Thief of Light (27 page)

She wouldn’t look at him. “What?”

“Is there a song about seelies? Something everyone knows?”

Her elbow hit him in the belly, bringing him to an abrupt halt. She tilted her head back to search his face, her eyes wide. “You wouldn’t!”

“Don’t bet on it.” A weight lifting from his heart, Erik chuckled. “It’s no use looking so prim, sweetheart. Not when there’s evidence to the contrary.” He raised his dirty hand to touch her dimpled cheek and let it drop. Godsdammit.

“There’s the ‘Seelie Song,’ ” said Dai thoughtfully, “but it’s a nursery rhyme.”

Prue gurgled, an enchanting sound deep in her throat.

“Sing it for me,” demanded Erik.

Prue shook her head. “I can’t sing. I really can’t.”

“Nonsense, everyone can sing. But I’ll let it go for the moment. Dai?”

Grinning, the swordsman drew them into a doorway.

Before he’d reached the end of the first line, Erik was smiling too. “I know the tune,” he said. “But on Concordia, it’s about a little star that twinkles. The gods know how long children have been singing it. Centuries, I imagine. Thanks.” With grim relish, he clapped Dai on the shoulder. “It’s perfect.”

Erik had been right. The “Seelie Song”
was
perfect.

In the shadows of the Royal Box, Prue sat breathing hard, listening to a storm of applause so loud the walls of the theater vibrated. Sitting inside a huge bass drum must be like this. Dai would have said Erik the Golden had balls. Her lips twitched. When he wore the demon king’s breeches, there could be no question of what he had.

She’d never seen anything to beat tonight’s performance for sheer, bloody-minded gall. Erik had started with a hostile, curious crowd, baying for blood. And he’d made them his. Gods, by the final curtain, he owned their souls, right down to the last rough workingman out for trouble and a night on the town.

Ever the consummate showman, he’d strode on in the breeches and tall boots, his golden head held high, ignoring the heaving clamor emanating from the stalls.

A hoarse voice yelled, “Is that a seelie in yer pocket, mate?”

And another, “Or are ye jest happy to see us?”

Gales of cruel laughter.

Prue had flinched. Merciful Sister, if she felt flayed on Erik’s behalf, what was it like for him? She’d have given almost anything to be tucked up in bed with the covers drawn up to her chin. But Florien had been insistent, escorting her to the stage door, accompanying her to the box and planting himself at her side. She shot a glance to her right. The lad was perched cross-legged on the fine brocade seat, his dirty boots doing the Sister knew what damage to the queen’s upholstery.

When she’d asked what he thought he was about, he’d only muttered, “I promised. Shook ’ands.”

Onstage, Erik had opened his mouth and the notes had poured forth, an exquisite, airy ribbon of melody, redolent of virile power, flavored with the titillating wickedness of the demon king.

He had them in the palm of his hand long before he’d finished the first aria, Prue included. Surely she knew him better than anyone else in the city? Godsdammit, why wasn’t she immune? In fact, she could swear the effect was worse tonight. As the demon king died, singing superbly right through his death throes, all she could think of was the tender lightness of Erik Thorensen’s touch, the taste of his skin, his mouth sending her to the stars. Her bones melted with yearning, her blood burned slow and hot, and stupid tears brimmed in her eyes.

And then . . . Sister give her strength, she couldn’t believe the nerve of the man.

He’d gazed out over the footlights, hands on hips, and announced blandly he had something special for an encore. Even now, Prue didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Gods, he’d shoved the “Seelie Song” down their throats and made them love it.

By the second repetition, he had them singing the sweet, childish words with him.

 

 

After that, he let the audience carry the tune, while his magnificent baritone provided a kind of descant, swooping over and under the simple melody, decorating and embellishing, until the entire effect was almost too lovely to be borne.

 

A nursery rhyme! Sister save her!

