Read Online Thief of Light by Denise Rossetti - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Denise Rossetti
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sheer joy. The touchme bush swayed in time, tinkling almost below the threshold of hearing, but Prue couldn’t have moved to save her life.
Some innate sense of self-preservation told her to turn and run, because a dark part of her soul recognized his touch, his gift.
So abruptly it almost hurt, the liquid Magick stopped midbar. “No,” said Erik Thorensen’s rich, dark baritone. “Tansy, you’re too damned good. You came in a beat early there and the altos tumbled along right behind you.” A pause and she could imagine him smiling, those blue eyes bright with concentration. “Again, from the beginning of the verse. I’ll count you in. Ready? One, two . . . three!”
Appearing beside her, Rose whispered, “He’s so good with them, Prue. You should see their faces. Come in and sit with us.”
Casually, Prue laid a hand over her solar plexus, where the nerves quivered like flutterbyes in a panic. Then she turned her head to skewer her best friend with a glare. “I’m not talking to you.”
“Take a peek.” Unabashed, Rose winked. “Go on, you know you want to.”
Prue growled under her breath, tempted beyond measure. Slowly, she stepped up to the flower-laden lattice that screened the courtyard and peered through. She inhaled sharply.
Erik the Golden leaned against the wall of the pavilion, one booted heel propped against the edge of a garden bed. Praise be to the Sister, he was in profile to her, so she was spared the impact of those eyes. The top of his shining blond head almost brushed the eaves of the small building. Prue knew women who would kill for hair like that, thick and wavy, burnished with the very slightest hint of auburn. Gods, he was big, and yet, he managed to be as supple, as full of grace, as the melody, one hand moving gently in the air marking the time. Must be the stage training, thought Prue, furious with herself. All that practice at showing off.
She drew back a little, narrowing her eyes. What was it about him?
Scattered around the garden like exquisite blossoms, some standing, some seated on jewel-toned cushions, were some of the most gorgeous young people on Palimpsest. Compared with such an extravagance of beauty and youth, Erik Thorensen looked more than a little worn, crinkles showing at the corners of those blue, blue eyes. He was talking to the two boys singing tenor, completely focused on something to do with tempo. The usual easy charm was eclipsed by concentration, grim lines bracketing his mouth, as if he were in the habit of clenching his jaw.
Quietly, Prue released a long breath. Why had she let him disturb her so? Over the years, some shatteringly beautiful, sensual men had worked at The Garden. Yes, the singer was good-looking, but he paled in comparison with those perfect specimens of manhood. Physical beauty was an accident of genetics. Furthermore, it was a commodity. How you used it, what you traded it for, depended on who you were—on the inside. She shot a glance at Rose from under her lashes, and a rueful smile tugged at her lips. Prue knew her dearest friend through and through, but even a woman as good, as fundamentally decent, as Rose used her loveliness as currency. She could no more help it than she could stop her lashes fluttering.
On Erik’s count, the group inhaled as one and the music rose again. Every face was rapt, intent on him, be-spelled by the sheer force of his personality, the beauty they created together. It would be like flying to sing with them, caught up in something ineffably lovely, exquisitely ephemeral.
She’d never even been able to hold a tune, never had any sort of artistic gift. Despite herself, Prue’s eyes prickled with tears. Blinking them back, she spun on her heel and hurried away down the path. Rose caught her arm before she’d taken three paces, and fell into step. Wisely, her friend didn’t make a sound until they reached the door of Prue’s suite.
Rose cleared her throat. “Prue. Sweetie . . .” Discomfort
Some innate sense of self-preservation told her to turn and run, because a dark part of her soul recognized his touch, his gift.
So abruptly it almost hurt, the liquid Magick stopped midbar. “No,” said Erik Thorensen’s rich, dark baritone. “Tansy, you’re too damned good. You came in a beat early there and the altos tumbled along right behind you.” A pause and she could imagine him smiling, those blue eyes bright with concentration. “Again, from the beginning of the verse. I’ll count you in. Ready? One, two . . . three!”
Appearing beside her, Rose whispered, “He’s so good with them, Prue. You should see their faces. Come in and sit with us.”
Casually, Prue laid a hand over her solar plexus, where the nerves quivered like flutterbyes in a panic. Then she turned her head to skewer her best friend with a glare. “I’m not talking to you.”
“Take a peek.” Unabashed, Rose winked. “Go on, you know you want to.”
Prue growled under her breath, tempted beyond measure. Slowly, she stepped up to the flower-laden lattice that screened the courtyard and peered through. She inhaled sharply.
Erik the Golden leaned against the wall of the pavilion, one booted heel propped against the edge of a garden bed. Praise be to the Sister, he was in profile to her, so she was spared the impact of those eyes. The top of his shining blond head almost brushed the eaves of the small building. Prue knew women who would kill for hair like that, thick and wavy, burnished with the very slightest hint of auburn. Gods, he was big, and yet, he managed to be as supple, as full of grace, as the melody, one hand moving gently in the air marking the time. Must be the stage training, thought Prue, furious with herself. All that practice at showing off.
She drew back a little, narrowing her eyes. What was it about him?
Scattered around the garden like exquisite blossoms, some standing, some seated on jewel-toned cushions, were some of the most gorgeous young people on Palimpsest. Compared with such an extravagance of beauty and youth, Erik Thorensen looked more than a little worn, crinkles showing at the corners of those blue, blue eyes. He was talking to the two boys singing tenor, completely focused on something to do with tempo. The usual easy charm was eclipsed by concentration, grim lines bracketing his mouth, as if he were in the habit of clenching his jaw.
Quietly, Prue released a long breath. Why had she let him disturb her so? Over the years, some shatteringly beautiful, sensual men had worked at The Garden. Yes, the singer was good-looking, but he paled in comparison with those perfect specimens of manhood. Physical beauty was an accident of genetics. Furthermore, it was a commodity. How you used it, what you traded it for, depended on who you were—on the inside. She shot a glance at Rose from under her lashes, and a rueful smile tugged at her lips. Prue knew her dearest friend through and through, but even a woman as good, as fundamentally decent, as Rose used her loveliness as currency. She could no more help it than she could stop her lashes fluttering.
On Erik’s count, the group inhaled as one and the music rose again. Every face was rapt, intent on him, be-spelled by the sheer force of his personality, the beauty they created together. It would be like flying to sing with them, caught up in something ineffably lovely, exquisitely ephemeral.
She’d never even been able to hold a tune, never had any sort of artistic gift. Despite herself, Prue’s eyes prickled with tears. Blinking them back, she spun on her heel and hurried away down the path. Rose caught her arm before she’d taken three paces, and fell into step. Wisely, her friend didn’t make a sound until they reached the door of Prue’s suite.
Rose cleared her throat. “Prue. Sweetie . . .” Discomfort
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