Serpent's Kiss

by Thea Harrison

  He surged into a sitting position even as she sank her fists into his tangled hair. His arms came around her waist. Her legs were still on either side of him, and he yanked her down onto his pelvis so that the empty part of her that ached so desperately slammed onto the hard swollen length of his erection. He jammed his open mouth over hers.

  Then they were together, locked in the same place of extremity, shoving their tongues into each other. Nothing about it was gentle or civilized. She jerked at his hair, pulling it with enough force it had to have hurt. He hissed against her lips. He pulled her lower torso closer as he ground upward onto her, hard, with his hips.

  She was locked rigid into place, her need so severe that when she tried to pry her fingers out of his hair, she couldn’t. All of her plotting, all of her fine thinking, was vaporized until what was left came out of her in a thin, shaking animal whine.

  His lungs worked like bellows. Heat blazed out of him. The rough vibrating rumble in his chest turned into a raw groan. He ran one hand up her spine to grip the back of her head, supporting her head and shoulders on his arm. With his other arm, he clenched her hips firmly against him. She took the hint and wrapped her legs around his waist as he rose up on his knees. He bent over to place her on the floor and then he came down with her, until there it was, what she had envisioned for what had seemed like forever, as she lay down with weighted limbs and his heavy body settled full on her.

  Then she was able to loosen her grip in his hair only enough to hook her fingers into his T-shirt. She tore the cotton down his back, baring a wide expanse of muscle that flexed as she dug her fingers into him. He dragged his mouth away from hers with a shaken gasp. She had no idea what he said, but it seemed like it was in the form of a question.

  “I hate your clothes,” she muttered.

  He flattened his hand on her breastbone just under her throat and held her down as he reared back to stare at her. He was so roused, a luscious flush of blood darkening his tanned skin, those lion’s eyes glittering brilliant with desire, his face taut.

  “I hate your stupid clothes too,” he said. He took the neckline of the caftan and ripped it wider, baring her breasts.

  The door to the cottage opened, and a chilly rush of wind entered the room. Rhoswen stood in the doorway, clutching the dog under her arm. Rasputin erupted into a frenzy of snarling and barking. Moving almost quicker than sight, Rune lunged forward to cover Carling. She turned her face into his chest, not from any modesty but from the need to continue touching him in any way that she could.

  He cupped the back of her head, shielding her face from scrutiny, and growled again, and this time there was no mistaking that low menacing sound. The heavy bones in his broad chest seemed wrong, as though he might have flowed into a partial shapeshift. She thought of Tiago’s monstrous partial shift when he had come after Niniane, both at the hotel and later when Niniane had been kidnapped, and need pulsed through her again. Carling closed her eyes and opened her mouth on Rune’s skin. She drank down his feral emotion like wine.

  In her precise, Shakespearean-trained voice that was frigid with bitterness, Rhoswen said, “Apparently this was not the best time to say good-bye.”

  ELEVEN

  Carling coughed out an incredulous laugh that had nothing to do with amusement. The snarl that came out of Rune sounded infuriated, guttural. “Get the hell out and SHUT THAT GODDAMN DOOR.”

  There was a frozen moment, filled only with Rasputin’s frenzied barking. Carling closed her eyes and leaned into Rune’s hot body, and his arms tightened on her in a hard, possessive hold. Then Rhoswen slammed the door, the sharp wooden report echoing through the shadowed cottage.

  A corner of Carling’s mind worked hard to process what just happened. The rest of her was shaking with the aftermath of the firestorm that had swept through her. She felt like a drug addict coming down off a high. Rune knelt on one knee as he held her. His heartbeat thundered in her ear. His T-shirt hung in shreds off his tightly bunched biceps, and his body vibrated with such tension he felt poised to attack something.

  Then he released the tension on a sigh, and she felt his body flow back into its normal lines. He stroked her hair, threading his fingers through the loose, tangled strands. He said roughly, “You all right?”