They’d sung it a dozen times over before Erik held up his hand. “Thank you, my friends,” he said into an expectant hush, his voice perfectly pitched, calm and deep. He bowed, extravagantly low. “Today, before the Open Cabal, I spoke the truth. The Leaf of Nobility is dying. Seelies exist.”

No one moved. Or spoke.

“I wanted you to know that.” Another bow and a level, challenging look. He stepped back and the curtains swished together in a swathe of red velvet.

Dizzy with relief and awe, Prue sagged in her seat.

The tumult broke before she could draw her next breath. Some stood on their seats and clapped. Others shouted and stamped, Erik’s name on every lip.

He’d created a sensation. The entire city would be buzzing with it. Laughter bubbled up in her throat, and she pressed her lips together lest it escape.

Beside her, Florien let out a shaky breath. “Fookin’ ’ell.”

“Exactly.” Then she recollected herself. Gods, the child had a filthy mouth. “Florien—”

Correctly interpreting her expression, he cut her off. “Don’ bother.” He hopped out of the chair. “Comin’?”

Prue blinked. “Where?”

“T’ Erik. T’ talk about t’ meeting wit’ t’ Money man.”

“Not necessary.”

Rising, Prue settled the shawl across her shoulders so the embroidered seelies gamboling happily all the way to the fringed ends were clear to see. She had no idea why she’d worn it, except that, in a strange way, it seemed right, a gesture of solidarity. Besides, it was an extremely versatile garment. Abruptly, even the light touch of the silk was more warmth than she could bear. Letting the shawl slip back to her elbows, she inhaled carefully. What would it be like to feel him deep inside, to have him wrap her up, take over her senses until she was no more than a bundle of quivering sensation? To give herself over to his control, to the gentle restraint of silk?

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll take a skiff home.”

Florien grabbed her sleeve. “He sed you’d say thet. An’ he sed t’ say . . .” His brow furrowed with concentration. “He’ll give t’ five ’undred he owes ye t’ Rose.” The dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction at a job well done.

So that was the way he intended to play it? She couldn’t decide whether she was more irritated with Erik for such an obvious ploy or with herself for falling for it. By the Sister, she was going to give Master Thorensen a piece of her mind! And she wouldn’t be charmed into smiling, let alone laughing. Even if it killed her.

“Lead on,” she said resolutely.

Without a word, the lad trotted out of the box, taking a set of narrow back stairs down several flights to a warren of small, poky rooms. They brushed by men carrying mysterious toolboxes and a stout, harried fellow with a sheaf of papers. Everyone had a greeting for the boy, a curious glance for Prue. One of the scantily clad dancers, a lissome blonde with endless legs, reached out to ruffle Florien’s hair.

“Got yourself a lady friend, sweet cheeks?”

“Fook orf, Syd.” Florien ducked without breaking stride. “She’m Erik’s.”

Erik’s
. The casual assumption hit her so hard, Prue gasped aloud. She knew she ought to be outraged, and truly, she was, but she didn’t have the energy to spare to deal with that right now. The world was slipping sideways faster than she could grab it and haul it back. She’d never been one for emotional ups and downs, but merciful Sister, from the moment Erik Thorensen had opened his mouth, she’d been hurtling from the pinnacles to the depths and back again. It wasn’t good for her, truly it wasn’t.

Unobtrusively, she hauled in a couple of steadying breaths. She’d just have to do better, that was all. Keep her wits about her.

As they turned down yet another passageway, she glanced back over her shoulder. The dancer stood stock still, staring after them. Her pretty mouth drooped.

Catching up with the boy, Prue asked, “Who was that?”

“Sydarise.” Florien shot her a sly glance. “He was sweet on ’er month afore last.”

The woman was tall enough to fit his large frame. From the male point of view, it all made perfect sense. Not only beautiful, but convenient.

Prue slowed. What in the seven hells was she doing? She’d always been brutally honest with herself. Here she was, trotting off to Erik’s dressing room with her heart in her hands, brushing past his previous conquests on the way. She’d already decided the ephemeral pleasures of the present weren’t worth the certain pain of the future.

