Thief of Light (31 page)

Erik bowed his head. “Yes, Lord.”

We have work for you to do, My Lady and I
.

“Yes, Lord.” He risked a sidelong glance, but it was like looking into the sun. His eyes teared.

An inquiring breeze caressed his cheek, a drift of dark, exquisite perfume. In the frozen deeps of space, the stars danced in their cold beds. Another vast presence.

So young
, She murmured.
So strong. Are you strong enough, Erik?

Oh, the feminine, velvet beauty of that voice! Erik hardened, he couldn’t help it. “I—I don’t know, my Lady.”

Ah, the hot blood of youth
. But She didn’t sound displeased.

Somewhere far off, he could hear the rushing of a mighty wind. Erik licked his lips. “What . . . what would You have me do?”

An interminable pause, during which he imagined the gods exchanging glances, or speaking mind to mind—or living a hundred lifetimes. Who knew? Every cell in his body vibrated with awe and terror. His teeth chattered so hard, he had to clench them together.

At last, the Lady said, gently enough,
We cannot tell you without altering the Pattern
.

The storm drew closer, turbulence plucking at Erik’s hair, pushing against his body. Pattern? What Pattern?

If you fail in this service
, said the Lord,
your death will be fodder for something foul. It will be interminable
. A huge arm gestured at the shabby bedchamber.
In comparison, this end is clean and good
.
You are well mourned.

Involuntarily, Erik looked for Ma, but the room had grown small and blurry, as if viewed down the wrong end of a spyglass. He squinted. His mother had thrown herself over his long frame, gut-wrenching sobs racking her body. Carl was standing by the bed, clutching his limp hand. Gods, was he
crying
, his hellion of a little brother? Where were Pieter and Lars? Oh there, with the healer, their backs pressed to the wall, their cheeks tear-stained.

We will give you your life, together with a gift
, said the Horned Lord.
A weapon, a tool, a pleasure. A curse. Up to you.

The air swirled, the pitch of the wind rising to an eldritch shriek. Ominous gray purple clouds filled the tunnel, obscuring the bedchamber. They roiled with lightning.

Quickly
! urged the Lady.
Decide
.

“I want to live,” said Erik.

Of course
. The Lord chuckled, though there was little humor in it.
Everyone does. Even Death
.

Erik was still puzzling over that one when the Lord tossed him a small object. Automatically, he caught it.

A gleaming fragment of horn, intricately whorled and scored with fluting patterns. So beautiful. Erik’s gaze flew to the deity. He winced, putting up a hand to shield his eyes. “My Lord!”

Look carefully
, said the god dryly.
And remember that we all pay
.

Dark blood flowed freely from the horn. Glowing like liquid fire, it covered Erik’s palm, dripped over his wrist. A god’s blood. His mouth fell open. “But—”

The Lady’s huge, star-dappled hand closed around the back of his neck and jerked him forward. Helpless, Erik hung in Her grasp, his eyes clamped shut in terror. Soft lips touched his, the caress a torment so pleasurable it burned like fire and ice. A gust of sweet breath blew down his throat—summer and sex, grass with the sap rising, flowers and the smell of rainbows.

When She dropped him, a storm picked him up and whirled him about, light as a dried leaf. It beat at his senses, punched him hard in the chest with a battering ram of air. Coughing, he opened his eyes, his mother’s startled face inches from his own.

Beneath the covers, the seventeen-year-old Erik clenched his fist over the god’s talisman.

In the dressing room under the Royal Theater, Erik laid his fingers over Prue’s as she curled them over it.

How long would it be before he’d slip again? His track record with Prue wasn’t exactly stellar. To make it worse, she was becoming temptingly susceptible to his control. Muzzling the Voice tonight had required the most severe exercise of his will. What the hell was it about Prue McGuire that clawed at his soul, slicing his self-discipline to tattered ribbons? Was it the challenge of her? Or the comfort?

If he was vigilant, censoring every word that came out of his mouth, he might manage it for months, possibly a year or so. But no spontaneity, none of the joy of loving freely and well. He’d never had that, but godsdammit, until he’d glimpsed it, he hadn’t realized the loss of that bright possibility would be so piercing.

The Voice came from somewhere so deeply hooked into his masculinity, it was woven all around what it was to be a man—to be Erik Thorensen. Inevitably, it would happen, sooner or later, the end of anything real. The keener his desire, the greater the risk.

Fuck, he couldn’t bear it!

Erik wrapped both arms around Prue, holding her close, aching as if he’d been in a tavern brawl. Her compact body was so warm, her soft breath a balm against his skin. He rubbed his burning eyes. Just a little longer and he’d take her home to The Garden.

As the skiff passed beneath the delicate arch of the Bridge of Amours, the Necromancer caught sight of his servant waiting at the small water stair behind The Garden, as ordered. Springing forward, Nasake offered a steadying arm as the Necromancer climbed from the small craft. His master safely delivered to the top of the stairs, he ran back down the stairs, fumbling at his belt pouch.

“Wait,” said the Necromancer. He detested waste. Especially when it came to money. Catching the skiffman’s eye, he smiled. “Thank you, my friend.”

As he spoke, he reached into the other man’s mind and smeared his memory with a spectral thumb. Unfortunately, the Necromancer didn’t have time for finesse, so the skiffman would likely find he was missing an entire day. Or two.

His eyes blank, the skiffman nodded. Leaning forward, he rested his head against the pole and drifted away under the Bridge of Amours and around the bend in the canal.

