“Not necessarily.” His brows drew together, but his gaze had wandered to her nipples, which were puckering a little in the evening air. “Anyway, it’s a bad idea.” Though his voice was cool, his fingers curled around hers.
Heartened, she dropped her lower lip and arched her back. “I’m cold,” she said, as plaintively as she knew how.
Another brief chuckle, so rusty it sounded disused. “You’ll warm up,” he said, but he slid his lean length in beside her. “ ’Cestors, this bed is narrow.”
“Mm,” she agreed, closing her eyes in order to appreciate every smooth warm inch. But when she tried to wriggle closer, her elbow hit the wall. “Ow!”
“For the gods’ sakes, come here.”
A few seconds later, she was lying with her head pillowed on his shoulder, wide-eyed with shock. Sweet Sister of mercy, they fit together like two parts of a puzzle. Cautiously, she snuggled in closer, lifting one leg to rest over his. Her entire body humming with bliss, she drew wobbly circles on the hard planes of his chest with the very tips of her fingers.
After a few minutes, he laid a hand over hers, pressing her palm flat against him. “Tickles.”
His heart beat steadily, cupped beneath her hand like something precious, his nipple a fleshy pebble nudging her palm.
“Is fucking always like that?” she asked sleepily.
“No,” he said immediately. “Next time will be better.” The instant the words left his lips, his breath caught, but Mehcredi’s brain was too mazed, too warm and comfortable, to pay attention.
“I’ll die,” she said with complete conviction.
The only response was a grunt, but when she risked a glance, his mouth had softened. Those absurdly extravagant lashes lay against his skin like a delicate fan. Vaguely, she wondered if they were longer than her own and whether there was a way to measure. She was still considering it when sleep rolled over her.
The Necromancer shot bolt upright in bed, his heart thudding. He’d been dreaming. He scrubbed his hands over his face, a shocking thrill running through him at the feel of a stranger’s features, the big nose and heavy chin with its persistent stubble. Would he ever make this meaty, ill-fitting suit truly his own?
The dream had taken him back to his slum childhood, his skinny ass at the mercy of Tolaf, the foul old sodomite. Though now he came to consider the matter, it was probably the drink that aged the man. He couldn’t have been much more than forty. There was certainly nothing wrong with his intellect—when he was sober.
“My lord?” The slave curled up on the floor beside the bed raised his head.
“Iced water.”
“Yes, Pasha.” The boy whisked himself out the door.
But he’d made his peace with that bargain years ago. By Shaitan, it had been worth all the pain and indignity, the crushing loss of a little boy’s soul. Tolaf had taught him well and he’d soaked it up, numbers, letters, philosophy and logic—all the knowledge he’d craved. His thick lips curved in a grim smile. The man had taught him to read and shown him something of Magick. And once he’d looked full in the face of the Dark Arts, he’d seen that knowledge was power and power was above petty morality. Besides, Tolaf’s protracted demise had been as much an artistic exercise as a scholarly one. The Necromancer flattered himself he’d done well for one so young.
Taking the chilled goblet, he waved the slave away. No, in the dream, he’d been running down a dark alley in the Melting Pot, his bare feet slipping on the wet cobbles and then—somehow he was whirling among the stars.
Thoughtfully, he sipped, clearing his mind, backtracking through the dream mists. The water slid down his throat like an icy finger and he shivered. This wasn’t ephemeral in the usual way of dreams. It had substance, significance.
He’d approached godhead once before, borne high on the death energy of a seelie, so close he could have reached out and with a contemptuous flick of the fingers—Gods damn Deiter to the seven icy hells and his fucking fire witch with him.
The Necromancer rolled the cup across his hot cheeks, thinking. The dream had been very like that, he’d half expected to see the Great Pattern, the godsbedamned Pentacle etched across the face of the cosmos, and yet . . . He chewed a thumbnail. Rocking in the cradle of the chill winds that whispered across the endless deeps of space, content simply to be.
Content? That wasn’t like him at all.
He shoved an embroidered pillow in the small of his back. Because the presence in the dream had been something else, a . . . a creature, ancient beyond human reckoning of time, so alien as to be beyond imagining.
