Thief of Light (44 page)

How could she answer? On one level, Prue was sure she’d known Erik forever, soul cleaving to soul. On another, he was a mystery, and her bafflement hurt. He seemed so open, but it was all part of the fa çade he presented to the world—and to her.

“Is he worth all this . . . mess?” persisted Rose. “Does he make you happy?”

Helplessly, Prue shrugged. “I don’t know the answer to either of those questions.”

But she did. He
could
be worth it. He
could
make her happy.

That was the problem.

Prue shook herself out of her daze. He was here now, safe, his voice rising like a gift woven of air and supple gold. She’d see him soon. Her heart beating uncomfortably hard, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, took her underlip firmly between her teeth and applied herself to the Unearthly Opera’s accounts.

Half an hour later, she heard the thud of boots on the stairs, two at a time. Carefully, she laid the ink brush on the block and clasped her hands together in her lap to stop the trembling.

Just for tonight
, he’d said in that strange, compelling voice, but she wanted so much more! Clearing her throat, she arranged her features in an expression of friendly welcome.

A single brisk rap, the door banged back and Erik surged into the room like a whirlwind. “Prue!” Without hesitation, he strode around the desk, plucked her out of the chair and into his arms. Growling happily, he kissed her, taking his time, soft and wet and luxurious.

Prue tangled her fingers in his hair, pressing close. When he raised his head, he said, “Did you like the song?”

“I—”

She got no further, because he picked her up and carried her over to the couch in the sitting room, where he kissed her until they were both breathless. “I sang it for you. Because that’s how it was, the first time I saw you.”

Prue smacked his shoulder, but lightly. “You’re insatiable.” Ah hell, now she was blushing. “I mean for compliments.”

His eyes danced. “Of course I am,” he said. “On all counts.” Then he sobered, staring down at her in silence.

Prue dropped her gaze to the wedge of golden, hair-dusted skin in the collar of his shirt. “What?”

Erik cleared his throat, his cheeks pink. “You all right? I wasn’t too rough?”

Unable to think of a response that didn’t betray her utterly, Prue shook her head.

Erik drew a black velvet bag out of his belt pouch. “I know I said just the night.” He thrust it into her hands. “But—” He broke off to run a hand through his hair, a blond lock flopping back over his forehead. Impatiently, he brushed it out of his eyes. “I wanted you to have a remembrance.”

“I already have the shawl. Erik, you mustn’t—”

“Yes, I must.” His jaw set. “I
will
. Open it, Prue. I don’t want to compel you.”

As if he could. Prue snorted. The tygre at the table. The issue neither of them had broached from the moment he’d laid her down on the bed in the Bruised Orchid and reached for the hairbrush.

She untied the bag’s drawstring and upended it. Two bands of gleaming silver tumbled into her lap. Each bracelet was about an inch wide, light, yet sturdy, and chased with a delicate design of touchme flowers interlaced with lover vines.

“Oh,” she said. “
Oh
.”

“Here,” murmured Erik. “Let me.” Taking her hand, he slid a bracelet onto her wrist with careful fingers. In fact, it was more like an elegant cuff, because there was no clasp, but set into it at either end were two large, brilliant cut aquamarines.

He ran his thumb over her knuckles. “The stones are first grade, the same color as your eyes.” His beautiful voice sounded husky. “Give me your other hand.”

Cuffs
.

Prue snapped out of her daze. “Erik, I can’t accept—”

“Don’t you like them?”

“They’re exquisite.” Sadly, Prue caressed the curling lines of a vine with a fingertip.

Erik rose and took two jerky steps to the window. “Last night,” he said, apparently speaking to the bushes in the garden, “was the most amazing night of my life. It may not have come freely, but nonetheless, you gave me a gift I will always treasure.”

He turned to face her, his expression carefully neutral, his hands clasped behind his back. “The bracelets are cuffs, to symbolize what we shared, though only you and I will know that. I won’t force you to wear them, Prue, but I’d like it very much if you would.”

Prue met his eyes and made a discovery. “Erik Thorensen,” she said severely, “you’re playing on my sympathy. Don’t you have any principles at all?”

“When it comes to you?” His smile went awry. “No, none.”

His face in the mirror. Despair and pain and an odd sort of resignation, as if it wasn’t a question of whether life would kick him in the teeth, but when. Prue’s heart contracted.

Slowly, she slid on the second bracelet and extended both hands to study the effect. The metal was light against her skin, the merest hint of restraint. Her breath quickened and a pulse pattered between her legs. Why she should feel simultaneously stimulated and comforted, she couldn’t fathom, but the sensation was so unsettling, she spoke before she thought. “You don’t own me, Erik.”

A brow rose. “No,” he agreed, equably enough, but a small, satisfied smile graced his lips.

“Walk with me.” Prue tugged at Erik’s arm. Under her fingers, the muscles were so rigid, they felt like sun-warmed iron.

Reluctantly, he allowed her to lead him away from the offices of the Queen’s Money and into a broad avenue lined with mature purplemist trees. “Useless,” he growled. “Fucking useless.” He stopped to glare back at the building, his face dark with fury. “All he wanted was you, the cunning old bastard.”

Prue sighed. “I should have expected it. The Money’s been trying to lure me away from Rose for years.”

“Why were there so many clerks?” asked Erik, pursuing some thought of his own. “Gods, they were in and out the whole time with their ears flapping. Sign this, check that.” His lips twisted. “I couldn’t use the Voice, and without it, he didn’t hear two words of what I had to say.”

