Brush of Darkness Read online

  I blinked. “Maybe so, but at least I’m not an arrogant prick. Or maybe I’m not quite as stupid as you think. Either way, you have a nice evening now.”

  He caught my wrist as I turned to go and I took a swig of my champagne. He stroked the silver bracelet overhanging my palm. “And just what do you mean by that?” His face was as expressionless as the backside of a boulder.

  I stepped back, rubbing my wrist against my skirt where his fingers had left a hot tingle.

  He glared down at me, but I refused to look away, ignoring the sudden tremble in my knees. “Why, for the love of all that is holy, would Moira choose you as her representative here?”

  “You’d have to ask her,” I said, the sting of shame burning my cheeks. “After all, I’m just a mere mortal.”

  His nostrils flared. “I’m through playing games, Abby. Where is she?”

  “You tell me. According to you I shouldn’t worry about it because ‘she already knows.’ Unless,” I said, slowly trying to piece it together, “she really doesn’t. Your funky little magic seduction thing didn’t work, did it?”

  “Oh, it worked,” he muttered. “Maybe a little too well.”

  I pushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Well, I’m not sure what you mean. I’m certainly not on my knees if that’s what you wanted. Or is that what’s got your panties all in a bunch? Your mojo,” I said, fluttering my fingers at him, “didn’t work and now you’re all atwitter?”

  He snatched my free hand with the uncompromising snap of a hawk’s talons. “Your stupidity is breathtaking. I’m surprised you’ve even managed to live this long.”

  “Moot point, given that I’m rather ageless at the moment, so a howdy-do and fuck you too,” I drawled sweetly. A security guard eyed us from the front door but I waved him off, plastering a smile on my face. Getting arrested for a peace violation wasn’t going to win me any favors with Moira. Protocol of secrecy and all that. “Let. Go. Of. Me.”

  Brystion’s eyes flashed gold but he did as I said. I grabbed his arm and shuffled him to a curtained alcove. There were a number of them scattered about the art gallery—comfortable little nooks of gleaming wood and bland silk, undoubtedly used to make artistic conversation over a cup of mocha pretentiousness. My gaze flicked toward him, something inside me aching as I studied his face. Whatever his issues were, they didn’t have as much to do with me as he was letting on.

  Nearby, there was a bench and a little table with a pot of red dahlias on it. I set my drink on the table and wiped my damp fingers on my blouse. “No offense, but you’re pretty stupid yourself. You get caught manhandling the TouchStone of the Protectorate in a public place like this and someone is going to kick your ass.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Try me.” I sat down, watching him take a glass of his own from a tuxedo-clad waiter. “I don’t make the rules, Brystion, but I do know that there are certain . . . protections that she has in place. She can’t afford to look weak, even if she’s not here. An attack on me is an attack on her. I may seem stupid to you, but even I know that much.” I took a dainty sip of my drink.

  “And your point is?”

  “I’m all you’ve got, at the moment. So be a big boy and try using your words this time.”

  He tossed back the champagne like water, sliding down to sit beside me. I couldn’t help but watch the way his mouth lingered on the rim of the glass, condensation glinting down the stem. “You’re a fool.”

  “You’re making this so hard for me. Do I sit here and bask in the glory of your ego or do I get up and walk out the door?” I drummed my fingers softly on the table. “Let me think.”

  “You’re nowhere near as safe as you think you are.” He jabbed a finger at me. “Whatever ‘protection’ you think you’ve been afforded, don’t rely on it unless you have a way to back it up.”

  “Duly noted.” I took another sip of champagne, letting it swirl around my mouth. “That’s pretty bold talk from someone who damn near assaulted me this afternoon. If you’re so concerned about my well-being there are better ways of showing it.”

  He leaned forward so his face hovered within inches of mine. “And you’re pretty bold for someone who’s lying through her teeth.”

  I froze. Shit. Did he know? I set the glass down carefully, smoothing out my skirt until I managed to compose my expression. “Perhaps you should tell me what the hell you’re really talking about.”

  “My sister is missing.”

