Deamon's Daughter Part 2

The day he'd walked out of Little Barking Station with the Yamish doctor who was going to install his implants, her eyes had widened like silver coins, following them all the way from the station's door to the waiting diplomatic coach. Her mouth had hung open as if in horror, revealing the dark coloration that made all Yamish tongues appear forked. Aware of human sensibilities, Yama almost never exposed the mark.

"Do you know her?" Adrian had felt compelled to ask the doctor.

"Who?"

"The Yama who runs that stall."

His companion didn't deign to look or break his stride. He smoothed his long sable-brown hair around his n.o.bly shaped skull. His elegant face was as motionless as a mask. "Many people know me," he said. "My medical skills are what you would call famous."

As Adrian opened and held the lacquered coach door, infamous was the word that came to mind instead.

They'd driven to the cleanest medical facilitya"h.e.l.l, the cleanest place Adrian had ever seen in his lifea"the converted wing of an otherwise closed-up mansion in Kensington. The walls and most of the furnis.h.i.+ngs were pale blue, as cold and spotless as Northern ice. The doctor's manner had been the same.

It's just their way, Adrian had told himself, but when the doctor's a.s.sistants strapped him to the s.h.i.+ning metal table, it had taken all his will not to struggle.

"Twenty minutes," the doctor said, "and you will be as strong as one of us."

One of the a.s.sistants made some comment in his native tongue. Though none of them betrayed the slightest hint of humor, Adrian sensed they were mocking him.

"Twenty minutes," the doctor repeated, and with the tiniest p.r.i.c.k of a needle, he put him out.

Now, for reasons Adrian could not fathom, the food stall's owner perched on the edge of the couch where he lay. Her fingertips, cool and slightly wrinkled, rested against his bare breastbone. Her hands were longer than a human's, just different enough to notice. Beneath the nearly weightless touch, his heart beat a fraction faster than it should.

It was strange to know that without his enhancements, this slender old lady was stronger than he was.

"You don't know what he took from us before they exiled us to Awar," she said, her words thickly accented. "You can't imagine how much our little rebellions cost."

Her presence was so vivid, Adrian didn't realize he'd been dreaming until he shuddered himself awake. His own cold hand lay atop his breast. For a second, he imagined his wrist was still wrapped in bandages. Lord, what had he done to have such a dream?

Fortunately, the world he woke to was more pleasant. The sun was warming his face, and his nose twitched to the heavenly smell of something edible. His stomach rumbled in antic.i.p.ation, but full consciousness also brought an awareness of the battering he'd taken. Wincing, he opened his eyes.

A slim, fair-haired boy stood above him, fourteen or fifteen by the looks of him. He was astoundingly beautiful, more than most humans could dream of being. He was also quite angry.

"Doc says you need soup," he snapped, and thrust a rough blue bowl at him.

The contents of the handcrafted ceramic steamed in the cool morning air. A draft blew wisps of its rousing fragrance toward Adrian. His mouth watered, but as soon as he tried to rise on his elbows, a hammerblow of pain split his skull. Sweat popped out on his forehead from the effort not to groan. Sinking back, he closed his eyes and tried to breathe again.

"Goodness, Charles," said a sweet familiar voice. "The man's not ready to feed himself."

His pulse quickened at her approach. His strange morning dream was supplanted by a very different memory. He recalled her touch on his face and, yes, kissing her until his head reeled with pleasure. Was it possible he'd cupped her breast? His palm seemed to remember a warm, silken weight But maybe he'd dreamt that, too? He studied her expression, the faint blush beneath her freckles. She was staring at his mouth. No dream then.

But how different she looked all dried out! Two high windows bordered the fireplace, and the light pouring through them caught fire in her orange locks, loose around her shoulders now, long and thick and flyaway curly. He pictured himself rubbing those electric strands against his c.o.c.k. Without thinking, his hand lifted toward the blazing cloud, like a child reaching for a toy.

Misreading his desire, she took his hand in hers and sat next to him on a stool. Given the edge on which his rather ridiculous arousal was poised, he was glad she wore a silk wrapper over her nightgown. It wasn't what he'd call a modest covering, but it was better than nothing. He narrowed his good eye at the cigar pocket draping her breast. b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. She was wearing a man's silk robe.

