The Doorkeeper appeared to shudder. “Him,” it said with finality.
Erik advanced a cautious half pace. “What’s behind the door?”
The demon leered, waggling its tongue. “Girl flesh. Thoft . . . Mmm . . .”
The stench intensified, catching in Erik’s throat. Struggling not to gag, he said, “What . . . what does she look like?”
“The newest? Thoft, plump. Thweet tits.” The long tongue curled around one fang. “Oh, yeth . . .”
Erik advanced on the demon, his fists clenched. His heart banged against his ribcage. “Does she have brown hair?”
The Doorkeeper shot him a sly glance. “Hair?” it murmured.
Quick as a striking snake, long wiry arms shot toward him, huge taloned paws open to grab.
37
Barely in time, Erik swayed back. One long claw snagged his shirt, slicing it open from shoulder to waist as neatly as a razor. A gob of green spittle hit the hand he flung up, searing his skin. Swearing, he jumped back, wiping the mess off on his sleeve. But it had already risen in a puffy, yellow blister that hurt like hell.
Shit! Warily, he eyed the Doorkeeper, seething with frustration. Disregarding the reek, he inhaled deeply, preparing himself for the Voice. But godsdammit, would it work on something without a soul?
By his estimation, the creature’s grasp didn’t extend to the other side of the chamber. His back to the wall, Erik sidled over to the curtain and peered beneath while the Doorkeeper snapped its fangs and drooled in frustration. His brows rose. Books, row after row of beautiful, leather-bound books. When he put his hand to the shelf, it moved soundlessly, sliding open a crack to reveal a luxuriously appointed study, full of dark, gleaming wood and plushy rugs in jewel tones. Thankfully, it was completely empty, but it had the hushed sense of expectancy of an often-used retreat, as if the owner were beyond the far door, about to set his hand to the latch.
“Don’t go.”
Erik turned. “Lonely?”
The creature snorted and spittle flew. “Thirsty.” Its large eyes fixed hungrily on his jugular, where the pulse pounded just beneath the skin. Its face grew crafty. “Thtay or I yell. Loud.”
Erik shrugged. “If you shout, I’ll run away, or be captured. Either way, you won’t get to feed—though I suppose your master might throw you a bone.”
The Doorkeeper growled, fangs clacking, and Erik turned away to examine the study, pretending nonchalance. Under his breath, he hummed a snatch of the “Seelie Song.”
“Theelies? Oooh, thweet, thweetest.”
Erik looked over his shoulder. “You like seelies?” He gripped the bookcase so the creature wouldn’t see his hands tremble with eagerness, with the desire to rend and tear, to crush and destroy . . .
“Yeth, yeth!” The demon extruded its tongue, right down over its chin. “Thing more theelies.”
Commanding his guts to behave, Erik closed the bookcase door and sang the “Seelie Song” half a dozen times over, threading the Voice through the tune as subtly as he could. By the end, the demon was nodding its hideous head in time. It even tried to sing along, in a thin falsetto so appalling Erik didn’t know whether to laugh or throw up.
He tried “The Milkmaid’s Jugs,” thinking the creature might like the raunchy lyrics. It did, but so much so, it bounced with prurient glee, making the door rattle and bang. Hastily, Erik switched to a solemn elegy and then to a funeral hymn. The Doorkeeper calmed.
Racking his brains, Erik the Golden gave the strangest and most important performance of his life, pulling out everything in his repertoire that was slow, sad and achingly beautiful. It wasn’t easy to maintain the flowing, legato lines without increasing the volume, but he managed it somehow.
The demon’s third eyelid had slid partly across from the inside of its eye. It gazed vacantly at him.
“The music makes you sleepy,” said Erik softly.
“Doesn’t.” Disconcertingly, the Doorkeeper blinked with both sets of eyelids at once. “Does not.”
Hating to soil the beauty of it, Erik sang the first verse of the “Lullaby for Stormy Eyes.”
The demon snorted and sniffled. Green mucus trickled from its nostrils. But its eyelids drooped and it sank back into the wood like a tired traveler in a featherbed.
