Thief of Light

by Denise Rossetti

  “I wouldn’t hurt you, I swear. You’d love it.” But he made a production out of glancing around the chamber, letting his gaze lift to the ropes curled around the latticed canopy of the bed, and then linger on the strange, erotic devices lying quietly on the wooden shelves.

  When he heard Prue’s sudden intake of breath, he turned. “I think you know what I’d want. It happened the moment I saw you.” Lifting one of her hands, he raised it to his lips, licked the palm. “Give your pleasure over to me, Prue, body and soul. Let me control it, control you.” He nipped the ball of her thumb.

  Prue went still. When her pink tongue crept out to moisten her lips, his cock throbbed, hard and heavy.

  He kept his voice low, seductive. “I’ve seen you tremble at the thought, love. Deep down, there’s a part of you that yearns to give the reins to someone else—to me.” Her wrist turned in his grasp, fingers curling over his jaw. She didn’t even know she’d done it. “You fear the freedom as much as you crave it, don’t you?”

  Her wide-eyed gaze skittered away from his. She gave the faintest shake of the head, her hair falling forward in a curtain so he couldn’t see her face. Gently, Erik reached out and brushed it aside. “Because it means surrender, absolute trust.”

  “I-I can’t,” she whispered.

  “I know, but you see, I could make you—with the Voice.” His heart aching, Erik sat on the bed and gathered her into his arms. When she sighed and nestled, he began to rock them both back and forth, in an instinctive rhythm. Prue ran her hand over his shoulder, rubbed the swell of his biceps, again and again.

  Eventually, she spoke into his chest. “Assuming you’re not completely insane, what . . . what would you do?”

  “Worship, adore—take complete control. Strip your soul as bare as your gorgeous little body. You’d come only at my command, be bound if I wish, as I wish. I want to hear you sob with pleasure, beg me for release.” He stopped, his breath coming short. “Nothing to do, nothing to think, nothing to worry about—except obedience.”

  Erik’s heartbeat reverberated under Prue’s ear, heavy and a little fast. Her mind was a mishmash of competing desires and terrors, and she couldn’t seem to think straight. She’d never met a man so compelling, that was true. And he could sing the birds from the trees, that was true also, but this . . . this delusion! It went beyond confusing to crazy. She should be concerned, she knew, but she felt so safe, curled up in his arms.

  She raised her head a little. “Obedience?” Her snort of disbelief stirred the hairs on his chest. “Gods, typical male thinking! What is this supposed to prove?”

  Erik’s chuckle had a strange sound, deep, but hollow. “What greater proof of the Voice could there be? I command a stubborn, independent woman to give herself into my control, to deliver everything she is to a man she doesn’t truly trust. And you, Prue McGuire—you obey.”

  He grasped her chin in his hand and stared deep into her eyes, his own sheened a brilliant blue. “I’m damned, love. By my own bloody weakness. You’re the trap the gods laid for me, the ambush I walked straight into. I tried so hard not to—” He swallowed. “This isn’t the first time I’ve slipped, used the Voice on you. Remember when I nearly—up against the wall? It just about killed me to stop. I’m so sorry I hurt you like that.

  “If I was even half a man, I’d walk out of here right now.” His lip curled. “But it’s too late, the damage is done.”

  Setting her a little way away from him, he skimmed his fingers over her shoulders, curving under the swell of her breast, drifting over a furled nipple. His gaze followed his touch, a perceptible brush against her skin. “Gods, I want you more than my next breath.”

  When he traced figures of eight from Prue’s sternum to her navel and back, nerves deep in her pelvis fluttered with delighted apprehension. Her sex tingled and glowed, softening. Against her thigh, his cock stirred like a warm, sleepy animal.

  “I can’t make it right, what I’ve done,” he said, the velvet voice strained and curt. “So instead I’m going to make it worse. And I can hardly wait. Ah, fuck it!” He turned his head away, but he’d forgotten about the mirrored wall.

  The expression that crossed his face was so utterly desolate, it was beyond the benison of tears. She didn’t think she’d ever seen such a purity of anguish. Prue found herself patting his shoulder, murmuring nonsense, the way she’d done when Katrin was little.

