Guilty as Sin (46 page)

Michael gave him a cool stare. “In gold of course.”

Barnaby spread his hands, clearly delighted with the haggle. Then he shook his

head in apparent sorrow. “Ye think I
‟
m made o
‟
money? No, lad, silver.”

Amused despite himself, Michael settled in to bargain.

Fifteen minutes and half a pastry later, they
‟
d agreed on twenty gold marks.

Barnaby beamed. “Now, laddie, ye might do an old man a favor?” He chuckled at

the suspicion in Michael
‟
s face. “I
‟
ll throw in a sweetener fer ye.”

“What do you want?”

“I got me a hautlord wantin
‟
to see some paste pieces, but
‟
e can
‟
t come
‟
ere.” He

gazed around the dusty, crowded shop with pride. “‟Is lady would kill
‟
im if she

knew.”

“So?”

214

“He
‟
s waitin
‟
in the Royal Library, third readin
‟
room on the sixth floor. A silver

mark to deliver the stones. He
‟
s expectin
‟
a messenger.”

Michael arched a brow. “You were pretty confident, old man.”

“Aye.” Barnaby
‟
s grin revealed snaggle teeth amid raggedy gray whiskers. “Ye

might as well, hmm? An
‟
the library
‟
s worth seein
‟
.”

The next Feolin caravan wasn
‟
t due in for three days. “Half a mark now, the rest

when I get back.”

Tenderly, Barnaby wrapped an ugly old-fashioned necklace in silk and dropped the

little bundle into a velvet pouch. It wasn
‟
t even a good fake. The hautlord was an idiot.

Pulling the strings taut, the old man looped them into a bow.

“Here.” A pause. “Be careful out there, lad.”

“I told you,” Michael said. “I can look after myself.”

As he turned, someone shoved the door open and a flood of sunlight streamed into

the shop like a river of honey.

“After you.” A lean man of medium height held the door, the light picking out

strands of gold in unruly brown curls. His cheerful grin exposed a crooked tooth in the

front, giving him a raffish air.

Michael passed him with a murmur of thanks.

From behind, he heard Barnaby exclaim, “Griff! Come in, lad. I
‟
ve got
roberry
in the

pot.”

A pleasant tenor said hastily, “
Roberry
? Can
‟
t stop, Barnaby. Just called to…”

The door swung shut and Michael strode down the alley, almost remembering how

to smile.

He
‟
d spent a good part of his time in Valaressa wandering the streets at all hours.

He was very familiar with the blinding-white tower of the Royal Library, soaring out of

elaborate mannered gardens, but he
‟
d hadn
‟
t bothered to explore further. A building

full of words held little interest for a child of the slums.

The portico was cool and dim, a chill rising from the polished stone of the floor.

Outside, the tower laid a long bar of shadow across the garden and the water of the

canal. Michael turned his back on the view and headed for the spiral staircase. Slowly,

he began to climb, forcing himself to study the works of art set in niches on each

landing, estimating net worth, looking for weak points. He snorted under his breath.

For a thief of his talents? Easy.

On the fourth floor was an Aetherian feather sculpture, a glorious thing of

swooping curves and dips, every feather melded together into an iridescent harmony of

color so pure it could have been distilled from every hue in nature and so perfectly

glossy it looked varnished. The impact was a punch to the gut, robbing him of breath

and almost of sense, so that people jostled him as they passed while he stood, rooted to

the spot, his eyes stinging. Michael pressed his fingertips to the glass, staring. Under his

shirt, Lise
‟
s featherpearls glowed so hot as to be on the verge of painful. The heat

215

streaked from his nipples to his groin and then ricocheted back up his spine, making

him lightheaded with lust and longing.

Ah, gods, it had been so long, he
‟
d thought that part of him had died. Apparently,

all he needed was a whiff of feather. Godsdammit, a featherslut indeed. His breath

misted the glass. Impatiently, he moved to a clear spot. There! A gleam of bronze with

Dax
‟
s underlying metallic green and on the other side, a pure gray shading to an

exquisite soft silver.

“Is there a problem here?” said a deep voice in his ear.

Michael whirled, his knife half drawn before he thought.

The big man facing him held out empty hands. “Relax,” he said, arching a brow.

“Just asking.”

Scowling, Michael shoved the weapon back into the scabbard. “Why?” he snarled.