Over and over, Erik sang the lullaby, knowing he’d never be able to stomach it again after this. After ten minutes, he began weaving suggestions through the words.
Storm clouds gather, love,
—Sleep deep, do not wake—
In your eyes, in your pretty eyes.
—Let me pass unharmed—
Twenty precious minutes later, he let the notes die away. The Doorkeeper’s head lay on its shoulder at an inhuman, broken-necked angle, its thick tongue protruding from its mouth. The whole door vibrated with its guttural snores.
Erik glanced at the acid green shine on the timbers. Then he shrugged off his shirt and wrapped it around one hand. With the other, he drew his blade. Treading as softly as possible, he approached the door and reached for the knob.
The demon snuffled in its sleep and he froze, his guts cramping and the pulse thundering in his ears. A fraction at a time, he turned the handle, until he could ease the door open and poke his head through. Another passage, brick paved like the first, leading away around a gentle curve. A more even, natural light, like that of a glowglobe. Quiet, save for a background hum like wires thrumming.
Grimly, Erik studied the slumbering Doorkeeper. It was very likely he’d have to return this way, and he doubted there’d be time to lull an angry demon back to sleep. Where the fabric of his shirt touched the door, it was green and sticky. As he watched in disgust, the stains turned a dirty brown. They sizzled, very slightly.
A pity his boots were back at the water stair.
Using the tip of his blade, Erik prevented the door from closing while he wedged the bundle of his shirt between the door and the wall. With a savage grin, he stepped away to pull a couple of hefty tomes from the bookcase, low down, where they might not be missed. He shoved them in behind the shirt.
There.
Barefoot and silent, he eased through the space and padded down the steps, blade at the ready.
“Morning,” said the Technomage cheerfully. “How are we?”
“How do you damn well think?” Prue rolled her head to glare. “I hurt all over and I need to pee.”
Fascinated, she watched a delicate flush stain the other woman’s cheeks.
“Oh. Yes. Of course. Well, um . . .” The Technomage steadied. “A moment.”
She moved away and a drawer opened and shut. “This is a powerful paralytic drug in the form of a spray.” She held up a red tube about six inches long where Prue could see it, her thumb resting over a depression near the top. “The slightest suspicious move and you’ll be helpless faster than you can blink. Do you understand?”
“Helpless. Fine, I’ve got it. Can we do this now? I’m going to wet myself.”
Again the blush. “Very well.” The Technomage cranked the chair until Prue sat upright once more. Then she stepped behind and placed the cold tube against Prue’s pulse. Two clicks, and whatever attached the wrist restraints to the arms of the chair released.
Almost sobbing with the rush of blood to numbed muscles, Prue lifted her arms, stretching.
“Stop that!” The pressure of the tube increased, a thread of panic in the Scientist’s voice. “Place your wrists together in front of you.” She jabbed with the tube. “Now!”
Reluctantly, Prue complied and the cuffs clicked together, held by some force much stronger than she was. By all the gods, she was going to enjoy causing this woman pain, killing her if she had to. First, to relieve her aching bladder, all obedient and cowed, then . . . Her lips peeled back from her teeth. She couldn’t take another night like the last. As for the prospect of vivisection . . . shiny, silver edges of razor-sharp metal, bright blood welling, never-ending screams. The bile rose sour in her throat, vile and choking
.
She would either die or she would win. There was no other course and no other chance.
“Stand up, slowly.”
Clumsily, Prue swung her legs to the floor and rose, swaying. Her limbs felt as if she’d borrowed them from an old crone with a terminal illness.
“Turn right and walk.”
The Technomage’s gusty breath stirred the fine hairs on her neck, the woman’s thighs brushing the back of hers in lockstep. The red tube didn’t waver.
One-handed, the Scientist opened a plain white door to reveal a cramped bathing chamber containing a low white stool, a sink and a square-tiled space with some kind of spray nozzle projecting from the wall.
“Go on.” The Technomage gave her a nudge.
Prue glanced over her shoulder. “With you here?”
The other woman colored to the roots of her hair.
