Firelight (Darkest London 1)

Archer’s breath released with a sigh. His hand went to the next bow. In a haze, she wondered over the accuracy of his touch. Surely he could not see.

Slowly, the long ribbon traveled through its tight loop, moving by inches until she bit her lip in anticipation. It caught at the end, holding a moment as though teasing her, then released. The bodice slid open with a whisper of silk. Her br**sts lay exposed, her ni**les hardening against the cool air. She took a shallow breath, acutely aware of her br**sts trembling from the movement. Archer groaned deep within his chest. Her belly quivered as he bent over her.

The space between her legs softly throbbed, the urge to lift her breast to his mouth enough to make her shake. Her fingers dug into the pillow beneath her head. She would not be the first to… Firm lips grazed the tender peak of her breast, and then his hot, wet tongue slid over her nipple. She gasped, and he licked again, long and lazy as a cat. Heat washed over her skin and down into her belly as he continued to lick her nipple, swirling and flicking the hardened nub with unhurried languor. Whimpering, she arched up greedily, wanting a stronger touch.

Archer complied, pulling the nipple into his warm mouth to suck it gently, so that she felt the heat and wetness of his mouth, the press of his tongue. She groaned, tiny wisps of flame licking up her thighs, and reached for him. Deftly, he caught her wrist and pinned it high above her head.

His lips released her nipple with a soft, wet pop before traveling to the full underside of her breast. Little mewling noises escaped her as he nuzzled her breast, sucking and nibbling on it before returning to its peak with a sigh of pleasure. His big hand skimmed over her ribs to palm her neglected breast, kneading it gently, brushing his thumb over the throbbing tip until she did not know which sweet torture was greater, his mouth or his hand. He tweaked her nipple, and she rose off the bed.

Miranda pressed her thighs together, trying to ease the ache between her legs. But Archer knew. Something near a chuckle rumbled in his chest, and his hand caressed down her hip to inch the thin lace skirt up with his fingers. The peignoir pooled about her waist, and with it came the cool kiss of air upon her legs.

“Archer…”

He had both of her hands now pinned high above her head as he feasted on her br**sts, while his sly fingers tickled her thighs, coaxing them open until they spread like wings for him. He trembled then stilled. His lips grazed over her neck to her earlobe to nip it.

In the darkness, she felt the curve of his lips smiling against her ear, then the deep rumble of his voice as he whispered, “Do you want me to touch you…” The tip of his finger slid between her legs and gently pressed against a spot that made her gasp. “Here?”

She shivered at the unexpected thrill of Archer speaking such things to her, and the feel of his finger playing wickedly with her body. “Yes.” It was little more than a sigh, but he heard.

He smiled again. “God, you’re lovely.” He exhaled with a shudder and softly kissed below her ear. The smile returned, the rough grain of his cheek caressing her jaw. “And mine.”

His thumb made a slow, tortuous circle, and her abdomen clenched. She lifted her hips, turning toward him, searching for his mouth, but he moved his lips to her neck. His smooth chest pressed against her torso, his strong fingers moving slowly against her sex, delving into the slickness. Madness. She wanted him on her. In her. She could not think. She wanted his mouth. That tempting mouth she’d stared at for an eternity.

“Archer…” she panted. “Kiss me.”

A strangled sound of need tore from him, and he surged upward. His lips met hers, open and fierce. She drank him up, her mind reeling with heady intoxication. His tongue slid over hers, tasting of brandy and cream, as he pulled her close and the hard length of his sex pressed into her belly.

“Let me,” he groaned against her open mouth. His fingers plunged into her hair, holding her head immobile as he fed off her lips. “Only, let me and I’ll never stop.”

She wrapped her legs about his, her hand sliding beneath his silken dressing robe to stroke the flesh too long denied to her, and he groaned again. The feel of his skin, the smooth dip in his lower back. A window opened in her mind. She was holding him. There were no scars rippling over his back, no mangled flesh, only smooth, cool skin. Only Archer. Archer’s bare hands on her, the hard plane of his cheek, the gentle press of his brow against hers. Unmasked. It was unforgivable to do it but she had to know. But then he would know. He would know her secret—and what would he say?

