Demon's Fire (7 page)

Humans were lucky the Yama weren’t fond of battle—too messy, Charles supposed, not to mention uncivilized.

He pulled up short in the hallway and cursed himself. He’d walked too far, past the bathing chamber he’d meant to use to cool his raging blood. He stood outside Beth’s bedroom, in front of her paneled door. His cock lurched higher inside his pants, the surge of heat so dizzying he had to brace his hands on her door frame.

God, he wanted her. Now. This instant. And he only wished he wanted her so he could bury his more shameful urges in desiring her. The truth was darker but too strong to deny. Charles didn’t want a cure: He wanted to take her, to plunge his hardness inside her with that other lust riding him. He wanted to destroy her damned innocence, wanted her to be stained like him. He had no doubt the climax that would give him would be colossal.

Lord,
he thought,
you are one sick human.

Admitting it changed nothing. He wet his lips and stared at the door handle.

Maybe he would have moved away if he hadn’t heard her; he was certainly ordering himself to go. But her cry carried to him, low and pained, and his hand couldn’t help but reach for the knob and turn.

The moment he stepped into her chamber, his mouth went dry.

Herrington had given Beth the finest rooms in the
haveli
, those that had belonged to the former Bhamjrishi mistresses of this house. The walls were rich with murals, the molding gilded in arabesques. Her gauze-draped bed was massive, like a barge set sail on a carpet sea. A small Yamish nightlight glowed atop its headboard, a tiny, demonic beacon to his downfall.

That downfall was thrashing in the bed, caught up in some troubling dream. The sheet was tangled around her, shoved to her waist and half off her legs. This wouldn’t have been fatal if Beth hadn’t also torn off her night rail. The muslin lay in shreds around her, as if ripped by an animal.

Sweat enveloped his body in a burning wave. She was more beautiful than he’d dreamed. Her legs were endless: strong but unmistakably womanly. Worse, her hands were squeezed between her thighs, caught in the sheet and tight against her sex. She looked like she was touching herself through the linen, like she was trying to bring herself to release. Her head rolled on the pillow as if she were in pain.

“Please,” she said, which caused his pulse to leap wildly. But she hadn’t woken. She followed the word with a jumble of syllables that didn’t sound like their native tongue.

Charles stumbled forward, hardly knowing what he meant to do. He touched her shoulder as his gaze strayed helplessly to her breasts. They were fuller than he expected, their curves enough to make his mouth water. Her nipples were dark and pointed, like ginger kissed with rouge.

“Beth,” he said, his throat as tight and swollen as his cock. “Beth, wake up.”

Her eyes flew open, but they weren’t seeing him. In the soft glow of the nightlight, her pupils were black and huge.

“I can’t do it,” she said. “I can’t give myself enough pleasure.”

He groaned her name this time, a plea she ignored to resume her thrashing and whimpering. Charles could hardly stand beneath the terrible enticement that roared through him. He braced one arm on the mattress beside her head. Her eyes were closed again, making his battle both easier and harder.

“Beth.” He took hold of the sheet where it draped her thighs, tugging it away from her clutched fingers. “Let me.”

He pushed his hand beneath hers and instantly her legs flung wide. Her pubic curls were wet, her silky folds as hot as fire. His knees sagged onto the bed frame, utterly unable to hold him up. Despite his weakness, he couldn’t stop what he was doing. Her clitoris was ripe and thick. He pressed it hard beneath the pad of his thumb, her juices making the digit slide.

Her weeping slit begged for the probing of his fingers.

She cried out hoarsely when he satisfied the mute request. Her body rolled, plainly liking his touch better than her own. Her hips jerked greedily toward his fingers, so greedily he could feel the tender stretch of her hymen against their tips.

The decent being he was trying to be bit his lip hard enough to bleed.

“No,” he said to both of them, attempting to hold her safely down with his other hand. She was stronger than he expected, more determined. Her flesh tightened around him, a seduction more insidious than a siren’s song.

“Please,” she groaned. “Please, help me.”

Not knowing what else to do, he crawled between her legs and put his mouth on her.

She came then, with a shudder like an earthquake.

“More,” she pleaded, her thighs tightening on his ears until she nearly deafened him. “I need more.”

