Guilty as Sin (45 page)

one. For endless moments, they clung together, shuddering.

With a gasp, Michael pulled back. “That
‟
s it.” His chest heaving, he looked from

one to the other. “You
‟
ll be fine,” he said, so softly Lise had to strain to hear him.

He glanced down and his mouth twisted into what might have been a smile. “Uh,

tails? Let me go.”

Gently, he unwound Lise
‟
s tail from around his waist, Dax
‟
s from around his hips.

He backed away a couple of steps, but as he reached the door, he stopped, his head

bowed.

He spun around, his eyes wide and dark, flickering over their faces. “Take care of

each other.” Reaching behind him, he wrenched it open and faded back onto the

landing.

They waited, listening, but there was only the breathing silence of a sleeping house.

A moment later, the servants
‟
door at the bottom of the stairs shut with a soft, faraway

snick.

Dax sighed. Then he took Lise
‟
s poor damaged hand in both of his. “It looks much

better.”

“So do you.” Gratefully, Lise leaned into the bulwark of his shoulder. “I
‟
m going to

have a wicked scar,” she said absently. She frowned, thinking. “That was…strange.”

“Mmm
.
Shall we bathe?”

“In a minute.” She studied his face. “How are you? Really?”

Dax grimaced. “I threw up twice on the way back. It helped.” He held out his

hands, flexing the powerful fingers. “Godsdammit, I can still feel the crunch. Hear it

too.” He urged her toward the door. “I
‟
m definitely too soft to work for Jan.”

Lise stopped on the landing. “Not soft, decent.” She patted the slab of a pectoral

muscle. “You
‟
re a good man, Dax, all the way through
.
Never forget it was us or him,

but I agree, this sort of work isn
‟
t good for you.” She managed a smile. “Just as well

you
‟
re off to school.”

Dax gave a weary chuckle. “You don
‟
t get rid of me that easy, Liseriel the Gray.”

“Damn right. Run away and I
‟
ll use my incredible powers to track you down and

then you
‟
ll be sorry…” Her voice trailed away to a whisper. “
Shit!
”

“What?”

“Michael.” She grabbed Dax
‟
s arm. “I knew there was something wrong. He was

saying goodbye.
He’s left us
.”

208

Dax came to a halt. “You
‟
re right,” he said slowly. “Rip the Veil.” He drew in a

sharp breath. “We have to go after him.”

Lise gave a bitter laugh. “Where?
How?
” She ran her fingers through her hair. “We

didn
‟
t have much luck last time.”

In the dimness of the stairway, Dax loomed like a mountain, indomitable. “A

week
‟
s grace, no more, and then I swear—”

Lise pushed open the door of the bath chamber to be greeted by the mingled

fragrance of half a dozen featheroils, the air heavy and moist.

“The
idiot
,” she said through gritted teeth. “I
‟
ll gut him, I swear. Unless—” Doubts

assailed her. “If he doesn
‟
t want us—” She pressed her lips together.

Her brain racing, she took two large fluffy towels from the shelf. Her affair with

Mirry had been…pleasant… comfortable. When the end came, she
‟
d grieved a little, but

she couldn
‟
t say she was surprised. But this? What she had with Michael and Dax went

so far beyond
comfortable
she struggled to comprehend the elemental force of it.

Dax locked the door and kicked his boots off. “Yes, he does. The way he kissed—”

He swallowed hard, his eyes gone the green-gold of passion. “He gave those kisses

everything he had because for him, they were the last.”

What she
‟
d felt for Mirry was a pinprick, a mote, a nothing compared with the

gaping hole Michael had torn in the fabric of her being. She stared at Dax, now unlacing

his shirt, his generous mouth hard with purpose. They could lean on each other, she

and Dax, love and live together and be happy enough to function, but they would never

be truly whole without the spark, the wicked energy that was Michael of Sere. Together,

the three of them—she cast about for a way to express the astonishing, perfect
shine
of

it, but godsdammit, there was no poetry in her soul, never had been. The nearest she

could come was one of those intricate puzzles with interlocking pieces, three of them,

each balancing the other, each dependent on the others for completion. Remove one

component and—

“He was saying goodbye.
Veil-it
!” Her knuckles went white on the towels. “Oh

gods. But
why?
”

A vertical crease appeared between Dax
‟
s brows. “Think of the way he grew up. It
‟
s

not surprising his moral compass is a bit…skewed.”

Lise considered it, bringing all the pieces together, shuffling the evidence until it

formed a shape, the familiarity of the process a sort of comfort. “Like the boy who

died,” she said slowly. “He blames himself for what happened to us. It
‟
s a pattern.”

“And don
‟
t forget the chip on his shoulder.” Dax
‟
s shirt hit the floor, followed in

short order by his trews.

