Laura Navarre - [The Magick Trilogy 02] Page 5

  That was true. Uriel’s so-called punishment was the talk of Heaven. At least he’d been born in a mortal body and developed an awareness of his divine nature only in maturity, after he fell in love with a half-Fae woman.

  Still, Zamiel had never been one to accept anything on faith. He was Heaven’s rebel. He questioned everything and stirred the pot. And this particular claim would be easy enough to debunk.

  Closing his eyes, he summoned the Music of the Spheres, the divine melody of the Fifth Heaven. Among the Seven Heavens, his was the realm where all beings sang God’s praises.

  He summoned the Music, and he found...

  Nothing. Just a deafening, unprecedented silence in his soul, the void between the realms. No divine melody to dissolve the corporeal shell he wore among mortals. No sweet, heavenly music to guide him home.

  His eyes flew open to meet Lucifer’s knowing gaze. The old serpent looked sympathetic, damn him. “And so?”

  About this much, at least, it seemed the Father of Lies was telling the truth.

  “But this is impossible!” he blurted, torn between incredulous laughter and an inexplicable impulse to weep. “Hell’s Bells, I’m truly mortal? For how long?”

  “Until thou repent thy sins...or fall.” His father shrugged. “If thou shalt die in that body, unrepentant and beyond the state of grace, thou art Mine. Thy soul shall come to Me.”

  Zamiel caught a whiff of charred flesh and found himself shuddering—another exceptional sensory experience, this one distinctly unpleasant. He swallowed past a suddenly dry throat.

  No, not ready yet at all to take that leap of faith into my father’s realm.

  “And if I should choose differently?” He assumed a look of bland indifference. “If I choose to repent?”

  “What, art thou all noise and bluster?” his father reproached. “Where is thy courage in thy convictions? If thou should undo this grand gesture of thine in a cowardly scramble for divine forgiveness, after an eternity of thy rabble-rousing and sedition, I shall be deeply disappointed.”

  A flare of pride brought his head up and his shoulders back. “I’m just trying to understand my options, Father.”

  “So,” Lucifer sighed. “In cases such as thine, the Court demands a suitable penance, some gesture of repentance. The Archangels desire thee to undo the consequences of thy latest rebellion. To say it straight out, thou art to step back from this woman whose life thou spared today. She has made powerful enemies. She is marked for death. Thou art the Angel of Death. Step back and let death have its way.”

  “No.” The words nearly jolted him out of his chair. Gripping the table, he glared. “That’s a damned lie! She wasn’t meant to die today, not her. I would have known, Faerie blood and Faerie magick and Faerie mischief notwithstanding. She won’t die if I have anything to say about it.”

  “Here, here.” Eyes gleaming red with pleasure, Lucifer rapped his knuckles on the table. “I applaud thee for thy revolt. If thou wilt not repent, my advice is to savor thy sojourn in the mortal realm.

  “It shouldn’t be difficult. Indeed, I quite envy thee. Thou may indulge every vice in that splendid young body. Red meat in thy belly, velvets and silks against thy skin, fine wine to spice thy palate. A nubile young maid to warm thy bed—or a pretty-faced lad with soft hands and a wicked tongue, as the fancy takes thee.”

  Zamiel couldn’t help smiling at this dizzying array of prospects, the mouth-watering feast of possibility spread like a banquet before him. “Well are you called the lord of temptation, Lucifer. But your enticements won’t blind me to reality. If I’m truly mortal as you claim, this banquet of vice isn’t merely lying about for the savoring. I own nothing but this lute—thank the Most Righteous they didn’t take that—and the clothes on my back.”

  Dubious, he fingered the ruby starburst at his shoulder. “I suppose I can pawn these jewels and live handsomely for a time, as mortals do. After that, I’ll be singing for my supper.”

  The romantic notion of living like a vagabond or wandering troubadour seized his imagination and he grinned. “What a glorious adventure! I’ll romp and revel and roister through the realm.”

  “That’s the spirit,” his father urged. “Thumb thy nose at Metatron and the whole sanctimonious tribe. Make a mockery of thy punishment, and wallow in every pleasure the mortal realm has to offer. I shall aid thee in every manner, for their discomfiture pleases Me well.”

  Lightly he tossed a purse across the table. By instinct, Zamiel caught it. Its substantial weight clanked in his palm.

