The Wolf's Captive (21 page)

Audience participation, especially where the most attractive young actors and actresses were concerned, was not unheard of. The Player’s Feast usually proved to be the most dramatic night of Bacchanal.

And Lucia was delighted. She had never been to the Royal Theater, for one; she’d only ever seen the giant, golden dome, sparkling over the city like an enormous jewel, from afar. On hot nights, when she needed a break from her father’s still, she would sometimes climb up to the roof of their small house and watch the Royal Theater light up whenever the moon came out from behind the clouds. It was the one time she’d let herself entertain her own little fantasies, free of her grandmother’s constant reminders about duty and responsibility. She’d dream that some brilliant playwright would discover her, would write plays for her, and make her into the greatest star the Theater had ever known.

In real life, Lucia had never even been able to even afford a ticket. And now she would be attending the Player’s Feast on the arm of Lord Cesare Lupin.

Well, on his leash, anyway. Lucia smiled. She was looking forward to being led around in public as Cesare’s sexual toy, her identity hidden safely beneath a white mask. She was growing more and more confident in the things that brought her pleasure, and this was certainly one of them.

Cesare
. That’s how she thought of him now. As an actual person, not an office. And yet…

He worried her. She looked up at him now, his head turned toward the carriage window and away from her. He was so intensely changeable. In only a few hours he had gone from terrifying to vulnerable to…whatever this was.

He’d said he
loved
her, and he’d gotten inside her head. He’d made her admit that she loved him. Lucia hadn’t even been able to admit that to herself, and yet, Cesare had forced it from her. It had so disoriented her that she’d nearly confessed, when asked, that she’d stolen a bottle of the Duke’s Blend, but at the last second she’d thought of her father, she’d thought of her grandmother, she’d thought of her promises, and she’d remembered to lie.

That’s just an excuse
, Lucia admonished herself. In truth, it had felt like the last way to keep part of herself to herself, and she knew it at the time. Yet now, it felt somehow wrong. Selfish. She still didn’t know what to do. She very much wanted to believe that she could have told him—it was a silly kind of crime, anyway, even if it was taken very seriously—but, in the end, her father was still imprisoned for some unknown reason, and she still needed Cesare’s help. And then, that afternoon, when she’d tried to broach the topic of her father’s case, Cesare had been inexplicably distant. Even cold.

Lucia didn’t like to think about it, even now. But she had to.

“My Lord,” she started, and halted uncertainly when he didn’t even turn his head. His scarred skin shone in the moonlight, and even under these circumstances, the shape of his muscles under his light, white shirt distracted her.

“My Lord,” she said again, and this time he turned, his black eyes burning intensely. He looked nothing like the man who’d proclaimed his love for her. She pressed on, “Is there any progress with my father’s case?”

He stared at her. “You mean beyond my loss of control at a crucial moment during last night’s festivities?”

Lucia reached for his hand. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“I meant, what’s happening next?” she snapped, and then covered her mouth with her hand. Once again, she’d lost her temper.

Cesare gave her a grim smile before turning back to the window. “What’s happening next is what happens tonight,” he said.

They rode the rest of the way to the Royal Theater in silence.

~  ~  ~

The Players of J’Amel knew how to put on a show.

Lucia’s anxiety evaporated in the bright lights of the Royal Theater. She stepped out of the carriage and into a pool of light, a glowing island in the dark night made of thousands of Bacchanal lanterns, and let herself bask in the illusion that she really had this kind of life. The effect was deliberate. The Players had painstakingly arranged the lanterns into intricate designs, lining the path all the way up the broad, stone steps to the great Theater doors, which were held open against the sticky air. Inside was blackness, the dark interior made impenetrable by the light from the lanterns, and each step forward heightened the suspense in Lucia’s heart.

They’d only gone a few steps when the drums began. There was just the suggestion of drummers in the shadows beyond the lanterns, but Lucia felt their slow, winding beat in her bones, and found herself moving to it. It was hypnotic.

