Guilty as Sin (13 page)

any female in her right mind prefer an Aetherii?

“What are you smirking about?” Michael
‟
s voice was sharp.

“Me?” Dax did his best to look bland and provoking at the same time. “Nothing.”

Doesn’t matter how pretty you are, thief, how fascinating, I can fuck her for longer, come twice

to your once. I could make her scream.

If she’d let me.

“You
‟
ve got a right, I suppose.” The thief folded his arms and tilted his head to one

side, intent on what lay between Dax
‟
s spread thighs. “Gods, are all Aetherii this

gorgeous? All downy feathers and hard cock. By the Twister, it
‟
s a thing of beauty.”

Dax
‟
s jaw dropped. “W-what?”

Michael went on as if he hadn
‟
t heard. “You make my mouth water. And your

balls— Gods!” He shook his head, his eyes glowing now, softer, more amber than hazel.

“Bare and smooth.” He slithered down the bed, his head dipping. He licked his lips.

“Tasty.”

His voice dropped to a rumbling purr and his breath washed over the skin of Dax
‟
s

inner thigh. “All golden. Tight velvet.”

Dax hardened in such a rush he very nearly passed out. His cock swelling hot and

stiff against his belly, he managed to gasp, “Touch and you die!”

“Sure? We deserve a few minutes of relaxation. Pleasure.” Michael
‟
s eyes widened

as he watched Dax
‟
s shaft continue to expand. Stupid thing. The thief
‟
s fists tightened

in the bedclothes as he loomed over Dax
‟
s body.

“Godsdammit, not the tiniest lick? The lightest suckle? Trust me, I know what feels

good.” This time the smile reached his eyes. They shone. “No teeth, I promise.”

His pleasant tenor dropped to a deep, honeyed croon, his stare a presence as heated

as a cradling palm. “Ah, look at you, you pretty thing.”

Dax swore he could feel the vibrations at the root of his cock, the base of his tail, his

balls, his ass. Rip the fucking Veil,
everywhere
. Like the brush of soft fur—or downy

feathers.

“You want me,” said Michael, addressing Dax
‟
s rampant, mindless organ. “I know

you do.”

“No.” Dax hauled in a breath. “I don
‟
t.”

Michael shot him a blazing glance. “Your cock does.”

“My cock is not…me.”

61

In silence, they watched a bead of fluid gather at the tip and tremble, shimmering in

the lamplight. After a blood-pounding, cock-throbbing eternity, it stretched, elongated

and broke, dripping onto Dax
‟
s belly.

Michael said, “You
‟
ve never had a man.”

Dax didn
‟
t bother arguing. In point of fact, he hadn
‟
t had anybody. His decision—

his loss. Though there
‟
d been any number of close calls. He was flesh and blood, after

all. A male Aetherii like any other, his body hot and eager. There
‟
d been plenty of girls

who
‟
d offered, though these days, Dax had difficulty recalling any face in particular. Ah

well, it was a long time ago.

But that was all. And never in the air. As for a Mating Flight— That was out of the

question, not when he measured every other female against Liseriel the Gray.

Undoubtedly, he was a fool. Gods, if anyone knew, they
‟
d laugh themselves sick,

but Dax couldn
‟
t let that bother him, not when his whole life to date had been a search

for…something. Something
more
.

The cloudless day he and Lise had flown a circuit around the city of Sere, wingtip to

wingtip, his interior world had tilted on its axis, but so smoothly all he
‟
d noticed were

the new certainties settling slow and calm inside him, sweet and warm as honeyed

wine. He
‟
d found it, what he
‟
d first glimpsed as a youth, found
her
again. Lise. Liseriel

the Gray. So sleek, so clever and honest, so godsbedamned
real
. Perfect.

But now? Oh gods.

As he met Michael
‟
s gaze, the breath clogged in his throat. Though he lay spread-

eagled, flat on his back, he had the strangest sensation, as if he were falling down,

down, down, drowning in the thief
‟
s dark gaze. It was insane. His fingers curled into

fists, the chains biting into his flesh.

Because now he had the same feeling—not merely a hint, or a pale reflection, but

exactly
the same. Completion, full circle. Something clicking, quiet and deep and final in

his soul, a puzzle piece he hadn
‟
t known he was missing.

“Dax?” Just his name, spoken softly, with a kind of rough affection. “A man? Have

you ever had a man?”

62

Travelers—Religion:

The god of the Travelers has two faces. As the Traveler, he is a deity of good luck, whose

cheerful charm and cunning wiles protect his worshippers. In his darker aspect, however, he is

known as the Twister, the Great Liar—manipulative and heartless. It is the Twister who “runs

the con”, fleecing the helpless and preying on the weak.

