Dark Gods Rising (3 page)

Generally, Simta didn’t mind when most men gave a peek or even a rude stare. After all, she dressed this way for a reason. With Charmaine, she felt offended and somewhat slimy.

“By the way, darling,” he said, looking even more pointedly at her display, “those dresses must go. My congregation does not allow such, wonton displays of a woman’s body.” He licked his too thin lips, showing his own lust.

For a moment, Simta knew she would heave. Her stomach churned. Bile burned its way up her throat. No way in the two Hells would Charmaine ever again put a hand on her. She’d sell her soul for two coppers and go caravanning with Harlo before it happened.

“Get. Out.
Now
.” Simta growled, pointing toward the door, glaring with as much venom as she could manage. Quite a feat considering her facial muscles still felt hung-over.

For a moment, it looked as if he’d refuse. Glaring, she picked up the teapot, ready to hurl it at him. Damn the consequences to her spasming body and pounding head. She didn’t care if she passed out from the pain as long as it got him out of her sight.

Almost as if his seat had suddenly grown spikes that punctured his behind, Charmaine bolted up from his chair. Brushing his hand through his hair, he gave her a constipated smile before stepping back from the table.

“As you wish, darling, but a deal is a deal. Your father has given his permission, so you really should try to speak kindly to me.” He sniffed disdainfully.

Fury poured from Simta’s pores. If tonight didn’t net her enough to buy her freedom from this dolt, she’d personally throttle the arrogant fool.

Somewhere in Charmaine’s brain the threat of eminent destruction must have registered. His smile faded, and he started for the door, tripping and stumbling past the too close tables.

Simta winced at the first crash, and groaned with each succeeding one. Sighing, she laid her aching head on the polished wood table again. Okay, once she finished her tea, she’d go back to her room upstairs, instead of her father’s manor, and try to get more sleep. She didn’t need her father’s lectures, and she did need to be at her best if she were to make it successfully into the Evertrue mansion undetected tonight.

Without warning, the atmosphere chilled. Frowning, Simta raised her head, pulled her cape tightly about her, and stood. She’d had these feelings before. Experience had taught her not to ignore them.

“Going so soon?”

Whirling in surprise, Simta stumbled over her chair as her head pounded one more frigging time. Strong hands steadied and then wrapped around her before she could fall. Shaking her head, she tried to pull away, but she felt confused and sick and her thoughts ran thick. The room spun.

“Oh my, too much to drink again?” Malaria’s voice slithered into her mind and dove into her body. Insistent fingers caressed her skin, bringing memories of forbidden pleasures.

Shuddering, Simta pulled his arms apart and pushed away, feeling both repulsed and drawn to the man. One of Yernden’s wealthiest thieves, Malaria looked like a young innocent, but behind his round, delicate green eyes and perfectly tanned and unlined face was a mind and soul so vile she suspected even Hell would reject him if he fell through Carrid Brewer’s hellhole. His wealth and skills intrigued her. His methods sickened her, but at the moment he was her employer, her solution to the problem of Charmaine. Tonight’s haul would net her enough money to gain her freedom from both Charmaine and her father. Once she separated herself from her father’s connections, Charmaine would gain little from pursuing her. If he persisted, she could always throw him enough money to buy a title and increase his influence. It was what he really wanted. For him, she was just a means to an end. Yes, a fat purse of golden rugdles would buy him off.

Looking at the situation in a brutally honest way made Simta feel used. Why couldn’t she take over her father’s business dealings? Why did it have to be a man in charge? She knew twice as much about handling people and money than all of her father’s thieving accountants. Rage began to burn in her belly. It wasn’t fair, any of it. Because of her father’s arrogant insistence on clinging to tradition, she had to debase herself by working on one of Malaria’s schemes.

“Tell me, how are you doing today, Simta?” Malaria asked. “Are we still on for tonight?” His long fingered, well-manicured hand tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You have the darkest red hair I have ever seen, and perfectly cut emeralds would envy your eyes.” Those long fingers gently traced her jaw line.

