42
AS I’D KNOWN him before, Tyrus was a creature of total deliberation. His mind was always turning, working, even with his arms about me, his lips warm and leisurely, tracing and stoking fire. But Tyrus—my new husband—was feverish, burning for me. He was not careful and calculated and deliberate as his mouth came down over mine, as his sparking palm twined with mine, fingers braiding between mine, hands locking about my waist with a suddenness that might bruise any but me.
I met him with the same fervor, all the blood in my veins singing with the exultant joy of this, that it was him and I had not lost him. It was like being delivered from a nightmare into a miracle.
His lips scorched my skin, demanding, taking, the sparks of our palms crackling together as he pressed me down. His grip before had always been careful, though I was the one who could break him with a flexure of muscle. Now he grasped as though he feared a wind might rip me away, he sucked fierce kisses as though he sought to keep them forever. I could break him apart with a blow and yet he crushed down atop me, heavy with muscles, a feverish intensity to him that stoked a maddening fire from my skin . . . that left every part of me aching, full, thrilled.
And when we joined, I drew him as close as I could, reminding myself not to hurt him, reminding myself not to break those shoulders I grasped, that body I loved more than any other, that I never wanted to release.
After, I dared not take my eyes from him, nor did he look away from me. We drank in the sight of each other. He ran his hands over me reverently, stroking my skin as though he needed to memorize it, and I just touched that face . . . his face.
“Look,” he said, raising our interlinked hands.
The electrodes had registered our consummation. We watched as the current flickered away, for we were joined in earnest now. He drew my hand to his lips and lovingly traced my skin with a kiss. “My wife.”
“My husband.” How strange it sounded. And it was real.
The great empty pit in my heart was gone, filled to swelling with the blinding white joy of this miracle, this deliverance. I could have passed an age trying to put words to the feeling within me, but there was only one way to preserve this. We had to think, and plan, and share everything we had to keep secret once we left this haven.
So I spoke rapidly, telling Tyrus what had become of the Interdict. And he never released me from his arms, as though he feared I might be torn away. In turn, he told me what had happened here. How he’d defeated the Venalox.
“I recalled something Pasus said on our Forenight. He believed I’d neutralized the Fireskiss with another substance, and so I realized—why not do exactly that with the Venalox? I began to test Venalox in combination with anything I could find. Then it occurred to me: I could force someone else to use it with me and find what I sought twice as quickly. So I used Gladdic as my test subject.”
“Oh.”
Tyrus looked at me. “Did he say something, then?”
“He told me you’d taken the Atlas. And sold it.”
Tyrus let out a breath. “Yes. That. I needed the money and I’m barred from any other sources. I was desperate.”
“I understand more than I did.”
Tyrus smiled. “I’ve made his life quite miserable. I knew I couldn’t just seek him out for Venalox use. It would inspire questions. I also knew that Alectar would feel threatened if I seemed to be forging a friendship and passing the time with another in companionship, so I became what the situation warranted: I was a bully, the terror of his life. I coerced him, tormented him, and all the while, he enabled me to experiment with neutralizers in half the time. I always had more Venalox than I needed after the Tigris. Those eager to diminish Alectar’s influence began to sneak it to me. They were all my unwitting helpers. And once I had this”—he spread his fingers—“it was simply a matter of neutralizing more and more of the substance each day, until I was using none at all.”
I threaded my fingers with his, and Tyrus pulled my hand to his lips.
“You’ve had time to plan. Tyrus, have you any idea what to do next? We might not get this chance to speak again.”
“I do.” He sought my gaze, intent. “I can’t tell you details as of yet, but . . . but I can only ask you to trust me. Nemesis, I have people I’ve been paying in stealth, seeking out vicars for me. If you give me the scepter’s transponder frequency—”
I smiled at him. “I have something better. Open to the marked page of the book.”
Tyrus opened Hamlet, and the volume fell open to the page with the scepter tucked in the crease. He looked up at me, brow shadowed, and read, “ ‘I must be cruel only to be kind: Thus bad begins and worse remains behind’?”
“It’s not the text I’m asking you about. It’s the bookmark. Look at it.”
Tyrus picked up the scepter. His gaze focused on it, sharpened. “Nemesis,” he said quietly, “what is this?”
“The scepter’s casing was just there to hold it. That’s the real scepter,” I told him. “I never cast it into space, Tyrus. You’re holding the supercomputer that makes the Domitrians . . . Domitrians.”
That stunned him into utter silence. “You’ve . . . had this all along?”
“I just had to wait for the right moment. Whatever you are waiting to do, wait no longer. The Interdict pierced his skin with it to hide it.”
Tyrus jabbed at his skin, and a bead of blood welled up. I took the scepter, leveled his arm, and threaded the sharp metal through the top layer as the Interdict had done. He just gazed at my face, and when I met his eyes, he seemed as though he was gazing into another world, caught in some thought.
“We can do this,” I told him. I grabbed his shoulders, drew him into a last, urgent kiss, pulled back to whisper, “And do whatever you must, Tyrus. Be cruel, be indifferent, if you must. . . . Whatever it takes. Just get Pasus to win those vicars to your side so we might turn this around.”
His lashes lifted and he studied my face as though seeing me for the first time. His hand reached up, calloused palm brushing my skin. “How wondrous it is,” Tyrus said, “to find myself . . . pleasantly surprised. I hope to do the same for you very soon.”
With those enigmatic words, he rose to his feet.
When we reattached to the Chrysanthemum, the door opened, air rushing in about us. Then Tyrus stepped away from me, and the transformation was immediate . . . a mask slapping back onto his face as he announced to the waiting Grandiloquy: “I am pleased to announce that your new Empress is magnificent in bed.”
The crude words were spoken for effect, but they still caught me off-guard, as did Tyrus holding his palm aloft to exhibit the electricity that was no longer flaring. Bawdy voices gave calls of approval, and he grinned shamelessly. Then Pasus strode toward him.
“Well done, Tyrus,” he said. “So well done.”
Tyrus turned to him. “My performance? Thank you. I told you, I’d get it out of her.”
Pasus grabbed him in a brisk hug.
Get . . . what out of me?
“Did you hear everything?” Tyrus said.
“Everything,” Pasus affirmed, pulling back to regard him fondly.
Everything.
Wait.
What?
Pasus looked at me, and Tyrus glanced my way too, and there was an air of triumph about Pasus now as he marveled, “You had the scepter the entire time. Well done. We don’t need you now.”
My mouth sagged open.
That was when the neural suppressor hummed to life, and I realized I’d made a deadly mistake.