Excerpt from the
Great Encyclopedia
, compiled by Miriliel the Burnished.

* * * * *

The thought of fucking a man had never crossed Dax
‟
s mind, not seriously, though

he
‟
d had plenty of male friends who played together. He
‟
d envied them the

uncomplicated relief, but when the offer was made, he couldn
‟
t do it, hadn
‟
t been

seriously tempted, though he
‟
d certainly felt the tug of lust. Then he
‟
d seen
her
—

Liseriel the Gray—and his worldview had moved yet further from the norm of youths

his age.

Something shifted inside, something that said,
Grow up, be the best that you can be,

and you can aspire to a mate like this
.

He was an adult male Aetherii and he
‟
d made his decision, clear-eyed and head-on.

Fucking without joy—hell, without
meaning
—for him, it would be a soulless exchange

of bodily fluids, a travesty of love. Dax had gone his own way, become his own man. If

there was a cost in loneliness, he paid it. And here he was, years later, knowing

everything there was to know about his own company, about the ache of solitude and

the emptiness of self-pleasure.

So, why was he staring into a thief
‟
s eyes, trying not to shake, knowing that if

Michael reached out with his smallest finger and touched him, he
‟
d come harder than

he ever had in his life?

Lise
. He seized on the thought of her, a lifeline for a drowning man. Liseriel the

Gray. Tall and slim and elegant, catching his gaze across the desk, gifting him with her

slow, serious smile, the bone-deep pleasure he felt in her presence. She was his friend,

and by all the gods, he was going to make her more.

Dax blinked hard. “I have a job to do. Compared with kidnapped children, this—”

He nodded down at his rampant cock, the sexual flush on his belly and chest. “It means

nothing.” His voice had degenerated to a gravelly rasp.

“You may be right.” Michael climbed off the bed, and Dax could breathe again. The

thief
‟
s lips twisted. “And as I told you, I don
‟
t go where I
‟
m not welcome.” Michael

63

raked a hand through his hair and straightened his clothing. Without a trace of self-

consciousness, he smoothed the bulge in the front of his trews.

For the first time, Dax noticed the weariness in his aristocratic features, the shadows

beneath the striking hazel eyes. Rip the Veil, he was as beautiful as Liseriel, cut from the

same elegant, subtle cloth. Something poignant speared through him. Such brilliant

potential for joy and goodness, wasted, mired in the filth that was life in the Slopes. If

he half closed his eyes, he could almost imagine Michael as an Aetherii, his wings long

and graceful in shades of tawny brown.

“I may be a thief, and therefore dishonest by aptitude as well as by inclination,”

said Michael, moving to the foot of the bed, “but I never lie to myself.” Warm fingers

caressed Dax
‟
s ankle. “We should join forces, Aetherii.”

Dax shook his head. “No,” he growled.

Unperturbed, Michael petted the flight feathers draped over the edge of the bed, his

touch pleasantly firm. “To find the children,” he said blandly. “Ah, here we are.”

He
‟
d found a plume almost ready to molt. A brisk tug, and he was waving it in

triumph, more than a foot long, the lamplight sparking a deep metallic green off the

bronze. “A souvenir. That didn
‟
t hurt, did it?”

Dax just snarled. He would have removed that particular feather in his next

grooming session, but that was hardly the point.

“If—no,
when
—you need me, leave a message at the pawnshop in Bumble Alley.

Send a feather with it.” Michael grinned, unbuttoning his shirt. “On the other hand,

while I like feathers, I simply adore featherpearls.”

Dax stared at the nimble fingers, the tantalizing wedge of flesh being gradually

revealed. His brain shut down. What the—?

There was the smooth brown chest he remembered, sprinkled with a fine mat of

hair. There were the nipples, dark as
roberry
brew, but surely much sweeter. His eyes

opened wide. And, gods, Lise
‟
s featherpearls!

“A token of good faith.” Dax held his breath as Michael worked an earring free. It

didn
‟
t look as if it hurt. In fact, to judge by the thief
‟
s increased respiration and the flush

on his cheekbones, the other man was enjoying the sensations. Or the attention.

“Here.” Michael walked around the bed to drop the small object into Dax
‟
s open

palm. It was still blood hot.

He frowned. “
Tsk.
Look at that. Your wrists are raw.” Warm fingers circled Dax
‟
s

right wrist, stroked gently then withdrew. “Put plenty of
bruisebalm
on it.”

The thief strolled to the window and threw one leg over the sill. “Fancy a bet on

who
‟
ll find the children first?”

