Guilty as Sin (3 page)

As the world swayed and darkened, those clever hands cradled her face, turning

her away from the grit of the wall. Smiling lips pressed against hers, firm and soft

together, flavored with expensive wine and something she couldn
‟
t define. Cynicism?

Regret?

“Sleep tight, birdy.”

Her knees loosened, but even as she struggled against the tide, Lise
‟
s last memory

was of strong arms lowering her to the cobbles.

12

Aetherii—Anatomy:

The Aetherii tail is an extension of the human spine, comprised of twenty small bones,

connected by a continuation of the spinal column and banded together with tough ligaments. As

sensitive as a finger or a tongue but as strong as an arm, the tail functions as an extra limb. It

can be used as a weapon, a tool, a flight stabilizer, even a means of expression.

Excerpt from the
Great Encyclopedia
, compiled by Miriliel the Burnished.

* * * * *

His blood still bubbling, Michael jog-trotted briskly down the narrow, twisted steps

of the Slopes, the gradient so steep that every now and then, he had to brush his fingers

against the grimy walls for balance, his easy athleticism and years of familiarity

notwithstanding. After the freshness of the Palace on the mountaintop, his nose

wrinkled at the odors of his childhood. Ah, slum, sweet slum. Nothing like it.

The bird woman
‟
s neck had smelled of clean female and healthy sweat, her feathers

of something sweeter, with an underlying note of green.

He had at least half a dozen approaches to his refuge and he never used the same

one twice in a row if he could help it. Stepping off a fetid landing, he swung himself

through a small window into the tumbledown attic of a cathouse. From beneath his feet

came an erratic thumping, punctuated with meaty grunts of effort and the rattle of a

bedstead. A drawn-out, male groan and the slap of flesh on flesh.

Excellent cover. His smile faded into a frown. Was that a cough? It sounded like

Bitsy. Surely she
‟
d have more sense? He
‟
d warned her…

Ah well. With a mental shrug, Michael climbed onto a dusty chair that looked

rickety but wasn
‟
t. He knew that because he
‟
d placed it there himself, months ago.

Raising his arms above his head, he lifted and set aside three shingles, one after the

other, the noise of the rutting below drowning out his quiet movements. If they heard

him, they
‟
d think he was vermin.

He grinned without humor.

A short leap, a quick heave, and his head and shoulders emerged into the cool night

air. Nothing. He hauled himself through, replaced the battered shingles and crouched

behind a ramshackle weather vane.

He extended his senses, listening. Still nothing.

Satisfied at last, Michael drifted like a ghost across the slippery rooftops. After

another couple of blocks and a final wary glance, he slid into the narrow mouth of a

brick chimney.

13

* * * * *

“How long were you unconscious?”

Lise ran a hand through her hair, hissing when the gesture pulled at the dressing

Fledge had taped to the slice on her neck. “I don
‟
t know. No more than a couple of

minutes.” There was no bruise on the other side where Michael had pressed with his

clever fingers. He
‟
d calculated the pressure perfectly, gods damn him.

Jan
‟
s indigo eyes regarded her impassively, but she knew without looking beneath

the desk that his tail would be quivering with annoyance. It took almost superhuman

discipline for an Aetherii to control those tiny involuntary movements.

On the other hand…

She stole a glance at that pale, brutally handsome face. If any Aetherii could do it, it

would be Janarnavriel the Noir. In all the years she
‟
d worked with him, she
‟
d only seen

his expression soften once—at the Winged Envoy
‟
s dinner to celebrate his escape from

the soul-sucking demon Belladonna. Fledge had dared to reach out and take his hand in

hers. Seated opposite, Lise
‟
s mouth had fallen open. She hadn
‟
t been able to tear her

fascinated gaze away. When Jan
‟
s fingers trembled—
trembled
—in the grasp of the little

Grounded, she
‟
d thought her eyes would fall out of her head.

“Very well.” Jan drew a sheet of paper toward him. “Every description we have of

him is different. What does he really look like?”

Lise pressed her lips together, assailed by the sudden memory of a muscled body

sealed the length of her spine, a long thigh thrust intimately between hers, the studied

boldness of his erection pressing against her buttock. To her own irritation, she

swallowed.

“Taller than me,” she said slowly. “But not by much.”

Her eyes had been about level with his mouth. His lips were a little thin in his

clean-shaven face, even cruel, but elegantly shaped for all that. She wondered if he had

any idea how expressive that mouth really was. Unlike his eyes. In the night, they
‟
d

looked flat and dark, empty hollows beneath his brows.

“Athletic, flexible. Very strong for a Grounded.”

Jan grunted. “Tell me something we don
‟
t already know.”

Lise paused in her pacing and turned to face him. “I
‟
m not sure I could take him,

Jan.”

Her superior set the ink brush aside and a single black brow rose. “You
‟
re a Second

Pinion warrior. He
‟
s that good?”

