The Smoke Thief

by Shana Abe

  “I trust you slept well,” he whispered, less evenly than before. Rue tipped her head back, words vanished in her throat, the pillows white clouds around them.

  “Rue-flower. You taste like honey.” His voice roughened, his fingers clenched against her shoulder. He began to move faster. “You feel like heaven. I want to stay inside you all the time. Oh, God, I don't want this to end.”

  But he didn't slow. The culmination came upon her in a delirious bright spark, a blind heat that flared and caught like gunpowder, consuming her in waves and shudders.

  Kit stiffened, his entire body going rigid; he let out his breath in a mighty gust, stirring her hair. Slowly he collapsed against her, a new tremble in his arms, his weight coming down heavy over her so that together they sank even farther into the mattress. He released her leg to weave his fingers through her hair.

  They remained like that, locked close, until Rue had to shift her shoulders. He lifted instantly to his forearms.

  “As a matter of fact,” she said, “there is a sizable lump in your bed.”

  He kissed her chin. “I'm terribly sorry.”

  “I think it must have aught to do with you, Lord Langford. There was a lump in the mattress at Chasen as well. Perhaps you ought to find a new goose-plucker. I know a place. . . .” She was looking up at him and so lost the thread of her thoughts, checked by the new light in his eyes.

  “No,” she said, and pushed him off her, sitting up. “You could not possibly be so reckless.”

  “I fear that I am. Try to consider it one of my virtues.”

  She abandoned the bed, going to her knees on the floor beside it, stretching her arm between the mattress and the straw-stuffed base. He propped himself up on one elbow to watch.

  She found it. She pulled her hand back with Herte in her fist while Christoff smiled down at her, roguish.

  “You hid it beneath the mattress? You couldn't think of a single better place than that?”

  “What better place than my bed? I knew I'd be back here. I'd hoped it would be with you. Who better to guard a diamond than two drákon?” He laughed at her expression, swinging upright. “We were already going after the runner. No one else would think to take it.”

  “Anyone else would think to take it.” She cradled the stone in her palms. “The mattress! For God's sake, you may as well have just set it out on your doorstep!”

  “Frankly, mouse, I never imagined we'd acquire it so soon. I had meant to hand it to the council for safekeeping. There's not even a strongbox here, you know.”

  “You should have told me! I could have secured it!”

  His smile faded. “Rue, it's fine.”

  “It is not fine! You risked the diamond. You risked our bargain.”

  “Our bargain,” Kit repeated slowly.

  “Yes! The diamond and the runner! My freedom!” She came to her feet, swinging her hair back, naked and uncaring. “We're halfway there and you nearly ruined the entire arrangement—if it's stolen again, I don't know how we'd track it. I cannot conceive that you would be so foolhardy! It's as if you—”

  He looked at her, seated high upon his bed, splendid and still as the air, surrounded with satin covers and tossed pillows.

  “—as if you planned it,” she finished. “As if you planned for it to be restolen. Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you?” she demanded anew, as though he had not answered. “Is that what you were after, to lose Herte, to have me fail?”

  “No, Rue. Of course not.” He climbed out of the bed, scowling.

  “Then why would you—”

  “I told you! There is no strongbox! The council has not yet arrived!”

  “But you only had to tell me—”

  “Oh, yes,” he snapped, coming near, “tell you that the diamond is yours for the taking after all, hand it over to you and have you evaporate into the hills. That's a sound plan. Whyever didn't I think of it? Perhaps you might have another private little tête-à-tête with the runner too, just to let him know how things stand.”

  She felt slightly dizzy. She felt as though she stood at the edge of a cliff, with a drop far, far below her. “You don't trust me.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Trust you? Rue—trust you? You counterfeited your own death rather than wed me. You told me you'd rather die than stay in Darkfrith. I can't—I don't know how to fix that. I don't know how to mend it. Tell me.” He took a step toward her. “Tell me, and I'll do it.”

  She couldn't answer. There was a rock in her throat, and she could not speak around it.