  “Coin of the realm, Father?”

  “Don’t disdain it. Here, money makes all the difference between bliss and misery. Thou may obtain fashionable lodgings fitted with every comfort, a carriage and four to bear thee in comfort through these chilly streets, an army of servants to tend thine every whim.

  “Thou shalt not even require that pretty face and supple form to lure thy lovers, though thou art a very Endymion. They’ll perform every decadent perversion thou might imagine upon thee, themselves and each other for the gleam of all that gold.”

  Caught up in the spirit of the game, Zamiel laughed. “All that from one purse?”

  “So long as thou wish to savor thy rebellion, I’ll finance thine exploits.” Lucifer shrugged. “Thou shalt find that purse is never empty.”

  Zamiel received this largesse with a cynical twist of his lips. “Generous of you. But you forget that I’ve watched you entice these greedy, lustful, weak-willed mortals too many times with lures like this one. What price do you demand in return?”

  Eyes gleaming with crimson fire, the fallen angel bared his teeth in a smile. For a heartbeat, needle-sharp incisors winked into view. “Seeing thee, one of His prized Dominions, wallow in vice and corruption will be payment enough for Me. Take the purse, Zamiel—and forget not to commission thine elegant court attire.”

  Despite his lingering suspicion of the old serpent’s motives, Zamiel couldn’t contain a broad grin of delight. “Am I going to court?”

  “Where else should a prince of Heaven disport? This young Tudor Queen hath a healthy enjoyment of handsome admirers, and the means to indulge her taste for it. Present thyself as Zamiel, Lord of Briah, newly returned from exile abroad with other good Protestants now the Catholics are overthrown. Thou shalt enjoy a warm welcome.”

  Lucifer leaned forward. “Besides, where better to find thy highborn Scottish beauty?”

  A pleasurable shock rolled through him. It hadn’t occurred to him to connect these alluring visions of vice and sin to the lady with her fiery eyes and fierce courage who’d been filling his thoughts all day. But it was true. She was one of the Queen’s ladies. At the Queen’s court he would find her.

  If he were truly mortal, spirit made flesh, there was nothing to prevent him from finding her, wooing her, touching her...

  Touching her? Have you run mad? Zamiel stared down at his hands in their heavy gauntlets. The bitter taste of disappointment flooded his mouth.

  “To what end would I seek her?” he said harshly. “Or anyone else? My touch is death. I can kill with a kiss.”

  “Not so. Whilst thou inhabit that mortal body and live under the interdict of Heaven thou may touch and be touched, as mortals do.”

  “I killed not an hour past! That poor wretch of a fool—”

  “His death was foreordained, his soul already damned, and thy presence inconsequential to his fate.”

  Was this the lie? Again, the truth was too easily proven. Zamiel’s head swam as he struggled to remain afloat in this buffeting sea of emotion. Were these bewildering surges of sentiment another uncomfortable symptom of mortality, like the hunger that gnawed his belly and the thirst that caked his throat?

  Before today, he’d suffered an eternity of isolation, bitter as gall, feared and shunned as an outcast on earth and the celestial plane alike. Before today, the Prince of Devils had been his only friend, except for Gabriele—another reason to grieve his father’s exile and the ban on co
ngress between them.

  To say nothing of the role he’d played in the banishment, the crushing guilt whose weight he’d never be able to shift from his shoulders. If he’d joined the rebellion as Lucifer entreated, if he’d brought the Dominions into the war beside him, would Lucifer have won?

  Grieve though he might, pariah though he was, still Zamiel wasn’t so pure a fool that he trusted his father.

  Clearly the old serpent sensed his doubt.

  “Blessed art they who have not seen...” the fallen angel said dryly. “This need not be taken on faith, Zamiel. Find thee some poor wretch dying in the streets—Heaven knows this city suffers no lack of those—some poor soul to whom thy gift would bring only mercy. Touch him and see what happens. If he survives, thou shalt know I speak the truth.”

  “You can believe I will.”

  As though waking from a dream, Zamiel stared around the tavern. Night had fallen beyond the mullioned windows. Firelight gleamed on a sea of mortal faces, sweat shining on mortal skin. A voluptuous young girl, clearly a harlot, leaned casually against a neighboring table, nut-brown hair tumbling free around her shoulders. The square bodice of her gown was cut so low across the white swell of her breasts that her pink nipples thrust boldly above the soiled lace.

