Thief of Light Read online

  “Not that we need them.” Her friend and business partner waved a graceful hand. “But never let it be said I argued with a bookkeeper about profit.” Casting Prue a twinkling, sidelong glance, Rose flicked the playbill with one finger. “They say the Unearthly Opera Company’s really very good, and this Erik the Golden is something quite exceptional.” The twinkle became a naughty grin. “In every possible way.”

  “Rose!” She did her best to look scandalized.

  “Don’t Rose me, you wicked woman.” A slim finger tapped the dimple quivering in Prue’s cheek. “Not with a dead giveaway right here.” The orchestra struck up and the curtains swished open. “Shut up and enjoy, sweetie.”

  But Prue spent the first scene writing a tutorial on compound interest in her head. She’d rather die than admit it to her friend, but she’d come to find teaching the apprentice courtesans even more fulfilling than balancing the ledgers.

  And every extra cred went into her strongbox. For peace of mind and her daughter’s future. Despite herself, her breath caught.

  Never again.

  With some difficulty, she wrenched her mind away from the brutal slum the people of Caracole called the Melting Pot—the way her nerves had quivered at every shift in the shadows, the hilt of a small kitchen knife cold as death in her palm, her daughter’s tiny fist clutching her sleeve.

  The music was catchy. Tapping her fingers on her knee in time, Prue pulled in a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. It was over. Finished a lifetime ago. Slowly, she exhaled, stealing a glance at Rose’s perfect profile.

  By the Sister, she’d done better than merely survive! In Rosarina, she had a dear friend and a partner both. Prue smiled her satisfaction. Every courtesan at The Garden of Nocturnal Delights was the owner of an independent business with but a single product—themselves. How she loved it when it all came together for them, comprehension dawning on those beautiful, clever faces. Rose wouldn’t tolerate stupidity, no matter how gorgeous the package it came in. Still, compound interest . . . Not the easiest of topics . . .

  So when the demon king appeared in a clap of thunder and a cloud of smoke, she was completely unprepared.

  When the lights came up for intermission, she was still trembling on a deep, visceral level that dismayed her more than anything had in years. Erik Thorensen had come striding out of fire and brimstone and clasped the shrinking heroine to his chest. And yes, he was a marvelous-looking man, his hair loose on his shoulders like dark-spun gold under the stage lights, the neatly trimmed goatee a shade darker. His eyes were such a vivid blue they pierced Prue all the way to her soft, silly soul. He was big too—so big only the athleticism of his tall, muscular frame prevented him from looking blocky. Gods, exactly the physical type she preferred, right down to the mischievous glint in his eye.

  But Prue had spent almost two decades surrounded by the most beautiful people on the world of Palimpsest. She was accustomed to perfection, even to the delightful frisson of sexual dominance Erik projected so effortlessly. He was a fine actor.

  But merciful Sister, that voice!

  He’d glanced directly at their box and his face had lit up with a grin that had pure devil in it. Then he’d opened his mouth. From the first effortless bar, her foolish heart had tumbled into his keeping. Every note was round, rich, deeply masculine, filling the auditorium as if supported on smooth columns of air. Utterly enthralled, Prue had found herself leaning forward, her mouth hanging open, trying to breathe him in, keep him forever, hers alone. She felt feverish, tingling, her breasts tight and her sex swollen and slippery, as if he were stroking her naked body with velvet.

  Even worse, the costume, in an old-fashioned style still worn only by the oligarchs on Green IV, suited him to perfection. A pair of over-the-knee boots emphasized the power of thighs and buttocks encased in tight cream breeches. Prue’s mouth watered.

  The tenor hero had pretty well disappeared in comparison. During one of his uninspiring arias, she managed to tear her eyes away and glance to her left. “Gods,” gasped Rose, a flush mantling her cheeks. Her hand closed hard over Prue’s forearm, the fingers digging in. “Have you ever—?”

  “No.” Every face in the theater was rapt. “Sshh. He’s starting again.”

  The tenor had won the duel that ended the act, and the demon king lay wounded, his pain and heartbreak throbbing in a cascade of low, exquisite notes. Tears prickled behind Prue’s eyes. Godsdammit, he was good! No, not good—superb, superlative, magnificent.

