The Devil's Concubine (The Devil of Ponong series #1) (5 page)

QuiTai
knocked again. “It’s me.”

The door
flew open. Jezereet gripped QuiTai’s wrist and yanked her into the room.

The walls
were covered in rose and cream striped silk. The furniture was white wood
trimmed in gold, a truly Ingosolian fashion. Rose silk draped over a table and
cascaded to the floor; framed pictures and mementos crowded the lace doily. Little
machines for playing music and other clever gadgets of entertainment sat
abandoned on shelves and tucked under the divan. Although Jezereet rarely took
customers anymore, a large bed filled most of the room.

QuiTai
held out her arms. “Forgive me for staying away so long.”

“Did you
bring any?”

QuiTai bit
her lip. Then she forced a smile. “I brought you a present! I think you’ll like
it.” She showed Jezereet the black box with crisp corners.

Jezereet
scratched her arm. “You always give presents when you won’t let me have what I
need.” Her underskirts rustled as she moved across the room. Short black
tassels bounced enticingly against her backside with each step. Jezereet had
always favored her female form.

She sank
onto a chair before a dressing table with the slow grace of a tightly corseted
woman, but from the loose laces on her cincher, QuiTai could tell that Jezereet
had lost even more weight.

Jezereet
checked her make-up, then picked up a pot of lip rouge and brushed some on her
lips.

QuiTai
placed the box on the low table and sank onto the pink silk divan where she
could see Jezereet’s reflection in the mirror. “Would you like to see what I
brought you?”

“You
dismissed me.”

Jezereet
had been a notorious diva and star of the stage before she came to Levapur. Now
she was simply a diva. There was a time when her slightest frown sent actors,
directors, and fans scrambling to please her; now there was only QuiTai. No one
was more forgiving of Jezereet’s habits, though, and QuiTai knew that no one
else had ever worked so hard to keep her happy.
 
Once upon a time, it had been out of love. Now, it was more
complex than QuiTai cared to reflect upon.

“If I had
black lotus for you, I would have come up immediately,” QuiTai said sadly.

That was
the Devil’s bargain. She had to torment Jezereet with the promise of black
lotus and then not deliver it. His jealousy had a cruel edge. Now she saw how
foolish it was to think a gift could soften the blow. All that Jezereet cared
about was her addiction.

“I don’t
want another damn gift! I need the vapor. Look at me!” She held out her
pink-streaked arms.

Grief
washed over QuiTai. The Devil was probably chuckling with glee right now,
picturing QuiTai’s despair and Jezereet’s hysterics. He didn’t know Jezereet
like she did, though: after the storm, there would be calm.

QuiTai
patted the box. “This was imported all the way from Rantuum.”

Jezereet’s
gaze met QuiTai’s in the mirror before she returned to fixing her makeup.
 
“I haven’t even read the fashion
magazines you brought me last time.”

“Let me
save you the trouble. They’re showing a different silhouette in Rantuum. The
skirts are quite narrow.” She flipped open one of the magazines. “Here it is.
The ladies must take mincing steps, which
creates a movement pleasing to a gentleman’s eye.
The old pervert
apparently likes some sway from the hips and a bouncing bosom.”

QuiTai saw
Jezereet roll her eyes. “Leave it to my fellow countrymen to come up with
something scandalous. Next thing you know, they’ll get rid of corsets.”

QuiTai
wriggled, and pinched her waist where it itched: she could barely feel her own
fingertips through the corset. “That’s a wonderful idea.”

Jezereet
turned around to face her. “You used to get so impatient while your maid
buttoned your bodice.”

“I should
have been more grateful to her. It’s impossible to put on these stupid clothes
by myself, and werewolves make terrible lady’s maids. Casmir had to lace me up
again, with Petrof growling at him the entire time. If Casmir could have pulled
the strings tight enough to suffocate me, I’m sure he would have.”

“So why
are you dressed like that? That sexy Thampurian downstairs? He’s from a rich
family, you know,” Jezereet said.

“And a
remittance man. He’s as close to being disowned as you can get.”

Jezereet
held up a curl and dissected it with her fingernail. “They don’t do that. Noble
blood and all. They only want to teach him a lesson.” Her brow furrowed. “Although
you should be careful. We know what the Devil does to people you love.”

That wound
Jezereet always kept fresh. She had willingly taken the vapor with Petrof, but
she’d never accepted her responsibility for it any more than she’d apologized
for dallying with QuiTai’s lover. But as soon as she was addicted, Petrof’s
visits stopped.