  She caught his gaze, and a slow smile of invitation curved her lips. Languidly one hand drifted upward, fingers grazing her nipple, gliding in erotic circles around the peak until it hardened beneath his gaze.

  Zamiel swallowed hard and wrenched his gaze away, another novel sensation seizing hold of his mortal body. Beneath his silver-stitched codpiece, his cock stirred and swelled.

  Lucifer laughed under his breath. “Grant Me a few more moments of thine attention, Zamiel, and I’ll leave thee to commence thy revels.”

  Reluctantly, he trained his gaze on his father’s face. The image of the harlot’s soft fingers circling her nipples lingered in his mind like a fever dream.

  Calmly the fallen angel slid a ring from his hand and laid it on the table between them. “I bid thee wear this ring.”

  The dark-haired doxy lingered suggestively, positioning herself in his view. Zamiel couldn’t resist a last furtive glance at her smiling mouth. As if on cue, her pink tongue swept out to trace her lips, leaving them lush and shining with dew. Deftly, her fingers tweaked and toyed with her nipples, which rose taut and hard to welcome the attention. His cock ached and pulsed...intolerable, delightful, and damnably distracting.

  How do mortal men ever manage to think and walk and function with this clamoring Goliath between their legs—?

  “Zamiel.” Lucifer rapped the table with his knuckles. “Try to pay attention, if it please thee. ’Tis important.”

  Forcing his attention away from the whore, his cock and a riot of speculation about what he could do with both, Zamiel cleared his throat. Sedulously avoiding his father’s amused gaze, he lifted the ring. The signet lay heavy in his palm, large as a man’s knuckle, an ornate pentagram stamped into the tarnished silver.

  “What’s this?” His brow furrowed.

  “When thou hast taken thy fill of fleshly delights, I want thee to call upon Me. The rather extreme rituals by which mortals are wont to do this will poorly suit thy taste. With this ring, thou may summon Me without ritual. Spill thy mortal blood upon the ring and call upon the Power of Darkness, and I shall appear before thee.”

  Lucifer paused. Above his brow, the crown of black flames flickered into view. “This is a powerful token I entrust to thee. It empowers the bearer to summon Me like a common demon, like the least of My minions. Give it to another, and thy soul is Mine.”

  Ah, this was the Devil over whose wiles the heavenly host wrung its hands in dismay. Lucifer might be his father and now his only friend, but Zamiel mustn’t forget his nature—especially now, encumbered with this vulnerable mortal soul.

  He arched a skeptical brow. “Father, don’t take this amiss, but why would I wish to summon you? If I ever plan to resume my place in Heaven, beg forgiveness and return to grace and so on, I’ll have to avoid committing any more unpardonable sins, won’t I? Somehow I think summoning you as my minion would be frowned upon.”

  “Thou shalt summon Me, Zamiel, because thou art one of nature’s rebels, just as I was. Show thee a rule, and thou dost itch to break it.” Lucifer, Son of the Morning, gave him a tender smile.

  His violet eyes had begun to darken, crimson sparks glowing in their depths. “Unlikely though it may seem at the moment, these pleasures of the flesh will pall. Yet the notion of toadying before Metatron and returning meekly to thine ordained place will prove equally unappealing. When that happens, My son, I shall make thee a new offer.”

  Seized by the imp of mischief, ever his downfall, Zamiel tossed the ring lightly. The gleaming circlet tumbled in a lazy circle and dropped back to his gauntleted palm. “Think you’ll tempt me into falling? It hasn’t worked so far.”

  Lucifer leaned back in his chair and laughed. “My son, thou were an angel—and His. But now!”

  The odor of burning flesh seared the air. “Thou hast never seen such temptation as I shall show thee.”

  Chapter Three

  Two weeks later

  Linnet dreaded the notion of a starring role in the Queen’s masque. Any sort of public performance triggered all her old anxieties. Too, she’d had enough of being the court’s whispered scandal, her plight an amusing diversion for these Protestant lords and their ladies.

  But she’d learned who was commanding this night’s grand spectacle, and known she must seize her moment.

  Now, as she squeezed into the crowded anteroom near the Great Hall where the entire court hummed with anticipation, her nerves threatened to get the best of her.

