Crown of Shadows (17 page)

“Thank you,” he said softly. “For listening.” His fingers stroked her cheek gently as he spoke, sending shivers down her spine. “It’s been a long time since anyone did that.”

She tried to respond, but the words caught in her throat. His fingers moved into her hair, twining amidst the dark strands. Sweet, possessive caress. “I ...” she whispered, but the rest of the words were all gone. Lost, as all of language was lost to her now.

He studied her for a moment and then leaned down to kiss her slowly—oh, gods, so slowly—so that she might pull away if she wanted to, drawing her close to him, one arm about her waist now and one hand entangled in her hair, his lips warm and so very sweet against her own. With a soft moan she shut her eyes, and her keys fell to the floor with a clatter as she clung to him, her heart pounding wildly against his chest. So close that she could feel the ridges of gold braid pressing against her breasts, the caress of fine silk against her cheek. She trembled as she held him, frightened by the hunger she sensed in him, even more frightened by that which she sensed in herself. Never in her life had she felt such an utter lack of control—

And then the moment was over. He drew back from her slightly but did not release her. Studying her, she thought. Assessing her response. And what if he decided to press on with this evening’s sport? She had no strength to resist this man, she realized that now. Even more: she had no
desire
to resist him.

But he stepped back, gently, his fingers releasing her hair with obvious reluctance, stroking her cheek as they withdrew. His fingertips left lines of fire on her skin, that spread heat throughout her body. It took everything she had not to move into his arms again, to invite a more lasting intimacy. Then, suddenly, his feet brushed the keys on the floor; the unexpected noise shattered the fragile moment like glass. With a smile he stooped down and scooped them up, then placed them in her hand. Gently he folded her fingers over them, each motion a tiny caress.

“I’d like to see you again,” he said quietly.

“I would like that,” she whispered. Somehow managing to get the words out.

She thought that he would kiss her again—it seemed that he almost did—but instead he drew back from her. He was going to leave, she realized. Now. Before ... Without ... She didn’t know if she was more relieved or disappointed.

“I’ll call on you,” he promised. And then he stepped away from her, and he bowed ever so slightly—an outdated gesture, so ridiculous for others, so graceful for him—and with a parting smile he strode casually down the stairs. Owning her soul, as perfectly as if he had stayed the night to claim it in passion.

Head pounding, knees weak, she leaned against the door to her apartment and tried to catch her breath.

Dear gods,
she prayed. Even her inner voice was shaking.
What have I gotten myself into?

He could have done it, he thought. Could have had her tonight. Could have lost himself in the heat of her body, drowned out his sorrow in a few desperate hours of pleasure.

But he hadn’t. And that wasn’t like him.

What had happened?

Walking down the night-shrouded streets, he struggled to comprehend his own feelings. What made this woman so unnerving? What made him so uncertain about how to handle her? Surely it wasn’t a fear of impotence this time; his body had signaled its willingness to cooperate hours ago. So what was the problem? Fate had provided him with a cool, clear night and a beautiful woman, and hours of leisure to have his way with both....

Only I don’t want to hurt her,
he thought.

It was a strange sensation. Usually he didn’t care what happened to women once they left his arms; the stronger ones came back for more, the weaker ones would learn to be more careful in the future. But this girl ... she awakened wholly new feelings within him, emotions he didn’t even know how to name, much less respond to. The thought that he might cause her pain for an instant, even by so harmless a vehicle as seduction, was unbearable to him. And he had seen the fear in her eyes. Pleasure also, and a hunger to match his own, but the fear was there. And he couldn’t bear to make that worse. Not for any price.

He remembered her touch on his hand, in the restaurant. So tender. So caring. When was the last time a woman had really cared about him? Or anyone, for that matter? When was the last time he’d kissed a woman and sensed nothing but pleasure in her—not some cold calculation of how much he was worth, how much he might be enticed to spend on her, how much she might manage to get from him in the long run if she played her cards right? It had been bad in the days before his family’s death, but a thousand times worse afterward, when the whole Tarrant fortune was his. It was all part of the game, he’d told himself. He’d come to expect it, and learned not to be bitter.

But this woman was different. This woman, when she kissed him—

He had to stop in the street for a moment, as the memory of that experience overwhelmed him. How long had it been since he had felt such acute desire for a woman? His hands shook as he remembered the silken smoothness of her hair between his fingers, the velvet softness of her cheek. Her scent was alive in his nostrils, sweet natural perfume more perfect than any man-made imitation. The desire he felt was more intense than any sensation which drugs might have spawned, and for the first time in months it occurred to him that he might make it through a night without some artificial aid to support him. Just memories. Just sweet, tantalizing memories, melding into erotic dreams before the dawn.

With quickened step he hastened toward the hotel. The gambling rooms would be open by now, spreading their heavy doors wide to greet the night; perhaps he should take to the card table and see what fortune this mood could win him. Who could say what wagers he might not win tonight, with energy like this pouring through his veins?

But gambling no longer meant to him what it once did, and even the prospect of such a triumph was not enough to tempt him into the company of strangers tonight. Inheriting the Tarrant fortune had accomplished what all the stern disapproval of his family never could, and soured the taste of such games forever. Oh, he still played, but it was more for sport than fortune now; his only real delight was in breaking those whose skill or audacity made them seemed charmed, in pitting his fae-luck against their own. And finding such men required prowling the casinos like a hunter, alert for the smell of rich and arrogant prey ... no, he was not in the mood for such games tonight.

