Raine: The Lords of Satyr (5 page)

Carefully, Jordan opened the back door the disgruntled Englishman had so recently used to exit the theater. The streets here were dangerous. But remaining in the theater posed a danger as well.

Behind her, someone shouted, noticing she was poised for flight. She plunged from the room into the nearly deserted street outside, making a run for it. The door banged behind her, echoing across the piazza. She heard it open again, and then came the sound of pursuit.

The tattoo of her own clunking footsteps on the rain-washed pavement drowned out any further sounds. Any minute she expected Salerno’s hands to grab her. Her breath was strangled with the fear of imminent capture.

But it never came. The cloddish shoes were practical and carried her swiftly away from the theater, along winding brick streets. The root had dulled her reflexes and confused her mind, but the sweet smell of rain-scented air was quickly dispelling its effect.

Footsteps sounded behind her. She turned into an alley, ducked into a crevice between two buildings, and waited. The steps faltered. Nearby, she heard Salerno’s voice.

“I’m searching for a young—person—wearing a crimson cloak,” he told someone. “And possibly the bauta as well.”

She couldn’t decipher the mumbled response he was given but knew it had displeased him when his sharp curse cut the air. This was quickly followed by the sound of his footsteps veering away.

When they grew faint, Jordan slipped from the alley and ran in the direction opposite from that which he’d gone. The streets twisted and angled, but she knew her way home from here. First, she had to get over the Rialto. Once beyond the bridge, home was only thirty or so turns away by street.

Then it occurred to her that home was out of the question. Salerno would look for her there immediately, claiming she owed him more hours of her time.

Could she find harbor with one of her male friends tonight? Paulo and Gani could always be counted on to join in any escapade. But if she turned up at either of their homes wearing only a cloak, they would whisk it from her, teasing. And when they discovered her true sex—when they discovered the deceit she’d perpetrated for all the years that she’d known them as friends—she feared what their reactions might be.

She scurried onward, unable to think of anything except the need to reach the bridge, which served as the only link across the Grand Canal that divided Venice. In the distance ahead, she saw its stone arch. The smell of the sea stung her nose as she rushed toward it.

She saw no one behind her. Heard no one. But still her heart thumped in time with her steps. Her breath was tortured, her entire body tense with fear of discovery. Would Salerno jump out at her from a cross street or one of the alleys, preventing her from reaching the bridge and any chance of escape?

Only a single gondola bobbed along the quay ahead, clacking softly. She had no money for its hire. Where would she go even if she could pay?

Lanterns along the bridge flickered, casting diamonds across the murky waters of the canal. The rain had stopped, and the night was turning foggy. The Palazzos Manin and Bembo along the Riva del Ferro, where shipments of iron were unloaded by day, were barely visible across the canal. An inky blackness of sky and sea loomed like a gaping maw waiting to swallow her.

Above her, on the balconies of the houses along the Riva del Vin, courtesans with bosoms far more ample than hers discreetly offered the use of their bodies to passersby in spite of the weather. If she called to them would they take pity on her? Unlikely, unless she had coin to offer.

Most of the vendors in the shops that stood atop the Rialto had gone home for the day by now. Cries from those who dwelled in squalor under the bridge came on the wind, frightening her.

If she’d been pronounced a girl nineteen years ago, she and her mother might be there among them. They would only have received a small dowry that wouldn’t have lasted long in view of her mother’s capricious spending.

Whores and beggars were rife in Venice since the French had sacked the city under Napoleon. By now the two of them would be huddled under the bridges like the rest of Venice’s poor. Though she might have somehow managed to find a way to survive, her mother would have withered under the strain and degradation.

Ahead, the bridge-dwellers stirred, calling to a well-dressed gentleman. “Signore! Signore! Look my way.”

She heard a noise behind her. Salerno? Turning back to look, she lunged forward…

And crashed into a human wall.

T
he golden hammer chimed eight times in the Campanile di San Marco as Raine strode down the steps of the lecture hall. He was surrounded by a half-dozen vintners who still discussed the lecture on phylloxera, which they’d all attended.