Twister, the way the man held himself, so straight-backed—
battle ready
—he had to

be a guard, or a soldier, or some-damn-thing in authority, and he was several inches

taller than Michael, and much broader, his shoulders nearly spanning the passageway.

“You
‟
re very pale,” he said with unruffled calm. “Are you all right?”

Shit
. He used to be much better at self-preservation. For a job like this, he should

have changed into a scholar
‟
s shabby coat and donned a pair of spectacles. A change of

posture, ink-stained fingers and there
‟
d be nothing to distinguish him from any other

impoverished student.

Instinct coming to his rescue, Michael forced his lips into a courteous curve.

“Perfectly. Just…looking.” He nodded at the feather sculpture.

The big man followed his gaze. “A spectacular people, the Aetherii.”

That was one way of putting it. Michael
‟
s stomach cramped, reminding him he

hadn
‟
t eaten anything today except the pastry at Barnaby
‟
s.

“I
‟
ll be on my way then,” said the stranger.

Michael leaned casually against the wall, letting it take most of his weight. “Thanks

anyway.”

A gray-eyed stare that felt as if it stripped him to the bone and the other man

turned without a word and disappeared up the stairs.

Michael spent five more minutes with the feather sculpture until he was sure the

man was well gone. Another two flights and he found a curving corridor that traced the

circumference of the tower
‟
s sixth floor. Following it, he paused at the entrance to a

huge reading room. His brows rose. Who
‟
d have thought there were so many books

and scrolls in the world, let alone so many eager to read them? The room hummed with

the concentrated power of thought, light and air pouring in through the elaborate

fretwork that pierced the white walls at waist height. Robed servitors glided about,

delivering dusty tomes to the scholars seated at big tables or hunkered down against

the wall with lap desks.

216

Ah, there were numbered doors farther along. Michael trod quietly to the third in

line and listened. Nothing.

Get it done.

Dropping a hand to the hilt of his blade, he turned the handle and slipped inside,

stepping smoothly away from the entrance and scanning the room with a single

comprehensive glance.

The big man he
‟
d met on the stairs pushed his chair away from the desk and rose.

“Morning,” he said. “I
‟
m Fortitude McLaren.” And that was all.

This man was no hautlord. Michael took a pace forward, every muscle tense. “The

stones are for you?”

“No.”

Carved into strange arabesques by the fretwork in the wall, light and shadow made

an abstract tapestry out of the polished wood of the desk, striping the other man
‟
s quiet,

empty hands, gleaming on the signet ring he wore on his smallest finger.

The pit of Michael
‟
s stomach disappeared. He tightened his grip on the knife. “Then

what in the seven icy hells are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.” A pause. McLaren nodded at someone over Michael
‟
s shoulder.

“Take him.”

Michael spun, but there was no one there.

The air shifted, something rustled, a familiar silken sound. No, no, no. Oh fuck, oh

gods—

He couldn
‟
t not look, not even if it meant his death. Slowly, Michael turned back.

He hadn
‟
t noticed a connecting door to the left of the desk. Now it stood open and

on the threshold was the man from Barnaby
‟
s shop, the one the old man had called

Griff. And at his elbow—

“Hullo, Michael,” said Liseriel the Gray, slim and straight as a spear. She didn
‟
t

smile.

“
Get the fuck away from me
,” he got out from between clenched teeth, dropping into a

knife fighter
‟
s crouch. The three stood unmoving as he backed toward the door,

reaching back with his other hand for the handle, finding only space.

His fingers were enveloped in a warm, strong grip, a tail clad in bronze silk coiled

around his waist from behind and a muscled arm reached around to clamp his knife

hand against his body.

“What have you done to yourself, love?” Dax rumbled in his ear. “You look like

shit.”

217

The most pleasant, relaxing way to see Valaressa is to hire a scull and view the sights from

water level. Given that the city is built on the mile-wide leaves of a gigantic sea plant, this mode

of travel allows the traveler access to each fascinating area—from the Noble Leaf with its fine

palazzos to the Leaf of Gems where fine jewelry is sold.

The Kingdom of the Leaves of the Sea: a traveler’s guide
, 2nd ed, Miriliel the Burnished,

10354 ATF.

* * * * *

All the breath left Michael
‟
s lungs with a
whoosh!
Desperately, he sucked in air, only

to inhale the dark, spicy scent that was Dax, an amalgam of featheroil and masculine

musk, all mixed with a tang he could never mistake, because Lise possessed it too—an

elusive fragrance that spoke of the open sky, a limitless horizon and miles of air above

and beneath. Everything he would never know, because he was a Grounded and a thief

and a bad luck charm all rolled into one nasty package.

