Dominic (19 page)

Emma. That’s al I am. Don’t let your imagination gift me with any finer qualities.”

The morning song of a lark split the sudden tension between them. The sky had begun to lighten.

“I must go.” He glanced at her and ran a frustrated hand through his blue-black hair. “I cannot return to you without an invitation that wil al ow me

passage through the gate.”

He waited a beat. No such invitation came his way.

“Maybe when Rose is older,” she said. “If it seems she needs you.”

“So be it,” he said, gruff and distant. “But when you’re lying alone in your bed, wife, remember this. Toward the end of that night, you wanted me. I

can make you want me again. You need only ask.”

With that, he turned and departed for the gate, treading the same path he’d taken just shy of four weeks earlier. He was gone within minutes. Back

to his world—the world where she could not trespass.

And that night and every night thereafter, in her solitary bed, she did think of him.

19

Else World

Moonful

S
evering himself from the black of night, Dominic entered the temple, reeking of blood and destruction. Around him, the atmosphere was hushed and

stagnant as if the air itself were leery of drawing his notice and temper.

The stars overhead were already blazing with light, harbingers of the ful moon to come. Soon the Cal ing would beckon and the Change in him

would begin. Then this wrath of his would rechannel itself into a mindless, driving lust.

His boots stomped across the marble tiles. Tomorrow the votives would clean the muddy tracks he’d left, wiping away al trace of him as best they

could so that everyone could happily pretend he didn’t exist.

After al , weapons were meant to kil , not to intrude on the everyday lives of those they protected.

Having just returned from battle, he was smeared with the evidence of his exertions. His jacket and shirt had been slashed. At some point he’d

discarded them in the dirt and left them behind. Both arms were bloodied, and his body was hot and humid with sweat.

But his wounds were minor and would heal. His opponents had not been so fortunate.

He’d taken down a dozen demons tonight and was tormented with the remembered pain of accepting their souls into his flesh, one by one. To hold

them in his possession fouled him, sickened him. This never-ending despicable duty was slowly destroying him. Changing him.

For trouble hadn’t found him tonight. No, he had searched it out. When he’d come upon a nest of demons he’d taken delight in slaughtering them.

More and more he was coming to wonder who was the more evil of them? Demons existed only to kil . Was he any better?

When he reached the center of the temple, the Facilitator and his two Acolytes were in their usual places. Hovering near the obsidian mirror, they

gazed intently into it as though expecting it to impart some mysterious wisdom to them at any moment.

A dozen or so females had gathered as wel . They were going through the motions required of them before the celebration of Moonful

commenced—diligently cleansing the statues that ringed the enormous chamber and polishing the smal er reflecting mirrors.

Upon his entrance, the Facilitator took one look at him and made an assumption regarding what he required. Waving a gnarled hand toward the

women, he beckoned them to abandon their tasks and see to him.

Those who drew near him at the Facilitator’s command were plainly terrified yet obedient. None of them had come to this temple out of desire but

rather out of obligation. Fresh ones were summoned here regularly each Moonful to attend Dominic as he wished. And they came, prepared to sacrifice

themselves to the wicked desires of the demonhand.

Were he to bury himself in their bodies, they would be cleansed of his seed come dawn, and the cloths used to soak it up would be burned, for his

people believed it carried the same taint as did he. The women would then be sequestered high in the temple’s loge and ultimately released only once

they’d bled again—proof they had not conceived.

Afterward, they would whisper of what had befal en them at his hands. There would be talk in the streets, fashionable salons, and harems. By now,

tales of his sexual prowess were widespread and had grown to mythical proportions.

“May I be of service to you, Savior?” one of the females asked in a voice that shook.

Blood stil thundered in his veins, a holdover from his recent fight to the death. In spite of his rage, he only stared at her, as stone-faced as the

ancient statues that silently observed him from their shadowy alcoves.

