Demon's Fire (8 page)

Shocked, she had to sit on her folding stool, her palm pressed to her pounding heart.

This isn’t right,
she thought.
My mind simply isn’t this orderly.

She was startled onto her feet by Professor Betters’s voice outside her tent. Part of her job was handling intercountry mail, and the professor was as finicky as a demon about his letters getting out on time. Dry as dust they were, too. Beth doubted his colleagues at the university were waiting on the edge of their seats for them.

“This is just our copyist’s tent,” the professor was saying to someone. “There’s really nothing of interest here.”

A low murmur followed, after which Professor Betters and another man in bright silk robes ducked through her door. She was lucky she wasn’t working on anything sensitive, because neither intruder did her the courtesy of asking leave to enter.

The instant she recognized the man in the silk she forgot her annoyance.

Her body clenched with a violence that made her gasp, as if a hot, steamy fist were closing on the flesh between her legs. Professor Betters’s companion was the tall, dark demon from the marketplace. Mr. Pahndir stood near enough to touch, his long hair gleaming like black satin where it cascaded over his shoulders. He smelled too delicious for these close quarters, like spice and lemons and hot, hard male. Heat prickled up her muscles, from thighs to belly and breasts to face. Hard as it was to believe, the sensations were stronger than she’d felt in this morning’s shower. Beth wanted to attack him, to tear off his fancy clothes and lick him all over. She could have “gone all night” just like the sari vendor said—night after night, for that matter.

The awareness swept over her in seconds, leading her to hope her little fit hadn’t been noticed. She gave up that idea when she realized she couldn’t tear her eyes from the demon’s face. He was
so
beautiful up close, like a perfect statue carved from stone. His skin was the palest gold from living in the sun of Bhamjran, and his firm, exquisitely cut lips looked as soft as rose petals. When she met his eyes, virtually helpless not to, their shining silver color snapped momentarily black.

Whatever the cause of the reaction, it made her jump—as if a snake had flicked its tongue without warning.

The impression deepened when
his
tongue came out briefly to wet his mouth. The sight of its forked marking sent a shiver skipping down her spine. To Beth’s dismay, a trickle of heated moisture overran her sex.

The subtle twitch that curved his mouth might have been his people’s version of a smile.

“Bright in here,” he observed.

Actually, it wasn’t bright at all, unless you counted the sun streaming through the open door flap behind him. But perhaps that funny swelling of his pupils had caused the light to seem more intense than it was.

“This is Beth Something-or-Other,” Professor Betters said impatiently. “She keeps our records in order.”

“Beth Philips,” she said, her voice both faint and hoarse.

Mr. Pahndir bowed as deeply as if she were a queen. “Pahndir Shan, at your service.”

When he straightened, Beth couldn’t help but notice how tall he was. She hardly ever had to look up to men.

Seeming perfectly self-possessed, the demon turned his now-normal eyes around her tent. “From the looks of things, you’re good at your job.”

There seemed little point in telling him today’s display was an anomaly.

“Thank you,” was all she got out.

“Tell me, Miss Philips,” said the demon. “With all your responsibilities, do you get many chances to go to town?”

His hand was flattened casually on his chest as he spoke to her, his fingers just as long and flawless as the rest of him. His shoulders looked very broad beneath his sapphire-and-yellow robes. They weren’t padded, either. Those were strong, lean muscles she saw under there.

“What?” she asked as Professor Betters muttered under his breath.

The demon’s answer was as pleasant as if she weren’t acting like a half-wit. “I asked if you enjoyed visiting the city.”

“I…live there,” she said, doing her best not to gasp out the words.

“Do you?” His voice conveyed nothing but politeness, but unless the light was playing tricks on her, his eyes had gone a shade darker.

“In the Old Quarter. With Charles and Lord Herrington.” Then, realizing that Charles was probably the person Mr. Pahndir wanted to track down, she added, “Charles works in the cook tent.”

“Prince Pahndir,” Professor Betters interrupted in a longsuffering tone, “if you’re as determined as you seem to examine every corner of the dig, perhaps we should be moving on.”

Prince Pahndir (apparently, she’d gotten the
mister
wrong) did not turn back to his guide. His eyes stayed on Beth as he offered her that nearly invisible smile and gracefully inclined his head.

“A pleasure,” he said. “I do hope we’ll meet again.”

Beth found herself unable to say a word. She managed only a jerky nod, her gaze remaining on the tent flap long after it had fallen closed behind her visitors.

Lord,
she thought.
Lord, Lord, Lord.

