Stranger (21 page)

He urged her up on her elbows as he pulled at the buttons down the front of her dress. Some awkwardness as she pushed the top of the dress down her arms, the fabric pulling tight, then loosening as, at last, it came down to collect at her waist, until all she wore was her chemise. She hadn’t put her corset back on, and was grateful she’d waste no time undoing all the hooks and laces.

For a moment, she felt a spur of embarrassment that Catullus would see her in so shabby a garment—reporters, especially female reporters, didn’t make themselves rich through writing, and she hadn’t the budget for silk underwear—but he barely saw it.

He pulled the frayed ribbon that gathered the neck of her chemise. This, too, was thrown aside, and she watched it flutter to earth like a wish granted. The top of the chemise gaped, and he all but pushed it down until it also gathered at her waist. She felt like an exposed and ripe piece of fruit once the protective blossom had fallen away.

Lord knew Catullus looked at her as if he’d devour her in one gulp.

He stared at her bare breasts.

There was no denying it: her breasts were sizable. She’d developed them at an early age, and had to deal with the unfortunate consequence of unwanted male attention, even
before she knew what the attention meant. Sometimes, she resented her breasts. They were often the part of her that garnered the most notice, the first thing people—especially men—saw when she entered a room. As a woman in a man’s profession, she didn’t need further reminders for her colleagues that she wasn’t like them. She’d even tried to bind her breasts, but all she received for her troubles was a sore chest and even more pointed looks at her chest from the boys in the newsroom, as if to ask,
Where did they go?

I’m up here,
she’d wanted to shout.

She knew that Catullus was unlike any man she’d known. But, when he gazed down at her breasts, then up at her, what she saw in his eyes went beyond animal male lust. Something else shone in his gaze, something much more profound.

“You are so beautiful,” he rasped. And rather than paw or squeeze her breasts, his hands came up to hold her face and kiss her tenderly.

She knew, then. She knew what he’d come to mean to her. And she kissed him back, blinking away a sudden sheen of moisture in her own eyes, swallowing the burn in her throat.

The gentle kiss shifted, becoming passionate, deeper and demanding.

She covered his hands with her own, then pulled them down slowly, so slowly, until his palms cupped her breasts. They sighed. For a moment, neither of them moved, simply letting the sensation of his bare hands upon her flesh soak into them both. Faintly, almost too faint for her to perceive, he trembled. This, too, sent a bolt of purest emotion to her innermost self.

His hands were big, so that, instead of her uncomfortably spilling over, he encompassed her. With infinite tenderness, he began to stroke her breasts, tracing her, gathering her up. A slight abrading from the calluses on his skin, evidence that he worked with his hands, and the rasping against
her own, softer flesh was delicious. His fingertips circled her nipples, bringing them to tight beads.

Then he bent his head and licked them, one, the other.

She gasped. Arched her back, up, into his touch.

He was thorough, as she knew he would be, licking and sucking her, lightly taking each nipple between his teeth, soothing and inflaming her with strokes of his tongue. She writhed beneath him, holding him to her.

She’d known she could gain pleasure from her breasts. But she’d never experienced
this
kind of pleasure, so acute and all-encompassing that she barely heard the moans that rolled from her.

Cool air touched her legs as he gathered up her skirts. He stroked up her legs, over the rather coarse knit of her stockings. Her drawers were removed so quickly, she barely felt them sliding down her legs. Once she was divested of her drawers, his touch returned to her legs. Past her garters, to the bare skin of her thighs. His breath came hot against her chest as he caressed her. When he stroked between her legs, where she was fevered and slick and ready for him, she moaned again and was matched by his growl.

Her hands possessed their own instinct. Along the broad contours of his chest, his tight belly that heaved in and out as he fought for breath, and then lower, to grasp him through trousers. The heat of his cock burned her, even with the barrier of fine wool. This wasn’t enough. She undid his trouser buttons and took him in her hand. He sucked in air, a hiss, and, even though time was in short supply, they let themselves explore for a few indulgent moments—her soaked folds, the aching pearl of her clit, the silken steel of his cock, its round, smooth head. A big man. He was a big man, all of a proportion, but she wasn’t afraid, because if anything was right, it was this. Them. Together.

