The Smoke Thief

by Shana Abe

  Find me.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rue waited a day. She dressed for warmth from her hidden bag of tricks and after a while haunted the floor just below, which wasn't a floor at all but a catwalk of giant oak beams supporting the twin bells of the spire. She crisscrossed their maze with her skirts kicking up, buffeted by the wind, then sat with her feet swinging, her heels tapping, very lightly, against the enormous bronze curve of the bell right below her.

  She watched the sky change colors. She watched the clouds begin to thin and lighten; all true clouds, no hint of the drákon stealing among them. But they would be out there. Somewhere. They would hunt her now to the very ends of the earth.

  Morning brightened into day. Day mellowed into afternoon. Whenever the bells were tolled, Rue fled back to the tower top with her fingers in her ears, the booming notes rolling over her and through her and rattling her bones.

  Matins, prime. Terce. Sext.

  The sky was mostly blue now, with racing white clouds and feathery gray threads from countless chimneys and smokestacks below bent sideways with the wind.

  But the catwalk was better sheltered, so that was where she tried to stay. Every so often a wash of shadow-cooled air would rush upward through the spire, tugging at her hair, flipping strands up into her eyes. The bell ropes would sway in place like long rolling snakes.

  She was watching that, leaning over her lap to stare as far as she could into the void below, when there came a little noise above her head, nearly imperceptible. Rue straightened, glancing up at the trapdoor. It opened into a bright crack, and then a sudden square of brilliance. She brought a hand to her face to shield her eyes as the outline of a man blocked the light.

  Tossed golden hair caught the sun into a halo, more radiant than an angel's grace. An arm reached down to her. She took his hand and was lifted straight up to the little round balcony, finding her feet against the sooty puddles and stone.

  Christoff did not greet her. He didn't say anything, only brought his hands to her face and kissed her, hard and open and deep. There was nothing preliminary about it: his fingers in her hair, his mouth over hers, his body a solid pressure against her chest and hips, pushing her back against a column with an urgent sound in his throat. He kissed her as if he had already thrust inside her, as if they were both nude and entwined at the top of this high, airy spire, with sky and pink stone and stillness all around.

  Her heart skipped. Her blood began to pump in a dark, eager rush.

  She broke it off. She pulled away from him and pressed her fingers to her lips, hoping to disguise the betrayal of her uneven breath. He let her go without protest, his hands lowering. Her hair surged into a curtain between them, the ends flicking and teasing his stomach.

  “You're better,” she said, and inwardly cursed herself for being so flustered.

  “Better.” Christoff inclined his head. “I can Turn and fly. I no longer fall over when trying to stand. I no longer feel as if the very sun is exploding inside my head. Thanks to you.” His voice warmed. “You saved my life, clever mouse.”

  Her eyes dropped. “Credit the diamond, not me.”

  “It was your idea to bring the stone to me.”

  “A lucky guess. You might just as easily have died.”

  He shifted, angling away from her as if to take in the view. “But I didn't. The diamond was my guide, but you were my anchor.” From the corner of her eye she saw his head turn. “You kept me there, Rue. You kept me.”

  She didn't reply, her gaze averted, her face downturned. Kit remained motionless, weighing the clues of her mood: the shy demeanor, the set mouth, her hands tucked beneath her apron. She didn't seem altogether pleased to see him. She had accepted his kiss but not returned it; she had clearly chosen a place where he could find her, her scent carried on the wind in whispering invitation. Yet she held herself aloof, her skirts and hair dancing merrily like they belonged to a carefree girl and not this grave and bewitching woman who would not hold his eyes.

  He wanted to go to her and crush her to him. He wanted to melt this new resistance, and so had to concentrate fiercely on keeping still and apart.

  She was all he had thought of, from the very moment he could think again. From waking in the warehouse cell, the wary voice at the other side of the door offering to help him—from streaking back to Far Perch, confronting the drákon there, the ruckus, the accusations and explanations, the hurried apologies from a very apprehensive council—through it all his blood had beat Rue, Rue, Rue, so loudly through his veins he wondered that no one heard it but he. It had pushed him to the peak of his limits; he was balanced there, dangerous, on that high and whetted edge, when he strode unclad into his father's study, shocking his tribesmen into chair-scraping silence.