Lucia imagined herself melting into the music as Cesare led her up the bright path. He seemed impatient to get inside, and not at all impressed with the acrobats who contorted themselves amongst the lanterns, or with the mime who popped up in Lucia’s path, presenting her with a delicate, folded paper flower.

“Lucia,” he called, his brow furrowed, and pulled on her leash. She rushed to catch up, her breasts swaying against the thin white dress he’d chosen for her, and wondered at the way his disapproval—and the threat of his discipline—could make her feel both alarmed and aroused.

Cesare slid his hand over her round bottom, and gripped her there, hard.

“Tonight you will do exactly as I tell you,” he said, and his voice sounded strained. “Nothing more, and nothing less.”

Startled, she nodded. What did he have planned for tonight? And what did it have to do with her father’s case?

Lucia wanted to ask these questions, and more. She wanted to know what had changed since that morning, when he’d told her he loved her and then made her body come so hard against his that she thought she might die. But the hard line of Cesare’s lips, the tightness around his dark eyes, the way he kept opening and closing his fists—all of these things cautioned her. Instead she bit her lip, wishing there were some better way to show him how she felt.

“My Lord,” she said, and dipped her head.

Lucia thought she saw a smile twitch at his lips before he remembered to look dour again. Cesare turned and led her briskly through the dark entrance to the Royal Theater.

The show was not over.

The sudden darkness was total. The sounds of drums, beating out a constant rhythm, rose up from somewhere far ahead, along with the sounds of drunken laughter and revelry, coaxing them forward through the dark. Gradually their eyes began to adjust, and out of the darkness came the naked bodies of lithe dancers, painted in the luminescent dye of Bacchanal. The dancers circled round, their bodies gyrating to the drums, and slowly herded them forward, until one pulled aside a heavy curtain and they were thrust out onto a makeshift landing.

The drums exploded, the rhythm speeding up until it was just an auditory blur, when suddenly it stopped and a herald stepped forward. Lucia blinked. The entire cavernous space of the Royal Theater was full of the celebrants of Bacchanal, and all eyes were on them.

“The Lord Cesare Lupin!” the herald called out, and bowed with a flourish.

Lucia clutched at Cesare’s arm. The pressure of a thousand masked stares bearing down on her all at once reminded her that she was, in reality, a fugitive, protected only by the mask on her face and the Lord at her side.

“Hush,” Cesare whispered to her, almost as an afterthought, and this casual intimacy was enough to buoy Lucia until the polite applause died down, and the crowd’s attention turned back to the show proper.

And what a show it was.

Shows
, in fact. Each active troupe in the city had their own performance space within the huge Theater, where they had spared no expense on set decoration and spectacle. The genteel patrons glided throughout the enormous room, kept dark except for the lanterns that lit the temporary stages, making their way from one debauched theatrical interpretation to another. Lucia immediately recognized Antonia and Tristan in one corner, doomed lovers in any normal performance, who seemed to be enjoying themselves on this particular night. Closer to the center of the room was an actress in the guise of the goddess Hetia, who moaned as an enthusiastic member of the audience interrupted her traditional monologue by shoving his hand under her robe.

“Oh, my,” Lucia said.

Cesare did not answer, and did not return her smile. Any levity he’d almost allowed himself to feel outside the Theater had disappeared entirely, and as he led Lucia into the quickly moving current of the crowd she saw why. Everywhere they went, conversation lulled. Masked beauties and drunken baronets alike moved hastily out of their way without ever needing to look up. It was as though some dark, repelling force emanated from them and made them dangerous.

It was because of what had happened at the Dance of Lights, she realized. Because Cesare had snapped, because he had beaten the Marquis. No one else had been given the explanation she had; no one else had seen his private pain, his agony over it. All they’d seen was a bloodied berserker in place of the man who would one day rule them.

Lucia had always assumed the son of the Duke must lead a charmed, easy life. She had been so terribly, terribly wrong. Cesare moved through the world with a permanent target on his back. And now he led them to a comfortable, sheltered corner near the performance space of a circus act, where it would be easier for the other guests to avoid them.

“My Lord,” Lucia began.

“Go get us a bottle of amberwine,” he cut her off, and detached her leash. She felt unmoored without it. “Now.”

