Guilty as Sin (4 page)

She lifted her chin. “So am I.”

Jan
‟
s lips quirked. “True enough.” As they walked to the head of the stairs together,

he said, “It
‟
s late. Get some sleep.”

“You too.”

Jan said nothing, simply nodded and launched himself off the edge into the

stairwell. The rooms he shared with Fledge and Mirry were four floors down in the tall,

narrow building. Watching him descend in a soundless glide, Lise sighed, her heart

16

aching. If she were lucky enough to have two lovers—any lover, for that matter—in her

bed, waiting, she
‟
d hurry too, but love had never worked for her and that was that.

She
‟
d had her chance with Mirry long ago, but they hadn
‟
t suited—not that she

regretted their brief affair, not for a minute, but it was just as well it was over. Squaring

her shoulders, she furled her wings and trudged up two flights to her own quarters.

* * * * *

Michael
‟
s eyes snapped open. He lay perfectly still in bed, listening.

Ponderous footsteps, treading across a floor below. A door creaking, followed by

the snick of a latch.

Huh. Only Ma, waddling down to open the shop. Nonetheless, he waited a

moment. Unfounded assumptions had a way of coinciding with sharp blades and

unfortunate consequences.

There! The screech of rusty metal. Ma grunting with effort as she sweated and

shoved at the heavy bars over the shutters.

He checked again. Nothing more.

With a huff of satisfaction, he replaced the knife under the pillow. Then he

stretched, smiling at the delightful sensation of silk slithering against shoulder blades,

buttocks, calves. The smile morphed into a jaw-cracking yawn. Naked, he rose and

padded across the attic room, his toes digging pleasurably into the rugs strewn across

the floor, three deep in places. Like all Sereian dwellings, this one was tall and narrow,

jammed in amongst its neighbors in wary proximity, but Michael wasn
‟
t greedy about

space—only beauty.

The ceiling sloped to accommodate the steep roofline of the building, but he
‟
d

created an alcove by hanging velvet curtains, thick and black, at the point where the

ceiling reached head height. Behind them sat the battered leather chest he used to store

the few possessions he considered worth keeping. It doubled as a rough dressing table.

But the greatest treasures were the clothes—garments of every fashion, size and hue

hanging from a length of sturdy wooden dowelling.

Michael gazed at them with pleasure, though they were only faint shapes, swinging

like ghosts in the gloom. Moving with his customary certainty, he reached for the thick,

scented candle he kept on a high shelf. Outside, morning would be fair advanced, the

Sun high and the Shadow not yet risen, but a single shaft of sunlight peering in through

a crack in the walls might reveal his refuge and that he could not permit.

As the light flared, the room came into focus, a stunning medley of jeweled tones.

The walls were mildewed and the ceiling sagged, but all decay was concealed, swathed

in lengths of silken fabric in every color imaginable, a dazzling spectrum from the

purest of sunny yellows to the deepest crimson and the most brilliant of azures and

cobalts, violets and greens. Splendidly complex patterns decorated the thick rugs on the

floor, elaborate pleats and satin embroideries enhanced the large plump cushions. A

soft profusion of bolsters and pillows were propped up against the walls.

17

The effect should have been eye-aching. Instead, it was splendidly barbaric. It made

his senses buzz and his spine tingle, told him in no uncertain terms he was
alive.

Rubbing a silken tassel between his fingers, Michael gazed down at the heap of

strangely assorted objects lying on the lid of his chest. He touched the long feather with

a fingertip. Business before pleasure. His lips curving in a cruel smile, he lifted the

emeralda
necklace, the gems sparkling a deep lambent green in the light of the candle.

Hmm. His eyes narrowed.

Quickly, he lit a lantern, set it on the chest and seated himself on a cushioned stool.

A few moments
‟
examination with a jeweler
‟
s glass sufficed. Well fuck, the

hautlady had been cheating her lord in more ways than one. The stones in the earbobs

she
‟
d worn were worth a small fortune, but the necklace was paste. Cold-hearted little

bitch. He was glad now he hadn
‟
t done more than kiss her.

Though he
‟
d intended to. She
‟
d been ripe, there for the taking. Then he
‟
d seen the

bird woman, standing tall and slim in the shadows, almost invisible, and the blood in

his veins had surged with challenge. The hautlady had become an irrelevance.

He
‟
d make a tidy profit on the
emeraldas
, rather than a magnificent one. On the

whole, he had to admit he much preferred his unexpected bonus.

Picking up the feather, Michael raised it to his nose, closed his eyes and sniffed

deeply. No, he hadn
‟
t been mistaken. Liseriel
‟
s perfume invaded his senses. Exactly as it

had done last night when he
‟
d leaned in, pinning her with his body.

