4 #2
Spirals of pleasure unfurl through my body at the sound. If the knight cupped my pussy and massaged me there right now, I would come in seconds.
Huffing gasps and prolonged moans fill the dark room beyond our showcase. Sounds like we have several successful comers. I’m not sure how many clients are watching this session, but hopefully all of them reached climax.
A bell chimes thrice, indicating that our showcase is over, and a panel slides across the front of the box to shield us from the observation chamber.
Vawn withdraws his hands from my chest immediately, picks up my bustier, and hands it to me. I snatch it from him and head back into the dressing room.
The prince follows with the riding crop, closing the entrance to the box behind him. He takes off the helmet, then pulls on his pants, wincing as he fits them over his erection.
“So you liked pretending to assault a princess?” I aim a pointed look at the evidence between his legs.
“No.” He gives me a sharp, rebuking look, then nods to my bare breasts. “I like those. It’s that simple.”
“Well, the perverts watching us definitely enjoyed the scene.” I remove my mask and hang it up. “Admit it. I proved you wrong.”
Vawn gives me a saucy smile. “You had nothing to prove to me. But you responded exactly as I suspected you would.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“I wanted you to be angry so you wouldn’t be nervous.
And you put on a fantastic performance. One would almost think you had experience prancing around a palace and giving orders.
Or calling men dogs and making them get on their knees.
I wouldn’t mind being your pet for a day.
You could put a collar on me, walk me around, take me out to piss, let me mount you... ”
“You’re disgusting.” I arrange the bustier’s cups over my breasts and secure the hooks. “How can you joke around after everything that happened tonight?”
“I seem to remember someone telling me to bury my grief,” he points out. “You said I should save it for a more opportune time.”
Unsure how to respond, I pick up the riding crop and toss it into the basket where items are put when they need cleaning.
“You demand that I behave a certain way, then complain when I do,” Vawn says. “Typical woman.”
“Typical man—you can get hard even when your sisters, brothers, and parents have been slaughtered.”
I taste the cruelty of the words even as they fly out of my mouth. My anger withers to nothing at the look on his face. It’s torment, naked and terrible. The agony of inconsolable grief.
I press my fingertips to my mouth. “Vawn…”
“Don’t.” His eyes burn bright, a hectic pool of unshed tears. He turns away, lacing up his pants with violent tugs.
“Remember your mask,” I tell him quietly, holding it over his shoulder.
He snatches it without a word and puts it on.
Just as he’s sliding his arms into his shirt, Bridah bursts into the room. “Fantastic performance!” she exclaims. “Very good tips, considering you didn’t actually fuck or show the goody bits. Here’s your payment.” She grabs my hand and shoves the coins into my palm.
“Thank you.” I tuck the money into one of the pouches on my belt.
“I was hoping you’d stay for another session,” she says. “Word is already spreading among the clients in the waiting room. You two are magnificent. The chemistry—”
“We have to go, Bridah. I’m sorry.”
“Well, of course. But come back anytime, you and this gorgeous piece of man-flesh.” She pokes Vawn’s chest. “Strip down and fuck for them next time, and you’ll make more money than the royals themselves.”
I can tell by the tension in the cords of the prince’s neck that if she touches him again, there will be hell to pay. With a few more words of thanks to Bridah, I pull him away from her and tow him from the dressing room, along the hall, and out the back door.
The air smells fresher this time, bathed with the chilly sweetness that comes shortly before dawn. A man dressed in rags has taken up residence on the patio, among the wrought-iron tables. As we pass by him, he holds up a sign: “Forswear magic. Remove temptation.”
All of his fingers are missing their nails, and a pair of bloody pliers hangs from his belt.
“Magic is an abomination, unnatural and wicked. Remove the temptation from your fingers and toes! Show the fates your lifelong loyalty to their supreme plan. Five bits to pull all ten fingernails, seven if you want the toenails out, too.”
I don’t reply, and Vawn doesn’t speak until we’re crossing the bridge. “What the fuck was that?”
“He’s part of an anti-magic cult,” I explain.
“Glyph rejectionists. They don’t believe we should have ever learned to harness the magic in our extremities.
Magic belongs to the fates alone, they say.
The glyph system breeds inequality, nail sets are blasphemy, and so on.