  I exhaled slowly, my eyes darting toward the painting. “All right. That’s a good start. How does that concern me?”

  “It doesn’t,” he snapped, drawing himself upright. “It should concern Moira, but as you said, she’s not here. So I’m stuck with you.”

  “Listen, I’m sure your sister is a lovely . . . succubus, but I fail to see why Moira needs to be involved with—”

  “Don’t patronize me, little TouchStone,” he said coldly. “You set this meeting up; I expect some answers.”

  “I never set anything up. Certainly not knowingly, anyway.” I bit down on my thumb, chewing the nail. Clearly I had overstepped some OtherFolk protocol of which I was currently ignorant. Again.

  “You made it fairly obvious this afternoon.” He eased back against the bench. “Why else would you have made sure I knew where you would be tonight? It’s open and public, and certainly busy enough,” he pointed out. “It makes sense.”

  “I’m sorry.” I hissed between my teeth. “I had no such manipulations in mind. This is just something I was supposed to go to. I mean, I also said I needed to buy shoes—how did you manage to interpret that bit of information covertly? Plan on being my shadow over at Fashion Footwear?”

  “If I’d needed to. But then . . .” His gaze dropped pointedly down to my feet. “You didn’t go.”

  “You’ve been following me?”

  “Of course.” He stroked the rim of his glass suggestively. “You’re hiding something.”

  “Everyone’s hiding something.” I stood up abruptly and set my drink on the table, apprehension lancing down my spine. “You know what? I’m done trying to figure out what you’re talking about . . . Brystion. If that even is your real name. If you need help, ask for it. If you want to keep being all tragic and broody and mysterious, than save it until Moira comes back, because I sure as hell don’t have the patience to deal with it now.” I hesitated, hating to admit my weakness. “And you’re right. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m trying the best I can. I don’t know what you want, but whatever it is, you must be pretty desperate.”

  He uncoiled from the chair, eyes narrowed. “Explain yourself.”

  “What’s to explain?” I snorted. “You braved the CrossRoads at noon—without a TouchStone. That smacks of desperation to me. Even on top of that, you could have formally requested the Protectorate’s help and I’d be honor-bound to help you. But you haven’t, have you?” His face became stony and I knew I’d hit a nerve. “You didn’t want anyone to know what you were doing,” I continued, my heart skating along the edges of my own special brand of recklessness. “Not many OtherFolk around at noon to see you dropping by . . .”

  “I’ll give you that much, perhaps.” He carelessly pushed his hair away from his face.

  “And you appear to have snagged a TouchStone simply to what? Stalk me? What kind of a Contract could you have made in such a short time?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Fair enough.” I took a final sip of my champagne. I would have to ask Charlie what was involved in an incubus Contract; visions of something deliciously dark and sordid pressed the edges of my mind. Not that it mattered anyway. Multiple Contracts were frowned upon, but hey, a girl can dream, right? Too bad the personality didn’t seem to match the package.

  He said nothing for a moment and then his hand lightly tripped up my back as he pressed hard against me. His eyes bored into mine, capturing me with the heat of a thousand suns. “You’re a Dreamer, Abby. I could drink
your dreams like milk.” He inhaled as though taking in my scent. “I could make you hotter than you’ve ever been. Make you boneless and wet and utterly sated, so that every breath you take is pleasure.”

  “Haven’t we done this before?” I swallowed weakly. “What do you want from me?”

  His nose nuzzled my cheek, lips brushing over my ear. “Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll make it happen. Every night, for the rest of your life.”

  “At which point you kill me. No, thanks.” I pressed my hands against his chest. “I don’t bargain with OtherFolk, Brystion. Not without a Contract. We pathetic mortals almost always get the shaft with your magic crap. Besides,” I noted dryly, “your TouchStone will get jealous.”

  He slumped back into his seat. “Somehow I think she won’t mind,” he sighed. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. It didn’t change the fact that I couldn’t help him if he didn’t tell me what was going on. It also didn’t change that he’d just tried to mojo his way past my defenses for the second time that day. I should have been utterly furious, but I wasn’t. Just weary.