“I think …” he rumbled, “you
will
drive me mad.”

“Like this?” She dragged a hand down his cock, then up. “Or this?” Her fingernails lightly scored his shaft.

He tightened and growled, growing hotter, harder.

She loved this power she had over him. And, as he dipped his fingers into her clinging heat, putting exactly the right amount of pressure exactly where she needed it, he had power over her. They ruled each other and reveled in both their sovereignty and servitude.

She did have a good imagination, and there were scores, no,
hundreds
of things she wanted to do to him and with him. But there wasn’t time, and she was careening in a free fall of desire.

Her legs widened, and she urged him closer, between her thighs. “Now, Catullus.” She could barely get the words out, her need all but choked her. “I can’t … wait any longer.”

A blaze of triumph flared in his eyes. Then, in a movement too fast for her to fully understand, he suddenly rolled on his back and positioned her so she straddled him. She braced herself above him, hands upon his chest. He gripped her thighs in a hold almost painfully strong. With subtle adjustments, she brought him to her entrance. The first touch of flesh to flesh, only the head of his cock at her opening. She felt her moisture coating him, proving she was more than ready. Their gazes locked.

A silent agreement without gesture or word. She slid down, taking him inside her.

“My God.” For a few heartbeats, all she could do was feel him within her, his size and heat that filled more than just her pussy, but everything of herself.

He panted beneath her, head thrown back, fighting for control and allowing her whatever she needed, but it cost him. And when, experimentally, she rose up and then sank down, his teeth clenched. If, for him, this felt even a fraction as delicious as it did for her, no wonder sweat gleamed on his throat and chest.

She began to rock on him, an exquisite slide and drag. Pleasure concentrated where they joined and radiated out in solar waves.

“So good,” she gasped. “Need more.”

“Yes.”

Faster she moved, her gentle rocking giving way to a harder, more urgent rhythm. He met her hips with his own, drawing them back and then surging forward. Each thrust tore a gasp from her, as if she could hardly believe the ecstasy she was feeling.

“Touch yourself,” he growled, a tender command. “Ride me and touch yourself. I want you to have pleasure. So much pleasure.”

She readily obeyed. As Catullus gripped her waist, guiding her up and down, she let one hand rise up to caress her breast; the other circled and stroked her clit. Her fingers brushed his cock plunging in and out of her, driving into her.

This was too much. Her climax refused denial. It crashed over her as she exploded outward.

No sooner had one wave ebbed, than another took its place. And another. An unending deluge of pleasure.

Wrung out, she finally draped herself over him in a boneless heap. Then she was on her back, his hands beneath her hips, as he thrust into her. His face was almost grim, his lips compressed into a line. His speed increased, and she bent up, into him, wrapping her legs around his slim hips. Yes.

He froze, arms rigid, and groaned out his release. More than a release. A surrender. She felt him within her, pulsing in time with her heart.

They were immobile, trapped in the amber of deepest intimacy. Forever they would stay like this, two lovers eternally bound, the object of future study and envy.

Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself down. Yet he was careful not to crush her, rolling them both so they lay on their sides, facing one another, yet still intimately locked. Their breathing rasped in and out, trying to regain normalcy,
as if such a thing could ever happen after what they’d just shared.

She pressed kisses over his face, rubbed her cheek against his, and then tilted her head back so she could see him more fully.

He brushed damp strands of hair from her forehead, and, for a while, they looked into each other’s eyes in the silence of the room.

He gathered one of her hands in his, then slid her fingers into his mouth and licked. She felt a renewed blush—not of embarrassment, but desire—when she realized he licked the fingers she had used to touch herself. She could hardly believe the diffident and reticent man from only a few days ago was the same one who commanded her to stroke herself as she rode him.

“Gemma,” he murmured, when he removed her fingers from his mouth. His eyes shone with warmth as he looked at her. “I waited. I waited so long.”

She smiled and kissed him, knowing he meant more than waiting for the opportune moment to make love. A lifetime, he’d waited, a stranger in his homeland, eternally alone.

No longer. For the time they had, they had each other.

A tap sounded on the bedroom door.

“Sunrise,” said Day.

Time to fight.

