The Lone Warrior (36 page)

The Necromancer shot bolt upright in bed, his heart thudding. He’d been dreaming. He scrubbed his hands over his face, a shocking thrill running through him at the feel of a stranger’s features, the big nose and heavy chin with its persistent stubble. Would he ever make this meaty, ill-fitting suit truly his own?

The dream had taken him back to his slum childhood, his skinny ass at the mercy of Tolaf, the foul old sodomite. Though now he came to consider the matter, it was probably the drink that aged the man. He couldn’t have been much more than forty. There was certainly nothing wrong with his intellect—when he was sober.

“My lord?” The slave curled up on the floor beside the bed raised his head.

“Iced water.”

“Yes, Pasha.” The boy whisked himself out the door.

But he’d made his peace with that bargain years ago. By Shaitan, it had been worth all the pain and indignity, the crushing loss of a little boy’s soul. Tolaf had taught him well and he’d soaked it up, numbers, letters, philosophy and logic—all the knowledge he’d craved. His thick lips curved in a grim smile. The man had taught him to read and shown him something of Magick. And once he’d looked full in the face of the Dark Arts, he’d seen that knowledge was power and power was above petty morality. Besides, Tolaf’s protracted demise had been as much an artistic exercise as a scholarly one. The Necromancer flattered himself he’d done well for one so young.

Taking the chilled goblet, he waved the slave away. No, in the dream, he’d been running down a dark alley in the Melting Pot, his bare feet slipping on the wet cobbles and then—somehow he was whirling among the stars.

Thoughtfully, he sipped, clearing his mind, backtracking through the dream mists. The water slid down his throat like an icy finger and he shivered. This wasn’t ephemeral in the usual way of dreams. It had substance,
significance
.

He’d approached godhead once before, borne high on the death energy of a seelie, so close he could have reached out and with a contemptuous flick of the fingers—Gods damn Deiter to the seven icy hells and his fucking fire witch with him.

The Necromancer rolled the cup across his hot cheeks, thinking. The dream had been very like that, he’d half expected to see the Great Pattern, the godsbedamned Pentacle etched across the face of the cosmos, and yet . . . He chewed a thumbnail. Rocking in the cradle of the chill winds that whispered across the endless deeps of space, content simply to be.

Content? That wasn’t like him at all.

He shoved an embroidered pillow in the small of his back. Because the presence in the dream had been something else, a . . . a creature, ancient beyond human reckoning of time, so alien as to be beyond imagining.

But what?

Was it a demon?

No, there was none of Xotclic’s vivid self-awareness, its ravening appetite. Eons had drifted past and the . . . thing he’d sensed in the dream remained tranquil, absorbing low-level energy, needing nothing, knowing nothing of desire. He’d never seen anything like it. His pulse quickened.

“Take this.” Without looking, he thrust out an arm and the slave relieved him of the goblet.

Clasping his hands loosely over his stomach, the Necromancer settled back, regulating his breathing, letting his consciousness spiral back into the dream-fugue, down, down . . .

Ah
. Spawned in the heart of a dying star and cast forth as a thin veil across the vacuum. So close to nothing, it tempted him with the peace of dissolution, of oneness with everything that was and ever could be.

For a while, he drifted, half tranced, half dozing.

A dozen motes of brightness appeared as pinpoints in the void. Slowly, the creature swung its vast attention toward that sector of the dark and observed the strange objects resolve themselves into sleek, shiny ovals that unfurled impossibly delicate gossamer wings. Slingshot sails, glittering against the black like nets of fire and ice.

The Necromancer smiled.

Because in that moment, the creature understood for the first time what it was to hunger. The fragile life forms cocooned within the metal shells blazed hotter to its senses than any sun, unutterably enticing, tempting beyond endurance. It stirred, fascinated. Rippling, it extended its substance, enveloping the silver starships in a leisurely, massive embrace.

Yes! This was what had woken him, pain and longing, a howl of anguish on a cosmic scale. Because the creature discovered it couldn’t pull away. The lure of the life forces within the metal hulls held it hypnotized, even as its weight forced the starships off course. As they were caught by the gravity of the Sibling Moons, the heat of their power sources seared the stuff of which the being was made. It screamed without sound, broadcasting pain in tangible waves that puckered its semitransparent surface into a million separate depressions of agony.

The starships entered the atmosphere of Palimpsest in a fiery lurch over the desert, near out of control, and with them went the creature, sundering, splitting, becoming countless motes, forever divided, forever seeking wholeness.

Wounded near to death, it fled, seeking refuge. In the cool depths of an extinct volcano, it brooded, regaining its strength. Millennia passed in the dripping darkness while it thought leviathan thoughts, growing accustomed to its new existence as a hive organism. Until the world grew warmer, uncomfortably warmer.

The Necromancer’s eyes blinked open. So long ago. By Shaitan, the Technomages had hushed it up perfectly. Did they know of the creature? His brain raced, his prodigious intellect sorting and sifting—impressions, rumors, visions . . .