“I can
only apologize for what he did so many times,” QuiTai said. After a while, no
matter how much she meant it, the words lost their power. She didn’t want to
say it anymore because it didn’t change anything. The past was the past, and no
regrets could fix any of it.

Perhaps
sensing that she’d sent QuiTai’s thoughts down a path strewn with
recriminations neither wanted to revisit, Jezereet sat next to QuiTai. “Let’s
open my gift. Although that is the ugliest box I’ve ever seen. I shudder to
think of the hat inside it.”

“It isn’t
a hat.”

The sturdy
handle swung down so QuiTai could lift the top.
 
From the box, she pulled a pair of big copper opera glasses
with a long brass handle and one red and one green lens.

Jezereet
gave QuiTai a doubtful look. “That’s hideous. What is it?”

“It’s a
bit heavy, so be careful. Put it to your eyes and peer through the openings.”

Jezereet
still seemed unconvinced, but she put the contraption up to her eyes.

“Now
watch.” QuiTai wound a knob between the two lenses.

“Oh!
Pictures. But they’re moving! They look so real.” Jezereet’s free hand reached
out before her and grasped at the air. “It’s like I can touch them.”

“It’s a
kinescoptic motion picture, the latest thing from Ingolsol. Your people are so
clever. It’s like being at the theater for a show.”

“Only I
can’t hear what they’re saying.”

Leave it
to Jezereet to pay attention to what it wasn’t, not what it was. “There’s no
sound. After a while, you learn to read their lips. Watch out for the
Houltoness. I think she improvised her lines. At least, I don’t remember
anything about sex with animals in the original script, but I might be
mistaken. It’s been years since we were on stage.”

“It hasn’t
been that long.”

“It feels
like a lifetime,” QuiTai murmured.

“A card
popped up with words on it. Wait! Now we’re back to the actors.” Jezereet’s
hand went to her mouth. “That’s Gernert.” She lowered the device from her eyes.
“He’s playing Kenertate? But he’s such a ham.”

QuiTai
tipped the device with her fingertips so that Jezereet would keep watching. “Wait
till you see who they’ve cast as Inaza.”

She didn’t
have to wait long for Jezereet’s outraged squeak. “That little no-talent bitch!”

“She never
had your presence.”

Jezereet
sat in entranced silence while QuiTai tried to figure out a gift that might
please her more next time. Then she lowered the device. “That was wonderful.
Except Gernert. He wouldn’t know restraint and subtlety if they kicked him in
the balls.”

“He looks
good.”

“Looks
seem to be their only criteria for picking the actors. But it was nice to see
some of our old troupe.”

The first
time QuiTai had watched, the familiar faces nearly made her cry. How could they
be so little changed when she felt as if decades had passed? “I’m glad you
liked it,” she said. “I bought every story they have, and I hear that they’re
making more every day. Fashion isn’t the only thing changing in Rantuum.” She
showed Jezereet the stack of cartridges in the bottom of the box.

Jezereet
hugged QuiTai. “You spoil me.”

“It brings
me pleasure to see you smile. Would you like to watch another?”

Shaking
her head, Jezereet set the contraption back into the box. Her eyes were weary. “I’m
sorry. I seem to be fading quickly today.” She rubbed her arms. “You have an
umbrella. Is it monsoon already?”

“It has
been for weeks. Don’t you hear the rain? It’s cleansing the air. Would you like
to open your window and smell how fresh it is?”

Jezereet
gripped her wrist. “No, no, no.” She shook her head. “I can’t bear it. The
breeze makes my skin itch.”

“All
right. We’ll leave it closed.”

“I wish
monsoon would come. How can you people stand this heat?”

QuiTai bit
her lip. She hated the circular discussions, but it was useless to correct
Jezereet. “We dress for it. If you’d only learn to wear a sarong… Turn around
and I’ll loosen your laces.”

Jezereet
stood and let her overclothes slip to the floor. She removed the wire frames
that supported her skirts. “Freed from the burden of civilization.” Her delicious
curves had turned to bones. The once-famous luster of her skin was gray.

“Your
camisole is damp.
 
Shall I wash
your neck? It would cool you down.” QuiTai pressed her lips to Jezereet’s pale
shoulder.

Jezereet
turned with a grin. She placed a quick peck on QuiTai’s lips then lingered on
her second kiss. “Let’s take the vapor.”

“I don’t
have any.”

“Just a
little bowl.” Jezereet’s kisses lingered longer. “I’ll shift male if you’d
like.”