Gemma had never been in a battle before. She didn’t know if they had definitive starts; maybe someone walked out onto a field and dropped a handkerchief, signaling the onset of combat. Or did they trickle into being, one shot becoming another, and then another, until gradually gunfire and smoke were everywhere? They might be as individual as fingerprints or the same from one to the other.

All she knew now was that one moment, the village was quiet, preternaturally still, with her and the Blades taking up positions within buildings at each entrance to the small town. Gemma stood in readiness at the eastern entrance, inside a house, with Astrid crouched within another house across the street, the nose of her rifle poking out of an open window. Gemma pointed a pistol out another open window, her loaded derringer in her pocket. She’d never deliberately shot at a man with intent to kill. But Catullus had been clear. No bullet was to be wasted on just wounding. The Heirs would kill her, and every Blade, if given the chance. She was not to give them the chance.

If it meant protecting Catullus, she was ready to do what was necessary.

Oh, God, Catullus. Her body still glowed in the aftermath of his lovemaking. The experience had been … extraordinary. She wondered that her skin didn’t gleam like a pearl, because he made love to her as if no one and nothing were more precious.

Would she experience that ecstasy, that adulation again? There was a distinct possibility she would not.

These thoughts spun through her mind. Then—chaos.

Men charged toward the village. Armed men, faces hard with purpose. They weren’t there, and then they were, and Gemma realized they weren’t trying to be quiet. It didn’t matter to them whether or not the Blades knew about their attack, because they believed there was nothing the Blades could do to stop it.

The group of men barreled down the road, keeping in an orderly group. Until one stumbled, slipped. And then another. They struggled for balance, but their feet slipped underneath them. In tangled knots they fell, swearing. The Heirs at the rear of the charge found their assault blocked by the struggling men on the ground.

Gemma caught Astrid’s eye through the windows across the street, and they shared a brief smile. Per Catullus’s instructions, the cobblestones had received a generous coating of oil, with a dusting of dirt on top to hide the telltale slick.

Taking advantage of the confusion, Astrid aimed and fired into the lurching group. One of the men yelled, catching a bullet in the foot; then his comrades shot back.

Bits of wood and glass exploded above Astrid as the Heirs returned fire. She did not let up, shooting and reloading so quickly her actions blurred.

But Gemma didn’t want only Astrid to bear the responsibility of holding the Heirs back. Gemma peered up over the window frame and squeezed the trigger of her pistol. The gun kicked in her hand, yet she fought to keep herself steady. She crouched for cover when the Heirs, learning her position,
began firing in her direction. The window above her shattered, and she covered herself from the broken glass.

Though the slick had slowed the Heirs’ advance, they were already gaining their feet. Two limped, but pushed forward with anger blazing in their eyes.

If she stayed inside the house, she would be trapped.

“Fall back,” Astrid called across the street to Gemma. “We’ll lead them to Catullus.”

Gemma nodded, then scrambled out of the house into a run. As she raced toward the center of the village, she heard Heirs’ shouting behind her, felt the hot trails of bullets as they sped past. She couldn’t waste time in being afraid. There was only the need to move ahead.

She and Astrid ran, dodging gunfire. Then Catullus appeared, standing in the middle of the street, brandishing his shotgun. If she wasn’t hell-bent on running for her life, Gemma would have admired the sight he made—fierce and lethal, a man capable of anything, the weapon held easily and comfortably in his big hands.

The wooden barrel lay on its side in front of him. Heat radiated out from the barrel, though it didn’t appear to be on fire. She didn’t have time to consider how or why this could be. As Gemma neared, Catullus’s face hardened, jaw tight, gaze dark and angry.

“Get behind me,” he commanded.

She did so at once. He kicked the barrel, sending it rolling down the street, straight toward the advancing Heirs.

Catullus blasted two shots at the Heirs before grabbing Gemma by her arm and hauling her toward the shelter of a doorway. Astrid, too, dove for a doorway, pressing herself against the jamb.

Once in their doorway, Catullus braced his arms on either side of Gemma, shielding her. She peered around him, needing to see what was coming.

The barrel continued to roll toward the Heirs. The men looked perplexed, seemingly wondering what an ordinary
barrel was doing rolling in their direction, but didn’t stop their advance. They charged up the street, and, as the barrel came toward them, stepped aside to let it pass. One of their number—a bulky brute of a man—made to kick the barrel to one side. As he did, he suddenly yelped in pain. The leg of his trousers began to char and smoke.

