Anew: Book Two: Hunted (24 page)

Amelia

 
T
he inaugural
performance of Sergei’s “Medea” is held in a circular open-air theatre erected
especially for the occasion in a park near the southern tip of the island. The
sun is setting to the west over the harbor as Ian and I arrive. We join the
crowd streaming into the amphitheatre, all residents of the city, I notice. The
array of costumes shouldn’t surprise me after our encounter with the butterfly
lady but I’m still not quite prepared for the lush displays of pampered flesh
on the part of both sexes.

Our presence causes a stir. I don’t make the mistake of
thinking that I have anything to do with it. People are surprised to see Ian,
who rarely attends any sort of social event. In the aftermath of the attack on
the Crystal Palace, the power he commands is bound to spark speculation and
perhaps even hope. Despite all the bright lights, an undercurrent of fear runs
through the city, made worse by the fact that it is suppressed and unspoken.

“No workers?” I ask as we take our seats amid the glittering
crowd.

“Carnival is open to all,” he says, ignoring the attention
we garner. “At least in the streets. Anything else, including events like this,
is strictly for the chosen few.”

I nod, unsurprised. A society as precariously balanced as
this one can’t afford the custom common in the ancient and medieval worlds
whereby the slaves become the masters once a year. Here everyone has to
remember his or her place or the center will not hold. The anarchy that Ian
fears truly will be loosed on the world.

Contemplating the city and the forces at work within it, a
sense of dread wells up in me without warning. I hear myself murmur, “Turning
and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer; things
fall apart; the centre cannot hold; mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”

Is this just another random bit of knowledge courtesy of
Susannah? It feels more like a warning.

Ian looks surprised but a moment later his expression
becomes closed. Apparently, he knows William Yeats’ poem envisioning a coming
apocalypse as well as I do because he continues where I left off. “The
blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is
drowned.”

He takes my hand, turning it over in his own and lightly
strokes my palm. “Not a happy prospect for the world. But I have to admit that
was my favorite poem when I was a kid.” As though he suddenly decides that he
is being too serious, or perhaps revealing too much, he adds, “I had a thing
for falcons.”

My throat is tight as I think of the child he was, caught in
the riptide of his parents’ hellish marriage. “You should have one now. You
could fly it from the top of Pinnacle House.”

He laughs. “I hate to think what that would do to the dove
population.”

I frown as a thought flits through my mind. “Weren’t there
pigeons in the city--before?” Back when Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs
were home to teeming millions who came here to forge better lives for themselves.
The remnants of that world exist all around me but they are fading fast,
replaced by a strict hierarchy that serves only the fortunate few and leaves
everyone else to fight over crumbs, not unlike the once voracious pigeons
themselves.

Ian nods. “They shat too much and they weren’t as pretty as
doves so they were exterminated and replaced.”

Just like that, an entire species of bird wiped out on the
whim of the privileged elite. In the overall scheme of things, I tell myself it
could be much worse. But the fact is I know that it will be if Davos has his
way.

The dimming of lights around us distracts me. The ballet is
about to begin. Sergei has crafted it around the music of Samuel Barber, a 20
^th
century American composer whose work I know. The first notes of “Medea” are
haunting, if also deliberately discordant. I’m drawn quickly into the story of
passionate love shattered by wrenching betrayal that is followed by an act of
destruction so in violation of the natural order that I can barely stand to
watch it play out. Around us, the audience is hushed and rapt, hanging on the
final denouement. As Medea takes the lives of her own children to punish her
husband for betraying her, I hear more than a few gasps and even some sobs.

Averting my eyes, I discover that Ian isn’t watching the
events on stage. His gaze is focused only on me. I flush at being the object of
such intense attention but I can’t look away. I’m trapped, a moth to his flame,
with no desire to escape.

 “Heavy duty stuff,” he murmurs as we rise to leave.
“What’s your Russian up to?”

Glad of any distraction, I say, “Why don’t you ask him? I’d
like to go back stage.”

For a moment, Ian looks about to refuse but he only shrugs
and takes my arm. Sergei is holding court in a tent adjacent to the amphitheatre.
He smiles warmly when he sees me but an instant later his expression changes.

“Ian Slade,” he says as the two men shake hands. It’s
obvious that Sergei knows who Ian is. They eye each other bluntly, neither
giving ground. The male dominance display cloaked in a thin veneer of civility
goes on long enough to be tiresome. Finally, each releases his grip and bares
his teeth in what only the most innocent would take for smiles.

“Sergei Zharkov,” Ian says. “Amelia’s told me a great deal
about you.”

“Really?” An eyebrow rises toward that leonine mane. “She
hasn’t said a word about you. But then she didn’t have to. Her bouts of
distraction and emotional turbulence have made it all too clear what sort of
man she’s involved with.”

Ian stiffens, as do I. The wave of anger that rolls off him
makes me instantly apprehensive. But after a moment, it unexpectedly eases.
This new, buoyant Ian isn’t so easy to offend. With a note of amusement, he
says, “You like to rattle people, don’t you? Yank them out of their comfort
zone and confront them. That’s what tonight’s ballet is about.”

Despite himself, Sergei looks impressed but he tries to hide
it. With a shrug, he says, “‘Medea’ is a tempestuous work, lots of sex and
violence, well suited to this crowd. That’s all.”

“I don’t think so,” Ian counters. “It’s about the almost
unimaginable violence that can come in response to betrayal. But there’s a
warning in it as well, isn’t there? Ultimately such violence leads to the
destruction of innocents. The future is sacrificed and in the end, no one
wins.”

Reluctantly, Sergei says, “You surprise me, Slade. Isn’t
violence your trade?”

