Their bond was much stronger and deeper than the bonds she had with Velinda and her other friends. Even if she had not actually been sending anything, she and Graegor might be close enough that he could feel what she was doing anyway.
Except she could not feel what he was doing right now. Just that he was awake.
Josselin had said that secrets could not be hidden in bed. But that applied to a telepathic man and a telepathic woman in bed. Right?
But Graegor’s scream of fury, that insistence that she answer him, more powerful than any telepathic pressure she had ever felt—that did not make any sense unless she had done something to make him that angry. And it had come just after she had killed the man.
Had he felt the murder? The telekinesis? Was that the reason for his enraged call?
She could do something about that. She could explain that. She could say she had been attacked. She could say the man was drunk and tried to drag her into the alley. She could say that Graegor’s scream had startled her, frightened her, and she had drawn back behind her magic to protect herself.
If he had felt just the murder, and not the fucking.
She shuddered. Slander. Vicious slander. Lies. I am a lady. Make them believe me. Me, not him.
But no one cared about her. It would not be her friends who heard this first. Even if the other magi did not believe the lies, they would still repeat them, because this rumor was just too juicy. Ferogin would call her a whore to her face, every time he saw her. Natayl would too, adding slut to his insults alongside stupid and useless. Her father would hear the rumors.
No. She had to stop, she had to think. What would Graegor do if he knew?
Would Graegor tell anyone at all? Would he be too ashamed, too horrified?
He might be. But he also might be too angry. He might already have told the prince.
Her ricsha driver ran them across the Foundry Bridge, and from a street away, Saint Davidon’s Basilica rose before them. The five domes gleamed like true gold in the warm light of the magic globes that ringed them in the dark, brightly announcing Lord Abban’s sanctuary.
God. Who could see her, no matter where she hid. Nan had told her that over and over again.
She felt sick.
“Is this all right, m’lady?” the driver turned to ask. He had stopped at the street corner where the Lord’s Chimes, now silent, led up to the basilica’s grand entrance.
“Yes, fine.”
The moment he lowered the poles to the ground, she pushed herself out of the chair, and the driver hurried to get out of her way. As she smoothed her dress, pressing her thighs together to keep her bloomers from slipping, he said, “That’s two copper ounces, m’lady.”
Tabitha hesitated. She had no money with her. She had not brought her satchel, or even a reticule. Graegor was supposed to take care of such things tonight.
“M’lady?”
“I have no coin.” But she had jewelry. She reached to her left wrist, but there was nothing there.
She had broken the bracelet. Both bracelets, the purple and the white. She had wanted him to feel her rage, and he had. It had burned him, searing beneath his magic because he had not thought to protect himself from her. She had torn his bracelets from her wrist, and the pearls had scattered on the floor. Priceless pearls.
Pearls she could not use to pay for anything, of course. She knew that as she stood there, looking at her bare wrist. There were regulations, certificates. A ricsha driver would not even know what to do with pearls.
“Your bracelet, m’lady, is that silver?”
Tabitha glanced at her other wrist. She wore two bangles, and the thinner of the two had no jewels or filigree. Both had been crafted specifically for her by Mistress Serra. The driver’s voice was hopeful as he said, “It doesn’t look too fancy, m’lady, if you don’t mind my saying.”
She pulled the thin bangle off and gave it to him. He dropped it into his pocket, nodded his thanks to her, picked up the ricsha poles, and hurried down the street. Probably to go drinking, since she had just paid for more than a hundred rides.
Alone, she turned to get her bearings, her inner thighs rubbing unpleasantly against each other under her skirt. Streetlamps lit the basilica’s outer courtyard, and globes glowed in niches in the looming stone walls. Though not too many people were here, she still felt exposed. At least she knew the way back to the townhouse, maybe half a dozen streets away. Natayl had only taken her to the basilica twice, but she was a sorceress, and even once was enough.
