Thief of Light (57 page)

A day later—or was it two?—he was lying propped up on a pile of pillows, one hand drumming a tattoo on the sheet, frowning. Prue had brought him lunch, then pecked his cheek and departed at a brisk trot, admonishing him to sleep. But hell, he couldn’t. The livelihood of an entire company of players depended on him.

The Voice was gone, as if it had never been, an aching absence like a phantom toothache. Deep in his bones, he knew it, though he’d only had the strength to hum a few bars. With a grunt, he squared his shoulders. Not so long ago, he would have been crushed, his life over, but now, although the loss grieved him, he couldn’t regret it. Vaguely, he wondered if it would hurt more as his wound healed.

Very likely, but he’d deal with it then. He still had perfect pitch, though he wasn’t at all certain it wouldn’t drive him to distraction without the Voice to go with it.

But nonetheless, he hadn’t realized what an intolerable burden he’d carried until it was taken from him. More a curse than a blessing. He felt . . . lighter . . . cleaner.

With his usual calm, Gray had stepped into a hastily rearranged program and houses had been reasonable, but they couldn’t bank on the curiosity factor forever. In any case, Gray’s husky tenor was a crowd-pleaser, but not enough to carry an entire production. A grin curved Erik’s lips. It had been beyond good to see the other man. Someone whose self-contained good sense and loyalty he could count on. The spurt of humor fled.

Godsdammit, Magick was a chancy thing—fuck, he should know—and now it seemed Gray was mired in it hip-deep as well. A man with a sentient
shadow
? Erik shook his head in disbelief, stopping with a curse when his wound pulled.

He’d had a little time to become accustomed to Cenda before the Unearthly Opera left Concordia, and he’d approved. Not only was she a sweetheart, she was good for his friend. So what if rills of flame sparked from her palms and fiery salamanders danced in her hair? Gray and his fire witch were
mated
in such a way that having seen them together, he couldn’t imagine them apart.

But a few hours ago, Gray had strolled into the Spring Green Parlor, followed by a dark replica of himself, and introduced his shadow to Erik, his eyes glinting silver with amusement. Damn him. Erik’s skin had pebbled, all the fine hairs rising on the back of his neck.

“Uh,” he’d said stupidly, “pleased to meet you.”

Shad—gods, it even had a name!—had nodded pleasantly enough, and Erik had been embarrassingly relieved the shadow hadn’t offered its hand.

By the Horned Lord, he hoped to hell Gray knew what he was doing. But when he’d asked why they’d come, his friend would not be drawn, merely raising those slanted brows and saying it had been Deiter’s idea. Erik rubbed his nose, brooding. The old reprobate never did anything without a reason—unless there was alcohol involved. And gods, the man was a Purist. The irony of it was incredible. Grimly amused, Erik snorted.

The latch clicked and a figure in a shabby robe slipped through the door. Well, well, speak of a demon and he appears.

“Purist Deiter,” said Erik. “I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you.”

“Shut up,” said the old wizard. Cautiously, he cracked the door and peered out. “You’re supposed to be asleep.” He closed the door. “All clear. Gods, bossy women make me want to spit.” Framed by a neat gray beard tied off in three plaits, his mouth contorted as if he were about to do just that.

Erik raised a cool brow. “You’re talking about my Prue?”

“Her and that daughter of hers and that Rose woman. Not to mention Bartelm. Bah!” The drinker’s paunch wobbled beneath the robe.

Erik fought the desire to smile. “Your eyes must be going if you think Bartelm’s a female.”

“Bartelm’s as much an old woman as Nori.”

“He saved my life. And Nori showed me how to use my—” Erik broke off. It still felt so strange to say it out loud. “Magick.”

“Hmpf.” Sinking into a chair by the bed, Deiter scowled. “Yes, well. You don’t get to the rank of Purist by being a complete fool.” He settled back. “About the Magick—”

“Get me out of here and we’ll talk.” Erik threw back the sheet and swung his legs to the floor, letting the breath whistle out from between his teeth. That wasn’t too bad.

Deiter’s brows rose. “Don’t you think you’d better dress? You’re a lot of interesting colors, man, but you’re still, ah,
interesting
.” His rheumy gaze roamed the length of Erik’s torso in nostalgic appreciation. “Shit, getting old makes the Dark Arts look tempting.”

“There’s a robe behind the door. Tansy brought it for me.”

