The Prince of Midnight Read Online Free PDF

went to her.
    "Lie down, you idiot," he said, pushing her back into the pillow. She barely
resisted him, drawing her body up into a curl with a soft sound of distress. He
tore a strip of paper and scribbled a note, folding it carefully in order to
keep from smearing the charcoal.
    He looked around the room for something to tie it with. Something obvious.
Human. Unmistakably civilized.
    The discarded wig hung where he'd left it on the bedpost. S.T. swept it up,
rummaged in his chest for the satin ribbons he'd used to tie his queue in his
damsel days, and advanced on Nemo. The wolf looked up at him, his head cocked,
his pale eyes calm and utterly trusting.
    S.T. tied the wig onto Nemo's head, smoothing down the fur and tucking the
note beneath. He tugged it, to make sure it wouldn't slide into the wolf's eyes
or interfere with his throat. Nemo accepted the decoration solemnly. S.T.
stepped back, and the ridiculousness of the earnest picture the wolf made gave
him a sick and guilty ache in his gut. Why do this?
    Send Nemo to the village, and someone would shoot him. 'Twas as simple as
that. A wolf would come out of the dark, and no one would stop to ask why it
wore a tie wig.
    Hell.
    She wasn't worth it. What did he know about her? A capricious, helpless,
romantic female. He'd lost enough to her kind. He'd lost Charon, and half his
hearing, and all of his self-respect.
    He looked at her, a huddled curl of misery on the bed. He wanted her to live.
He wanted to sleep with her because she was beautiful and he hadn't had a woman
in three years, damn it all, and that was the sum total of it. Weighted against
Nemo's life, it was nothing.
    She was whispering something under her breath. He closed his eyes and turned
his head away, but the move only brought her voice more clearly to his good ear.
    ". . . don't think I ... can get up," she was saying. "You must go away,
Monseigneur. A fortnight. Twelve days. Bathe in a cold stream to strengthen
yourself. Don't come back before twelve days. Don't let... anyone come before.
I'm sorry ... I shouldn't have come ... but please, Monseigneur—go away. Don't
take this risk."
    He put his hand on Nemo's head, on the silly wig, and moved it down to smooth
the soft ruff of fur.
    She wasn't asking.
    Damn her pluck, that she wasn't asking for his help.
    He knelt suddenly and pulled Nemo into a fierce hug, burying his face in the
sharp scent of wolf and wildness. A hot tongue licked his ear; a cold nose
sniffed curiously at his neck. He tried to memorize those sensations, tried to
put them away in a safe place in his heart. Then he stood up and grabbed the
empty wine bottle from the bedside.
    He held the bottle for Nemo to sniff, and gave two simple orders before he
had time to change his mind.
    Find men. Find this man.
    Go.
Chapter Three

S.T. started awake to the sound of bird calls and a whispered muttering from
the bed. He rubbed his neck, feeling on every bone the imprint of the wooden
chair where he'd slept for the last ten nights. A bare, chilly glow of dawn sky
showed through the open window. He squinted toward the shadows that lingered in
the room.
    She'd pushed the sheets off again. S.T. rose stiffly. He wiped his eyes, ran
a hand through his hair, and took a deep breath. The place at his feet where
Nemo should have been was empty, as it had been every morning. For a moment S.T.
rested his palms and his forehead against the cold stone wall. He was past
praying.
    The whispered mumble became a low moan. He exhaled heavily and pushed himself
away from the wall.
    She opened her eyes as he ladled water from the bucket into a cracked clay
cup. He saw her blink and moisten her lips. Her fingers moved fretfully,
plucking at the white folds of her shirt amid the tangled sheets. Her wandering
glance found him, and those dark brows drew downward in fierce disapproval.
"Damn you," she breathed.
    "
Bonjour
, Sunshine," he responded tartly. "
Ç a va
?"
    She closed