The Demon of Darkling Reach (The Black Prince Book 1) (48 page)

She understood what he meant: that she saw only what he wanted her to see. “But I don’t believe that someone with no knowledge of goodness could act so convincingly,” she protested. “No one has ever cared for me as you do,” she finished, feeling unsure of herself. Hadn’t he told her that he
didn’t
care? No, not precisely. He’d told her that he was incapable of feeling as she did, but that he
did
feel. That he wanted her.

“Thank you,” he said, his tone unreadable.

“Tell me more,” she said.

“About being a demon, or being a man?”

“Both. Have you….” She hesitated. “What’s it like, being with a woman?”

“I’ve been with women and men,” he told her. “Both as a woman, and as a man. I’ve held a number of forms, over the years, and done a number of things. All of it in the service of others.”

“Until now.”

“Until now,” he agreed. “I wanted to be human,” he said simply. “To experience what he, and my other masters, had experienced. To finally know what it was to walk the world as my own man, without a master to direct my movements. I used to watch Tristan with Brenna and I wanted…what he had. The power. Her love. I respected him for a long time, even so, and things might never have come to the current pass. But he did something that…I lost faith in him.

“I’d chafed under the reign of too many foolish men, and even a demon can only withstand so much before he rebels. I wanted my freedom; to do certain things, and to not do certain things. To refuse the commands that he’d given me, if I believed them to be wrong. Like he had, like all men had. A freedom that they seldom, if ever, appreciated.”

Isla nodded in understanding.

“A demon, or any supernatural entity, makes a contract with the practitioner who summons him. But, like all contracts, its validity depends on interpretation. Regardless of how many protective circles he draws or incantations he chants, a practitioner can only control the demon he summons to the extent that that demon believes himself bound by their agreement.”

She nodded again.

“A protective circle, like any element in a spell, is only a physical representation of a preexisting truth. If there isn’t the will to back it up, to make it
real
, then it might as well be any shape. It has no intrinsic power of its own. All practitioners,” he continued, “call demons with a certain purpose in mind: protection of a loved one, perhaps, or the desire to exact revenge. But sometimes that will becomes perverted…and practitioners of the dark arts in particular tend to forget that the rule of three applies to us all.”

“The rule of three?”

“That whatever one sends out into the world, one receives back threefold.”

Isla digested this. She’d hoped that Tristan would explain what he’d meant about losing faith, but he didn’t seem inclined to. And she didn’t press the subject. He ran his finger down the side of her face, and along her shoulder. “The time came, little starling, when I no longer believed that he deserved my loyalty. And so I broke the contract. And so here I am.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said.

“Are you?” That strange note was back.

“Yes.”

“To answer your question,” he said, changing the subject once again, “the art of love has its moments.” He caressed her cheek gently with one finger.

“Does it mean anything?”

“Rarely.”

“Does this mean anything?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yes.” His lips grazed hers as he uttered the single syllable. He slid his hand up the back of her neck, twisting in her hair, at once tender and brutal. She smiled slightly and then, slipping her hands inside his cloak, opened her mouth to his. She didn’t know if he was telling the truth and she didn’t care. It
felt
real, when he held her. His touch was confident and sure and electrifying, and she wanted him and she felt safe with him. She realized now that she’d never felt truly safe before, truly protected, until she’d found him.

He pressed one hand to the small of her back, running the other down her neck and over her breast. Her nipple stiffened through the thin material. She gasped.

“Do they frighten you?” he asked, holding his fingers up before her eyes. There was a wicked challenge to the hissing words, and something very like mirth.

“They’re part of you,” she said.

His lips found hers again and they kissed with the violence of two people terrified of being separated. She felt him, rigid, against her. She twisted her fingers in his short hair, holding his mouth to hers. Her blood was on fire. He was no less eager than she, his hands exploring her freely as he continued to dominate her with his impassioned kiss. His lips were at once hard and bruising, and hot with a powerful need.

She was trapped in the embrace of his arms, totally at his mercy, and she wanted to be. He could have done anything to her, at that moment, and she would have found it blissful. She slid her hands down over his chest, his stomach, and to the waistband of his breeches. She’d never seen a man naked before, and had only the most general idea of what he possessed. She trailed her fingers downward, cupping the same bulge that she’d felt pressing against her, and stroked it.

He groaned. “Stop,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Show me.” She didn’t know where the words had come from and was shocked at herself even as she spoke them. She rubbed him gently with the heel of her palm. And then, shocking herself even more, she slid her fingers down inside his breeches. She had no idea what she was doing; she felt like she’d been possessed, like some alien force was directing her movements, even though she knew she hadn’t. The compulsion was none other than her own: she wanted to see, to know, to
experience
.

He kissed her violently, passionately, and then pulling back slightly, his lips just leaving hers, “no,” he breathed, “with your mouth.”

His hands made short work of his breeches, parting the laces and freeing himself. He placed his hand on her shoulder, guiding her gently but firmly to her knees. The folds of her cloak protected them from the hard ground; leaves crackled as she crushed them flat. Her heart raced, anxiety making her light-headed. She studied the first example of the male form that she’d ever seen. It was huge, intimidating, much larger than she’d imagined. She wondered how such a thing could go
into
a person without killing them. Short black hair curled around its base. She reached out, hesitantly, and found that the skin was strangely soft. Silken, almost.

His fingers brushed her cheek and then she felt his hand on the back of her head, guiding her forward. She opened her lips, just a little at first, as she felt him slide inside her. She fought the impulse to gag. “Breathe slowly,” he hissed.

