limned in gold, both transported out of his body and deeply, richly immersed in sensation. This was everything ... and if it went on much longer, he could not put off his release.
He lifted her off and up him. They kissed with aching tenderness.
He lowered them both to the ground. As she stretched out on her back, he leaned over her and gathered up her skirts. Briefly, very briefly, he indulged himself in looking at her: mouth red, bodice undone and dark nipples visible through the light fabric of her blouse, skirts at her waist, legs spread to reveal her slick, ready quim. She was both vulnerable and impossibly powerful. Her hips tilted up in invitation.
He settled between her thighs. She wrapped her legs around them. They were like that for a few moments, breath and heartbeats aligned, their gazes held.
He sank into her. They both gasped as he penetrated her deeply.
“Yes.” Pleasure and emotion suffused him. “Here.”
He drew back and thrust forward again. She bent up, moaning.
“Whit. Acoi.”
All around him, she was drenching heat, tight and flawless. He gave her slow, measured strokes, letting them feel one another. Though his body shouted for speed, for climax, he would not give in. The sun would rise, and when it sank down again, both he and Zora would face the possibility of death—or worse. The need in him was primal, to give her this pleasure now, to brand himself upon her from this moment and all the moments after, through eternity.
“I’m yours.” His voice had never been deeper. He plunged into her again and again. “Understand that, Zora. Yours.”
“Miro,” she gasped. “Mine.”
All he wanted was to belong to her, and he did. “Yes.”
She was flame beneath him, making wordless sounds of pleasure.
His tempo increased, the speed of his thrusts. Her moans urged him on. The glen filled with the sounds of flesh to flesh, a communion of bodies, of more than bodies, but hearts and souls.
She gripped the earth and bowed up, moaning her release. His own followed heartbeats after, beginning low in his back and pouring through him in long, brilliant pulses until he reached the very edge of oblivion, impelled onward by pleasure beyond reckoning.
When the very last of his orgasm faded into hot, red echoes, he withdrew. He carefully rearranged their clothing, enough to preserve a trace of modesty, then lay down beside her. She went willingly into his arms, curling against him with an ease that took his breath. Her murmurs were drowsy, barely intelligible, and she quickly drifted off to sleep.
Sated exhaustion pulled at him, yet he forced himself to stay awake just a little longer. This might be his final day. Surviving the coming night was not a given. If given a single day, how might one fill those hours? Such a question was the kind posed by students of philosophy in the senior commons, whiling away the dark, wine-soaked hours before dawn. He avoided such hypothetical discussions, preferring to consider what was rather than what might be. Theory and possibility he engaged only at the gaming tables, and even there, the outcome was real, not speculative.
Th
is was not theoretical. Truly, this might be his final hours alive. Leaving him with the question: What was he to do with himself?
He glanced down at Zora, asleep in his arms.
Here, then, his answer. If he had a single day of life he would do precisely this.
Chapter 18
They spent the day in the glen: sleeping, lying quietly together, talking of unimportant things. Neither wanted to risk going into the city for food, so Zora foraged and found apples and wild greens, and this made up their simple meal as the day crept unceasingly onward.
She watched the sun’s progress across the sky. Time slipped away, measured in golden light and high, scattered clouds, in the patterns of birdsong, and, very distantly, human voices. She and Whit pretended not to notice. They fed one another slices of apple, spoke about plays—those she had seen had been performed by strolling actors at horse fairs and markets, while he had attended Drury Lane and the Haymarket Theaters Royal—and favorite games of chance.
They made love once more, slow but fierce, holding one another’s gaze until pleasure overtook them and their eyes closed in ecstasy.
These moments of privacy and safety were brief and deceptive. She tried to grab at them with both hands, yet they slipped away. Neither spoke of what was to come, yet they both understood that, at sunset, they would undertake a gamble worth far more than money, more than their very lives. No future was discussed, or what might be. A silent agreement not to hope for too much.
Shadows deepened in the glen. Zora shivered from the growing chill, and found warmth in Whit’s arms.
That was how Livia found them, wrapped together. The priestess appeared as twilight fell, her ghostly light a little paler before the onset of full darkness.