  “Mouse,” he said, and shook his head, the lines around his mouth etched deep. “Sweet Rue. I would do anything.”

  “I have to go.” Her voice sounded very thin.

  “No.”

  “I'm sorry, I—just for a while. I'll come back.”

  “No.”

  “Sorry,” she said once more, and Turned, heading for the window. He blocked her, faster than she, smoke and then man, his finger plugging the small hole in the glass.

  “I won't let you leave like this.”

  She funneled to the door, heading for the hall, but he blocked her there too, always faster, always smarter, and she wanted to scream in frustration. She wound up to the ceiling and he trailed her, twin spirals that spun and turned. However she moved he countered it; when she got close to the door he spread himself against it. She Turned to woman, very quickly, and yanked at the handle, sweeping past the opening as smoke even while he tried to prevent her.

  Yet he caught her before she was through. He surrounded her, imprisoned her, just as he always had, and she was forced to revert to her human self, ready to sprint forward, but as soon as she did he was solid too, grabbing her arms, pulling her to his chest, his grip tight and unrelenting.

  “Rue!”

  She looked up, not at Christoff but at Zane, standing open-mouthed just down the hall.

  He didn't move. He could not. He'd fallen asleep and thought he might still be dreaming but that the air was so cool it crawled along his skin. The hallway had just a single vaulted window at the very end of the corridor and so everything around them was washed in pastels and soft traces of gray—everything except her. To Zane she burned like the moonlight last night, white fire and dark-eyed contradiction, all that was beautiful and bright in his life.

  She was unclothed. She was being restrained by the marquess. And she had been—they both had been—nothing but fumes two seconds before, solid flesh shaped from smoke like a gypsy conjurer's final rousing trick.

  What was she?

  She broke away from the marquess. She stepped toward him, heedless of her body, heedless of the swing of her hair or the outline of her figure as Langford stood unmoving behind her, his animal eyes watching them both.

  “Zane.” Her hand reached out. “What are you doing here?”

  “I—I—came to tell you—”

  He turned around and ran. He hadn't meant to but it happened, his feet pounding the slick floor, skidding to the stairs, leaping down them three at a time in his rush to reach the main doors. But the air was clouding; he landed on the foyer amid a new rush of smoke and was jerked off his feet by his collar.

  He bounced and swiveled and aimed a kick at the marquess, who only lifted him high like he was a puling kitten and dangled him there with a grim, distasteful expression, his fist binding the shirt tight about Zane's neck. The breath began to choke from his chest.

  “Stop!” Rue skimmed down the stairs. “Don't hurt him!”

  “You said he knew.” The marquess's voice was hard, whip-thin.

  “He did! He does—he's never seen—” She put both hands on the man's arm. Without ceremony Zane was dumped to the floor. He bent double and wheezed.

  Rue's feet moved off. He heard cloth rustle, muffled, and then the clatter of metal striking the marble tiles; she had yanked the curtains from the closest window, pulled free the rod and yards of yellow damask. It puddled around her like a river of s
unlight. She lifted it, wrapped it around herself, then came back and knelt before him.

  She whispered his name, the softest voice he'd ever heard. She did not attempt to touch him again. He raised his eyes to hers, defiant, despairing.

  “You knew,” she said. “But I never let you see, except that once. That very first time. Do you remember it?”

  Dreams. That's what he had thought of that night. She had sprung from his dreams as he had pulsed between life and death. The knife wound from Clem had drained him, the blood had no longer even felt wet against his skin, and she was there. There had been smoke, and snow. She had been born of them both, white skin and that cloak of shining hair. But all this while, all these years, he was sure it had been just dreams.

  “I remember,” he said.

  “Rue,” said the marquess, still in that peculiar hard tone.

  “There are things in this world,” she said steadily, still holding Zane's eyes, “that defy easy words. There are things in this world worth protecting, fragile things, secret things. Things that would do great harm should they ever be handled carelessly.”

