The Wolf's Captive (16 page)

When he pulled away, she was breathless. He held her chin in one hand, her leash in the other. Briefly he rested his chin on the top of her head, and then he turned and strode toward the great door, where Avignon waited.

“Come,” he said, and before the leash could pull tight, Lucia trotted after him.

~  ~  ~

Lucia Lyselle, previously a Bacchanal virgin, overworked assistant to a virtuoso distiller, normally squirreled away in the warm, fragrant cave of the still and thus not always in keeping with the currents of the city, had never actually seen the Dance of Lights. She knew what it was, obviously; she had lived in J’Amel her entire life. But as any city-dweller knows, natives often don’t feel compelled to take part in the traditions that make their cities famous.

Lucia understood now how foolish she had been.

The carefully choreographed descent of carriages to the harbor had been wonderful enough. The finest carriages vied for supremacy, decorated for the occasion with glowing designs painted onto their ornately carved doors and hanging lanterns that blinked in festive patterns by unknown mechanisms. All of them made way for Lord Cesare’s carriage. They were to lead the long line of the city’s ruling class in a slow progression to the water.

Lucia’s excitement must have been obvious, because Lord Cesare had laughed and told her she’d only see it properly if she poked her head out the window. She was glad she did. It was astounding.

She couldn’t count the number of boats in the harbor, lit with millions of lights. They seemed to dance with each other in a carefully orchestrated routine to welcome the arrival of the city. Some barges were bouquets of chemical flames, colored in sequence: red, blue, green; others were seemingly endless cascades of flickering lights. All of it was beautiful. Lucia’s heart swelled with pride for her city.

As they grew closer, Lucia made out the shadows of unlit boats, some no bigger than gondolas, loitering in the waters between the brightly lit barges that would host the festivities.

“Those are the ferries,” Lord Cesare explained. “So you can make the rounds of the Houses, if you choose.”

Each of the brilliant barges was the creation of one of the esteemed Bacchanal Societies. Lucia was only passingly familiar with them, though she knew the Severille Society, in addition to its other attributes, was renowned as the playground of the powerful.

“Will we be making the rounds, my Lord?”

He smiled. “The Severille will have everything we need.”

Their carriage pulled up directly to the head of the dock, which was lined all the way to the water with the fearful
oscario
, guardians of Bacchanal. Each of the ferryboats carried an
oscario
in its fore, while the ferrymen labored away at the oars.

They were the first to disembark.

Lucia was nervous. The
oscario
, as usual, was silent; but so was the ferryman. She longed to ask Lord Cesare all sorts of questions, but felt instinctually that this wouldn’t be appropriate for a Severille slave. Or perhaps, truthfully for a captive — and yet, if it weren’t for the silent presence of these witnesses, she would have felt no compunction. She would have felt
comfortable
.

Yet another new sensation to process.

Their ferry knifed through the water silently; thankfully, there was no wind. There was no sound, either, only an eerie absence that took Lucia a moment to identify. She looked back to see a line of equally silent ferryboats trailing in their wake all the way back to the dock, which was, itself, crowded now with waiting carriages. It was as if the entire city, the entire world, waited for them. For Lord Cesare and his slave.

Their ferry approached the Severille barge, decorated in the customary red and black of the House colors, with white and red lanterns strewn about the hull. Two uniformed men appeared at the edge of the barge and a bridge extended down to their ferry, giving them safe passage.

Lord Cesare led her across on the end of her leash.

It was the first time anyone had seen it. Had seen
her
in such a state. Leashed. Collared. Even though the ferryman, the
oscario
, the uniformed servants—even though they were all silent, Lucia’s mind was crowded with the knowledge that they
saw
. They knew, as they knew the water below was wet, and the lights above burned bright, they knew that she belonged to Lord Cesare.

She shuddered. Lord Cesare looked back and smiled. Then he tugged on the lead.

“Come,” he said.

They were greeted by a phalanx of uniformed servants, all of whom bowed deeply as soon as Lord Cesare stepped foot on the barge. Immediately he was offered amberwine; Lucia was ignored. They didn’t even look at her. She was a non-person at this event. Her only identity was as Lord Cesare’s plaything.