Anger surged over her skin, hot and sure. Toward him. And herself. Would she be any different than he if she hid her secret? His large palm slid up to cover her breast in possession. No, she would not. There would be no more secrets between them. The decision barely settled in her mind before the familiar burn leapt free of her skin.

Light blazed all at once, the sconces and hearth flaring to life in an instant. Miranda’s eyes squeezed tight against the blinding brilliance as a mighty roar of outrage rang in her ears.

He leapt as though burned, flinging the coverlet over her in one swift move. Still half-blind from the sudden light, she struggled with the covers, kicking them back and swinging her tangled legs free. Black spots danced before her eyes as she righted herself. She blinked again, and the room drew into focus. He was gone. She gazed around in a panic and caught a sudden movement. In the farthest corner of the room, between the curtained window and the large wardrobe, he pressed deep into the shadows like a frightened animal.

And she stalked him as such, coming as near as she dared. With his back to the corner, his hands flat against the walls, he stiffened as she drew close.

Miranda’s steps slowed as she gazed up at the man she called her husband. He could only gaze back, his eyes wide and slightly panicked. They stared at each other for a moment before his eyes drifted downward to her br**sts. The line of his throat convulsed. Hastily, she drew the edges of her bodice together and tied it.

“Thank you.” The familiar sound of his warm, rich voice made her twitch. “After tasting such delights, the sight of your lovely br**sts at this moment just might do me in.”

She could only gape at him.

“How did you do it?” Soft gray eyes moved over her and then away. “The lamps?”

“I—I… it is complicated.” How could it be? She stared, unable to comprehend what she saw.

“Your cheese and toast solution?”

She stepped forward, and he took a sharp breath, his fine nostrils flaring. “Archer, please… don’t jest with me.”

“What am I to do?” he whispered. “Any moment now, you’ll come to your senses and order me from your room.” Agony broke over his face. “And I will not be able to bear it.”

He was right to fear. The irrational part of her wanted to scream in confusion. She had expected scars, horrible burns perhaps—or maybe disfigurement. But the man before her was smooth. Smooth yet damaged all the same. The whole of his right side was altered somehow. It was as though half of his body had turned into living ice. His flesh was clear, nearly translucent, like quartz. The hair on the right side of his head was silver. He wore it shorn close to his head, short silvery hairs meeting with black. Half man, half statue. The oddity of seeing healthy golden flesh merge with clear marble in a jagged line down the center of his body seemed unreal, as if a dream.

“What has happened to you?”

“Lux Daemon,” he said with a wince. “Light Demon. Or, if you want to use the more apropos term, Anima Comedentis, a Soul Eater. That is what I am becoming. I drank an elixir, the liquid form of the demon, actually. At the time, we thought it a cure, a vaccination that would make man immune from disease. Fools. It has preserved my body while it slowly transforms me into a monster. A thing that feeds off the light of souls, craves that light more than air.”

“You’re… possessed?” she asked through cold lips.

“This demon, it isn’t a higher being of intelligence with thoughts such as ours, more like a virus. It infects the host and changes it to suit its purposes.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Nothing I’ve tried can reverse it. Only sheer will slows its tide.” A desolate laugh escaped him. “Something to be grateful for, I suppose.” He closed his eyes as if pained. “Once it reaches my heart, takes over my brain, I will turn. For they are the house and window of my soul.”

“There must be a way—”

“It is indestructible, Miri. I cannot be physically injured where I’ve changed. Not in any obvious way, at least. Knives, swords, bullets are unable to pierce this flesh. The only recourse I have not tried is setting myself on fire.” He snorted softly. “I find the notion vastly unappealing.”

She could well understand that, though the thought of him considering the action made her heart ache.

He gazed down at his fists. “I am a nightmare. Just as you said.”

Her mouth turned to sand. Stupid, unforgivable words she’d uttered. “You are not.” She reached out to touch his cheek, and he jerked back, his head hitting the wall with a thud.

“Don’t.”