Her shirtwaist was sticking to her back with perspiration, her sex throbbing and slippery with arousal. She was so stupefied by what had happened that she only just had the mental wherewithal to berate herself for being a tongue-tied twit.

She might wish she had the courage to pursue an adventure with a man like that, but, if nothing else, today’s encounter had proved she wasn’t close to brave enough.

My, oh, my,
Pahndir thought as he and the professor stepped back onto the frying pan of the sand. His eyes watered at the light, his pupils still enlarged from their involuntary pleasure reaction.

That young human female packed a sensual wallop.

He was sorry to have made her nervous, but delighted that he could. His body hummed at the possibilities she presented. Now that he as good as knew where she lived, he’d be able to devise a plan to seduce her more carefully.

She smells nice,
he thought, idly pleased by the fact.
Like soap and some warm, sweet spice.

The misnamed Professor Betters sighed wearily.

“The latrines are that way,” he said, only half sarcastically. “And if we continue past them, we’ll reach a storage center for unassembled packing crates.”

Amused, Pahndir turned his attention to his escort. To be fair to the pompous ass, for the last hour and three-quarters he’d guided Pahndir over every bump and shadow the dig possessed. Now, happily, Pahndir knew everything he’d come to discover.

“I believe I’ve taken enough of your time. If you could just point me toward the cook tent, we’ll call it a day.”

“The cook tent.”

The professor’s arms were crossed suspiciously. Pahndir put on his best approximation of a human smile.

“Oh, yes. There’s nothing I like better when it’s hot out than a nice cup of black coffee.”

“I don’t suppose you could spare me a cup of coffee,” the Yama said.

The coffee was easier for Charles to spare than an answer, his mind having gone blank the moment the man stepped into his kitchen. Charles’s undercooks were studiously not staring at their visitor. They were used to Herrington. Apart from his silver eyes, his appearance wasn’t much more exotic than human Northerners. But a traditional-looking demon, in full eye-popping silk regalia, was a different matter. Mr. Pahndir looked every inch the prince some people whispered he was, from the curling toes of his slippers to the shining, midnight fall of his hair. He stood differently from other people, as if he assumed it would be an honor for anyone to breathe the same air. Charles wondered if he even knew he was doing it.

A man like that had probably been raised to think himself superior.

“What are you doing here?” Charles blurted out.

Mr. Pahndir picked up a coffee cup and waggled it. “Looking for caffeine. That lovely human drug?”

He was pretending not to know Charles, and Charles was more than willing to go along with that.

“Perhaps,” Mr. Pahndir continued politely, “you’d be so kind as to bring the coffee out to the tables when you’ve had a chance to pour me some.”

“Black?” Charles asked, his tongue as thick and slow as his brain.

“Oh, yes,” agreed the Yama. “Black would be perfect.”

Charles’s hands were almost steady when he carried the tray to where Pahndir waited. If his face was hotter than it should have been, that could be blamed on the steamy atmosphere around the stoves. To his relief, when he came out, no one but the demon sat at the long tables. Charles set the coffee and a plate of biscuits in front of him. The Yama blinked at the cookies in mild surprise.

“What are you doing here?” Charles asked again.

“Hoping to find you,” the Yama said.

“Because?”

The demon was silent for a few heartbeats.

“I am Pahndir Shan,” he said at last, offering his hand. Charles shook it dazedly. The prince’s palm was warm and smooth, his grip unusually firm. Demon strength must have been a challenge to rein in. “As you know, I am the owner of The Prince’s Flame. You intrigued me when we met in the marketplace. I’m hoping I didn’t say anything to inhibit you from using my services.”

Charles only wished he had. His groin was feeling ominously heavy, though he didn’t think he’d hardened yet. Just in case, he held the empty tray in front of his waist.

“You’ve come a long ways to recruit a client. Especially one who doesn’t have deep pockets.”

The Yama’s face had been as still as a granite carving, but now it softened infinitesimally. “I’m looking for more than a client, though that need not concern you if you don’t wish. I’m a good judge of character, Yamish and human. I believe you would find my house’s services liberating, and I know I’d enjoy facilitating whatever healing influence they might have.”

“Healing,” Charles repeated with a bitter laugh.

“You might be surprised,” the Yama said gently, “how much happier a man can be when he accepts his own desires.”