“What do you think of the French government’s increasing their 30,000 franc prize to 300,000 for anyone who can produce a cure for the phylloxera?” someone asked.

“Idiotic,” said Raine.

“I agree,” said one of the others. “The recitation of suggestions for a curative we were subjected to was a waste of four hours if you ask me. That blasted bug will go on its merry way sucking the sap and life from our vines with no hindrance from the French from the sounds of things.”

Someone else spoke up. “Still, I think the French should be the ones to pay for a cure, if anyone does. They’re the most desperate, since their grapes succumbed to the pest first.”

“It’s not the right way to go about things,” Raine insisted. “You all heard what stupid notions the offer of a reward has put rise to.”

One of his companions laughed. “And the ones the French official read aloud to us were supposedly thought to be the most viable of the lot. Considering that, I shudder to imagine what the rejects must have been!”

Just then, the bishop came running up behind the group, out of breath, causing a brief cessation of conversation. Catching Raine’s eyes on him, he blushed like a schoolgirl.

Raine had forgotten him until now. Surprisingly, the loquacious bishop hadn’t made his presence or his opinions known in the lecture hall.

“I believe my favorite was the suggestion that live toads should be buried beneath each grapevine to leech the phylloxera from the soil,” someone joked.

“What about the idea of bringing in Venus flytraps to snap up the pests,” another chortled.

“No! Are you forgetting the best of them all? That young choirboys were to be sent in to piss on our vines.”

Everyone save Raine and the bishop burst into gales of laughter.

“That was my suggestion, sent in to the French a month ago,” the bishop protested. “I firmly believe the acid in the urine would act as a deterrent.”

“Not to mention the stench,” someone else muttered.

“It’s an illogical suggestion,” said Raine. “They all were.”

“And have you a better one?” asked the bishop.

Raine shot him a stern glance. “Hybridization, as I described in the lecture.”

“Didn’t you hear?” another man piped up. “He was brilliant on the subject. Convinced me that the breeding of
vitis vinifera
with resistant species is the way to go.”

“I must beg your pardon,” the bishop demurred. “I took myself off at times during the lecture due to momentary indigestion. What was the gist?”

“Satyr posited that creating a resistant vine is the best hope for a cure,” someone explained.

“Oh?” The bishop raised his brows in a way that asked him to elaborate.

“Thus far, my experiments with cross-pollination of blossoms of different species of the same genus have resulted in a hardier vine,” Raine told him. “However the taste of the grape is still not satisfactory.” It was an unusually lengthy explanation for him.

“Well something must be done,” someone else insisted. “Two-thirds of Europe’s vines have been felled. Can you imagine? It’s only a matter of time until it reaches us. We all remain under a real threat until a practical cure is found.”

“Yet the Satyr vineyard has been spared,” the bishop said carefully.

Quiet fell. Raine could easily discern the direction of his companions’ thoughts. Everyone knew the rumors. His former wife had helped to spread them, claiming he and his brothers wielded some sort of magical force that protected their lands and them from harm. It was true.

Fortunately his ex-wife hadn’t convinced many. And rarely did anyone go so far as to bring up the matter in his presence. He and his brothers were wealthy and powerful, and it was wise to keep their favor.

“We had an outbreak,” Raine confessed, drawing all eyes.

“And?” someone prodded.

“The affected plants were routed and the area burned,” said Raine.

It was only partially true. The Satyr vineyard had in fact escaped an attack. A relation of Nick’s FaerieBlend wife, Jane, had intentionally brought in the pest. But it had been she who’d helped eradicate it before it had felled their vines. And them.

For the grapes were not simply a hobby or a means of earning a livelihood for his brothers and him. The sap that flowed through the vines was entwined with the blood that flowed in Satyr veins. Healthy vines would ensure his brothers’ children’s legacy. Healthy vines would allow his brothers and him to live on. Healthy vines would ensure that the secret aperture between ElseWorld and EarthWorld that was hidden on Satyr land remained secure.