They
‟
d wasted everything he
‟
d done, all the weeks and days, the endless minutes of

misery gone for nothing, the stupid, fucking, ungrateful—

“No!”

Recklessly, he threw himself against Dax
‟
s grip, as wild and panicked as a
fellwolf
in

a trap, kicking and punching, using all his sinewy strength and every dirty trick he

knew. “No,” he grunted with every breath. “No, no.
No!
”

“Hold still, damn you! It
‟
s not what you—
Ooof!
” Michael rammed an elbow into

the Aetherii
‟
s gut, simultaneously stamping on his instep.

“Shit, that does it!” Huge bronze wings arched around and wrapped tight, muffling

Michael
‟
s frantic efforts, subduing him with uncanny Aetherii strength. Infuriated and

breathless, he spat the gutter curses of his childhood.

“Need a hand, Dax?” asked Griff, grinning.

McLaren clipped him over the back of the head. “Shut up, you,” he growled.

Unperturbed, the younger man winked.

“Listen to me, Michael.” Stepping close, Lise framed his sweaty face between cool

palms.

He wrenched his head away. “Leave me the fuck alone,” he snarled.

Lise
‟
s eyes were the storm dark that presaged trouble for someone, her stance battle

ready. “Remember the pardon?”

Michael sneered. “Yeah, so?”

218

Dax was pressed so close they
‟
d near as dammit become a single entity. With every

particle of his being, Michael fought the urge to lean back into that wall of strength and

comfort. The Aetherii had to be able to feel him shaking like a terrified child, tremors

running through him over and over. Desperately, Michael willed Dax to believe it was

fury. Anything but this debilitating weakness called hope. Hope wasn
‟
t for slum rats

and thieves, it was a cruel trick of the Twister
‟
s, intended for the gullible and the

optimistic.

Lise picked up a stiff parchment from the desk. It was inscribed with lines in a

fancy curlicued script and stamped with the Royal Seal. “We did it,” she said, “but, I,

ah, don
‟
t think you
‟
re going to be happy.”

Michael
‟
s knife dropped from nerveless fingers. When his knees sagged, Dax

tightened his grip, nuzzling at his neck.

“See?” Lise held it up in front of him and for a moment, all he could see was the

scar where the
hellfire
had bitten into the flesh on the back of her hand.

“No.” Black spots danced in his vision. He sank his fingers into Dax
‟
s meaty

forearm. “I don
‟
t fuckin
‟
read that good, ye know that. Tell me, godsdammit.”

Lise sent him a long level stare. “Essentially, it says all your crimes are pardoned.”

She glanced down at the parchment. “Due to the intercession of the Winged Envoy of

the Aetherii and the gracious mercy of the Prince of Sere, but—” She paused.

“But what?”

“You can
‟
t go home again,” Dax growled in his ear. “Not ever. You
‟
re banished

from Sere on pain of death.”

The room spun. When Michael staggered, Dax simply slid down the wall, the other

man
‟
s limp body cradled securely in his lap. Lise followed them down, muttering

curses under her breath.

“You seem to have everything under control,” said McLaren. “We
‟
ll be off.”

“Don
‟
t see why,” said Griff, sloe eyes bright with interest. “It
‟
s just getting good.”

Rising, Lise crossed to the big man and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for

everything, Fort,” she said. “We owe you.”

“Hey!” said Griff, hands on hips.

Chuckling, Lise hugged him. “You too,” she said.

Griff patted her on the bottom. “That
‟
s more like it.” He shot Fort a glance from

under his lashes. “We have a free afternoon now,” he said airily.

“Hmm,” said Fort. His expression didn
‟
t change, but his eyes darkened. “So we

do.”

The big man looked down at Michael, slumped in Dax
‟
s arms, his thoughts

scattered into a million pieces. “Most people don
‟
t get a second chance, thief,” he

growled. “Don
‟
t mess it up.”

The door clicked behind them.

219

Lise set her hands on her hips. “You haven
‟
t been eating,” she said. “And you stink

of brandy.” Her face softened. “But I
‟
m sorry you can
‟
t go home.”

“Let me up.”