"How do you feel?" she asked, her forehead pleating at his sudden scowl. "Do you think you can talk?"

"Ia"Who are you?"

"I'm Roxanne McAllister, and this is Charles Watkins." She tipped her head at the angry blond boy. "Max is in the kitchen finis.h.i.+ng breakfast, but I imagine you'll meet him soon. I found you lying in my garden last night Do you remember what happened?"

"Yes." He spoke softly, the word unconsciously libidinous. "I remember."

She blushed again. It made the freckles on her cheeks blend together.

His mind ran backward. Max, she'd said. Was that her husband?

"My name is Adrian Phelps," he said before he could blush himself. She didn't seem as plain as she had last night. In the morning light, with her hair flaming around her, she was almost pretty.

"Well, Adrian." She sounded fl.u.s.tered, but her informality pleased him. He didn't want her calling him Mr. Phelps. Especially since Phelps wasn't really his name. "Let's see if we can get some of Charles's famous carrot-potato soup into you before you keel over again."

Careful not to jar him, she eased him forward and began tucking a mountain of velvet pillows behind him. In complete defiance of his wishes, his c.o.c.k lurched upward each time her body brushed his. By the time she finished, he was fully erect and light-headed from the flight of his already-denuded blood supply. She smelled good. Spicy. The scent mingled enticingly with the steam from the soup. To his relief, he could manage the spoon himself as long as she held the bowl, though he was grateful for the napkin she'd draped across his chest.

He was very hungry, and the soup was wonderful. The only way he'd have enjoyed it more was if the young chef hadn't been glaring at him as he ate.

He told himself to be glad for the warning. No point letting his guard get too low, no matter how alluring the boy's whata"aunt? sister? guardian?a"seemed. He knew nothing about these people. Even in the most law-abiding households, policemen weren't welcome guests, so how much more so in the shadow of Harborside? By the time the bowl and spoon were set aside, his instincts of self-preservation were back in place.

"Now." The woman braced her hands on silk-clad knees. "Can you tell us what happened? Who did this to you?"

Adrian allowed a brush of the docks to color his voice. "Nothing to concern yourself with, ma'am. Merely a disagreement between two gentlemen of business."

"And we know what business that is, don't we?" The boy spoke for the first time since he'd thrust the soup in Adrian's face. Out of nowhere, a packet of stiff white papers struck his lap.

Adrian flinched. The packet had been thrown hard, aimed spitefully and, regrettably, he had nothing between his privates and the blow but the knitted blanket.

Roxanne raised her eyebrows at the boy but didn't take him to task.

"What is it?" She scooped the papers off his lap. For an instant, the warmth of her fingers brushed one stinging t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e. His c.o.c.k stretched another half-inch at the inadvertent intimacy, but he was too anxious about her reaction to the pictures to worry over that.

He knew them by heart. Sketches of his lost boys, five in all, though Tommy Bainbridge was the only one gone missing recently enough to offer hope. He'd paid the police artist out of his own pocket to make them, and he didn't have copies. From Charles's reaction, he realized the sketches must have been taken for a panderers' catalogue.

There were few lower occupations to which a human could sink.

Roxanne refolded the packet and placed it on the cus.h.i.+on by his thigh. Her body was stiff with tension. The intensity of his desire to rea.s.sure her shocked him.

"This is what you do? Find boys to offer to the demons?"

"No, ma'am," he said. "I was looking for one of the kids. For a friend. He had a misunderstanding with his wife. She took off with the boy, then dumped him dock-side. My friend said he'd pay good to get the tyke out of there. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying everything I do is strictly up and up, but I don't hold with pandering."

Roxanne's unsettling silver-blue eyes searched his. He met them gladly. He was enjoying, perversely perhaps, her attempts to penetrate his inner world.

"Never," he said softly, firmly. "You can take my word on that."

After a moment, her shoulders relaxed. Her smile quirked the corners of her mouth. Though she didn't actually say she was glad to believe him, he knew she was. A different kind of warmth spread through his body, far more dangerous than l.u.s.t.