A hollow note, low and pure, made her spin around to face the Lord’s Chimes, her heart pounding. She saw and heard two people passing the Chimes, and the woman laughed as she chided the man for striking one of them. He lifted his hand to hit the next one in line, but she pulled his arm down, and he snugged it around her waist instead and murmured something in her ear that made her laugh again.
They left, but Tabitha stood still, looking down the curving path of the Chimes as the deep metallic note lingered in her ears. God could see her no matter where she hid. He had seen her kill her puppy. He had seen her make love to Alain and kill him. He had seen her make love to Nicolas and kill him. He had seen her fuck a man in an alley, and kill him. He had seen her lie to her father, over and over. He had seen her lie to Graegor, to Natayl, to her friends, to the entire world about what she truly was.
Did He care?
Dread tingled through her, and she turned back to the street. She had to get home. She had to get home. Aching to hurry, she tried to move quickly, tried to keep her thighs together and her bloomers up. But it was impossible. In a patch of shadow halfway between two streetlamps, she reached under her skirt and pulled down half the bloomers, then the other half. The white silk and lace made two puddles at her feet, and she stepped out of them before thinking to glance around.
No one was close. No one had stopped, no one was staring or pointing. She scrunched up the two halves and held the ball of fabric in one hand. She would burn it in the kitchen fire. No. She would get rid of this, and the dress, by taking them to the incineration house herself. There was so much frayed embroidery on her bodice, she could not endure questions about that either.
Now she could walk faster. Her hair lifted and tangled in the night breeze. She turned the last corner, and there was the first block of townhouses. Further down the street was the second, and beyond the third and the fourth was the cloister where she had gone to services today. Twice. Two hours of services for the murderous whore.
She kept moving. Most of the windows in the townhouse blocks were dark. She hurried past the fences and gates of the first block. Almost there. Almost home.
Power bloomed ahead of her, so palpable she could almost see it, and she froze. For a split second she thought it had to be Natayl. But after spending that entire day in the labyrinth, she knew how everyone’s magic felt, and this was Borjhul.
Where was he? He was close—
He came out of a shadow, grabbed her arm, and pulled her against his chest, and with his overwhelming strength came a crushing blow against her mind. Natayl’s power felt like gravel, but Borjhul’s felt like shattered glass, and she would have screamed if she could have breathed. He dragged her into the dark, his arms and legs twisting and pinning hers, as unyielding as iron bars.
He wanted to bond with her. He had wanted it ever since they had first met. Fear told her to struggle, but something else just as instinctive told her to brace herself, anchor herself to the ground against the increasing pressure of his mind. Struggling would do no good, she knew that, so she tried to hold still, hold down her terror, hold up her magic, resist him like she had already resisted Graegor. She could not let Borjhul forge a mental bond with her. He could not be there like Graegor and Natayl always were. She would not be able to stand it.
“You killed him,” he whispered directly into her ear.
She flinched. She could not help it. She was so startled. How could he know?
Then, suddenly, something st
opped. He stopped. His body still held hers trapped, but his power had stopped trying to invade hers. He sounded startled when he whispered, “You fucked him.”
Tabitha tried to move, but Borjhul’s legs clamped even closer together, sending pain through her twisted leg. His head pressed against hers, forcing her neck to turn until her chin was almost touching her shoulder. “You fucked him and killed him,” he stated.
She could not answer. She could not think. The hot line of his body pushed right against the iciness of her spine. “Now,” he murmured. “Here. Else I tell Graegor what you did.”
Tell Graegor? He did not think that Graegor already knew?
How did Borjhul already know? Had he been watching? If he had, why had he waited until now to grab her, when she was almost home, almost within the safety of Natayl’s walls?
“He will not believe you,” she said, with as much conviction as she could muster.
His arms tightened even more, and she realized that she had all but told him that he was right. That she had fucked, then killed, a stranger in an alley on Solstice night. But he had already known! How? What had he seen? Had he felt her telekinesis? Had he felt her passion the same way everyone could feel Arundel’s and Ilene’s? Was he just so close to her that he could smell the stickiness between her legs?
