Imogen of Leids hovered near the practice field’s entrance, watching him. He’d heard her approach long before she made it to the field and wondered idly how she’d managed to find her way out of the palace. He didn’t hold her prisoner, but the spirits that lingered in his home had a wicked sense of humor and a protective streak as strong as his when it came to guarding Tineroth. They would have held her there until his return. What had convinced them to let her go?
A flutter of movement, the swirl of skirts, told him he’d startled her. He walked to one of the enclosure walls to retrieve a cloth and rest the glaive against the stone.
“Good morning, Sire. I hope I’m not intruding.”
That cool, measured voice revealed no hint of her surprise, and her composure impressed him once more. He wiped his face on the towel before passing it over his shoulders and chest. He gathered his damp hair into a queue and tied it back with a leather strap. Even now, so early in the morning, the air hung humid and heavy, promising another lethargic day.
The usual numbing dread of dull sameness didn’t afflict him this morning. This morning was different. He had a guest, one uninvited but not necessarily unwelcome. For the first time in more years than he cared to count, Cededa felt a measure of eagerness, of excitement. He’d host Death in his abandoned city and welcome her with what little hospitality was available to him.
“No, you’re not intruding. I do this each morning. You’re welcome to observe if you wish.”
He caught the focus of her gaze—directly on his bared chest and stomach. He’d not been named Cededa the Fair as a lark. Before the Waters changed him, women and men alike lauded him as a man blessed with august features. He’d been used to admiring gazes from both sexes, along with many come-hither stares. Imogen wore that same admiring expression, though she wore it for the man who no longer bore a resemblance to the humanity that had deserted him thousands of years earlier. The colorless Undying King had lit the appreciative spark in her eyes. This surprised and beguiled him almost as much as the knowledge of her terrible curse. His eyebrows rose in amusement when she blushed at being caught. Her chin rose and she refused to look away.
“I don't mean to stare,” she said in her sure, even tones. “But you are the most beautiful man I've ever beheld.”
Her bluntness rocked Cededa. Spoken plainly, with no lascivious undercurrents, her straightforward compliment created ripples across the still pond of his emotions, igniting an already growing fascination.
He’d misjudged her solely on her appearance, so much more subdued than Niamh’s. But this regal girl matched her mother in every way. Equal, only different. In his more debauched past, he might have indulged in some flirtatious response. No longer. He’d changed, and her statement was far too dignified in its delivery to deserve a provocative reply. He settled for a quiet “Thank you.”
She nodded. “You’re welcome, Sire.”
He noted her change of clothes—no different from yesterday, except her garb now was dull brown instead of faded black. She’d foregone the hat, but not the gloves. They concealed those magnificent hands, protective armor to shield others from her touch.
Her gaze flashed wariness when he closed the space between them, but unlike the previous night, she didn’t give ground. He didn’t reach for her, only stood close enough that he heard the hitch in her breathing.
“Do you want to touch me?”
The blush painting her cheekbones a rosy hue deepened and spread to her neck. The proud stare lowered, and her chin dipped. The flutter of her fingers across the folds of her dress revealed her disquiet as she mulled over his request.
The silence stretched between them until Cededa coaxed her to look at him with a finger under her chin. “Do you want to touch me, Imogen?”
She raised her eyes to his. “Yes, I do.”
Decision made, she peeled off the gloves and tucked them into a spot at her waist. Cededa drew a quick breath as she raised those fair, deadly hands. Imogen paused. He grasped one hand, shuddering as the remembered black lightning surged up his arm. The sensation intensified as he laid her palm against his chest. “There’s no danger to me, Imogen.”
She inhaled sharply, and Cededa fancied the heavy drum of her heartbeat vibrated through her palm. Her hand was hot against his skin, the delicate fingertips tracing the silvery patterns now etched along the slope of his shoulder and line of his collarbone. “You’re wearing the key,” she said.
He was the key. She had simply returned that small part of himself he’d left with her mother years earlier. He said nothing, content to let her explore him as the atavistic power of her curse flowed from her fingers to surge through his bones. Her shoulders shook with a visible shiver, transmitting down to her hand until it too quivered as she explored his torso. She gulped audibly, her eyes growing wider with each passing moment.
Cededa stood as motionless as any of the statues gracing Tineroth, letting her grow used to the notion of touching another. Had he not lived so long in near perfect isolation, the expressions of terror and wonderment that flashed across her features might have puzzled him. Even then, he still had no concept of what this simple moment must be like for a woman who’d never known the pleasure of touching another human being without the armor of her gloves or the fear of killing.
He shivered lightly under her caress, and muscle flexed beneath her palm. Cededa watched her, enthralled by her ever changing expressions—curiosity, fascination, puzzlement—as she continued her study of his body. He stifled a sharp gasp when her palm brushed his nipple. Unlike the cold lightning that razored through his veins from her curse, this touch started a slow burn that radiated out from his chest until it suffused him from head to toe. Desire, an emotion he thought long dead, awakened and bade his body remember.
Despite his best efforts to remain still and silent, he must have made some small sound because Imogen hesitated and glanced at him. He countered her questioning look with a raised eyebrow and a silent bid to continue. She offered a small smile before resuming her exploration. This time both hands journeyed over his torso, mapping the strong column of his throat, the lean line of his waist, the solid musculature of his arms. He was a landscape of toughened terrain, complete with battle scars and fissures that bisected his midriff and ribs. Old wounds that had healed but left their mark and told a story of strife and violence.
Cededa silently willed her to glide her hand across his nipple once more so he might savor for a second time the glowing heat that set his heart to racing. Instead, she did something better, something that had him curling his hands into fists so that he wouldn't crush her to him. She leaned closer, close enough to press her ear against his chest and listen. The soft whisper of warm breath flowed over his sensitized skin, caught the rhythm of his heartbeat and matched pace with it.
Willingly trapped within her embrace, Cededa tilted his head back and closed his eyes to the anemic sun. He was swallowed by a living darkness, a power that strove to bring him low yet did the opposite, awakening him to emotions and sensations long asleep. Death sought a foothold within him, battering the fortress of immortality built by the Living Waters. He clenched his jaw and fought to remain still for Imogen, whose earlier euphoric expressions reflected his own emotions.
Is this what the blind suffer when they can finally see, he wondered. Terror and exultation?
As if she heard his thoughts, Imogen raised her head from his chest and laughed. It was a sound of unadulterated joy. Her eyes blazed in a face flushed with excitement. “I can hear your heart, Sire. It still beats, even now.” Her pale hands continued to stroke him as if he were made of the costliest silks instead of a body that should have turned to dust long before the stars changed their place in the heavens. “You live. I’ve touched you, yet you live.”
Cededa remained silent, letting her darkness surge through him and her hands flutter over him, light as moth wings. He’d give her this moment, this time to bask in the wonder of his unique resistance to her curse. And he’d drink the black tide and pray to dead gods that her fatal touch would somehow release him from his bondage.