Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles #1)(16)
“Sergeant,” Jasminda said, injecting meekness into her voice. It sounded foreign and wrong on her tongue. “The spy’s injuries are not life threatening. He will live to meet the True Father’s justice. However”—she used her body to block Tensyn’s view of Jack—“another beating may kill him, and then Lagrimar would be deprived of the knowledge he holds.”
Tensyn’s hand went to his mustache, and he twirled the end, raking his gaze over Jasminda.
“Come,” she said, grabbing hold of his arm and turning him back toward the door. Jack leaned forward, unsure what he was going to do but unwilling to see her making nice with the man. She kicked his ankle gently before leading Tensyn away. “I think there’s a berry tart waiting for you. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
She spoke to the sergeant as she would a child, and Jack couldn’t make out the man’s slurred response. This time anger replaced the pain coursing through him. He was leaving tomorrow, and he was going to make bloody well sure Jasminda was safe, even if it meant taking her with him.
Jasminda’s sleep was heavy with forbidden dreams. Moving versions of the pictures in the magazines she’d found long ago under her brothers’ mattresses. While she’d been ordering endless books from mail-order catalogs, the twins had been interested in a different sort of literature.
Her shock at the discovery had quickly turned to fascination at the pages of nude and proud women displaying themselves unselfconsciously. Teasingly hiding a breast behind a hand or shielding the apex of their legs with clever positioning. But some of the pictures, the ones burned into her mind, were of couples, men and women draped over one another, body parts aligning in ways that caused moisture to pool between her legs and her imagination to soar.
In the dream, the pages came alive, but she and Jack were the models. His lips glanced over hers in a soft caress. Flashes of sensation assaulted her as she chased the constantly changing visions, unable to hold on to one for long. His lithe body stretched out over her own. Her hands ran across his muscular chest, smooth skin warming her fingertips. Gripped in his powerful arms, she wrapped her legs around him, melting into his touch.
The dream died to the sound of tinkling wind chimes—the makeshift alarm she’d hung on her door. She came awake instantly, bypassing the bulk of the shotgun to grab for the knife she’d hidden under her pillow. This time she did not need Earthsong to sense ill intentions.
A figure loomed above her in the dark, and a beefy hand covered her mouth, stifling her scream. Fahl towered over her, reeking of gin. He was strong and had an iron grip on her face, pushing her back into the pillow. The hand holding her knife was stuck underneath her head, and Fahl’s other hand felt roughly for her nightgown and grabbed at the hem.
Jasminda kicked out, struggling, fighting with all her might, but Fahl was huge and heavy as he lay on top of her, fully immobilizing her. He eased up enough to continue pushing up her nightgown and then pawed at her thighs as she tried to clench them together.
The shotgun rolled off the bed, hitting the floor. Fahl chuckled when he saw it, launching a blast of alcohol-infused air into her face.
“Keep fighting, sweetheart,” he said. “It’s been months since I had any, and I don’t mind working for it a little.”
Jasminda stilled, unwilling to give this man anything he wanted. She hunted for an escape.
He fumbled with his trousers, pulling and tearing at them until his squiggly, limp penis emerged. He made a sound of disgust, then started stroking himself while pinning her down, one hand still over her mouth. Jasminda strained to see what was going on down there—and thanked the Queen he wasn’t making much progress.
Her plan with the ruaba leaf had been abandoned, but the terryroot was doing its job. Odorless and tasteless, her herb dictionary listed its use for “wives wanting some peace from their husbands.” Her mother had laughed heartily when a young Jasminda asked what that meant, telling the girl that she would find out when she was older. Since the soldiers had arrived, Jasminda had been liberally dosing their food with the herb.
Growling in frustration, Fahl kneeled up over her, angrily pulling on himself. Without his weight on top of her, Jasminda could now move her arm but didn’t know if she would be quick enough with the knife. The moment of indecision cost her when he stood suddenly, grabbing her by the hair and arm. She winced from the pain as he forced her down the stairs. Her side pressed against his giant chest, immobilizing her arm, but allowing just enough reach for her to slide the knife into her pocket.
“Ginko!” he whispered loudly. “Mate, where are you?”
An answering groan sounded from the living room. The door to one of the bedrooms hung open, revealing another soldier sprawled on the floor inside. Fahl pressed her onto the couch next to a groggy and very drunk Ginko.
“I’ve brought you a present, mate,” Fahl said. His pants were still sagging and his flaccid penis hung out shamelessly.
“Eh?” Ginko replied, peeling open his eyes. When he noticed Jasminda, his demeanor changed. “What about the sergeant?” he slurred.
“Fucker can’t hold his liquor.” Fahl grinned evilly, showing off his blackened, stinking teeth. “He’ll never know, and when he comes ’round, we can just say she run off.”
His grip loosened for a moment, and Jasminda tore free with a shout, lunging off the couch toward the kitchen, jumping over furniture in her way. But Fahl and Ginko surprised her with their speed, catching up to her quickly and slamming her down on the kitchen table. She pulled the knife from her pocket and swiped out, slicing through a fleshy arm. A corresponding yowl rang out from whichever of them she cut.