QuiTai’s
mouth bowed in a frown. No, she did not want Jezereet to waste precious energy
on a shift. “I have business to attend to.”

Jezereet’s
eyes grew cold as she dropped onto the divan. “Always.” She shoved the
kinescope away as if she couldn’t bear the sight of it. The cartridges spilled
to the floor. “Toys, but never your time. I know you take the vapor with
Petrof. Sometimes I can smell it on you.”

“I bring
you what I can scrape out of his pipe after he’s in vapor dream. Jezereet, the
dealers are too afraid of him to sell to me. If I could, you know I’d give it
to you right now.”

“Liar!”
Jezereet’s fingernails dug into QuiTai’s slim forearm.

“You’re
hurting me, love.”

The pain
of the nails was only part of the ache. Jezereet used to be such fun, but the
black lotus had stripped away her spark and left only ugly need. It was getting
harder to pretend she was who she used to be. Guilt made QuiTai try, but even
that had its limit.

“It’s like
bugs crawling under my skin. I can’t scrape them out. I’ve tried.” She showed
QuiTai the open sore on her thigh.

“I promise
I’ll bring you some next time.”

Jezereet’s
eyes were full of cunning hope. “Tonight?”

“Next
time,” QuiTai said patiently.

“I hate
you.” Jezereet’s grip tightened. QuiTai gently, but firmly, pushed her back
onto the bed. Jezereet gasped when she saw blood trickle down QuiTai’s arm. “I
didn’t mean it! You know I didn’t.”

“I know.”
QuiTai eased onto the mattress and cradled Jezereet’s head to her bosom. She
smoothed Jezereet’s hair as she rocked her. “I know.”

QuiTai
stood back
as Ivitch pounded on the door for the fifth time. “What?” she
heard Kyam bellow from inside, and then the door flew open.

Kyam
stopped short when he saw Ivitch’s fist before his nose.

QuiTai
could see he was trying to appear as if he’d just woken, although he’d shaved. His
long black bangs fell into his eyes, but his hair gleamed as if recently washed
and brushed. While he usually left the top buttons of his shewani jacket open
and the sleeves pushed back, today he’d buttoned all the way to his neck and
left the sleeves down. He wanted to make a good impression. Of course, his
grumpy demeanor ruined that. QuiTai wondered if he’d known Ivitch was with her
before he opened the door.

For her
first sitting, she’d chosen a simple kebaya blouse and batik sarong in the
style of the QuiYalin Provence. Her black braid wound over her shoulder and
dropped to her waist. If she had to have her portrait painted, she’d be damned
if she’d dress like a Thampurian.

“You were
expecting us, weren’t you, Mister Zul?” She strolled past him into his fourth
floor apartment.

Stacks of
canvases leaned against the mold-mottled walls. The mosquito netting over his
crisply made bed had been mended in several places. A wardrobe, two rickety
chairs, and a small desk were pushed aside to make room for an easel and a
table splattered with bright globs of paint. A drop cloth was thrown over the
floor, but yellow flecks speckled the bare wood around it.

Kyam
turned his attention to Ivitch. The men were about the same height, both with
muscular builds, but there was no real resemblance between them: Ivitch looked
as if he belonged behind a plow, where Kyam had an easy grace as if comfortable
no matter his surroundings.

“What’s
with the bodyguard?” Kyam stifled a yawn as he stretched.

She lifted
a filthy cloth from the back of a chair, wrinkled her nose, and let the cloth
drop to the floor. “That’s Ivitch. He loathes me.”

“Who doesn’t?”
Kyam slammed the door shut.

He had a
habit of standing too close so that he could glower down at her. If he thought
that intimidated her, he was wrong – it brought out her fighting
instinct. She folded her arms across her chest. “This studio isn’t fit for a
beast, even a Thampurian.”

“If you
don’t like it, you shouldn’t have forced me to live here.”

Ivitch’s
suspicious eyes slid from QuiTai to Kyam. “What’s he talking about?”

“Nothing
of importance,” she told Ivitch. “Really, Mister Zul, It’s been a year. You
could have moved.”

“Does the
Devil know?” Ivitch asked. He seemed eager for tales to tattle.

With
mischief dancing merrily across his face, Kyam looked down at QuiTai. “Yes.
Does he?”

He was the
most infuriating man. “You boys have bonded already. How nice.”

“The enemy
of my enemy...” Kyam said. Ivitch nodded.

She dusted
the seat of one of the chairs before settling onto it. “I thought only
Ponongese traded stories at gatherings, Mister Zul. You’ve gone native.”

