“See as our Lady of Blades tests her edge,” intoned Marceaux overhead, but with enough impatience that I wondered at his haste.
Perhaps he saw this an opportunity to fortify his position in the Veil’s rankings. Be the man overseeing Hawke’s punishment, and be known as the greater of the two?
More fool him. The dragon would no doubt consume all it sheltered.
I spun, smiling widely, and turned on a pirouette sure to make Fanny proud, were she to see it, before letting fly the knife.
It glimmered in the lights, and thudded beside Hawke’s right shoulder. The muscle there flexed.
A tic echoed it in his jaw.
My smile deepened for him.
“That is for the first day we ever met,” I informed him, low enough that Marceaux could not hear from his vantage. Hawke had no such trouble.
Again, his jaw moved.
Another blade, this one tossed over my head and caught behind me at the small of my back, metal edge cold in my fingers. A bit of a sting warned me I’d misjudged, but the show would not stop for a tiny bit of blood.
Another flick of my wrist, another thud as metal met wood, and the crowd gasped.
The hilt vibrated a mere finger’s length from Hawke’s left hip.
“That is for the first lie you told me,” I said from teeth clenched beneath a smile.
The cords of his throat beneath the strapped collar moved.
The audience began to chant, a rhythm I didn’t understand. Two blades down. Six left to me.
“What a beauty,” crooned Marceaux overhead.
“Oh, do be quiet,” I muttered.
The third and fourth blades went one after the other, an echoed thunk-thump that erupted in a shout of breathless wonder and jeering as two knives buried themselves to hilt. One by his arm—a near miss, for I’d been aiming for the spiraled color by his head—and one between his splayed legs.
The harsh shape of his lips twisted, a dangerous warning.
I mirrored it back at him. “That is for the heart you stole,” I informed him, struggling for a steadying breath, “and the betrayal you gave in its place.”
Fury bottled by failing control rippled under his flesh, muscles roiling as he strained against his bonds. He bared his teeth, a grim slash of white, and were we not in the predicament we were in, I had little doubt he would have had some choice words to deliver. Whatever state of being he occupied, whether the showman or the beast, neither would have tolerated this were he free to act upon it.
I would take my small victories where I could. An eye for an eye; a show for a show.
I shimmied in a small circle, coin fringe glinting, and raised my hands to the crimson tent overhead. A bit of pause—so a show demanded—and a chance to catch one’s breath.
Marceaux was one step ahead.
“Too easy, is it not?” He was not asking me. The sweat covering my palms indicated that I felt it anything but. “La, la! We have just the thing for you.”
A pop of Chinese sparklers flared from the disc holding Hawke in place, and he wrenched at his bonds as it began to spin. It started slow, a grinding of gears I doubted any could hear over the chants and the cheers.
Within seconds, it rotated quick enough that the whole became a sickening spiral of red, white, black...and Hawke, blurred into a dark circle.
“Come, mademoiselle!” Marceaux demanded, and I looked up to see him wave a strip of black fabric in one hand. He draped it over his cane, gave it a shake that glittered, and tossed it to me.
I watched the material flutter to my feet and knew what he demanded.
“Show us what it is that beast is made of,” he said.
So much malice wrapped into one command.
Did the Veil know how much hatred their new ringmaster held for the old?
Maybe that was the point. The answer came to me with gentle emphasis, as though guided on a warm stream of heady certainty. Recalling the conflict between the Chinese servant and the Veil’s spokesman painted a tale of divergence in the Veil’s ranks—and where there was quarrel at the top, there would be more below.
Though I had little doubt that the Veil meant to make a game of their tiger’s taming, I had even less doubt that Marceaux was the sole force behind this particular scheme.
I was an unknown. A veritable stranger, untried in truth, but the good monsieur could claim any manner of tale to suit him once I was dead.
And I would make no mistake as to the nature of my role here. I would act, and then I would be disposed of—publically, no doubt, as the murderer of Micajah Hawke.