His lashes swept down as he thought. “Hmm, let
‟
s see. Half a dozen

featherpearls—yours—against this.” With a casual flick of the fingers, he set the

remaining earring swinging. “And to, hmm, sweeten the pot, the use of my body for a

64

night. Can
‟
t say fairer than that.” Half out the window, Michael looked back over his

shoulder. “What do you think, Dax? Done?”

“You
‟
re leaving me? Like this?”

“Not going where I
‟
m not wanted, remember? Anyway, you
‟
ll beg me in the end.”

Dax
‟
s throat was so dry, his furious snort emerged more like a rusty croak. “That

wasn
‟
t what I meant.”

Those extravagant lashes swept down in a wink. “Don
‟
t forget me while I
‟
m gone,

Daxariel the Burnished.”

The thief reached back, sweeping the lamp to the floor, where it expired with a

tinkle and a gush of oily smoke. One corner of the rug began to smolder. A chuckle in

the dark, the scrape of boots on brick and Michael was gone.

Dax swore, writhing on the bed, and the chain slithered right off his wrist, slipping

to the floor with an insolent clatter.

Why, the little—!

Still cursing, he fumbled at the simple catch securing his ankle chains one-handed

then twisted to release the other arm. It seemed to take forever, the rug burning sullenly

all the while. The moment he was free, Dax rolled it up and jumped up and down on it,

stamping and swearing until the fire was out. Then he grabbed a pair of trews from

over the back of a chair, tugged them on and thrust the featherpearl earring deep into a

pocket.

Headfirst, almost incandescent with rage and confusion, he threw himself out the

window, following the thief into the night.

* * * * *

Two roofs over from the Winged Envoy
‟
s palazzo, Michael settled into the deep

shadow cast by a large chimney. Unwinding the black sash from around his waist, he

unfolded it to reveal a large rectangular scarf, woven of a fine silky material. Swiftly, he

wrapped it around his head and the lower part of his face.

His breath still came a little short from the scramble over gable and tile and his gut

was churning.
Hssrda
! He shuddered. It was almost beyond belief. But if Bitsy was with

them, the other kids had a chance. She had a cool head, Bitsy. Michael drummed his

fingers on one knee, willing his stomach to settle, his busy brain teeming with thoughts

and impressions, plans and counter plans.

Any minute now… A shutter banged back, ridiculously loud in the quiet of the

sleeping street.

Ah, here he came, all offended modesty. Michael turned his head, smirking—and

his mouth fell open.

Daxariel the Burnished hurled himself into the night sky as if he intended to tear an

Aetherii-shaped hole in the very fabric of it. Enormous wings obscured the face of the

65

moon. They rose on the upbeat, the flight feathers spread like seeking fingers, before

sweeping down with a boom of displaced air. Dax shot upward, gaining height.

Holy shit! Michael ducked his head, shrinking into the protection of the shadows,

pulling the scarf farther over his face.

Dax banked, swooping low over the buildings, his head turning from side to side

with the predatory intensity of some gigantic raptor. Was this how a
bunrat
felt? Small

and tasty? All the Aetherii wore was a pair of trews, his tail streaming behind.

Absurdly, Michael had to swallow a chuckle. Tailoring for the winged and tailed clearly

had its challenges.

The silvery light bleached all the fiery color out of Dax, transforming him into a

monochrome etching against the stars, a study in brute power and astonishing feral

grace. He could almost feel sorry for the Hssrda. The sheer menace of that huge, soaring

figure tipped a cascade of erotic tingles down Michael
‟
s spine. Danger had always been

his drug of choice.

All his adult life, he
‟
d considered himself a connoisseur of beauty. It was even

possible he was a snob about it. But it occurred to him now that he
‟
d never seen beauty

in its purest form. How could he? He hadn
‟
t seen an Aetherii soar.

From under the protection of his scarf, he watched Dax spiral higher and higher,

and as he tilted his head back, Michael felt the weight of his own body drag him down,

pressing him against the rough brick of the chimney, clumsy and earthbound.

Godsdammit, why did Dax and Lise concern themselves with the mundane—hell, with

him
—when this glory was theirs for the taking? Why would any Aetherii bother with

the Grounded at all?

Dax and Lise had each other. His lips twisted into an ugly line. What of it? They

were welcome to twine tails and lay eggs or whatever the hell it was Aetherii did, but

not before he
‟
d recovered the kids.

Gods, such fascinating contradictions. On the one hand, breathtakingly exotic,

different
—but on the other… There
‟
d been a couple of moments earlier, when Dax had

tilted his chin just so and his brow furrowed, that he
‟
d looked as ordinary as a Feolin

farm boy, with his honest, open face and his strong, stubborn jaw.