“Stay down, damn it,” Catullus growled, shoving Gemma against the unyielding mass of his body. For a moment, all she knew was the heat and press of him, shielding her.

A detonation rocked the ground, and Gemma would have stumbled if Catullus wasn’t there, holding her up. She heard the explosion, followed by the screams of men.

When Catullus stepped back from the doorway, allowing her freedom to move, Gemma looked down the street to where the Heirs had been advancing. She gaped at the scene.

Three of the men lay on the ground, unmoving. They were bloody and torn. Two others staggered on their feet, covered in cuts large and small. The remaining three sported lesser injuries, but they shook their heads and struggled to regain clarity.

“The barrel exploded,” Gemma murmured, stunned.

Grimly, Catullus surveyed his handiwork. “It was packed with gunpowder and iron scrap.”

“I didn’t see it burning.”

“I soaked the wood in very pure, distilled alcohol from the chemist. Burns invisibly.”

“So the Heirs wouldn’t know to get out of the way.”

He gave Gemma a clipped nod; then they and Astrid turned at the sound of an enraged animal bellow coming across the village, from the western entrance.

“Nathan.” Astrid sprinted toward the sound, a look of angry fear tightening her face.

Catullus and Gemma moved to follow, but a sudden, loud clicking filled the air. The lightening sky dimmed.
The whirring, clicking grew even louder as the sky darkened. A strange, shifting cloud of shadows. Spinning around, Gemma saw one of the slightly less wounded Heirs chanting while gripping something metal in his hand, something that was not a gun. Looking harder, she saw it was an ankh, an Egyptian cruciform that symbolized eternity.

“He’s got—” she began, but then the cloud descended.

Everything became a swirling, seething mass. The noise deafened. She and Catullus found themselves pelted by thousands upon thousands of enraged, sharp bodies. Pincers and serrations scored her face, her hands. She had just enough presence of mind to slip her pistol into her pocket. Gemma batted uselessly at the tempest, her hands contacting untold numbers of flying, biting creatures. Squinting, she tried to make out what the things were, but there were too many, their numbers too thick and their attacks relentless.

Something wriggled in her hair. She reached up and plucked it from her head. When she examined what it was she held, she fought down a gag. A copper-colored beetle, the size of her palm, legs and antennae waving, mouth snapping. The air was thick with them, coming at her from every direction. She felt the insects trying to wriggle down her collar and climb up her legs.

The only thing that kept her from screaming was the fear the beetles would climb into her mouth.

All her exposed skin burned as a thousand mouths bit her. Mandibles gouged at her face. She tried to pluck the insects from her, but no sooner had she flung one aside than two took its place.

Reaching out, her eyes screwed shut against the onslaught, she searched for Catullus. Blindly, she waved her arms, contacting only more flying creatures. They came so thick and fast that she staggered against their bombardment. Maybe she could take shelter inside one of the shops or houses along the road.

She heard glass breaking—the insects crashing through windows. No shelter, then.

A heavy mass slammed into her, and she fell backward to the ground. Under her back, she felt the crunching of dozens of beetles, their bodies releasing sticky ooze. But she paid this no mind. Instead, she focused on the bulky body crushing her. A man. Pinning her to the ground, robbing her of breath.

She opened her eyes to slits. An unknown man’s face snarled down at her. His thin lips were twisted, his eyes cold. Vaguely, she noticed that a pocket of air surrounded him, free of beetles. Some protection insulated him against the insects. Gemma struggled furiously beneath him, clawing at him.

“Blade bitch,” he spat.

One of his hands came up and cuffed her across the cheek. A constellation of pain sparked, dimming her sight, yet she struggled against unconsciousness.

When she felt the cold press of a gun barrel under her chin, she went very still.

“That’s better,” the man hissed, shoving his face closer. “Treat me nice, and I won’t have to kill you.”

Gemma allowed her body to soften even more, compliant. “I’ll be good.”

The Heir smirked, slightly lowering the gun.

Her hands shot up between them. With one hand, she pushed his gun away from her. And with the other, she dug her thumb into the man’s eye. He howled, and she pushed all the harder, until something wet ran down her hand.