For a second, more than their eyes connected. Knowledge seemed to darken the Yama’s, secrets as bitter as his own. But what could this privileged, princely demon know of Charles’s life? He couldn’t absolve Charles. He couldn’t understand. Charles shook his head at his own foolishness. “Mr. Pahndir—”

“Think about it,” Mr. Pahndir said. “You have my word that I would look out for your interests as if they were my own, and considering how selfish my kind can be, that’s more of a promise than you may realize.”

“Mr. Pahndir—”

“No.” He lifted his hand and came to his feet. “You don’t need to answer. You’ll be welcome at The Prince’s Flame any time you wish.”

Just what I need,
Charles thought as he watched him leave.
A fresh dose of temptation to obsess over.

He closed his eyes against the image of Mr. Pahndir’s broad-shouldered back. Those silks weren’t designed to hide a person’s shape, and he hardly needed another reason to be aroused. It wasn’t fair that this man attracted Charles on so many levels when he could hardly stand the pull Beth was exerting. He was hard behind the tray he held with white-knuckled fervor, as long and thick and stiff as Beth had ever gotten him.

It occurred to him that, with his talk of healing, Mr. Pahndir wouldn’t have been wracked with guilt over pleasuring Beth while she slept. He wouldn’t have been praying to every god he knew that she wouldn’t figure out it hadn’t been a dream. He’d have told her, Charles suspected. He’d have made a game of it that demanded a second round.

And maybe, just maybe, Beth would have preferred the demon’s approach.

“You’re avoiding me,” Beth said as Charles walked past the ground-floor parlor’s open pocket doors. She’d spoken on impulse, but guilt flared in his face for just a moment before he stopped.

It was late, nearly ten, and he was dressed to go out in a clean, pressed suit. He leaned against the door frame, natty as a song-and-dance man in a musical hall.

He quirked one fair brow at her. “I’m not avoiding you.”

“You haven’t been at dinner for the last two nights.”

“I’ve been exhausted.”

“Not too exhausted to prepare that cold soufflé for Herrington and me.”

He shook his head and smiled. “You can out-argue anyone, can’t you?”

Which wasn’t, she noted, an answer to her charge. “Are you angry at me? Did I do something wrong?”

“Never.” His smile shaded to wistfulness. He came inside the room and sat on her tufted footstool, his narrow hip bumping her crossed ankles beneath her skirt. The casualness of the contact reassured her more than his words. More than that, it warmed her, heart and soul and body, too, if she were honest. She let the book she’d been reading fall to her lap, happy to give him her attention.

“What’s this?” Charles asked, laying his hand on the open page.

She’d been feeling calmer in the days following Prince Pahndir’s visit to the dig. No inexplicable erotic dreams. No sudden attacks of lust. She’d been telling herself she’d imagined her reaction in the copy tent, but the sight of Charles’s strong male hand stretched across the book had the same effect as something hot and long and silky pushed inside her sex. An electric lamp sat on the table beside her chair, a pretty fringed contrivance with a parchment shade. Its glow turned the hairs on Charles’s fingers to tiny flaxen wires. Beth was wet in an instant. She had to fight not to rub her thighs together.

“My brain was hungry,” she said, more colorfully than she’d planned.

“Your brain was hungry? That has to be a first.”

The readiness of his laughter stung, despite it being justified. “We can’t all be mental giants,” she huffed.

“I’m only a mental giant compared to you. If you want to face off with a real one, you’ll have to find my little brother, Max. He sent me another ten-page letter from that boarding school for geniuses. The little nut thinks I actually want a blow-by-blow description of his classes.”

Charles was turning the heavy book around on her lap, a process that had an unsettling effect. Her thighs were tingling from the friction, her temperature soaring.

“Max adores you,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice the beads of sweat forming on her brow. “He only wants to share his interests with his big brother.”

“I know that. I’m just not certain he realizes I don’t understand half the things he writes. Speaking of which…” Now that the book was facing him, he closed it on his hand to read the cover. “
Queen Tou-Hhamoun and the Old Kingdom: Prevailing Theories on Her Rise to Power.
Now there’s some light before-bedtime reading.”

“It’s Herrington’s,” Beth said defensively. “And it’s not as dry as it sounds. Queen Tou was a seminal figure in developing the local tradition of matriarchal rule.”

“A
seminal
figure.” Charles pressed his lips together in amusement.

“That’s what it says in the book!”

He grinned at her and dropped a teasing kiss to her nose. “Don’t ever change, Beth. You are the best woman I’ll ever know.”

The compliment was as surprising as the kiss, a demonstration of fondness he’d never offered her before.

“You’re leaving?” she asked, because he had opened the book again to her place and pushed to his feet.