  “Erik,” she said at last. “You realize this is too bizarre to be credible? I don’t—I can’t—believe you.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You will.”

  Surreptitiously, Prue inhaled the scent of his skin. It made her blood sing, a bittersweet melody. Connection between two hearts, even between two bodies, was such a transient thing, so fragile and precious. “Look, we’ve got tonight.” I’ve got tonight. “Just hold me.”

  She took a cautious nibble of his neck. When he jerked and his grip tightened, she licked a leisurely trail over the pulse pounding in his throat. “Make love to me.”

  “Can I tie your hands?” His mouth curved in a tender smile, but his eyes blazed.

  Immediately, her sex tightened, a hot arrow of sensation streaking through her lower belly. Helpless. “N-no,” she whispered.

  Because when he’d held her down on the shabby couch in his dressing room, his long fingers wrapped around her wrists, the real Prue, the sensible Prue, the woman she knew, had disappeared—leaving her to drift, an empty, yearning vessel with only his hands, his voice, his body, to fill and anchor her in a world of overwhelming sensation.

  She should forget how satisfying it had been, on some level so visceral, so deeply buried, she still couldn’t quite grasp its true significance, or even understand where it had come from.

  “There are clasps over there,” said a soft, dark voice in her ear. Lightly, Erik tugged her nipple, startling a gasp out of her. “Jeweled ones. I could dress up these sweet tits, make them tingle.”

  Prue bit her lip. “No, they’d look better on you,” she managed. Turning her head, she nipped his pectoral muscle, then suckled one brown disk deep and hard.

  Erik swore and bucked against her, but he laughed. “Gods, Prue, you’re perfect. I won’t mention the dildos then.” He paused, then whispered, “Some of them are bumpy, ridged. Did you know that?”

  He tasted salty, dark and fascinating. Prue licked her lips, her sex pulsing with heat and moisture, wetting her thighs. Ridged? “All I want is you,” she said.

  Their eyes met. Erik’s smile faded as his gaze searched hers. “Ah, Prue.”

  Without further speech, he slipped his hand under her hair, cradling the nape of her neck, the touch firm and comforting. Willingly, Prue lifted her face and he kissed her. His lips were soft and smooth, the kiss satiny, excruciatingly tender and never-ending. She sighed into his mouth, her whole body inclining forward into his, melting. He kept it light, almost chaste, his other hand brushing her cheek, stroking her hair, but the heat of his muscled body, the smell of his skin, was so enticing that by the end, he was leaning back among the pillows, Prue sprawled across his lap, clinging to his shoulders.

  When he freed his lips, she murmured a protest without opening her eyes.

  “Sshh,” he said. “Give me a minute. I want to remember you exactly like this.” Tucking her head under his chin, he skimmed his fingertips over her shoulders, her back, her ribs, the tender side of her breast. He stroked her cheek, traced her ear with a delicate touch, feathered her curls. All the time, he was crooning, something melodious, but nothing she recognized. It was strangely soothing.

  Prue smiled into the curve of his strong throat. “What are you doing? Memorizing me by feel?” She glanced up.

  “Yes,” he said seriously, smiling as if she were already a dear memory, part of a distant past. “We’ll never be the same again, love. Not after tonight.”

  28

  “Master,” wheezed Nasake. “Master!”

  “Bah!” The Necromancer released his spe
ctral grip and the man slid down the wall of the bedchamber, his face an interesting shade of gray green. Ignoring him, the Necromancer reached for the glass of bracing elixir he kept by his bed and took a healthy swig.

  The liquor burned down his throat, and his galloping heart settled back to a regular dull thud. By Shaitan, was he surrounded by incompetents? It was true enough, what Tolaf used to say: If you want something done properly, do it yourself. Excellent advice, and the Necromancer had followed it to the letter when he’d made his first kill. The old sodomite had lasted a satisfyingly long time.

  He pulled at his lower lip, brooding. His Magickal abilities had never been stronger, more magnificent, but the physical envelope betrayed him at every turn. Wistfully, he remembered the way he’d swooped on the Technomage Primus in her dreams, right across the vacuum of space. In his prime, he could have plucked the air witch right out of a nightmare and devoured her whole.

