Free The Mirrored City by Michael J. Bode Page B

wall of invisible force.
    Rebekah narrowed her eyes. “Allow me.”
    One by one, articles of Soren’s clothing unfastened and slid off his body as she sensually removed her dress. He ached for her, to touch her body, for the overwhelming power he drew from the touch of a woman’s skin. He had never felt so good. His breath ragged, he waited for her to mount him.
    His eyes shut in ecstasy as he felt himself slip inside her. It was the best feeling he could remember. He embraced her as they tumbled back on the bed. Flipping her over, he thrust himself as she traced her hands over his sweaty chest. Her head tipped back, and she let out a slow moan.
    The pleasure mounted until it seemed like the whole bed was vibrating. He climaxed inside her within a few minutes.
    Rebekah laughed. “You’re new to this, but it’s customary in your profession to inform a woman before you are about to finish.”
    “Sorry.” Soren grinned. “Is sex always this good?”
    “It usually lasts a little longer,” she admitted. “But we can work on it.” She dressed quickly and set a pouch of coins on his nightstand.
    “Why do you pay for sex?” Soren asked. “You’re a beautiful woman.”
    “Because I can afford it. Goodnight, Soren.”
    She left. Soren was still naked and sweaty on the bed. He felt virile and ready for more action. He basked in the sensation.
    Then he heard a scream from the room below. A long terrifying wail of agony emerged through the floor. Getting out of bed, he put his ear to the floorboards, trying to make out more of the sound.
    Under his bed, a hole in the floor opened to the room below and let in a beam of reddish light. Soren snatched a wadded up rag next to the hole and quickly stuffed it in. It stopped some of the noise.
    I should get back to work.

T EN
    Tea Time
    L YTA
    People say that Patreans do not have souls because we were created by man and not gods. I cannot measure this for I have always been what I am, an instrument of war and death, fearless and without mercy to my enemies—even when they share the face of my brothers.
    Our people turn from religion because it often turns from us. Yet I have found purpose in faith that transcends the bond of contract. If Ohan is real, and we have seen His miracles, is there not any contract more worthy than service to Him?
    I may not have a soul. A soul cannot be measured. But faithful practice? That is easily tallied by my actions, my prayers, my purity. I serve the Great Houses and Ohan by being their instrument of death and violence.
    For if I have no soul, there is nothing to be sullied.
    — CONFESSOR AMES, REFLECTIONS
     
    EACH OF SAFINA’S knuckles was clad in gold rings depicting the sun of Ohan set in various jewels. She sat in the atrium adjacent to her personal quarters. Beams of sunlight filtered through the latticework of the domed enclosure. She reclined in her chair, black curls framing her wide face. She smiled warmly. “Lyta, please come in and have some tea.”
    Lyta approached cautiously. She had never been invited to Safina’s quarters and had recently poisoned her daughter. Lyta’s stomach squirmed, but she tried to remain composed. “You asked to see me?”
    Safina motioned for Lyta to take a seat. “We get so little time to speak, you and I. With your sisters in Dessim, I thought this would be an opportunity. You didn’t choose to go with them. I wondered why.”
    Lyta shook her head. “I have turned my back on that part of my life, Mother Safina.”
    Safina poured some tea into Lyta’s glass. It smelled of jasmine. “I’m sure Shannon misses you. You two spend a lot of time together.”
    “I was her handmaid before you graciously adopted me, Mother Safina. We are close.”
    “Shannon,” Safina drawled, “has always had a fascination with Dessim and its distractions. Even when she was a baby, she had so many questions.”
    Lyta grabbed her teacup and swallowed nervously. “Curiosity is natural. Shannon never knew her birth