Lucia remembered her place; the best thing she could do was to obey.

And, in fact, the pleasure she derived from obedience to Cesare was the only thing that propelled her back into the pulsating crowd. She’d had no understanding of how frightening this would be without him by her side. Perhaps he had meant to show her.

Well, she could be brave.

A few men approached her as she threaded her way through the crowd, attracted by the transparency of her thin, white dress and her long, bare legs, but they were all deterred by the sight of her collar. She was clearly claimed. Some might even have recognized her from the previous night, and didn’t want to risk offending the terrifying Wolf. That thought unnerved her; the last thing she needed was to be recognized. Lucia reached up and touched the mask to bring herself a bit of comfort.

It helped for about two seconds, until someone actually did recognize her.

She had finally located a waiter and had asked for a bottle of Beaujoux ’43, all the while pretending not to notice the lecherous stare of a man who stood just at the edge of her peripheral vision. She decided that it was best to just ignore it, which she did, until he spoke.

“Lucia Lyselle?”

She whirled around in a panic, only to find Vintner Claudio Clavel, her best friend’s cold father, staring at her in confusion, and lust. Lucia recovered first.

“I beg you,” she said, gripping his arm. “Keep quiet.”

Already she could see the many interconnected gears whirring to life in Clavel’s head. His eyes narrowed, the way they did when he discussed any business dealing, and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.

“So it is you,” he said. “There have been quite a few people looking for you, young lady.”

The ‘young lady’ particularly disgusted Lucia. Tonight was not the first time she’d felt Clavel’s hot eyes on her, but it was the first time she knew that he could see practically everything he was looking for. She didn’t care for the implied threat, either.

“Everyone who needs to know where I am, knows where I am,” she said. For emphasis she fingered the collar at her neck. “I hope you’ll respect the discretion of Bacchanal?”

Clavel got the point.

“Of course, of course,” he said, and grabbed a glass of amberwine from a passing tray. He hefted it to catch the faint light from a nearby lantern, admiring the tawny glow of the liquid. “This isn’t one of yours, is it?”

Lucia could clearly see the impurities. “No,” she said flatly.

“Ah. Pity.” Clavel took a generous swig, and affected a discerning palate, as if he could tell if it were swill or not. He continued, “Do
you
know where your father is, Lucia?”

Lucia was once again very conscious of Clavel’s critical stare. She decided this was a question she didn’t want to answer.

“Why do you ask?”

“The Guild is very concerned, you know. Every day there are men at your house, looking through the still. It’s caused quite a commotion.”

“I’m sure if it’s the Guild’s business, the Guild will be informed.”

Clavel laughed loudly enough to disturb a nearby actor, who glared at him mid-costume change. “The Guild believes everything is its business! Well, no matter. I’m sure those soldiers haven’t been able to make heads or tails of your father’s recipes, have they?”

“I very much doubt it,” Lucia said. She looked around anxiously for some sight of the errant waiter. The longer she was caught in conversation with Clavel, the more she felt at risk.

“Your father is a bit peculiar, isn’t he?” Clavel went on, draining his glass. “Not the greatest businessman, but a brilliant vintner. I think you’ve got a touch of that brilliance, haven’t you? I always suspected you did a lot of the alchemy.”

Lucia blushed. This was not something she’d ever said to anyone, except David, but even a hack like Clavel would have recognized the telltale amber stains on her fingertips after a long day in the still.

Where
was that waiter?

“David worries, you know,” Clavel continued, his voice light, but his eyes sharp. “Mopes around like an idiot.”

Guilt settled heavily in Lucia’s stomach. Surely Remy had gotten the message to David? Surely he knew she was safe? Either way, Lucia had her own responsibilities; she had to help her father. And even if her father walked around the corner right now, smiling and happy, she was still Cesare’s captive.

She bit her lip at the thought.
Cesare’s captive.

“Madam?”

The waiter proffered the Beaujoux ’43 as though it were just a bottle of wine. Clearly he didn’t know what he held, but, amberwine neophyte or no, she had to be thankful for the interruption, and the excuse to leave.