Thief of Light (4 page)

After the grand finale, he lost count of the curtain calls. The Unearthly Opera Company bowed again and again, hands linked, beaming. Erik stepped forward, gazing out into the darkened auditorium, savoring the expectant hush, the faces turned up to his like night-blooming flowers. This—
this
—was what kept him sane.

The blessing of the music. The audience.
Connection
. . .

After what he’d done—

Don’t go there, not now.
With the ease of long practice, he jerked himself out of the murky waters of memory.

After he’d . . . left home, it had taken him quite some time to realize it was when he sang that the Voice was truly the blessing the Lady had named it. An instrument of joy. Nothing more, nothing less. A few hours respite from the daily grind, smiles for tired faces. Sometimes, he thought it was like flying, feeling all those souls shake loose and soar free beside his. Together, they ranged the gamut of human emotion—from despair to triumph, hate to love.

Deliberately, Erik emptied his mind of all the distractions, settling himself for his favorite encore.
Great Lady
, he thought, as the first notes of the lullaby floated free,
this is the most beautiful thing I can make for You. Take it as yet another down payment on my bloody penance.

He didn’t even realize he’d made a choice until he was on the final verse and the woman seated beside the dark beauty used her fingers to wipe the tears from her cheeks like a child. Next to such perfection, she was decidedly plain, but she kept drawing his gaze. Why that should be, he had no idea, but something about her hooked him at a deep, primeval level. Perhaps it was because she was so small, so feminine, sitting with her spine ramrod straight in the indomitable way of bossy women the worlds wide. Her very posture constituted a challenge to his masculinity, his charm. She seemed so perfectly contained, the temptation to unravel her was irresistible.

The decision made, Erik relaxed into the music, smiling on the inside. She wouldn’t have a chance. He’d wrap her up, envelop her, overwhelm her with pleasure ’til she screamed.

Speculations rioted in his brain: What perfume did she wear? He loved the way women smelled. Was her voice light or deep? How would she look when she laughed? Or when she was poised on a pinnacle of pleasure, lost to propriety, gone beyond rational thought? He had to know.

Oh yes.
That one.
He’d never seen a courtesan quite like her before. A refreshing change. She’d do very well, very well indeed.

By the time it was all finished, the lullaby, the applause, the bows, he was alight, every vestige of depression washed away by the stimulation of performance. This was what filled the empty places—the thrill of it, the rush. How could the gods think he’d give it up?

By way of an encore, Erik the Golden sang a lullaby unaccompanied, his voice a thread of dark gold woven around the weeping heart.

 

 

Prue had always loved the “Lullaby for Stormy Eyes,” but she’d never heard it sung this way, like an exquisite, aching elegy. As the last notes fell away to a throbbing hush, she scrubbed at the tears on her cheeks.

The world seemed to hang suspended for a moment, as if the Sister Herself held Her breath. Someone clapped, hesitantly, then someone else. Suddenly, the Royal Theater was buried under an avalanche of noise—shouting, stamping, clapping, cheering. People stood and yelled at the tops of their voices. It made Prue’s head swim.

Erik Thorensen bowed again and again. He looked straight at the courtesans’ box, his eyes bright. Prue felt the impact of that glance as though he’d pressed his mouth between her open thighs, though she knew he had to be looking at Rose, because all men looked at the Dark Rose. They couldn’t help it.

A final bow and he blew a kiss in their general direction. Then he strode offstage and the lights went up. Prue pulled in a shuddering breath, folding her hands in her lap.

“Gods, that was wonderful. Here.” Rose sank back in her seat and thrust a handkerchief at Prue. “Blow your nose, you great softy.” She frowned, reaching out to undo the top two buttons of Prue’s one and only evening gown.

“Rose, what—?” Prue batted at her hands, but Rose persisted.

“We’re going to a party.” Briskly, Rose smoothed the fabric open, exposing the upper swell of Prue’s plump breasts.

“Rosarina!”

A dark brow arched and Rose’s strange, long-lashed eyes gleamed, dark and mysterious as moonslight on the sea canals of Caracole. Her lips twitched. “Erik the Golden just sent us an invitation to Her Majesty’s reception. Did I forget to tell you?”

Death Magick wasn’t all doom and gloom—a common, if ignorant assumption. The Necromancer’s lips twitched as he leaned back into the velvet embrace of his seat. Of course, a little terror, judiciously applied, was very sweet, but it wasn’t as if he was incapable of appreciating life and laughter.

Beauty.

His thoughtful gaze dipped below him to the left, to the dozen or so courtesans preparing to leave their private box, highlighted like a bed of exquisite blooms by the glowglobes. He moved on, to where the last two had risen to shake out their skirts. They were deep in conversation, their heads together in the manner of old friends, comfortable in each other’s space. The taller had a sweep of shining midnight hair, spilling soft and straight and thick all down her back, the other appeared to be short and softly curved, her hands gesturing busily as she spoke. From this angle, all he could see of her was one creamy rounded cheek, a determined little chin. Her hair was a gleaming nut brown, lightly confined in a net of gold, her gown a simple, severe black.

