Thief of Light (54 page)

On the wide desk were three trays, all containing papers, an ink block carved from what she suspected was the finest grade of marly jade from Trinitaria and a matching brush. Everything was aligned with finicky precision.

Intrigued, Prue tiptoed closer, but Erik tugged her back to the windows, his eyes bright. When Prue followed his gaze, she sagged with relief. Windows were a vulnerable point in any wealthy household. Naturally, they were locked—but from the inside. How very thoughtful.

The click of the key turning sounded very loud in the quiet room, almost as if it had an echo.

Prue turned her head, meeting the flat black gaze of the man who stood in the doorway.

She gasped. Smoothly, but with astonishing rapidity, the man’s hand rose, holding a sleek metal object with a bulbous nose and a handle that fit snugly in the palm.

“Down!” roared Erik, and what felt like a mountain hit her in the small of the back, bearing her down behind the desk.

A sizzling beam of light crackled through the space they’d just vacated.

Immediately, Erik rolled away. With one hand, he seized the tray of papers nearest the edge of the desk and flung it across the room.

More crackling shots and the tiny
whuff
of papers disintegrating. Then a strange smell—a combination of scorched rug and something Prue couldn’t identify, acrid and somehow metallic, as if the air itself was burning. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Erik grab the ink block.

“Come out,” said the man, his voice soft and even. “The master will wish to see you.”

“Fuck you,” growled Erik, rising silently to a crouch.

From under the desk, Prue could see the man’s boots, scuffed at the toes. He’d been dressed in unremarkable livery, a serviceable black. The master? Her spine crawled.

The boots moved two steps closer and stopped. “This is a lasegun,” said the servant, still in that oddly emotionless voice. “It is set to heavy stun, not to kill. Come out and I won’t hurt you. But there is no escape.”

“There are two of us and only one of you.” Watching Erik inch toward the far side of the desk, Prue projected her voice to cover any noise. “And we are not so fussy.”

She had the impression the man was smiling, even though she couldn’t see his face. “I do not fear death,” he said simply. “Why should I fear you?” He came another pace closer.

Erik rose from behind the desk like an avenging god and hurled the heavy ink block, straight at the man’s head. He followed it up by lunging across the room in a long, flat dive.

The block missed, striking their enemy’s shoulder, so that his arm flew up and back. The lasegun discharged into the wall, scoring a long black line across what was undoubtedly a priceless tapestry.

But Erik didn’t miss. He cannoned into the man in a driving tackle, sweeping his legs out from under him. They hit the floor with a jarring crash, Erik’s more than two hundred pounds of fury, muscle and bone on top.

Her mouth open, Prue saw his arm draw back and his big fist connect with the point of the servant’s chin, every ounce of pent-up rage and terror behind it.

A sickening crack and the man’s head lolled to the side, his hands falling limp, flopping on the rug like pale, upturned flowers.

Shakily, Prue rose to lay a hand on Erik’s heaving shoulder. “Is he dead?”

“Shit!” Erik fumbled under the man’s collar. He let out a whistling breath. “No, but I think I broke his jaw.” Slowly, he got to his feet, rubbing his knuckles. “Let’s get out of here before he comes ’round.”

“Gods, yes.” Prue darted to the window and pushed it open. As she threw a leg over the low sill, she said, “You don’t want to meet the ‘master.’ ”

Still shuddering, she stood blinking on a flagged path, her face lifted to the clear pale blue of the sky. How strange. She’d thought she’d never see it again. “What time is it?” she asked, as Erik took her hand and set off, striding out so rapidly she had to trot to keep up. “And where are we?”

“A couple of hours after dawn, I’d say. And we’re on the Leaf of Nobility. Can you go faster, sweetheart? I have a bad feeling.”

At any other time, Prue would have enjoyed the beauty of the palazzo’s garden, but now the curved, jinking paths were no more than irritating obstacles. Plunging indiscriminately across lawns and flower beds, they left wholesale destruction in their wake.

“You didn’t use the Voice,” said Prue.

