Thief of Light (40 page)

Did he truly love her, or had he lied? Her breath hitched. Perhaps he had delusions about that as well. The truth of it mattered, of course it did. Her entire future turned on his honesty. But nothing—
nothing
—was going to change the fact that she loved him with a totality that encompassed every fiber of her being, in all ways possible. His brush with death had skimmed off the layers of self-deception. All the foundations had been knocked away from beneath her, leaving her floundering.

Erik sighed into her hair, his breath warm against her scalp. Stroking his open palm the length of her spine, he shaped the curve of her bottom and pressed her closer still.

Oh, that felt good. Prue tried to relax, her entire body strung so tight her nerves thrummed, her thoughts running on.

Loving Erik had become part of the very weft and warp of her soul, one of the ways she defined herself. A business owner, a bookkeeper, Katrin’s mother, Rose’s friend, she lived all those roles, but now there was another to add—the woman who loved Erik Thorensen.

Hopelessly, deeply. Forever.

Prue shivered violently.

“Are you cold?” murmured a deep voice.

Lost for words, she shook her head, sliding her hand down over his chest until she could feel the tiny bump of his nipple against her palm. The pulse of his life beat there, cupped in her hand, strong, vulnerable and infinitely precious.

She loved him.

Whether he saved the city or Caracole sank to the bottom of the sea, she loved him.

Sooner or later, he’d be gone among the stars, off on a Technomage starship, the gossamer-thin slingshot sails spread to catch the winds of space. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d gazed up into the night sky, wondering. She’d been no more than ten when she’d first seen a starship take off, rising on a plume of flame into the heavens, a spear hurled at the heavens by a warrior god. Traveling with Mam and Da to the city. Such an adventure for a little girl. Her lips curved in a sad smile.

Erik would sing his way from world to world, that superlative voice enthralling his audiences, other women flocking to his bed—and still, she’d love him.

He believed he had some gods-given power over others. The memory of a seelie’s anxious, blue-furred face popped into her mind.
Hoot! Burble!
He’d been right after all—myth had turned out to be real. Perhaps . . .

No, Erik was just a particularly strong-willed man, dominating and persuasive. Her heart sped up as she remembered him pounding into her, no mercy, sending them both soaring to a shattering climax. Oh yes, she could acknowledge the power of his will. But to
compel
with his voice? A fantasy. Such things weren’t possible, but so what? She loved him, she’d deal with it.

I’m damned
, he’d said and his voice had been thick with self-hatred.

How could he think like that? How
dare
he?

Godsdammit, he’d done nothing so very dreadful, or even dis honorable. He’d seduced a full-grown woman who—she had to admit it—had been more than willing almost from the very beginning. It wasn’t as though she was a foolish virgin. She knew what he was, she’d always known. In every other way, he’d acted with honor. Comparing him with Chavis was an insult, and she was a fool to have done it. For the Sister’s sake, she thought ruefully, the more she learned of him, the deeper she fell.

And it seemed he was more perceptive than she.
You fear it as much as you crave it.

Her stomach pitched—with terror and excitement and longing.

The final step. She’d be his irrevocably. Because she couldn’t conceive of such complete surrender unless she threw her heart and soul into the mix.

Prue nearly laughed out loud—but she wasn’t able to catch her breath.

Because it
was
funny. Who was she fooling?
You’re no sacrifice, Prue McGuire
, she told herself.
You’re going to do this for yourself as much as for him.

Merciful Sister, why not? How he’d done it she had no idea, but Erik had brought forth another Prue—a woman so alive with passion, with life and love—that she hardly recognized her. Gods, had she always been so dull?

Turning her head, she took a tiny nip out of his firm shoulder, then soothed the spot with her tongue. His arms tightened around her, and his cock kicked against her thigh. She drew a shaky breath, heat and moisture plumping the lips of her sex.

He wouldn’t hurt her—unless she asked him to. Gods! Her vision hazed for a moment.

Her heart beating right up into her throat, she trailed her fingers across his chest, stroking the light mat of hair between his nipples. She followed the intriguing line of it down over his sternum, his muscled stomach.

Erik hissed and his cock swelled, stretching toward her touch. The foreskin pulled back to form a soft collar, revealing the rosy dome of the head with its slit already weeping for her. “Don’t stop there.” He picked up her hand and jammed her palm against his length.

Automatically, Prue flexed her fingers, and he grunted, his hips punching up into her grip. His life throbbed in her grasp, urgent, hard and hot, velvet over steel. Gently, she squeezed, and the satiny skin moved under her fingers, sliding over the engorged core. Erik shuddered, his breath stirring her hair, but he didn’t speak.

She should tell him. Prue glanced at his face and froze. His eyes burned into hers, his cheeks flushed and sweat standing on his brow. “Harder,” he rumbled. “I won’t break.”

Fascinated, she traced a throbbing vein with her thumb. “Prue . . .” he growled, and she smiled and tightened her grip. Up and down, up and down. Erik purred and arched.

What was the etiquette? What did one say?
Take me any way you want. I changed my mind. I’m yours
. She had no idea how to begin the conversation.

Prue began to fist him, hand over hand, pausing occasionally to swipe over the head, smearing it with its own moisture. Under the pad of her thumb, his glans felt dense and velvety, mouthwateringly smooth and searingly hot.

