Night Season wotl-4

by Eileen Wilks

  They'd gone to their rooms first to get clean clothes—pants for them both, praise God. Cullen's servant—a small, dark-skinned man incongruously named Sean—had led them to the baths, which were a sprawling affair, encompassing several small chambers like this grotto as well as three large public areas. A few people of various species were in the public area they passed on the way to their own spot.

  Sean had led them to this grotto, where Adrienne was waiting, reserving the spot for them. She had handed Cynna a small basket of toiletries, explained what was what, then left with Cullen's man Sean.

  "Should we tip them or something?" Cynna had asked once they were alone. "Not that we have any of their money, but the Council would probably give us some if we insisted."

  "Ask your father," Cullen suggested. "We don't know if offering money is expected or insulting."

  Cullen had stripped as matter-of-factly as if revealing that gorgeous body meant nothing. That was an act. He knew very well how beautiful he was, but Cynna chose to pretend along with him. She'd stripped, too. She wasn't as casual about nudity as a lupus, but she wasn't overly modest, either, and Cullen was the only one here. He'd seen her body before.

  Both of them had washed with soft, mint-scented soap before losing interest in movement.

  Their little grotto was as eerie as it was beautiful. It was only about ten feet wide and long, open on the water side but otherwise sheltered from other bathers by rock walls. The ceiling was high and vastly irregular. There was a wide ledge above the water and a shallow one below, where they sat in water warm as a bathtub. It lapped her shoulders, giving the illusion of cover.

  The ledge she sat on was smooth and slick with moss. Hundreds of mage lights the size of fireflies skimmed rock formations above and below the water, many clinging to outcroppings of quartz as if attracted by its crystalline complexity. The colors were delicate and varied—multiple greens from moss; quartz in pink, purple, clear; stone in gray, sepia, cream.

  "And to think," Cynna murmured, "they've resisted the temptation to paint any of this red. Or purple." She stirred her toes around, sending up a silty swirl. "The air isn't oily down here. What does it look like with your other vision?"

  "Shiny. These stones have been absorbing magic for centuries. Not much worked magic, though. Aside from the mage lights, everything's pretty much the way it arrived from the maker." He looked at her. "You've a pretty glow."

  "I've never been complimented on my aura before. No, don't explain. I know you see something other than a regular aura." Anyone could see those, with the right training. Usually not very well, but even a null could learn. And everyone had auras, even nulls. Cynna supposed it was like light—magic and life-auras came from different parts of the spectrum. "Did you see magic from the time you were little?"

  "Mmm. My mum was thrilled. It almost made up for the complications of raising a child with an affinity for Fire."

  "Started them, did you?"

  "Fortunately, I learned to put them out pretty quickly. And Mum was Wiccan… think I mentioned that. Until I was six she kept a damper spell up around our flat. Annoyed the salamanders."

  "How long has she been gone?"

  "Just over ten years now. She lived to a ripe old age, for a human. Had me when she was older… Mum never admitted she'd cast fertility spells to conceive, but of course she had."

  "My mother died young. She was only a year older than I am now when it happened." Cynna's mouth twisted with sadness, humor, a certain resigned fondness. She could feel that fondness now. She could even remember some of the lovely things about her mother.

  "How did it happen?"

  "She didn't drive drunk, but she walked drunk once too often. Wandered out in front of a taxi."

  "You were very young."

  "Thirteen." It had been a lousy age to lose a mother. Going to live with her aunt had probably saved her, but Cynna had been so busy hating her mother that it took years to recover from the anger and the guilt. So much left unspoken, unclear… "It took me a long time to see that she never stopped loving me. She just stopped being able to parent me."

  "Who did parent you?"

  "After Mom died? Aunt Meggie. Well, technically, she was my great-aunt. See, Mom was illegitimate. Her own mother died in childbirth when she was real young, barely sixteen, and her grandparents didn't want the little bastard who'd shamed them and killed their younger daughter. Assholes. But they had another daughter, and she—Mom's Aunt Meggie—wanted that baby. She was twelve years older than her little sister and worked for the phone company. She didn't make much, but Meggie pretty much did whatever she set out to do. Once she made up her mind to raise her sister's kid, that's what she did. Her parents freaked and wouldn't speak to her, but Aunt Meggie always said that was no loss."

