heroine to his chest. And yes, he was a marvelous-looking man, his hair loose on his shoulders like dark-spun gold under the stage lights, the neatly trimmed goatee a shade darker. His eyes were such a vivid blue they pierced Prue all the way to her soft, silly soul. He was big too—so big only the athleticism of his tall, muscular frame prevented him from looking blocky. Gods, exactly the physical type she preferred, right down to the mischievous glint in his eye.
But Prue had spent almost two decades surrounded by the most beautiful people on the world of Palimpsest. She was accustomed to perfection, even to the delightful frisson of sexual dominance Erik projected so effortlessly. He was a fine actor.
But merciful Sister, that voice!
He’d glanced directly at their box and his face had lit up with a grin that had pure devil in it. Then he’d opened his mouth. From the first effortless bar, her foolish heart had tumbled into his keeping. Every note was round, rich, deeply masculine, filling the auditorium as if supported on smooth columns of air. Utterly enthralled, Prue had found herself leaning forward, her mouth hanging open, trying to breathe him in, keep him forever, hers alone. She felt feverish, tingling, her breasts tight and her sex swollen and slippery, as if he were stroking her naked body with velvet.
Even worse, the costume, in an old-fashioned style still worn only by the oligarchs on Green IV, suited him to perfection. A pair of over-the-knee boots emphasized the power of thighs and buttocks encased in tight cream breeches. Prue’s mouth watered.
The tenor hero had pretty well disappeared in comparison. During one of his uninspiring arias, she managed to tear her eyes away and glance to her left. “Gods,” gasped Rose, a flush mantling her cheeks. Her hand closed hard over Prue’s forearm, the fingers digging in. “Have you ever—?”
“No.” Every face in the theater was rapt. “Sshh. He’s starting again.”
The tenor had won the duel that ended the act, and the demon king lay wounded, his pain and heartbreak throbbing in a cascade of low, exquisite notes. Tears prickled behind Prue’s eyes. Godsdammit, he was good! No, not good—superb, superlative, magnificent.
All through the thunder of the applause, the stamping of feet, the shouting, she sat frozen, putting herself back together, a piece at a time.
She could do better than this. She wasn’t some silly girl to lose her head and heart to a handsome singer. She was Pruella Takimori McGuire, business manager of The Garden of Nocturnal Delights, a woman for whom numbers held no terror. Rose’s friend and silent partner, Katrin’s mother. That helped, the thought of Katrin, serious and steady, only nineteen, but so deeply in love with her Arkady. He was a good boy. That had her grinning ruefully, trying to relax.
Unfortunately, the second act was even worse. Or better.
Erik was surveying his makeup and costume dispassionately in the mirror when someone scratched on the door. “Ye there?” said a voice straight from the slums of Sybaris.
“Of course.” Setting the powder puff aside, Erik grinned at his reflection, though it turned out more like a grimace. “Come in.”
He’d woken half off the bed, half on, rubbed raw in some tender internal place he couldn’t touch, couldn’t soothe. He still had the sense of a dark, towering wave, gathering on the horizon, looming closer . . . His destiny or his death? Unless they were one and the same.
Fuck premonitions. He’d made his decision, hadn’t he? Chosen the nearest thing he knew to substance, the only way to fill the emptiness and anchor him in this life. What was done, was done.
The door opened the merest crack, and a small, skinny figure eeled into the room. Florien shot him a flat, dark glance from under a tangled fringe, and Erik suppressed a sigh. The boy had filled out some since Cenda and Gray had rescued him from the stews of his home world, but he still reminded Erik of an alley cat—wiry and half-savage, poised to claw or flee as the case demanded.
“What is it?” he asked when the boy showed no signs of breaking the silence. In the mirror, Erik tried a suitably diabolical leer. Better.
“Twenny minutes.”
Erik raised a brow. “For . . . ?”
Florien’s mouth barely moved, as if he begrudged each word. “T’ secon’ act curtain. Ranald sed t’ tell ye.” He turned away.
Lord’s balls, how old was the lad? Ten? Possibly a little more. Did he ever smile?
On