Prue’s lips twitched, her heart soaring. Actions spoke louder than words, she’d always believed. He wasn’t likely to be interested in a chat at the moment. It might be better to show him.

Bending forward, she extended her tongue and took a cautious lick, all around the head. She’d never much enjoyed doing this, but with Erik . . . She dotted a row of small, sipping kitten kisses wherever she pleased, at random. Oh, soft and firm, all at once. Musky and strong and sweet, all at once.

Erik’s hips jerked. “Sweetheart . . . stop now.”

Ignoring him, murmuring her pleasure, Prue licked her lips and went back for more.

Strong fingers threaded through her hair. Despite her preoccupation, she heard his preparatory intake of breath. “
Stop, Prue. Sit up and look at me.
”

The assassin was a long heap covered by a light blanket. Soft snuffling snores stirred the lock of pale, silky hair lying across her pillow. The Necromancer’s lip curled. Ah well, a tool was a tool.

Bracing himself, he slipped seamlessly into her dreams.

There was a man there—a man with a dark, relentless hunter’s face. Mehcredi was running down an endless alley, her lungs laboring, but every time she turned a corner, the man waited there, his pitiless eyes black as pitch, watching, implacable. She’d whirl and run in a different direction, the breath rasping in her throat.

Over and over.

Without compunction, the Necromancer interposed himself between them. “Assassin,” he hissed.

She pressed her back to a wall, her silvery eyes darting everywhere. “I’m sorry! Don’t hurt me!”

“You failed me.”

A pause and she regained her equilibrium, gulping for breath. Locating him by the sound of his voice, she turned her head, staring into the impenetrable shadow beneath his hood. “Oh,” she said, and her shoulders sagged with what looked oddly like relief. “It’s you. Sorry, what did you say?”

The Necromancer shut his mouth with an irritated snap. Shaitan, this one was remarkable! More than a little piqued, he repeated himself, something he rarely did. “
You failed me, assassin
.”

Mehcredi shrugged. “Not my fault.”

“You were seen, weren’t you?” That produced an interesting reaction.

The assassin knuckled her eyes like a frightened child. “He looked into my eyes, he’ll find me.” Her voice cracked. “Kill me.”

“That’s your problem. And here’s another, assassin.” The Necromancer paused for effect. “You owe me a death.” Another pause. “Don’t you?”

Long fingers clenched on her thigh. “I did everything I was supposed to.”

“Excuses do not interest me. I contracted with you for the murder of the singer. You failed to deliver. What are you going to do about it?”

The assassin’s lower lip jutted. “You can have your godsbedamned money back.” Panting, she wrenched her belt pouch open. Credits tinkled on the cobbles as she flung them away. “Here, go hire yourself an army.”

“My dear, I think you’ve forgotten what I can do.” Almost affectionately, the Necromancer reached out with dark, insubstantial fingertips and brushed the skin behind her ear.

Mehcredi gave a hideous, choking gargle as all the strength leaked out of one side of her body. Listing, she slid down the wall and collapsed.

Impatiently, the Necromancer waited, counting off the precious seconds of the seelie’s energy.

Eventually, the assassin rolled over, retching. “I’m d-dreaming,” she said. “I’ll wake up in a minute.”

“True enough,” agreed the Necromancer. “But you can feel pain in a dream. You can
die
in a dream. For the last time,
what are you going to do
?” He watched her mind racing, vastly entertained.

Sitting up, she massaged the side of her neck, rubbed her limp arm. “Try again?”

“No,” he said immediately. “Not
try
. This time, you’ll succeed.”

Mehcredi shot him a sideways glance. “I’ll get help.” One-handed, she began to gather up coins.

“One more thing.” The Necromancer allowed the smile to appear in his voice. “The fee’s dropped. Ten credits. You can deliver the change along with the singer’s body.”

The assassin’s face darkened. “But that’s not fair!”

“That’s life.” The Necromancer shrugged, his shadowy presence now so vast, it blanketed the night sky of Mehcredi’s dream. “Allow me to remind you.” Eager to taste the astonishing purity of her soul once more, he swooped.

But as the assassin shrank back, her eyes widening until they were as round and silvery as the Sister at full, he became aware of foreign sounds, scrabbling, scratching. The woman’s body wavered, then steadied again. The noises escalated. Growls and yips, a fusillade of hysterical barks, a small body hurling itself against the door. Again and again.

“That’s . . .” Mehcredi wet her lips and her presence faded in and out. She was waking. “. . . dog. Have to . . .”

Abruptly, she vanished.

The Voice echoed around the chamber and Prue froze, Erik’s cock cradled against the heated velvet of her tongue. It nearly killed him, but he tugged gently at her hair and she came up easily enough, though she resisted long enough to administer a final suckle that made his balls clench. She was delightfully flushed, her breasts quivering with the force of her breath, nipples tight and rosy. It suited her, he thought wistfully.

“Ready?” he asked.

Prue chuckled. She trailed a fingertip along the crease between his hip and his thigh and his cock jerked in helpless reflex. “I’d say so.” She shot him a challenging look from under her lashes. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

“Proof,” he said heavily. “Remember? Proof of the gift the gods gave me. My blessing and my curse.”

“Oh,” she said. “That.”