  She gave him a jerky nod. It was almost a complete lie. Need still pulsed low in her pelvis, a sharp, empty pain that was shocking in its intensity. She didn’t recognize herself in the untamed creature that had launched at Rune.

  He said, “I’ll be damned if I apologize for any of that.”

  She stirred and managed to find her voice. “What would you apologize for?”

  “Throwing my own shit fit. Yelling at Rhoswen.”

  “I’ll make a pact with you,” she whispered. “If you don’t apologize, I won’t either.”

  “It’s a deal.” He kissed her temple. Then, after a pause, he said, “She interrupted us deliberately, you know.”

  “I know.” Carling sighed. Rhoswen hadn’t been caught by surprise. She would have heard them before she ever reached the cottage door. “She was completely inappropriate.”

  Rhoswen had achieved her objective, however; she had destroyed the raw out-of-control moment Carling and Rune had been engaged in.

  Rune settled his weight back on his heels as he released her. Full night had descended, and the only illumination in the cottage came from the moon that had risen. Even though it had begun to wane, it held tremendous Power, spilling through the windows and limning the edges of their bodies with a delicate lattice of silver. For a long moment she sat still and let him look at her, the fluted wings of her collarbones, the full ripe globes of her bare breasts with their plump jutting nipples and the shadowed indentation of her narrow rib cage underneath.

  He crouched over her like the giant cat that he was, looking as if he were about to pounce, unblinking intensity in his moon-silvered gaze, his wide shoulders bowed as he leaned on one fist he had planted on the floor beside her hip. An aftershock of urgency rolled out of him and into her, but their earlier frenzy had splintered with such a crash, it left her feeling slightly sick.

  She looked down to pull her ruined caftan up her torso, and he helped her to find edges of the material to knot together to cover her temporarily, his long-fingered hands so gentle that the alien, traitorous tears filled her eyes again.

  For so long she had treated her own body like a weapon, and yet he treated it like it was a temple. It made her feel ludicrously fragile, as though she might shatter into pieces without his high regard, and she wrapped her arms around herself.

  “We need to get to the city,” he said quietly. “And get a move on all the things we talked about.”

  Wariness touched her. Reluctant to start the whole ridiculous argument again, she just nodded and kept her tone noncommittal. “Yes.”

  He watched her closely. “I was jealous.”

  She froze, and her eyes widened. “You were—what?”

  He leaned over to whisper in her ear, his warm breath caressing her cheek. “You heard me. I said I was jealous. I am not apologizing. I am explaining.”

  Then as she turned her head to stare at him, he did pounce. His hands snaked up to grip her by the head as he brought his mouth down to hers. He hovered there, deliberately brushing his taut lips against hers as he breathed, “I was jealous of the Demonkind, your Djinn, whom you’ve known for so god-damn long and bargained with every appearance of goddamn amicability, who needed you and you were there for him in such a meaningful, Powerful way he bargained away three goddamn favors, and you don’t have to say anything because I already know how stupid that sounds. So I acted like an ass. A stupid, crazy, illogical, senseless, rampantly jealous ass.”

  She gripped his wrists and started to shake again. “Rune.”

  “And I was jealous,” said the gryphon, speaking from the back of his throat as he made his words into a burning caress, “because I want you so bad, it’s messing with my thinking. It’s a hook in m
y gut I can’t pull out. I’ve wanted you ever since that evening on the Adriyel River. I dream about taking you. And in my dream, you take me too. Just like what nearly happened here on the floor.”

  Her unsteadiness increased, until her mouth trembled under his. His wrists felt iron-hard and rock-steady under her shaking fingers. “That’s enough now, stop. We—we need to go.”

  “All right,” he murmured easily. “I just wanted us to be clear about what almost happened here. This was not a fluke. I am going to come after you again.”

  She sucked in air. She whispered, “This—thing between us—”

  “This isn’t a ‘thing.’ ” He pressed a quick kiss onto her mouth. “It’s attraction.”

  She shook all over. “It’s totally inappropriate.”

  “I know.”

  “It can’t last. It’s got nowhere to go.”