The Necromancer turned to survey the pretty pavilion situated next to the water. “This it?” A narrow, shady path meandered away around the perimeter of the Leaf in the general direction of the bridge.

“Yes, Master. Clouds and Rain it’s called. The farthest from the Main Pavilion.”

“And you hired it for how long?”

“All morning, Master. As you instructed.”

Nasake’s tongue crept out to flick his lips. “Last year, there was a murder inside. The pavilion’s still not popular, though they gutted it. Everything’s new.”

The Necromancer cocked a brow. “You felt traces?”

“Oh yes. There was . . . blood.”

“Hmm.” Violent death. Good. Every little bit helped. The Necromancer’s lips curved with satisfaction. He could have had Nasake set up the meeting anywhere, but this little-used pavilion at the far end of The Garden? A stroke of genius. Moreover, it amused him to plot the witch-whore’s destruction right under her pert little nose.

Nasake ushered him through a latticed gate and into a private courtyard.

“The assassin?”

“Five minutes.”

The Necromancer’s eye fell on a half-grown mongrel dog tethered to a purplemist tree that shaded the small space with an umbrella cloud of lilac. “What’s this?”

At the sound of his voice, the dog squatted and peed. Its eyes rolled so far the whites showed.

Nasake’s already pasty face went gray. “Master, you said a dog would do if I couldn’t get a child. I . . . uh . . . There was so little . . .”

The Necromancer raised a hand and the manservant froze. “I’ll deal with you later. I trust the assassin is more satisfactory?”

“Oh yes, Noblelord. She’s skilled with poison. With the budget you gave me, the Guild Master said—”

“It’s a woman? Oh, never mind.”

A
dog
? It wasn’t going to be as good, godsdammit. As he glared, the mongrel lifted a leg and scratched behind one flop ear. Disgusting creature. Full of bitemes, no doubt. With any luck, he’d be strong enough to do without it. Crossly, he stumped into the pavilion.

Nasake had everything in place, including an easy chair and a footstool. All the furnishings were elegant, gray or silver, with touches of lavender. The comforter on the bed looked as plump and soft as a cloud. A low table inlaid with light wood bore a tray piled high with sweetmeats, a tisane pot and cups, and a flask of spiced wine. The Necromancer’s lip curled. By Shaitan, did the man think he was made of money?

“What’s all this for?” he asked coldly.

“For her, Noblelord. Mehcredi the assassin. She likes fine food.”

From outside came the sound of a heavy tread on the gravel of the path. With his usual efficiency, Nasake thrust the dog into the room and disappeared.

The Necromancer skewered the mongrel with an angry glare. “Sit.” The animal collapsed, flat to the floor, as if every bone in its body had crumbled to dust.

Silently, the door swung open. The assassin would be waiting on the other side, assessing the situation. They were all trained like that. Much good would it do her.

Pulling in a breath, the Necromancer donned the cloak of his Dark Arts. “Enter,” he called, his tone light and colorless.

A shadow darkened the doorway. When Mehcredi the assassin ducked her head and stepped inside, the Necromancer was hard put not to laugh aloud. The woman was broad shouldered, taller than most men. The many layers of clothing she wore exaggerated the bulky effect. She was so winter pale she had to be from the ice fields in the frozen north. A barbarian.

Her silver gaze scanned the pavilion and collided with his. The Necromancer wouldn’t have thought it possible, but her ivory skin went a shade paler. Her mouth falling open, she stared into the darkness beneath his hood. “Take care, assassin,” he said bitingly. “Curiosity shortens the life. Shut the door and sit. As you see, I have provided for you.”

The woman blinked, taking in the pastries with their gleaming, sugared fruits, the small pies stuffed with savory meat. She swallowed.

The Necromancer waved a hand, enjoying himself. “The chairs are too flimsy. Take the bed.”

As her rump made the mattress dip, Mehcredi said, “Who are you?”

“A client,” said the Necromancer. “But I’m sure you’re not supposed to ask that. Refreshments?”

The assassin shot a glance at the tray, but she didn’t move.

“Here.” He propelled the dog forward with a boot to its bony backside. “The food is safe, but you may use this if you are nervous.” Although its tail was clamped between its legs, the animal’s nose quivered as it raised its head. Beneath the scruffy fur, every rib showed. The Necromancer could have counted them had he been so inclined.

Mehcredi broke off a piece of noodle cake and dropped it on the floor. Inching forward on its belly, the dog stretched out its neck and snatched. It fixed hopeful eyes on the assassin’s face.

Watching the dog, the woman said, “What’s the job?” She lobbed another morsel in the animal’s direction. A pink tongue snaked out and licked it up.

“A singer. Erik the Golden, they call him.”

A startled silver gaze flew toward him and skittered away again. “The crazy one?” she said. “Everyone’s talking about him. The seelie man.” She bit the side of her thumb, thinking about it. Under the lacquered windowsill, the water of the canal chuckled as it lapped along the garden wall. “Might cost more.” Another sidelong glance.

Soundlessly, the Necromancer laughed and watched her rub the goose bumps on her neck. “Indeed?” he said, genuinely amused. “What makes you think you’re worth it? Are you a Master Assassin, perhaps?”

The woman got to her feet, selected a pastry and took a healthy bite. Her hand shook. “No,” she mumbled. The dog crept forward to lick up the crumbs from around her boots.