  "Humans." Cullen looked disgusted. "I'll never understand how anyone can hold a baby responsible for its birth. Your Aunt Meggie's dead, too?"

  "Yeah, but not till she was eighty-three. One morning she didn't wake up, which was how she always said she'd die, God willing." Cynna snorted. "She always added the 'God willing' bit, but I figured God had better follow instructions just like the rest of us."

  "She was a religious woman, then."

  "Raised Catholic, but spent most of her life mad at the Church. She wasn't exactly thrilled about my decision to join it. She went around muttering under her breath and came damned close to breaking her own rule."

  "Which was… ?"

  Cynna smiled. " 'Advice is like shit. Don't pass it around and don't take someone else's.' But… well, she knew why I needed the Church." The Catholic Church offered the best demon protection available. At the time, that had been an important criterion.

  "Where was she before your mother died?"

  Cynna's smile slipped. "She didn't believe in interfering, and… well, I always suspected she thought she hadn't done such a great job with Mom, and she didn't want to fail again. But when Mom died, she was there for me."

  "I take it she didn't die all that long ago."

  "Three years. Well, three and a half." She sighed. "I tried to get her to move in with me, you know? She was getting up there in years and her health seemed good, but… well, she wouldn't do it. Didn't even want to discuss it. She never would let me help her with money or anything, and she liked living alone."

  "Was it after she died that you moved into a hotel? Or after she refused to live with you?"

  Cynna opened her mouth. Closed it. Her throat felt tight. "That's not how it was. My apartment went condo and I didn't want to buy, so…" Lame. That sounded so lame. Especially with the way her eyes were stinging—which he would notice, damn him.

  Had she moved into a hotel room because, with Aunt Meggie gone, she'd given up on having a home?

  Duh.

  Cullen stood, raising the smooth sculpture of his upper body above the water, and started toward her.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, suspicious.

  "I can't offer to comfort you," he said in the reasonable voice he used when he was being outrageous. "You'd push me away. So you'll have to comfort me for making me feel sad about your loss."

  Cynna rolled her eyes. "Aunt Meggie died over three years ago."

  He sat beside her and slid an arm around her waist. "That's not the loss I'm sad about. Quit squirming."

  She shoved at his arm, not caring if she was being predictable. "I am so not in the mood."

  He just pulled her closer and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "Pretend I'm your gay hairdresser."

  She twisted to stare in astonishment. "My what?"

  "I'm going to wash your hair." With his free hand Cullen snagged the basket of toiletries. "Every woman I've ever known zens out when she gets her hair washed."

  "Done it a lot, have you?"

  "No." He shifted so that he was behind her. "But I used to wash my mum's hair after the cancer had her. She didn't much like being touched by strangers, and by then"—his voice turned wry—"she'd argued with or
outlived most of her friends. She was an ornery old bird. Loved me to hell and back, but she could have taught stubborn to a jackass. Tilt your head."

  The shampoo was in a little jar, not a tube. It had a tangy, mineral scent and didn't lather at all. His fingers made soothing circles on her scalp as he rubbed it in, and the last tension drained right out of her. "Mmm. Your mum sounds a bit like my Aunt Meggie."

  "They'd have understood each other, I think." And that was all either of them said until he spoke again. "You'd better duck and rinse yourself."

  The moss was slippery. Cynna took a breath, scooted her hips, and slid out flat on the shelf, her head bumping one of his legs. She ran her hands through her short hair, rubbing her scalp to get rid of the shampoo, then rubbed her head against his leg like an affectionate cat marking her territory. She stretched and came up smiling, eyes closed, water streaming in her face and down her back… and with his arms around her from behind, his hands on her breasts.

  "I thought you weren't going to seduce me."