After all, if an accident occurred in the ring, dead was dead. Even if they punished the cause, it would not likely be Marceaux bearing the brunt. It would be me, or whatever fool they’d chosen in my place.
I had a choice to make.
I could act, or I could fail to act, thereby thwarting Marceaux’s efforts. Of course, it might cost me my game. Internal politics had taken many lives before, but here I wondered if the monsieur had overestimated his worth.
Or underestimated Hawke’s.
The Veil would not forgive the loss of the tiger they fought so hard to tame. Even now, they had not given up on claiming his strength for themselves. A little humiliation was one thing, as meant to bring him back to the fold, but outright loss?
Marceaux was too new to understand, and too old to be patient for the power he wanted.
It all made perfect sense now. Marceaux meant to strip the Veil of the old ringmaster and claim it all with the Veil’s blessing.
Fool.
But a fool that put me in a dangerous predicament.
Could I wager my life on this theory? Was I so bold as to wager my life on my next action? Either way, I was as good as dead if I didn’t succeed.
Then again, there was precious little I wouldn’t do with adrenaline and opium to ease my way. I would wager my life, after all.
My life, and Hawke’s.
Making a show of tying the blindfold for Marceaux’s sake earned a widening smile, bracketed by his waxed moustache. I faced the spinning disc with its living target and drew the last four blades from the sash, cradling each between my fingers and testing the heft. I could see nothing but black and the occasional glint of light as the fabric weave bunched. Not enough to target with.
I needed help. Desperately.
Only one source would allow me the eyes I needed, but I wasn’t certain I had the tools with which to force it.
“I am sorry,” I murmured. Whether for Hawke, myself, or for Ashmore, whose confidences I once more betrayed, I couldn’t say.
All of us, most likely.
In my defense—and I made note to assure Ashmore of this later—I relegated myself to the Trumps I knew. For the first time, I’d found a situation that would suit the calling.
I raised both hands into the air, sketched a letter with the knives clutched tight, and whispered, “Bacatus-Typhon.” The Trump of duality, the mark of the adversary. The second of twenty-two, I had mastered this one before leaving my country house, and used it now to reflect the double identity Hawke had betrayed; to call upon the Lord of Illusions attributed to the Egyptian Set, Osiris’ brother, and the source of the ultimate dichotomy.
None but Hawke fulfilled such defining categories so perfectly.
The art took care of the rest.
The black shrouding my eyes lifted, but it was not the circus I saw in exchange. Nor was it the aether-strung ambiance of the world. I did not see at all, not in the manner that one might define such things as sight, but I sensed.
I intuited.
I cut through illusion, even that illusion I craved for myself, and allowed my senses to overcome.
All things in a circus were made of smoke and mirrors. Better not to trust my eyes than the instincts honed by alchemical knowhow and a lifetime of near-forgotten experience.
I let fly all four blades, one after the other.
They shimmered in my altered sight, silver strea
ks aimed unerringly for the target, and erupted in a haze of violet sparks as they buried hilt-deep in spinning wood. Thunk, thunk, thunk.
And the fourth, which did not echo.
The light it cast discharged vermillion red. The audience screamed.
For a moment, a breathless eternity, all seemed to slow. I tore the mask from my eyes and saw first the malicious smile upon the monsieur’s face. Then the snarl locked behind gritted teeth as blood streamed from the blade sunk deep within Hawke’s right shoulder.
Three blades on target, the last astray. It seemed my focus weakened on that fourth. I’d gotten a bit carried away.
Before I could act, the disc rotated upon its grounding.
Hawke would not wait. Straining, cords of his throat stark against his swarthy skin, he tore one arm loose of the target bindings.
The platform we stood on shook violently.
The crowd erupted into chaos, a cacophony of glee and concern; some because blood required a barbarian cry. Marceaux called orders I could not hear over it all.
