The claw marks on his arms and shoulders stung like a bitch. Sourly, he glanced over his shoulder at the stairs he’d have to climb, the bridges he’d need to cross to get back to the Leaf of Nobility and his clothes.
When someone whistled, long and loud, he pushed the wet hair out of his eyes. Perhaps a lift? The words died on his lips.
13
“Well, well, if it’s not a merman,” laughed a man with a face like a dark, mischievous angel. He looked vaguely familiar. When he made a motion with his hand, the barge slowed, blue water rippling about its gilded sides. “The perfect appetizer for a sunset dinner cruise. Hop on board, my friend.”
The grin widened as he looked Erik over, taking his time. His bold stare lingered over Erik’s chest, the golden fur there glinting in the late afternoon sun. Then it swooped down to his big bare feet and lifted again, taking a lengthy stop midway. “My, my.” Coolly, his brows rose. “There’s plenty to go around.”
Erik glanced down. Not only was he stripped to the waist, but his trews were so wet they were essentially transparent. Every contour, every pubic curl, every muscle, was revealed in a way more salacious than honest nudity. Gods, there was a limit to public performance!
A grinning crewman gathered up a rope while other well-dressed passengers crowded to the rail, and Erik remembered where he’d seen that handsome, wicked face. At The Garden. As if in confirmation, through the smattering of applause, the cheers and the catcalls, he heard a woman’s distinctive throaty laugh. Rose!
With a growl of fury, he launched himself into the water in a long, flat dive, going deep, using the tremendous power of his lungs to stay under, all the way to the other side of the canal. When he finally surfaced, the barges were disappearing around the bend, laughter drifting behind them like confetti. He was only a few hundred yards from the small water stair on the Leaf of Nobility.
Shivering, he retrieved his belongings from behind the clump of daffydillies and dressed. He had an hour before the overture began at the Royal Theater.
Swearing, Erik broke into a jog trot, then a flat-out run.
It wasn’t one of his most inspired performances, but he got through it and gave the people their money’s worth. Pacing himself, he brought to bear all his technique and experience, saving the Voice for last. So the demon king’s death brought the house down, as usual, but he had to revert to “The Milkmaid’s Jugs” in his own perfectly adequate voice for the first encore. But even that turned out well, the audience clapping along to the risqué, jogging rhythm of the chorus.
By the time he came to the “Lullaby for Stormy Eyes,” Erik felt sufficiently restored to impose his will on the air, to use his blessing to shape the aching beauty of the melody. As he sent the notes arching forth into the hush, in his mind’s eye, he saw Prue’s vivid, tip-tilted eyes, turbulent with emotion, none of it good. And all of it directed at him.
His whole body seething with impatience, Erik bowed and bowed. With a final wave, he sprinted offstage and down to his dressing room, ripping off his sweaty shirt as he went. Five minutes later, he was standing at the top of the theater’s water stair, scanning for a skiff.
Florien materialized at his elbow in that uncanny way he had. “We goin’ back t’ t’ boardin’ house now?”
“You are.” Where the hell—? There! Spying Bettsa’s skiff bobbing about on the canal, Erik waved her over. “I’m not.” He fished out a couple of oct-creds and saw the boy’s face brighten.
Florien reached out a small paw, casting him a sidelong look from under inky lashes. “Ye’re goin’ t’ her, ain’t ye? T’ bossy one, at t’ Garden?”
Well, hell. With coins in his pocket, the child would be off to the Melting Pot, no question. The gods alone knew what might happen to him there—or the damage he might do.
Erik frowned, thinking furiously. “None of your damned business.”
He grabbed the boy’s chin with hard fingers. Gods, he had no time to waste, not with this strange urgency blowing through him like the hot breath of a furnace, but the Voice wasn’t the only way to compel, and he had to see the boy safe. “I will have your promise to take a skiff back to the boarding house and go straight to bed.