“Wait.” Prue grasped the boy’s thin shoulder. She swallowed. “I need a minute. Somewhere quiet.”

Florien stopped, studying her face from under his tangled fringe. Apparently satisfied, he grunted, grabbed a fistful of skirt and towed her down another passageway and into what was evidently a storeroom. The light spilling in through the doorway created a dusty twilight crowded with grotesque shapes—the gigantic haunch of some hoofed animal, a ship’s tall prow, four tattered shields hanging on hooks on the wall, all askew.

Leaning against the leprous trunk of an improbable tree, Florien fished a toothpick out of his tattered trews and stuck it in his mouth.

“Alone,” said Prue.

The boy’s brows drew together. “Why?”

Because what I decide to do tonight will change my life. And I’m scared.
“Never mind why.”

“But I sed t’ Erik I’d bring ye.” His sharp features grew pinched with worry.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find him. Promise.”

The child’s extravagant lashes swept down, then up. He had the most beautiful eyes, dark as Concordian chocolat. “Kin we shake ’ands?”

“Shake—Yes, of course, but why?”

“ ’Cos then ye ’ave t’ do it. On yer honor.” His skinny chest expanded. “Erik tol’ me.”

“Oh.” Prue’s heart gave the strangest little skip. “Show me which is his door before you go.” She extended her hand.

His pale cheeks flooding with color, Florien shook his head. “Nah,” he said, whipping his right hand behind his back. Clearly holding his breath, he offered his left.

Gravely, Prue shook it, the small fingers like a bundle of thin winter twigs in her grasp. “There,” she said. “My solemn promise.”

“Yah.” His good humor restored, Florien paused in the doorway. “Back t’ way we come, left an’ then third on t’ right.” He disappeared around the corner.

Behind the ship was a tall, freestanding swing, the upper part of its frame embellished with garlands of limp paper flowers. Slowly, Prue walked toward it, her skirts stirring up little eddies of dust.

It wasn’t as if she was incapable of taking a risk. By going into partnership with Rose and purchasing The Garden, she’d gambled with Katrin’s future as well as her own. Nonetheless, she’d left as little to chance as possible. By the time the decision was made, she and Rose knew everything there was to know about The Garden and how it operated.

With one hand, she set the seat swinging, testing the strength of the old timbers. Satisfied, she gathered up her skirts and sat, studying the toes of her evening slippers as she swayed gently to and fro.

What did she know of Erik Thorensen? Almost nothing—except he made her ache and burn for things she hardly understood. As clearly as if he stood before her in the gloom, she saw his delightful smile in all its incarnations, a spectrum he seemed able to range at will, from dazzling to apparently genuine, innocent to downright wicked.

Chavis had never had Erik’s lightness of touch, let alone his intelligence, but his smile had been just the same—an expression of complicity, one that promised a warmth that never came. Godsdammit, what was
wrong
with her? She thought she’d learned that lesson. There must be some inherent flaw in her personality, a weakness for sunny blue eyes and guileless smiles, for a man who could make her laugh.

Prue massaged her aching temples. If her only gift was balancing the books, then that’s what she’d do—assess the risks and make a rational decision.

What did she
really
want? Lifting her head, she stared blankly at the shields on the wall.

Yes, she wanted Erik—the pleasure of being encompassed, enveloped by his uncompromising masculinity. Her breath hitched. Gods, she wanted so desperately to be taken over, filled and fucked ’til she screamed aloud with the wanton joy of it. She’d never experienced that degree of abandon, but she knew, without a doubt, Erik could give it to her. And in return? In that Magickal chamber inside the Leaf of Pleasures, the taste of her most intimate flesh had brought him to climax. As he’d emerged from the water to burn her with his gaze, she’d felt the heady power of her femininity, a balm after the way he’d set her aside the night before.