He gave her more, and more and more, her taste bursting on his tongue, her clitoris so slick and swollen he thought he’d never tire of rolling it on his tongue. This was desire. This was need as strong as iron. Feeling like a sinner who’d been let into heaven by mistake, he ran his hands up her body to squeeze her breasts. The way she writhed at his caresses thrilled him to the bone. She came when he pulled her sharp little nipples and shivered when he licked her slit. Though he hadn’t forgotten how she’d almost pierced her maidenhead, he couldn’t help but curl his thumbs inside her—though only to the first knuckle.

That she liked enough to sob with need.

“Yes,” she cried as he flicked his tongue against the very tip of her clitoris. “Oh, please, do that harder, too.”

He sucked her strongly enough for her to shatter, her body bucking as it clutched dangerously on his thumbs. Charles knew he was adept at this, but she came longer than he’d known any woman to. Loving the reaction, he pushed her to go longer still. Her cries turned to pleasured whimpers and finally to long, soft sighs.

“One more,” she murmured even as she took it.

Her hips shuddered once, twice, and then every muscle she had went limp.

He pulled from her, panting hard. She was sleeping now—or sleeping still, he supposed—this slumber deep and peaceful. One-tenth of her satisfaction would have suited him. He sat back on his heels and rubbed his aching jaw, his body shaking with unreleased tension. His prick was so aroused it felt like it was buzzing, and the front of his sleep pants stuck to his skin in a large wet patch. His cock had been dripping with excitement all this while, wishing it could share each and every one of her orgasms. It was white-hot now, a universe of lust embodied in a single rod.

The urge to rub it had his nails digging into his palms.

Do it,
he thought, echoing Sahel.
Do it before your conscience gets the best of you.

Her legs were splayed before him, her vulva glistening with her emissions. She smelled like sex incarnate, like an invitation to debauchery. Charles undid the tie that held his trouser flaps together, peeling the damp material from his skin. His scrotum was tight and throbbing, his shaft thrust high enough to bump his own body. He gritted his teeth, afraid to touch himself. He knew he shouldn’t do this, knew it was breach of trust, but—perverse creature that he was—the knowledge only made him want it more.

Do it,
he ordered.
Better this than what you really want.

He fisted himself almost grimly, low and tight around his root. One stroke had him fighting back a moan of shock, had him clenching deep inside against the power of this pleasure. God, it was good to do this over her, to do this watching her. Every nerve he had seemed to coil and scream for relief, but he went as slowly as he could bear. He might never get another chance like this. He doubted she’d wake again tonight, not after he’d exhausted her. His cock thickened in his hand, hurrying toward release in spite of his wishes. Feeling how close he was getting, he knew he ought to grab a rag to spill into.

But that wasn’t what he craved in his lustful heart. He crawled over her on his knees instead, trembling with anticipation, pointing the hard, pulsing head while her breasts rose and fell in sleeping innocence.

He knew exactly where he wanted his seed to go.

His hand moved faster, rougher, need overruling will. Images rose like monsters in his mind, driving him higher yet. He saw the Yama from the market, lounging like a pasha with his legs stretched out. Charles knelt on the sandy cobbles before his chair, and then he heard Sahel groan as she kissed Herrington. Some nightmare from his unconscious grabbed his hair and jerked it from behind.
Mine,
it said, hard and cold as steel.
Mine until you lose yourself to your desires.

His fist made a slapping noise on his sweaty skin, a blur of desperate motion that whipped him to the edge and then over. Sensation burst like a star in his prick and thighs. He exploded over her nipples, long, white ribbons of ejaculate. The sight was so arousing to his twisted mind that he peaked again, moaning at the sweetness of the hard climax.

Charles knew how to pleasure himself, and he’d used the shadow side of his desires to strengthen his release before. In truth, he hardly knew how to avoid it. And yet in spite of that he’d never come as powerfully as this.

He looked down at Beth,
saw
her, sleeping like an angel spattered with his seed. Whatever needs her dream had stirred up, she hadn’t deserved to be used this way. Despising himself, he swung off her body and out of the bed. The carpet was soft beneath his bare feet, his head as light as if he’d recovered from a long fever. He spied a rarely worn cotton glove lying near a chair and used it gently, softly, to wipe the evidence of his violation from her skin.