The bishop hurled a proclamation. “Perhaps this plague was sent from the heavens as judgment for man’s sins of overindulgence. I also suggested that processions of the pious might weave through the vineyards of God-fearing believers slinging incense. Did the French consider that?”

“Men of science must scoff at such nonsense,” said Raine, uncaring that he might embarrass the bishop. “Offering a reward does no good. Better that the French turn their prize money to relieving the hardships that Napoleon caused the people of Venice. They now suffer from poverty as widespread as the phylloxera.”

He gestured toward the ragged beggars and prostitutes who loitered in the shadows of an adjacent alley. Mistaking his gesture for a summons, the desperate surged forward. Since the bishop was the closest to them, he bore the brunt of exposure.

“Be gone, you poxed creatures!” he cried, batting them away. Two passing constables joined in the fray, quelling those whose only crime was that of indigence.

In the confusion, Raine slipped away from the group. They’d been talking of attending a conversazioni in the salon of an exalted acquaintance nearby. But he was tired of talk. He had no patience for idle gossip and certainly no gift for conversation.

Before he left Venice behind for the night, he had but one last piece of business to attend to. Sex. Quick. Easy. And preferably Human.

When the bishop turned his attention from the fracas, the group of vintners had dispersed. Aghast, he glanced around for Raine.

Spotting one of the others from the lecture, he raced to catch up with him. “Where has Signore Satyr disappeared to?”

“I would guess he is headed off along the Canalazzo to find himself a companion for the evening. The others in our group departed to do the same. On my part, I’m off to my wife. Buona sera.”

But the bishop hadn’t remained to hear his bid of farewell. He was already trotting down the Riva del Vin, in search of his tall, handsome prize.

Raine made his way along the Riva del Vin, the promenade formed by the foundations of the buildings lining the Grand Canal’s northeastern edge. The cargo of wine he’d seen earlier had been unloaded and whisked away to be sold to restaurants, hotels, and individual buyers in Venice and beyond.

The Rialto Bridge lay ahead, spanning the canal. On its far side were the Riva del Ferra and Riva del Carbon, where cargoes of iron and coal were traditionally delivered. His gondola already awaited him there, dockside.

But he didn’t signal to the gondoliers. He’d hired them until morning and they would wait.

Soft sirens’ voices crooned to him from above. The courtesans were out on their covered balconies subtly hawking their wares even in this weather. At the sight of him, they leaned over the decorative iron railings, fluttering painted fans and posing provocatively.

Unfortunately his control had slipped too dangerously to chance taking one of them. The blood of his ancestors boiled in his veins tonight, and he was in no mood for holding back.

Because of the hermaphrodite. It was she who’d dredged up this sudden longing to feel the warmth of Human female flesh against him. The sight of her had revived the fierce carnal need he normally kept tamped down. His cock had been hard ever since he’d spied her, and it craved relief.

It was on an evening when he was in just such a state that he’d managed to frighten his former wife into leaving him. It had been Moonful then, when she’d run to the neighbors with tales of his wickedness. Of his physical strangeness. Of the way he’d Changed before her eyes with the coming of the moon. Though Nick had followed her and used a mindspell to mitigate the damage, her words had set the gossips humming about Raine and his family. Regret for his part in that still haunted him.

He hadn’t found his ease with a Human female since that disastrous night. Instead, whenever the moon was full and overwhelming lust drove him to the sacred glen at the heart of Satyr lands to rut the night away, he’d taken other creatures under him. Unreal creatures the Satyr could conjure at will but who felt nothing. Shimmerskins.

A week from now when Moonful came yet again, he would do the same, here in Venice. He’d find a private, isolated residence to hire for the night where he would lock himself inside, away from discovery. It was of paramount importance that he keep himself from Humans then. He’d be vulnerable.

One of the more comely courtesans on the balconies caught his eye. Noting his interest, she trailed a hand along her voluptuous cleavage to draw his attention there. At the crest of one breast, the barest hint of an areola was visible. Her finger slipped inside the fabric, swirling lazily over the nipple it concealed. The tip of a pink tongue stroked her lower lip, wetting it. Her eyelids drooped and her cunning emerald gaze watched him. Tempting him.