Those people are usually a bit sick in the head. Don’t listen to them.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
We take a different route through the Brasspool District, since the narrow streets are teeming with more unrest than before.
One alley we cut through turns out to be blocked by a cluster of hostile-looking men, but when I take out my claw knives and whirl them around casually, the group parts and allows us to pass.
I’m more nervous about attracting the attention of the Kyrian guards, but we don’t spot a single member of the watch on the way back. Either they’ve given up trying to maintain order in favor of staying safe themselves, or they’ve been told to let the violence and looting play out.
By the time we reach the forest clearing where we concealed the carpet, my nerves are frayed to the point of unraveling.
None of my classes or my training could have prepared me for the mental and physical toll of a real crisis of this magnitude.
Most bodyguards wouldn’t have to face such an extreme scenario on their first night trying out for a new position.
Considering that, I think I’ve done well.
Apparently the carpet disagrees, because the second I unroll him, he says dryly, “Back so soon? I suppose you want to ride me upside down again while screaming and gagging?”
“We’d like to ride you the proper way,” I reply. “Right side up, and at a reasonable pace. No screaming.”
The carpet rises higher, the glow of his unicorn hairs brightening as he twists toward Vawn, then toward me. As if he’s looking at us.
Magic carpets, like all high-end enchanted objects, are the purview of the rich.
One of my classes had a unit about them, but even though we trained on them for about a week, it was assumed that we wouldn’t be riding them often.
Most carpets can only carry one or two people, making them impractical for daily use.
My professor explained that while they all have the ability to perceive their surroundings and respond to simple commands, they don’t typically carry on conversations, nor do they possess all five senses like humans do.
This carpet seems to be the exception to a number of rules. He’s definitely surveying us, sizing us up.
“Do you have a destination in mind?” he asks. “Or are you going to provide me with vague directives again?”
“We want to go north, to Anyssir Castle in the Grey Province,” Vawn says. “Do you know it?”
“Do I know it?” The carpet’s tassels bristle. “I am familiar with every hamlet, village, town, castle, estate, city, and watchpost from Xarsi to the western sea, from Tularesk to Kredissia and beyond. Not to mention streams, lakes, forests, ponds, mountain ranges, barrows—”
“Excellent,” I interrupt. “Let’s go.”
But Vawn asks, “How does that work? What kind of magic can infuse such a vast body of knowledge into the fibers of a beautifully crafted masterpiece like yourself?”
I roll my eyes at the flattery, but the carpet seems to appreciate it. His gold tassels smooth themselves, and the rigid lines of his borders relax.
“Carpet weaving and consciousness infusion is a relatively recent development in the field of magical object creation,” he intones.
“The first person to create a magical textile was Emyr Hasselpert, a tailor who infused a simple cotton handkerchief with his young daughter’s laughter.
It would giggle every time human tears were introduced to its fibers.
Not the most useful of inventions, but it opened the path for countless more complex—”
“Fascinating as this lecture will be, could we save it for the journey?” I interrupt.
The carpet turns toward me, displeasure radiating from every fiber. “Very well.”
He flattens himself out, right side up this time. I step onto his surface and seat myself at the front, gripping two loops of thin gold rope.
Vawn settles in behind me and leans over my shoulder, his breath warm against my ear, the edge of his mask brushing my hair. “The carpet likes me better.”
His whisper makes me shiver, and I cringe away, rubbing my ear. “That’s because you’re a kiss-ass.”
“I do not possess an ass to be kissed,” comments the carpet. “You could call him a fringe-fondler. That’s the equivalent phrase among my kind.”
“Doesn’t have the same ring to it,” I mutter. “Let’s go, before someone sees you glowing through the trees.”
“Do I have your permission to continue my explanation of carpet fabrication and magical infusion techniques?”
“Yes,” I say grudgingly. “As long as you can keep an eye out for unwanted company and conduct evasive maneuvers as needed.”
The carpet rises higher in the air. “Define ‘unwanted company.’”
“Let’s just say people in general. We want to stay away from everyone.”
“A laudable if unsociable goal. Noted.”
“Before you dive into your lecture on carpet crafting—one more thing.” I tighten my grip on the handholds as we emerge from the leafy canopy of the forest. “We should introduce ourselves. I’m Forsythia, Syth for short, and that’s Vawn. He’s a prince.”
“Don’t say prince like that, like you tasted something bad,” Vawn objects.