She shivered when he reached her nipple, a little, throaty sound breaking in her throat. He had to fight an urge to suck the tightening protrusion. To his dismay, his groin grew heavier at the thought. His guilt was powerless to stop his blood from surging. In fact, his guilt made it flow harder.

Unsettled by what this said about his character, he tugged the sheet over her. Evidently, living out the forbidden was even more addictive than fantasies.

Precise as all their kind, despite her quarter-human blood, Buttercup rang Pahndir’s bell at exactly twelve o’clock.

Pahndir looked up from his desk and swore. He had forgotten he’d invited her, a lapse that was ironic, considering he’d spent months working up the courage to ask her here.

Fortunately, he was dressed and sitting in his office with the accounts. Unfortunately, he couldn’t count on a servant admitting her. Noon was early enough that most of his employees remained abed. Knowing his heart was thumping far too fast, he did his best to compose his face. Royal Yama weren’t supposed to get nervous.

You’re calm,
he told his reflection in the bull’s-eye mirror hanging in the hall.
You’re a gracious host who knows how to keep his feelings to himself.

That patent falsity inspired a grimace. He was a gracious host who knew the closest thing he might have to a second mate was the very married woman on his threshold.

He wiped not-quite-dry palms on his yellow-and-sapphire tunic before he let her in. As was proper for Yama who were close in rank, he and Buttercup exchanged bows. To his amusement—and, admittedly, to his pleasure—the formerly humble Buttercup was not too proud to goggle at her surroundings.

Marrying a prince could only change so much, it seemed.

“My,” she breathed, craning her neck to admire the dome in his entryway. A painting of Shiva and Parvati bent around its curves, their explicitly entwined limbs lit by a hanging brass lantern. The flame that flickered inside was meant to remind clients of his house’s name. Buttercup closed her mouth and looked back at him. “This place is everything I’ve heard.”

“Then I hope you’ve heard good things.”

He touched her arm to guide her down the corridor. She started slightly at the contact, but recovered with one of her gentle smiles. “I admit I’ve been surprised to hear people calling you Mr. Pahndir, considering this is The
Prince’s
Flame.”

“The house’s name is a matter of marketing,” he said. “The prince I used to be is dead.”

They had reached the door to the parlor, where he realized he had nothing in readiness. “Forgive me, I—” He stopped himself mid-sentence. He couldn’t say he had forgotten she was coming. That would have been rude. “Time got away from me. I’ll ring someone to bring us hot water for brewing tea.”

“Please don’t be concerned,” she said. “The wait will give me an opportunity to look around.”

Knowing from experience that he’d only grow more awkward in her company if he didn’t keep busy, Pahndir took the tea things from the sleepy servant to prepare the pot himself. He enjoyed coffee when he was alone, considering it one of the humans’ more clever inventions, but for welcoming a guest of his own race into his residence for the first time, coffee simply didn’t show appropriate respect.

Buttercup strolled the parlor as he measured and brewed, trailing her finger along the edges of his furniture. Most Yama would have forced themselves to stillness, absolute self-control being their ideal, but Pahndir suspected she’d been cultivating human gestures, trying to connect with her heritage. They suited her, though she’d always be more mannered than a full member of that race.

His heart contracted as he watched her, stirring a wry amusement at his own fondness. It wasn’t his people’s way to pine, and nonetheless he didn’t look away. Buttercup was as lovely as ever, slightly eccentric in her pale blue
salwar kameez
. The local-style silk tunic and trousers showed off her body’s curves. She was rounder than the human woman from the marketplace; shorter, as well. The comparison put him strangely off balance. Buttercup would never fit the Yamish ideal, but to Pahndir’s eye she was as succulent as a spring cherry.

Her obvious admiration for his place of business made him gladder than he should have been that he’d spared no expense.

“You think I’m insane, don’t you?”

He hadn’t meant to blurt out the question. He certainly regretted it when she turned to him in surprise.

“Why would I think that?”

“Because I’m running a brothel. Because if you and Cor hadn’t saved me, I’d still be trapped in one myself.”