He leaned back against the column of the grotto, one hand on the back of her head and the other at his side, as she explored him hesitantly with her tongue. Taking her cues from his responses, she soon discovered that she liked having him like this. She liked the sense of power, of knowing that she could bring him exquisite pleasure—or pain—at her discretion.

She played with him, swirling her tongue around and moving her lips over him at an agonizingly slow pace. And then she felt both of his hands on the back of her head, his claws digging into her scalp as he thrust his hips forward. He used her then, thrusting, as he gave himself over to lust. She gagged as, going rigid, he pulsed inside of her. She tasted something salty, almost like blood, and swallowed it reflexively. They held their positions, motionless, until after a long minute he let his hands drop.

He helped her to her feet, brushing away a spare bead of moisture at the corner of her mouth with the ball of his thumb and kissing her. His kiss was gentle, this time, and she kissed him back equally gently. He held her for a long time and then he sank to the floor, pulling her with him. She sat curled in his lap, her head against his chest, as he rested his back against the pillar. His eyes, as usual, were on some far distant point.

He stroked her hair absently.

“I love you,” she said.

“Tell me again.”

“I love you.” She smiled into his chest.

I
sla woke up late the next morning, blinking her eyes groggily and stunned to see the strong midmorning sun pouring through her window. Mica raised her head, stared at her ostensible owner with disdain, and once again resumed sunning herself on the tiles. Isla smiled to herself; there was something so comforting about a cat. Whatever else was going on in the world, a cat cared about three things: sleep and food and hairballs. More than once over the past few weeks, she’d woken up in the middle of the night to the sounds of Mica trying to pass a particularly difficult one. Now
that
sounded like a demon. It didn’t matter to Mica that Isla was getting married; one bedroom was more or less the same as any other to her, so long as there was a spot to sun herself in.

Isla threw back the covers and climbed out of bed, wincing at the feel of the cold tiles on her bare feet as she reached her hands over her head in a long stretch. Pointing her fingers at the ceiling, she reveled in the sensation of being alive.

Rose brought in her bath and Isla sank into it, shivering.

“Where’s Alice?” she asked.

Rose shrugged, turning to hide her blush.

“Oh, I see.” Isla laughed. “It’s like that. Again.”

After a minute, Rose laughed too. She passed Isla her soap, and sat down on the hearth bench to wait. Since Rowena hadn’t darkened Isla’s door for some mornings, the dairy maid had become Isla’s unofficial dresser. Isla wondered if she could take Rose with her when she left. That was, if Rose wanted to go. She sensed, although the two women had never discussed the issue, that Rose found life at Enzie Hall just as chafing as Isla.

She ran the bar over her goose-pimpled skin, willing the time to pass quickly and annoyed that she still had to wash her hair. Leaning backwards, she gasped as the frigid water hit her scalp. Hurriedly, she massaged in the cleansing oil that she used. Rubbing her scalp with small circular motions to break up the accumulated grime, she affected an air that was studiedly casual. “Rose,” she asked, “have you thought about going north?”

“Have I ever!” Rose spoke with unbridled enthusiasm. “If the men look anything like the duke—I mean, ah….” She trailed off, her cheeks as red as beets.

Isla rinsed her hair and, gripping the sides of the tub for support, stood up out of the still-frigid water. She held a hand out for her towel, which Rose passed her. Stepping out of the tub, Isla strode quickly to the fireplace and stood before it, shivering. Her tub was nothing more than a glorified trough, and if she hadn’t been so committed to bathing she would have given up the effort as a lost cause. But her last few nights with Tristan had been wonderful ones, and she felt more inclined than ever to make an effort over her appearance. She didn’t want to disappoint him.

She was still a maiden, which both disappointed and relieved her, but she didn’t feel much like one. She felt, in truth, rather like a woman of the world. Certainly by the standards of Enzie Moor. She smiled smugly to herself as the last few beads of water evaporated from her skin. Sitting down on the hearth bench next to Rose, she began to work conditioning cream through her hair and then, slowly, to brush it out straight with her ivory comb. The comb had belonged to her mother and, as ambivalent as Isla was about that woman, had remained one of her prized possessions.

Beside her, Rose sipped mulled cider. Isla luxuriated in the comparative warmth of her spot. Finished with her hair, she laid down on the edge of the bench and let it fall over the side where the fire would help it dry. Isla’s hair was black, glossy, and perfectly straight no matter how she dried it but she hated the feeling of ice against her scalp.

She shut her eyes. She was uncharacteristically exhausted. She’d passed another late night with Tristan, this time talking until the wee hours about every subject she could think of. She wondered if her sister had seen as much of Rudolph and quickly gave the thought up as unworthy. And revolting. Just about the
last
thing Isla wanted to picture was Rudolph Bengough naked. She doubted, either, that for all their long acquaintance the two knew each other as well—or very well at all. She wondered when they’d finally get married. She wondered when
she’d
get married. Tristan hadn’t mentioned anything, and she could only assume that he’d talked to her father. In any case, she didn’t have the courage to ask.

“I don’t mean to insult you,” Rose ventured.

“You haven’t.” Isla’s lips curved in a small smile. “I like him too.” She cracked an eye. “I’ve been hoping that, if Tristan agrees, you’d consider coming with me.”

Rose squealed, clapping her hands. “Yes!”

She would have to discuss the idea with Tristan, but Isla didn’t think he’d mind. She was bringing her cat, too, and her horse, regardless of what he said. Mica regarded her blandly from her new spot by the fireplace. She blinked, once.

Isla sighed. “There are rumors, about the North,” she murmured. “I wonder how many of them are true.”