by Jean Winter
“Do you like what you see?” J'Kor said. “She has been extra, specially prepared.” His hand slid down her hip to the slit in her dress where he drew the hem away to reveal more skin. Beady, hungry eyes glittered in the carriage's cast lantern light. Lyra felt cold. Clammy. Woozy with terror.
J'Kor continued, “Now, if a little bit o' this is all you really want, please leave me and this good taximan here alone and take her as you please. I suppose I would no' mind a little 'sharing in the wealth' with fellow citizens o' Caldreen. She is a khar, after all. She will probably like it. All I ask is that, when you are done, you leave her here and be on your way. No one gets hurt.”
Looks passed between the men. Then the short one gestured at J'Kor with his gun. “Well now, you has just might be smarter than you look, me lord.” He strode forward and handed his pistol off to the smelly one. “You be keeping this easy for us, and Bons, there,” he indicated the large, hulking brute, “maybe have no' to bruise his knuckles more.
“I do no' think he is smart,” Smelly slurred through thick, drunken lips. He leaned toward J'Kor, pointing a teasing blade tip near his cheek. “I think he be vain and cowardly. He be no' wantin' his pretty face to be marred.”
“Perhaps, I am all o' that,” J'Kor admitted, “as I prefer to keep my innards, o' which I am rather fond, inside where they belong.” As further enticement, he slid the folds of fabric off Lyra's right shoulder, making her bodice partially slumped away. J'Kor's subsequent suggestive stroke of her neck made her skin crawl.
You knew this! an accusing voice spat. You knew his act was too good to be true. He's just an animal like the rest of them. Lyra was never so disappointed to be right.
The short one came close, very nearly right in her face and Lyra turned her head away in disgust. Grimy fingers slid down from her collarbone. “Hmm,” said the man, loud enough for his companions to hear, “she be smelling good, mates!” They responded with anticipatory murmurs and nods. “My turn first. Slap, you has keep the gun and be watchin' o' these two gents. Bons and Goony, be holding her down fer me over there.” His chin jutted toward a patch of grass on the side of the road. Then he suddenly pulled Lyra to him, gazing into her frightened eyes. “He said to be no' underestimating o' her,” the man murmured softly to himself beneath a jagged scar on the side of his nose and several days' worth of stubble. He twirled a spiraled tendril of her hair. “Though she be looking scared witless enough now.”
The large man and the younger one—Bons and Goony—took her roughly and began to drag her to the side of the road. “My lord!” Lyra pleaded.
The least he could do was act concerned! But J'Kor was speaking to smelly “Slap” in an almost conversational manner.
Panic took over. Lyra began to struggle. She kicked at her captors' knees and got Goony to let go, but the thick-limbed Bons tightened his grip and thrust her onto the damp, grassy patch. Her arms were quickly pinned over her head while strong hands restrained her legs.
“Don't touch me! Don't you dare touch me!” Lyra cried out in a horrific rage.
“Well now, she be havin' fire in her, after all!” the leader chortled, kneeling at her side and loosening his belt. “So much the more pleasuring, I say.”
Three heads leered over her before a backdrop of recently exposed, twinkling stars. Oh God, where are you? Her skirt was pulled to her hips and Lyra let loose a bloodcurdling scream.
A loud pop and flash of light made everyone's heads jerk toward the carriage. Slap and Sullee were seen bent, choking in the smoke and swirling dust created by some kind of explosion. Wait! Where was J'Kor?
A pistol shot echoed into the sky.
It had not come from Slap.
In fact, Slap began a frantic search of his person and the ground for the weapon that was no longer in his hand. The thresher pair shuffled, snorting and clicking in fright, but the tree in their way left nowhere to bolt. Another pop and nearly blinding burst of light exploded on the ground, much nearer Lyra and the men huddled round her. It showered a fine spray of dirt onto their grubby clothing.
“If I had aimed for you, you would be dead,” a voice rang from the top of the carriage.
Then she saw him—J'Kor—hardly anything more than a silhouette except for the strange greenish light emitting from his upturned palm. It cast an eerie glow upward into his face. In his other hand, he held the pistol. “You all deserve to die, but I am going to give you one chance to run and no' look back.” He brandished a glowing hand through the air and the fiery light intensified.