  “I get that.” He bit her lower lip and held her with such careful tension she wanted to claw the last of his clothes off of him. “But think about how good it will be until it ends. Because it will happen, Carling.”

  Will happen, he said. Not could happen. Because he was going to come after her again, sometime, somewhere, and the thought of him on the prowl made her groan. Then his hands opened and he let her go. Just like that.

  Just like that? Her hands clung to his wrists as his hands fell from her head; she found herself leaning forward, reaching for his mouth with hers as he pulled away, her gaze falling along the clean lines of his face that was shadowed gray and black, and limned with the faintest touch of shining silver, as if he were gilded with the moon’s eldritch blessings that were just barely visible to the naked eye.

  “Rune,” she murmured again, and the previous shock in her voice turned throaty.

  “Darling Carling,” he said very low. He paused and shuddered, and something like pain caused his face to spasm. “Just fucking say it.”

  Desire is vulnerability. But they were all alone, just them and the moonlight, and the moon never told the secrets of what she saw. So Carling took hold of every scrap of her courage and said it.

  “I want you too.”

  The moon opened wide its invisible sails and soared through the starred sky over the island’s redwood forest. It was already night again. Carling struggled against a sense of disorientation. When she had lost the ability to sleep, time had increased in velocity. Meditation helped but only to a certain extent. There were no longer any breaks in her experience, just the relentless cascade of events, until she felt like she was being shoved into the future by a gigantic unseen force, faster and faster until she approached the speed of light.

  She walked into the trees. Far overhead the moonlight filtering through branches was a study in ivory and black. At ground level the forest was so shadowed, only her sharp Vampyric vision allowed her to pick her way along the path. She paused to listen to the tiny night sounds. Once there would have been total silence when she walked through this wood, but the creatures that lived here had long since grown accustomed to her presence.

  Rune agreed to wait for her on the beach. He wanted to come with her, but she needed to be alone to do this one last thing before she left the island. He said he would give her a half hour. If she had not returned by then, he was going to assume she had gone into a fade and come looking for her. Carling didn’t argue with him. There was nothing here that would hurt her, but even so she didn’t like the idea of sitting helpless and unaware, alone in the forest.

  She tucked her research journals into a worn leather bag, along with the papyrus sketches and a few other odds and ends from the cottage, and she gave it to Rune to take with him. When he had left, she dug through a cupboard for another clean, intact caftan, which she donned after throwing the ruined one away. So he hated her caftans, did he? She snorted. How many had she ruined in the last couple of days? There was a reason she wore them so much. They were easy on, easy off. She tended to be very hard on clothing, especially when she was engaged in matters of magic.

  After dressing, she came to the forest to find her usual spot, a dark squat stone that was so old that time had melted its rough edges smooth. It made for a good seat. She settled herself on its cool, hard surface and waited.

  It was one of her favorite places in the world. The ferns and orchids that thrived under the towering redwoods provided a scene of generosity and extravagance to someone from her old desert roots. This place had its own kind of Power, green ancient dreams filled with an endless parade of sunlit days and moon-traveled nights, and the wild crash of sea-blown storms.

  She listened until she felt a faint nudge against her awareness. It was not so much a sound that was distinguishable from any other of the small noises in the night, but more of a presence that touched the edge of her Power with shy delicate fingers, and she knew she was no longer alone.

  “I came to tell you,” she said in a quiet voice to the winged creatures she never quite saw full-on in daylight. “I have to leave now. I will try to come back. I wish I could say I will return but I don’t know if I will be able to, so I left as many protections for you as I could.” She had worked with Duncan, and had left legal safeguards and magical wards in place, but neither laws nor magic were immune to time. Things arrived on this earth and they passed from it; still, at least she knew she had tried her best.

  It was one more obligation she had released. She could come to like this growing sense of freedom, all except for the dying bit. Then without her conscious permission a truth slipped out of her mouth, the words winging into the darkness like freed dragonflies.

  She whispered, eyes stinging, “I will miss you.”