  He remembered exactly what they had done to her. He remembered exactly the sound of the bar sliding into place after they'd dragged her out of the cell. He had looked at Parrish Grady standing puffed up with consequence, lecturing Christoff on discretion from behind his father's desk—behind his desk—and imagined with graphic, perfect clarity ripping the man's throat out. The flood of crimson gurgling over his cravat. The rusty scent. The wet, gasping sound of his death on the blue and cream rug.

  Grady's lecture ended on a quavering note, as if he had literally run out of air. They stared at each other, and the older man slowly blanched to the color of boiled oats. Christoff had let the moment endure a while longer, then suggested with absolute civility that Mr. Grady take his leave of Far Perch. At once.

  George had shown up, and Rufus. None of them had known where or how to find Rue. None of them had a clue but him.

  The breeze murmured through the columns of the bell tower, warmer than expected for a fresh-scrubbed spring day. Rue captured her errant hair with one hand, twisting it into a rope over her wrist. Under his steady contemplation, her cheeks begin to tint.

  “Did you return Herte to the council?” she asked, still without looking up.

  “Aye.”

  “Parrish Grady must have been relieved.”

  “Parrish Grady did not get the opportunity to be anything but grateful for his sorry damned hide. I handed the diamond to George Winston and told Grady to go home before I lost my good humor and decided to carve him up like a Christmas goose. He took me at my word.” Kit decided to break their impasse; he went to her, lifting her chin with his finger, capturing her gaze. “He wants you, you know. He has, from the minute he first saw you. I watched it happen.”

  “What of Nicholas?”

  “Ah, yes, your friend the scribe.” He opened his fingers; her pulse was a hummingbird against the back of his hand, fleet and warm and vital. “As he was somewhat instrumental in freeing you—and me—I could hardly return the favor by threatening to disembowel him, no matter how heartstruck he became merely speaking your name. It's going to grow tedious after a while, menacing half the population of the shire just because they're in love with you. I thanked him for his help and assigned him as Grady's escort. Two birds, one stone, that sort of thing. One by one, I stave off your suitors.”

  She did not smile, as he'd hoped. She only looked at him, velvet brown eyes, heavy black lashes. He touched the bruises on her cheek. “Did I do this, or did they?”

  “Both, I should think. I don't have a mirror; I don't know how bad it is now. I've an idea of how it looked before.”

  Sorry. He wanted to say it, but it seemed so inadequate a word for what he was actually feeling. I'm so sorry, I'd never hurt you, I bleed to look at you, I love you so much. But whatever it was that kept her so austere also rebuffed even that first, simple word. She seemed stern and distant as she stared out at the rooftops, even with her winning flush.

  He eased back a step to grant her room again, glancing around the narrow spire. “Nice gargoyles.”

  “Yes. Welcome to my . . . what did you call it before? Emergency recourse.”

  “Very cozy.”

  She crossed her arms. The movement pulled his att
ention to the scoop of her bodice, the demure white kerchief that folded across her shoulders and tucked over her chest. Her dress was dove gray and unadorned; the kerchief matched the apron spreading wide down her skirts. He was sure—reasonably sure—it was the gown of a milkmaid. Kit had to press the smile from his lips.

  She said, “I'd offer you tea, but I'm afraid the service here is sadly lacking.”

  The smile came anyway; he ran a finger over the grit along the railing. “Perhaps you should fire your maid.”

  “Indeed. It's so difficult to find honest help these days.”

  Kit paused. “You're angry.”

  “You lied to me.” She leveled an open stare at him now, her lips flattened, her brows drawn into a line. “You lied about our agreement. You lied about ever letting me free. I know you never meant to, diamond or no.”

  “Oh.” He leaned back against an alabaster column. “Did the council tell you that?”