And he
was
mightily tempted.

The terms of such an assignation would be tacitly understood by both parties. No words would be needed. Their coupling would be fleeting, furtive. Coins rather than endearments would be exchanged as easily as bodily fluids. He only had to knock upon this woman’s door to be invited into her home. Into her body.

No. He rallied his self-control and forced himself to walk on. Courtesans moved in the same social circles as he once had here in Venice. She might recognize him and gossip. He couldn’t take the chance he might tarnish the Satyr family name yet again.

Raine slipped into the shadows of the buildings that lined the canal. Willing partners lurked there below the bridge.

Were he were so inclined, he could take the lowest guttersnipe to his bed and not fear that he might contract a venereal disease. The Satyr were immune to the syphilis and gonorrhea that were rampant in the city. Which made it all the more absurd that he’d been brought down with a simple cold.

The calls of the indigent echoed over the water. “Signore! Signore! Look my way.” Enticements were offered, each more lewd than the former as the inhabitants of the nooks and crannies under the bridge vied for his custom.

His eyes roved them. They were a ragtag bunch. But he could find a woman here with whom to take his ease and be done with this terrible need. There were men. Boys. Girls. All of them desperate.

He, too, was desperate tonight. Desperate for Human warmth. But his fastidious nature recoiled from seeking his pleasure with a woman from among them.

The hermaphrodite had inspired this spurt of lust in him and she would have satisfied it best. He pulled himself up short. What was he thinking?

Once before he’d set his affections on a specific Human. The one he’d married. She’d been a colossal mistake. He’d bedded her nightly for weeks after their wedding, each time in a gentlemanly fashion. Her body had brought his to satisfaction, but he hadn’t been satisfied. Lying with her had only piqued his desire, and he’d gone to Shimmerskins afterward.

Such ElseWorld beings were easily conjured from the mist by males of Satyr lineage at any time or place. They were beautiful, willing vessels whose sole reason to exist was to bring him and his brothers to orgasm as often and in whatever manner they desired.

He had but to imagine an act and impart it to such a creature with his mind. Without speaking a word he could make her understand precisely what he required, and she would endeavor to please him. She would express desire with her eyes, her lips, and her body. But it would all be false, as false as she herself was. Therein lay the problem. Tonight his body craved another sort of satisfaction. Warm. Passionate. Human. Real.

But he would make do.

He turned on his heel to head toward the dock. He would take the gondola, hie back to his hotel, and summon a Shimmerskin. Maybe two.

He took a determined step away from the alley.

Suddenly, a body came crashing against his back.

The scent of Faerie blanketed him like a quick heady puff of fresh spicy air spritzed from an expensive crystal bottle. It was there, and then gone again in an instant. It was the only scent he’d been able to detect all day. And because of that he felt its impact all the more keenly.

Instinctively, he lashed out an arm and wrapped it around the waist of the person who’d blundered into him from the alley. He felt the softness of a woman encased in yards and yards of velvet and satin.

A head lifted. Black witch’s eyes gazed up into his from the twin holes of a bauta mask.

It was the creature from the theater. The hermaphrodite! The answer to his prayers. He might not have recognized her if she hadn’t still worn the Carnivale mask.

A sharp elbow found his ribs. He grunted but otherwise ignored it. The scent of Fey had dissipated. Had he only imagined it?

Her dark eyes were laced with fear, her breathing was fast, and her body was heated as though she’d been running. Over her head, he surveyed the streets around them. They were dark and deserted except for the occasional straggler. The Grand Canal was quieter now in the evening hours. Where had she come from?

She punched his back and elbowed him repeatedly. “Let go of me, you dolt.”

He ignored her. Since no one else stood nearby, it had to have been this creature that had brought the scent with her. He couldn’t take the chance of letting her go until he knew for certain.

He clasped her arm before she could aim her weapon at a more vulnerable part of his anatomy. “Hold there. I mean you no harm.”