  For so long, she had felt all but dead, more intellect than emotion. Now after so many arid centuries, her soul was undergoing a renaissance of feeling. But rebirth, like change, was hard, and the well of tears she had discovered seemed to be inexhaustible.

  Something rustled, then other tiny noises joined it, and she heard wings in truth overhead. As she looked up, a length of softness touched her cheek. She reached up to grasp it.

  It was a feather, like the one left as a present for her on her windowsill. She couldn’t see it in the shadows, but she knew the feather would be an iridescent black. Then more softness touched her, on the face, the neck, her hands, as the forest creatures flew overhead and showered her with feathers spiraling down, like the gentle nourishment of midnight rain.

  She wiped her eyes and straightened her spine. Her past had become as uncertain as her future. Time had become a crucible burning everything away. There could be no greater or profound crisis.

  But this much she could know. In both versions of her past she had been born into poverty and taken as a slave. And in both versions she had reached for immortality and had become a Queen.

  I didn’t change you, Rune had said. Not you, not your soul or spirit.

  She finally understood what he meant.

  “I know who I am again,” she whispered.

  And I will take ownership of this new life as well, for however long I may have it.

  • • •

  Rune slung Carling’s bag on one shoulder, collected his duffle bag from the main house, and went down the bluff to wait for Carling on the beach. A briny breeze blew off the water. The cool wet air felt good on his tight, overheated skin. He stripped off his ruined T-shirt and dropped it on the ground by the bags and the waterproof container he’d left on the beach when he arrived. Then he rotated his shoulders to work out the tension that strung his muscles as tight as piano wire.

  He felt antsy, just barely over the county line from the land of irrationality. He didn’t like being apart from her. Didn’t she realize how vulnerable she was when she went into a fade? The thought of her caught on a busy city street made him just about break into a sweat. She was one of the most dangerous of the Nightkind or of any of the Elder Races, but now at times she was also one of the most defenseless. It would be such a simple matter to slip a stiletto between her ribs as she stood still a
nd unresisting, her mind locked in another time.

  And if being in proximity to one of her episodes could affect him the way it did, who or what else might be affected by it? What other creatures or Powers might be able to slip into her mind or the past, or whatever the fuck was actually happening, to encounter that brave, fierce, painfully fragile tiger cub that was Carling’s child-self?

  Do you not study the tools your enemies use? She had said it in passing, and that one question had hinted at a hidden vista of magical tensions and Power plays. He thought of the dark Powers she had talked about, those hungry forces that ate the souls of both victims and black magic practitioners alike. He pictured something coiling around the young Carling like black smoke, and then he did break into a sweat.

  He also lost all interest in keeping his promise. As he turned to go search for her, he caught sight of Rhoswen coming down the bluff path. Rhoswen was dressed in a wet suit, her pale hair pinned back in the usual tight chignon, and she carried a bundle in her arms. She had a pair of diver’s swim fins, a dark waterproof bag, and Rasputin’s silent, motionless form. Her cold bitter gaze raked down the length of his body and ran over the bags on the ground, and paused on Carling’s worn leather bag.

  “Carling’s leaving?” she asked.

  “We’re going to the city to research a few things,” he said.

  Even as Rune started to ask about Rasputin’s odd stillness, she tossed her armful, Rasputin and all, to the ground. He lunged forward to snatch up the dog before Rasputin hit the sand. He said, “The hell’s the matter with you?”

  The Vampyre curled a lip at him. “Relax, Wyr. The little shit’s in a stasis spell. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

  Rune studied the dog he held in his hands. Rasputin’s body was lax and warm under thick, luxuriant fur. He wasn’t breathing, but Rune could feel his life force, glowing like a firefly underneath his fingers. An unfamiliar metallic collar at his throat thrummed with magic. Gently Rune manipulated one of his legs. The flesh was pliable under his fingers, and the delicate muscle and bone flexed easily. The dog might not have felt the initial impact, but the stasis spell would not have prevented him from being injured in the fall.