  “The council didn't have to. I fathomed it myself when they showed up here en masse, hood in hand. Were you even going to wait the full fourteen days before hauling me back to Darkfrith?”

  “I was,” he said softly.

  “Well, how generous of you. It's nice to know I'm dealing with a man of his word.” Her voice had begun to tremble; she looked sharply away.

  “Would you like an apology?” he asked after a moment.

  “Another lie? Thank you kindly, but no.”

  “Good. I'd actually prefer not to lie, so here's the truth for you, mouse. I'm not sorry. I'd do it all over again if I had to—except, perhaps, the part with the crocodiles.” He pushed off the column, approaching her, placing a careful hand at her waist. “I was only heeding my instincts. I needed you, I needed Herte. Fate had tied you together and dropped you both into my lap. I couldn't truly let you go; my blood wouldn't let me. If you want to call it ruthless or cunning or outright devious, that's fine. I don't care. It's who we are. Even you.”

  “My word is my honor,” she said, low.

  “I'm delighted to hear it.” He bent his head, savoring the curve of her ear, the perfume of her skin. “We'll let your word be my honor as well.” He drew her earlobe between his teeth, bit down gently, kissed it better. “Righteous intentions, noble deceit. Two sides of the same coin. That way we're both satisfied.”

  Air escaped her in an irritated huff. “I am far from satisfied.”

  Kit smiled against her throat. “But I'm going to remedy that.” He kissed her neck, her lips, breathing in lilies and lightning, pleasure expanding through his lungs. “Right now. Forever.” He took a step against her skirts, tilting her head back with his thumbs at her cheeks.

  She caught his wrists, checking him in place, their lips inches apart. “Some people would say that since I saved your life, you owe me a courtesy.”

  “Is that right?”

  “To wit, my freedom.”

  His smile deepened. He closed his eyes, touching his mouth to hers despite her token resistance. “You might as well have left me to die, then. I'm afraid that I can't live without you.”

  “You sound like a halfpenny ballad,” she said rudely.

  “Do I?” He pulled his hands from hers and began to work free the kerchief, tugging it loose, letting it fly from his fingers to trace the wind. “Obviously you're going to have to elevate my standards.”

  “A daunting task.” But like a summer shower she had changed again, blue clouds to sunlight, her tone less astringent, her body leaning into his. He drew his fingers down her chest. Her skin was warm beneath his touch, warm from the kerchief, and warm from him.

  “But you're already halfway there. When I do this—” Kit tried her lips again, tender, fleeting, tasting her with his tongue. “And this—” He nuzzled her neck, allowing the dragon inside a fleet glory, closing his teeth on her, hard enough to leave his mark. Her jaw brushed his temple; the air left her in a rush. “Rue-flower . . . I feel like I'm soaring.”

  Her hands shifted on his arms. He lifted his head and took in her face, her eyes dazed and heated—passion or pique, he couldn't tell. It didn't matter. He couldn't wait any longer. Kit heard the husky break in his voice, all pretense stripped away.

  “Let me love you. Please. I swear I'll make you happy.”

  She gave a small shake of her head, a dreamer waking. “Why do I feel these things for you?” she whispered, her brows knit. “Why with you?”

  “You know why.” And he didn't let her speak again; he didn't want her to wake. He wanted her like this, lush and ready in his arms, a flame held aloft against the azure sky, firm and real and his. He covered her lips, taking what wasn't yet offered. She held frozen again, her body taut—but then she made a soft ardent sound and pulled him close, the two of them tilting together until he had her back against a column, just like before. Only this time Kit did not stop.

  He took her there roughly against the fluted pillar. He raised her skirts and found her moist curls, stroking her, sliding his fingers in and out. When he couldn't take the sweet noises she made any longer, he shoved himself into her heat with a chest-deep groan, linen and muslin rucked up around them, her eager pants at his shoulder. He tangled his fingers in her hair to force her head up to his and stole the breath from her, claiming dominion over this as well, her body, her heart, pumping in and out until her throat wrung with those soft little cries at his every thrust. But he couldn't get enough of her, wanting deeper, wanting more. He had a wild thought to rip away the dress but couldn't wait even for that.