She smiled, an expression he wasn’t used to seeing on a Yamish face. “On the contrary, I don’t find your choice odd at all. What better way to reclaim your power than to put yourself in charge of this? I know you treat your employees well.”

“I frighten them. Not deliberately, but I do.”

Her lashes lowered. Human blood notwithstanding, his confession had made her uncomfortable.

“Come,” he said, deciding he’d better let this drop. “The tea is ready. Sit and tell me how your offspring are.”

That topic made her laugh outright, a wonderful, sunny sound. The tea table was a traditional Yamish furnishing, built low to the ground in glossy black and gold lacquer. Buttercup eased herself gracefully onto the matching brocade cushion.

“The twins are into everything, everywhere. Someone has to watch them every minute, or they turn the house upside down. Whenever they misbehave, Cor calls them
my
children. I swear, he makes me wish I were Bhamjrishi, with a harem of handsome husbands to keep them corralled.”

The words were scarcely uttered before a flush washed across her face. She pressed her hands to her mouth. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he clipped out before she could go on. “We both know who your harem’s first volunteer would be.”

“Pahndir.” She reached across the table, not touching him but offering to. Pahndir stared pointedly at her hand until it drew back. Her eyes lowered then, and her hands folded in her lap. His coldness had shamed her for her sympathy. Despite his action being completely proper, that shamed him even more.

“You’re very careful, aren’t you?” he said.

“Careful?” Her head came up cautiously.

“Never to say things like that around me. Never to agree to meet me when I’m near my heat. I wager you know my sexual cycle better than I do.”

“I doubt that,” she said, her face still and serious. “I doubt anyone knows you that well.”

Oh, she could cut a man to his knees with her human frankness. It was true no one knew him, true that she was his only real connection in the world. Pahndir set down his cup and rose. His feet took him to the window. Despite his crew of cleaners, its glass was hazed with sand-colored dust. Taller than the craftsmen who had fashioned it, Pahndir reached up to trace its peak. The ornate layers of stone were lobed like a lotus flower. Behind him, Buttercup spoke.

“If seeing me hurts you, I don’t have to come.”

He refused to look at her. He didn’t want to know if her expression was as kind as her tone.

“I want to see you,” he said stubbornly. “You’re my friend.”

“Yes,” she said, and let out a near-silent sigh.

The sound goaded him into straightening his shoulders.

“We will have our tea,” he said briskly, returning to the table. “You will tell me about your life, and I will listen.”

Buttercup’s mouth quirked in a tiny smile. “You remind me you are a prince after all.”

He wondered if he ought to apologize for seeming to give her an order, then decided not.

“I
am
better,” he said instead, knowing he had to give her this reassurance, no matter how personal it was. “Worlds away from the man I was when we first met at the pillow house. Then I hardly cared if I lived or died. Now I would mind not waking up tomorrow. Now it would bother me not to see what happens next.”

She didn’t have to work then to show her mixed heritage. Her eyes welled with tears, the refraction of the moisture calling a hint of alien blue into the silver.

“I am glad to hear it,” she said, blinking the shine away. “You deserve as good a life as anyone.”

The tears were enough to set his course. Pahndir refused to be pitiful. Somehow, some way, he needed to develop other interests.

Pahndir had never been to the Hhamoun site, though like everyone else in the city he was aware of it. With so few Yama in Bhamjran, some might have expected him to automatically seek out another of his race, but Welland Herrington—as the man called himself—didn’t share Pahndir’s royal class. He was
daimyo
, yes, but an aristocrat was not the social equal of a prince.

Since Pahndir planned to cadge himself an uninvited tour, he hoped Lord Herrington remembered that.

He drove his rented desert motorcar into the hive of workers’ tents, unused to the human vehicle but quick enough to figure it out. He often thought humans were brighter than his people gave them credit for. It hadn’t taken the Ohramese long to repurpose the engine technology his emperor had granted them, though it went without saying that these primitive contraptions couldn’t compare to aircars. Pahndir’s teeth were nearly rattled out of his mouth by the time the first guards stopped him.

He used his title to get through them, and the even more effective expedient of a few gold sovereigns to grease their palms. That precious metal was the universal persuader. Once he’d breached the barrier of the guards, politeness was all the coin he needed to gain directions to his countryman.