The room seemed to have grown hot and her body overly warm. Simta loosened her cape and took another step back. “I’m not feeling very well. Maybe we could continue our conversation later this evening? Besides, I’m not comfortable being seen together, not here.”

The last thing Simta wanted was to have Halfrass or another of her peers enter the inn and see her with a known criminal. It was one thing for people to hear whispers in the dark but a whole ‘nother type of social suicide for her to parade it out in the open. She quickly darted her eyes around the inn. Most tables were empty except for a few toward the front by the doors. A servant cleaned Halfrass’s table while another swept the floor. Nobody she knew, fortunately. The morning traffic was petering out, but within an hour the inn would start filling up with the early afternoon customers looking for a bit of lunch. Bankers, jewelers, accountants, this was a favorite place for the well-to-do, which was why Malaria had no freaking business being here.

Malaria chuckled. “Honestly, Simta, when will you give up the trappings of these fools and be your own woman? If you do well enough tonight, I might see to it you have a place within my business and not just as a petty thief. Then you could really tell your overbearing father to piss off.”

Now that caught her attention. Simta pushed away her growing mental fog enough to focus. “What kind of place?” The bastard better not intend her to be his bed warmer.

Catching her hand in his, Malaria gently led Simta to a darkened corner table. After glancing around the room, he pulled out a chair for her and then took his own seat, placing his back to the wall.

Every nerve in her body grew taut, and she still felt incredibly miserable. It was hard to think when everything was overly acoustic and her mind was tangled. Rubbing her head, Simta took a deep breath. She really wasn’t in the mood for his manipulation.

“Allow me.” Hands outstretched, Malaria gently cupped her head, drew her face down toward the table and started making small, soothing circles on her cheekbones with his thumbs, ignoring her brief motion of protest.

The relief was instant. Waves of soothing energy flowed from his hands and into her body, feeling like hundreds of fingers massaging and caressing her everywhere. The sensation was nearly orgasmic. Laying her head down, Simta moaned, not caring if she drew attention. Just as she thought she might crawl across the table and into the man’s lap, his hands slid casually away. Simta whimpered at the sudden parting.

“I hope you feel better?” Through half-lidded eyes, Malaria regarded her hungrily, almost as if he wanted to touch more than her face.

Simta nodded numbly. What was it he had just done to her? Every cell in her body hummed and twitched. The way she felt it was a miracle the man still had his clothes on. She wanted to reach across the table, rip his shirt and coat off, cut away his trousers, and throw him to floor. Between her legs, a horrible ache grew, a need so deep she didn’t think even he could satisfy it.

“I’m sorry I…” Malaria looked away for a moment and allowed his eyes slowly travel back to her. “It’s been a while. I didn’t mean to do that. I really do want to make you a business associate and maybe something more.”

From beneath the table, Malaria’s stocking foot slid beneath her skirts and up her inner thigh. Simta’s breath caught. Surely he wouldn’t— not in public— not when—

In mid-thought, his toe found her sweet ache and started making slow circular motions. Simta moaned long and low before she could stop the sound escaping. She moved her hips in a grinding rhythm against his foot. For several moments it seemed as if no others were within the inn but the two of them. As suddenly as he had started, he stopped. His foot trailed back down her inner thigh, leaving behind a horrible need.

“Simta, let me take you upstairs and show you all the benefits of being your own woman, of having full control of how your life is run.” With a smooth fluid motion, Malaria rose and moved around the table to help her from her chair.

Strong arms circled her waist and pulled her close. Simta felt small next to his much taller stature. Malaria stood easily over six feet, but, instead of feeling uncomfortable and awkward like she would have with Charmaine, Simta’s body seemed tailor fitted for him. She felt protected, wanted, and dare she say, needed?

Leaning down, he pressed his lips to hers. Simta only briefly worried about being seen kissing him. Worries about her peers no longer existed. Soft lips teased at her mouth, taking all her concerns away. Who cared if anyone saw them? After tonight, she would be her own woman, have her own grand house, and maybe even start her own House. The rest of them, her father along with his family and friends, could just bugger off.