“She the tasty little morsel with the big eyes and sweet tits?” Deiter tossed the garment over.

Erik grunted an affirmative, concentrating on working his bad arm into a wide sleeve.

The old wizard grinned, watching him struggle. “I think she fancies me, that one.”

Fuck, it still hurt to twist his upper body. “Sure, same way she fancies her granda.” With a vicious jerk, he sashed the robe around his waist.

“I’m an old man,” said Deiter mildly. “You just said so yourself.” He rose to hold the door open. “I’ll yell for help if you fall. Where are you going, by the way?”

Erik gripped the dresser, testing his legs. He didn’t need nursing, he was feeling stronger by the minute. Casting the patiently waiting wizard a dark glance, he said, “Where I belong. To Prue.” She’d be pissed with him, but too bad.

The Main Pavilion drowsed in the afternoon sun, silent and apparently deserted. Erik negotiated the stairs, one determined step at a time, Deiter babbling all sorts of nonsense in his ear—fire Magick, his less than flattering opinion of the gods, pentacles, life and death on a cosmic scale, the future of civilization as he knew it. Erik let it all float past, and with a huff of exasperation, the old man fell silent.

“Fookin’ ’ell,” whispered a voice from below.

A second’s pause, the pattering rush of feet and a small, wiry body cannoned into him, skinny arms wrapping around his waist as far as they’d go.

“Ow! Shit!” Pain lanced into Erik’s side and spread in a gleeful red-hot tide. Careful,” he grunted. “That hurts.”

To his surprise, hard little hands patted his chest, dark eyes studied his face from under impossibly long lashes. “They sed ye was better,” said Florien accusingly.

“I am.” Lord’s balls, the boy cared.

The child snorted. “Ye look like shit.”

Unexpectedly touched, Erik grinned and ruffled the dark hair. When the lad glared, smoothing it flat, he felt strangely reassured. His brother Lars had been like that, all swagger and bluff and cheek. His vision blurred for an instant.

Deiter chuckled. “Out of the mouths of babes . . .”

Florien shot the old man a killing glare. “Ain’t no fookin’ bebbe.”

The shifting, transitory world of the theater had been his family for so long, but these feelings were different—warmer, closer, more demanding and exacting. Prue and Florien, even Katrin and Rose. Shit, he was collecting people!

Unperturbed, Deiter stroked his beard. “Lad has promise.”

“Don’ move, yah? I’ll git ’elp.”

“There’s no need, don’t—” But the boy had already darted away toward the kitchen.

Erik growled under his breath. Slowly, he climbed another couple of steps. Gods, he used to take them two at a time. But that was in another life.

He heard Florien’s chatter approaching, a feminine voice responding. A moment of shocked silence and Katrin arrived beside him in a flurry of skirts. Wedging a strong young shoulder under his arm, she muttered, “For the Sister’s sake, Erik, what are you doing? Mam will kill you.”

Erik grinned. “You think?” He liked it when Prue fussed.

“I know,” said Prue’s daughter, with a rueful twinkle. “Me too probably. All right, lean on me. Where are we going?”

Erik held her blue gray gaze. “Where do you think?” There was a smudge of flour on her cheek. She’d been baking.

“Oh.” The faintest tinge of pink crept into her cheeks. “Florien,” she said, “see if you can find Mam.”

“Yah.” The boy trotted purposefully away.

Stiffly, Erik disengaged himself from Katrin. “I’m fine.”

“But—”

“
I said I’m fine
.”

Katrin’s spine straightened with an almost perceptible snap. “Right,” she said coolly. “I’ll go ahead. I’ve got a key.”

Erik smiled wryly. Well, hell, he hadn’t thought of that, had he? A real fool he would have looked, beating his head on the wrong side of Prue’s door. Deiter ambled along beside him, mercifully silent as they negotiated the last few steps, the passage and the entry to her suite.

Her expression studiously blank, Katrin appeared in the doorway of Prue’s bedchamber. “I’ve turned the bed down,” she said.

“And very nice too,” said Deiter approvingly, peering around her. He prowled into the sitting room and gazed out the window. “Lovely view of the—Lord’s balls, the boy’s found her.” Backing toward the door, he favored Erik with a thin smile. “I’ll be off then.”

He disappeared.

“Erik?”

“Yes.” He sank onto the couch with a grateful sigh.

Katrin clasped her hands over the front of her apron. “Thank you.”

He opened an eye. “What for?”