“You still care what he thinks,” Borjhul murmured against her neck.
How was he doing this? He was still outside her mind, she had not let him in, and yet he knew things he should not know!
Except why did he think that Graegor did not already know about the man in the alley?
Was Borjhul the only one who knew? And would she sleep with him to keep him quiet?
No. It would not keep him quiet. He would hold it like a sword at her throat, like he was trying to do now.
Don’t try to silence him. Just deny it. Deny it, deny it, deny it. Call it slander and lies. Borjhul would not be fooled, but everyone else would.
“Now,” he murmured again. “Here.” He was so strong. No one had ever held her like this, trapped her so completely that she could barely breathe. Why did he not just take her?
He could. Oh, God. She could feel his cock. It pressed against his trousers, against her skirt, against the back of her thigh. Long and hard. But so much worse was the renewed pressure from his mind. She could not let him do that to her, could not let him be always there. His bond would not be like Josselin’s, intense as a smith’s furnace but firmly contained. A bond with Borjhul would be as heavy as Natayl’s but not as negligent, as smothering as Graegor’s but without love.
Graegor’s magic. If she could reach for it, if she could pull that power to hers, join it to hers, feel its strength, she could throw Borjhul off. Break him. But it was nowhere. It was gone.
“I will scream,” she whispered.
His mind ground into hers like glass under her skin. She staggered, and only the rock-like prison of his arms and legs kept her upright. Her head, her whole body hurt, and her trembling had become spasms. She could not escape. She could not escape. No one was near. Calling for help would open her mind to the bond that Borjhul wanted. And even if she could call for help, Natayl was at the manor house, and Graegor would let her flail and drown.
Did Borjhul know that Natayl was not in the city?
“I will scream,” she repeated, louder, though her throat was raw. “Out loud. Natayl will hear me.”
Borjhul’s fingers dug into her right arm, into her left side. He did not believe her. “Let me inside you,” he whispered. His cock thrust against her bottom, shoving her skirt between her legs, while his magic thrust against her mind, searching for weakness. Tabitha could not stop shaking, but would not stop straining with every last ounce of her magic to keep him away. If she let him win she would never be free of him again.
“You needn’t pretend with me,” he murmured. “We’re both killers.”
She wished she could kill him. She wished it as his mouth brushed along her unbound hair in soft kisses, as the massive weight of his mind urged her to relax. To surrender.
No!
Panic closed her throat, because a growing, horrifying part of her wanted to surrender, wanted him. Why was she getting wet again? She feared him, she did not want him, and it was so wrong that it twisted her stomach.
He kissed her neck. Then he stopped and murmured, “Second time. This is the second time.”
What did he mean? What was he talking about?
“You fucked the man you pushed out your window too.”
How was he doing this? How was he pulling her secrets right out of her head? It was not possible. He had to be guessing. He was guessing about Nicolas. But how? How was he guessing right?
His teeth nipped her ear. “You evil little cunt.” Like it was an endearment. He was not afraid that Natayl would come for her. Was he afraid of anyone?
Her thoughts spun. Contare. Should she threaten to tell Contare if Borjhul forced a bond on her? No, Contare would take Graegor’s side, and Graegor would never forgive her.
Josselin. Josselin would not stand for physical or mental rape, no matter what Tabitha might have done. If Josselin heard about this, there would be consequences. Did Borjhul realize that, or did he think her reputation was exaggerated?
Tabitha whipped her head back to break the touch of his mouth on her neck. “I will tell Josselin if you force me,” she gasped in a single breath.
She did not expect it to work. But Borjhul paused. He held her tight, but he did not move.
Then his arms slackened. She broke away from him and ran. She nearly tripped on her skirt and nearly twisted her ankle on a cobblestone. She was certain that Borjhul’s hand would close around her arm and stop her, but she reached Natayl’s fence, and felt the wards hum against her mind as she staggered through the gate and yanked it shut behind her. An oil lamp hung at the townhouse porch like a beacon at sea. She reached the door and pushed, but it was locked. It was locked. It took her what seemed like a horribly long time to get past it, to perform the delicate telekinesis required to turn the tumblers and release the latch.