  All through the thunder of the applause, the stamping of feet, the shouting, she sat frozen, putting herself back together, a piece at a time.

  She could do better than this. She wasn’t some silly girl to lose her head and heart to a handsome singer. She was Pruella Takimori McGuire, business manager of The Garden of Nocturnal Delights, a woman for whom numbers held no terror. Rose’s friend and silent partner, Katrin’s mother. That helped, the thought of Katrin, serious and steady, only nineteen, but so deeply in love with her Arkady. He was a good boy. That had her grinning ruefully, trying to relax.

  Unfortunately, the second act was even worse. Or better.

  Erik was surveying his makeup and costume dispassionately in the mirror when someone scratched on the door. “Ye there?” said a voice straight from the slums of Sybaris.

  “Of course.” Setting the powder puff aside, Erik grinned at his reflection, though it turned out more like a grimace. “Come in.”

  He’d woken half off the bed, half on, rubbed raw in some tender internal place he couldn’t touch, couldn’t soothe. He still had the sense of a dark, towering wave, gathering on the horizon, looming closer . . . His destiny or his death? Unless they were one and the same.

  Fuck premonitions. He’d made his decision, hadn’t he? Chosen the nearest thing he knew to substance, the only way to fill the emptiness and anchor him in this life. What was done, was done.

  The door opened the merest crack, and a small, skinny figure eeled into the room. Florien shot him a flat, dark glance from under a tangled fringe, and Erik suppressed a sigh. The boy had filled out some since Cenda and Gray had rescued him from the stews of his home world, but he still reminded Erik of an alley cat—wiry and half-savage, poised to claw or flee as the case demanded.

  “What is it?” he asked when the boy showed no signs of breaking the silence. In the mirror, Erik tried a suitably diabolical leer. Better.

  “Twenny minutes.”

  Erik raised a brow. “For . . . ?”

  Florien’s mouth barely moved, as if he begrudged each word. “T’ secon’ act curtain. Ranald sed t’ tell ye.” He turned away.

  Lord’s balls, how old was the lad? Ten? Possibly a little more. Did he ever smile?

  On impulse, Erik said, “How do I look?”

  The boy paused, grubby fingers gripping the latch. Erik rose and struck a pose, one hand on the hilt of his sword. He creased his face into a ferocious frown and scowled. “Evil, like a demon king?”

  For a split second, Florien froze, then he relaxed, tilting his head to one side, though the effect was more calculating than engaging. He scanned Erik from head to heels, and all the considerable territory in between. “Nah,” he said eventually. “Them britches is too tight.”

  Erik grinned, thinking of the party of pretty women gracing the best box in the theater. “Oh, I don’t know,” he murmured.

  Unobtrusively, he wrinkled his nose. How long since the lad had taken a bath?

  “C’mon,” he said, clapping a hand on Florien’s shoulder. The boy shifted uneasily, the bony joint both hard and fragile, lost in Erik’s big palm. Erik removed his hand. “Let’s go stand in the wings and I’ll show you how to case a crowd.”

  “Nah,” said Florien. “I’ll show ye.”

  As they walked down the narrow passage, the building swayed beneath their feet, almost imperceptibly. Apparently visitors became accustomed to it soon enough, while the locals didn’t even notice. Smiling a little, Erik shook his head. Caracole
of the Leaves was amazing. A subtropical city of canals and clean blue water, of shining pagodas and elegant vice.

  A population of a hundred thousand souls cradled on the gargantuan, platelike leaves of a titanplant, a marine organism built on a scale so enormous it boggled the mind of an offworlder. Each Leaf was a living island, hundreds of feet thick, anchored to the seabed by huge cable stems. Even during the fury of the summer storm season, their ponderous weight restricted movement to a gentle swell.

  Down here, in the warren of poky rooms beneath the theater, he was still aware of the salty tang of the ocean, but what he found hard to credit was the deep green smell tickling the back of his nose, vast and vegetative and somehow serene. If it weren’t for the evidence of his senses, he wouldn’t have believed it, but he’d always been extraordinarily sensitive to airborne odors.

  In the wings, Florien concealed his skinny person in a swathe of red velvet curtain, his eyes huge.