Gooseflesh rose on his naked chest, his cock stirred against his thigh.

Touching her had been an amazing sensation, like nothing he
‟
d ever known, her

feathers soft as a cloud, slithering across the front of his jacket. Yet there was incredible

strength in those wings. As she
‟
d struggled and snarled, they
‟
d risen against him so

powerfully, he
‟
d felt the hard bones, the surge of strong muscle. An unwary moment on

his part and she would have broken his arm—or his neck—with a single wing strike.

If she didn
‟
t strangle him with her tail. A
tail
for the gods
‟
sakes! Curling up his leg,

climbing over his knee, wrapping around his thigh and
squeezing.
A fraction higher and

he would have been emasculated. Remembering, his blood bubbled.

One of the Aetherii, winged and tailed, supposedly created by the Firsters. The

moment the Winged Envoy
‟
s party had arrived in Sere, he
‟
d made it his business to

look them over. It hadn
‟
t been easy either. He
‟
d had glimpses, unfortunately only from

the middle distance but he
‟
d heard plenty. The Slopes ran rife with gossip, but Michael

had been sorting and sifting all his life. His life depended on it.

The news from Valaressa preceded the Winged Envoy and her entourage. Every

criminal in Sere had paid respectful attention—because her security chief was

Janarnavriel the Noir, as cold as he was beautiful, ruthless and single-minded. Legend

said he never smiled.

18

And Liseriel the Gray. With her formidable reputation, the knowledge that she was

second only to Jan, he
‟
d expected an older woman, battle-hardened and coarse. Instead,

he
‟
d encountered a steely elegance that belied the fire beneath.

Idly, he trailed the tip of the feather over his collarbones, enjoying the silken brush

across the vulnerable pit of his throat.

Such a strange set of contrasts.

The plume he held was almost as long as his forearm from the crook of his elbow to

the tip of his middle finger. When he tapped the central shaft with his fingernail, it

made a small hollow sound, yet he knew the strength of it. Of her.

She
‟
d told him true. The gray shaded from a silken charcoal to lightest silver and

then to cream. And nearest the shaft…he tilted the feather toward the light…the shyest,

sweetest blush of pink.

How cute. Michael
‟
s lips curved. He
‟
d lay any money her nipples were that same

delicate, mouthwatering shade—and gambling was one of the few vices he didn
‟
t have.

He drew the feather over his open palm. What of the folds in the soft, secret place

between those long, slim thighs? Ah yes, she
‟
d be tender there too, all palest pink

whorls and crevices like the velvety heart of an exquisite flower.

He frowned. Unless Aetherii females were…different.

Closing his eyes, he recalled in precise detail the press of her body against him, the

firm give of a sweet, taut ass, the way her nipple had budded against his palm when

he
‟
d cupped her breast. Gods, he
‟
d enjoyed that—Liseriel the Gray all soft and yielding,

at his mercy.

She was different all right—not in the human essentials—but enough to be an

interesting novelty. So what if it made him a featherslut? He
‟
d been called worse. With

a grunt, Michael reached down to cradle his cock, running a commiserating thumb

under and over the head. It gave him a perverse thrill to torture himself with waiting.

An excellent test of his self-control.

Slowly, he laid the temptation of the feather aside. His breath came a little faster as

he unlaced the flap of his belt pouch. Liseriel
‟
s ears had come to a delicate point at the

top, the lobes neatly shaped—warm and silky-smooth to the touch. It had been the

work of seconds to slip off her earrings and stow them away. He
‟
d grinned as he
‟
d

done it.

Michael upended the pouch and the contents tumbled into his hand, a pair of

exquisite satiny teardrops, gleaming with the gentle iridescence of a cloud
‟
s underbelly

at sunset. When he tilted his palm, they nestled together, their dove-gray sheen

blushing with the faintest, most tender rose.

He froze, his gaze shifting from the earrings to the long plume and back again.

Featherpearls. Had to be.

The moment stretched, the sounds of the street, footsteps entering the shop, Ma
‟
s

strange, creaky voice bargaining with a hapless customer. The earrings lay in his

19

cupped hand, radiating waves of gentle blood-heat. A shiver ran all the way up

Michael
‟
s spine and back down again, a burning chill that pooled low in his belly. The

skin over his scrotum tightened.

With a grunt, he spilled the featherpearls onto the surface of the chest, rubbing his

tingling palm against his thigh.

Fuck, thegodsbedamned things were alive!

20

Decorative arts—featherware:

Only top-grade featherpearls retain the body heat of the original Aetherii donor. Not only is

the technique extraordinarily difficult for even the most skilled artisan, the feathers must be

plucked live, a painful process indeed. For this reason, featherpearls are hugely valuable. A string

of them is an intensely personal gift, considered among the Aetherii to be the equivalent of a

declaration of love.

