Guilty as Sin (8 page)

in his hand.

Dax hit him straight on, his momentum bearing the other man to the muddy street

in a smother of feathers and muscle and sheer size, gripping his wrists. He back-winged

though, so Michael didn
‟
t bear the brunt of his full weight. He had the feeling Lise

wouldn
‟
t want her thief damaged—at least not too badly.

Except that Michael wasn
‟
t cooperating. In complete silence, he bucked and writhed

beneath Dax
‟
s body, shockingly strong for one of his size. Only instinct and a fighter
‟
s

reflexes had Dax rearing back in time. An icy burn whispered over his neck. Snarling

deep in his throat, he lashed his tail around Michael
‟
s wrist, squeezing until the other

man
‟
s fingers opened and the blade clattered to the cobbles.

But the lithe body continued to heave against him, all uncompromising muscle and

bone. Veil-it, enough! Dax braced a forearm across Michael
‟
s throat, spread his wings

and pinned the thief beneath him, chest to chest, completely encompassing his body.

“Stop it,” he growled. “Just…stop it.”

Michael froze, glaring. His eyes were the most astonishing mix of colors, a kind of—

“Who the fuck are you?” panted the thief.

“Daxariel the Burnished.” He
‟
d seen a mountain pool that peaty shade of brown

and green and gray once, a dark mirror beneath towering trees.

Michael
‟
s gaze flicked to Dax
‟
s hair, just as Fledge
‟
s had done, though all he said

was, “Where is she?”

Dax didn
‟
t pretend to misunderstand. “Lise? Close.” Stray beams of sunlight had

danced across the water that day, flecking it with amber.

This was ridiculous. He
‟
d never been prone to flights of fancy. Anyway, this man
‟
s

eyes were cold, unreadable. His gaze dropped to the pulse fluttering under the golden

36

skin of the thief
‟
s throat. The drumming of the Grounded
‟
s single heart was an

unsettling counterpoint to the double tempo of his own. It wasn
‟
t possible for their

bodies to be pressed more closely together.

Abruptly, Michael went limp, smiling into Dax
‟
s eyes like a
fellwolf
contemplating a

raw steak. “I have a couple of things she wants.” He tilted his head, his gaze sly and

knowing. “Should I give them to you, I wonder?”

37

Firsters—Origin:

All that is known is that the Firsters came from beyond the stars. Estimates vary, but most

scholars agree that this was more than fifteen thousand years ago. No traces remain of their ships

that sailed among the stars, nor is anything known of their world of origin.

The Straight Church, and others, reject the concept of extraterrestrial settlers, insisting that

human life is a gift of the gods. However, there can be no doubt of the strange science-magics left

by the Firsters. Moreover, there are flora and fauna on Phoenix that are clearly not native to this

world. (See Firsters—Introduced Species)

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

* * * * *

Heat radiating from his skin, the thief
‟
s body was completely relaxed, legs spread to

accommodate Dax
‟
s bulk. He smelled of clean sweat and healthy male, and just a little

of mold and dust. Probably from the clothes he
‟
d worn as part of his disguise.

Dax
‟
s head spun. He strove for calm, knowing he should pull back, but

something—some strange fascination—kept him in place. Besides, Lise would arrive at

any moment. “Give me what?”

Without haste, Michael slid a palm the length of Dax
‟
s arm, all the way from the

point of his broad shoulder down to his free hand, lacing their fingers together. “Here,”

he said. “Feel for yourself.”

On the word, he lifted their joined hands and slid Dax
‟
s palm over the left side of

his chest, an astonishingly intimate gesture. For an instant, all Dax could process was

the quick rise and fall of breath, bone and muscle and sinew all knitted together into a

beautiful living machine. And
heat
. His nerves burned with it, the pads of his fingers

tingling, the sensation spreading up his arm and into the pit of his stomach. Lower.

With a strangled curse, he pulled away, but the heel of his hand brushed a small

protuberance beneath the thin linen of Michael
‟
s shirt. Veil-it, what the—?

No Aetherii could mistake the siren call of a featherpearl, especially if he had a…a

connection
to the owner. Or if he wanted one.

“Shit, that
‟
s hers.” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could bite them

back.

Another wicked, shameless grin. “They both are.”

38

Michael arched his back, the action jamming their chests together. The featherpearls

throbbed against Dax
‟
s ribs, two small fiery points. His wings rose and spread, a reflex

he was helpless to prevent.

“But how—?”

Michael
‟
s voice dropped to a husky whisper. “How do ye think?”

Appalled, Dax stared down into the handsome, taunting face, and something hot

and ugly swirled in his belly. “Bastard,” he rasped. “Fuck you.”

The thief
‟
s lashes swept down and then up, coquettish as a doxy on a street corner.

When he raised a brow, his lips curling into a smirk, Dax
‟
s face went so hot even the

pointed tips of his ears burned.

Rearing up, he bunched a big fist in the front of Michael
‟
s shirt and jerked. The back

of the thief
‟
s skull bounced on the cobbles and the man swore, but the fine linen parted

like wet paper.

Dax
‟
s jaw dropped. Spread out beneath him, apparently helpless, the Grounded

was a sort of dark gold all over. Veil-it, he had
hair
on his chest, real hair. Not much,

true, just a fine mat that glinted a lighter gold than his skin and arrowed down toward

his belly. His nipples shone a rich mouthwatering brown, each tender peak cruelly

pierced with a gold hoop. The featherpearls suspended from them rolled over sensitive

flesh with every breath the thief took. What would it feel like to carry such an intimate

reminder of Lise? Dax could almost taste her unique fragrance, the wild green scent of

the featheroil she favored.

Gods.

“You like them.” Michael
‟
s silky voice insinuated itself into his consciousness,

halfway between a question and a statement.