  “Rue.” The marquess loomed just beyond her.

  “Things like magic.” She touched a finger to Zane's cheek, a shock of warmth. “Things like love.”

  He stared back at her, dumb and helpless. The marquess set his hand upon her shoulder, his fingers marking a possessive span against her skin. Zane could see from here there was something wrong with one of his legs, that the skin was streaked red and swollen. He'd seen blood wounds aplenty in his life before her.

  “Step away,” Lord Langford said. “Step away from him, Rue. Go back upstairs.”

  Her face changed, a flash of emotion in her eyes—anger, or fear, or both. She rose and turned to face him.

  “I won't let you.”

  “Don't make this harder.”

  “I said,” something about her altered here, something grew wilder and more formidable; Zane felt it even with her back to him, “I won't let you.”

  “He cannot be allowed loose.” For all her gathering fury, Lord Langford was chillingly rational, flat calm. “You know the laws. When the council uncovers it, they'll kill him anyway. At least I'll be quick.”

  Kill him—

  “I will tear this place apart,” she said quietly. “Right here, right now. I will put a permanent end to any hope of secrecy for the tribe.”

  The marquess said nothing.

  “You might succeed, though,” she went on. “You might yet slay us both. At what cost? You'll have lost me and your cherished anonymity. Will it be worth it?”

  “I don't wish to fight you,” he said. But Zane saw how he shifted on his leg, all tension and ready violence.

  “You said you'd do anything to mend the past.” She softened a little, her shoulders slumping. She lifted a hand and let it fall back to the damask. “Just now, you said that you would.”

  Slowly, very subtly, the marquess began to smile. But it was not a smile of mirth or joy: it was the smile of a demon, of unholy gratification. He spoke without a trace of inflection.

  “Shall it be your bride-price, love? The life of this boy?”

  She glanced down at Zane. He stared back at her, unable to plead with her for his heart in his throat. He thought desperately of his knife, of how he might manage to stab smoke.

  “Mouse.” Lord Langford took her chin between his fingers, forcing her gaze back to his. “Is this your price?”

  She did not hesitate again. “Yes.”

  “Then I accept. I will not harm him.”

  Now it was Rue who was silent, Rue and Zane, who felt so sick with relief and worry that he had to cut his nails into his palms to stay standing.

  “You have my word,” Langford said to her.

  Zane honed in on his face, on the animal there blazing in his eyes, and wondered that she would believe him. But she never moved, not even when the marquess bent to Zane and put his mouth near his ear. Zane pressed his nails harder into his palms, invisible pain.

  “You are free to remove yourself from my sight. If you speak one word of this to anyone, ever, I'll consider my promise void. I'll find you wherever you are, and no amount of pretty pleading will spare you then.” He straightened, raking Zane with his look. “Take your leave from the service door, boy.”

  And he spread his hand on Rue's back and directed her up the stairs with him, the yellow damask making a long, slippery train behind her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “I believe it's time,” said Christoff, “for you to tell me about the runner.”

  He was dressing, taking deliberate care with it, standing before his bed with his legs apart and his London clothing strewn haphazard across the covers, Herte a silent starburst in the middle of the chaos. He'd pulled what he needed from his closet, barely glancing at what was there. Crisp linen, tan breeches, a waistcoat of India silk with etched silver buttons; the silk caught the light, shifting hues from sage green to citron. For some reason the changing colors smarted his eyes.

  Rue was seated in a chair behind him. He could feel her gaze upon his back.

  “What do you wish to know?”

  “What do you think? I want to know what he said to you last night, what you said to him.” He picked up the shirt. The ruffles edging the cuffs felt starched and very cool.

  “Nothing useful.” Her voice was subdued. “He asked why I was following him.”

  “And why were you?”

  “Why—because he was escaping, that's why. And because you were occupied with darling Cynthia. Someone had to step in.”

  He pulled on the shirt. “Indeed. So you thought you'd simply confront him alone. Very shrewd.”