  Her hair blew in ripples against the pink stone. She lifted a leg, sliding it up his, worsted stockings and slender strong muscles; she opened to him like a flower. Too much, too much: with his hands on her buttocks, Kit came in a violent blind rush; he had to have hurt her, his fingers bruising, his teeth scoring her pretty skin. But she cried out and climaxed with him, erotic feminine shudders that left him desperate for air. For her, and the clouds, and the heaven all around them.

  ______

  She felt so strange. She felt alone and yet not, because she was cradled in Christoff's embrace, the two of them seated in the fancy-wrought pinnacle of the belfry, on par with only birds and bells and wind. She was nestled between his legs, her cheek to his chest. She wondered if he was cold. She was, even with her layers of muslin.

  One of the four gargoyles of the tower, the one posted east, looked back at her through the railing with blank leaden eyes and a leer. Christoff's arm was a muscled weight around her shoulders.

  “Do you love me?” Rue asked, watching the gargoyle.

  His arm tightened; he dropped a kiss to her hair. “I do.”

  “I think I can lead you to the runner,” she said slowly.

  For a long while he said nothing. She closed her eyes, her cheek rising and falling with his calm respiration.

  “It's too dangerous,” he answered at last. “You're far more valuable to me than his capture. Don't say anything to the council. I'll come back and hunt him later.”

  “I can't,” she said, painful. “I can't wait. Zane is at risk.”

  “. . . Zane?”

  Rue sat up, letting her hair cloak her face. She'd dreaded this moment. She'd had to make a decision, she'd had to choose to trust Christoff or not. She'd had all day to consider it, and the time had not passed by easily. But the truth was out now. She would not shrink from it.

  She tucked her hair behind her ears, meeting his gaze.

  “Do you remember when I told you about the runner, what he said to me at the mask—that he hadn't wanted the diamond?”

  “Aye.”

  “As though someone had offered it to him. Why would he steal what he hadn't wanted? Why go to all that trouble, only to toss it away to a crocodile pit?”

  “Zane,” said Christoff again, this time with dawning understanding. “Your apprentice.”

  “He knew the diamond was coming to London. He knew I'd covet it. He even showed me the notices for it. He's rash and he's canny. But he never—” She shook her
head, frowning. “He's never tried anything so foolhardy before.”

  “Until now.” Kit climbed to his feet, running his fingers through his hair. His body was sculpted clean and elegant against the blue. “He stole it for you. To give to you.”

  “I think so. I think he even tried to tell me, that day at Far Perch.”

  “What a damned stupid stunt. If he'd been caught, the council would have had him boiled and flayed—”

  “As I said, he's rash. But also incredibly loyal. It's why he tracked me down after I was taken to Darkfrith. Why he waited for me all those nights.”

  The marquess's mouth took on an acerbic curl. “What a faithful lapdog.”

  “However you choose to denigrate him,” she retorted, also finding her feet, “at least he accepts me for who I am. He's been steadfast and true. I will not abandon him to the mercies of the council, or the runner. Or to you.”

  Christoff looked back at her, surprised. “I accept you.”

  “Yes. Now.”

  “Oh, I see. This is about the past, isn't it?”

  “This is about a young boy, Lord Langford. That's all.”

  “I accept you, Rue. Shall I say it again? I accept you. I cherish you. I adore everything about you, from the little girl you were to the woman you are today.”

  She flicked a hand at him, frustrated, turning away. “You're just wasting time.”

  “No.” He caught her back to him, spreading his fingers over her uninjured cheek. “Listen. When you were twelve years old I saw you for the first time. Truly saw you. And from then on, I took note whenever our paths crossed. You were so quiet it was difficult to believe you sprang from the same messy bloodlines as the rest of us. You had modesty and grace. You didn't flirt, and you didn't give quarter.” His palm slipped from her face; he took up both her hands. “If the other maidens of the shire were garish bright stars, then you were the midnight around them, silent and mysterious and all the more interesting for it. I accepted you as that, mouse. I still do.”