* * * *

Fourteen hours later, Simta groaned as she crouched behind a statue of Trelsar in the wee hours of the night. Gods, what had she been thinking when she agreed to steal a book from the Evertrue estate? And what in the two Hell’s did Malaria want with the damn thing? Simta clenched her hands tight in frustration. This was not where she wanted to be. What she wanted was to be with Malaria, in his arms, wrapped in silk sheets.

Another deep breath and still no relief. She needed to get this task over. Then she would be okay, get back to Malaria with the book, and the new life awaiting her.

Three bells rang through the night. A crisp spring breeze blew around her, penetrating her thin black leggings and shirt. It brushed against her bare neck, sending shivers down her spine. Reaching up, Simta pulled her ponytail tighter and gave her mask another tug just to be sure all was secure and wouldn’t expose her at the wrong moment. The last light inside the manor had disappeared half an hour earlier, but she wanted to make sure everything went perfectly, with not a soul awake to interrupt her. If she had to deal with someone, it could screw the whole burglary up and cost her life’s ambition, relegating her to being nothing but the wife of a pansy priest.

Thoughts of Charmaine brought bile to her throat, which she quickly swallowed back down. The last thing she needed was to be ill when action waited. Fighting back her uneasy stomach, Simta hated Charmaine, despised him. Even absent and unaware, the smarmy bastard interfered with her plans.

Another deep breath brought her the delicate floral scents of the flowers and blooming trees scattered about the garden, soothing Simta’s frayed nerves a bit. With cat grace, she moved out from behind Trelsar’s statue, giving it silent thanks for protecting her from idle eyes. The garden was bathed in deep shadows. The twin moons of Callendale and Cafia had not yet risen, wouldn’t for another half an hour, giving her another advantage to be thankful for. Every shrub and tree and flower seemed to loom as she crept across the ground to the manor’s side.

Pausing, Simta waited, her eyes darting about, halfway expecting some of the plants to attack. It had happened to her before, though not often. Only a few of the highest families worshipped Omitan, god of the land and woods. Some of those few had formed pacts with Omitan’s servants, tree gelfs and sprites who crept about at night, ready to either warn the house guards or attack intruders with trees or bushes infused by their spirits. Bad enough, but gods forbid if one of the little buggers got their teeth into a person. They owned nasty bites and were mildly poisonous.

After a few moments of stillness, Simta relaxed. Nothing. As she had suspected, Omitan’s servants shunned this place.

Imagining herself as just another piece of the dark, Simta hugged the manor wall and slipped around until she crouched beneath the study window. Earlier in the evening, while attending the party, she had made an excuse to slip off by herself in order to unlock the study window. No one questioned her absence. Truthfully, she made people nervous. With what she knew about many of their personal lives, more than a few of her social peers felt better with her gone. Fine with her. Simta didn’t care for their company either, bunch of liars, cheats, and uppity prigs.

She heard only the quiet chirps of insects and an occasional night bird’s call. Here, in the upper echelons of Yylse, the rich and richer maintained a tight community tucked carefully behind stone walls and cold, iron fences. Nothing touched the aristocracy that they didn’t allow in. Even Hell approached only with an invitation.

With a gloved hand, Simta reached up to the window. The hinged panes swung wide, coming open with barely a squeak. Simta hefted herself inside. Her lithe frame slid silently over the sill and landed without incident on the other side. She closed the window behind her, leaving it cracked just enough so she could push them open for a quick escape. The study held pools of deep shadows. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. The desk containing the book pressed against the far north wall, directly opposite of where she stood. Two chairs, a globe stand, and a filing cabinet were the only objects she had to worry about knocking into. Along with these potential obstructions, the room also held the desk and chair, a couch along the wall, and an oversized bookcase filled with massive tomes.

Nodding satisfaction, Simta slid one booted foot in front of the other, careful to mind the rug’s edge. Once she made it to the desk, it would be easy to find the exact drawer and begin picking it open.

Simta paused for a moment. This really was very easy. Much easier then she thought it should be. Then again, she’d done jobs requiring less than ten minutes work. People tended to get careless the longer something sat safe. How long had Malaria been after this book, and why hadn’t he come to get it himself?