  “Right then, lad. Tell me what I should know.” Erik nodded at the chattering audience, perfectly illuminated by Technomage glowglobes in fancy sconces. His brows rose. Queen Sikara IV of the Isles clearly had an excellent relationship with the local Technomage Tower. Either that, or she was made of money.

  “T’ queen’s up high.” Florien pointed. “Got a fancy box done up wit’ velvet an’ gold tassel things.” He twisted to grin at Erik over his shoulder. “An’ did ya see t’ doxies? Over there. Right pretty, yah?”

  Erik sighed. A childhood in the festering slums of Sybaris was its own education. In any case, he’d noticed them immediately. How could he not? “Wonder where they’re from,” he murmured, thinking aloud.

  “Place called T’ Garden, Ranald sed.”

  Erik indulged himself in a long, luxurious survey. “Not doxies,” he said finally. “Though I grant you they’re gorgeous. Those are courtesans, my boy, the best-quality companions money can buy—entertainers, musicians, more than just a willing body to—” He stopped and cleared his throat.

  They were so beguiling, seated there, displayed for a man’s inspection like flowers ready for the plucking. Dark and fair, tall and dainty, male and female. Turned up high for intermission, the lights gleamed on thick tresses streaming over creamy shoulders, silver cuffs on strong masculine wrists, perfect complexions of every hue, straight noses and mouths made for kissing deep.

  Courtesans. Gods, the tall one in the rich burgundy gown would be a perfect match for him. The way she threw her head back when she laughed, that glorious bosom. A creature of the senses, a woman who loved her bedsport, he could tell from here.

  The Garden obviously catered for every taste. Beside the dark beauty sat a small, curvy woman, not spectacular, but pretty enough. She reminded him of one of his mother’s hens, all smooth brown feathers and soft breast and propriety. She had a sweet, lush mouth and tip-tilted eyes, though he couldn’t make out their color from this distance. Erik’s lips twitched. A woman who looked that proper simply begged to be debauched.

  The murmur of feminine voices and the clatter of heels announced the arrival of the dancers behind him. A heavy combination of stage makeup and sweat drifted past his long-suffering nose.

  The gods knew, never before had he contemplated paying for sex. It hadn’t been necessary. Besides, the idea hadn’t appealed, too sleazy, too . . . soiled. Money was its own means of compulsion, almost as repugnant as the commands he refused to utter with the Voice. Hell, you couldn’t buy the connection he craved.

  But these women were all class and elegance, and suddenly, a straightforward transaction didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Independent courtesans of this quality made their choices with eyes wide open. No complications, no aftermath, and he could do what he liked, the way he liked it.

  There’d be no trust, but there’d be no compulsion either. A purchase was a purchase. He might feel a little uncomfortable, a little dirty, but he could live with that. The stain on his soul wouldn’t be permanent.

  And he could let go.

  The need to control the physical act was woven deep into the fabric of his soul. Who knew whether it had come before the gods’ gift or as a consequence of it? Either way, the fucking irony hit him between the eyes.

  Because he’d be paying good creds for an illusion. There was no way he could open his mouth and command with the Voice, the way his dark desire for possession urged him to do, the words emerging from somewhere deep and dominant, the most primitive part of what made him male.

  But if he wished to orchestrate a woman’s pleasure until she writhed, sobbing and pleading for release, a Garden courtesan would oblige him with sublime artistry—enough that he might even believe her.

  Gods! Erik’s mouth went dry and his pulse began to surge in his ears like a mighty wind battering at a wall. He reached down to tug at his breeches, now tighter than ever. Five minutes to curtain.

  Cursing under his breath, he laid a palm over the center of his chest, feeling the small, hard bump beneath his shirt—a stark reminder of what a man could and couldn’t do and still meet his own eyes in the mirror each morning. He’d worn it every day since the year he’d turned seventeen, a part of his ironclad personal code, first on a thin, plaited strip of leather, then a silver chain, now a gold one.

  Because he’d made a rule to preserve his sanity—Erik’s first rule—Erik’s only rule.

  Don’t use the Voice to speak.

  Singing? Well, that was a different matter. But speech? Gods, no! It was the only way to be safe.