“The control and containment of it is. Violence is a part of
the human condition. Unless we change what it fundamentally means to be human,
it will always be with us. The best we can do is channel it in the most
positive directions.”

“While protecting the innocents?” Sergei asks. He shifts his
gaze to me.

Around us the crowd chatters on, intent on throwing off
whatever dark forebodings the performance has evoked.

“Always,” Ian says. He slips an arm around my waist. “We
won’t keep you any longer. No doubt there are many others waiting to offer
their congratulations.”

“No doubt,” Sergei murmurs. “But I very much doubt if they
have your understanding of what they’ve just seen.” To me, he says, “Be well,
Amelia. I hope to see you in class soon.”

I assure him that I hope the same. As Ian draws me away, I
glance back over my shoulder. Sergei is surrounded by well-wishers vying for
his attention. Even so, our eyes meet. In his I see the genuine concern of a
friend that does not entirely conceal a hint of longing.

I can’t think about that. Ian commands all my attention. Or
he does until we leave the grounds of the park and re-enter the streets where
Carnival is in full swing. At once, I realize that he wasn’t exaggerating when
he called it a clothing-optional event. Judging by what I can see around me,
Ian and I are over dressed.

Body paint seems to be one of the preferred means of
expression. A tall, shapely brunette strolls by sporting a thick green serpent
that twines from around her throat over her nude body to cleave her sex and
wrap around one thigh. A man passes us wearing only a golden tan and a spray of
painted leaves that seem intended not to conceal his genitalia so much as to
draw attention to them. My eyes widen a bit when I notice that he is
semi-erect.

Ian’s hand slides down to cup my hip, his fingers splayed
out over my belly. I feel the pressure of them in my groin. A tremor runs
through me.

“Carnival is all about license,” he says softly. “Letting go
of inhibitions. There’s something to be said for that, don’t you think?”

“In private,” I agree. My cheeks flush as I remember a night
we shared in my golden bedroom at the palazzo, not to mention more recent
encounters. “But so openly, in the streets?” I can’t imagine ever making such a
display of myself. Yet I would be a hypocrite if I tried to deny a certain
fascination with the sensual spectacle unfolding all around me.

When Ian moves closer and lightly grazes his mouth along the
curve of my jaw, a low moan escapes me. I arch my neck, giving him better
access. He obliges, trailing a line of fire from the hollow behind my ear to my
collarbone. My eyes close as pleasure rushes through me but they open suddenly
as his hands cup my breasts. I don’t want anyone to see us like this but no one
appears to be taking any notice. They’re too busy being part of the passing
show.

As Ian’s thumbs graze over my nipples, an elegant woman with
upswept ebony hair and wearing a collar made of multiple strands of pearls
walks by. Beneath the collar, a transparent length of black silk creates the
illusion of a cloak covering her back. The upper part of her torso is bare.
Another length of the black silk falls below her breasts, suspended at two
points from the small gold rings that pierce her nipples. She isn’t alone. The
young, muscular man with her is naked except for the black leather harness
stretched tightly over his chest and the length of gold chain that is wrapped
around his testicles. A leash is attached to the chain. The lady in black holds
the other end.

“Dominatrix,” Ian says in a tone that leaves no doubt he is
enjoying my shock. “Something I have to admit I’ve never tried.”

I can’t imagine Ian ever allowing any woman to dominate him.
But I have seen him come apart in my arms often enough to be confident that the
acute need building in me is not mine alone. He may be unsurprised by what is
going on around us but that doesn’t mean he is unaffected.

I have proof of that a moment later when he presses me back
against a nearby lamp post, thrusts his thigh between my legs, and says, “You’d
look exquisite in those black veils but I wouldn’t want your nipples pierced.
They’re perfect exactly as they are.”

Shocked by the mere thought, I answer tartly. “That’s good
because I would never consider any such thing.”

He laughs and wraps an arm around me.
My
feet barely
brush the ground as he strides into the shadows that conceal a nearby alley. In
an instant, he strips off his jacket, drapes it over my shoulders, and presses
me against a wall. I can feel the roughness of brick along my back even as the
jacket protects me from it.

“You’re exquisite, Amelia. I want you in every possible
way,” he says. Without warning, his hand tugs up my dress and slips under it. A
grunt of satisfaction escapes him. “You want the same. You’re wet, so ready, so
hot.”

I gasp at his audacity but before I can tell him to stop,
the surge of pleasure ignited by his touch overwhelms me. Instinctively, my
pelvis arches against his hand. He chuckles softly and strokes me, teasing my
clit with the tip of one circling finger. Everything in me quickens. I moan helplessly,
The build-up to orgasm is so familiar by now that I have no trouble recognizing
it but the sensation is fleeting. Almost as soon as it begins, Ian removes his
hand and steps away. As quickly as I have begun to soar, I crash back down
again.

I glare at him with embarrassed frustration mingling with
bewilderment. Why is he doing this?

He smiles, well aware of my predicament and seemingly amused
by it. Only the dark glitter of desire in his eyes hints that his emotions run
deeper.

“Touch yourself,” he says huskily. “I want to see you make
yourself come.”

I gap at him in astonishment. He isn’t serious, is he? It’s
not that I’ve never done what he’s demanding. I have but only a little, when I
was most desperate for him, and never, ever when anyone else was present. We’re
in an alley, for heaven’s sake! It’s bad enough that I allowed myself to forget
that even for a moment and now he wants--

“I can’t.”

His look is implacable. “You can, you will. You need this,
Amelia. You know you do. Think how good release will feel.”

I can scarcely think of anything else, except-- “What about
you?”