Her hair was blond, not a lustrous ash brown. Her eyes were emerald, not warm chestnut. She wasn’t the one he wanted. Nor were any of the

others who’d come.

“Leave me,” he growled. The woman only blinked at him, incredulous that he was refusing her. “Al of you!”

Executing only the most perfunctory of curtsies, she went, taking her companions with her. Al fled him and the temple, openly gleeful at their good

fortune in escaping unscathed by his legendary lust.

The Facilitator started to speak, but Dominic cut him off. “You as wel ,” he ordered.

Unperturbed by his foul mood, the elder merely executed his usual formal bow in response. Then he motioned toward the Acolytes, making to

depart.

“Not them,” Dominic said, indicating the Acolytes, who had also turned to go.

The Facilitator looked as though he wanted to object, but another glance at his scowl had him continuing on his way and leaving them behind.

Dominic approached the mirror. The Acolytes shifted closer to one another, nervous at being alone with him.

“Turn it on,” he said, jerking his head toward the reflective disk. “I wish to view the location from Earth World that you last showed me. But as it is

now, at this very moment.”

They eyed him curiously for a few seconds; then, with a simultaneous clap of their long-fingered white hands, they obeyed. The image he sought

floated into view, wispy at first and obscured by an ethereal murk.

Gradual y shapes and shadows began to clarify themselves.

His body tightened expectantly as a familiar room swam into sight. The bedchamber where he’d mated Emma. Dusky blue linens draped the bed

where he’d lain with her. The bed where he’d plunged his cock between her legs. Into her mouth.

The same bed where she’d kissed him. Held him. Begged him.

Carlo’s bed.

“No,” he murmured. “Show me the other room. The adjoining one where the Birthing of the Chosen One took place.”

Another clap, and the image shifted to Emma’s bedchamber. It was empty.

Almost immediately, a woman appeared. His entire being surged with expectation and then as quickly deflated.

Not Emma. A servant. One with Else World blood in her veins.

As he watched, she went behind the lacquered changing screen that stood in the corner of the room. The one where Emma had attempted to hide

herself from Carlo while employing the amulet as a contraceptive. The large window next to it stood half open, its glass pitch black and opaque. This was

one of only three Moonfuls each year in which nighttime in the two worlds coincided.

The servant stepped from the other side of the screen again and came back into the room. He heard splashing sounds. Someone was behind the

screen, bathing. His eyes burned over its slick, painted surface, wil ing it to disappear and reveal whom it hid.

But it held, thwarting him. And a world away, he could only wait. Eventual y his fierce patience was rewarded. A figure emerged.

Emma.

At the sight of her, something inside him relaxed. Untwisted. Calmed.

Swathed in toweling, she approached the mirror and gazed into it, unaware he played voyeur.

Tendrils of hair curled at her temples and nape, damp from her bath. Her skin would be warm and feminine. Clean.

By now, her touch on his flesh was but a receding, beguiling memory. But her scent was stil caught in his throat. His desire for her was fresh.

It was dangerous to want something—someone—this desperately. Beside him, the Acolytes took careful note of his hungry expression, and he

heard the hum of their concerned thoughts passing between them.

“You may go,” he muttered. Even before he’d finished the statement, they’d already begun their departure, having anticipated his wishes before

he’d given voice to them.

They would tel the Facilitator what he’d asked to view in the mirror. Somewhere in the bowels of the temple, the three of them would huddle

together and worry the night away over what it meant, over the possible consequences of his strange attraction to the mother of the Chosen One. There

had been consternation enough when he’d wed her a week ago, for he’d gone against duty—a first for him.

The thick bronze doors at the entrance to the temple’s enormous nave boomed shut behind the Acolytes. He heard the heavy scrape of metal

upon metal as the doors were sealed against invasion for the duration of Moonful.

He was virtual y alone here now. Only the statues, a wealth of riches and artifacts, and a few guards and servants remained sequestered inside

with him. None would dare disturb him unless he summoned them.