  Now . . . he grimaced . . . the only stimulus that helped at all was the death energy of a seelie.

  From behind, Nasake rasped something, a distorted echo of his thought.

  “What?” The Necromancer turned.

  “A seelie, Master.” The manservant shook with coughing. “I found another in the trap.”

  “Help me dress. Hurry, fool!”

  It was a mature male, so big it barely had room to turn in the tank. Strong. Still puffing from his dash down the stairs, the Necromancer surveyed it with enormous satisfaction. He didn’t spare the crumpled, white-coated heap in the corner a glance.

  An hour later, he allowed the limp form of the seelie to slip to the floor. His blood seethed with power, every nerve tingling with eager purpose. With the ease of long practice, he tallied the sum of his Dark Arts. Ah yes.

  The Necromancer strode from the lab, so pleased he even patted the Doorkeeper on its horned head, adroitly avoiding the clashing fangs.

  But his smile faded soon enough. Settled deep in his favorite armchair in the study, he unfurled a tendril of his dark power and sent it questing across the sleeping city toward the soft, clean glow that was the air witch.

  Shit! He recoiled.

  She was awake. Not only conscious, but with the singer. The Necromancer ground his teeth in frustration. No guesses as to what they were doing, not at this advanced hour. He could feel the swirl of erotic energy they generated, the passionate caring, the love. Filthy, undisciplined—

  For a moment, he panicked. The seelie’s death energy was a finite resource. More of it bled out of him with every second that passed. What should he—?

  Of course!

  The signature of the assassin’s peculiarly empty soul was so distinctive, he located her immediately. Smiling, he settled back in his chair and sent his will winging to a shabby inn on the fringe of the Melting Pot.

  Erik held her so tightly she could barely breathe. Opening one eye, Prue caught sight of their entwined bodies in the mirror, posed like an erotic painting. He was hunched right over her, wrapping her up in his arms, his cheek against her hair, eyes closed. As she watched, a single fat tear leaked from the corner of his eye, rolled over his cheek and lost itself in her hair.

  A foul gust of chilly air swirled around the bedchamber, like a sly questing presence. It brought with it the faintest reek of rotting garbage. Erik shivered and the odor disappeared as if it had never been.

  Her heart contracting, Prue burrowed even closer. He felt so broad and warm, so strong and unyielding, but where they were sealed together, his pain seeped into her skin, her bones. Gods, she couldn’t stand it! “Sshh,” she found herself saying, pressing closer still, patting and soothing. “It’s all right, love. I’m here.”

  How could she have forgotten the way a loved one’s suffering peeled off the emotional layers? It burned away the selfish and the petty, so that everything took on a merciless clarity.

  She pressed her lips to Erik’s collarbone, breathing in the scent of his skin, the fresh, green smell of hair wash underlain with a dark male spice, full of virility. It spoke to the primeval female within her, promising both passion and protection—safety forever—though her rational mind knew full well he was the greatest threat she’d ever faced.

  Did he truly love her, or had he lied? Her breath hitched. Perhaps he had delusions about that as well. The truth of it mattered, of course it did. Her entire future turned on his honesty. But nothing—nothing—was going to change the fact that she loved him with a totality that encompassed every fiber of her being, in all ways possible. His brush with death had skimmed off the layers of self-deception. All the foundations had been knocked away from beneath her, leaving her floundering.

  Erik sighed into her hair, his breath warm against her scalp. Stroking his open palm the length of her spine, he shaped the curve of her bottom and pressed her closer still.

  Oh, that felt good. Prue tried to relax, her entire body strung so tight her nerves thrummed, her thoughts running on.

  Loving Erik had become part of the very weft and warp of her soul, one of the ways she defined herself. A business owner, a bookkeeper, Katrin’s mother, Rose’s friend, she lived all those roles, but now there was another to add—the woman who loved Erik Thorensen.

  Hopelessly, deeply. Forever.

  Prue shivered violently.

  “Are you cold?” murmured a deep voice.