“Voice or no Voice, he wasn’t interested, Erik.” She came to a stop, looking up into his face. “No one in authority is.”

“The Leaf of Nobility is going to drown. Maybe the whole fucking city.” Erik’s jaw knotted. “I’ll go elsewhere.” He strode off so rapidly, she had to trot to catch up with him.

“Where?”

He cast her a narrow glance. “The people. I’ll work the taverns and the markets.” His teeth flashed in a savage grin. “A riot, a rabble. I don’t care. Get enough people in the streets and I’ll have their attention.”

“The City Guard’s too, I imagine.”

“Don’t give a shit. This is too important.” His steps slowed as he took in their surroundings. “Where
are
we?”

Prue smiled. “The Sibling Gardens. Come and sit in the shade.”

Erik stared at the sculpted landscape shimmering before them in the sun, green, peaceful and so elegantly spare that he blinked. Lord’s balls, Caracole was an amazing place! They stood beneath a tall, arched gate constructed of wooden beams lacquered a deep shiny red. At his elbow, Prue had turned her head to gaze at a narrow, graceful bridge spanning a pond, the dark water a mirror for the trees and clouds above. Her lips were curved with pleasure and some of the trouble had left her eyes. Good.

Erik slipped an arm about her waist and they walked on, planning, past families picnicking on the grass, lovers twined together under the trees.

“Wait,” said Prue. “I should take notes.” From her belt pouch, she withdrew her notebook and pencil and sat down on a wooden bench. She indicated the formal glade around them, mercifully empty, though he could hear the squeals of happy children from nearby. “This is one of my favorite places.”

A waterfall sparkled cheerfully through a maze of rocks and into a narrow stream bordered with weeping plants and reedy grasses. The skeins of water arched like thin bridges made of glass, their splashing voices singing a melody he could almost discern. Framed by the brushing fronds of a couple of bending widow’s hair trees, a huge, rectangular block of seastone baked in the sun.

There was something familiar about the juxtaposition of rocks and water, the dense grove of touchme bushes tinkling as they swayed in the light breeze off the sea. Erik turned to Prue. “Who—?”

She smiled. “Walker. We need to show him the seelies.” Briskly, she scribbled his name. “Who else?”

“Sergeant Rhiomard, I suppose. Yachi the guard. Rose, of course.” He shrugged. “You work it out. I don’t know many people here. Prue . . .” He hesitated. “I doubt the seelies will appear on command. They’re wild creatures, not pets. It might backfire, though I guess we can try. Make a list of taverns as well, all the places I can sing.” He hummed the first bar of the “Seelie Song.”

Someone hummed it back to him, very softly.

“Who was that?”

“Hmm?” enquired Prue, her pencil moving rapidly down the page.

“Listen.” He did it again and got the same response. There had to be someone behind the block of seastone. It was certainly coming from over there.

“Oh, that’s the flow sculpture,” she said without looking up. She waved the pencil in a preoccupied sort of way. “Read the plaque over there. You have to provoke it.”

“
Provoke
it?”

Prue set the notebook and pencil aside, the aquamarines in her cuffs distracting him as they glittered, though they were no brighter than her dancing eyes. Primitive satisfaction moved through him.
Mine
.

“Blow on it,” she said.

“
Blow
—? All right.” Pulling himself together, Erik moved closer, pursed his lips and blew.

The surface of the flow sculpture slithered and spun in a kaleidoscope of gentle color. It formed a tiny mouth that puffed out a scented breeze.

Erik reared back. “Lord’s balls!”

Prue laughed outright. “Wonderful, isn’t it? It responds to different stimuli.” Rising, she came to slip a hand into his. She did it unthinking, so naturally that his heart lurched in his chest. “Sing again, Erik.”

Cautiously, he began the “Seelie Song.” After a few seconds, little ripples stirred, flexing in time with the music, combining and recombining in complex patterns. The stone changed color, until it was every possible shade of blue and green, cobalt to emerald, with infinite variations.

Prue pointed. “Look, there’s a seelie. And another.”

There were. Tiny seelies gamboling among the feathery fronds of water weeds. The air smelled briny and fresh.

A work of genius.

Erik switched to the “Lullaby for Stormy Eyes.”

Without missing a beat, the flow sculpture reassembled. Broad swathes of amethyst and lavender swept back and forth. Slow drops of water trickled down like tears squeezed from a diamond. It wasn’t until threads of gold and silver wove themselves into the pattern that he realized the sculpture was singing harmony in an impossibly high key, clear and pure.

The last note lingered and died, leaving silence save for the tinkling voice of the waterfall.

Someone clapped.

Erik whirled around. They had an audience of about a dozen strangers, some wearing formal, light-colored robes, others obviously families out for the day. A couple of guards stood with their arms folded, watching impassively. Laughing, he grasped Prue’s hand and pulled her down with him into a bow.

“Mistress McGuire.” A short, tubby figure stepped forward, beaming. “And Master . . . um . . . ?” He cocked his head to one side like a curious bird.

Erik remembered that gesture. The Queen’s Knowledge.

“Thorensen,” he said shortly. “The singer.”

“Of course, of course.” The Knowledge rubbed his hands together, the long sleeves of his robe swinging. “That was quite delightful. Come, walk with me. I’m on my way back to the Library. After a session with the Cabal, I find such beauty—ahem—soothing.” He twinkled.