Divine Misdemeanors (32 page)

“I’ve never asked before. How did you happen to have no master or mistress when Kurag offered you to me?”

“The husband of my last mistress had grown jealous of me, and since that was a sign of weakness, my mistress had to either get rid of me, or challenge her husband to a duel.”

I looked at him. “That is a bit of goblin culture that I didn’t know.”

“Weakness is not tolerated among us.”

“You’re as sidhe as you are goblin, maybe more,” I said.

He gave a little smile that I couldn’t decipher. “Maybe, but for now, please let me go down on you?”

“And when you’ve made me scream your name, what then?”

“Then I would very much like to fuck you.” He said it all formally, but the wording was goblin. Goblins didn’t make love, they fucked. In truth, they made love, some of them, but when asking in public, they fucked.

“No one can hear us, Kitto.”

“I want to go down on you, and then I want to fuck.”

I sighed again, and nodded. “Yes,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

I smiled at the slow spread of happiness on his face. “Yes.”

“Do we want to make them wait dinner on you?”

“Why do you ask?” Because I knew he’d have a reason.

“Because if I bring you more than twice by mouth, and then fuck you as long as I want to, they’ll have to wait dinner.”

I knew it was not an idle boast. “I guess it will have to be a quickie,” I said.

He glanced at the bedside clock. “An hour, that will be a quickie.”

There was more than one reason that I loved having Kitto in my life.

KITTO REMINDED ME THAT HIS TONGUE WAS NOT ATTACHED TO THE
same muscles that the rest of my lovers had in their mouth and throat. He reminded me that his tongue was longer and thinner, had a partially prehensile tip, and was forked. It meant that he could do things with his tongue that just weren’t possible with someone who was more humanly equipped.

He licked, and touched, and sucked until I screamed his name to the ceiling, and then he pressed his mouth to me again and used his tongue in a series of fast flicking movements that only seemed to work after I’d been brought at least once before, but boy did it work that second time. I drove fingernails into his hair, feeling the silky curls under my fingers, and driving my nails just a little into his scalp. The small pain of it seemed to urge him on to new heights, and encouraging him earned me a third orgasm.

My eyes fluttered back into my head so that I was blind, my hands fallen away from him limp at my side as my body rode the aftershocks of his talented mouth. I felt the bed move, felt his body spreading my thighs wider. I tried to open my eyes to watch him enter me, but I still couldn’t make my body work enough to do it. He’d outdone himself tonight.

But the sensation of him entering me while I was that wet, that
eager, that swollen with pleasure made me writhe underneath him. I couldn’t help but move as he pushed himself inside me. He knew he wasn’t as big as some of the men in my bed, but his prep work made up for it, and he wasn’t small by any means. He pushed all that thick, aching hardness into me one slow inch at a time, until I was making small eager noises before he buried himself inside me as far as his body and mine would allow. Then he began to pull himself out of me, just as slowly, just as controlled.

My body didn’t want controlled, or slow. I began to dance my hips underneath him so that I was taking in his length and pulling away from him, so that all his carefulness was undone by my eagerness.

He made a sound low in his throat, almost a cry, and then he gave up on slow and careful. He started moving to the rhythm I had set, and we began to dance together, his body into mine, my body over and around his, until we did dance on the bed in that most intimate of dances.

He was short enough that he could lie down on me and we could still look into each other’s eyes. I wasn’t trapped under him; we could both still move, and writhe for each other. I felt that sweet heavy pleasure begin to build between my legs, and my fingers found his back. My breathing sped and I had to fight to keep the dancing rhythm of my hips meeting his body. Between one stroke, one rise and another, the sweet heaviness spilled up and over, and I shrieked my pleasure, my neck bowed, my nails set into his back as I painted my orgasm on his skin, and my hips bucked underneath him, and I felt somewhere in all that pleasure his body lose its own rhythm. He fought to keep it, trying for another orgasm, but I squeezed him tightly inside me, and that was his undoing. His body shoved into mine in one last deep thrust that brought me screaming, nails digging into his body as if he were the last solid thing in the world, and everything else had washed away on the pulsing of our bodies, the ecstasy of him inside me, and me wrapped around him.