Again, she shuddered.

There was a sort of raised banquet table in the center of the barge. Lord Cesare led her there to wait for the arrival of the other guests. He sat down with his customary sprawl in the seat of honor, and pulled Lucia’s leash until she stood over him.

He grinned. “Come,” he said again, and pulled her onto his lap.

Lucia giggled, but couldn’t hide her nervousness as she burrowed into his chest. She would be perfectly happy if they were alone the rest of the night.

“You are afraid?” His vast chest rumbled in her ear.

“Nervous,” she said. “My Lord.”

He beckoned for a servant to bring them a bottle of amberwine, and slipped a hand between her legs. “This will help,” he said lightly, and she couldn’t tell if he meant his hand or the amberwine.

Both, probably.

Lucia didn’t know how long they sat together like that, getting pleasantly drunk from the wine and the feel of each other’s bodies. It had become easy to be with him again, as it had been at lunch. But before she knew it, they were surrounded by masked guests, many of whom felt the need to come pay their respects to Lord Cesare, who seemed invariably irritated at each interruption.

“My Lord Cesare,” came a stiff, familiar voice, and Lucia turned.

And then froze. It was the vile Captain Rickle, round and pink-faced in tight black velvet. For a moment Lucia forgot her mask, her costume, and the most potent disguise of all: that no one would give her a second glance as Lord Cesare’s slave for the evening.

Captain Rickle bowed to a barely perceptible angle. It seemed to cause him physical distress.

“Rickle.” Lord Cesare laughed, and Lucia realized that was the most insulting thing he could have done to a man like Rickle: laugh at him. And, as a result, Rickle’s attention—his absolute loathing—was focused solely upon Lord Cesare. He didn’t even glance at Lucia. “Go on, Rickle, enjoy yourself for once,” Lord Cesare continued, and waved his hand in dismissal.

Rickle seethed, bowed once more, and turned on his heel. Lucia remembered to breathe.

“There,” Lord Cesare whispered into her ear, “Do you see? You are safe, as long as you are mine.”

Lucia put her hand on his chest, and slipped her fingers beneath the lip of his vest to feel the smooth beginnings of his scar. He stiffened beneath her touch.

“Look,” he commanded, gesturing out among the growing crowd. “Pay attention, Lucia. You have a task to perform.”

It actually took Lucia a moment to realize he was talking about the search for the man with a lisp who would be able to help them trace her father’s debt. She blushed at what her first thought had been, but looked out at the patrons of the Severille barge with renewed concentration. This was her chance to help her father.

It was very similar to the Severille take on the Dance of the Dead, the underground party where she’d first met Lord Cesare, only this time afloat and aflame. Paid performers, fire jugglers, and fire-eaters—and one man who would take a swig of amberwine and blow a huge fireball into the air—circulated for the entertainment of the guests. The performers were, of course, mostly background. Everything else was foreplay or fucking. Even Lucia was starting to become immune, and she was able to look at the actual guests, rather than what they were doing.

“They’re all wearing masks,” she complained.

“Look harder.”

She did. And she found she could recognize some of the telltale crests that were cleverly incorporated into some of the masks and costumes. There was Gaston Grimaldi, again surrounded by beautiful, naked women, and again seemingly bored by it. And she was surprised to see Vintner Clavel, David’s father, wearing the crest of the Vintner’s Guild around his neck, his chest puffed up with pride, even as he stood awkwardly by himself, tasting glass upon glass of amberwine. Lucia touched her own elaborate mask, just to remind herself that it was there. Roberto Ramora was there, as well, his mask covering only his eyes, stuffing his face at one of the tables laden with food.

Lucia was beginning to get a feel for things, the ebb and flow of social groups and conversation, and how she might best go about her detective work, when suddenly she stopped.

Her lips parted. Her heart pattered. Her fingers dug into Lord Cesare’s arm.