  “When was the last time Moira held Court?”

  “Ah . . . a while ago,” I said, not wanting to admit just how long it had been. Four or five months at least, but she’d had one informal Hearing right before she left. “She’s been rather busy lately and I don’t think—”

  He captured my hand, holding my wrist gently. “Don’t lie. I’ll kill you if you lie to me.”

  I opened my mouth, words of denial fading away beneath the gunmetal hardness in the words. He meant it.

  “All right,” I said hoarsely. I stood there, perched between fight or flight as every pallid heartbeat rushed through my ears. His nostrils flared. Perhaps he sensed my weakness. Tell me. Trust me. He stroked his thumb downward, the tremble of his flesh on mine filling me with the tumultuous urge to spill all that I held sacred. Moira’s disappearance, my inability to sleep, the rotting edge of jaded appreciation that I seemed to trip over in my everyday life, the fact that I was completely and utterly in over my head . . .

  “Who are you?” I wondered aloud.

  He flinched. “No one,” he said, his gaze drawn to the other end of the gallery with a resigned sort of anger.

  “Ah, there you are, Abby!” Blinking stupidly, I glanced up to see a beaming Topher sliding through the crowd. Although he was impeccably dressed, even the slickness of an Armani suit couldn’t hide the gauntness of his face or the shine of his balding pate. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his cheekbones were hollow and hungry.

  “It’s Himself, then, is it?” I quipped in an Irish brogue that would have killed a leprechaun. I rose up on tiptoe to greet him with a kiss on the cheek. Very chichi.

  “Abby, so glad you could make it.” His eyes lingered on Brystion, and then he winked at me. “Nice to see you brought a friend.”

  “Strictly business.” I corrected him without looking at the incubus. “How are you feeling these days?”

  “Ah, well, you know how it is.” He shrugged. “Some weeks are better than others, but each day is a gift, I always say.”

  “Yes.” My mind strayed to a not-so-distant, giftless day of my own. “It is.”

  “So, who is your gorgeous, ‘strictly business’ friend?” I could almost see Topher trying to sketch the perfect lines of the man beside me, but something told me Brystion wasn’t one to allow himself to be captured so easily.

  “How horribly rude of me.” For a moment I was tempted to just leave it at that, but I turned toward the incubus, manners and protocol butting heads with a rush of indignation and fear. “Brystion, this is Topher Fitzroy, the resident artistic genius responsible for this exhibit. Topher, this is Brystion . . .” My voice trailed away awkwardly. “Just Brystion, I guess?”

  “First-name basis only, my dear, is a fine thing.” The artist grinned. His smile faded when he looked at Brystion. “Is something the matter?”

  I glanced over in surprise. A dark shadow had crossed over the incubus’s face. “You say you’re responsible for that?” His hand gestured toward the painting of his sister.

  “Of course,” Topher said, his expression suggesting the question wasn’t even worthy of being asked. “It was a special commission and well worth every penny, if I do say so myself.” He gazed at the painting fondly, but there was a tightness about his eyes where his smile never quite reached.

  Brystion drew a ragged breath. “She would never have sat for you. You don’t have the soul for it.” He loomed over the artist, the edges of his skin blurring away for a moment. I blinked. He was about to drop his Glamour.

  Shit. Not that I knew just what an incubus actually looked like, but judging by the darkness that was sliding up the back of his neck, it wasn’t overly human. Hysterical visions of people running for the exits pursued by a massive cock and balls filled my mind, and I let out a gasp of laughter despite myself.

  “That’s enough.” I let my voice drop into something soothing and quiet, the way Moira did when she was trying to stave off an argument between Paths. I inserted myself between the two men, stroking the crest of Brystion’s wrist with a careful thumb.

  The daemonic races in particular respond to physical stimulation, even if it be a simple stroke of the hand. A tiny distraction may be the difference between life and death. Moira’s lilting voice echoed through my mind, even as I remembered the elegant scrawl of her notes on the tattered book she’d given me to study.

