Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 95
Her wheat-gold eyes flared wide as he approached her with a silent tread that belied his colossal form. “Are not you he?”
His own eyes were neither blue nor green but something in-between, yet too light to be anything but otherworldly. Though his gaze—his very presence—might have frightened any other, she was manifestly struck with fascination and awe only. It pleased him. “You think me the life-giver?” he said. “The Lord of the under realm?” The god of no phallus, he chuckled to himself.
“Ay, lord.” Her breath hitched with wonderment.
He took her arm and pulled her gently from the floor so that she was standing before him. “Kneel not before me, my queen. Art thou not my consort? My queen? My sister?” He lowered his head so that he could press his lips to her brow and her cheeks. “Is thy name not Isis?” He knew that she imagined herself Isis incarnate. He dropped his mouth a little lower, letting it fall lightly against hers, so lush, red, and fragrant. And in that moment he knew he was lost to her. The black abyss loomed closer.
“As you say, lord.” The warmth of her whispered words fluttered across his lips with the redolence of figs and dates—forbidden fruits. “What seeketh thou here tonight? Just a kiss?”
“Just an earthly hour,” he replied.
“And how may a queen of Egypt serve you in that blessed hour?” The petals of her mouth spread delicately, knowingly.
“For tonight I wish only to council if you will hear me.”
“I will hear you, Lord of Love.”
“Then I will make of you a queen of kings. And your children shall rule among the stars.”
A sound from the bed drew his gaze and the incense of ancient memory fled out the window and was lost upon the Yorkshire wolds in an instant. It was Emma, murmuring in her sleep. He hoped her dreams were less troubled than his own; it was why he never slept. His dreams were more often than not beset with remembrances long denied. Failures. Regrets.
When Emma sighed and rolled over onto her side, still fast asleep, he smiled. But there was nothing of softness or humor in it.
A movement outside, below his window, caught his eyes as he turned back towards the night. William. That surly gait was unmistakable, so was the black cloud that followed perpetually in his wake. Well, William’s black mood suited him just now, and the boy was always up for a good hunt. Emma’s blood had only whetted his appetite.
After one last glance towards the sleeping woman in his bed, Markus vaulted over the window ledge and dropped from his tower window.
Chapter Forty-Five
King of Hearts
It was dark out tonight. Too dark for business; well, too dark for most to earn an honest coin. Only dark creatures braved nights like this. Dark creatures like this one—a girl not yet twenty. Desire had driven her from the safe decay of the hostel. Desire for the palliative of hard spirits she could ill afford lest she hike up her skirts for a few drunks and sailors, and only the worst kind of seamen were out on nights like this. As were monsters like him.
Her fear incensed the air, a warm piquant reprieve from the effluvia of London that clung to his coat. The sickness in her was as pervasive as the lingering stench of her last customer. Her blood was ale-sodden, her liver diseased. But not the heart. Leastwise not physically. It beat hard and fast like a nightingale’s. Oh, London’s nightingales were his favorite pets. No one spared much of a care when these night birds stopped singing.
He knew she could feel his gaze, he was best pleased when they could feel him watching. A bird like her hadn’t reached twenty without learning to trust her night senses. With a malefic smile, he crawled along the brick and stuccoed walls like a spider.
He positioned himself further up the road and made ready, presenting a respectable demeanor in his bespoke coat. He was merely a fine gentleman waiting beneath one of the rare gaslights that populated this derelict little corner of London wherein only the forsaken dwelled and hunted. When at last she came into view, spotting him instantly, she visibly relaxed. She did not yet perceive the wolf beneath the lambskin.
He turned to look away from her, glancing this way and that as though searching for a hack to convey him back to his grand house and sacks of gold. He pulled out his silver repeater and made a show of checking the time.
Already her mouth was watering at the prospect of all the drink his pennies would afford her. Already her fear was forgotten. “You lost, gent?”
He glanced up, affecting surprise at finding he was not alone. “I believe I am.”
“Hackneys don’t come down this way.” Her hips swayed suggestively as she approached him, manifestly delighted now that she could better see his fine features. The handsome facade was as much a part of his aegis as the manners he employed. “Let ole Daisy take care of you,” she said. ”Follow me, my gent.”
He appeared to consider her offer and then, with a bow—which delighted her all the more—he gestured for her to lead the way. He trailed her along a succession of narrow alleys, each one darker and filthier than the one before. The filth, however, was an ineffectual deterrent to a macabre sommelier, for her cloying scent and strong heartbeat filled his senses.
Without preamble, she halted and pressed her back against the brick wall to hike up her skirts.
He stayed her hand. “Is there no honest work for a pretty bird like you?”
“Honesty ain’t as good a paymaster as a man’s cock.”
He laughed, appreciating her gutter wit. “Indeed, there is honesty in that at least.” The