The creature endured until the suffering became too great to be borne. Then it rose, a wave of sentient fragments covering the land from horizon to horizon, and ventured out, looking for the cold. But it didn’t forget the luscious, liquid brilliance of the human spirit. It could never forget. Along the way, the dwelling places of men enticed it. The soft, warm glow of life energy drew it irresistibly. The harder the death, the greater the nourishment.

Of course! He snapped his fingers. The village headman’s shoulders had slumped with relief when he saw the guards. No wonder he’d been delighted to bow before his new lord. Djinns, he’d muttered, out among the wadis and sand cliffs, death swooping from the sky, but the Necromancer had had no patience with such superstitious nonsense.

Gods, he’d been a blind fool. There was no time to waste. This was what the Dark Lord had intended for him to see all along. The so-called djinns and the wounded space creature—they were one and the same.

Rolling over, he slapped the snoozing slave. “Up, up! Get the guard captain!”

“But, my lord . . .” stammered the boy, his head turning to peer out the window at the darkness. “Um, now?”

“No,” snarled the Necromancer, “at your fucking convenience. What do you think?”

His backhander sent the slave reeling toward the door, clutching at his face. “Yes, Pasha,” he mumbled.

The patter of his footsteps receded down the passageway.

It was still dark when Mehcredi woke. She raised her head from the firm warm pillow beneath her cheek and blinked into the gloom.

A heartbeat later, the mists of sleep cleared with an almost audible snap. Sweet Sister in the sky! She was in bed with the swordmaster, lying half on, half off, his sleeping body, sandwiched between him and the wall. And gods, they’d done it, they’d . . . fucked.

The realization, the very real heat radiating from the muscled form plastered against her, made her head swim. In wonder, scarcely daring to breathe, she drifted a palm over the band of heavy muscle on Walker’s chest. Sister save her, it was true! It had been every bit as amazing as she’d hoped. What’s more, she’d asked him to stay, and by all the gods, he had. Joy blossomed within her, glowing like a summer rose opening its face to the sun.

Oh, she was so glad she’d woken. Why waste this delicious feeling on sleep? The opportunity would probably never come again. Her stomach flipped.
Next time will be better,
he’d said. Had he enjoyed it? Had he enjoyed
her
? He hadn’t said much, but then he never did.

With the utmost care, she lowered her cheek to the warm breathing expanse of his chest. Walker slept on with self-contained grace, the way he did everything, his breath deep and even.

He’d climaxed, found his pleasure, though she imagined that wouldn’t be too difficult for most men. Her lips quirked. Except possibly her Trinitarian friend. She resisted the impulse to shake her head at her own stupidity. How could she have missed it? But the man had been downright entertaining. She’d been so interested in the palace gossip, so busy memorizing the wild rumors about a new kind of demon—a djinn he’d called it—that she’d forgotten to watch his face.

Forget it,
she told herself sternly.
Enjoy what you have before it disappears
. If she held her breath, she could hear the beat of his heart against her ear, a steady, reassuring rhythm. Gingerly, she skated her fingertips over the satin of his skin. So beautiful, so male. Gods, she was torn! Part of her yearned to sink deep into the comfort and delight of such close proximity, never mind that he wasn’t even conscious. Everything she’d ever longed for and known she could never have. She’d been starving all her life and here was a feast, so sumptuous it made her dizzy with the possibilities.

It should be enough, and yet, her mouth watered for more, every nerve on edge with sexual desire. She shook with the need to explore all the fascinating dips and contours with her hands, her mouth, gods, even her nose. It was insane. Trembling, she buried her face against him and inhaled, filling her lungs, imprinting the smell and texture of his skin upon her senses.

Even worse, it was still too dark to see and curiosity was killing her. What would happen if she reached down and touched him
there
, between his strong thighs? She let out a soundless huff of frustration. He’d wake and throw her off. But she’d never seen anything as extraordinary as his cock, jutting out clear of his body, hard and thick and deliciously threatening. But after he’d finished, it had looked quite different, softer, nestled in the thatch of his pubic hair, his balls an intriguing shadow behind. She wanted to pet it, stroke a little and see if he liked it. He’d stroked her, after all. Her cheeks got hot. Godsdammit, he’d had his fingers
inside
her.

Walker’s breath hitched and he shifted slightly, his head rolling on the pillow. Mehcredi froze. But after a moment, he murmured a few words in what she thought might be Shar, turned his face into her hair and slipped more deeply into sleep.

She lay for what seemed like hours, staring into the dark, all her attention focused on the points of contact between them. The strength of his thigh along hers, the bump of a hip bone, the breadth of his chest where the softness of her breast was pressed, the strong cage of his ribs, rising and falling with his respiration. If she lifted her head . . . Holding her breath, she did so. Ah . . . With the tip of her tongue she touched the strong brown column of his neck, tasting salt and musk and hot man. He didn’t stir.