“Didn’t think of it until I was almost on top of him.” Erik slanted a bright blue gaze her way. “And then it was too late.” He inspected his bruised knuckles. “Anyway, I enjoyed the hell out of hitting him, the slimy little bastard. Though I may have overdone it.”

He unlatched the wooden gate at the bottom of the garden and they stepped into an alley, a narrow back track for servants. “Who’s
them
?” he asked suddenly. “You said you told
them
you had no Magick. Was he one? The servant?”

“No.” Prue glanced back over her shoulder. More lights shone in the windows of the palazzo, but every now and then, one of them was obscured by a shadow, as if something impenetrably black had passed before it. It was descending from floor to floor. Soon it would reach the study.

Prue broke into a jerky trot, envying Erik his long legs. “He said he’s . . . the Necromancer,” she panted. “He’s not a man. Like a dark cloud . . . of evil. Darkness.”

She slanted a sideways glance at him, her breath rasping in her throat. “I’m not mad.”

Erik’s answering smile was grim. “After what I’ve just seen?” He huffed out a laugh without a trace of humor in it. “Fuck, after what I’ve done? I made a table dance in the air, right under the ceiling. I sang a demon to sleep. This”—he glanced back over his shoulder—“this is the task the gods gave me. I’d believe in anything now, up to and including death Magick.”

They passed one palazzo, then another. A stout woman carrying a basket walked by, ostentatiously averting her eyes from Prue’s precariously fastened garment. But although she sniffed and tossed her head, she took a lingering look at Erik’s chest from under her lashes. A man pushing a delivery cart grinned, whistling softly from between his teeth.

“In here.” Erik unlatched a spotlessly white gate.

Breathing heavily, Prue stared into the fanatical neatness of the garden beyond. Surely she knew this place? “Where are we going?”

“I’ve got a skiff moored at the water stairs here.”

Prue clamped her lips shut on a giggle. If she started she wouldn’t stop. “Do you know whose palazzo this is?”

“No,” said Erik. “And I don’t bloody care.”

“The Queen’s Money lives here and I doubt he’ll like—” Over Erik’s shoulder she watched a dark cloud rise to drift over the tall roofs and obscure the sun. It floated and spun, as if it were looking, searching . . .

“
Holy Sister!
” She clutched Erik’s arm. “Look! He’s coming! The Necromancer!”

Erik whirled to follow her gaze. “Fuck!” Without ceremony, he shoved her bodily through the gate. “Get down to the water stairs. Can you pole a skiff?”

“No, no!” Prue set her feet. “It’s not me he wants, it’s
you
!”

Erik stared. “Me?”

From farther down the alley came a thin scream, abruptly cut off, followed by a soundless vibration, like the silent laughter of a thunder demon. Gods, the stout woman! The bright morning grew dark. At Prue’s elbow, a touchme bush whimpered and died in a burst of brown rot.

Prue grabbed Erik’s arms and shook, not that he moved so much as an inch. She fairly danced with impatience. “He said I was the bait. For you, Erik. For your air Magick! Oh gods, I can
smell
him!”

Erik had gone pale to the lips, but he glared at the shadow racing over the rooftops, its edges spread like the wings of a gigantic corpsebird. “All right. If it’s me he wants, I’ll keep him busy. You run, Prue.
You run
.”

The Voice compelled her feet to move. Prue covered her ears with both hands. She dug her bare toes into the grass, concentrating on the cool blades brushing her soles. “Forget it,” she gritted.

Erik growled, picked her up and hustled her into a thick stand of ticklewhisker bushes.

“Very sweet,” said an odiously familiar voice. The Necromancer glided toward them across the green velvet of the lawn, leaving a trail of scorched brown grass in his wake. “So . . .” The cowled head tilted to the side, the gesture naggingly familiar. “You are the air wizard. Perfect.”

Erik folded his arms. An angry wind played with the foliage of the garden, tossing it about. “Perfect for what?”

“For my private use.”

The Necromancer hurtled forward, but not toward Erik. Prue squeaked. The dark arms elongated, reaching for her.