But what?
23
Was it a demon?
No, there was none of Xotclic’s vivid self-awareness, its ravening appetite. Eons had drifted past and the . . . thing he’d sensed in the dream remained tranquil, absorbing low-level energy, needing nothing, knowing nothing of desire. He’d never seen anything like it. His pulse quickened.
“Take this.” Without looking, he thrust out an arm and the slave relieved him of the goblet.
Clasping his hands loosely over his stomach, the Necromancer settled back, regulating his breathing, letting his consciousness spiral back into the dream-fugue, down, down . . .
Ah. Spawned in the heart of a dying star and cast forth as a thin veil across the vacuum. So close to nothing, it tempted him with the peace of dissolution, of oneness with everything that was and ever could be.
For a while, he drifted, half tranced, half dozing.
A dozen motes of brightness appeared as pinpoints in the void. Slowly, the creature swung its vast attention toward that sector of the dark and observed the strange objects resolve themselves into sleek, shiny ovals that unfurled impossibly delicate gossamer wings. Slingshot sails, glittering against the black like nets of fire and ice.
The Necromancer smiled.
Because in that moment, the creature understood for the first time what it was to hunger. The fragile life forms cocooned within the metal shells blazed hotter to its senses than any sun, unutterably enticing, tempting beyond endurance. It stirred, fascinated. Rippling, it extended its substance, enveloping the silver starships in a leisurely, massive embrace.
Yes! This was what had woken him, pain and longing, a howl of anguish on a cosmic scale. Because the creature discovered it couldn’t pull away. The lure of the life forces within the metal hulls held it hypnotized, even as its weight forced the starships off course. As they were caught by the gravity of the Sibling Moons, the heat of their power sources seared the stuff of which the being was made. It screamed without sound, broadcasting pain in tangible waves that puckered its semitransparent surface into a million separate depressions of agony.
The starships entered the atmosphere of Palimpsest in a fiery lurch over the desert, near out of control, and with them went the creature, sundering, splitting, becoming countless motes, forever divided, forever seeking wholeness.
Wounded near to death, it fled, seeking refuge. In the cool depths of an extinct volcano, it brooded, regaining its strength. Millennia passed in the dripping darkness while it thought leviathan thoughts, growing accustomed to its new existence as a hive organism. Until the world grew warmer, uncomfortably warmer.
The Necromancer’s eyes blinked open. So long ago. By Shaitan, the Technomages had hushed it up perfectly. Did they know of the creature? His brain raced, his prodigious intellect sorting and sifting—impressions, rumors, visions . . .
The creature endured until the suffering became too great to be borne. Then it rose, a wave of sentient fragments covering the land from horizon to horizon, and ventured out, looking for the cold. But it didn’t forget the luscious, liquid brilliance of the human spirit. It could never forget. Along the way, the dwelling places of men enticed it. The soft, warm glow of life energy drew it irresistibly. The harder the death, the greater the nourishment.
Of course! He snapped his fingers. The village headman’s shoulders had slumped with relief when he saw the guards. No wonder he
’d been delighted to bow before his new lord. Djinns, he’d muttered, out among the wadis and sand cliffs, death swooping from the sky, but the Necromancer had had no patience with such superstitious nonsense.
Gods, he’d been a blind fool. There was no time to waste. This was what the Dark Lord had intended for him to see all along. The so-called djinns and the wounded space creature—they were one and the same.
Rolling over, he slapped the snoozing slave. “Up, up! Get the guard captain!”
“But, my lord . . .” stammered the boy, his head turning to peer out the window at the darkness. “Um, now?”
“No,” snarled the Necromancer, “at your fucking convenience. What do you think?”
His backhander sent the slave reeling toward the door, clutching at his face. “Yes, Pasha,” he mumbled.
The patter of his footsteps receded down the passageway.
It was still dark when Mehcredi woke. She raised her head from the firm warm pillow beneath her cheek and blinked into the gloom.