Bent down, her mind preoccupied with too many thoughts about the why of this job and not enough on the precautions, Simta failed to notice the door had opened until the brazier next to it flared to life.

Tools slipped from her hand. She was too shocked to care that they fell. Jerking her head upward, she saw the worst of all possible people standing in the doorway.

“Looking for something?” A voice holding no warmth, one which very seldom ever did, racked over her scathingly. High Priest Lord Calto Morlon, the queen’s personal advisor, a distant cousin on her father’s side, and worst of all, head of the extended family, stood like death himself in the doorway.

Instinct kicking in, Simta lobbed a small statuette of Anothosia at the priest while diving for the window, but when she shoved on the panes, instead of swinging easily out, she found them locked— and
shuttered
. Panic flooded her mind like a great sea swell.

Lurching away from the impossibly locked window, she grabbed at the only other things available to her and started chucking books from the case lining the west wall. Only one left her hand before a blast of light struck her full in the chest, sending her careening backward into the bookcase. Heavy tomes of leather bound misery rained down upon her head, knocking her nearly unconscious.

The world became fuzzy. The room tilted from side to side. A gruff hand grabbed her mask and ripped it from her face, causing her to slide sideways to the hard, polished wood floor. To Simta’s fuddled brain, the cool surface almost felt good against her fevered skin, but not for long.

“Simta, how very disappointing. It will grieve me to strike your name from our family tree.” Calto’s voice drifted to her from far away, sounding less than sincere in its regret.

Putting her hand down, she tried to rise when she was jerked upright and dragged across the floor. Calto shoved her hard into the desk chair, nearly spilling her over backwards when he shoved it toward the middle of the room. Vertigo hit her in waves as she finally gave up trying to hold her dinner down. Doubling over, Simta hurled over a new rug she knew the Evertrue’s had recently purchased from Illian.

Good, the smug bastards deserved it for inviting Calto into their home.

It seemed like forever before she could sit upright and not have everything spin. The sight greeting her didn’t make it any better. Leaning on the edge of the desk, holding a gleaming white leather bound book big enough to club someone to death, Calto stood rigid with anger in his white, long priestly robes. In his right hand, he held a replica of Anothosia’s staff of truth complete with a moonstone set atop it. The stone glowed so brightly it made the brazier’s fire seem dull in comparison. Calto regarded her with cold, emotionless blue eyes, eyes so pale they appeared to be ice, but not ice made of water— more like
ice on fire
.

Trembling, Simta sank deeper into her chair. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t real. Calto wasn’t even supposed to be in Yylse. She had recently heard he was in Grace, the king’s city, visiting Queen Elise. Did he know she was coming? Had he the
sight
, or did she just have a case of bad luck on this job?

“How dare you.” Calto’s voice emerged as a bare whisper, but it held all the sting of a slap to her face.

Simta flinched.

“Do you have any idea what you were stealing? By all the laws of church and state, I could have you publicly hanged for this attempted theft?”

Each word stabbed her with Calto’s righteous anger, scalding and tearing at Simta unmercifully, making her whimper and cringe. Gods, she hated him for making her feel this way, cheap and pathetic, like filth beneath his feet. Tears stung the back of her eyes, but she refused to cry in front of this bigoted bastard. She would at least die with some pride.

“Answer me!” Like an erupting geyser, Calto leapt from the desk’s edge and stormed over to her, standing before her like a towering white flame. The aura previously possessed only by his staff’s moonstone now radiated from his body as well. Calto appeared to be a blazing white pillar of godly power, ready to smite her where she sat.

Crying out, Simta protectively flung her hands over her face.

“If you will not willingly tell me the truth, I will pull it from you painfully.” Extending his staff, Calto touched the moonstone to her head.

Like being physically jerked forward, Simta’s hands flew from her face in a spread eagle position. Layers of her mind, her memories, her past lies, and deceits burst free. She felt Calto shuffle through her lies and carelessly toss them aside. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Simta wanted to beg for mercy, call for help, but she did not. Those were options she no longer owned.