He collapsed on top of me, his head cradled in the bend of my shoulder. I lay on my back, his heartbeat pounding against my chest
as he fought to catch his breath. I had to swallow twice past my own pulse before I could whisper, “They’ll have to wait dinner a little while.”

He nodded, wordlessly, and then took a deep, shuddering breath and said, “Totally worth it.”

I could only nod wordlessly as I stopped fighting for enough air to talk and relearn how to breathe all at the same time.

I WAS DRESSED FOR DINNER, WHICH HAD BECOME A SEMI-FORMAL
occasion, which meant I was a little overdressed for the police forensics lab, magical division. Jeremy had phoned before we could actually eat because he’d been called by one of the police wizards to come and give an opinion on Gilda’s confiscated wand. The one that had made a policeman fall down and not wake up for hours.

Jeremy wanted some of us to look at it, because he thought it was sidhe workmanship. He’d offered for me to stay home and eat because he really needed some of the older sidhe guards, Rhys had gone early to commune with his new sithen, and Galen was, like me, too young to know much about our older enchanted sidhe items. But the three of us were the only ones with private-detective licenses. The others could only come as bodyguards. The reporters going through the window had been on all the news and YouTube, so the police believed that I wouldn’t go out without a shitload of guards. So I was “protected” and Jeremy got the sidhe he wanted to look at the wand. The only downside was I had to eat something quickly in the car, and the yellow high heels dyed to match the yellow, belted dress, complete with crinoline to make the skirt sit right, were the wrong shoes for standing on the concrete floors.

The wand was in a Plexiglas rectangle. There were symbols literally pressed into the case. It was a portable anti-magic field so that if something was found the police could put it inside the case and negate it until forensics could figure out a more permanent solution.

We all stood around staring down at the wand, and by all I meant the two police wizards, Wilson and Carmichael, plus Jeremy, Frost, Doyle, Barinthus (who had shown up just as we were leaving), Sholto, Rhys, and me. Rhys had cut his sithen exploration short to solve crime.

The wand was still two feet long but now it was only two feet of pale white and honey-colored wood, clean and free of all the sparkle that Gilda was so fond of, and that I remembered clearly. “It doesn’t look like the same wand,” I said.

“You mean the star tip and the flashy outer covering?” Carmichael asked. She shook her head, sending her brown ponytail bobbing over her lab coat. “Some of the stones had metaphysical properties that helped amp up the magic, but it was all just to make it pretty and to hide this.”

I stared at the long, smoothly polished wood. “Why hide it?”

“Don’t look at it with just your eyes, Merry,” Barinthus said. He towered over all of us in his long cream trench coat. He was actually wearing a suit under the coat, though he’d left the tie off. It was the most clothes I’d seen him in since he got to California. He’d put his hair back in a ponytail, but even contained, the hair still moved a little too much for ordinary hair, as if even standing here in this very modern building with all the latest, greatest scientific equipment around us there was still some invisible current of water playing with his hair. He wasn’t doing it on purpose; it was just his hair this close to the ocean, apparently.

I didn’t like that—it sounded like an order—but I did it, because he was right. Most humans have to work at seeing magic, doing magic. I was part human, but in one way I was all fey. I had to shield every day, every minute, to not see magic. I had shielded heavily when I entered this area of the forensics labs because it was the room
where they kept the really powerful magical items that they didn’t know what to do with, or were in the process of de-magicking, or figuring out a way to destroy that wouldn’t blow up other things. Some magic items once made are difficult to destroy safely.

I had upped my shields because I didn’t want to have to wade through all the magic in the room. The anti-magic boxes kept the things from working, but didn’t keep the wizards from being able to study them. It was a very nice bit of magical engineering. I took a deep breath, let it out, and dropped my shields just a little bit.

I tried to concentrate on just the wand, but of course there were other things in the room, and not all of them reacted to just vision. Something in the room called out, “Free me of this prison and I will grant you a wish.” Something else smelled like chocolate, no, hard cherry candy, no, it was like the scent of everything sweet and good, and with the scent there was a desire to find it and pick it up so I could have all that goodness.

