Gemma’s face was lit with what he thought was a genuine smile. It appeared to Tollan that she was having a grand time playing Tease the Nobleman.
Dampness ran down Tollan’s neck, and his plait had come undone during the bouncing. His hair hung tangled and wild around his face. Wince was panting and ruddy—and as near to exuberant laughter as Tollan was willing to let him get—when a loud knock sounded on the door.
Gemma flicked the page over and scrawled hurriedly: It could be the soldiers. Take off your clothes and make it look real. Now!
In an instant, she had shimmied out of her gown and stood bare save her stockings. With a flick of her wrists, she unhooked the knife sheaths and tossed them on the bed alongside the book and pencils, which she covered with her discarded gown.
Tollan unbuttoned his shirt and tried not to look at her as she pinched her breasts, leaving red marks on her skin. But he couldn’t ignore her when she grabbed his right hand and slapped her ass cheek with it. A raised, red handprint rose before his eyes, and his hand stung from the impact.
She was gesturing wildly at Wince when the pounding came again. Her dexterous fingers unlaced Tollan’s breeches in an instant. She glared at Wince, then gestured at Tollan’s boots. As if in a dream, Tollan cast off his boots and shimmied out of his pants, while Gemma tugged at his shirt buttons.
She grinned, glancing down at Tollan’s arousal, then winked at him, though he suspected that she misinterpreted its source. She leaned in and whispered in his ear, “It needs to be wet.”
Confused and dazed, Tollan stared as she spit on his cock—once, then twice, and then a third time. “Sorry, Your Grace,” she whispered daintily before she settled her wig perfectly straight atop her head.
He turned and saw Wince rubbing spit onto his own cock, his face red, and his back shaking with laughter. Perhaps if Tollan weren’t a virgin, he’d have seen the humor in the situation, but all he felt was an agonizing combination of dishonor and disgust. Especially because he’d grown hard at the sight of his naked best friend.
He heard Gemma flop onto the bed, behind him and then squeal as if she’d been poked by a needle. Just as Wince threw open the door, naked to the world, she pressed her mouth to Tollan’s ear, and he felt the warmth of her body slide against his skin. “Whatever you do, don’t let anyone see your back. The mark will give you away,” she hissed, as the opening door revealed a large bald man with pointed teeth who searched the room with a hard gaze.
Tollan realized he had completely forgotten about the mage mark on his back. And just as suddenly, it began to tingle and burn.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the man raised an eyebrow in Tollan’s direction. “We’ve had word of a young street boy breaking into rooms and stealing purses while our guests were otherwise … occupied. Would you mind if we check your room? You’ll be well compensated for the interruption.” The man was watching Gemma even as he was speaking to Tollan.
“Let them in,” she whispered, relaxing against him.
“Of course, of course,” Tollan croaked, realizing too late that he’d forgotten to affect his accent. “My lady doesn’t mind the interruption.” The burning and pulsing on his back was growing worse, and his mind felt clouded, heavy and unresponsive.
The giant of a man brushed past Wince without a glance and was followed by a smaller man with cold, assessing eyes and messy brown hair. The large man made a pretense of searching behind curtains and in the wardrobe, but the smaller man moved straight toward Tollan, nearly knocking him over.
“What is it?” Gemma asked, her voice dripping with worry. “What’s happened?”
“Gem,” the man whispered, pushing Tollan aside. “Don’t go home. You know where to go. And don’t let this walking erection go to Above, either. Things are bad. Get out of here now. The back way.” He dropped a pack on the floor in front of her, then pulled her to him. “I’ll be there when I can,” he said, eyes bright. “Please be careful.”
Before Tollan knew it, the men had left the room and Gemma was unloading clothes from the pack they’d dropped. As she slid into a pair of nondescript breeches, he noticed Wince pulling on clothes, too. She threw a bundle of clothes at Tollan, and though he tried, he couldn’t catch any of them. His heart thudded in his chest.
Gemma ripped off her wig and shoved it and her gown into the pack along with the book, the pencils and her leg sheaths. Then she wiggled into an oversize shirt and deftly buttoned it up before reaching into the pack and drawing out a knife belt, which she wrapped low on her hips and fastened snugly. He watched in awe as she did something similar on each of her wrists. She glanced up at him then and nodded at his wilted manhood. “Get dressed, Your Grace,” she whispered.
He shook his head, then turned to see Wince pulling on a second boot. His friend nodded at the clothes in Tollan’s hands. “Hurry,” he mouthed.
His back burned as if someone had spilled acid on it, and he couldn’t make sense of what was happening around him. Sound came and went like the tide.
“Prick,” Gemma said, shoving Tollan’s discarded eye patch into the pack as she glared at him. “We’ve got to go. You’ll have to dress on the way.” In two graceful strides, she crossed the room to the wardrobe. Standing on tiptoe, she ran her fingers along the top, and Tollan heard a click. He saw her lips moving, but all he heard was the pounding of his blood in his veins.
Wince shoved a pair of breeches into Tollan’s hands, “Hurry, Toll. Goddess, what’s wrong with you?” Stars flared in his field of vision and the thumping of his heart changed its pace.
Somehow, he found himself shoved into the strange pair of pants. A shirt was thrown over his shoulders as he pulled on one boot, then the other. The edges of his vision grew dark as he slumped onto the bed. His back burned like the fires of the Void.
Gemma eyed him warily and then ran her fingers behind the wardrobe, pushing it open with a grunt. “Pick him up and carry him, Wince. I don’t know what the prick is wrong with him, but we’ve got to run. Now.”
Tollan was tossed over Wince’s shoulder and carried, head down, into a dark hallway. Gemma pulled the wardrobe shut behind her, then whispered, “Sixty-seven paces, then turn left.”
Tollan tried to keep count, but he lost his numbers somewhere after the twenty-eighth pace. “Wince?” he said groggily.
Wince stopped walking, and Tollan felt his head rest against his friend’s ass cheek. “Forty-four. What?” Wince asked, his voice ragged.
“Who were those guys back there?” Tollan’s tongue was thick in his mouth.
“Weren’t you paying attention when Gemma told us? They’re nobodies, really. Just Fin the Fish and Devery Nightsbane. You know … the prickling master of assassins,” Wince spit out.
“Oh,” Tollan said, as brightly colored spots appeared before his eyes. “They seemed … nice.”
Suddenly Gemma’s breath was on his face. “That’s because Fin is my friend and Devery is my lover. Now can you shut up? Come on, Tollan. We’ve got to get out of here, or we die.”
“Why will we die? What’s happening?” Tollan asked, weakly beating his hands against Wince’s back. He blinked away tears and saw, in his mind’s eye, an image of his brother holding a bloodstained sword. His sword. “Help me, Aegos,” he moaned. “Have mercy on me.” Darkness and stars and the tide overtook him and he slipped beneath the waves.
Gemma fumbled in the pack Devery had given her until she found a bundle of candles in the bottom. With practiced fingers, she pulled her flint from her pouch and snapped a spark into life. Darkness gave way to dancing shadows.
They walked in silence for several minutes before Wince said, “Devery Nightsbane is really your … lover?”
“Why do you say it like that? Lover. You have a lover! Why shouldn’t I?”
“How do you know about her?”