Thief of Light (18 page)

The round blue faces didn’t look convinced. Tube-snouts quivered as they gave voice. “Hoot, hoot, burble?”

From around the bend of the canal came a burst of laughter, the splash of oars. Two crafts came into view, more like barges, certainly too large to be properly called skiffs. “Hoot!” A series of swirls and ripples in the water and the seelies were gone.

Erik stood and stretched. Gods, every muscle in his body ached! The claw marks on his arms and shoulders stung like a bitch. Sourly, he glanced over his shoulder at the stairs he’d have to climb, the bridges he’d need to cross to get back to the Leaf of Nobility and his clothes.

When someone whistled, long and loud, he pushed the wet hair out of his eyes. Perhaps a lift? The words died on his lips.

“Well, well, if it’s not a merman,” laughed a man with a face like a dark, mischievous angel. He looked vaguely familiar. When he made a motion with his hand, the barge slowed, blue water rippling about its gilded sides. “The perfect appetizer for a sunset dinner cruise. Hop on board, my friend.”

The grin widened as he looked Erik over, taking his time. His bold stare lingered over Erik’s chest, the golden fur there glinting in the late afternoon sun. Then it swooped down to his big bare feet and lifted again, taking a lengthy stop midway. “My, my.” Coolly, his brows rose. “There’s plenty to go around.”

Erik glanced down. Not only was he stripped to the waist, but his trews were so wet they were essentially transparent. Every contour, every pubic curl, every muscle, was revealed in a way more salacious than honest nudity. Gods, there was a limit to public performance!

A grinning crewman gathered up a rope while other well-dressed passengers crowded to the rail, and Erik remembered where he’d seen that handsome, wicked face. At The Garden. As if in confirmation, through the smattering of applause, the cheers and the catcalls, he heard a woman’s distinctive throaty laugh. Rose!

With a growl of fury, he launched himself into the water in a long, flat dive, going deep, using the tremendous power of his lungs to stay under, all the way to the other side of the canal. When he finally surfaced, the barges were disappearing around the bend, laughter drifting behind them like confetti. He was only a few hundred yards from the small water stair on the Leaf of Nobility.

Shivering, he retrieved his belongings from behind the clump of daffydillies and dressed. He had an hour before the overture began at the Royal Theater.

Swearing, Erik broke into a jog trot, then a flat-out run.

It wasn’t one of his most inspired performances, but he got through it and gave the people their money’s worth. Pacing himself, he brought to bear all his technique and experience, saving the Voice for last. So the demon king’s death brought the house down, as usual, but he had to revert to “The Milkmaid’s Jugs” in his own perfectly adequate voice for the first encore. But even that turned out well, the audience clapping along to the risqué, jogging rhythm of the chorus.

By the time he came to the “Lullaby for Stormy Eyes,” Erik felt sufficiently restored to impose his will on the air, to use his blessing to shape the aching beauty of the melody. As he sent the notes arching forth into the hush, in his mind’s eye, he saw Prue’s vivid, tip-tilted eyes, turbulent with emotion, none of it good. And all of it directed at him.

His whole body seething with impatience, Erik bowed and bowed. With a final wave, he sprinted offstage and down to his dressing room, ripping off his sweaty shirt as he went. Five minutes later, he was standing at the top of the theater’s water stair, scanning for a skiff.

Florien materialized at his elbow in that uncanny way he had. “We goin’ back t’ t’ boardin’ house now?”

“You are.” Where the hell—? There! Spying Bettsa’s skiff bobbing about on the canal, Erik waved her over. “I’m not.” He fished out a couple of oct-creds and saw the boy’s face brighten.

Florien reached out a small paw, casting him a sidelong look from under inky lashes. “Ye’re goin’ t’
her
, ain’t ye? T’ bossy one, at t’ Garden?”

Well, hell. With coins in his pocket, the child would be off to the Melting Pot, no question. The gods alone knew what might happen to him there—or the damage he might do.

Erik frowned, thinking furiously. “None of your damned business.”

He grabbed the boy’s chin with hard fingers. Gods, he had no time to waste, not with this strange urgency blowing through him like the hot breath of a furnace, but the Voice wasn’t the only way to compel, and he had to see the boy safe. “I will have your promise to take a skiff back to the boarding house and go straight to bed. No . . . detours. Understood?”

“Yah,” said Florien easily. Erik growled under his breath.

Moving swiftly, he left the boy standing and then spun around a few steps down, so their faces were level. “Do you know what a man’s word is, Florien? What it means?”

“Mm.”

“When you give your word, you carry through. You put your honor at stake.”

Florien shrugged. “Fine.”

Bloody hell! Breathing carefully through his nose, Erik said, “Think carefully, lad. If you shake my hand, I give you my trust in return for your promise. It’s a precious gift.” Despite himself, his lips twisted. “You may not want it. If you don’t, it’s your choice. I’ll take another skiff and pay Bettsa here extra to march you into the boarding house by the collar and hand you over to the landlady.” He held out his hand and waited.