Hawke seized the blade in one hand and wrenched it free. An arc of blood gleamed like rubies in the circus lights. An unholy growl filtered through the noise as the platform beneath us abruptly dropped into the fog.
Wood splintered, shards of red and white paint peppered my skin, and darkness swallowed us whole.
Chapter Twenty-One
Gravity dropped us like a stone in a well. There were no ropes readied to catch us. Whatever had begun the platform’s descent, there was no sign.
The abrupt termination of the fall threw me from the disc—smeared my roiling senses across a cold floor. Ropes pulled taut and unraveled, snapping in every direction.
One caught my arm, leaving a reddened welt across the darkened scar that took the salve on too well.
I bit back a cry, but could not afford the time to nurse the pain.
Blood streaming from the wound I’d left in his shoulder, Hawke forged through the nest of writhing rope as though they were nothing but fragile figments. The hue of his eyes had not softened, but even that color paled to the deadly potential inherent in his focused intensity.
He was none too pleased with me, I’d grant him that. Was it the blade I’d misjudged or the taunting I’d delivered first?
I clambered to my feet, gave him no benefit of the doubt; I simply ran.
Two doors on either side provided the only escape, and I took the one closest to me. I spilled into a darkened room filled with crates I recognized. Clipping one with an elbow caused it to clink and clatter.
Heart in my throat, hammering with fear that left my mouth dry, I pushed through the storage chamber.
I had no reason to doubt Hawke’s determination. A glance over my shoulder proved he followed, but he did not run.
He stalked.
When my path took me into a large room framed by iron bars, I realized I’d made the same mistake of direction that forced the Veil’s Chinese servants to correct me last time I’d been here. Somehow, the overhead circus had made trap doors into a maze of subterranean chambers, and the platform I’d so ungracefully disembarked led me to familiar ground.
Lions roared at my entry, nostrils flaring and black tongues flicking out as though the scent of my manic energies and fear roused them to wild fury. The male reared against the bars, but his were too narrow for his paws to pass through.
Only the window, higher than I could easily reach, allowed incandescent light to fill within.
I whirled, coins at my bustle and fringe tinkling in obscene cheer, but too late.
The door clicked shut with a finality that sank my throbbing heart into my stomach.
Hawke turned a latch. Sealed my fate.
Were I in a better frame of mind—to wit, sober—I might have reconsidered the whole of my intent. I might have attempted discourse, to encourage us both to settle into something more reasonable than the breathless anticipation the moment engendered.
I did not.
Perhaps it was the smoke I’d been given no opportunity to refuse. Perhaps it was my own desperation, a longing I had not given quarter to and yet could no longer deny.
His eyes did not leave mine, not even for the sake of the blood streaming down his naked chest. His wild hair gave him a ferocious appearance that was not all show—thinly controlled violence laced beneath his skin, drew taut the planes of his face and promised retribution.
We stared at each other, the tiger and I. The lionesses trapped together roared accompanying wrath, though whether it was because of my intrusion or Hawke’s feral approach, I could not know.
My knees felt weak, my flesh throbbed as though it wanted only to pull off my bones in every direction. I panted for air, though I had not run nearly enough to demand it. Shuddering, breathless, a stranger in my painted skin, I watched the pounding pulse just beneath the collar at Hawke’s throat.
He spoke first. “You never listen.”
I smiled, a wan thing. “How often will you escort me out?”
The fist at his side clenched until muscles locked through his arm. “I can’t.” A barely legible growl. “Not again. Not this time.”
Because the door was locked or because of what he had become?
I searched his features for the traces of the Hawke I had known. The polished serpent, the iniquitous slaver, the savage animal; all were present and none—and I could not say for certain what about that encouraged my recklessness.
He was different. I was different.
We moved at the same time.
He was faster than I, but only by the merest blink. Whether he guessed at my intent, smelled it like the animal the Veil called him, or if we simply shared the same wanting, I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything at all.