But then she was through. She slammed the door and leaned against it, breathing hard. It felt so much better to have something solid between her and him.
Her thighs were wet. Her bloomers. She had dropped them …
Then, suddenly, she sensed Natayl. He was here. No one was supposed to be here! He had left for the manor house this morning!
Natayl’s mind scratched against hers in a wordless command. She wanted to refuse. She ached to refuse, to run upstairs to her chambers and shut herself inside.
But, of course, she could not.
She took a moment. Her fingers made the sign of the Godcircle as she took several calming breaths. She smoothed her dress and hair, but she could not do anything about her flushed cheeks. Maybe he would think she was drunk. Maybe she should act drunk, so that he would dismiss her in disgust.
He was in the parlor, as he had been on the night that she had been attacked in the fox-den, the night he had driven her to the floor with crushing pain. She stopped in the doorway. The room was lit by only a single lamp, and Natayl was slumped in his leather chair, wearing a well-tailored black shirt and trousers and his boots, as if he had come back from a party. A party. He hated parties. Three wine bottles stood on the table near his chair, crowding around an empty goblet.
Was he drunk? She had never seen him drunk. His sour face looked like melted wax in the yellow light. His eyes were not quite as sharp as usual as he peered at her. He had pulled back his mind after summoning her, but she could still sense something off about him. Like a pattern turned sideways, or a mismatched seam.
“So what happened to you?” he finally growled.
“Nothing,” she said, trying to sound confused.
“Horseshit,” Natayl snorted.
Tabitha frowned, as if even more confused, but Natayl leaned forward, hunching his shoulders as he set his elbows on his knees. His eyes glittered. “Do
n’t lie to me. Don’t ever lie to me.”
Run. The impulse was very strong, but Tabitha held her feet to the floor to resist it, because it would not help. She had to stay until he dismissed her. Calm and still, she told herself. Calm and still.
Natayl suddenly pushed himself up to stand, and curtly gestured for her to follow. Tabitha swallowed hard and stayed several paces behind him as he limped to the kitchen. The coals in the stove were glowing red, the only light in the room before Natayl waved at the oil lamp that sat on the end of the long trestle table where the servants ate. His uneven steps on the tiled floor echoed against the high ceiling as he made his way to a small rack of wine bottles tucked between a cabinet and a drawer. He took a bottle and worked the cork free with telekinesis as he pulled two pewter goblets from an open shelf.
He wants me to drink with him? Cold prickles ran down her neck, and she watched in dismay as Natayl filled both goblets and set them on either side of the trestle table. He looked back at her and pointed. “Sit.”
Tabitha hesitated, then spoke carefully and quietly. “I would prefer to return to my chambers.”
Natayl pointed again, and his voice was heavily laden with sarcasm. “Sit down, my lady. I can tell that you are upset, and since you are my apprentice, I am supposed to listen to you and give you advice. So that is what I am going to do.”
Tabitha sank onto the bench at the table. Natayl sat down across the table from her and stared at her intently over his own goblet. It made her feel like an insect in a jar. He clearly had no intention of using his healing power to force himself sober. His mind was set on interrogating her, and he would not be deterred.
“Your hair’s down.”
It was not a question, so Tabitha did not answer. But he never commented on her hair. Or her clothes, or her jewelry. She had counted on that. She had purchased three sets of diamond earrings over the past two months to fund the shovel-men’s farms, and Natayl had never asked to see what she was buying.
Or maybe he knew all about it. That nagging worry was never far away, especially when he focused on her like this. Maybe he knew exactly what her arrangements with Elder Partridge were. Maybe he had spies who knew that the heretics had retreated from the Betaul Marches. Maybe he was just giving her enough rope to hang herself.
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