“For a while.” He smoothed a nascent crease from the front of his linen coat. “I want to stretch my legs and think.”

He hadn’t dressed in his freshest outfit merely to stretch his legs. He was going to see the demon. Beth knew that in a flash as clear as sunshine on an oasis. Prince Pahndir must have found Charles in the cook tent the other day. He must have convinced Charles he could afford the services of The Prince’s Flame.

She sat back in her upholstered chair, angrier than she had any right to be.

Charles must have seen the tightening of her face. “I won’t be long. No more than a couple hours.”

A couple hours! Her hands gripped the edges of the heavy volume, tempted to tear the thing in two. Just how many of the prince’s employees was Charles planning to enjoy?

“Do be careful,” she said coolly. “This isn’t the best-lit neighborhood at night.”

He opened his mouth as if to ask what bee had flown into her bonnet, then shut it determinedly. Apparently, he knew he wouldn’t like her answer. Instead, he nodded curtly and strode from the room.

Damn him,
Beth fumed.
And damn that Prince Pahndir, too!

She wagered Charles hadn’t been tongue-tied when the brothel owner worked his golden wiles on him.

When she looked down at her lap, the spine to Herrington’s book bore an inch-long tear.
Must have been bad leather,
she thought, temporarily distracted by the damage. She’d have to see if she could mend it. She didn’t want Herrington thinking she couldn’t be trusted with his library.

And on the topic of trust…She narrowed her gaze at the open parlor door, her lips pressed together with a mix of irritation and willfulness.

Charles really shouldn’t be going out alone at this hour, not when he had a friend as willing as she was to watch his back.

Beth pinched some of Charles’s clothing from the laundry room, knowing better than to venture out in a dress at night. Even in a matriarchal city, men would be men, especially when faced with a solitary female from a different culture than their own.

Charles’s trousers were snug across her bottom and a bit too long. Other than that, the fit was fine. She kept her breasts from bobbling under his shirt by wrapping a length of bandage around her chest.
Like a mummy,
she thought humorously. She tied her auburn hair into a club. Suitably disguised, one of Herrington’s electric torches finished her outfit. The metal tube was strong enough to serve as a weapon should she need one.

Though her preparations were as quick as she could make them, Charles was long gone by the time she crept out of the house. The powdery gold sand that coated every surface in the city proved her salvation. The imprint of Charles’s Northern-style boots stood out distinctly. She had only to follow their trail, and he would lead her straight to the demon’s den.

She grinned to herself at how easy it was. She hadn’t had an adventure this outrageous in quite some time.

I am brave,
she told herself, reveling in the freedom of the empty streets. The shadows didn’t frighten her. Tonight, she was queen of all she surveyed.

Charles’s trail of footprints ended a few streets south of the marketplace. Beth stood alone in front of The Prince’s Flame, a noise like a drinking party pouring out of its windows. Noise aside, the brothel was a lovely yellow sandstone building, the facade so intricately carved it could have been made of lace. Small projecting balconies jutted from its front like decorations on a wedding cake. Though only three stories tall, Prince Pahndir’s establishment stretched half a block before being separated from its neighbors by alleyways.

Those alleyways struck Beth as her best bet for sneaking in. They weren’t lit, for one thing, and for another, no one was hanging out their windows.

She switched off her torch as she went to survey the closest one. The carving on the building’s side provided plentiful handholds. When she tested them, dangling from one corbel like a monkey, they seemed substantial enough to hold her weight. All she needed was to pick a likely window and edge in.

She pursed her lips and looked up. The entire third floor was dark. One casement in the center appeared to be ajar.

Her stomach fluttered at the thought of climbing so high.
I can do this,
she told herself. She had, after all, been going places she wasn’t supposed to since she could walk.

To her relief, the climb went quickly, her childhood escape-artist skills coming back to her. She wasn’t seen or heard by the laughing guests, and though the hinges of her chosen window stuck at first, she was able to shove them apart wide enough to squirm through.

On level footing once more, she rolled her shoulders to relieve the strain she’d put on them. She found herself in a silent, nearly pitch-black room. She drew in a breath, let it out, and extricated Herrington’s torch from the back of her filched trousers. Switching it on revealed her surroundings.

