by Claire Marta
Jasmine raised her hand to her face. She winced as pain exploded through her as she probed the wound. Ok, so getting patched up was a good idea. The sound of dry clothes was also appealing. Her entire body was probably turning into a humongous prune.
Wyllt’s quaint cottage was tucked back behind a mass of rhododendron bushes. They had bright spring blooms; large clusters of the pink, voluptuous flowers. Their powerful fragrance was sweet and soothing. Breathing in, Jasmine inhaled the intoxicating scent. It was a tranquil place.
They were at the edge of the forest. It was immersed in shadows and dappled sunlight. The vegetation was so green, so vibrant, it looked almost unreal. Wyllt helped her along a small, white, gravel path. Jasmine grunted as stones dug into her bare soles. A small neat herb garden was flowering at one side. The scents were also heady in the air.
Some strength had finally returned to her legs. She only had her hand on Wyllt’s arm now. He was watching her closely as if he was worried she might fall. She wasn’t about to fall on her face though.
Gaze continuing to explore, Jasmine surveyed the boat man’s home. The place had a white thatched roof. Mottled stones made up the sizeable structure. Ivy vines were creeping up one side with pointed heavy leaves. The front door was painted a cheerful, light green. Carvings had been etched deeply into the worn surface. They seemed to be part of the door rather than something man-made. Most were at the top, but some strange runes decorated each side. Jasmine didn’t recognise them. They didn’t match any of the ones she had seen so far.
Windows with frames, painted in the same green as the door, welcomed in sunlight. Wind chimes danced merrily in the breeze. With his free hand, Wyllt pushed open the front door. An empty kitchen greeted them. It was beautifully furnished with oak flooring. The cabinets were cream. A large, dark wooden table sat in the middle of the spacious area with a collection of chairs. There was a wooden burner in one corner. A very old fashioned stove, microwave and a few other electrical appliances were dotted around.
On another work surface was a collection of different sized bottles. Coloured glass gleamed in the sunlight. An assortment of pots and crystals were also beside them. Wyllt hurried to the counter and busied himself. With quick movements, he pulled a cloth from a drawer and filled it with herbs and a lime green cream. Jasmine stood swaying in the doorway. Tiredly, she watched him.
“Come in and sit yourself down.” He gestured towards the kitchen table.
Without hesitation, she lumbered to one of the seats. A trail of damp, sandy foot prints was left in her wake. With a grimace, she sank down. Her muscles were sore. A faint, knotting pain tightened in her stomach. Jasmine considered laying her head on her arms, on the table, but decided against it. Dropping her guard now would just be stupid. She had to stay alert.
In a flurry of black feathers, a large raven flew in through the open doorway. With agile grace, it landed on the boatman’s shoulders. Glancing up at it, he smiled.
“There you are. I wondered where you had gotten to,” he murmured lovingly to the bird.
A low caw was its response. Turning its black, shiny, feathered head, it regarded Jasmine with beady eyes. They held an odd glint of intelligence.
Striding back across the room, Wyllt brought Jasmine what he had been making. Paste was spread thickly across a white cloth and smelt strangely sweet. She guessed it was a poultice.
“Here.” He offered it carefully to her in one large, calloused hand. “Hold this to your wound. It will take away the swelling and the pain.”
“Thanks.” Gently, Jasmine accepted it. The paste felt soft and moist. She winced when she slapped it not so lightly against her forehead. “What were you doing down on the beach?” Jasmine still wasn’t sure she could trust him. He was helping her, but that could all be a ruse. At this exact moment she did not know who to trust.
“Mag saw you and told me where to find you.” He caressed the raven’s feathery head. The bird hopped gingerly down his arm to settle on a perch which stood next to the table. Once there it continued to eyeball her. Jasmine eyed the bird right back. So Wyllt talked to animals? Or did animals talk here? Right at this second, she was not sure what to believe. She was starting to feel like Alice again. But this was no rabbit hole she had wandered down.
“This is a cream for any cuts you might have. It will help to soothe and heal them,” the boatman told her. He laid the white tube on the table before her. It looked similar to the paste Carbrey had used on her hands.