Leaning on her pole, Bettsa gave a rough chuckle. “Pleasure.”

Erik watched the child think it over. Abruptly, Florien drew a breath and whipped his right hand behind his back. The one with the crooked finger. His cheeks flushed a dull red and his flat, dark eyes glittered with what could have been rage or tears, or both. He shook his head, his fringe flopping.

Gods, he’d forgotten. Surely Gray had told him the child’s mother had broken it? Or was it his father? Poor little bastard. “No problem. You’ve got two hands. Use the other one.”

Florien searched Erik’s face, the first time he’d held his gaze voluntarily for more than a few seconds. Something swam behind the flat, dark eyes. “Ye’d trust me t’ do as ye say, just ’cos we shake hands?”

“Yes.”

“Yer funeral then.” With a jerk, the boy thrust out his left hand.

Gravely, Erik swallowed it up in his and administered a firm manly squeeze, gripping it left-handed to match. Then he clapped Florien on the shoulder, remembering at the last moment to pull the blow. Even so, the boy staggered a bit. “Fair enough.” He dropped the coins into an eager little palm.

Bounding down the stairs, he stepped into the skiff, causing it to rock dangerously. Bettsa gave a hoarse chuckle. “In a hurry, are we?”

His blood bubbling, Erik grunted something unintelligible as she maneuvered them out into the current. Prue would try to throw him out, but he’d refuse to go.

Gods, he needed her, needed to hold her, bury his nose in her shining brown hair and hear that brisk, sensible voice break a little as she said his name. He exhaled, trying to contain his impatience. Because now it was about so much more than his own desires.

What would she say? Even now, with the bruises stiffening up, he could scarcely credit what he’d seen, but every time the wind veered, he could smell the reek of it in the air. Fuck, seelies and tunnels and chambers in the Leaf and rotten cable stems. He knew what he had to do, but Prue would know how to go about it, with her clever, practical mind.

He wanted to be inside her more than he wanted to breathe. Not that there was any chance of that.

The moment Bettsa grounded at The Garden’s water stair, he was off, thrusting a whole cred into her hand. “Go back to the boarding house and check on the boy. Don’t let him see you.”

“I know boys. He’ll do it.” The skiffwoman shrugged. “But hell, it’s your money.” With a grunt, she shoved off.

The fat orange lanterns he recalled lined the path to the Main Pavilion. Light streamed out of the tall, arched windows on the ground floor, together with drifts of laughter, the tinkle of glasses. The double doors were open wide, and Erik strode through without breaking step.

Some sort of party, or soiree, was in progress, and he paused on the threshold of an elegant room decorated in cream and gold, and faced with mirrors. It took him a moment to separate the well-dressed reflections from their flesh and blood counterparts. He growled under his breath. Some of them had been on that godsbedamned pleasure barge. The center of a laughing crowd playing dice, Rosarina smiled as she caught his eye. Unobtrusively, she lifted her gaze toward the elaborate molded patterns on the ceiling. Long lashes swept down in an unmistakable wink.

Erik nodded his acknowledgment, spun on his heel and took the stairs two at a time. By the time he reached the landing, he was moving so fast, the paintings on the brocade-papered wall passed by in a lush blur of color.

Panting, he skidded to a halt outside a familiar door. “Prue!” he pounded with a big fist. “
Prue!
” His voice cracked with urgency.

The hairbrush fell from Prue’s fingers, bounced off the corner of the dressing table with a clatter and landed on the rug. She didn’t hear it.

One moment the bottom had dropped out of her stomach, the next, she was flying to the door. Sweet Sister!

“What? What’s wrong?” She wrenched it open. “Are you all—?”

Erik surged into the room like a storm front made of muscle and male need, gathering her up in the process. The door banged back with the wind of his passage, turbulent air swirling around the room.

“Prue,” he muttered into her hair, his arms tight around her like bands of iron. “Oh gods, Prue.”

She gasped as her feet left the floor, and then she had no breath for anything else because he backed her into the wall of her office, bent his head and sealed his mouth over hers, robbing her of breath.

“Wha—?” she panted into his mouth, her mind going blank with shock.

He had her pressed between his huge body and the wall, both equally unyielding, but for some foolish reason, she wasn’t afraid. He left her no time to think—only to feel. Hot and glorious, fury filled her veins, tangling with the ferment of frustrated desire, setting her free. How dared he? Without compunction, she nipped his lower lip, licked away the bead of blood.

Erik only grunted, tilting his head to improve the fit. His tongue coiled around hers in a mind-numbing dance of lick and suck, push and pull. Prue gave as good as she got, refusing to yield, fighting back, her fingers twisted hard in his shirt.

She’d never met a man this way before, as if she knew him on some level of the soul, had never even imagined such a match between passions was possible, his physical desperation triggering hers until her conscious self exploded in a raging red blur of fiery need. The vicious power of it blew through her, a deep, vibrating chord sung by a choir of bass voices, all primeval and male. Gods, the thrilling sounds he made, deep in his throat, the delicious, solid weight of him crammed against her!