Then the tall woman turned her head. She was laughing, her face alight with pleasure and humor, and despite himself, the Necromancer’s brows rose. He’d never seen a woman more alluring, and Shaitan knew, he was immune to feminine charms.

Interesting. This had to be famous Dark Rose herself. The copper-satin skin, the lush mouth, the magnificent body clad in a simple burgundy gown of such surpassing elegance that it enticed even as it concealed.

Her establishment was well named. The Garden of Nocturnal Delights was the most exclusive, expensive courtesan house in Caracole of the Leaves. Indeed, on Palimpsest itself. The Necromancer had never been to The Garden. Money was not an issue, but he had no need for the pleasures of the flesh, and no interest either, not from the moment he’d discovered the sublime taste of soul-death, the screaming, writhing, astonishing intensity of it, filling him, exalting him, sending him to the stars. Sex paled in comparison.

The Necromancer’s fingers flexed on the arm of his chair. He prided himself on his precision, though no audience had yet survived the performance to applaud his skill. The whores were in his line of sight. It would be child’s play to reach out, choose one—it made no matter which, the tall or the short—and then . . . Oh yes. He’d take her spinal cord between his invisible fingers and
squeeze
, oh so slowly. Those pretty eyes would open wide while her mouth contorted with agony and fear and her friends panicked all around her.

He’d drink her down at his leisure, sip her soul as if she were an aperitif. She’d squirm like a fish on a cruel hook, but by the end, he’d have her—everything she’d ever been, everything she’d ever known or thought or imagined or done.

His.

Tapping a forefinger against his lower lip, the Necromancer considered his options.

Erik’s lips quirked as he bowed and murmured greetings. The reception had started well. The elegant, chattering crowd milled around right on the stage, the good citizens of Caracole clearly titillated by their glimpse of the glamour behind the velvet curtains.

His blood still ran hot, rushing and tumbling through his veins. Where was she, his little courtesan? Lord’s balls, what he needed now was a soft body and a horizontal surface. No, fuck that, he’d have her standing up, against the wall, the door. Who cared? After the first urgency was out of the way, they’d negotiate the rest. He’d torture them both with pleasure for the rest of the night.

No sign of the women yet, though he knew the boy had conveyed his invitation. Gods, tonight it was actually good to be alive!

“Erik, perhaps you would sing one more for us?” A pause. “
Erik?
”

It dawned on him he’d been peering over the queen’s elegantly coiffed gray braids toward the wings. Heads were turning in the same direction, one after the other.

A tall, graceful woman gowned all in burgundy emerged from the shadows. Erik’s gaze darted past her. Yes! The dark beauty paused by the curtain to whisper to the neat figure at her side.

“Delighted, Your Majesty,” said Erik promptly. “Would you care for a love song? Something light and charming?”

Queen Sikara looked him up and down with a shrewd twinkle, her approval so endearingly frank, he couldn’t possibly take offense. There’d only been time to remove the makeup, peel off the false beard and doff the jacket, so he was still clad in the dress shirt, now a trifle limp and sweaty, the breeches and those ridiculous boots.

“Excellent,” said the monarch with decision. “Whenever you’re ready.” Which meant,
Now, idiot.

Smiling inwardly, Erik bowed and went to find the accompanist he preferred. By the time the man had tuned his lute, the crowd had thickened, buzzing. Inconspicuously, Erik flipped open the buttons at his throat and sucked in a succession of slow, deep breaths. He wasn’t nervous, that rarely happened these days, but he was keyed up, tense in a way foreign to his usual composure.

It was true what the Lady had said, the women did come and go in an endless procession. Sometimes, when all went well, there was more to the act than physical gratification—the merest flicker of connection, a pale shadow of something real. Just for that fleeting instant, the touch of it would soothe the hollow ache in his soul.

He still hadn’t been able to get a closer look at his quarry, though he was preternaturally aware of her standing near one of the fake pillars stage left.

He’d have to be careful with her. It would be so easy to take both her wrists in one big hand and hold her helpless while he suckled her pretty breasts and she bucked and squirmed with the pleasure of it. Her skin would be warm, cream and honey and salt on his tongue, and she’d make wonderful noises. He might even use the flat of his hand, but carefully. Her plump little bottom would flush the prettiest pink while she sobbed with mingled shock and delight, and when he stroked her, she’d soak his fingers . . .

Right. Erik pinched the bridge of his nose. Focus on the music.

He loved the song he’d chosen, a lilting melody in an ancient form called a
canzonetta
. The rest of the work it came from was lost, the story of an unrepentant roué and his descent into hell. Only this and a few other fragments of genius remained.