“I have some things that might fit you.” He continued studying her thoughtfully. Without another word, he turned and hurried through another doorway.
Jasmine sat silently. The cream of the cloth against her head was cool and soothing. She could feel a slight tingle where it touched her skin. Glancing around, she examined the kitchen again. The room was homely, very country in its style. Sun light was flooding in through one window. Warm rays lit the coloured bottles on the counter in a rainbow like glow.
“This should do,” Wyllt told her as he re-entered the room. “It may be a little big, but it’s the best I can do.” He was holding a swathe of grey material in his hands. Reaching the table he shook it out and held it up. It was a dress. Black ties at the front laced up in a corset style.
Jasmine blinked blankly at the garment. “You wear women’s clothing?”
A corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. “They’re some of my wife’s things. I doubt she will mind.” Jasmine felt her cheeks turn pink. She really had to stop letting the thoughts in her head stroll out of her mouth. This was starting to get embarrassing.
“Thanks,” she replied, easing herself up onto her feet. “Where is your wife? Is she here?” With one hand she scooped up the cream.
Wyllt handed her over the clothing. “The bathroom is down the hall, second door on the right. I’ve left you some shoes there,” he told her, ignoring her question.
Jasmine stared at him for a moment. The boatman stared back. His kind eyes were smiling. With one hand he stroked his long, grey beard. He didn’t say another word. O-Kay, so he wasn’t going to answer any more questions. Jasmine tried not to roll her eyes. What was with all the mystery?
Limping to the door, she went in search of the bathroom. She desperately wanted to be dry. Her clothes had begun to chafe. Every time she moved she could feel the painful rubbing. At this rate she was going to lose layers of skin.
A pair of grey heeled ankle boots were next to a wicker chair beside the door. They looked the right size. A large fluffy towel lay on the seat. She barely spared it a glance. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the tube of cream onto the towel.
The bathroom was large and modern. White tiles decorated the walls, a handmade woollen multi-coloured rug lay on the floor. The bath and shower were huge and could easily fit two. Wyllt and his wife liked their creature comforts. Jasmine also had a feeling that the boatman’s wife was not from one of the houses of Merlin. Too many electronics were lying around.
In Glenna’s house there had been barely anything electrical. Here she had noticed quite a few items. Did that mean they were outcasts as well? They didn’t live in town after all.
Locking the door behind her, she dumped the arm full of material on the seat. The first thing Jasmine did was take a look at herself in the mirror. She was pale, skin pasty. Her short coppery hair had dried sticking up in angles, worse than bed head. Slices of seaweed were tangled in the messy strands.
Sand had gotten everywhere, gritty against her skin. She could feel it chafing in her underwear. Gingerly, she lowered the cloth from her forehead. The gash didn’t look so bad. The wound itself had closed, leaving an angry red scab. Jasmine suspected Wyllt’s poultice had helped. She left the cloth resting on the sink.
Slowly, she began the task of stripping off. She groaned with every ache the movements brought. Jasmine wiggled her fingers through the hole in the knee of her jeans. The jagged opening was huge, frayed. She was not sure a needle and thread would help much. T
hey were ruined. She made a face at them. Looking down, she grimaced at her black, baggy jumper. Holes were ripped through it.
Fuck. All she seemed to do lately was wreck her clothes. Slime, blood, vamp dust, vomit, rips, slashes, tears, you name it. Her dwindling wardrobe had at least experienced it once. Jasmine eyed the dress. Now it looked like it might be inflicted on garments that weren’t even hers.
The clasp of her bra was busted. Under-wire was also sticking out from the middle. The thing was completely useless. She hadn’t realised it had been poking her in the chest until she moved it. With an irritable sigh, she tossed it in the small waste bin under the sink. She was going to have to go braless.
Grimacing, she shimmied out of her wet panties. These still seemed to be in on piece. Using the sink, she washed them out. Warm sunlight was streaming on the window sill and she left them there to dry.