A heartbeat later, the mists of sleep cleared with an almost audible snap. Sweet Sister in the sky! She was in bed with the swordmaster, lying half on, half off, his sleeping body, sandwiched between him and the wall. And gods, they’d done it, they’d . . . fucked.
The realization, the very real heat radiating from the muscled form plastered against her, made her head swim. In wonder, scarcely daring to breathe, she drifted a palm over the band of heavy muscle on Walker’s chest. Sister save her, it was true! It had been every bit as amazing as she’d hoped. What’s more, she’d asked him to stay, and by all the gods, he had. Joy blossomed within her, glowing like a summer rose opening its face to the sun.
Oh, she was so glad she’d woken. Why waste this delicious feeling on sleep? The opportunity would probably never come again. Her stomach flipped. Next time will be better, he’d said. Had he enjoyed it? Had he enjoyed her? He hadn’t said much, but then he never did.
With the utmost care, she lowered her cheek to the warm breathing expanse of his chest. Walker slept on with self-contained grace, the way he did everything, his breath deep and even.
He’d climaxed, found his pleasure, though she imagined that wouldn’t be too difficult for most men. Her lips quirked. Except possibly her Trinitarian friend. She resisted the impulse to shake her head at her own stupidity. How could she have missed it? But the man had been downright entertaining. She’d been so interested in the palace gossip, so busy memorizing the wild rumors about a new kind of demon—a djinn he’d called it—that she’d forgotten to watch his face.
Forget it, she told herself sternly. Enjoy what you have before it disappears . If she held her breath, she could hear the beat of his heart against her ear, a steady, reassuring rhythm. Gingerly, she skated her fingertips over the satin of his skin. So beautiful, so male. Gods, she was torn! Part of her yearned to sink deep into the comfort and delight of such close proximity, never mind that he wasn’t even conscious. Everything she’d ever longed for and known she could never have. She’d been starving all her life and here was a feast, so sumptuous it made her dizzy with the possibilities.
It should be enough, and yet, her mouth watered for more, every nerve on edge with sexual desire. She shook with the need to explore all the fascinating dips and contours with her hands, her mouth, gods, even her nose. It was insane. Trembling, she buried her face against him and inhaled, filling her lungs, imprinting the smell and texture of his skin upon her senses.
Even worse, it was still too dark to see and curiosity was killing her. What would happen if she reached down and touched him there, between his strong thighs? She let out a soundless huff of frustration. He’d wake and throw her off. But she’d never seen anything as extraordinary as his cock, jutting out clear of his body, hard and thick and deliciously threatening. But after he’d finished, it had looked quite different, softer, nestled in the thatch of his pubic hair, his balls an intriguing shadow behind. She wanted to pet it, stroke a little and see if he liked it. He’d stroked her, after all. Her cheeks got hot. Godsdammit, he’d had his fingers inside her.
Walker’s breath hitched and he shifted slightly, his head rolling on the pillow. Mehcredi froze. But after a moment, he murmured a few words in what she thought might be Shar, turned his face into her hair and slipped more deeply into sleep.
She lay for what seemed like hours, staring into the dark, all her attention focused on the points of contact between them. The strength of his thigh along hers, the bump of a hip bone, the breadth of his chest where the softness of her breast was pressed, the strong cage of his ribs, rising and falling with his respiration. If she lifted her head . . . Holding her breath, she did so. Ah . . . With the tip of her tongue she touched the strong brown column of his neck, tasting salt and musk and hot man. He didn’t stir.
Mehcredi allowed herself to sink into sensation, going deeper layer by layer, until she was centered, grounded as if by the nea-kata. Gratefully, she surrendered, accepting something about herself she’d never fully articulated. She hadn’t known how before—before Walker.
She didn’t know what love was, what people meant when they said they loved one another. They were words and therefore easy to come by. I’d die for him, she’d said to Abad.
Only words?
Instinctively, Mehcredi clung closer, placing her parted lips against his skin, breathing him in.
Not empty words, but truth. Because she would. Not gladly—that was stupid—but if there was no other way. She belonged to the swordmaster, to this reserved difficult man, more surely, more completely, than if he’d purchased her with coin at a slave market. Her life was entwined with his because that was . . . well, the way it was. Frowning at the vague outline of the nightstand, she swallowed hard.