That
remark wiped the humor from Kyam’s face. She noted how stricken he seemed in
the instant before he returned to his usual surliness.

“Do you
remember when Mister Zul arrived in Levapur, Ivitch? He was attacked by
ruffians –”

“That you
sent,” Kyam said.

“Am I
telling this, or are you?”

Kyam made
a gesture for her to continue. She lifted her chin and turned away from him.

“He was
attacked by ruffians beyond the marketplace. It seems that he was mesmerized by
the sight of a young lady on the veranda of the Red Happiness.”

“Who was
told to distract me.”

“For a
jaded debauch from the continent, you were easily distracted.”

“The young
lady in question hiked up her petticoats. She wasn’t wearing any – Well,
she made her profession clear,” Kyam told Ivitch. “Like Madame Jezereet, she
was an Ingosolian.”

Whatever
Kyam was after, he wasn’t going to get it by trying to make Ivitch his chum. The
idea of the two men chatting about women was laughable. Kyam’s clothes might
have been studiously shabby, but they were quality. Social-climbing Thampurians
tried to mimic his pedigreed accent. There was no doubt that he was a gentleman
despite his reduced circumstances and gruff manners; whereas Ivitch was a thug.

Ivitch proved
it by shoving the mosquito netting aside and reclining on Kyam’s bed without
taking off his boots. Kyam and QuiTai exchanged horrified glances.

“Ingosolians.
The ultimate shifters,” Kyam said in a distracted tone. He seemed unable to
turn away from the shocking sight of a werewolf sprawled across his bed. Then
he cleared his throat. “So there I was, admiring the show, when two scruffy men
attacked me from behind. They knocked me to the ground and were kicking the sh…”
– Kyam glanced at QuiTai – “the daylights out of me, when off in
the distance, this woman appears … ”

“He means
me. Don’t get huffy, Mister Zul. You interrupted me too. But go on. Tell your
story.”

“From her
eyes, clearly a native of Ponong, but dressed as if she’d stepped out of my
mother’s salon back in Thampur. As she came closer, the men grabbed my trunk
and ran off. So there I am, bleeding on the street, and she walks to me.”

“I did not
walk to you. You were in the middle of the street and I saw no reason to detour
around you.”

“And I said,
‘Help, I’ve been attacked! Call for the police,’ and she said, ‘Police, Mister
Zul? You are a fresh,’ then steps right over me as if I’m not even there.”

“Can you
imagine? He expected me to help,” QuiTai said to Ivitch.

“Now I
know better, don’t I? I’d heard that this island was lawless. I expected some
crime. But a man attacked in the middle of the street in front of thirty
witnesses, and no one does anything?”

Kyam’s
outrage sparked QuiTai’s anger. He acted as if he didn’t know why Levapur was
the way it was. “You can thank your government for that, sea dragon.”

“Or your
master – the Devil.”

They were
on the brink of one of their vicious arguments. If Kyam didn’t have the sense
to tone it down, she’d have to be the one who brought them back to the point of
this meeting. With some difficulty, she set aside her simmering outrage.

“You
forget it was the Devil who made sure that you were reunited with your
belongings. Although...” QuiTai wrinkled her nose at an orange and yellow
painting leaning against the wall near her. “The rest of the world might not
thank me for giving you back your paints and brushes. Couldn’t you be a poet
instead?”

But Kyam
refused to be deterred. “So I finally dragged myself to the bank for the first
advance on my remittance, and went in search of a place to stay; only everyone
in town refused to house me.” He shot QuiTai a jaundiced look, and then went
on, “Until I came to this, this...” Kyam lifted his hands to the water-stained
ceiling of his apartment.

“Dump,”
QuiTai said.

Kyam shook
his finger at her. “And how do I know she was behind it? Because when my
landlady unlocked the door for me, which she refused to do until I gave her a
month’s rent, there was QuiTai sitting here on my trunk!”

“It was
too heavy to move on my own, so why not bring him to his trunk rather than the
other way around?” she asked Ivitch.

Ivitch didn’t
so much as crack a smile. The werewolves never could acclimate to Ponong,
either the weather or the culture.

Kyam
snatched a pad of paper from his desk and shoved pencils into the breast pocket
of his shewani jacket. His temper seemed ready to explode. “This isn’t getting
us anywhere.”

That,
QuiTai could agree with.

Kyam
stalked to the door.

Ivitch
reluctantly rose from the bed. He scratched behind his ear. “Where are we
going?”

“I need
better light,” Kyam said. He headed out of his apartment.

