Thief of Light (33 page)

Prue nodded, giggling. The blood sang in her veins, an exuberant rush like seelies dancing.

Merciful Sister, she was skidding down an icy slope to her doom, faster and faster, the wind whistling through her hair and whipping her cheeks. Unless her shields were absolutely perfect, there’d be a world of pain, open wounds that might never heal, but right now she couldn’t bring herself to care about the risk. She’d never felt this alive, full of light, crackling with energy. Life, usually so humdrum, so serious, was suddenly full of glamour and danger. She, ordinary Prue McGuire, had an extraordinary purpose and—she shot Erik a glance from under her lashes—an extraordinary man to accomplish it with. Charming he might be, but beneath the light, beguiling manner was a core of steel, an adamantine will. He made Chavis look like a boy, and a boring one at that.

They had a job to do tonight, she and Erik the Golden, but afterward . . . Prue’s breath hitched. She’d take him back to The Garden and—she exhaled slowly—indulge herself. Gorge her senses ’til she was too sated, too sore to move. The memories of pleasure were going to have to last her a long, long time, so she’d better make them good. Her lips curved in a wry smile. Funny, Chavis had offered to teach her how to juggle and she’d refused. With Erik, juggling her emotions had become a means of self-preservation. It astonished her how swiftly she was learning to hide her heart.

Directly in front of them, a boiling knot of bodies tumbled onto the street, fists and oaths flying. A small mongrel dog darted out of the way and disappeared around the corner of the building.

“What the—?” Erik came to an abrupt halt.

“We’re here,” said Prue demurely, taking a cautious step backward. She indicated the sign that swung over the door, a ship’s figure-head with an improbable bosom. “The Sailor’s Lay.”

Erik only gave a disgusted grunt, but Prue laughed outright. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll protect you.”

The tangle of bodies resolved itself into three men and a woman, all liberally splattered with mud. Two of the men lurched off down the alley cursing, while the remaining couple leaned against each other, shoulder to shoulder. A few deep breaths and the woman straightened. “Well, well,” she said, pushing the limp hair out of her eyes with the back of her wrist, “if it isn’t my pretty lunatic.”

Yachi, the guard, the one who’d delivered the Money’s note. Tall and muscular, she topped Prue by a good six inches.

“No,” said Prue tartly. “He’s
my
lunatic, though I’ll grant you he’s pretty.”

Erik choked.

Yachi chuckled. “So I see,” she said. She turned to the barrel-chested figure at her side. “Well, Rhio? What do you think? Pretty?”

Sergeant Rhiomard regarded Erik with disfavor, assessing him in a single comprehensive glance. “No,” he said gruffly. “But I’m bettin’ he’s a fine lad in a brawl.”

“To hell with all that,” growled Erik. “Shall we get on with it?” Without waiting for a reply, he towed Prue in through the swinging doors.

But two steps into the fusty, low-ceilinged room he stopped so abruptly Prue bumped her nose on his spine. Before she could recover, he’d let out a pained bellow that bounced off planked walls sticky with the residue of smoke and beer and sweat. “What the
fuck
—?”

Seated opposite Dai was a small, familiar figure, one grimy little paw poised over three battered nutshells lined up on the stained table. At his elbow was a small jug of ale and the foam on his upper lip gave him an unlikely looking moustache.

Erik strode forward, gripped Florien by the collar and lifted him clear off the seat. “You!” Although the boy snarled with outrage as Erik gave him a brisk shake, he was wise enough to hang unresisting in his grasp. “What are you doing here?”

“What’s it fookin’ look like?” When Erik released him, Florien landed neatly on his feet, tugging his tattered vest straight, huffy as an alley cat in a snit.

“Leave him alone,” said Dai absently, his gaze fixed on the shells. “C’mon, lad, one more time and I’ll get it for sure. The eye’s quicker than the hand, it has to be.”

Shooting Erik a glower, Florien clambered back onto the bench. “Didn’t shake ’ands,” he muttered. “No promises.”

