Thief of Light by Denise Rossetti Read Free Book Online Page A

basement, the Technomage Primus of Sybaris was still awake and working. He could sense the glowing ember of her life, the warmth of it like a match struck and held aloft in the inky darkness. He could choose to cup it in his palms to feel the heat—or he might snuff it out entirely.
    The Necromancer sighed, knowing he should go down but conscious of a certain, irritating reluctance. The woman was useful and he couldn’t doubt her brains and drive, but, by Shaitan, she tried his patience! How could someone so intelligent be so obtuse? In her first few days at the palazzo, he’d had to discipline her numerous times. He enjoyed the process for its own sake, as he always did. Every creature’s pain was unique, but there was a special flavor to human hurt, somehow bright and metallic and sparkling. But still . . .
    For the first month, he’d maintained a vast, spectral presence, dark and eyeless beneath a hooded cloak, the way he’d first manifested before her. She’d been so proud then, so armored in her power as the Technomage Primus of Sybaris. At her core, she’d always despise the Magick she wished to master. She thought if she could measure it, dismantle it and put it back together, it would be hers to wield as a weapon. Foolish woman.
    His mouth twisted with satisfaction. He’d taught her a little since then, though she was remarkably stubborn, the habits of command deeply ingrained. Now she knew if she patronized him, in even the most oblique way, unimaginable pain arrived right on the heels of her indiscretion. But though the Primus had grown wary of his temper, she was still utterly convinced of her own superiority.
    Deep in thought, he walked across his study and pushed aside a set of bookcases. It wasn’t like him to entertain doubts, but he wondered if he should recalculate. Perhaps he’d been careless, allowing her to see the body he wore, but manifesting as a dark god grew tiring after a time, and he’d slipped, grown lazy. Not that it mattered, of course, because the Primus was as good as dead. He passed a hand over the small door he’d revealed and the runes on its surface twisted into being, glowing a vicious shade of acid green, spiced with the clotted reek of old blood.
    It was a powerful spell, its intricate coils a trap for a hungry demon. Creating the Doorkeeper had cost the Necromancer the lives of a small, dusky-skinned child and a blue, aquatic creature called a seelie, and he himself had been drained, weak and pale for a day after. The child was no matter—slum dwellers bred fast. Sacrificing the seelie had been the true price.
    They were so rare, the seelies of Caracole, their deaths inexpressibly sweet to his palate. His loins clenched as he thought of it, the sensation like the sexual fervor he dimly remembered, but—oh gods!—infinitely better.
    “Silly as a seelie.” That’s what the city folk said of the stupid or the slow, the little creatures long faded to the status of legend, the stuff of old, half-forgotten stories.
    But they weren’t myth; they were oh-so-delightfully real.
    The Necromancer nodded pleasantly at the Doorkeeper’s horned face, even as it snarled and bared its fangs. “A good evening to you too,” he murmured, starting down the long stairs.
    The Technomage was seated at her console, but her head jerked around as the door opened and her stylus clattered to the desk. The Necromancer smiled. “Good evening, my dear,” he said, because he knew it galled her to be so addressed.
    “I got another one,” she said curtly, rising to pull the cover off a large tank at the far end of the long room. “Finally.”
    Saliva pooled in his mouth and it was a moment before he could speak. It had been so long. “You mean Nasake got it.”
    “No.” Something sparked in her rather prominent blue gray eyes. “I was bored, so I made a number of modifications to your trap. All Nasake did was pull it up from the canal. He’s as dumb as a beast, that man. I don’t know why