Ivitch
gave QuiTai an annoyed but puzzled glance. Equally confused, she shrugged.

~ ~ ~

The funicular line from the town to the harbor below had
been built to move cargo, but passengers were grudgingly allowed to ride rather
than brave the steep path that crisscrossed the track a dozen times. There were
no seats. The interior was scarred from crates that had broken free from the
cargo belts that strained to hold them in place.

“Stinks in here.
They shouldn’t allow the fishermen to bring their catch up in these,” Ivitch
said.

Kyam took a
pencil from his pocket and whittled the end with a pocket knife.

QuiTai
peered out the hazy window that she wished someone would clean. Overhead, thick
green leaves longer than her arm created a shaded tunnel. Halfway down, the
dense plants suddenly dropped away, revealing the turquoise waters of the
harbor, and beyond, the sapphire Sea of Erykoli. Monolith stones far from
shore, bleached white from the sun and covered in thick layers of bird guano,
jutted from the harbor’s water like the sails of ghost ships dredged up from
watery graves. Most were bare, but tenacious wind-bowed trees clung to the tops
of the biggest stones. On the eastern side of the island, similar rocks formed
the dreaded Ponong Fangs.

From this
far above the harbor, the round stone fortress squatting on the end of a jetty
looked like a crenellated ring with an emerald center. The wharf was a narrow
band of commerce on the western edge, near where three- and four-masted junks
anchored. Between the wharf and the lower funicular station was a slim crescent
of red sand beach that ended abruptly at a cliff.

The
funicular creaked slowly down the track. Another thicket of trees blocked her
view for several minutes. When they emerged into sun again, it seemed ten
degrees hotter inside the stuffy car. The narrow side window screeched in
protest as she lowered it to let in the sea breeze.

The
funicular bumped to a stop.

 
Ivitch listed and tried to catch his
balance in three quick steps before stumbling into the wall of the car. “There
was plenty of sunlight in town, Zul,” he snapped as he rubbed his shoulder.

“Not like here.
It bounces off the water –”

“Light
doesn’t bounce,” Ivitch said with the absolutely certainty of a man who is
often wrong but doesn’t know it.

Kyam
turned to QuiTai. “Well? I suppose you have some complaint too.”

She shook
her head. If he’d swathed her in velvet and taken her to an inland valley cut
off from the ocean breezes, she wouldn’t have complained. She was all curiosity
now. It was right there, almost within touch, what he wanted from her. As much
as she enjoyed speculating, it was time to find out.

Dock
workers lounged along the wharf: Between ships arriving or setting sail, there
were many long hours with nothing for them to do. One group squatted at the far
end and pitched coins against a wall; Ivitch’s eyes lit up, until Kyam led them
down the narrow beach. The shouts of the players carried over the noise of the
wind and waves. Ivitch kept looking back.

“Lady
QuiTai, stand there, looking out at the sea.” Kyam pointed to a spot in the
sand then perched on a small monolith stone several feet away. He flipped open
his sketch pad.

“What am I
supposed to do?” Ivitch asked.

“Spy on
me,” QuiTai said.

“Could you
turn? No. Here, let me show you.” Kyam stepped over, gripped QuiTai’s
shoulders, and adjusted her position slightly. “Then turn your head to face me.
Good.” He returned to the boulder, selected a pencil from his pocket, and began
to sketch.

QuiTai had
no idea how Kyam wanted her to pose, so she simply stood and looked past him.
Across the harbor, red flags emblazoned with the Thampurian Imperial chop
snapped above the fortress. Near the wharf, junks at anchor rolled with the
incoming waves: The closest to the fortress flew banners with the symbols of
Thampur and three of the thirteen families. She assumed that meant the ship was
a joint venture. In contrast, the junk anchored further from the wharf, with
the single eye painted on its hull, flew only the Thampurian flag and banners
with the chop of the Zul clan. Kyam’s family owned their own fleet.

She
wondered which son Kyam was; had he always known those ships would never be his,
or were the banners were a constant reminder of what he’d lost? But he wasn’t a
real remittance man, she reminded herself: Any day he chose, he could stop
playing spy, show his articles of transport to the harbor master, and board a
ship bound for Thampur. Except that he wouldn’t. No matter how miserable QuiTai
tried to make his life, he stayed.

She should
know by now that it was useless to try. The Oracle had told her long ago that
Kyam Zul would become the colonial governor of Ponong. And the Oracle was never
wrong.

Ivitch
paced behind Kyam, stopping occasionally to peer over Kyam’s shoulder.