Walker would complete his vengeance, she didn’t doubt it for an instant. Then what? He’d return to Caracole, to his House of Swords, to his garden and the fighting salle. She could probably hire on as a bodyguard for some noblelady, or even try for the Palace Guard. Walker had a friend there, she thought, a man called Rhio. He might help.
If this night was all there was . . .
She’d make the most of it, memorize every sensation, use all her senses. Ask for more. When it was over, it would be over. Once she accepted that, by all the gods, what did she have to lose?
The cool light of dawn was pushing back the shadows. Cautiously, she raised her head, glancing down the length of his body. She’d never be able to think of words adequate to describe him, not if she lived forever. Not an ounce of fat, all those shapely muscles on display, the scars marring the smooth bronze of his skin. He had the most beautiful legs she’d ever seen on a man, long and strong and graceful, roped with muscle.
Mehcredi frowned. The swordmaster ought to take better care of himself—eat more and keep away from demons and bad men bearing sharp-edged weapons.
With the utmost care, she disengaged herself until she could sit up and look her fill. Her gaze skittered away from his genitals, then returned. Fascinated, she stretched out a hand, then snatched it back. No, no, no. Bad idea.
His nipples were as dark as Concordian chocolat, not as broad as hers. Were they as sensitive? Would they feel velvety against her lips?
She wouldn’t, she wouldn’t. Unable to resist, Mehcredi hovered a palm an inch away from a brown disk, wanting desperately to touch, but not bold enough. When Walker didn’t stir, she let out a shaky breath. His gorgeous heat burned her flesh. To her astonishment, his nipple crinkled, drawing up as if to nuzzle into her palm. A wave of gooseflesh followed, racing across his chest, pebbling the nipple on the other side.
Shaking all over, she withdrew her hand, flexing her tingling fingers. A coil of tension settled at the base of her spine, a series of flutters making her stomach flip.
Imagination. Must be.
Leaning forward, she ran her hands over his body, keeping a scrupulous inch from contact. Over his ribs, his sternum, the tight cup of his navel, his hip bone. The skin of
her palms felt scorched, primeval energy arcing from him to her and back again. It had to be Walker’s Magick, because she had none.
Her heart drumming, she focused on his groin. His cock lay curved, quiescent against a hard thigh, the heart-shaped head now shielded by his foreskin. She bent a little. He smelled muskier there, but she didn’t mind it, not at all.
She’d never been so curious in her life. How could a body part transform itself so completely, as if it had a mind of its own? Were all men like this?
It stirred. Twitched. Mehcredi’s mouth dropped open. Shocked, she stared down at her own hand, hovering over Walker’s cock, the heat blazing between their flesh. Her eyes growing rounder and rounder, she watched the shaft move like a sleepy animal, swelling and straightening, until the foreskin slipped back to show the head, smooth and ruddy, with a little slit at the top. She peered, leaning closer still. The skin of his member looked as soft as finest chamois, but it was roped by tracery of blue veins, growing more prominent by the second. And, oh yes, his balls had drawn up against his body, tight and hard. Completely enthralled, she began to shift her hand toward them. Who knew what might happen?
Long brown fingers appeared in her field of vision, cradling Walker’s cock with casual competence. An iron hand clamped over her wrist.
“Mehcredi.”
Her head whipped around to meet a flat obsidian stare. “What the hell are you doing?” asked the swordmaster.
The Necromancer leaned forward over the saddle and surveyed the collection of poor tents clustered round a seep trickling out of a gray rock face. About a dozen contorted figures lay in the stony gravel, some of them still clutching weapons that had clearly proved useless. Corpsebirds circled lazily overhead, riding the hot desert wind. “You’re telling me no one survived?”
The guard captain shifted uneasily. “It appears so, Pasha. But I’ve sent men to check in the hills.”
As he spoke, a soldier appeared from behind a clump of boulders, driving a small group of people before him. The guard captain’s shoulders slumped with relief.
The Lone Warrior Page 25