Unlike in Earth World, this special night would span nearly thirty-two hours, though the moon would show itself only for the next eight of those. The

twelve hours of utter blackness that fel before and after the moon were the most dangerous of the month, for demons were especial y active then.

In the mirror, Emma had picked up a tortoiseshel comb and was strumming it through her hair. The servant in the room with her fidgeted and cast

a furtive glance toward the mirror. She was a hamadryad, a night creature gifted with unusual perception. Did she sense him watching?

As if taking her cue from his unspoken desire, the servant commenced assisting Emma in the removal of her wrap. His fingers twitched as his

eyes found the soft, enticing nest at the apex of her thighs. It was visible for only the merest of seconds before she was enfolded in a concealing gown.

He let out a low growl of protest but could only look on in frustration as the gown slid over her. Its neckline was prim, its drape opaque, and its

design even more conservative than that of the one she’d worn last Moonful when he’d bedded her. When the servant added a robe to the ensemble, his

ripe curses colored the air. He’d forgotten she wore so many damned garments. He wanted her naked.

Emma moved to the right of the mirror and out of its range, disappearing briefly. When she returned into view, she held a bundle of pale yel ow

blankets in her arms. A smal fist popped from among them. Rose.

She carried her precious bundle to a fragile-looking chair and sat. Dipping one shoulder, she brushed her robe from it. The front of her gown

drooped to bare the upper swel of a breast. She was preparing to feed her child.

A gentle smile curved her lips as the infant latched on to her nipple. The peaceful, loving scene was a balm to his wounds, an antidote to the bite of

misery in his silvered palm.

He pressed that gloved hand over his naked heart, wil ing it to push away the desire for anything more than the duty life had dealt him. The evil it

held bussed his skin like muted charges of furious lightning.

From nearby, something unwanted and unfamiliar suddenly intruded on his contemplation of Emma. A promiscuous, cloying scent teased at his

nostrils. His hand lashed out blindly to his right, and his fingers closed around an arm. A feminine one.

20

H
e yanked the woman into the circle of artificial light cast by the mirror. Manacling her shoulders in both hands, he lifted her so she dangled before him.

Silver locked with pewter as each examined the other. She was one of his own sect, one of the females who’d been here when he’d arrived.

Apparently she’d stayed behind.

Numerous braids of pitch-black hair snaked to the middle of her slim back where they were caught in a clasp that matched her eyes. Dressed in

the traditional flowing garments that revealed more than they concealed, she was voluptuous and beautiful. But she’d been a witness to his weakness and

as such was a good target for his wrath.

“Spying on a demonhand is punishable by death,” he gritted with silky menace.

She leaned forward and kissed the center of his chest, surprising him. Nibbling her way to a flat nipple, she nursed at him. Her lips were softer

than they looked.

Air sucked between his clenched teeth, and he was lul ed into al owing her free rein for a moment. No one ever touched him except under duress.

He’d expected her to struggle and flee like the others.

“I am Itala,” she murmured in a breathy voice when he set her on her feet. “I wish to be of service. The whole moon is coming. You’l need

someone.” Her eyes went to Emma’s image in the mirror and then found his again. “Someone real.”

“Get out,” he muttered.

“Don’t turn me away.” She took his fingers and pressed them to her ful breasts, squeezing her hands over his to help him massage her through the

translucent silk. “I am flesh. Better than any Shimmerskins you’l conjure if I go. Let me tend you.”

He eyed her, weighing her motives.

Quickly she knelt at his feet, her upturned eyes tempting him. Her covetous fingers groped him through black leather.

His cock swel ed as she began to unfasten the ties at the groin of his pants, and he al owed her to undress him. No longer in the uniform that he’d

donned to fool Carlo, he wore only his customary leather leggings and boots. She removed both, and in the end, he helped her.

Sensing his capitulation, she eagerly wrapped his freed root and bal s in an avaricious hold. Then she tilted his cock down to her mouth and took