Gemma used his distraction to shove herself away. As she did, she left the small shelter provided by the Heir’s nearness. Beetles surged around her as she rolled to one side, then crouched low. With one hand clapped over his ruined eye, the Heir struggled to his knees. He still held his pistol, and Gemma threw herself back down to the ground as he fired wildly.

A loud blast punctured the roar of swarming beetles. The Heir toppled over, gurgling, a red stain spreading across his torso. Insects immediately covered him. With his death, the protection around him vanished.

Then Gemma was being pulled to her feet. In the thick, stinging cloud, she found herself cradled in the shelter of Catullus’s chest.

“Hurt?” he breathed close.

She shook her head, then reached up and touched his face. Like her, he was covered with bites and scratches, but he was alive, and so was she, and, even in the middle of this hell, she allowed herself a moment of relief.

It was short-lived. Somewhere, the Heir’s chanting grew louder, sending the beetles into a frenzy.

Catullus pressed them both down to the ground. He covered her as the insects surged, and the darkness was everywhere, without end.

Catullus sheltered Gemma with his larger body. Beneath him she felt tiny, delicate. Yet not a moment ago he’d seen her effectively cripple an Heir with nothing more than her thumb. That did not mean she was bulletproof. When Catullus had gotten his opening, he took his shot. Now the Heir was nothing but rotting meat in the road. She was safe from that son of a bitch’s threat.

But the damned scarabs kept coming. Catullus didn’t know if the insects were flesh-eating or just extremely maddening. Now was not the time for entomological studies. With the swarming beetles everywhere, and the Heirs insulated against them, Catullus, Gemma, and the rest of the Blades were hobbled. Vulnerable.

As long as the Heirs had the Ankh of Khepera, the scarabs were theirs to command. And the Blades were defenseless.

Not entirely defenseless.

He lowered his mouth close to Gemma’s ear. “Move with me.” He felt her slight nod.

Slowly, like a crab, they crawled along the ground, he forming a protective shield around her. His sense of direction never failed him, and after long moments, they pressed against a wall. He guided her to turn into it. “Now, stay here,” he murmured. With a quick movement, he stood, throwing off his long cashmere coat and using it to cover her.

Scarabs swarmed everywhere, all over him, burrowing between the gaps in his clothing. Their eager mandibles bit and pinched, their legs scrabbling everywhere. He was glad to see, however, that the wall and his coat effectively shielded Gemma from the worst of it.

No time was wasted as he turned and plowed through the living storm. He remembered exactly the position of the Heir—some sod named Baslow, as Catullus recalled—who held the Ankh.

Even though the Ankh’s magic buffered the Heirs from the scarabs, their visibility was still hindered by the swarm. The hazy shape of Baslow stood in the middle of the street, searching. Catullus contemplated firing his shotgun at him—but he’d give away his position if he missed, which, at this distance, and with the confusing barrage of scarabs, was not unlikely.

No guns, then. Not yet. Using the beetles to hide his approach, Catullus eased around Baslow, then tackled him from behind. The Heir’s gun flew from his hand, but he held tight to the Ankh.

They grappled and rolled over the cobbled ground, wrestling for the Ankh. Catullus gritted his teeth when the Heir threw a solid punch to his ribs, then countered with his own to Baslow’s jaw.

Still, the Heir managed to spit, “You can’t stop it, Graves. The Blades will be destroyed. England
will
rise again.”

“Not at this cost.”

They struggled together on the ground. Catullus knotted his fist in Baslow’s thin hair and pounded the Heir’s head against the paving stones. Baslow’s eyes grew hazy. Seizing his advantage, Catullus reared up and drove an elbow into the Heir’s wrist. A spasm forced Baslow’s grip on the Ankh to loosen. Catullus grabbed the Ankh.

At that moment, the scarabs dropped from the sky. In thick waves they fell, and as soon as their bodies hit the ground, they burst into clouds of desert-scented sand. An inch-deep coating of sand covered all surfaces. The village, cottages, and shops were thickly smothered in grit and were of a fashion culturally midway between Egypt and England. Catullus tucked the Ankh into a hidden pocket in his jacket.