“My mistake,” growled Erik, all grim purpose. “Who gave you beer?” He placed both hands on the table, leaning right into Dai’s space. “You?”

Not shifting an inch, the swordsman met a furious blue gaze. “Boy buys his own. He’s no trouble.”

Caught between horror and amusement, Prue took her underlip firmly beneath her teeth. If she laughed now, three male egos would never forgive her.

Besides . . . she threw a quick glance over her shoulder . . . the place was packed with off-duty guards, mercenaries and sailors, harlots of both sexes providing splashes of color. They were gathering an interested audience. This was what he had come to do.

“Erik.” She planted a sharp elbow in his side and rolled her eyes at the crowd.

A harried serving wench emerged from the kitchen, carrying two brimming tankards. “In a minute,” said Erik.

When he caught the woman’s eye, her face bloomed into a tired smile. Immediately, she swerved in their direction, slapping the beers down without ceremony at a rowdy table of guards. Eagerly, she bent to take Erik’s order, her opulent breasts spilling out of her bodice right under his nose.

For the Sister’s sake, was that the wench’s navel? Prue averted her gaze, so she was surprised to hear the woman’s bark of laughter. “Dunno if’n we got any of thet.”

Still chuckling, she made her way back to the bar, swerving to avoid the clutching hands of a swarthy sailor with the ease of long practice.

Erik fixed the boy with a flinty stare. “Want to stay?”

Florien didn’t lower his eyes. “Yah.”

“On my terms. Understood?” Erik grabbed Florien’s ale jug and drained the last of it in a couple of swallows. He slammed it down so hard the nutshells skittered about on the table as if inhabited by many-legged insects. “
Understood?
”

Finally, resentfully, Florien nodded.

When the serving wench slid a tall mug into the boy’s eager grasp, he stared into it, then sniffed, his brow furrowed. Cautiously, he stuck his tongue out and tasted. Turning an appalled face to Erik, he said, “What t’ fook
is
it?”

“Milk,” said Erik firmly, passing Prue a cup of wine. He took a small, appreciative sip of his own ale. “It’s good for you.”

Prue chuckled, but something broke inside her, something warm and melting and foolish. Dai snorted with amusement. Florien scowled and pushed the mug away, but he said, “Ye gunna sing?”

Erik nodded and rose, rolling his shoulders and sizing up the crowd. With his usual easy grace, he hitched one hip on the cleanest corner of the table and rested a booted foot on the bench. Prue realized he’d done this many, many times before.

He didn’t bother with preliminaries, simply opened his mouth and let the notes pour forth. But this was different, as far from opera as it was possible to get and still be music. Erik roughened and deepened his voice, belting out the rollicking rhythm, framing the words in a drawl so suggestive, so sensual, her jaw dropped. The beat had a wicked thrust to it, as explicit as the regular plunge of a man’s strong hips and thighs. Sweet Sister, she could still feel him deep inside, cramming her full, thick and silky and fiery hot.

She shifted a little in her seat, as warm as if he’d reached out and cupped his hand between her thighs, watching the hush fan out like beer spreading from a leaky barrel, heads turning, mouths agape, one person nudging another. It reached even the shadowed booths at the back favored by those with nefarious business. Like that one, for instance, a figure so completely enveloped in a cloak it could have been male or female, fork poised over a steaming deep-dish pie. The pale face was the merest glimmer in the gloom, rapt like everyone else.

He moved on to a sea shanty next and by the end of the second verse, the sailors were roaring the chorus and banging their tankards on the table. When a skinny old man produced a penny whistle, Erik strolled over and helped him up on the table, all without missing a beat. He grinned when the serving woman wiped a grimy rag down the bar and went clean off the end, she was so enthralled. Prue’s heart gave a nasty little lurch. He was so at ease with the attention, the adulation. Like all born performers, he
needed
it. Prue McGuire would never be enough for Erik the Golden.

She stiffened her shoulders. She knew that. She’d known it from the beginning.

It didn’t take them long to realize who he was. Between numbers, Prue saw heads together, whispering, speculating. After “The Milk-maid’s Jugs,” Erik paused to wet his throat. “Hey, mate!” called a guard, a grizzled veteran. “Ye got the balls for the ‘Seelie Song’?”