  But there was her target—Lord Robert Dudley, the Queen’s favorite, striding among the flustered ladies-in-waiting who’d taken the starring roles of the Seven Virtues. His dark gypsy gaze skimmed critically over every detail of their dramatic costumes.

  “Tut, Temperance, that will never do!” he exclaimed, boot heels ringing as he descended upon young Lettice Knollys.

  Her mask tossed aside, the white-robed maid strained on tiptoe to peer at her reflection in the mullioned window. Vigorously she pinched color into her cheeks until Linnet’s own cheeks stung in sympathy.

  “My dear Lord Robert, whatever do you mean?” Ignoring the outcry, Lettice redoubled her efforts. “I’m pale as milk. God’s Body, I look like I’m bound for the gallows instead of a masque!”

  Steady as a rock while a chorus of shrill voices clamored for his attention, the Queen’s favorite held tight to his patience. “Moderation, mindfulness, restraint are your bywords, Temperance. Delayed gratification, if you please.”

  Over his shoulder, the vixen cast him a coy glance. Beneath the flutter of girls struggling with masks and props and the bustling of anxious servants, only Linnet—disregarded as usual—stood close enough to hear her rejoinder.

  “I am not well practiced in that virtue, I fear, Lord Robert.”

  “Minx!” Lightly he pinched the girl’s blooming cheek—the very act for which he’d chided her. “No more than ten-and-six if you’re a day, and already breaking hearts, God help us. Be a good girl now, Temperance, and help Charity with her basket.”

  Lettice gave him a practiced pout, but Dudley merely chuckled and turned away. Next his critical eye fell upon Linnet.

  By instinct, her belly tightened. Male attention had never boded well for her.

  Stand fast, ye wee bampot! This was what ye wanted, aye?

  Indeed, the need to gain this man’s attention was the sole reason she’d put herself forward in this immodest way, flying in the face of lifelong habit.

  Robert Dudley was a hard man to corner, unless you were his besotted Queen. They said he barely troubled to answer his own wife when poor neglected Amy sent her torrent of pleading letters from their country estate.

  “Diligence?” Briskly he strode toward her, sharp eyes surveying her up and dow
n.

  For her role, Linnet had donned a subdued gown of shimmering blue-gray taffeta, the whalebone busk laced tight against the full swell of her breasts, a stately ruff of silver lace framing her face. She’d tied a fresh white pinafore over her spreading skirts and farthingale, and pinned a milkmaid’s lacy cap over her dark curls. Already, a few rebellious ringlets had sprung free to unravel down her neck.

  Beneath his scrutiny, she held her breath. The old fear of disapproval clutched her throat.

  For the love of Bride, don’t be such a mouse! This wasn’t her father, the cold-eyed earl, so quick to apply the rod for any perceived failing.

  “Yer mother was a witch and a strumpet. Ye’re nay daughter of mine, but the Devil’s get,” he’d rasped from his deathbed. A tyrant to the end, he’d ignored the horrified gasps from his heir James and his good-daughter Caitlin, whose loose tongue would spread the scandal far and wide. Then he’d turned his face to the wall and died.

  Firmly banishing her demons to the abyss where they belonged, Linnet tucked her loose ringlets into place.

  “Will I suffice then, Lord Robert?”

  “In your case, countess, we want less shyness and decorum—a bit of dishabille in our Diligence to enchant the gentlemen.” With a practiced smile, he pushed back her cap, his distracted gaze already sliding past her. Beneath his careless hands, long spirals of fire-streaked curls slipped from their pins to brush her half-bare shoulders.

  Warmth crept into her cheeks. “I beg yer pardon, but I’ve no wish to appear tumbled and blown about—”

  “Forgive me.” With another of his easy smiles, he tugged free the silk partlet she’d tucked beneath her bodice for modesty, baring her upper breasts. “There! Rumor has it you seek an English husband, is it so?”

  Her blush deepened, but she held her ground. “Aye, my lord, for Glencross. My lands march along the Scottish border, aye? We need a strong laird to deter bandits and border reivers.”

  “Then you ought to make more of yourself, Lady Norwood. You’ve a form to turn any man’s head.”

  Tucking the loose scarf into her astonished fingers, he pivoted away.