Thief of Light (8 page)

So it had to be her—Mistress Prue McGuire, with her vivid, level gaze. For an instant, his mood lightened. Once he got his full growth, he’d discovered seduction was as effective as the Voice—it just took longer. And it had the added benefit of allowing him to live inside his own skin.

But Prue had resisted both. Erik rubbed his forehead. Why? Godsdammit,
how
?

Only one way to find out.

His chest tightened and automatically, he touched his fingertips to the talisman under his shirt. He’d have to do it again—compel someone—but how could he do that and be sure to do no harm? Because to be a true test, it would have to be something deeply against the victim’s will.

His eye fell on the boy’s grimy little fist, clutching the side of the skiff for dear life.

Oh yes.

First, make absolutely certain of the child’s feelings. “Florien,” he said casually, “when we get to the boarding house, I want you to take a bath. Immediately.”

Florien’s head jerked up and his mouth fell open. “Wot?”

“A bath,” said Erik patiently. “I can smell you from here.” It was true, he could.

“Ain’t havin’ no fookin’ bath. Cenda made me take one las’ week, ’fore we got on t’ starship.” His face stiff with indignation, the boy leaned over the side of the boat and spat into the water.

“Fine.” Erik leaned back.
We’ll see, my lad, we’ll see
.

From one of the small pavilions in The Garden, the notes of a flute stole across the water, clear and bright as the chimes of a glass bell in the softness of the night air. Erik smiled, pleasantly surprised. The “Lullaby for Stormy Eyes.” How flattering, someone had been listening. But when a female voice joined in, dancing a graceful minuet with the flute, the smile faded.

With a sigh, the skiffwoman rested her pole and let the current carry them back a little way while she listened.

It wasn’t Prue McGuire, he knew that at once. This was the voice of youth, all promise and inexperience. The flute player could do with tutoring too. Not to mention a better instrument.

Very softly, Erik hummed along, considering the new and interesting options the gods had just set before him. The Lord and Lady could be unpredictable, but They generally played fair. They recognized the stubborn grain deep in his soul, disguised by his veneer of placid good humor.

The skiffwoman bent to the pole again, and The Garden slipped away around the bend, the music fading in the slap of water against the hull, the whisper of a sea breeze. Erik tried to recall the last time a woman had rejected him out of hand. Really, there was only Inga—and she’d been in love with Jarner Andersen at the time.

He swore under his breath. So he’d slipped tonight. Though he’d used the Voice to compel, thank the gods there’d been no consequences. Prue McGuire was hardly likely to throw herself in the river. He released his hard grip on the side of the skiff, flexing his fingers to get the numbness out.

He’d only met the woman a few hours ago. All he’d intended was a night of casual pleasure. Instead, she’d changed his life—and he didn’t think it was for the better. Uneasily, he recalled staring at his reflection in the mirror, that dark tide of premonition washing over him. Coincidence be damned. He frowned.

One you cannot charm, cannot control
. The Lady’s amused voice echoed in his head.

Erik set his jaw. Well, hell, charm certainly hadn’t worked. Nor had the Voice.

All the fine hair on his body rose. His pulse sped up. Shit.

Prue McGuire was a direct challenge, a gauntlet thrown down by the dark goddess. She had to be.

Did She have a serious purpose or was She simply amusing Herself? Ha! Typical female. His lips twisted in a sardonic smile. Fleetingly, he wondered how the Horned Lord fared with His Lady. Was He as helpless and hapless as any human male?

Godsdammit, if there was anything that riled him, it was being played—even when the player was an immortal Being of immeasurable power. Erik Thorensen was his own man, not some kind of game piece to be moved about at will.

Prue had the potential to be almost anything—challenge, riddle, passing fancy, the heart’s desire.
Divine retribution
. Chills raced up and down his spine.

Erik tilted his head, baring his teeth at the star-dappled sky, fathomless as the Lady’s beautiful eyes.
So it amuses You to challenge me, Great Lady, to make me dance to Your tune? Well, I’m picking up the gauntlet
.
Let’s see if I can charm sweet Mistress McGuire into bed on my own merits, and what wicked things I can persuade her to do once she’s there.
He frowned, thinking it through.

Rolling his shoulders, he relaxed. Slowly, his lips curved. It wasn’t going to be such a hardship. Unraveling Prue would be fun—for both of them. She’d be his match in determination, if not in guile. The grin widening, he imagined them tumbling back and forth across a big bed, tussling about who’d go on top, carefree and laughing. He hadn’t done that with a woman in years. Forever.

Her piquant face was so expressive, so easy to read. He found it almost cute the way she didn’t have enough experience to conceal how much he attracted her. The delicate flush on her cheek, her dilated pupils and her breasts swelling beneath smooth black silk—they all said one thing. Such a contrast to the snippy words coming out of that sweet carnal mouth. Oh yes, Mistress Prue was deliciously susceptible, despite her wariness.

When he was long gone, playing other theaters, other worlds, they’d both have some sweet memories to warm the nights. A pleasant interlude. Nothing more, nothing less.