The boy cursed, disgusted by the exchange. This time Roxanne did scold him, sharply enough to send him from the parlor in a huff.

To Adrian's disappointment, a few minutes later she stood as if she, too, meant to leave.

"What's wrong?" she asked, attuned to his change of expression. "Is there something else you need?"

Another kiss, he wanted to say, but there was something more pressinga She slapped her brow in sudden understanding. "Sorry. Didn't think. I'll be back in a flash."

She returned with a freshly washed milk carafe. Cows decorated its side, black and white, green gra.s.s, blue sky. It had been handcrafted with the same rough charm as his soup bowl, probably by the same artisan.

She grinned sheepishly. "Sorry I haven't got anything more appropriate."

Then she started to lift the blanket.

"No!" he said sharply, automatically. "I mean, I can do it, ma'am."

She looked him in the eye, not teasing now. "You're not strong enough to turn yourself yet. You want to pull out your st.i.tches? Or ruin my favorite couch? Besides"a"she winkeda""I saw it all last night. There's no need to 'ma'am' me to death, either. The name's Roxanne."

Adrian groaned, more in embarra.s.sment than pain, as she rolled him gently onto his side.

"Thank you," he said thinly, trying to mask the awkward pause. "You've been very kind."

The woman snorted out a startled laugh. "I'm not helping, am I? Why don't I come back in a few minutes?"

"Tell me you're a nurse," he pleaded when she returned to collect the bottle.

She laughed. "'Fraid not, but I've been something much more horrifying: the only hand with a needle on a s.h.i.+p full of fractious old salts. The things I've had to sew up! You'd faint dead away if you knew.""

"You were a sailor?"

"Oh, yes. With Captain Rilke and the all-female crew of the Ka'arkastan Queen. Max thinks it's very glamorous. He can tell you every port we hit."

Max again, Adrian thought. Blast the man. "You didn't like it?"

"I was young when I signed up. And penniless. The idea of three squares a day and a couple dozen brawny women to look out for me was exceedingly appealing."

"They say Rilke's crew doesn't like men."

Roxie grinned. "No, they don't. And don't appreciate debate on the subject, either. I don't see it myself. Men might be different, but they aren't worse. Common sense says you have to take people one at a time."

"Women always seem like people to me."

"Well, I should hope so!" Her eyes danced merrily.

"I mean, when men say women are this or women do that, I can always think of one who doesn't. I guessa" He slowed as he thought about it. "I guess maybe the same is true of demons." Since she didn't seem shocked by this idea, he struggled onto his elbow and c.o.c.ked his head at her. "You know, I never have conversations like this."

"Don't you?" She pulled the blanket farther up his body. Her gaze was on the muscles of his chest, and he had the distinct impression mat she was admiring his build. "I do, all the time. The product of an irregular childhood, I suppose."

He could see that Rules fell away in her presence. She had created a world apart here, not Harborside, not proper society. He wondered how far her liberality might go. Could he ask her anything, tell her anything, and have the confidence kept safe? Years of habita"professional and personala"kept him from testing her, but the prospect thrilled him deep inside. Anything might happen with this woman. No dream, even his dream of sensual freedom, seemed too outrageous to contemplate. In a matter of hours, she'd granted him more liberties than his wife had in three months of marriage. If he tread carefully, he might earn more.

a.s.suming this Max person wasn't her protector. a.s.suming she didn't treat every man who crossed her path this way. Her behavior was so far from what he knew, he found it impossible to judge.

His ears perked when he heard her speak to someone in the hall. The kitchen, apparently, was just across the way.

"Hey, pipsqueak. Don't you think it's time you put some clothes on?"

"No-o," said a voice both gravelly and babyish, the mysterious Max, he presumed. His shoulders relaxed. That voice couldn't belong to the owner of a smoking robe.

"No?" said Roxie. "Better watch out then. 'Cause you're that much easier to tickle in your underwear."

Two flashes hurtled past the open pocket doors, one howling with delighted terror while the other growled, "Better watch out. The Tickle Monster's coming."

His eyes p.r.i.c.ked. Children. He remembered how badly he'd wanted them when he married Christine. He'd seen too many children in pain since then. It was hard to believe in happy homes.