  The incubus started beneath my touch, but his attention remained fixed on Topher. “Your Dreams are empty, mortal,” he rumbled, eyeing the other man like he’d found the remains of something dead and furry beneath his foot. With a shake, he pulled away from me, his eyes growing dark once more as the lines around his body shifted back into his Glamour.

  “I beg your pardon?” Topher’s lips paled beneath the soft light of the gallery. For a moment, his face came alive with that old spark, and I marveled to see it. A flush of anger colored his cheeks and chased away the pall of death that had surrounded him for months. He was brilliant for a span of seconds and then it faded, leaving him wan and drained. He raised his head proudly. “I assure you, I can and did paint her, just as was requested. Succubus or not, she sat for me by choice.”

  “I doubt that. Where is she?”

  Topher’s face became impassive. “Short of this picture, I have not seen her since the night she posed for me.”

  Brystion snorted. “You did a shit job on Abby’s as well. Whatever talent you once had is gone. Have some dignity and get on with your life.”

  The artist’s mouth flattened into a sour line. “My dear,” he said, waving over the security guard. “I’m going to have to ask your friend to leave. He’s causing a scene, and I’m afraid my nerves can’t take it. Would you mind escorting him out?”

  I shrugged helplessly at him, my cheeks burning beneath the onslaught of stares from the other patrons. I tugged at Brystion’s shirt, my face stony. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

  He was silent as I led him outside, but the anger that radiated from him made me want to retreat to my bedroom and hide beneath the blankets. It didn’t stop me from opening my mouth again though.

  “Hey, awesome job at embarrassing the living shit out of me in front of my friend.”

  “There is no way Sonja would have gotten near him, let alone sat willingly in chains. In chains, Abby!”

  “Okay, but that doesn’t give you the right to be a dick. You said she was missing. Did it ever occur to you to be nice to someone who might have seen her recently?” He made a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl, keeping pace with me as I headed back to the Pit. Not quite an acknowledgment of guilt, but not admitting anything either. Typical male.

  We walked in silence for several blocks, my feet knowing the way back without my having to think about it. Past the pawnshop and the Bagel Café, Fiddler’s Green Fine Irish Gifts and the Opera Alley where the buskers performed. A glass player sat there tonight, perched behin
d a table full of elegant crystal, his fingers nimbly plying his trade. It was late enough that most of the shops were closed, but we moved through the waning crowds without issue, the vibrato of the glass music echoing eerily between the buildings as we walked.

  “And I happen to like mermaids, you know,” I said finally, unable to stand the quiet. I didn’t know what else to talk about but the paintings.

  “He made your tits too small,” he grunted as we turned the corner, ignoring my muffled snort of mock outrage. “That and the expression on your face . . .” He paused, studying me from beneath his sweep of dark lashes. “You seemed . . . sad.”

  My shoulders tightened beneath the added scrutiny. “Yes, I suppose I was.” The sign hanging from the shutter of the Pit creaked lightly in the breeze, the faded paint gleaming under the dim streetlight. “You almost lost it in there, didn’t you?”

  “You’re changing the subject.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted away from me.

  “Yes. Is that a common thing for incubi? I’ve never seen that happen before.”

  He exhaled sharply and then sighed, leaning up against the glass window of the storefront. “No. It shouldn’t have happened. I suppose I owe you for stopping it.” His head tipped backward, his eyes shutting. One eye cracked back open at me, a soft halo of gold flaring from beneath the lid. “So do you normally dance at work?”

  “Now who’s changing the subject?” I folded my arms over my chest in the universal gesture of I’m horrified. Please fuck off. “And I hardly think waggling my hips up the aisle counts as much of a show.” My face blazed hot in the darkness. “How much did you see?”

  “Enough.” He chuckled bemusedly. “Why Tom Jones?”

  I blinked. “Why . . . what?”

  “Tom Jones. You were listening to him when I came into the store.” His eyes lit up with amusement and I bristled.

  “Yeah, I was. What’s your point? It’s a free country.”

  “Word on the street is that your little enchanted iPod there can play just about every song in existence. Why in the hell would you choose to listen to Tom Jones?”