When he held out a hand, she came into his arms, staring up into his face. “He has

to be hurting,” she said. “Because—” Her fingers flexed against the warmth of his bare

chest. “Gods, I feel like he ripped one of my hearts out.”

209

“I know.” Wings rustled as they enfolded her in a feathery cocoon. Dax
‟
s lips

quirked. “I think I know the way to change his mind, but first you have to find him. Do

you think you can?”

“Oh yes,” said Lise grimly. “Eventually.”

210

The Royal Library of Valaressa:

The library was a personal project dear to the heart of Queen Ezaretta II of the Kingdom of

the Leaves of the Sea. Due to her charming but relentless enthusiasm, the tower housing the

library was built in less than a decade, its design the result of a kingdom-wide competition.

Hammaliel the Bronze of the Aetherii, the winning architect, pierced the tower with numerous

windows and cunning apertures, but added the entry foyer and staircase only when forcibly

reminded by an irritated monarch.

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

* * * * *

Valaressa, Kingdom of the Leaves of the Sea

Three months later

Michael picked up the tiny enameled cup and took a cautious sip of
roberry
.

“Twister!” He coughed, his eyes watering. “You trying to poison me, old man?”

Barnaby cackled. “Yer jest soft. That
‟
s brewed the Valaressan way, that is, puts hair

on yer chest. Now, lad…” The faded blue eyes were uncomfortably sharp. “What ye got

fer me?”

Concealing his internal battle, Michael replaced the cup on its elaborate tray with a

steady hand. All he had left were the
emeralda
earbobs—and Lise
‟
s featherpearls. The

moment he thought of them, they throbbed, heating his nipples like two hot tongues.

For the hundredth, thousandth time he reminded himself that he didn
‟
t have to wear

them, but they were all he had of her, and for some insane reason, he found the torture

an obscure kind of comfort. Of Dax, he had nothing at all, not even a feather.

Gods, he was tired.

The earbobs shone in Barnaby
‟
s palm. “Hmm,” said the old man. “I got a buyer fer

pieces like this.” He shot Michael a sharp glance from under bushy brows.

Playing for time, Michael took a bite out of a crescent-shaped pastry. The sugared

gaeta
fruit inside might as well have been ashes.

Valaressa had proved to be remarkably expensive, even for a slum rat. In the three

months he
‟
d been living in the city, he
‟
d run through all the money he
‟
d brought with

him. That included the wages he
‟
d earned—
earned!
—as a guard on a trade caravan out

of Sere. He hadn
‟
t even needed a disguise. The harried merchant had taken one look at

the worn hilt of the sword at his waist and signed him up, no questions asked, no

211

papers required. The trip had taken two dusty, jolting weeks and he
‟
d spent the first

with a wary eye on the sky, but he
‟
d done it, got away clean.

The only decent thing he
‟
d done in his life. He
‟
d expected the pain, accepted the

inevitability of it and braced himself. Nothing in life came free. But he
‟
d been confident

it would improve after a time, like every injury he
‟
d ever had, so why the fuck was it

still grinding him down like this?

A whole new city to plunder, well away from the censor of Dax
‟
s innocence and

Lise
‟
s code of honor. Was he a master thief or wasn
‟
t he? All he had to do was reach out

and close his fist.
Take
.

Tomorrow. If he could get a decent sleep tonight.

Keeping gems on his person was insanely risky. He
‟
d always made it a practice to

fence them as soon as possible. It didn
‟
t matter that the
emeraldas
were another tenuous

connection with the Aetherii. He should—

Fuck it.

Abruptly, he rose and thrust aside the curtain that screened Barnaby
‟
s private

quarters from the clutter of the shop. “Later,” he managed. “Couple of days.”

“The Ten Nations Fair
‟
s in town, did ye hear?” said old Barnaby casually. “Might

be good pickin
‟
s there.”

Michael swerved around a pile of dusty rugs, neatly avoiding a tall harp propped

against the wall. His hand on the door, he shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Lad?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

Barnaby
‟
s gray brows drew together. “Take care, ye hear?”

The old man had to be the strangest fence he
‟
d ever met—or perhaps he was

protecting future profits. “Sure,” said Michael, and pushed his way out into a street still

shiny with morning. Only the merest sliver of the Shadow marred the bright face of the

Sun.

A light breeze played kissy-face with the blue water of the canal, making the

wavelets chuckle out loud. Valaressans lounged in groups under tavern awnings,

arguing at the tops of their voices, arms waving. They were a handsome people,

tending to olive skin and dark, flashing eyes. The air was soft and moist, subtropical,

and it was so different from his austere mountain home that his teeth ached.