Prue pressed her advantage. “Don’t you have any concept of human dignity?” It wasn’t difficult to fake the sob in her voice. She jerked her head to indicate the Spartan room. “There’s nothing in here to use as a weapon anyway,” she said forlornly.
The Technomage hesitated for an endless second. Finally, she said, “Very well. But I’ll be right on the other side of the door, ready for anything. Don’t try me.” Smiling thinly, she withdrew. The door closed softly behind her.
For a luxurious moment, Prue allowed herself to sag, her bound hands braced on the sink. Then she hastened to relieve herself. Gods, that was better. She wiggled her toes and fingers. Thank the Sister, sensation was returning to her extremities.
Concentrating fiercely, she turned a full circle. Well, shit. She’d spoken more truly than she knew when she’d said there were no weapons. No faucets, only push buttons. The spray nozzle was higher than her head, she’d never be able to reach it. Even the strange privy was a single molded piece.
Splashing her face with water as best she could, Prue quelled the incipient panic. Now was not the time. She could go to pieces later, safe in Erik’s arms, holding Katrin close. Tears welled. Ruthlessly, she scrubbed them away.
“Come on,” called the Technomage through the door. “Out with you.”
Prue raised her voice. “Nearly finished, I promise. Just a moment.”
The door opened outward. She’d noticed that.
There was nothing for it but a shoulder charge. If she could hit the other woman at knee level, smash her with the door . . . The Technomage obviously wasn’t getting much exercise, locked up down here, and she was at least twenty years older. Briskly, Prue jiggled her arms and legs. Not too bad.
Merciful Sister, she prayed to the deity she only half believed in, watch over those I love, You know who they are. Erik, my darling, live long and be happy, but please, don’t forget me. Katrin, my baby girl. She swallowed the burn of tears. Katrin, sweet, name the first little one after me. Her lips curved in a bittersweet smile. Even if it’s a boy.
Drawing in a huge breath, she crouched low and flexed her thighs like a runner.
Now!
The Necromancer yawned and blinked up at the silken canopy over his bed, conscious of a delicious sense of anticipation. He must contrive to bump into the singer today, savor his fear and frustration, taste his Magick. Such a treat, like a fine aperitif before a gourmet meal.
Not an air witch, but an air wizard. Ah, how the fates conspired to smooth his path! Lustfully, he dwelled on the man’s magnificent body. To be frank, he was beginning to think he was going to enjoy his new dwelling as much as the Magick it housed. He’d almost forgotten the pleasures of the flesh, it had been so long. Idly, he wondered about the size of the singer’s cock, while his own lay shriveled between his thighs. To have women look at him with admiration . . . Men too. He had a vague recollection of boys, their smooth, hard flesh, the boundless energy of youth, rutting . . .
As an added fillip, he had the woman, the little whore. If he extended his dark senses, he could feel her even now, a small blank spot in his universe. His tame Scientist would discover what it was she did and how she did it. If it was useful, he might keep her, but if not . . . No matter.
Perhaps he should drink her down while the singer watched. Hmm . . .
His brow wrinkled. That was odd. He checked again.
The Doorkeeper was asleep. But it never slept. He didn’t permit it.
The Necromancer sent out a mental blast. Nasake!
Erik could hear the murmur of an unfamiliar feminine voice. As he rounded the last curve, a woman said, “Come on. Out with you.”
He blinked, taking in the chamber and its contents in a single comprehensive glance. The big empty chair resembled those used by starship captains and navigators. In fact, the entire room was very like the bridge of a Technomage starship, the walls lined with a bewildering array of machinery and consoles.
Even more puzzling, the woman standing with her back to him was dressed all in white like a Technomage. As he watched, she leaned forward to put her ear to the door and another voice replied from the other side. He’d know the timbre of it anywhere, every inflection, every cadence.
Prue.
The wave of relief almost took him to the floor, and he put out a hand to brace himself against the wall, breathing hard.
A gods-almighty crash jerked his head up. Prue came charging out of the door, her head down like a little battering ram. The impact of the door slammed the Technomage back against the wall. Blood sprayed from her nose. When Prue drove into the woman’s soft midsection with a determined shoulder, the breath punched out of the Technomage with a painful whoop. The two of them fell to the floor in a tangle of thrashing arms and legs.