He was weak as a kitten under her gaze, and she took advantage ruthlessly. The tips of her fingers grazed his translucent cheek, and he shuddered. Her fingers curled, recoiling from the foreign flesh, so very smooth. Just like marble.

His eyes, now that she could view them fully, were beautifully formed, deep-set with friendly crinkles at the corners. Thick, dark brows curved gently upward as though he were in a constant state of ironic inquiry and found the world amusing, if not a bit ridiculous. The skin around the right eye was silvery blue, making the gray of his iris all the more startling. A smudge of black remained in one of the tender grooves around his eyes.

“Kohl,” he said, watching her as she rubbed her thumb over the smudge. “Vegetable dye on my right lashes and brow. Eula said I’d blind myself but I really didn’t see any other recourse…” His helpless babble trailed off as Miranda continued to stare without speaking.

The line of change ran from beneath the hairline of his left brow in a diagonal slant to the right, down across the high bridge of his nose and toward his right jaw. Most of his neck was healthy flesh but the wicked line of blue-crystalline skin divided his torso from collarbone to navel where it moved toward his left hip and disappeared under his dressing robe.

The left side of his body glowed with healthful vigor. Fine black hairs dusted his chest and abdomen. His breath quickened as her fingers brushed over the hairs, but he did not move to stop her. The stitches had healed clean, the scar from the knife fight now a thin smooth line. The sight of it gave proof that it was truly Archer before her and not a vision.

His right side was just as beautifully sculpted with hard, flat muscles, but entirely hairless and clear as quartz—moonstone, she realized, catching a glimpse of her wedding ring. A body of sculpted moonstone with nothing inside, no sight of bones or blood. Nothing a living, breathing man might need to survive.

“It wasn’t fair for me to claim you.” He held himself as still as a soldier. “I’ve behaved abominably. I am sorry,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “Sorry to have brought you into a life filled with such horrors.” His head bowed, exposing the tender column of his neck.

How could he think himself a horror? He was beautiful. The sculpted lines of his face were strong and sure. Without the mask, he appeared younger than she’d thought, perhaps just thirty.

His hair lay thick on his well-shaped head, and she ran her hand over the shorn locks bristly as a boar brush, before resting it on the back of his warm neck. “ ‘I might call him a thing divine,’ ” she quoted. “ ‘For nothing natural I ever saw so noble.’ ”

He winced, and she knew he was more comfortable with being reviled. She’d seen enough looks of revulsion cast his way to bruise her heart for a lifetime.

His dressing robe gaped at the chest but held fast at his waist with a silken cord.

“Show me all of it,” she said quietly.

His expressive brows lifted but the cord gave way with a pull of his silver hand. The robe slipped apart and then fell. Narrow hips, long and well-formed legs of translucent flesh shone in the light; even the proud length of his sex had turned.

“Oh, Archer.” Her hand slid along the milky silver of his skin, down his neck and to his chest, moving along the ridges of muscle, outlined like sculpted crystal. It was ironic that he likened her to a Michelangelo, for his was a body the master would have admired. He shivered delicately but held still. His body was not as warm as it ought to be, nor was it cold. It was cool, as though he’d been out on a crisp autumn day. Not ice and marble but satin skin.

His hand touched hers, stopping its exploration. “Neither man nor beast,” he croaked.

She met his gray eyes—silver, she realized. A flash of silver like ice took over his gaze when he felt great emotion. It was part of the change.

“I ache for your touch,” he said thickly. “Yet to look upon you fills me with despair. I cannot have you as I want you. And I despair.”

She pressed her palm into his chest. “Oh, Archer, you have me. I am yours.”

He shook his head woodenly, the corners of his eyes creasing as though he were at war inside himself.

She wrapped her arms about his trim waist and pressed her lips to the cool expanse of his chest. “You have no choice in the matter, Benjamin Archer. I love you. Nothing you say will change that.”

Something in him broke. Miranda felt the tremor against her arms before a great sob tore from him. His arms curled round her as he began to cry, and his strength gave out. She fell with him, landing upon his lap to cradle his head on her shoulder.