She was in an office…or thought she was. A blotter sat on a hardwood desk, along with a decorative inkwell and a stand of newfangled silver ballpoint pens. Her confusion arose from the desk being only a foot high. No file cabinets or chairs were paired with it, just a few flat cushions and an unusual padded leather floor. Opposite the desk was a small indoor garden. Oddly shaped miniature pine trees grew from its mossy hills, and a little arching bridge allowed a winding path to cross a sand-filled stream. Beth had to smile when she looked at it. Herrington tended to decorate like a human. Here in the prince’s garden, everything was so tiny, it could have been a play yard for Yamish dolls.

She was amusing herself by imagining the prince playing in it when an unfamiliar buzzing had her heart jerking like a thief’s. The sound came from the direction of the door. It was followed by an ominous, and more recognizable, click.

Damnation,
she thought, looking desperately around her even as the latch pressed down. These exotic furnishings were no help at all. She was caught red-handed with no bolt-hole.

Pahndir wasn’t licensed to install thumbprint locks on his doors, but given his history (and his family) he hadn’t hesitated to obtain them on the black market. What he hadn’t expected was that his security would be this easy to breach.

The person who had done so froze when he keyed on the light.

“Well, well,” he said, taking in the comically guilt-stricken figure in her too-big male clothes. Beth Philips had bound her breasts to disguise her sex. He remembered those breasts—their shape was burned into his brain—but the trousers revealed more curves than he recalled. With difficulty, he tore his eyes from them. The fact that she’d scaled his wall impressed him. A climb like that took both nerve and upper-body strength.

Rather than let his admiration show, he
tsk
ed at himself. “That will teach me to leave my window open to catch a breeze.”

“I was worried about Charles,” she said, her words tripping over each other in her haste to defend herself. “He came here alone.”

“And because I’m such a big, bad demon, you decided it would be a good idea to break into my home?”

She bit her lip and lowered her eyes. Her lashes were so thick they should have belonged to a far more womanly woman.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “This was very wrong of me.”

Oh, she made him want to laugh, but he managed to control himself. “I imagine this show of remorse plays better to human parents.”

“It isn’t a show!” she exclaimed, her face going nicely pink. “I was worried about Charles. A little. And you
did
say you hoped to see me again.”

Unable to resist, he crossed the room to her, cupping her cheek and letting her see the amusement gleaming in his eyes. At his touch, she went completely, warily still. Her pillowy cinnamon lips were parted for her quickened breaths. At once, he questioned whether touching her had been wise. He wore no gloves and energy rolled from her into his palm. Though the flow was not as strong as it would have been had he touched her heart, it was seductive nonetheless. Her human life, her passion and her youthful zest, beat in that softly luminous electric fluid. His cock thickened and lifted with what felt like little sparks shooting down its nerves.

Wondering how her hand would feel on him there was inescapable.

“As it happens,” he said, his voice sliding unavoidably deeper, “I am glad to see you, if only to reassure you that your friend Charles is as safe as any customer can be. I came here with the express intent of watching over him.”

“Watching over him?” she repeated, deliciously breathless.

Pahndir fought to hide his shudder of arousal. “You strike me as a female used to keeping secrets. I expect you wouldn’t mind learning one of mine.”

To his delight, she’d lost her powers of speech. She swallowed audibly and nodded.

“Have a seat.” He gestured toward the embroidered cushion behind his desk. “I’ll show you how I stay on top of everything at The Prince’s Flame.”

He sat next to her behind the strange low desk, his impossibly hard body pressed up against hers all along one side. His robes tonight were a striking gold-embroidered black. Within them he was oven-warm. Unaccountably, Beth found herself shivering.

To her dismay, Prince Pahndir was too sharp to miss the reaction—or to misinterpret its cause.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” he whispered. “That the two of us are so responsive to each other?”

Beth wasn’t worldly enough to answer. Feeling as if she’d stepped into a more glamorous woman’s life, she watched the prince press a piece of the ivory inlay on his desk. A hidden mechanism clicked, and a large section lifted and then tipped to show its reverse side. It revealed a square of dull gray metal in a sterling frame.

“Activate visual feed, room three,” Prince Pahndir said.

The dull gray plate flickered to life.

“Oh!” Beth’s scalp prickled with wonder. “It’s a daguerreotype that moves!”

She leaned closer to the picture, barely noticing (and certainly not objecting) when her companion draped his arm around her back. Charles was in a bedroom, pacing back and forth along a flowered rug. He looked nervous, excited, and maybe a little grim. He stopped moving when the door opened. Two Yama entered: one male, one female. They were dark-haired and slender and as alike to Beth’s eyes as twins.

“First cousins,” Pahndir said as if he’d read her mind. “They prefer to see clients as a pair.”