With a soft thud, the skiff grounded at the water stair nearest the boarding house. Still smiling a little, Erik dropped an extra coin in the skiffwoman’s calloused palm, despite Florien’s audible huff of disgust.

Keeping a big hand on the boy’s shoulder, he closed the door quietly behind them. “The bathhouse is just down the hall.”

“Nah, I tol’ ye, I—”

“
Florien
.” Erik snagged the child’s dark gaze with his own. Held it. “
Go take a bath. With soap. Wash everywhere—hair included. Then come to my room and show me.
” He hadn’t spoken loudly, but the Voice echoed eerily off the walls.

Florien stared, his brow knitted. Then he blinked as if waking from a deep sleep. “Fook it. All right.”

He wandered off down the passage, casting Erik a final reproachful glance before he disappeared through the door at the far end.

Erik sagged against the wall.

You didn’t take it from me, Great Lady. Your blessing, my curse.
Climbing the stairs to his room, he sank down full length on the too-short bed.
Thanks—I think.
He threw an arm over his eyes.

How long did it take to wash one skinny little body? By the time Florien stuck a wet, tousled head around the door, Erik had given up on the bed. He was pacing the floor—two long strides to the window, two strides back.

Without a word, the child held out his hands for inspection. “Kin I go t’ bed now?”

“Wait.” Erik cleared his throat. “Your hair’s wet. Come here.” With one hand, he grabbed a thin shoulder, with the other, he snatched the threadbare towel from the dresser.

“Hey! Mmpf!” The boy’s protest sounded muffled under the vigor of Erik’s rubbing.

Erik paused. “You all right?”

Florien emerged pink and rumpled, his hair standing up in soft spikes. He checked the condition of both ears with careful fingers, shooting Erik a look of frank dislike. “Yah.”

He slid out the door so rapidly Erik was left standing in the middle of the room, blinking, the towel clenched in his fists. He blew out a long breath. The gods be praised, the Voice hadn’t caused the lad any damage, changed him in any fundamental way. Florien had done exactly as he’d been told—and no more. Smiling, Erik bent to unbuckle a boot. The boy’s shirt and trews had been both familiar and filthy. He’d simply put them straight back on his clean body.

Well then.

The first boot hit the floor, then the second. Gratefully, Erik wiggled his toes and stretched until his shoulders creaked. His lips curved in a wicked grin. Tomorrow the real challenge.

Little Mistress Prue.

The Necromancer raised his brows. “I must stop
what
?”

“Killing seelies,” said the Technomage. She clenched her hands together, her spine rigid with tension.

“And why is that?” asked the Necromancer, rather enjoying himself.

Her shoulders still tight, the Primus indicated her screen. “I’ve been collecting data, doing projections. They were rare to begin with, but over the years, you’ve reduced the population to below a viable level.”

“They’ve just learned to avoid the traps, that’s all. Clever little things.” The Necromancer glanced fondly at the swirl of blue fur in the tank. He could
taste
the terror. Luscious. “There are plenty more of them, I’m sure. Where did you put that bucket?”

The Scientist ignored him. She picked up a thick bundle of transplas sheets and thrust it in his general direction, her cheeks flushing pink with agitation. “No, no, you’re wrong,” she said. “Our research on Sybaris shows that such interference has unpredictable results. I need more data.” She took two steps closer to the tank. “Let me talk to the Primus in the Tower here. I can keep this one alive for—”

The Necromancer’s patience evaporated. He struck out, a whip-lash of power curling around the Technomage’s waist, jerking her off her feet. Her shoulder struck the tank with a jarring thud, so that it rocked, the seelie thrashing in distress. As he watched, she slumped slowly to the floor and her eyes rolled up in her head.

Huffing with irritation, the Necromancer bent to check her pulse. Fine. The stupid woman was fine. A mild concussion probably and some residual nerve pain.

He straightened, surveying the limp body thoughtfully. The Technomage Primus of Sybaris was a godsbedamned nuisance, not a doubt of it, but no investment came without cost. His gaze traveled from the diagram of the seelie trap on the screen to the little heap of blue misery in the corner of the tank, and he smiled.

What else had his Scientist been doing?

Stepping over her sensibly trousered legs, he crossed to the console and began to rummage.

In her suite on the upper floor of the Main Pavilion, Prue laid the ink brush down with a sigh. Ruefully, she massaged the tight muscles at the back of her neck. Likely she’d transferred at least one smear of ink. She always managed to get the stuff all over her fingers. With considerable satisfaction, she surveyed the big ledger on the scarred surface of her big desk. Done, by the Sister! When the Queen’s Money sent his tax collectors, all would be in perfect order at The Garden of Nocturnal Delights.

And she still had time for a bite of lunch with Rose. Smiling, Prue patted the pocket of her working trousers, cut in the flowing Trinitarian style, loose and sensible. Paper crackled beneath her fingers. They could adjourn to the sitting room, brew a soothing tisane of mothermeknot tea and open Meg’s letter together.