The soothing hot shower was a welcome treat. Jasmine raised her face up to the spray as it beat against her sore body. Running her hands down her slippery sides, she washed the sand away. A few bruises were here and there. A nasty one was forming on her hip by her birthmark. Already it was a mottled hue of red, purple and blue, the colours touching the crescent moon’s tip.
Little cuts and nicks were scattered across her wet skin. They stung as she cleaned them. Jasmine bit her lip with a groan. Fuck it hurt. Her panties were still a little damp by the time she got out of the shower. With no other choice, she slipped them back on. This was better than going commando. Something she really didn’t want to do when wearing a dress.
Carefully as she could, she smeared the cream Wyllt had given her onto any wounds. She couldn’t get to the ones on her back. Bruised was how she felt mostly. When that was done, she left the tube on the sink, and washed her hands clean.
With a sigh, she pulled the dress over her head. The material was made of something soft and floaty that caressed her skin. Tugging it down over her chest, she found it fell to just below her calves. The waist line sagged. Obviously the owner had a bit more meat on her bones than Jasmine did.
The corset-like bust was baggy. Jasmine struggled with the ties. Yanking them tight, she managed to keep it flopping open and showing off her breasts. For a moment, she stared at her broken bra with longing. Wyllt’s wife was blessed with a bigger bosom. Jasmine was a tad jealous. The whole thing was ill-fitting.
At least they were clothes. Dry clothes. Jasmine stuffed the vial Glenna had given her into a pocket she found at the side. Wiggling her feet into the ankle boots she found these fit. Wyllt was sitting at the kitchen table when she returned to the room. A knife in his hand, he was carving away at a piece of drift wood. He seemed completely absorbed in his task. Jasmine wasn’t sure he had noticed her. Every movement was swift and sure. Jasmine watched a shape take form, a wolf.
“You’re married to one of the Le Fey clan aren’t you?” she asked, adjusting the ties on the front of the dress. The material was having a hard time staying up. Part of her was worried Wyllt was going to end up with an eyeful of her boobs. This was something she really didn’t want to happen. The guy was almost father-ish.
A plate on the table caught her attention which hadn’t been there before. A sandwich lay on it. Two thick slices of bread had chunks of cheese and wedges of succulent ham jammed between them. Jasmine also noted the mug of steaming tea.
Wyllt didn’t look up from his whittling. “Aye.”
Her stomach rumbled loudly. Embarrassed, she pressed her hand to the area. The boat man pushed out the wooden chair opposite him with his booted foot. He didn’t look up, but continued his work.
“You’re from one of the Merlin houses though, right?” Jasmine asked, flopping down into the seat.
“If you’re asking if it makes life difficult for us, it doesn’t. We keep to ourselves down here. Those in the city can worry about this and that if they want to. We want no part of that nonsense. People should love whoever they want to.” His words were gruff. “They have grown too pompous and self-important up there for my taste.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Wyllt,” she murmured apologetically.
Finally, he raised his steely grey gaze. “You didn’t.” His carving was finished. Carefully, he tugged some string from the breast pocket of his tunic. Pulling it around the carving’s middle he tied a firm knot.
“Here.” Wyllt held it out in one large, calloused hand. “It’s for luck. It seems that you might need it.” Jasmine took it with a forefinger and thumb. He had been nice to her so far, she wasn’t about to turn down a gift. Examining it, she found it had been intricately done. Somehow he had caught every detail of the beast. No way that was possible. Not with the knife he had.
“Thanks.” Jasmine slipped the necklace over her head. The carving settled against her skin, smooth and cool.
Wyllt nodded with a satisfied grunt. Carefully, he tucked his blade back into its sheath and left it lying on the table.
“Now,” he said with a note of firmness. “If you’re going to stop Teasag you’ll need some help.”
Jasmine regarded him with a wary look. “How do you know about that?”
Wyllt’s grey eyes glinted with amusement. “I may live outside the city, but I have eyes and ears.” With a long, callous forefinger he stroked the feathered head of the Raven. The bird was sitting on a perch which was next to the table. Beady eyes inquisitive, it cawed. Tilting its head, it leaned into the caress.
