The Dream Thief

by Shana Abe

  And then the man you loved would be put to death.

  No trial, no judge or jury. Just…killed. And he would never even know why.

  All because of you.

  “Tired?” he asked, in that gentle tone that revealed nothing.

  “No.” She tucked her hands into her skirts. “Where have you been?”

  “Exploring.”

  “This late?”

  “Darkness,” Zane said, “is surprisingly helpful when entering locked places. It’s what I do, Amalia.” His lashes lowered at her expression. “It’s why I’m still standing here tonight, having this conversation with you. If there are rooms I cannot see, I always prowl. Every night.”

  “You didn’t at the villa.”

  “I did, but you slept through that one. Why did you think Madame Hunyadi was so eager to be rid of us the next morning?”

  She said, shocked, “Did you steal something from her?”

  “No, I refused something from her.” He gave her a look, then crossed to the bedpost, propping a shoulder against it. “It was quite a night for my sense of worth. She found me in her husband’s extremely dull library, a book of German poetry, I believe it was, in hand. I’ve a feeling she was pacing outside the door, waiting for any handy fellow to wander by. Yet it so happened that my affections…were otherwise engaged.”

  “But-you never told me. You never woke me.”

  He lifted his gaze straight to hers. “I don’t trust anyone, Lia. I never trust anyone. It’s how I’ve survived all my years.” He gave a lazy smile. “Another something we have in common, I suppose.”

  Her lips bowed. Everything she wanted to say to him, everything she wanted to confess, remained trapped in her throat. She couldn’t open her mouth to utter a word.

  “I’m glad you’re awake.” Zane pushed off the post and strolled toward her, scented of night and torchsmoke, more beautiful than she’d seen yet, coiled grace and tawny hair, his face clean planes and lines that glowed with firelight. His shoes made no sound across the floor. “I’m not much in the mood for sleeping either.” He lifted a hand and brushed his knuckles against her cheek; his eyes followed his movement, a sliding touch that skimmed from her lips to her jaw to her throat, his fingers spread along her collarbone. With his hand warming her skin, his gaze angled to hers through his lashes, pale yellow masked dark.

  “You weren’t going to tell me about Draumr, were you?” His other hand came up. He wrapped a tendril of gold around his finger. “Devious little dragon. We’re definitely better paired than I thought.”

  She felt the beginnings of despair sink runners through her heart. “Promise me that you won’t use the diamond against me.”

  “Against you?” the thief murmured, and touched his lips to her forehead, feathery, fleeting, cool as the air.

  “Against my family,” she said. “Against my kind.”

  He said lightly, “It’s only against if one resists. What if I use the diamond for something you’d like?”

  “You don’t need Draumr for that.” She caught his wrist in her hand, pulling away to see his face. “Promise me, Zane. Please.”

  He unwound her hair. He looked up and then away from her, staring out at the starry distance just as she had done.

  “No,” he finally said, without a trace of inflection. “I do not promise.”

  She pressed back against the glass. “I won’t take you to it.”

  “Won’t you?” His eyes glanced back to hers as his smile returned. “Allow me a bit of conjecture, my lady.” With a sudden deftness he left her, walking back to the bed. “I think your dreams have had nothing to do with sunny Tuscany. I think they have to do with you, and me, and this most enthralling diamond we’re about to recover. I think I somehow end up with it whether you take me to it or not.” He began to unbutton his coat. “You dream the truth, don’t you, Lia? How spot-on am I? You asked me about this once, years ago. It’s rather embarrassing that I’ve only just now recalled it.” The coat was tossed to the edge of the bed, pale gray across the violet-and-slate-patterned counterpane; it slid slowly to the floor. “I don’t claim to be a prophet or a mystic. The vagaries of fate have never much interested me. But you… you interest me, Lady Amalia. Everything about you interests me. Why is that, do you suppose?”

  Lia did not drop her gaze. “Because you are in love with me.”