I shook my head and concentrated on the wand. The pale wood was covered in magical symbols. They crawled over the wood, glowing yellow and white, and here and there a spark of orange/red flame, but it wasn’t fire exactly, it was as if the magic were sparking. I’d never seen that before.

“It’s almost like the magic has a short in it,” I said.

“That’s what I said,” Carmichael said.

Wilson said, “I thought it might be extra power like little pieces of magical battery meant to up the spell.” He was tall, taller than all the men except for Barinthus, with short pale hair that was going from gray to white. Wilson was barely thirty. His hair had gone gray after he’d detonated a major holy relic meant to bring about the end of the world. Anything meant to bring about the end of the world that might actually do it was always destroyed. The problem was that destroying something that powerful wasn’t always the safest occupation. Wilson was on the magical equivalent of the bomb squad. He was one of a handful of human wizards across the country certified for high-holy-relic disposal. Some of the other magic bomb techs thought Wilson
had literally had a decade of his life span blown away with his old hair color.

He pushed his wire-framed glasses more firmly up his nose. He still looked like a really tall bookish computer nerd, and he was except that he was a bookish magic nerd, and according to the other magic techs either the bravest of them or one crazy motherfucker. I was quoting. The fact that only Wilson and Carmichael were still working on it and that it was in this room meant that the wand had done something unpleasant.

“Did the policeman who Gilda hit with this wand die or something?” I asked.

“No,” Carmichael said.

“No. What have you heard?” Wilson asked.

She frowned at him.

“What?” he asked.

I said, “This room is only for things that scare the police. Major relics, things designed to do bad things that you haven’t figured out how to de-magick or destroy yet. What did Gilda’s wand do to earn a place here?”

The two wizards looked at each other.

“Whatever you hold back,” Jeremy said, “may be the key to deciphering this wand’s power.”

“Tell us what you see first,” Wilson said.

“I’ve told you what I think,” Jeremy said.

“You said this might be sidhe workmanship. I want to know what some sidhe think of it.” Wilson looked from one to another of us; his face was very serious now. He was studying us the way he’d study anything magical that interested him. Wilson had the unsettling tendency to see the fey as another type of magical thing sometimes, as if he’d study us to see what we’d do.

The men looked at me. I shrugged and said, “Magical symbols in white and yellow are crawling over the wood with those odd sparks of orangey red. The symbols aren’t static but seem to be still moving.
That’s unusual. Magical symbols glow sometimes to the inner eye, but they aren’t this … fresh, like the paint hasn’t dried.”

The men with me nodded. “That’s why I thought it might be a sidhe creation,” Jeremy said.

“I don’t follow,” I said.

“The last time I saw magic that stayed that fresh, it was an enchanted item made by one of your people’s great wizards. They hide the core of the magic behind metalwork, or living greenery that is kept fresh by the magic, but it’s all pretend, Merry. It’s just meant to hide the core.”

“I understand what you’re saying, but why does that make it sidhe workmanship?”

“Your people are the only ones I’ve ever seen who could keep magic interlaid over something this fresh and vital.”

“We’ve never seen anything able to do this,” Wilson said.

“What makes it sidhe?” I asked.

“It isn’t,” Barinthus said.

We looked at him.

Jeremy looked a little uncomfortable, but he looked at the tall man and asked, “Why isn’t it sidhe magic?”

Barinthus managed to look as disdainful as I’d ever seen him. He didn’t get along with Jeremy. I’d thought it was personal at first, but realized it was some prejudice Barinthus had against Jeremy being a Trow. It was like a racial thing for Barinthus, as if a Trow wasn’t worthy enough to be the boss of us.

“I doubt I could explain it in a way you would understand,” Barinthus said.

Jeremy’s face darkened.

I turned to Wilson and Carmichael, smiling, and said, “Could you excuse us for a minute? I’m sorry, but if you could just step over there somewhere.”

They looked at each other, then at Jeremy’s angry face and Barinthus’s haughty figure, and they went to stand away from us. No
one wants to be standing right next to the seven-foot-tall man when he starts a fight.