Maybe a whore, he thought, as he climbed the gleaming numarble stairs at the Paradisio’s entrance. Nodding to the very doorman who had so recently challenged his right to enter the lavish hotel. With the right money and some connections he could probably find himself a pale, slender girl; if not one with jet-black hair, then one who would be willing to dye it for a price. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he had used his wealth to purchase a fantasy. What would that be like, he wondered, to douse the night’s fire in a woman so like
her....

Only there was no one like her, he knew that. The complex essence of womanhood that so affected him with Narilka Lessing could not be found in a whore. And if he thought that imagination alone could bridge such a gap, that it would be enough to have any pale, black-haired woman spread out beneath him ... then he was asking for failure yet again. And he had tasted enough of
that
experience in the last few years to last him a lifetime.

No, he thought, as he headed toward his suite, the memory would be enough for tonight. A memory that would meld into sweet dreams when he retired, for once unobscured by a haze of drugs or the bitter distortion of alcohol. Because tonight he felt no need for drugs or liquor, or even a passing desire for them. He was drunk on this girl, (so slender, so fragile, not even his type!) and it was a heady intoxication. Far more intense than mere drugs could supply.

Optimism stirred within him, an unfamiliar emotion. If he could make it through one night without artificial aids, could he do it again at some future date? Could he perhaps, in time, learn to take control of his life again? The concept was elating. Maybe when this nightmare was over, maybe if Gerald Tarrant died and he survived, he could start his life all over and do it right—

“Welcome home,” Calesta greeted him.

His fragile hopes expired in an instant, smothered by the power of the demon’s presence; a cold and hungry hate took its place. The transition was so swift that it was physically stunning, and it was a long moment before Andrys could pull himself together enough to close the suite’s door, so that none might hear them. And an even longer moment before he could find his voice.

“What do you want?”

The demon chuckled coldly. “Hardly a suitable welcome for your ally.”

He drew in a deep breath, struggling for control. Trying to recover his image of the girl, his fragile hopes, anything of the last half hour ... but his effort was in vain. Such gentle emotions had no place in Calesta’s presence.

At last he stammered, “Why are you here?”

“You wanted instructions. I came to supply them.”

He dared to look up at the demon, to meet those inhuman eyes head-on. “Why now?” he challenged him. “I’ve called to you often enough. I’ve begged for instruction! Why come to me now, the one night I don’t need you?”

The demon hissed softly; the sound reminded Andrys of a snake about to strike. “You don’t need me?”

The threat behind Calesta’s words chilled him to the core.
I could leave you alone forever. Then what would you have?
Hurriedly he struggled to explain himself. “I didn’t mean ... it’s just ... tonight....”

The demon laughed; the harsh, grating sound made Andrys quail. “You poor fool! Is it the girl who inspires such courage? You found yourself a single night’s comfort and now the battle is over?” His voice was a jagged thing, that scraped Andrys’ skin like shards of glass. “And what do you think the Hunter will do when he finds out that his mortal enemy has fallen for a woman? Do you think really think he’ll allow you that comfort, once our battle is fully joined? Or any other? You’re a walking death sentence, Andrys Tarrant, and anyone you touch—anyone who touches
you
—will be felled by it. Or did you think that you could make war on the Hunter without him striking back?”

The room seemed to swirl about him. He reached for a chair and somehow managed to fall into it, heavily. His hands seemed numb; his heart was ice.

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten what manner of creature you’ve sworn to fight.” The demon paused. “Perhaps I should remind you.”

“No—”

Memories swirled about him, horrific images all too familiar. A hundred times more intense than what he had recalled in the restaurant, a thousand times more horrible. The dismembered head of Samiel Tarrant gazed down at him from its grisly throne, a sardonic smile twisting its lips.
Dared to dream of love, did you?
The bloodsoaked eyes narrowed in amusement.
What makes think you’re worthy of loving anyone?

“Make it stop,” he begged. Shutting his eyes, trying to shut out the visions. Samiel staring at him. Betrise. All of them. “Please. Make it stop!”

The visions faded. His hands, white-knuckled, gripped the chair with painful pressure.

“I think we understand each other,” the demon assessed.

Shaken, he whispered hoarsely, “What do you want me to do?”

“You will go to the cathedral in the great square of Jaggonath. You will attend the services of your God. Pray with your fellows as Gerald Tarrant instructed, as if you intended to fulfill his misplaced vision.”

It seemed to Andrys that there must surely be more instructions, but the demon said no more. After a long moment of silence Andrys dared, “And then what?”

“That’s all. For now.”

“I don’t understand,” he protested weakly. “How will that hurt him?”

The demon hissed sharply. “Do you question me now? Or doubt my plans? A thousand elements must all be orchestrated to perfection in order to bring the Hunter down, and you’re just one of them! Go where I tell you. Do what I say. Your own hand will bring about Gerald Tarrant’s downfall, I promise you.” He paused. “Or isn’t that enough for you?”

He lowered his head, lacking the strength—or was it the courage?—to argue. “It’s enough,” he whispered. “I’ll go.”

“Every sabbath. You understand? I want you to be seen there. One of the faithful.”

“I understand.”

The gift came then, inserted into his brain with sure demonic skill, the ultimate reward for obedience: visions of vengeance that flooded his soul, catching him up in a whirlwind of anticipated triumph. He fought it for a moment, clinging to the gentleness of his former mood like a lifeline—and then it swept him away and he was lost in it, lost in a hatred and a blood lust and a hunger for revenge so desperate that he shook as it swept through him. It lasted forever and yet it could not last long enough, and when it was over he collapsed back into the chair, shaking from the sudden withdrawal.