Dax said, “You
‟
re lucky Lady Chriz loves kids, not to mention Fledge and the

school, because she made trade concessions for you.”

Slowly, he opened his arms and unwound his tail. “She did her best,” he said, “but

the Prince was determined on the banishment. Sorry.”

Michael climbed to his feet, tucking his shirt back in, smoothing a hand over his

hair. “You think it matters?”

He twitched the parchment out of Lise
‟
s hand, frowning at the ornate characters.

Yes, that was his name. He couldn
‟
t decipher the rest, but there was the Royal Seal right

enough.

He glanced from one anxious handsome face to the other, and something heavy

lifted off him like a noxious cloud, leaving him lighter than air, giddy and stupid. He

chuckled, a little startled to hear the sound so rusty with disuse. “Twister
‟
s balls, I get to

keep my head and you
‟
re
sorry
?”

It hurt to laugh, the muscles in his chest protesting, but he couldn
‟
t hold it back.

The parchment fluttered to the floor as he clutched his sides, snorting, tears streaming

down his face.

Dax loomed over him. “Michael.” Powerful fingers gripped his shoulder. “Michael,

calm down.”

He tried to speak, but only strangled noises emerged. Dax
‟
s touch burned through

his shirt, and suddenly it was more than he could bear. “Get off,” he gasped, striking

out blindly with his fists.

The Aetherii flinched, clamping a hand over his forearm. Under his fingers a small

patch of red grew larger, staining his sleeve.

“Veil-it!” Lise started forward, but Dax waved her away.

“It
‟
s nothing,” he said. “Just a nick. Won
‟
t even need stitches.”

Lise pushed the linen back with gentle fingers. “But how—?”

Something dark and hollow expanded in Michael
‟
s gut. “Me,” he said. “Again.” It

was greedy, that darkness, racing through him like an ugly tide. Mesmerized, he stared

at the blood, at the other man
‟
s pain, his fingertips beginning to tingle.

Dax shrugged. “Didn
‟
t get to the knife in time, that
‟
s all.”

The room tilted, his head so thick and strange he could hardly hold it up. His

stomach lurched. Desperate to get the words out, to make them understand, Michael

said, “This is what I always do. D-don
‟
ye see?” His vision blurred at the edges, a

muffled sensation blooming inside his head.

Lise caught his arm as he staggered.

“Stupid…birdies,” he panted. “Don
‟
wan
‟
ye. Get it? Don
‟
wan
‟…”

220

The dark swooped, black spots coalescing into a smothering veil. From down a long

dark tunnel, he heard Lise
‟
s startled cry.

Dax exclaimed, “
Quick!
”

The floor swung up to meet him.

* * * * *

Lise banked, gliding close enough to Dax to watch the breeze ruffle Michael
‟
s hair.

His nose was pressed into the center of Dax
‟
s chest, but he was beginning to stir. She

breathed a silent sigh of relief, glancing over her shoulder at the receding tower of the

library. It had gone better than they
‟
d dared to hope, except—

Rip the Veil, Michael looked dreadful, like a half-starved
fellwolf
, all bared fang and

snarling lip, pared right back to bare bone and raw nerve.

What if it didn
‟
t work?

“Fuck.” The Grounded lifted his head, blinking. He glanced at the dark blur on the

horizon that was Valaressa and his eyes narrowed. “Very clever.” He threw an arm

around Dax
‟
s neck. “Where are we going?”

Dax grinned at him, the mighty wings working above, rowing through the sky in

an unfaltering rhythm. “A place I know in the mountains. You
‟
ll like it.”

Michael said nothing, just leaned his cheek into Dax
‟
s shoulder and closed his eyes,

effectively shutting them out.

Hell
. Lise met Dax
‟
s worried gaze. “Not good,” she mouthed.

Dax said nothing, but the tip of his tail flicked out, linking with hers. Somewhat

comforted, Lise synchronized her wingbeats with his and they flew on, side by side. All

the weary weeks they
‟
d searched for their runaway thief, she
‟
d focused her attention on

the goal and nothing else, turned Michael into a
job
. It was the only way she knew to

fight the fear. Tracking down those reluctant to be found was what she did best so she
‟
d

set all the familiar processes in motion—the tedious checking and cross-checking, the

collation of hundreds of tiny details. She
‟
d lost count of the hours she
‟
d winnowed

through endless reports by lamplight, the lines blurring before her tired eyes, while all