Putting his head down, Michael stalked back to his shabby first-floor apartment

near the
vranee
market. Stripping off his blades and his belt pouch, he tossed them onto

the ramshackle bed and crossed to the windows overlooking the street and the canal.

The glass had been fogged with grime when he arrived, but now it sparkled, the only

thing in the room he
‟
d bothered to clean. Without looking, he sank into the leprous

leather armchair he
‟
d drawn up there and reached for the squat bottle of cheap brandy

on the floor. Wrenching the cork out, he took a swig, but liquor no longer numbed

him—it hadn
‟
t after the first week.

212

But then, he
‟
d had no idea it would be this bad. If he
‟
d known, by the Twister, he
‟
d

have…

Done what? Shit, what else could he have done? Brought them down with him?

Ruined three lives instead of one?

He rolled his shoulders, remembering the precise, biting pain of the needles,

wishing he could have that focus all over again, the only time since he
‟
d left Sere that

he
‟
d felt fully anchored in his body.

“Feathers?” The tattoo artist had raised her brows as she scrubbed her hands with

strong-smelling soap. “No problem. I
‟
ve got half a dozen different designs. Wings are

fashionable right now, what with the Aetherii here and all. I can do wings.”

“Aetherii?” he
‟
d croaked, half expecting to see Lise or Dax step out of the woman
‟
s

store cupboard.

“At the embassy.” She jerked her head. “On the Noble Leaf, beyond the library.”

Deftly, she sorted inks and needles. “Though I hear the Winged Envoy
‟
s up north.

Shirt?”

His brain spinning, he
‟
d reefed the garment off and leaned forward over the

padded chair. She
‟
d wiped his shoulder blade with something cold and then the blessed

pain had begun, and he
‟
d had no energy to spare for thinking.

Now he stared unseeing at the passing parade, exactly as he
‟
d done every day for

the last three months—the sculls flashing by on the canal, a man wearing a farrier
‟
s

heavy canvas apron talking to a little bow-legged fellow, two young matrons chattering

excitedly and pointing at something on the other side of the canal.

Michael narrowed his eyes. What the—? Was that…
feathers?

He wasn
‟
t aware of moving, only that by the time he was capable of coherent

thought, he was pressed flat against the far wall, his heart hammering and a naked

blade in his trembling hand.

Fuck it all to the seven icy hells, he needed to get a grip.

Of course there were Aetherii in Valaressa, he knew that. The Winged Envoy had

left the embassy fully staffed. The wings on the woman across the canal had been

narrow and tawny, with golden primaries.

He sucked in a breath. Then another. No one he knew. No one who knew him.

His knees shaky, Michael sank down onto the bed, the knife falling from nerveless

fingers. He was losing his mind, sliding slowly into the dark, piece by godsrotted piece.

His guts clenched.
Shadow snared
the people of the Slopes called it, and he
‟
d seen it

blight the living until there was nothing left of them save a husk that moved and spoke

and shat. Twister
‟
s balls, he
‟
d been a fool. If he went on this way, he
‟
d wither and die,

there was no doubt of it.

Ignoring the little voice that whispered,
Why not?
he clutched two fistfuls of hair

and tugged until his eyes watered.

213

All right.
Action
. If he did something, that would help. Yes, he was unhappy. Yes—

he swallowed hard—he missed his Aetherii the way he
‟
d miss his limbs. But that was

his business and his problem. He was a grown man, still the wily slum rat he
‟
d always

been.

Foggily, he gazed at the stained walls, the uneven floor, rubbed the coarse sheets on

the sagging bed between finger and thumb. Should he clean the place? But he was so

godsbedamn tired, and when he was asleep he didn
‟
t have to think.

On the other hand… He touched his chin, feeling the sandpaper rasp of whiskers.

How long since he
‟
d shaved? Come to think of it—he took a cautious sniff of one

armpit—he didn
‟
t smell any too fresh and there was a public bath house at the end of

the street.

With a grunt, Michael levered himself to his feet. A shave and a bath. Then he
‟
d go

down to the
vranee
market and ask around for a merchant heading for Feolin. What he
‟
d

do on a ranch in the deep south he had no idea, but with any luck, the only feathers

would be on the birds. And tomorrow he
‟
d go back to old Barnaby and shift the

emeraldas
.

Lise
‟
s featherpearls he
‟
d paid for in pain. They were his.

* * * * *

The old man lowered the glass. “Top grade,” he said with satisfaction, rolling the

deep-green gems across black velvet with a gnarled forefinger.

“How much?” asked Michael.

“Ah.” Barnaby rubbed his hands together. “Let me brew the
roberry
.”

Michael
‟
s mouth puckered at the memory. “Thank you, but no. Just give me a

figure.”

He could have sworn the old scoundrel drooped a bit. “Hmm
.
What do ye say to

sixty marks fer the pair?”