  “Is that what this is? I see myself in you, I know that. Your thoughts, your moods, your eyes-I see me. And I never realized that either, until tonight. Is that love, then? I fear I must rely upon your greater wisdom, my lady. It turns out I have no experience with the subject.”

  She shook her head, frustrated; his tone was sardonic but his expression was not. He was taunting her and he was serious, but she couldn’t tell which he meant more. She couldn’t tell anything any longer-that damned prince and his damned stupid story, ruining everything-and it was like a long, winded free fall, frantic, pinwheeling. Everything was changed, everything was dark. She felt trapped and afraid, and the person she wanted most in the world to comfort her only stood nearby, idly removing his garments.

  He took off his waistcoat, his shoes, and unlaced his shirt, his bare skin gleaming. In his breeches and stockings, he lifted his arms and pulled the tie from his hair. His muscles worked; the fire threw silken shadows. Without meaning to, she let out her breath.

  Zane looked at her askance-a hot, merciless look. “Shall we examine the notion further? I’ve an excellent idea how.”

  He dropped the tie to the floor and undid his breeches, one button at a time. He stepped out of the last of his clothing and turned to her fully, allowing the firelight to reveal him. He was lean and tanned and aroused, unashamed. His hair brushed halfway down his back.

  She felt panicked. She felt desperate. She could not look away.

  He lifted a hand to her, palm up, waiting. Her blood sang and the dragon in her burned, but she did not move.

  “Lia-heart,” her true love said. “Nothing either of us can say will change this night. No amount of hand-wringing will end our story any sooner or cast our fates any differently. Tomorrow we can be enemies, if you like. Tonight we can be the very best of friends.”

  Over her pounding pulse, she heard herself say, “You’re bloody practical, aren’t you?”

  “Hazard of my profession. Come here.”

  She closed her eyes, fighting this, fighting the want and the fear and her aching need for his touch.

  His voice went smoky. “Lia.”

  She felt herself begin to crumble, little pieces, small as miller moths, winging out into the unknown. She took one step toward him, and then another.

  And then she stepped into his arms.

  She was rumpled a little, perhaps from their time outside. Her hair was still falling down, strands pulling loose from their pins, and her cheeks were stained, just faintly, from the wind or the fire’s heat. He found that in these small, unkempt details she became more real to him, less a creature he knew by myths than the woman he had slept beside, and shared his body with, argued with and admired and lusted after with black hopes and a blacker heart.

  For all the tint in her cheeks, she was cool when she came to him, flowers brushed with frost; he felt the chill of her through her clothing and brought his head down to hers, to rest his cheek on the loops of her hair.

  One by one he removed the pins, feeling for them, tugging them carefully free. He enjoyed the sensation of weighted locks unwinding through his fingers, darkened gold, as the pins pattered down to the floor like tinny rainfall. She remained motionless for it, her eyes closed, until finally the last coil was undone and he put a finger under her chin to tip her face to his.

  Her lips were as chilled as the rest of her, chilled and tender soft. She kissed him back but only just, tentative. He felt hot and alive and hungry for her; with her very reticence she inflamed him. Her arms had slid up to rest around his shoulders. He put his own around her waist and turned her to the bed, breathing against her
skin, easing her backward until her legs bumped the edge.

  “My word, an actual mattress,” he murmured. “How exotically different.”

  She smiled, just as he’d hoped. He scooped her easily into his arms, clambering atop the covers on his knees. The mattress was thick and very soft; he lost his balance at the end and they landed flat together, his chest over hers, her hair a ripple of wheat and honey tossed across the linens, her brown eyes wide.

  He bent down and kissed her. He kissed her eyelashes and her brows, and the tip of her nose, and the corners of her lips. Her palms stroked up his arms to his bare back as he found the underside of her jaw and behind her ear-she began to laugh without sound, hiding her face against his shoulder.

  “It tickles,” she whispered.

  So he did it again, just to feel her laughter shaking him, then dragged his mouth harder against her, tasting her neck, more serious, and her breathing grew quicker and her hands more restless down his back.