With a roar, Erik flung out a hand and a small tornado erupted in front of the ticklewhisker bushes. Clods of earth, twigs and leaves whirled in a mad dance.

With a dark chuckle, the Necromancer fell back. It had been a feint. “You know nothing,” he said, contempt thick in the toneless voice. “Less than nothing. You are a child.”

Erik bared his teeth and the tornado subsided. “The young have strength, energy.” His lip curled, and his voice dropped. “But you’re old, aren’t you? Old and tired.”

“With age comes experience. Knowledge.” The Necromancer swelled, his substance remaining dense and dark. “I am strong now, well fed.” He executed a mocking travesty of a bow. “My apologies. That is why I was late.”

Prue stared, horror turning her blood to ice.

“I only took the merest sip,” murmured the Necromancer, greasy as an illicit fondle, “but you wouldn’t believe how the Technomage screamed. Of course, that was only on the inside. Because, thanks to you, my dears, she couldn’t move a muscle.”

Gods, she was going to vomit. Here and now. Prue clapped a hand over her mouth.

The Necromancer sighed. “A remarkably irritating woman, the Primus. It’s a pity she’s so useful. I had to leave, ah, a portion.” He brightened. “But the taste was worth the wait. I promised myself that particular indulgence a long, long time ago, and I simply couldn’t rush it. Sorry.”

Prue swallowed hard. “And your servant? He said he didn’t fear death.”

“Nasake?” Another good-humored chuckle. “He does now.” The Necromancer made a repulsive sound, as though he’d licked his lips.

“Don’t tell me,” said Erik. “You included the Doorkeeper.”

“A cultivated taste, demons. They’re a trifle, ah, thorny.”

Erik’s fists clenched. “Well, you’re not having Prue. Over my dead body.”

“Oh, it won’t be
dead
,” drawled the Necromancer, and Prue saw Erik’s eyes widen in appalled comprehension. Beads of sweat popped on his brow.

She thrust the bushes aside and stepped forward. “It’s not a problem,” she said. “Because he can’t touch me without those damper things.” Trying desperately to hold her nerve, she stared deep into the fathomless darkness of the hood. “
Can you?
”

The Necromancer waved a dismissive hand. “Only Shaitan knows what you really are. Some mongrel aberration, I imagine. Fortunately, you’re not worth soiling my hands.”

Without any preamble, he rose and dropped over Erik like a filthy blanket woven of purest evil.

The pain of the Necromancer’s touch was indescribable. The
wrongness
of it seared like fiery claws, raking and gouging at the core of what formed the essential Erik, a unique and beloved creation of the gods.

His guts heaved, his entire body rebelled, and a blast of air Magick burst from him with a sound like a thunderclap. The concussion made his ears ring, but it flung the Necromancer back into a bed of bright summer blooms. They crisped and died.

Slowly, Erik got to his feet, never taking his eye from the threat. “Prue?”

“Y-yes?” Her voice came from behind him.

“Get clear. Quick, love.”

“All right.” A shuddering breath. The rustle of bushes as she retreated a short distance.

Erik flexed his shoulders. Magick was instinctive, or so Purist Nori had said. It seemed he did best if he worked from his emotions, the more primitive the better. Well then . . .

“So much for finesse.” The Necromancer floated a few feet above the ruined garden bed, his outline contracting and expanding as if he breathed. “You’re an amateur, boy.”

Erik brought the image of Prue as he’d found her to the forefront of his mind. The expression on her face when she first looked up from the floor, the flash of incredulous hope, her wounded soul shining out of her eyes. So cruelly used, so small—so indomitable. Gods, a woman in a million!

Growling, he let the rage boil over him, submerged himself in it, relished it, bathed in it. The Voice erupted from his chest, louder than thunder. The air cracked from top to bottom with invisible lightning, winds howled, trees moaned and creaked, their branches thrashing. Erik tracked the movement of the manic silvery flows all about him, sustaining the note as they grew darker and darker, until each was edged with the nimbus-purple of storm.