If the situation hadn
‟
t been so dire, Michael would have laughed at the stunned

expression on the birdman
‟
s face. Wings spread, the huge Aetherii had him

comprehensively pinned, his massive body giving off a furnace heat. As far as

sensations went, it was…novel. Six feet tall and all whipcord and muscle, he wasn
‟
t

accustomed to being handled like a child, but the Aetherii was nearly a foot taller than

him and a couple of stone heavier.

Shit, he
‟
d think about it later. Right now, he was one precarious step away from the

Palace dungeon. The Prince of Sere put his trust in deterrents like hot irons and the

rack. But when they failed, he was perfectly happy to hang, draw and quarter.

The Aetherii
‟
s strange feathery brows were arched almost into his hairline. His

square jaw was clenched, but he was panting, his breath hitting Michael
‟
s chin in small,

warm gusts. He had wide cheekbones and a generous mouth, the mouth of a man who

laughed easily and well. The skin of his cheek glowed like porcelain with a lamp behind

it, almost translucent. No body hair. Didn
‟
t matter how virile an Aetherii was, he

couldn
‟
t grow a beard, or that was the gossip on the street.

39

Michael
‟
s brain raced, calculating odds, assessing his foe. In his experience, big men

weren
‟
t generally quick thinkers, though this one had fighting reflexes near as sharp as

his own.

He was out of time.

Reaching up, Michael buried both fists in the Aetherii
‟
s astonishing hair and kissed

him full on the mouth. For a second every muscle in the huge body went rigid. Michael

nipped, feeling the satiny flesh split and not caring. Simultaneously, he wrenched at the

Aetherii
‟
s hair and heaved upward with all the strength of back, hips and thighs.

The Aetherii gave a startled grunt, but he recovered more quickly than Michael

could credit, grabbing a fistful of shirt. Michael squirmed out from under him, sprang

to his feet and launched himself into a flat-out run, using the Aetherii
‟
s body as a

starting block, pumping with his arms. His shirt tore off his body, flying like a tattered

flag from the other man
‟
s massive fist. From farther down the street came the rapid

volley of footsteps.

As he sped around the corner, he heard the Aetherii
‟
s roar of fury, and on its heels,

Liseriel the Gray
‟
s voice, sharp and breathless. “Shit,” she said. “Dax, you had him!

Which way? Quick!”

He could hear her, running again, drawing closer. The featherpearls throbbed

against his flesh, pulsing like tiny hearts.

His lips compressed, Michael dived headfirst into a narrow, uninviting aperture in

the foundation of a tumbledown palazzo. It looked like the entrance to a drain, perhaps

a sewer, a place no sane person would venture. As far as the Aetherii were concerned,

he would have disappeared into thin air.

Which was meager consolation. Because a sewer was exactly what it was. A hand

clapped over his nose and mouth, Michael squirmed along through unmentionable filth

until the passage opened up a little and he was able to rise to a half stoop.

Safe.

His head swam with the stench of it, his eyes watering.
Faugh
. He hadn
‟
t been

down here in years, not since he was a child. Drawing his long dagger, he peered into

the gloom, alert for the feral gleam of red eyes. Warily, he sloshed forward. Rats. Fuck,

he hated—
hated
—the filthy fuckers with their naked tails and sharp, savage little teeth.

Give him a Hssrdan any day.

Shivering, growling under his breath, he navigated tunnels and climbed rusty

ladders, always heading east. No more than half an hour later, he paused, recognizing

the herringbone pattern of the bricks above his head.

Not far now.

Except he
‟
d have to wait until well after dark. He couldn
‟
t appear on the streets like

this, not even in the Slopes. Seething, Michael clawed something unspeakable out of his

hair. His trews and boots were ruined and he
‟
d had the boots specially made. They
‟
d

cost—

40

Well, who the fuck cared what they
‟
d cost? Dead was dead, no matter how pretty

his feet looked, kicking in the air under the Palace gibbet.

So overall, he was ahead on points. Possibly.

His skin heated with humiliation. Sourly, he wondered if the tale had reached Ma

by now. Well, of course it had. Everyone would be laughing at his expense. He hadn
‟
t

exactly endeared himself to most folk in Sere. What a dainty morsel. Michael, the

master thief, so proud, so clever, brought low by Aetherii—bird people for the gods
‟

sakes. Liseriel the Gray and…

Michael leaned gingerly against a wall and frowned. They
‟
d been talking in the

street. What had she called him, that mountain of a man?

Dax.

That couldn
‟
t be all of it though. Aetherii names were long and they included a clan

group. No matter, he
‟
d find out. This Dax, he wasn
‟
t one of the Gray or the Black, that

was for certain. His wings had been bronze, the color as true as if each plume had been

forged in a crucible then hammered by a smith and polished to a high sheen. Incredible.

As for his hair… Unconsciously, Michael rubbed his fingers together. So soft and

thick, merging with tiny feathers at the temples. Even on a courtesan of the first rank,

he
‟
d assume the color was false. It couldn
‟
t be natural, not that stunning combination of

sunset and dawn—all the way from palest gold and apricot to deepest umber spiced

with sienna.

On the periphery of his vision, something moved and he whirled, blade at the

ready. With a gasp and a splashing flurry, the rag picker disappeared into a side tunnel.

No more than a child, judging by the height and the skinny limbs.

Michael
‟
s stomach turned a slow unpleasant somersault, remembering.

His lips pulled back from his teeth. He refused to track this filth into his beautiful

chamber, which meant he
‟
d have to bathe in Ma
‟
s back room. She
‟
d bring him buckets

of hot water, sure enough, but she
‟
d exact a price—and not only in copper marks. She
‟
d