“Well, isn’t this interesting,” Calto mused, and Simta’s mind crashed into a forgotten memory. She found herself back in her room at the inn, sprawled across her bed, naked, moaning, clutching at Malaria’s ass as he jammed his cock deep inside her. Instead of experiencing feelings of pleasure, an intense pain ripped through her body. Like water colors on a too wet canvas, Malaria’s features melted, transforming into something which made even the pain of what Calto did to her a mercy.

Malaria’s sleek, muscled body grew larger, grotesque in its shape. Long blue barbs protruded from the backs of his arms and head. Spikes grew crookedly down his spine. More of the same needle-like barbs riddled the back of his calves, dripping a green poisonous liquid that burned and ate away at her skin. Simta knew her face was a twisted mask of silent horror as Malaria dipped his head down to her breasts. She heard herself scream as he tore at her pale skin, shredding delicate flesh with long, razor sharp teeth. When she thought she could scream no more, as blood poured from her body to soak the sheets beneath her, sickly grey and black tendrils of magic wrapped around her dying body. Malaria stopped feeding and raised his head to look down curiously at her. Frowning, he lifted a clawed hand above her chest. Simta watched in horror as he shoved bits of his magic into her ruined body. The blood on the sheets reversed its flow to rise and reenter her wounds. In mere seconds, those wounds were healed, but a horrible squiggling, grayness covered her skin.

The scene disappeared suddenly. Simta found herself back in the Evertrue study, lying on the floor in a ball, hugging her knees to her chest, and crying hysterically. Long, agonizing moments passed before she realized someone had put their arms around her and stroked her face, trying to give her some small measure of comfort. No comfort was there for her. No peace was to be found and never would be. What she had witnessed in the inn’s room would haunt both her waking and dreaming hours for as long as she lived.

“This cruelty was unnecessary, Calto. You nearly destroyed her.” A man’s voice speaking gently near her ear, barely carried past her sobbing.

“Please,” Calto sneered. “Our cousin deserved that and more. She’s a disgrace. A piece of filth who would better fit in among the lowborn trash.”

“‘
And I say unto thee, walk among my people with compassion, walk among them with mercy in your eyes and forgiveness in your heart
.’” Although the man holding Simta spoke with a low voice, it held passion as he recited one of Anothosia’s teachings, one all her priests were ordered to follow. Opening her red, swollen eyes, she turned her head to look into the face of Calto’s twin brother, Larson, knight and captain of the Order of the Sword and the Staff. Seeing Larson, tears streamed down her face in a silent torrent.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Calto ignored his brother. “Save it for church services.” He studied Simta. “You have no idea what your lover sent you to steal, do you?”

Cringing again, Simta shook her head. Every time Calto spoke, fresh tendrils of pain whipped at her mind. “Please, stop. I–I don’t know why he wanted it. I swear to you on my very soul, I do not.”

When a low humming filled the air, Larson hugged her tighter. Warmth and peace eased over her body and mind, allowing her to feel something other than abject horror and unrelenting fear, but just barely.

Anger flashed across Calto’s face, twisting it into cruel, hard lines as he glared at Larson. “I am not finished, brother.”

“Yes, brother, you are.”

In a battle of wills, the two stared at one another, caught in a deadlock. Long moments passed before they both looked away. The room’s tension eased.

Picking her up, Larson carried her to a dark red leather couch set along the east wall and laid her gently upon it. “Simta, you‘re lucky the demon only touched you once. Malaria is known to be powerful and well connected. Once he got his hooks fully into you, he would have owned you body and soul. Did it not occur to you to wonder why he didn’t just come and get the book himself?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Simta answered. “I just— I was desperate I guess. I didn’t care why. I just needed the money.” A sudden surge of anger made Simta glare at Calto. Men like him and her father were why she was in this mess.

Baring his teeth in a feral snarl, the priest took a step forward. “I know what you are thinking, but you have no one to blame for the mess of your life but yourself. No one told you to whore, or thieve, or drink.”