There, in the middle of the crowd, was the Severille couple she had seen in the street on that first night. Lucia would recognize the woman’s waterfall of shining black hair anywhere, and there were her master’s glittering black eyes. As Lucia watched, the master led his slave, who was bound by the wrists, to one of the many pillars from which strings of lanterns were hung, crisscrossing the barge. There he raised her arms above her head and tied them to the pillar with her own lead. He produced a blindfold, and attached that, as well.

Then he ripped away her dress.

He left her there, like that, naked, blindfolded, and bound to a pillar for all to see, while he filled a plate with food and joked with other guests, sometimes gesturing back to his naked prisoner with obvious pride of ownership. Lucia still had no idea who they were, but she could not tear her eyes away from the blindfolded, bound, naked woman, put on display for her master’s benefit. It made Lucia wet.

And, with a rush of embarrassment, Lucia realized that Cesare might feel that, too.

“That excites you,” he said. He moved his hand farther up her thigh and under her thin skirt, where two of his fingers began to toy with her wet folds.

“You know it does, my Lord,” she answered.

“Yes, yes I do.” Lord Cesare laughed, and his fingers probed a little deeper. Lucia felt weak. “Tell me what it is exactly, Lucia.”

She groaned. It was still so difficult to admit aloud.

“Obey me,” he said, and thrust a finger into her. The guests continued to mill about, drinking amberwine as if in preparation for the real party. Things were starting to loosen up. One of the Severille master’s acquaintances walked over to where the woman with black hair was bound and squeezed her breast. Lucia could see her squirm against her restraints, a smile on her lips.

“I saw them,” she said, gesturing to the couple. “I saw them, on the night of the Dance of the Seasons. He had her in public. Right there on the street, he ordered her to spread her legs and please him. And here, tonight, he has her…on display…”

Lord Cesare fucked her steadily with his finger, knowing just when to pull slightly away. He wasn’t going to let her climax. He was just going to torment her. Lucia looked to him in frustration, and saw that something seemed to amuse him.

“That interest of yours might prove very useful,” he murmured into her ear, nibbling a little on her earlobe.

Suddenly he lifted her off his lap, stood up, and deposited her back on the ground. She was speechless, still dazed from his finger, which she saw shone with her juices in the lantern light. Lord Cesare was unfazed.

“I will indulge your little curiosity while you perform your duty,” he said with a smile. “Just remember to maintain your focus. Come.”

And he walked briskly off, dragging an unsteady Lucia off toward the middle of the barge.

It was the area where the most guests mingled and the performers wandered, and where the heart of the celebration beat in earnest. It was where guests would dance and fuck, and performers would perform Severille feats, once the amberwine had been drunk and politics had been played and deals struck. Now it was full of calculating groups of powerful men and women, all of them going about the usual business of being powerful. Lord Cesare led Lucia to the center, and beckoned a servant to him.

“Bring that low table,” Cesare said. “The one Count Beltrane rests his feet upon. Send him my apologies, but tell him he will not regret it,” he added wryly.

“My Lord—” Lucia began.

“I did not say you could speak,” he said. “Remember to listen. Start now. Can you hear all the conversations around you? They will gather closer soon enough. Listen for the voice.”

She made as if to speak, but Lord Cesare yanked hard on her leash. Lucia crashed into him, and several guests paused in their conversations to see if anything interesting was about to happen.

“Stay silent,” he whispered. “And
listen
.”

The skin of her neck stung where the collar had bitten into it, and Lucia was surprised to find tears welling up in her eyes—and more moisture seeping from between her legs. She could tell from the movement of Lord Cesare’s chest that he was aroused, too, that their inexplicable physical bond was unbroken. Bringing her physically to heel, to the amusement of those around them, had renewed the pressure in her pussy, and she saw that he was hard beneath his leathers. She was a disobedient plaything, open to his use and abuse at any time. And it thrilled her.

The servant arrived, carrying a low, wide table, and followed by a lithe, unmasked gentleman in a loose fitting black shirt, open to the waist, and with a touch of grey at the temples.

“My Lord,” the gentleman said with a smile, “I was quite comfortable, you know. Had an excellent view over there.”

Lord Cesare laughed. “I’m going to give you a better view over here, Beltrane.” And he snapped his fingers while tugging on Lucia’s leash, pulling her to stand before the Count.