Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [199]
"Claudia!" I wrenched my head away, hissing her name. Beyond the open door of the lararium, revelers laughed and chatted, only a few scant yards away.
"The world is filled with unexpected dangers, Imriel. Are you scared?" She pressed close, sliding one hand between us to fondle me. I swore softly as I grew hard under her touch. Her lips curved. "You don't feel scared."
I bit my lip and stared over her shoulder. On the altar, the waxen death-masks of the patriarchs of the Fulvii stared back at me. In the guttering lamplight, shadows moved over their features, altering their expressions. Their dead eyes were filled with disapproval. A current of cold air stirred in the close quarters. I thought about Lucius and shuddered.
The lares of the Fulvii mean you no harm…
So Deccus had said to him, and mayhap it was true, but of a surety, I did not think his ancestors welcomed my presence here in their sanctuary, with his wife's tongue in my mouth and her hand on my groin.
"Not here," I said firmly, removing her hand. "No."
For an awful moment, I thought Claudia meant to persist and I didn't know what I'd do. But no, she stepped away, her gaze light and amused. "Later, then."
I waited until she had gone, then turned to the altar with a low bow. Since I had no idea how to properly address Tiberian household gods, I merely said, "Forgive me, for I meant no disrespect."
Feeling the dead, waxy stare of the Fulvii lares betwixt my shoulder blades, I departed their chamber. All my hard-won composure was shattered. Mayhap it was what Claudia intended, and mayhap there was a purpose to it.
But if this was another difficult lesson, I meant to dodge it. And until I could put an end to this entire mess, I meant to avoid Claudia altogether.
"Lucius, my friend." Without asking permission, I joined him on his couch and addressed him with unwonted abruptness. "Let's celebrate your betrothal and get blind, stinking drunk."
He gave me a startled look. "All right. Let's."
We did so with great, rousing success.
I awoke the following day with an aching head, a mouth that felt stuffed with cotton, and hazy memories of ending the night by stumbling through the streets of Tiberium with Eamonn, singing an Eiran drinking song. It made me smile until I remembered the tired, stoic face of the Fulvii servant who had accompanied us to light our way. Then I felt the weight of my own hypocrisy descend, and sighed.
Although I'd slept through Master Piero's class, I managed to drag myself to Erytheia's atelier that afternoon, reckoning it a sort of grim punishment. At least in my sorry state, it would be easier to confront Claudia without fear of being seduced into prolonging the affair. Erytheia took one look at me and rolled her eyes.
"Iacchos! You look like you were scraped from the bottom of a wine barrel," she said, then paused. "Perhaps that's not altogether a bad thing. Strip, and sit for me."
I obeyed.
I'd gotten good at it by now. I took up my grapes and sprawled in the chair, slinging my leg carelessly over the arm, and stayed there without moving. Truth be told, I liked watching Erytheia work. There was somewhat beautiful in it, that pure and utter absorption; and somewhat fearful, too. I watched her face as she painted, at once blank and rapt, a kind of sight beyond sight. I had seen that expression on Phèdre's face.
I'd seen it in Daršanga.
And I'd seen it on Kapporeth, when she'd walked out of the temple with the Name of God quivering on her tongue, an unbearable brightness on her.
I'd seen a flicker of it, fleeting and elusive, the morning I'd ridden home from Valerian House and quarreled with her. Caught her wrist, hard, and felt her pulse leap beneath my touch. Seen the scarlet mote on her iris, a tantalizing challenge.
For months, I had struggled to keep that memory at bay.
And yet now, strangely, it no longer struck me like a fist to the gut.
We are what we are, Imriel.
It was true. She had drawn away from it, and so had I. Granted, I had heaved the contents