Much more comfortable and fatigued by the morning's events, he drifted back to sleep. He woke to the sound of voices in the big windowed room between the parlor and garden, an old ballroom, he imagined. One of the voices was Roxanne's, already familiar and disturbingly stirring to his senses. The other belonged to a soft-spoken young woman. He heard Harborside in it and something foreign. Maybe Nital.

Curious, he turned his head on the stack of pillows. A large open archway connected the two rooms. His present line of sight revealed a slice of polished floor and, in the distance, the part.i.tioned patio door through which Roxanne had dragged him last night. Stymied, he closed his eyes and concentrated on eavesdropping. What he heard did not rea.s.sure him.

Roxanne was speaking. "Up on the platform, ducks. I want you lounging on that divan."

"Is this enough leg, Miss McAllister? I can pull the robe up more."

"No, that's fine, sweetie, but let's have a bit more bosom. Good, good. You'll knock the old geezer's eyes out. Now here's the scenario: You're Lilith, secret lover of the great king, Alphonsus Aurelius. He's been off fighting those pesky Medell marauders for two long years and, as you might imagine, he's feeling frisky now that he's back."

The other voice giggled. "Oh, Miss McAllister, I love it when you get historical."

"Culture, Miss Randk. Culture is what gets us out of the tavern and into the gentlemen's club."

"And doubles our fee?"

Roxanae laughed and, in spite of Adrian's horror, the beauty of the sound sent a delightful chill down his spine.

"With a thin veneer of historical significance, I can charge twenty times what I used to. And speaking of which, I think you're due for a raise, Miss Randle, seeing as how my clients are beginning to ask for you by name."

"Oh, Miss McAllister," gushed her willing victim. "That would be lovely. I could put the boys in private school."

A mother. His rescuer was coaching an innocent young mother in the tricks of the trade. Roxanne must be a madam. Only to humans, it sounded like, but stilla"! He might have to arrest her! Unless he'd misunderstooda but he didn't see how. All that talk of clients and fees. And bosoms. What else was an officer of the law to think?

Hard as he strained his ears, all he heard after that was the occasional stage direction and, now and again, the sound of something pinging against a metal container.

Mystified, but too disturbed to examine the situation further, Adrian shut his eyes and slept.

Night had fallen by the time he roused again. The pretty fringed lamps had been lit Electric lamps, he realized with a start. And where did the money for that come from? One of the shades had fat pink roses on it, the other green and gold dragons. The blue peat fire had been lit again, and the warmth and color mingled together like a seductive dream of home and hearth.

Roxanne was leaning over him with her lips curved sweetly in greeting. Caught unguarded from its rest, his c.o.c.k jumped to attention like a hunting dog. His body didn't care if she was a criminal. It just wanted what it wanted. A little petting, a lot of pumping. Her silky skin. Her honeyed welcome. Lord, it had been too long. He felt as if he were about to burst Her hair smelled of ginger and lemons. Plaited now, it curled over the swell of her breast in a thick orange rope. All he could do was stare at it, at her, his doubts meaningless in the face of the sheer physical pleasure her presence inspired.

The sleeves of her loose white s.h.i.+rt had been rolled to her elbows. Though he tried, he couldn't resist the temptation to brush his thumbs across the bare flesh of her forearms. Her pale eyes warmed, but she didn't move away from the caress. Did that mean she wanted him to touch her? Had her kiss the night before been more than kindness? If what he suspected about her was true, he was insane to care. Insane or not, he couldn't deny he did.

His breathing deepened as the moment spun out He was so hard the ache blotted out his other pains. His b.a.l.l.s pulsed with eagerness. Bad enough he'd been this long without a woman, but she was more woman than most He wisheda"oh, how he wisheda"he could justify making her his. She wasn't some well-bred miss to cringe at his advances, nor some sad-eyed widow to smother him in grat.i.tude.

Roxanne was, oh, he didn't know what she was. A siren. A G.o.ddess. Aa"

"Oh!" A green smudge on her chin sparked his memory. Finally, he identified the smell that lingered around her studio. "You're a painter."