  He could count the exceptions on the fingers of one hand. There’d been the time a ham-handed acrobat had dropped a flaming torch in the timber theater on Green IV. The place was so ancient, only the varnish held it together. If he hadn’t used the Voice to quell the mass panic, the gods only knew how many would have died in the rush for the exits.

  Lightly, he squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Will you run a message for me?”

  “Yah.” Florien listened, then repeated it word perfect in his thick slum accent. He squirmed through the pack of dancers, avoiding their casual, affectionate pats with a toss of the head.

  Gods, the discipline had been so hard at first! Anger, lust, fear—any strong emotion and the Voice surged out of him in a rushing tide he couldn’t hold back. Impulse and instinct became Erik’s sworn enemies.

  In his mid-twenties, not long after he’d joined the Unearthly Opera, he’d come across a shabby man teetering on a windowsill on the top floor of the highest tower on Concordia. The instinctive command had burst out of him. “No! Don’t jump.” He’d walked closer. “I forbid it.”

  As the Voice echoed around the room, the man withdrew his legs without comment and swung around. In complete silence, he’d shuffled past Erik and out the door, leaving the sour stink of his terror sweat behind. His eyes had been horrible, somehow empty, but also brimful of an agony too great to be borne.

  Erik had stumbled to the window, struggling to hold on to his lunch. Because he knew, with absolute certainty, the man would be driven to find another way, slower and crueler than the shattering impact and quick obliteration he’d planned. Why the fuck had he meddled?

  Well, hell, he had to give the Lord and the Lady Their due. As the years passed, the Voice brought with it a crash course in stubborn. He’d learned what honor was—the hard way. So he clung to whatever remnants of decency he could, even when his deepest desires flayed him with specious arguments. Just this once. It won’t hurt. Say it, say it. It drove him fucking mad.

  He’d gone for years now without a lapse, but Lord’s balls, one of these days, the strain of it would kill him, just wear him out.

  Depression darkened his mood, the fit of his breeches no longer a problem. It didn’t matter how he twisted and fought, the gods had him tight by the balls. You are finely caught, are you not? Whatever his mysterious task might be, the sooner it came the better. Damn Them and their cryptic utterances!

  The orchestra struck up and the dancers swept past him in a tight phalanx. The
tenor came on from stage left, seized the soprano and embraced her with clumsy enthusiasm. Erik filled his lungs. The demon king was on.

  He spent the rest of the opera angling his Voice toward that box, subtly, carefully, but nonetheless . . . What was the harm? He was only singing after all, just taking the air and molding it into notes, one after the other, bar after bar.

  But he couldn’t shake the tingling sense of the little courtesan’s tip-tilted eyes dwelling on his body.

  3

  After the grand finale, he lost count of the curtain calls. The Unearthly Opera Company bowed again and again, hands linked, beaming. Erik stepped forward, gazing out into the darkened auditorium, savoring the expectant hush, the faces turned up to his like night-blooming flowers. This—this—was what kept him sane.

  The blessing of the music. The audience. Connection . . .

  After what he’d done—

  Don’t go there, not now. With the ease of long practice, he jerked himself out of the murky waters of memory.

  After he’d . . . left home, it had taken him quite some time to realize it was when he sang that the Voice was truly the blessing the Lady had named it. An instrument of joy. Nothing more, nothing less. A few hours respite from the daily grind, smiles for tired faces. Sometimes, he thought it was like flying, feeling all those souls shake loose and soar free beside his. Together, they ranged the gamut of human emotion—from despair to triumph, hate to love.

  Deliberately, Erik emptied his mind of all the distractions, settling himself for his favorite encore. Great Lady, he thought, as the first notes of the lullaby floated free, this is the most beautiful thing I can make for You. Take it as yet another down payment on my bloody penance.

  He didn’t even realize he’d made a choice until he was on the final verse and the woman seated beside the dark beauty used her fingers to wipe the tears from her cheeks like a child. Next to such perfection, she was decidedly plain, but she kept drawing his gaze. Why that should be, he had no idea, but something about her hooked him at a deep, primeval level. Perhaps it was because she was so small, so feminine, sitting with her spine ramrod straight in the indomitable way of bossy women the worlds wide. Her very posture constituted a challenge to his masculinity, his charm. She seemed so perfectly contained, the temptation to unravel her was irresistible.