Jasmine lowered her gaze. Fretfully she began to toy with one of the laces of the dress. “There’s nothing I can do. I’m just me and I’m not strong enough. I’m not enough…”
How could she help Twitch? The Jinn were fucking freakishly powerful. The witches had magic. Melinda had already kicked her butt once. Jasmine hadn’t even been able to lift a finger to stop it. Eric had been right after all. She was weak. Just another mortal trying to get themselves killed. Someone always ended up having to save her. Maybe she was in too deep. She hadn’t wanted to believe his words but maybe they were true. A sense of desolation settled over her. She felt defeated. Tears thickened her throat. Blinking them back, they shimmered in her vision.
“Of course you’re strong enough, sweeting,” Wyllt said gently. Head tipped to one side, he was watching her with compassion.
“But I don’t have any magic or special powers,” Jasmine admitted, quietly. “And I’m stuck on an island where everyone can fucking blast me to smithereens with a flick of a pinkie finger.” A tear escaped the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek.
Reaching out, he took hold of the hand which was still plucking at one of the laces of the corset. It was big and reassuring. Warmth flowed between the link. Wyllt’s magic. Jasmine could feel it rushing up her arm. A soothing glow was left in its wake which grew when it reached her chest. She felt a strange sense of well-being spread.
“You have your good heart and courage, Jasmine Hunter. You are stubborn and tenacious. Never doubt these as gifts of strength. You also hold a unique sensitivity. Just because you don’t possess magic like others here, does not make you defenceless and weak. On the contrary you also have the element of surprise. They think you fell to a watery grave. You didn’t run from the storm last evening, in fact you turned and faced it. That speaks volumes.”
Jasmine chewed on her lower lip at his soft words. Did Wyllt really think that was enough?
Raising her head, she met his compassion filled grey stare. “The Jinn…” Sitting back, he released her hand. Jasmine missed the contact the moment he let go. With the touch, went the warming sensation. However it lingered pleasantly in her chest. The darkness which had enveloped her had lifted. She could feel the weight of her heartache easing.
“Are being unwillingly controlled. Without them Teasag cannot subdue everyone’s magic in the city.” Wyllt pushed the plate containing the sandwich towards her. “The orb is one of a kind. Something that will never be able to exist again. Trust me, I know.”
Jasmine wiped away the dampness fro
m her face. Then she sat chewing her thumb nail thoughtfully. “If I take out the orb…”
Encouragement lit Wyllt’s craggy features. “Then the Jinn are set free.”
If they were right, then that was the witches’ Achilles heel. Their weakness. But how the fuck could she destroy it? How would she even get close enough? Grabbing the sandwich with both hands, she took a large bite. A little hum of pleasure left her throat. Already just the taste seemed to help ease the hunger in the pit of her stomach. The dullness continued to lift from her mind. Wyllt had pulled his pipe out from his tunic. Tapping it gently on the table he prepared it to smoke.
“I guess that could work,” Jasmine mumbled around mouthfuls. She was taking greedy nibbles. The food was so good. Still holding the sandwich in one hand, she tugged the mug of tea towards her.
The boatman grunted, watching her. “I once knew a boy who doubted himself much like you do. He always questioned if he was good enough.”
Jasmine wondered if he was talking about Twitch.
“It took a long while before he saw his true worth” he continued.
“What happened to him?” Jasmine asked with curiosity. She was holding the sandwich halfway to her mouth.
Wyllt took a long puff on his pipe for a moment. His expression was thoughtful. Jasmine watched the smoke curling upwards.
“He became King,” he replied softly.
A scream left Twitch’s lips. He was strapped to a metal chair. The leather restraints were biting into the flesh of his wrists and ankles. Clothes ripped and torn, his slender frame was ridged with fear and pain. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and from his nose.
Eric stood at attention watching by the door. Spine straight, he remained as a silent sentinel. He could do nothing for now, but bide his time. His face remained blank. Although they could not see all of his features, his mouth and chin were visible. To let even a slither of emotion show could be disastrous. So Eric kept his expression remote.