Shroud of Eternity

CHAPTER 70

Blood and magic hung like a vibrant mist in the air as the night deepened. Amos could smell it. He could sense it. He found it exhilarating, even arousing, and the young man knew exactly what to do with his arousal.

He had a few hours before the ceremonial killings at the pyramid. His mother and father would be making their preparations along with the duma, but the young man had no part in that, nor did his friends. Someday, Amos supposed, he would become a member of the council, if any of the other wizards ever died. He doubted they would retire.

But he was not overly eager. He had everything he wanted and no responsibilities. For tonight, he would merely be an avid spectator, watching the cascades of blood spout from hundreds of slashed throats. He hoped he could be close enough to smell the moist iron in the air. He licked his lips in anticipation.

While he wouldn’t mind having the shroud drop at occasional times, so he and his friends could go out and vandalize the stone soldiers, he knew they would find other amusements even if the protective bubble remained permanently in place. No doubt there would be more entertaining battles in the combat arena. His lips quirked in a smile. Soon, according to the morazeth trainers, the bumpkin Bannon would be ready to die in the arena. Amos looked forward to watching what the cabbage farmer might do.

“That will be a thing to see,” he said aloud.

Beneath him, Melody whimpered.

He slapped her again for good measure, and she bit back another outcry of pain. The bitch simply wouldn’t learn. “If you stop making noises, I’ll stop hitting you. You’re so stupid.”

Melody whimpered again, and Amos knew it was a wasted effort to strike her again. Then he realized that he enjoyed it, and with a sharp smack he brought his open hand across her mouth, splitting her lip a second time. Blood dribbled down her chin.

The thick sexual arousal from the impending sacrifice had made him hungry to expend some of that energy. Without bothering to call Jed and Brock, because he didn’t need them dangling from him like leeches, he had gone to the dacha of the silk yaxen and paid his coin to the surly doorman. Amos had grabbed Melody from where she sat prettily next to a fumbling merchant, a chubby man Amos recognized as a seller of glazed pots.

Melody had blinked up at him, then recognized him. She drew back with fear, and Amos’s arousal increased. He grabbed her by the wrists, saw the fading bruises on her arm, and realized that he hadn’t come here since the Norukai had visited this place.

“She is mine tonight,” Amos said to the pottery merchant, and dragged her off the divan. Melody barely struggled, her arms and legs flopping as she stumbled to keep up with him.

The merchant sputtered and looked disappointed, but Amos was the son of the wizard commander and the sovrena, so the man found another equally beautiful and equally cooperative whore.

“We need a private room,” Amos said, “a place that will muffle the sounds.”

Melody had begun to whimper even before he shoved her through the doorway. She sprawled on the bed, turning to look up at him. He closed the door and very carefully said, “Tonight I’m going to make you scream.”

Melody’s loose gossamer gown was made of pink silk, held together with loops of lace designed to be easily undone. Amos had made a point of ripping the garment off of her, tearing the fabric with a loud and satisfying sound. She crawled backward, propping herself on her elbows. Amos had been hungry for the animal release of sex.

Melody barely formed the words, “I … please you?”

“You will, one way or another,” he growled as he undid his pantaloons and pulled them off. Striding forward, he breathed hard and fast. He was extremely aroused, like a warrior with an outthrust sword ready to go into battle. And battle he did.

He pressed Melody down and pried her legs apart, grabbing the thatch of short blond fur between them. He found no moistness there, but decided he didn’t care. She was the one who would hurt if she wasn’t ready for him.

Amos thrust into her with angry passion, drawing pleasure not from the act itself, but from what it did to her. Silk yaxen were bred for this, creatures who lived for no other purpose than to let men use them—to let Amos use her.

The private room was brightly lit with many candles rather than the low romantic illumination in other chambers. Amos didn’t mind. He wanted to see what he was doing. Melody lay back on the bed, closed her eyes, and let him do whatever he wished. He thrust repeatedly, watched her body move, up and back.

Though it was what she always did, her passivity annoyed him tonight. Amos grabbed her throat and squeezed hard as he continued to push into her. Her eyes widened and swelled. She clawed at his hands, straining to breathe. As she fought harder and harder, he reached his own peak of intensity and shuddered with pleasure, releasing his hold on her throat and collapsing on top of her. Melody squirmed while Amos relaxed, enjoying the waning euphoria.

But as she struggled to crawl out from under him, his anger came back and he punched her in the face, drawing more blood. Melody squirmed off the edge of the bed and dropped to the floor. He let her go, sitting up on the fine mattress so he could watch her pathetic movements.

Melody was crying, which seemed strange because silk yaxen didn’t have the brains or the emotions to cry. The red mark around her eye had begun to swell, which made Amos think of the bloodworking that would occur soon. Now that he had expended himself inside the whore, he could shift his anticipation to other pleasures.

Melody worked her way across the room to a stool before a small bureau and a mirror. Pots of makeup, colorings for the eyes, rouge for the lips, sat out on display. It was a place for silk yaxen to prepare themselves before each new customer. Candles burned on either side of a mirror, and Melody sat staring at her reflection. Tentatively she reached forward, touched a fingertip to her split lip, to the blood there. She smeared it across her lips, reddening them as if with rouge. When she stared at her reflection, tears filled her eyes. She reached up to touch her swollen face, the prominent red mark that would become a black eye. Her other hand reached her throat where Amos had nearly strangled her.

He lurched off the bed, annoyed that she would give more attention to her own reflection than to him. “I’m paying you for my time here. I’m the one who needs to look at your bruised and ugly face.” Amos snatched one of the pots of makeup and hurled it at the mirror, smashing it. Cracks spiderwebbed out from the impact point, and silvered shards dropped out of the frame, clattering to the bureau.

Melody gasped and sniffled. She picked up one of the broken shards and held it wonderingly in her hand.

Amos laughed.

She turned, lifted the long shard, and then, smoothly—as if she were practicing, not sure what would happen—Melody sliced the jagged glass across his throat, opening up the skin like an astonished new mouth beneath his chin.

Amos blinked at her, too confused to feel the instant razor of pain. Bright red blood showered out all over Melody. He watched the spray drench her, and she gazed at him, looked down at the broken mirror, and smiled.

Amos grabbed his throat. He choked and gurgled, unable to hold his wound closed. The crimson waterfall spewed through his clenched fingers, just like the blood he had so anticipated being spilled from the sacrificial slaves during the midnight ritual.

Amos collapsed to the floor, still twitching as a lake of blood pooled around him. Some ran down his naked chest, while more drained toward Melody’s bare feet. She let the warm blood touch her.

She turned her interest back to the broken mirror. She picked up another shard and another, holding the broken pieces in her hands, and then she gently, experimentally, raised them to her face. She pressed the flat, silvered surfaces against her cheeks, trying to form a mask of her own.