  "I said didn't know when to do it," Cullen corrected her, his fingers teasing her nipples. "But that's if I'm thinking about what you need. I'm pretty clear on what I need."

  She stirred the water lightly with one hand. "It's late, and tomorrow will be busy. I need some sleep."

  "Do you?" He said that idly, as if sleep were an odd thing to require, but he'd humor her. "Go ahead, then. I'll wake you when I'm done."

  "As if." But she didn't move. She felt so tired and soothed and aroused all at once… it was just too much trouble to say no, She didn't want to go back to her rooms, where the air was oily. She wanted to lean her head back against his shoulder and let her body drift, half floating, while his fingers made her nipples happy, setting up a tugging deep in her belly…

  He bent his head and drew his teeth along the tender cord of her neck, shooting a bolt of lust straight through her. "Drowsing off?"

  "Any minute now." What was it about teeth? She loved teeth. He bit gently, then harder—not enough to hurt, but close. Her hips stirred restlessly. "Hope I don't snore."

  Cullen chuckled and let his mouth soothe the spot he'd assaulted with his teeth, then drifted his lips along her shoulder, kissing, licking.

  One of his hands drifted, too. There was no way Cynna could keep her hips still with what those clever fingers were up to now. "I thought this was all about you."

  "Trust me, I'm doing exactly what I want to do."

  Something else stirred within her. Something that made her need to turn, to see him. One of her legs dangled off the ledge as she twisted around. Her breasts, buoyed by water, brushed his chest. She met his eyes.

  They were burning blue. Not playful. Not lighthearted. Her breath caught.

  "Now." he said, soft and fierce. "Now I can get into you."

  One little squirm of fear wiggled its way through her, but there was no time for more—no time even to wonder what she feared, because his hands curved around her bottom and brought her over him, her legs wide to admit him. His cock pressed at her entrance and sensation drowned her, purely drowned her.

  For all the hard blue of his eyes and the tension along his jaw, he went slowly. Cullen claimed he was not a patient man, and she supposed he wasn't, but he was thorough. He also claimed he was selfish, and that was partly true. Once he got inside her, he was selfishly determined to take his time.

  She could have blamed the water. Cynna had never fucked underwater before. It was delicious, creating both buoyancy and resistance, altering the tempo.

  But mostly it was Cullen who set the pace. Once he got her settled astride him, she should have been in charge. She wasn't. He controlled the ride with his hands, his thrusts, and the delicious things he did with his mouth. Her breasts bobbed along barely above the water, putting them within handy reach of his mouth. He took advantage of that.

  Cynna took advantage of her position, too—looking at that beautiful face without having to worry about being caught at it. Letting her hands enjoy his wet, messy hair and strong shoulders. He smelled good. So good. Tasted good, too. She chased a drop of water down his throat with her tongue, breathing him in while he thrust inside her, slow and firm and implacable.

  He stopped her chase, cupping her face in one hand and making her look at him as his other hand reached down between them and touched her clit. And even before the climax hit, she burst—something inside her breaking and breaking, quiet and terrible and complete.

  After, with her body collapsed against him, limp and destroyed, her face hid itself on his shoulder. Her eyes were wide and dry with despair.

  How could she have let this happen? She'd meant to give him only her body and the pleasure bodies could offer. And he'd taken so much more. Too much.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The market was an explosion of scent, color, and noise. Hawkers cried their wares in at least three languages that Cullen could pick out. His charm translated all of them, of course, the words tumbling over each other in an unholy din.

  Not unlike the din in his head. He'd screwed up last night. Big time.

  Cullen had known that the moment Cynna unwrapped herself from him in the baths. It had been abundantly clear as they walked back to their rooms. She'd scarcely spoken… which was better than what she did when they reached her door, bursting into bright, cheery speech. He'd stopped that with an angry kiss… proving that once he'd begun screwing up, he couldn't stop.

  She'd responded, yes, but with confusion as much as desire. And wariness. Not that he blamed her. He'd known she wasn't ready, and he'd pushed anyway.

  He hadn't been invited past her door. No surprise there.