  Her gown was combed woolen, soft, but not as soft as her skin. He held his cheek to her chest, finding her heartbeat, her breasts, and turned his mouth to her there-snowy skin and the stiff edge of her stomacher, a few layers of cloth and wire and bone all that lay between his flesh and hers.

  Zane took his time remedying that. He discovered her shape, the corset that bound her, the hidden ties that cinched her waist. He tasted Brussels lace and her, inhaled the scent of Lia-no cosmetics, no powder-and it was so delicious and drunkenly sweet he felt he could swim in her forever, here in this bed, in her arms, her head back and her closed lashes dark and smudged against her cheeks.

  He didn’t know if this was love. Surely whatever love was, it couldn’t be finer.

  With steady hands he loosened the ties and then the stomacher. He found a nipple, luscious and pink, and suckled until she was gasping, until her hands threaded through his hair and her figure writhed beneath his. He knew her like this, his marvelous dragon; his teeth bit her gently, and she said his name, a catch in her throat. She was musk and succulence, her arms outflung. She helped him shuck off her gown.

  He didn’t wait. He drew his tongue between her breasts and down, over the curve of her belly-lush, soft, delightfully rounded, and he bit her there too-to her thighs, to the warm amber curls between her legs, his own hair trailing dark along her white skin.

  She did not protest. He’d expected her to; she was young, and she was new to this game, and he knew for a fact she’d never been with anyone else. But she only stilled beneath him, her body tense, the muscles of her legs and stomach flexed and smooth and feminine, so lovely he had to taste her again.

  He found her place. She kept her taut serenity; he heard her breathing, softly agitated, and his own, and his heart, and the muttering fire. He dug his fingers into her buttocks and nuzzled her and kissed her and thought, This is love, because his body was a firestorm set to kindle, and still he pleasured her until her gasps became the shape of his name.

  He adored that. He adored her willing body and her wanton mind and the broken, breathless sound of his name rising from her lips.

  “I’m here,” he said, lifting up to his elbows, plunging into her.

  “Don’t stop,” she said, her fingers in his hair, tugging. “Please, Zane.”

  “I won’t.”

  She stretched beneath him as he filled her, she turned her head. He murmured words in her ear that meant yes, and that, and oh, God, that again. When she turned back to him he tasted salt on her cheek. It checked him, enough so that he framed her face with his hands and slowed. She bit her lip and closed her eyes, her lashes squeezed to a straight line, beaded with tears.

  “What is it?” He was caught between her pain and his own release, trying to focus. “Am I hurting you?”

  “Yes.” And when he stilled, instantly appalled: “No-don’t. I don’t want this to end.” Her body arched. He went deeper as her legs opened, and when she spoke again her voice was broken, more hushed than a whisper. “I love you so much.”

  She pressed her face to his neck.

  He hovered above her, dazed and delirious. Too late-she’d spoken and he’d already stolen her words, lifting her face and holding his lips to hers so she could not amend them or take them back. They belonged to him now.

  She loved him.

  He moved once more, his hair drifting over his shoulders to brush against her cheeks, her lips parting. Her lashes lifted, and she gazed up at him.

  Something inside his chest unlocked-wildly, slowly, a peculiar sort of melting. He was lost. He was the thorn and the thistle, blown upon her breeze. He felt, strangely enough, staring into her eyes, like he was going to weep.

  Zane had told her the truth before. He didn’t truly know what love was; from the corners of his soul, he could barely guess. He’d loved Rue with a boy’s infatuation, and as a man he’d loved the thrill of his life and power and hard-won luxury. He’d loved his home, and peaches and scones, the heavy hush of London fog and outwitting the law and his rivals. He’d loved concepts and he’d loved things. But her, so brave and rapt beneath him…

  But this…

  He was naught but her will. Zane gave her his body and his seed and everything else of value to him: things he had no names for, reflections of himself he’d kept quiet and hidden, fear and hope and unfurling desire. He gave her all he could, including her climax-shuddering and gorgeous around him, a delicious throbbing that sent him splintering beyond stark bliss-and when it was over, when he held her lax and drowsing in his embrace, he mouthed the words to her that she could not see, and that she could not hear. It was all he dared tonight, strangers in a castle, strangers to this land, their future a great black question mark and an ending he could not foresee. He bent his lips to her ear and said without breath:

  Lia-heart. Little dragon. I love you too.