“You bet.” Erik chuckled. “I’ve got more than that. Help me sing it and I’ll tell you.”

He sang it solo, a trio of drunken sailors stood on a table and sang it, the whole tavern sang it together, Erik and the whistle player did it as a duet. The walls of the Sailor’s Lay reverberated. People streamed in from the street until the room was packed, the air so thick with excitement and sweat and heat, it swirled, making Prue’s head swim. Her pulse pounded. Gods, he was amazing!

“Let’s hear it then.” Sergeant Rhiomard’s parade-ground bellow cut easily over the applause, the stamping of feet. “About the seelies.”

“Oooh, I love me a bedtime story,” called a dark-skinned sailor, fluttering his lashes.

Not at all discomfited, Erik sprang onto a bench, anchored by two husky workingmen on either side. As if he were relaxing by the fire-side with a few friends, he told how he’d swum with the seelies, seen the rotten stem of the titanplant. Prue discovered she’d grown a little more accustomed to his extraordinary gift for theater, not least his innate sense of timing. But neither was she surprised to note the rolling of eyes, the suppressed chuckles, Rhiomard frowning with his arms folded.

Pushing to her feet, she worked her way through the crowd to Erik’s bench. When she tapped him on the knee, his eyes widened with surprise, but he grasped the hand she offered. A single easy heave and she was standing at his side.

“Prue, what are—?”

Prue slipped her arm around his waist and faced the crowd, her heart beating double time, feeling the hard strength of him all down her side, the cage of his ribs solid beneath her palm. “I saw them too,” she said.

“ ’Course you did, lovey,” called the sailor. He leered at Erik, the lamplight striking gleams off the heavy gold loops distending his ear-lobes. “An’ no wonder.”

“Listen, idiot, I—”

The sailor scowled. He rose, a little unsteadily, supported by a couple of grumbling shipmates.

“One more time!” Erik’s trained voice carried easily over Prue’s. His fingers tightened bruisingly on hers.

Another hasty verse of the “Seelie Song” and the moment passed. A bow and a casual wave and he pulled Prue back to their table.

“Could’ve been nasty.” Calmly, Dai finished his beer.

Prue bit her lip. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Can’t abide a fool.”

Erik tipped up her chin with his fist. His sea blue eyes glowed, softer than she’d ever seen them, mesmerizing. “Thank you,” he said, a deep purr that thrilled along her nerves. “Again.”

Prue caught herself before she tipped forward right into his arms. “I keep my promises.” Gods, she sounded prissy!

Over Erik’s shoulder, she saw the serving woman bearing down on their table with a flirtatious smile, a huge tankard clutched in both hands. When a tall, cloaked figure stepped out of the shadows and into her path, she tottered, the vessel slipping from her grasp. With a muttered apology, the man steadied it, gripping her elbow with one hand, the tankard with the other. The servant brushed him off, her eager gaze still fixed on Erik.

“Here we are then.” Smiling, she set it down before him and put her hands on her blowsy hips. “On the house, like.”

When Erik rose and bowed his thanks, as graceful as any courtier, Prue could swear the woman simpered. But then he sat and pushed the ale aside, absently slapping at Florien’s reaching hand.

“Don’t you want it?” said Dai. “They serve a good brew here.”

Erik shook his head. “I don’t drink when I sing, or much at all really. A question of control.” Something bleak flickered in his eyes. “Go ahead.” His lips quirked in a wry smile. “We’ll carry you home.”

The swordsman’s handsome, merry face creased in a grin as he raised the tankard in salute.

Erik stroked the back of Prue’s hand. “Promises?” he murmured. “Sweetheart, I—”

With a dull thud, the ale jug slipped from Dai’s fingers, spilling across the table in a frothy stream, splashing Prue’s sleeve. Dai clutched his throat, his eyes stretched so wide, she could see the whites all around. He made a noise she had never heard before and hoped never to hear again, a wet, clotted gargle.