Excerpt from the
Great Encyclopedia
, compiled by Miriliel the Burnished.

* * * * *

Michael prodded one of the teardrops with his forefinger, watching the gleams roll

on its surface like a coat of fine oil on the back of a silver spoon. Twister, it was a

beautiful thing.

His lips curved. He
‟
d have to study up on featherpearls. Common knowledge said

that only Aetherii artisans had the secret. Not unnaturally therefore, featherpearls were

rare among the Ten Nations, and very highly prized. More valuable even than

emeraldas
. The smile widened.

On the other side of Sere, in the grand house of the Winged Envoy, Liseriel the Gray

would be in a murderous rage, fair skin flushed and magnificent eyes slate-dark with

fury. Was her tail lashing even now?

Michael
‟
s blood sang. Not only had he challenged her and won, he
‟
d outdone

himself.

Featherpearls, made with her own feathers.

His.

Still smiling, he lifted one to his cheek. Yes, the teardrop was definitely warm, like a

tiny heart. In fact… His brow creasing, he pressed it to his lower lip, to the sensitive

skin. Did it have a beat? Or was that the pulse of his own blood? He couldn
‟
t tell.

Thinking, he swiped it gently with his tongue. Smooth and warm and silky. Such a

very personal part of her, he might as well be watching her naked in the bath.

Delectable.

Michael turned toward a full-length antique mirror with a carved candlewood

frame. Swiftly, he removed one of the sapphire earbobs he still wore and replaced it

with a featherpearl. The remaining sapphire looked vulgar coupled with such elegant

severity, so it went the way of the first. No problem, he
‟
d get a good price for them. The

stones were top-grade. Easy come, easy go.

21

He liked the sensation of the featherpearl swinging above the hinge of his jaw, the

hint of heat. Grinning at his reflection, he watched the gold rings in his nipples flash as

his chest rose and fell with his increased respiration. No question of what to do next,

none at all.

With steady fingers, he unfastened the ring in his left nipple, removed the wire

from the second featherpearl and slid it onto the ring—where it fit as if it was meant to

be. Perfect. A last deep breath and he replaced the gold ring, the featherpearl suspended

from it.

No way he
‟
d forget Liseriel the Gray now, not with an intimate reminder of her

warming a spot over his heart. Both nipples peaked hard, gooseflesh racing across the

hard planes of his lean chest. Gods yes! Swiftly, he removed the second featherpearl

from his ear and attached it to the ring in his right nipple.

Michael grunted. Time for a little self-indulgence.

Acutely conscious of the small spots like heated fingertips laid against the beat of

his blood, he took the long plume and sank down cross-legged onto his bed, shoving

aside a cluster of pillows and bolsters. In many ways, this expanse of mattress laid on

the floor was his haven, his refuge—something very like a nest. His lips quirked. Would

the birdwoman agree? Not that he
‟
d bring her here. No lover, male or female, had seen

this place. It was his alone.

If he started out of sleep in the early hours, his face clammy with a cold sweat and

Tannio
‟
s mewling whimpers echoing in his head, there was no one to see or hear the

ghosts of his past. That was how he liked it. Resolutely, he put the memory aside, as

he
‟
d done countless times before. Nothing to be gained, nothing at all.

Snagging a crimson velvet cushion and a bolster embroidered with improbably

colored goddess daisies, he shoved them behind him and leaned back against the silk-

clad wall. With profound satisfaction, he let his gaze wander over the splendor.

If he had to run, leave it all behind—he would, without a second
‟
s hesitation and

only the slightest tinge of regret. In fact… Michael frowned. He
‟
d kept this particular

room almost a year now. Was he becoming fat and complacent? He glanced down the

length of his lean, muscular body. Not fat, anyway.

Absently, he drew Liseriel
‟
s feather across his chest, hissing between his teeth when

the leading edge grazed a featherpearl and an immediate surge of strong erotic heat

pulled the flesh up tight. Automatically, his back arched into the pleasure. Fuck, that

was good. He
‟
d always enjoyed nipple play.

What do you want with a feather?

Use your imagination.

She was going to be so pissed when he told her.

Closing his eyes with the torturous pleasure of it, he brushed the silky edge back

and forth across his parted lips then over his chin and down past his Adam
‟
s apple to

the pit of his throat. His pulse stuttered then settled into a hard, demanding rhythm.

With his free hand, Michael cradled his balls, tugging lightly, ignoring the beseeching

22

throb of his cock. The cool air of the morning bestowed a shivery kiss on his dampness,

a tingling contrast to the burning heat in the core of him.