  This morning they'd all met in the common room for breakfast. Well, almost all—there'd been one missing and one addition. No one had seen Gan since she went off with First Councilor. The addition was Steve Timms. Last night, while Cullen was getting his brains fucked out, Brooks had gone to see Steve and Marilyn Wright. She was still unconscious, but the healer had begun treatment and was cautiously hopeful. Ruben trusted the woman, so Steve was back with the pack for now.

  They'd discussed what would happen if Cynna's Find was successful—who would go on the trail of the medallion and who wouldn't. Cullen had some firm ideas about that. Fortunately, Brooks had already decided he and McClosky would be more hindrance than help. Timms would go with Cullen, Cynna, and whoever the gnomes sent; Brooks would stay behind to keep an eye on the Wright woman's condition. McClosky would stay in the City, too, of course, where he could talk trade to his heart's content.

  Cynna had accepted all that with a nod, adding only that she might not know right away if she'd be able to Find the thing. If her initial Find didn't work, she'd just keep trying, refining the parameters, moving to other locations, until it did.

  Cullen had assumed that, but the others probably didn't know enough about how she used her Gift to realize how many trials it could take. He'd asked if it would help her to draw on his diamond. She'd said no. He'd asked if she needed him for anything. She'd said no. He'd said in that case, he'd head out, check out the market, see what he could learn. She'd looked relieved.

  Dammit.

  Cullen stopped at a stall displaying stacks of paper. Handmade, he judged, and not of high quality. Paper mills probably required more tech than was possible in Edge, and imported paper might be pricey, or not widely available.

  The gnomes had come up with acceptable clothing this morning. Cullen wore leather pants such as the guard here favored with a loose jacket in a finely woven indigo wool. It had pockets, thank God, He'd missed pockets. From one he pulled out the cheap pen he'd borrowed from Cynna—she had six or seven in the bottom of that huge bag of hers—and began with the questions.

  He'd been doing this all morning. The pen gave him a reason to talk to people. Supposedly he wanted to learn who might be able to duplicate it and who might be interested in selling such pens. In fact he was picking up gossip, putting together a picture of the society, and enjoying gi
ving the gnome tailing him a hard time. The little fellow skulked about so obviously.

  Edge was largely preindustrial, but magic made it more comfortable than, say, medieval Europe. They had decent health care, since healers were common. There was even a public health service to deal with broad issues such as clean water and epidemics. The sanitation system in the City was excellent, far better than in any comparable preindustrial society on Earth. Even the slums had clean water, waste disposal, and public toilets.

  Printing presses existed, but most books and pamphlets were set the way Gutenberg did it. Metal was expensive. Edge had plenty of ore and magic helped with the smelting, but tempering and working the metal were done by hand. For the very best weapons you went to the Ahk, who were highly skilled artisans and spellcasters in all matters of weaponry and battle. Cloth was pricey; the best stuff was imported. You could tell someone's status by the quality of their clothing and their footwear. The poor wore sandals.

  So did Cullen, at the moment. Of course, he qualified as poor, since he owned literally nothing here.

  Plastic, of course, was nonexistent. Everyone he'd shown the pen to was fascinated by the substance. Some were dubious; some, excited. Cullen figured McClosky would have a great time with his trade treaties. Edge was going to have one hell of an effect on U.S. and global markets… assuming everyone here didn't die.

  Great timing he had. Cynna was doing her sorting today. The fate of all of them—of pretty much everyone in this world, save the sidhe—rested on her ability to get a good pattern so she could Find the medallion. Or so they'd been told. And he decided he had to get into her last night.

  Oh, but he'd been honest, hadn't he? He'd told her he was doing exactly what he wanted, that he was serving his own needs, not hers. Aced that.

  He was used to being selfish. "Thanks," he told the skinny, dark-skinned man at the paper stall. "I'll be in touch if I'm able to get the pens made." He ambled along.

  Years. He'd spent years acquiring the wrong sort of instincts for what he needed now. He knew how to keep things light, how to keep a woman from expecting too much. He didn't know how to make a woman trust him. He'd never wanted that before.