With a roar, Erik leaped forward. He plucked the white-coated woman off Prue as if she were a biteme, lifted her clean off her feet and wrapped a brawny forearm around her throat.
Prue looked up and her eyes widened. “Erik!”
The Technomage drummed her heels against Erik’s shins, something red clutched in one waving fist. Emitting a horrible strangled noise, she tried to brush it against his arm.
With a scream of pure fury, Prue surged up from the floor and sank her teeth into the woman’s wrist.
Erik’s eyes widened. The red tube fell to the floor with a clatter and rolled away.
“Drug,” gasped Prue and collapsed as if her legs would no longer support her.
She didn’t think she’d ever seen anything as beautiful as Erik Thorensen, dripping wet, half naked and in a towering rage. His damp hair streamed back from his face, blown by an unseen wind. The shadows under his eyes showed as clear as bruises, but energy crackled off him, the horn talisman on his chest glowing like a hot coal.
“Prue,” he said in a hoarse rasp. “Gods, Prue, are you—?” He choked.
She smiled, unable to stop the trembling of her lips. “Don’t worry. I’m”—she swallowed—“all right.”
His eyes burned into hers, darkly blue. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
Erik’s gaze dropped to Prue’s hands, still shackled in front of her. His face darkened, and he pulled the Technomage hard into his chest. Almost lovingly, he whispered in her ear, “What did you do to her, bitch? Tell me.” The words hung in the air, a soft, menacing echo. Utterly compelling.
Prue’s jaw dropped. The Voice. Oh gods, sweet Sister!
Blood suffusing her cheeks, the Technomage Primus of Sybaris answered like an obedient child. “Benchmark measurements first. Then one full battery of tests. A light sedative after to make her sleep. That’s all.”
“What was next?”
The air in the chamber began to swirl. Instruments clattered on the benches, sheets of transplas fluttered like large-winged insects. Prue shivered.
The Technomage wrapped her hands around Erik’s forearm and dug her nails in.
“And next?” he repeated, tightening his grip a fraction.
The woman’s eyes bulged. “Another two batteries of tests, to tri angulate. Then—” She choked, clamping her lips shut.
“After that? Tell me.”
Merciful Sister, the instant he heard, he’d kill her. And afterward, he’d never forgive himself. Frantically, Prue turned her head, looking for the red tube. Shit, where—? Ah, there, near the door. She scrabbled it up in both hands.
“V-vivisection,” said the Technomage at last, as hoarsely as if Erik had reached a big fist down her throat and ripped the word straight out of her shrinking soul. Well, in a sense, he had. Because this was the Voice, exactly as he’d described it to her. Gods, it was true.
All of it.
A heartbeat of awful, frozen silence.
A tygre growl rose from deep in Erik’s chest. The muscles in his forearm flexed and the Technomage’s face went purple. As he gripped her chin with his other hand, his lips pulled back in a snarl, and everything that wasn’t tied down in the room went flying up to the ceiling.
38
Prue lurched to her feet and shoved the end of the red tube against the other woman’s wrist, right over the semicircular imprint she’d made with her teeth. She gripped the tube hard and squeezed. Something hissed, and abruptly, the Technomage’s eyes rolled back in her head. She went limp in Erik’s arms.
Prue touched his shoulder. “Let her go, love.” She smiled shakily. “I have to touch you, hold—Please.”
The fury died in his eyes. “Gods, yes,” he said, in a voice like gravel. Objects wavered uncertainly in the air, but when he looked up and frowned, they descended in a decorous fashion, floating toward the floor.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Erik opened his arms and the Technomage fell to the floor with a meaty thud. Her skull bounced.
Erik stepped over her body and caught Prue up in an embrace so fierce her ribs felt bruised. Gods, it was wonderful. He was saying her name over and over, as if it were the only word he knew. She buried her face in his warm, bare shoulder and breathed him in with great gulps.
“Sweetheart.” He stroked her hair and set her back a little. “We have to get out of here. Show me your hands.”
Thief of Light Page 36
