Black Sun (Between Earth and Sky, #1)(100)

She smiled. He sounded like he had the first night he had asked her to explain Teek sailing to him, as curious as a child.

She told him of the people and the musicians and the beauty of the district itself. The gardens, frosted white with snow. The channels of running water that bordered the road, the great waterfall that ran through the district and that she could spot just to her left farther up. “There are trees here. Some kind of fruit tree, although now they are barren. And they’ve hung paper lanterns from them. All colors. Red, blue, green, yellow, and orange. Purple. More. They glow, Serapio, like stars against the night sky.”

“And that scent. What is that?”

She breathed deeply. “Bonfires everywhere. The scent you smell is the wood they burn.”

“It’s almost sweet.”

She inhaled again. “Spice and nuts?”

“No. Those I’ve smelled before. Something else.”

She looked around and finally spotted what he must be smelling. She laughed. “Chocolate. Is that it?”

“Is that the same as kakau? I’d like to have some.”

She led him over to a man selling the drink and bought two small cylindrical cups, one filled with the thick foamy drink.

“What do you want in it?”

“Chile.”

“The hottest one,” Serapio added.

She smiled at the vendor. “The hottest, then.”

He added chile to the empty cup in her hand, and then she poured the drink back and forth between the cups in a long trail to let the ingredients mix. Once she was satisfied, she divided the rich liquid in each cup equally. She took a sip, and it burned her tongue.

“It’s hot,” she warned, but Serapio had already drained half his cup.

“What do you think?”

“Oh,” he said, sounding happy. “It’s very good. I had something like it once before, but this is even better.”

“They call it the food of the gods.”

He smiled. “I know. What else?”

She led him through the district, past children holding foot races and people dancing in the streets. She described it all to him—the ridiculous and the sublime, and he soaked it all in. As the sun began to set, they stopped at a stand where a woman was giving out candied figurines of the sun. Xiala took a figurine and gave Serapio half.

He bit into it enthusiastically, and dark honey dripped down his chin.

“Careful,” she warned him, reaching out to catch the slow trickle before it could dirty his clothes. He grasped her hand before she could pull away. She froze, her breath catching in her throat.

He raised her hand to his mouth and began to lick the honey from her sticky fingers. Her whole body trembled. He paused with her thumb above his bottom lip.

“I never enjoyed food before I met you, Xiala,” he said softly.

“Serapio…”

“Shhh,” he said.

She held her breath as he continued to clean the sweet substance from her fingers one by one. And when he was done, he pressed his lips to her palm once before he let it go.

She exhaled loudly. “Seven hells,” she murmured.

“There’s something I want to give you.”

“All right,” she said, her voice shaking.

“The bargeman told me of a travelers’ inn somewhere near. I’d like to take you there.” He told her the name of the house. “I need you to lead us.”

“What are you doing, Serapio?” she asked, voice unsteady. Her whole body felt weak, and all she could think about was the feel of his mouth against her skin.

“I’m giving you a gift. Let me do that.”

He held out his hand, and she took it, and they found their way to the inn.



* * *



Xiala had not known what to expect, but she had not expected this in all her years. The travelers’ inn was built over a natural hot spring, and Serapio had secured a private room where the water gathered in a deep pool and steam came up through wooden slats in the floor.

Once the innkeeper had led them to the room and Serapio had locked the door, he took her to the wooden bench in the center of the room and sat her down. Carefully, slowly, he undressed her. Once she was nude, he led her to the bath, and she climbed in. She sank into the warm water with a sensuous sigh, closing her eyes and letting the tension and ache and sorrow of months fall away.

He washed her hair first, using the fragrant soap from a nearby bench to lather her head, his long fingers caressing her scalp. Once her hair was clean, he wet a cloth, added more soap, and washed her body. He started at her feet and worked his way up, slowly and attentively, taking his time.

The sleeves of his robe soaked through, so he pulled it over his head, discarding it in a corner. Through heavily lidded eyes she admired him. He was lean, perhaps a little too lean, but the haahan that covered his arms, chest, and back were softened in the low light of the bathing room. They told a story, she realized, of loss and sorrow and remembrance. He wears his people’s pain, she thought, and it is strangely beautiful.

But that only made her think of tomorrow, which made her brokenhearted all over again, so she closed her eyes and concentrated on his touch.

His hands followed the line of her body upward, massaging her calves and thighs, and when the cloth grazed the place between her legs, he paused. She opened her legs wider, an encouragement.