  She didn't rise to the bite in his tone, only said again stubbornly, “Someone had to.”

  He propped a hand against the bedpost, narrowing his eyes at the waistcoat. There was a bizarre, distant buzzing in his ears. There had been, ever since he'd seen that boy, ever since that familiar slam of ferocity and pity and blood-violence had flooded through him, the same sick wave he always felt in those final moments of a life. It was a sensation so vicious it used to make him physically ill. The first two times he'd killed, it had actually defeated him: the very instant he'd been left alone afterward, he'd fallen over and succumbed to the nausea.

  Kit remembered their names, their faces. Samuel Sewell, John Howards, Colm Young. He remembered their fear. He remembered his own, that he would be weak, that he would fail, that he could not lift his hands to the task his father had set for him.

  Sam Sewell. He'd been a carpenter, burly, mad-eyed. And Christoff had been just sixteen years old.

  Sewell had been sentenced and shackled. He had given his oath not to Turn but had done it anyway.

  The second time had been marginally easier; the man had only wept. The third easier still. Instead of vomiting Kit had gotten drunk after that one, brutally drunk. And the almost-fourth, that wan, scrawny child . . .

  He would have done it. He understood by now what his role demanded of him, that for the Alpha there were sacrifices for every pleasure, and consequences for every slight deed. He knew exactly how it would have happened, how he would have moved, fleet and ruthless, how he'd strike, the distinctive jolt of the neck bones severing. . . .

  A sliver of nausea lingered in the back of his throat. The buzzing would not subside.

  But it was worth it, all of it, because by her own vow he had her now. Kit slanted her a look from over his shoulder. She was curled sideways in the wing chair with her head on her arms and her hair awash across her cheek, still cloaked in the hall curtain. She was white and dark and pink and gold. She watched him through long black lashes.

  “What else did he say?”

  “To leave him be. To let him go.” She closed her eyes and opened them, by all appearances peaceful as a drowsing child. “That he hadn't wanted the diamond. That he had no desire to injure me.”

  Kit stilled. “He threatened you?”

 
; “No more than someone else I know.” She held him in that quiet look. “We've been allies of a sort, I suppose. I'm sure he was mostly surprised that I would corner him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He did not tell me, Lord Langford. No doubt he was about to, in addition to giving me his direction and handing me the key to his door, but just then you arrived. He did not seem disposed to linger.”

  “No,” Kit said, and felt his lip curl.

  She sat up in the chair, pushing back her hair. “But I did learn something of interest.”

  “What?”

  “His right hand was made of wood.”

  Wood. His mind clicked. The man who had drowned, whose hand and ring had been found. Great God, anyone deranged enough to cut off his own hand—had George ever said who it was? He couldn't quite remember—

  “It was his bowing hand,” Rue continued, gazing down at the material stretched across her legs. “Ingenious, really. He had the fingers shaped to hold the bow, so he could play just like anyone else. I noted it when he first touched me.”

  “You will stay away from him,” Kit said, beyond alarmed. “You're not to go anywhere near him again.”

  She glanced up at him, her brows lifted. “It hardly seems to be an issue. I've little idea of how to find him now. Especially since he knows you're pursuing him.”

  “Listen to me, Rue. I won't be disobeyed in this. You will stay away from him, no matter what comes.”

  “Fine,” she flashed, rising to her feet. The curtain began to slither off to one side; she caught it up with both hands. “You win, you're Alpha, all-powerful Christoff! I bow to your infinite wisdom! Pray grant me permission to venture belowstairs for something to eat, dear lord. I find my stomach pains me.” She hitched the curtain higher and marched out of his bedchamber, a wake of damask flaring past the door.

  He thought to go after her. He hadn't meant to be so harsh. He wanted to be gentle with her, he wanted to catch her and protect her and adore her body and her bold heart. But without her presence to brace him, Christoff found himself leaning aslant across the bed, his hand pressing hard into the waistcoat, pulling wrinkles along the silk. The buzzing in his head was like an angry hive of bees.