  And with her cradled at his side, Zane stared up into the darkness. He knew what had to come next.

  She awoke alone. Again. Only this time she was in a bed that swallowed her in feathers and ticking, and she was actually warm and quite comfortable. The morning light was crisp and sharp, a blinding flare through the beveled panes that sliced into the room, picking out colors and shadows and the tapestry cushions on the chairs, the hues of the cloisonné pitcher atop the nightstand: enamel blue and glass green and pearl, flower petals shaped from wires of gold.

  Zane.

  She closed her eyes and searched for him, her arms spreading to either side beneath the empty sheets. She smelled sunlight and sweet biscuits, and hot chocolate. She sensed diamonds and dogs and Others, and-

  Lia opened her eyes and sat up. She wasn’t alone after all.

  “He’s gone,” announced Maricara, seated in a corner by an oak coffer. The chocolate scent was coming from the service set beside her, a silver pot, napkins, two saucers and cups. The biscuits were iced pale pink. “Imre took him to the mine hours past. You truly do sleep deep.”

  “Imre…?”

  “I told you he was toying with you. He knows your husband can touch Draumr without consequences. And he knows exactly which tunnel leads down to it. I showed him last year.”

  Lia stared at her, trying to wake. “Zane left?”

  “Your husband,” replied the girl, biting, “claimed this morning to believe in dragons and legends. He said he was sent by the English drákon to fetch the diamond, because he is the only one who will be able to return Draumr to daylight. They have an augur who foresaw it-I assumed he meant you.” The princess was dressed in orange brocade, silhouetted in light, her face smooth and grim beneath her powder. “Imre desires the stone; we all do. But he’s never gone all the way down to it. The song is too maddening, so I can’t show him where it rests. He’s sent Others after it, but they always get lost. Some never come back. So over breakfast they made a pact, the two of them. The prince will deliver him to the nearest tunnel to where the diamond lies, and the Earl of Lalonde will find it and bring it up.”

  “Why-” Lia’s voice, tr
emulous and too high, cracked. She cleared her throat. “Why would he do that?”

  “The earl said that in exchange for Imre’s help, he would sell the diamond straight back to him-for hardly more than what your own people would pay. I did wonder what the English had decided it was worth, but I was listening behind the walls at the time. They moved off, and I was not in a position to ask.”

  Lia flipped back the sheets. “You’ve got to show me where they went.”

  “It’s probably too late,” said Mari. “If the earl has found the diamond by now, Imre will have already killed him.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  The girl’s eyes narrowed; she sent Amalia a speculative look. “You’ll be a widow then.”

  Nude, uncaring, Lia ran forward and towed Mari out of her chair. “Take me to them right now!”

  A frown creased the girl’s forehead. She turned her face away. “I’m sorry. I’ve been forbidden.”

  Lia gritted her teeth. “What?”

  “Do you think I’m here because I love the prince?” Maricara tore free, her voice throbbing. “Do you think I enjoy his company? He holds my family in his fist. He is the master of this land, Giftless or not, and he has an army of Others behind him. Most in my village can’t transform at all, not to dragon or smoke. He paid money for me and my parents profited, but the real reason I stay is because I have a younger brother. I still have a father and a mother. And Imre controls all of us. He told me I couldn’t show you the copper mine. The last time I disobeyed him directly he had my mother flogged. I won’t do it again.”

  She stood in a beam of light that slashed ocher across her gown, breathing hard. The powder was already fading from her hair. Despite her paint, she looked her age then, small and thin, her lips trembling. She wore a necklace of ornately worked gold that seemed too heavy for her chest.