He pulled in a deep breath and held it while he drifted the feather from the root of

his shaft to the glans, silky filaments whispering over hard, satin flesh. Every hair on his

body stood up and the air punched out of his lungs in a gusty sigh. Vividly, he recalled

the incredible fact of her tail, its sleek muscularity and the luxuriant tuft of feathers at

the tip. The strong clasp of it had left a bruise on his thigh, a faint purple circlet. He

skated his fingertips over the mark then pressed hard into the firm flesh, harder.

Twister, yes! He threw his head back.

What could Liseriel the Gray do with that tail? Fuck, what couldn
‟
t she do?

Pleasure and pain and the fleeting brush of feathers, soft as the nonsense a seducer

whispered in a virgin
‟
s ear.

Growling deep in his throat, Michael clamped the feather against his throbbing,

pleading length, its smooth delicacy a piquant contrast to the brutal urgency of his grip.

Shit.

He
‟
d ruin the pretty thing if he kept on this way. Already the leading edge looked a

little crumpled.

No, he didn
‟
t want to do that, not for any reason.

Resolutely, he set the feather aside and fished out the corked bottle of sweet oil he

kept under the biggest bolster. But as he poured a thin, golden stream into the palm of

one hand, he smiled. There was more than one way to trap a
bunrat
.

Using his dry hand, he laid the plume on the pillow, smoothing the ruffled edge

with careful fingers. With a soft grunt, he gripped his cock and began to stroke, exactly

the way he liked it, hard and fast with a twist at the head and a good tug at the root.

As his hips arched off the mattress, Liseriel
‟
s earrings swung, scraping softly over

the nerve-rich skin of his nipples, blood-hot like the eager fingers of a lover. Michael

hissed. He let the pleasure swell, torturing himself by easing off every time the pressure

built. He made it last forever, the feather rustling with every movement of his head, as

if it whispered passionate conspiracies in his willing ear. He was writhing by the finish,

his breath rolling out from deep in his belly, a long continuous growl. At the very last

moment, when his vision began to haze, he turned his head, pressing his lips against

the silky filaments. He inhaled through his open mouth. The scent of her—pure

Aetherii—raced from his hindbrain to his spine to his balls.

He was gone, spurting thick and warm all over his fingers and belly. By the end,

when he sank boneless into his pillows, the only sounds in the room were the soft, raw

rasp of his breath and the thunder of his pulse.

With hands that shook a little, he lifted the plume and brushed it over his racing

heart. Good. Twister
‟
s balls, that had been good.

* * * * *

23

When Lise returned to her office the following afternoon, her first impression was

that the chamber had somehow shrank, crammed wall-to-wall with male muscle and

feathers. When she blinked, the confusion resolved itself into Miriliel the Burnished, his

elegant lips compressed with impatience, and someone else, the biggest Aetherii she
‟
d

ever seen.

“Hullo, Mirry,” she said calmly, seating herself on the stool behind the desk and

settling her wings behind her with a rustle. Her heart squeezed a little at the sight of

him, as it always did, but she smiled pleasantly. Gods, how she hated to fail! But she
‟
d

been too boring, too sensible for a man as
different
as Miriliel the Burnished.

Determinedly, she pinned the smile in place. The world needed common sense as much

as it needed brilliance—more in her opinion.

“What can I do for you? And,” she shot a look of enquiry at the other Aetherii—

Veil-it, the tips of his wings nearly brushed the ceiling, “your, ah, friend?”

“Daxariel the Burnished,” said Mirry. “My cousin. He
‟
s fresh in from the Eyrie,

never been to a Grounded city before. Dax, this is Liseriel the Gray, Jan
‟
s second.”

He flashed her a grin, completely oblivious of his effect on any female who wasn
‟
t

clinically dead. “She
‟
s a good friend.”

Lise nodded, unruffled. “Your cousin. Yes, I see.” And she did.

Daxariel
‟
s hair was the same astonishing gorgeous mix of sunset colors as Mirry
‟
s—

russet, auburn and terracotta streaked with soft gold—but his wings were a much

deeper hue, true bronze, shading to a dark metallic green on the flight feathers. The

lamplight sparked deep, lambent gleams off them as he shifted. Burnished indeed.

There the resemblance ended. Where Mirry was all lean, lithe grace and beauty,

Daxariel was brutally broad and solid. Where Mirry
‟
s facial structure was pure and

refined, almost too beautiful for masculinity, his cousin
‟
s was four-square and

uncompromising. He looked like the result of an unlikely mating between some kind of

primeval raptor and a passing mountain.

Lise tried to estimate his wingspan and gave up.

“Please,” she said, “be seated.

Daxariel grabbed at a stool, nearly upsetting it in the process. A flush running up

under the golden skin of his cheek, he muttered an apology and sat. Lise stifled a sigh.

What was she supposed to do with this great lump?

As if he
‟
d read her mind, Mirry said, “We want you to train him. Show him how