  Lost for words, she shook her head, sliding her hand down over his chest until she could feel the tiny bump of his nipple against her palm. The pulse of his life beat there, cupped in her hand, strong, vulnerable and infinitely precious.

  She loved him.

  Whether he saved the city or Caracole sank to the bottom of the sea, she loved him.

  Sooner or later, he’d be gone among the stars, off on a Technomage starship, the gossamer-thin slingshot sails spread to catch the winds of space. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d gazed up into the night sky, wondering. She’d been no more than ten when she’d first seen a starship take off, rising on a plume of flame into the heavens, a spear hurled at the heavens by a warrior god. Traveling with Mam and Da to the city. Such an adventure for a little girl. Her lips curved in a sad smile.

  Erik would sing his way from world to world, that superlative voice enthralling his audiences, other women flocking to his bed—and still, she’d love him.

  He believed he had some gods-given power over others. The memory of a seelie’s anxious, blue-furred face popped into her mind. Hoot! Burble! He’d been right after all—myth had turned out to be real. Perhaps . . .

  No, Erik was just a particularly strong-willed man, dominating and persuasive. Her heart sped up as she remembered him pounding into her, no mercy, sending them both soaring to a shattering climax. Oh yes, she could acknowledge the power of his will. But to compel with his voice? A fantasy. Such things weren’t possible, but so what? She loved him, she’d deal with it.

  I’m damned, he’d said and his voice had been thick with self-hatred.

  How could he think like that? How dare he?

  Godsdammit, he’d done nothing so very dreadful, or even dis honorable. He’d seduced a full-grown woman who—she had to admit it—had been more than willing almost from the very beginning. It wasn’t as though she was a foolish virgin. She knew what he was, she’d always known. In every other way, he’d acted with honor. Comparing him with Chavis was an insult, and she was a fool to have done it. For the Sister’s sake, she thought ruefully, the more she learned of him, the deeper she fell.

  And it seemed he was more perceptive than she. You fear it as much as you crave it.

  Her stomach pitched—with terror and excitement and longing.

  The final step. She’d be his irrevocably. Because she couldn’t conceive of such complete surrender unless she threw her heart and soul into the mix.

  If she reached out and took what he offered, willingly, joyfully, he’d see how he’ d deceived himself.

  Prue nearly laughed out loud—but she wasn’t able to catch her breath.
<
br />   Because it was funny. Who was she fooling? You’re no sacrifice, Prue McGuire, she told herself. You’re going to do this for yourself as much as for him.

  Merciful Sister, why not? How he’d done it she had no idea, but Erik had brought forth another Prue—a woman so alive with passion, with life and love—that she hardly recognized her. Gods, had she always been so dull?

  Turning her head, she took a tiny nip out of his firm shoulder, then soothed the spot with her tongue. His arms tightened around her, and his cock kicked against her thigh. She drew a shaky breath, heat and moisture plumping the lips of her sex.

  He wouldn’t hurt her—unless she asked him to. Gods! Her vision hazed for a moment.

  Her heart beating right up into her throat, she trailed her fingers across his chest, stroking the light mat of hair between his nipples. She followed the intriguing line of it down over his sternum, his muscled stomach.

  Erik hissed and his cock swelled, stretching toward her touch. The foreskin pulled back to form a soft collar, revealing the rosy dome of the head with its slit already weeping for her. “Don’t stop there.” He picked up her hand and jammed her palm against his length.

  Automatically, Prue flexed her fingers, and he grunted, his hips punching up into her grip. His life throbbed in her grasp, urgent, hard and hot, velvet over steel. Gently, she squeezed, and the satiny skin moved under her fingers, sliding over the engorged core. Erik shuddered, his breath stirring her hair, but he didn’t speak.

  She should tell him. Prue glanced at his face and froze. His eyes burned into hers, his cheeks flushed and sweat standing on his brow. “Harder,” he rumbled. “I won’t break.”

  Fascinated, she traced a throbbing vein with her thumb. “Prue . . .” he growled, and she smiled and tightened her grip. Up and down, up and down. Erik purred and arched.

  What was the etiquette? What did one say? Take me any way you want. I changed my mind. I’m yours. She had no idea how to begin the conversation.