He found Herrington supervising the removal of a long procession of padded artifacts from a tunnel. Floating pallets would have been safer for the purpose than human hands, but Pahndir supposed even famous diplomats couldn’t get permission to use them here. Antigrav technology was a number of orders above electrical engines.

Pahndir parked his car behind a tent and proceeded the final distance in his impractical silk slippers. His clothing was considerably brighter than that of the dig’s workers. Even Herrington was dressed in khaki like a Northerner. Given that Pahndir stood out like a peacock, it was no surprise when one of the diggers drew Herrington’s attention to his approach.

A flash of irritation crossed the great man’s face.

“Pahndir Shan,” Pahndir said, offering his hand in the human way. Herrington accepted it blankly, his palm as dusty as the rest of him. His eyes didn’t widen until the name sank in.

“
Prince
Pahndir Shan?”

“Yes,” Pahndir confirmed. “Reports of my demise were premature.”

Herrington glanced back at his workers, his longing to return to overseeing them as conspicuous as his sweaty brow. “My felicitations,” he said, then cleared his throat. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”

The insult was small but deliberate. Strictly speaking, Herrington should have asked how he could be of service to a higher-ranking member of his kind. Insult aside, Herrington’s reluctance to show Pahndir due respect was probably a blessing in disguise. Pahndir’s interests were likelier to stay private if he pursued them under eyes less sharp than Yamish ones.

“Curiosity brings me,” he said, his tone as smooth and bored as any prince could make it. If there was one thing he had practice at, it was ignoring slights to his dignity. “I’ve heard such astounding claims about the work you’re doing. I’m wondering if you might spare some assistant to show me around.”

“Claims,”
Herrington repeated, bridling just a bit.

“Of course, if you wished to guide me yourself, I would not object.”

Herrington had picked up a few human habits during his time with them, including the capacity to flush with annoyance. To judge by the red that washed up his cheeks, he didn’t consider carting some pampered prince around his site the compliment Pahndir’s words implied.

“I’d be delighted to spare an assistant,” he said tightly. “I’m sure you’ll find Professor Betters adequately informed.”

“Most obliged,” Pahndir drawled, careful not to betray his sense of victory. He offered Herrington a small but sufficient bow. “I am eager to see everything.”

He
was
eager, though that had more to do with a pair of interesting young humans than any amount of old treasure.

Beth didn’t know what was wrong with her, only that something was.

She’d overslept, which—ashamed as she was to admit it—wasn’t unusual. Most days, Charles rapped on her door to get her up, since he was Mr. Punctuality. Either he’d forgotten to do it this morning, or she’d been sleeping too hard to hear.

She’d felt…different when she finally rolled out of bed; not bad but off-kilter. She remembered having a restless night, filled with strange dreams about the hidden chamber. In one, Queen Tou had been stretched out on her back on a dune and—Well, Beth considered the rest of the dream too personal to dwell on, especially since she’d been playing the part of Tou in it.

The whole thing was most peculiar. Beth’s erotic dreams usually involved other people—usually Charles, to be truthful—but they’d never involved climax. Admittedly, she couldn’t be held accountable for what her mind did after she fell asleep, but what truly disturbed her was how the dream lingered.

She always enjoyed the luxuries at the
haveli
. The Yama who’d invented the pulsating shower-bath should have been knighted. This morning, however, her time under the nozzles had been a near orgasmic experience, as if her nerves had been both sensitized and pulled closer to her skin. She’d felt ripe inside, bruised and achy, but in a disturbingly pleasant way. She’d begun eyeing the fancy Yamish attachments in a different light, wondering what they might be handy for besides getting clean.

The effect was enough to make even a healthy girl like her wonder what bee had buzzed into her brain, but that upset was nothing to what she felt after she’d been at work an hour and looked around.

She’d meant to sort through her backed-up tasks, to prioritize a
bit
. Without realizing she’d done it, she’d organized all her documents. Now neat stacks of drawings sat around her work tent, classified by sector and date. One pile was missing its associated forms. Another contained correspondence that needed to be copied to the local Ministry of Antiquities. Beth couldn’t believe she’d accomplished all this in an hour, or that it had occurred to her to try. Work she’d expected would take a week now looked like it could be finished in a single day.