Shyly, she reached out to touch his shoulder. “You saved her.”

Erik opened both eyes. “If it wasn’t for me,” he said grimly, “your mother wouldn’t have needed saving in the first place. Anyway, she saved me too.”

Katrin’s eyes misted. “Did she?” She drew up a chair. “I’m not surprised. How?”

Erik hesitated. “She was . . . there, that’s all. When I needed her.” She’d refused to let him go, holding his fading soul captive with the power of sheer, bloody-minded love. The irresistible force and the immovable object.

“Oh.” Katrin wiped away a tear. “Do you love her?” she said abruptly.

“You’ve asked me that before.”

Her jaw firmed. “I’m asking it again. There were a few hours . . . Bartelm thought we might lose you after all.” She fiddled with the edge of her apron. “I saw her face.”

Erik leaned forward to lay his hand over hers. “Yes,” he said simply. “I love her and I always will.”

All the breath left Katrin in a gusty sigh. Her soft blue eyes went wide and starry. “Thank the Sister.”

Something clenched in his chest, and it had nothing to do with his wound. “Don’t be grateful too soon,” he said.

“I know.” Another tear trickled over her cheek. “You’ll take her away with you.” She sprang to her feet and took a couple of restless steps, skirts rustling. “But if she’s happy . . .” Katrin swallowed hard. “That’s all that matters.”

Erik opened his mouth and closed it again. Reassurance would be a lie when he had no idea of what lay ahead. The little boy in him hoped desperately for forgiveness, absolution, but the man was certain it was too much to ask. Far too much.

The door opened.

“What do you think you’re doing, Erik Thorensen?” Prue skewered him with a blue green glare.

Erik lifted his chin, fighting not to lapse into a besotted smile. “I came for my clothes,” he said coolly. His eye fell on the hands Prue had placed on her hips and everything within him went hunter-still. Silver and aquamarine circled each wrist.

He raised his gaze to Prue’s. “On second thoughts . . .” he growled. The air thickened, he could see the sparkle of it. Experimentally, he sent a flow swirling toward her to flirt with her hair, brush her cheek.

Katrin gave a funny little gasp. “I’ll be off then,” she said, making for the door, pausing only to drop a kiss on her mother’s cheek. “Be happy,” he heard her murmur. The door closed softly, the lock clicking home.

Prue cleared her throat. “You should be in bed.”

Erik bared his teeth. “Not without you.” Pleased to the marrow of his bones with his new skill, he wafted his little breeze over her shoulder and down over her breast, darkly delighted when her nipples beaded up. He nodded at the silver cuffs. “You’re wearing them.”

“Yes, I—” Prue broke off, wetting her lips.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

“You’re in no condition—”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Weaving the ribbons of air into a thicker band, he wrapped it around her waist and tugged her close. “Kiss me.”

“You’re mad,” she grumbled, but she bent to give him her smiling lips.

Ah, so sweet. One kiss at a time, Erik lured her in, until he had her down on the couch beside him, sprawled over his lap, that tender, carnal mouth all his to plunder and adore.

When he finally let her up for air, she looked dazed, her hair mussed and her lips swollen. Gods, he loved that expression, innocence debauched. “No,” she whispered. Then more firmly, sitting up. “No.”

Erik pressed a kiss to her palm. “Don’t say no to me, Prue, not while you’re wearing my cuffs.”

“But Erik, you’ve only just—”

“See what you did.” He gestured at his lap, where his cock reared, fighting to be free of the concealing robe.

Prue licked her lips and the robe twitched. “Oh dear,” she murmured. “That looks . . . uncomfortable.” She slanted him a sparkling glance, the mischief still underpinned with a touch of anxiety. The dimple quivered and his heart squeezed hard with love and lust.

“It is,” he said, trying not to pant. And waited.

Prue frowned. Then she folded her arms and stuck out that stubborn chin. “I refuse to hurt you,” she said.

Every physical sensation was magnified unbearably by emotion—the dull ache of the wound, the sly caress of soft fabric across the sensitive head of his shaft. Godsdammit, he couldn’t think straight, helpless as a leaf at the mercy of capricious winds. Overwhelming tenderness buffeted him one way, guilt and apprehension another. For a disconcerting second, he thought he might cry.

Well, hell.

How much more would he have of her? How many more opportunities to create the memories he’d have to live on for the rest of his life? To see love and joy illuminating her sweet face instead of disgust and condemnation?