She nodded. “Gods yes. And he swore by the Twister, which means he could be a

Traveler.”

Jan opened a bulging file, huge black wings rustling as he reached for it. “I don
‟
t

have anything on a connection with the Ten Nations Fair.” He made a note. “I
‟
ll send a

message to Griff.”

14

“He spoke like a well-educated man, good enough to pass for a hautlord, but he

forgot every now and then. The slum
‟
s still there, just under the skin.”

“All right. Approximate age?”

Lise glared at the file. “He
‟
s younger than our records indicate. I
‟
m sure of it.”

“He
‟
s been active more than twenty years.”

“I doubt he
‟
s much more than thirty.”

Jan made another note. “Eye color?”

“Brown.” Lise sighed. “Hazel. Maybe even a dark gray.”

“Hair?”

She shrugged, her tail lashing about her ankles. “Dark. Some sort of nondescript

brown.”

“I thought you said he was blond?”

“He
‟
s not.” Lise reached into the pack she
‟
d brought with her and extracted a limp

golden mass. Struggling to suppress the heat rising in her cheeks, she tossed it onto the

desk. “But this is.”

“Hmm.” Jan regarded the sprawled silky heap. Then he picked it up and turned it

inside out.

The nerves in Lise
‟
s belly fluttered. Michael
‟
s wig looked like a dead animal in the

Aetherii
‟
s big hands, pale and defenseless.

Jan
‟
s midnight eyes met hers. “It
‟
s well-made, top quality. How did you get it from

him?”

Lise turned and took two jerky strides so she could see the sky from the window.

Sereian houses, even palatial ones like this, were built without balconies. She
‟
d rather

die than admit it to Jan, but she felt stifled without easy access to the open air. Her back

to her commander, she said evenly, “I didn
‟
t. When I came around, it was lying there,

right next to me.”

Thank the Veil, Jan couldn
‟
t see her face. Never before had she told him an untruth,

but gods, the
humiliation
. How Michael must be laughing! When she caught him—as

she surely would—she
‟
d force-feed the bastard his own wig. She growled under her

breath. That
‟
d wipe the smile from his pretty face.

With an effort of will, Lise stilled the fretful fingers fiddling with the buttons of her

shirt. He
‟
d left her flat on her back on the cobbles, her wings spread beneath her. Her

head still muzzy, she
‟
d blinked her eyes open to stare up at the Tattered Veil, now

partially obscured by scudding cloud. Vaguely, she thought she heard the merest

whisper of movement, rapidly receding, no more than a ghostly impression. She
‟
d

bolted upright and the wig had flopped down into her lap.

Peripherally aware of Jan
‟
s gaze on her stiff back, she clenched her jaw so hard her

molars cracked. The vividness of the recollection seemed to have increased with time—

the shock of realizing that he
‟
d opened her shirt and stuffed the wig into her meager

cleavage, the golden locks a sly, cool brush against sensitive skin. When she woke, her

15

nipples had been tightly furled and aching, her flesh throbbing. But not with pain. He

hadn
‟
t hurt her.

Folding her arms, she pushed back against the soft resilience of her small breasts,

suppressing the reminiscent tingle.

“He left it?”

Lise nodded. “He has a strange sense of humor. I think he meant it as a sort of,” she

cleared her throat, “trade.”

“For what?”

Lise snorted. “Every coin I had in my belt pouch.” Hearing the rustle of plumage as

Jan leaned forward, she braced herself and turned. “And a flight feather.”

Jan gazed at her and she could see his logical brain sorting and classifying, making

deductions. At last, he said, “What else?”

“Sorry?”

His lips twitched, which for Jan, was the equivalent of a wicked chuckle. “I
‟
ve never

seen you so angry. What else did he take? Not your virtue?”

“
No
! I mean…no, nothing like that.” Her face must be crimson. Clamping her tail

against her calf, she willed the tip to stop twitching.

Gritting her teeth, she said, “The bastard stole my earrings—my featherpearl

earrings.”

Jan
‟
s eyes narrowed. “If he knew what they were, that
‟
s a deliberate challenge. He
‟
s

thrown down a gauntlet—to you.”

“I
‟
d bet my life he knew from the first,” Lise said bitterly. “If he didn
‟
t, he
‟
ll find

out the moment he tries to fence them.”

“He
‟
s leaving a trail for you, Lise.” Jan cocked his head to one side, like a huge

bright-eyed bird of prey. “Why do you think that is?”

The urge to raise a hand and wipe Michael
‟
s kiss from her lips was almost

overpowering, but she couldn
‟
t do that. Jan was too shrewd by far.

“We…talked.” She bared her teeth. “He may have received the impression I despise

him.”

“You think?” Her superior rose, all dangerous grace, and strode to the door. On the

threshold, he turned, his face grave. “Be careful, Lise. He has a reputation and a hell of a

lot of pride. Michael
‟
s vindictive. He
‟
s a bad enemy.”