Insult the Dark Lady and he’d be dead before he hit the floor. But couldn’t She see? Or was She testing him? “Great Lady, You know as well as I do that love compelled cannot be real. How would I know the difference between what she gave me and what I just . . . took?”
You are finely caught, are you not? The Horned Lord sounded thoughtful, and not particularly displeased. Use the Voice to command what you so deeply desire, and by its very nature, you can never be sure you have it. Neither trust, nor love.
Correct, said the Lady. And yet, We offer you a choice. Think again, Erik. Shall We take the Voice from you?
The Lord’s deep tones: Be very certain, Erik. All or nothing.
Silence fell, so profound Erik thought he could hear the small bright tinkling that was the crystal song of the stars. Or it could have been the mental speech of the gods.
“Without the music, I am nothing, no one,” he snarled. “I’ll keep the Voice—the blessing and the godsbedamned curse.”
2
CARACOLE, QUEENDOM OF THE ISLES,
PALIMPSEST
On the stage of the Royal Theater, a chorus of devils and angels sang their hearts out, but Prue McGuire listened with only half an ear. She didn’t particularly enjoy opera.
“A demon king?” she’d snorted to Rosarina as they settled into their seats before the curtains opened. “The plot doesn’t make sense.” Frowning, she scanned the program. “Why does he carry her off when she wants to go with him anyway? It’s plain silly.”
Like the experienced courtesan she was, Rose had given an elegant shrug. “Who knows?” Her beautiful lips curved. “It’s opera.”
As the queen and her entourage swept into the Royal Box, Prue put her head next to her companion’s. “I got us a discount,” she murmured over the sound of the applause.
Rosarina patted her hand. “And these excellent seats in the bargain.” She surveyed the dozen or so exquisite young people in their box with maternal pride. “Well done, dear.”
“It was an investment,” said Prue. “We’ll get more clients out of this, you’ll see.”
“Not that we need them.” Her friend and business partner waved a graceful hand. “But never let it be said I argued with a bookkeeper about profit.” Casting Prue a twinkling, sidelong glance, Rose flicked the playbill with one finger. “They say the Unearthly Opera Company’s really very good, and this Erik the Golden is something quite exceptional.” The twinkle became a naughty grin. “In every possible way.”
“Rose!” She did her best to look scandalized.
“Don’t Rose me, you wicked woman.” A slim finger tapped the dimple quivering in Prue’s cheek. “Not with a dead giveaway right here.” The orchestra struck up and the curtains swished open. “Shut up and enjoy, sweetie.”
But Prue spent the first scene writing a tutorial on compound interest in her head. She’d rather die than admit it to her friend, but she’d come to find teaching the apprentice courtesans even more fulfilling than balancing the ledgers.
And every extra cred went into her strongbox. For peace of mind and her daughter’s future. Despite herself, her breath caught.
Never again.
With some difficulty, she wrenched her mind away from the brutal slum the people of Caracole called the Melting Pot—the way her nerves had quivered at every shift in the shadows, the hilt of a small kitchen knife cold as death in her palm, her daughter’s tiny fist clutching her sleeve.
The music was catchy. Tapping her fingers on her knee in time, Prue pulled in a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. It was over. Finished a lifetime ago. Slowly, she exhaled, stealing a glance at Rose’s perfect profile.
By the Sister, she’d done better than merely survive! In Rosarina, she had a dear friend and a partner both. Prue smiled her satisfaction. Every courtesan at The Garden of Nocturnal Delights was the owner of an independent business with but a single product—themselves. How she loved it when it all came together for them, comprehension dawning on those beautiful, clever faces. Rose wouldn’t tolerate stupidity, no matter how gorgeous the package it came in. Still, compound interest . . . Not the easiest of topics . . .
So when the demon king appeared in a clap of thunder and a cloud of smoke, she was completely unprepared.
When the lights came up for intermission, she was still trembling on a deep, visceral level that dismayed her more than anything had in years. Erik Thorensen had come striding out of fire and brimstone and clasped the shrinking