Only that I wanted.
We collided in the center of the room, and somehow, I was no longer standing on the dirt floor but gasping when my back slammed against an iron cage.
Hot flesh burned my fingers, slick with oil, sweat and blood. Hawke’s mouth closed over mine, and this time, it was I who licked my way between his lips, drank deeply of the growl he favored me as his hands braced me against unyielding metal.
My legs wrapped around his waist, sleek muscle braced, and the feel of his body as it settled between my taut thighs pushed me shuddering into a frenzy. I had no words for the madness that gripped me, no thoughts for the consequences; I wanted only more of Micajah Hawke, wanted only the feel of his body and the taste of his skin.
The coppery tang of his blood filled my nose, merged with the spicy, musky fragrance of his flesh, and I jammed my fingers into his tangled hair to grip it tight.
He was no less violent than I, which did not frighten me as much as it should have. I responded to it, rose to it like a cat stroked by a roughened hand. His tongue slid over mine, his teeth once more nipped at my lip and the small scab already placed there tore to bleed again.
The taste of it on my tongue jarred my senses into the surreal. He snarled as I arched my back in a bid to gain a breath; it only forced my corseted breast against his naked chest and ground the shape of his erection between my legs.
He wanted me, badly enough that he would ignore our surroundings.
Yet he was not kind about it; and I relished the lack of gentleness as he thrust a hand between us and covered my too hot flesh with a hard palm. The thin material of my bloomers did nothing to diminish the sensation—wicked, wanton. I groaned into his mouth, hips tilting as though demanding more when my mind had not yet freed itself of the paralysis forced by overwhelming desire.
It was Hawke who tore his lips away first, sucking in a wild gasp. Sweat glistened upon his brow, feverish demand in his fierce stare. Locked between the cage and the impossible strength of his muscled body, he did not need his hands to hold me up.
As the one ground against my flesh, sending shuddering jolts of sensation from belly to brain, he caught my face with the other and snarled, “Tell me it isn’t enough.”
I could barely summon the words, but I would have if I could. I wanted more.
His mouth crushed mine, a second brutal claiming, and I gasped as his hand curled into the fabric of my bloomers and wrenched it aside. The sharp pain as it stretched and abraded my skin was nothing to the miracle of his fingers plunging into my body, wet and blistering hot.
I cried out, echoed by a lion’s frenetic snarl.
“Tell me a kiss is never going to be enough,” Hawke demanded. “Lie if you must.”
There was no need to lie; had I the presence of mind to try, I’d have never formed the words. I rode the rapid pace of his hand until all of my senses reached breaking point. Heat washed up my body, slid up my spine until it was all I could do to remember to breathe.
Before my release could take me, Hawke withdrew his fingers, wrenched at the trousers low on his muscled hips. He grabbed my thighs in each hand, splayed them wide and plunged into me with that part of him I remembered in the darkest hours.
I screamed with the sheer pleasure of it, far more violent than any I’d suffered previous. Hawke’s body moved like a wicked machine, all oiled strength and straining tension. I grasped the bars over my head, holding part of my own weight in place as the man I’d come to save filled my body to the brim with the hard, slick length of his own flesh.
Ashmore’s company had given me a distraction—I would forever be grateful for his care. He had taught me things I had not known.
But here, now, there would never be comparison. That what Hawke did to me was enough to fundamentally alter my very world. Nothing else would ever do.
I dared not call this love.
When I could take it no longer, when the pain of the metal bars digging into my back merged with the searing pleasure of my own body starved for him, I let go of the metal to cling to his shoulders.
My lips found the tight skin below the heavy collar; my teeth closed over his flesh and bit down hard enough that his hips jerked against me, his head threw back on a guttural rumble that echoed the pacing lions flanking us. The flesh drew tight beneath my lips, and I knew that it would bruise.
Engraved: Book Five of The St. Croix Chronicles Page 23