Slap staggered toward his comrades, spooked. His friends exchanged looks. Suddenly, young Goony took off running—or hobbling—as well as he could on one hurt leg. Someone swore.
“Let the khar go,” J'Kor ordered.
Lyra was hauled up from the ground, but with a knife at her throat. Its owner, the short, stocky leader. He positioned himself behind her, fingernails digging into her shoulder. “We will no' be having anyone die, and I be betting that you cares more about this khar than you has been letting on,” he shouted back. “You has best toss us me pistol and surrender.”
J'Kor hopped smoothly from carriage roof to driver seat to the ground. He began to walk toward them, his fingers closing over the strange flame to extinguish it. The pistol, he held quietly at his side, but Lyra could tell that the bold set of his mouth and purposeful stride were wreaking havoc on the grog soused nerves around her. Truth be told, he was doing something to her nerves, too. This was not the same man with whom she had danced at Burhnee's.
“Be stopping right there!” the leader screeched. His grip on Lyra tightened. “Drop it.”
J'Kor stopped. Calmly, almost flippantly, he tossed the gun away. “I do no' need that anyway, and you are losing your chance to run.” He stared the man down with eyes that could conquer a mesmer snake.
A glance to her side and Lyra could just make out her captor's scruffy features hanging over her shoulder—deliberating over whether or not J'Kor was bluffing. Finally …
“Bons! Slap!” he barked. “Get him!”
With wary glances to each other, the two men cautiously started forward. J'Kor didn't move a muscle. Slap grew more confident and, with knife at the ready, he suddenly lunged.
The scream gurgling up Lyra's throat never quite made it out, for, at the last second, J'Kor sprang into action, blocking Slap's thrust and forcing the knife down and away from his body. With a fierce bellow, J'Kor shoved his open palm into Slap's chest. A flash of light burst at the point of impact and it threw J'Kor and Slap away from each other. J'Kor landed on his feet, but not Slap. He went flying on his back to the ground, where he lay with smoke wafting from his chest and a black hole marking where his sternum had once been.
J'Kor's head turned to Bons. “Next?”
The hulking man stood in shock. He looked from his dead companion to the bristling sorcerer and back. A small whimper escaped. Then he spun and ran, stumbling in the darkness toward the trees.
Lyra barely remembered herself in the grisly heat of the moment. She grabbed hold of the wrist at her neck holding her hostage and twisted it, ducking away while her captor was momentarily off his guard. To the scum's credit, he recovered quickly and made a grab for her, but Lyra dropped to the ground. He made to lunge after her—until he saw J'Kor coming for him, palm spouting ghoulish fire once again.
Lyra wasn't sure which was more impressive: the speed with which the bandit moved his short, stocky legs or the glass shattering pitch he made as he ran for the safety of dank forest shadow.
A moment more and quiet, undisturbed night descended once again onto the lonely, country roadside. Lyra carefully sat up, breathless and nearly in shock.
From above, another head peered down at her amid a background of midnight stars.
Only, this one was much more beautiful.
CHAPTER 16
“Lyra,” J'Kor breathed as he cautiously knelt beside her, “are you okay?” The demigod ablaze in vengeful, mystic power was no more. Once
again, he was the man in the holding room. Concerned. Caring. Hesitant.
“Yes. I-I-I think so.” Lyra rubbed at her forehead, dazed. She took quick assessment of herself. Everything seemed to be in working order. No blood. Not even any scratches, really. “Those men were sent by that—that Lord Malig'ahnt, weren't they?” She remembered the leader's musing about someone telling him not to underestimate her.
J'Kor grimaced. “I am almost certain. He has a reputation for retaliation o' the lowest kind.”
Lyra hugged her knees to her chest, shaking.
“Lyra, I am sorry I had to do that—make it seem like I was letting them have you. But I—”
“You needed a distraction,” she said. It was obvious now. Lyra looked at him fully. “You knew their attention would be on me.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “And the more frightened you appeared to be, the better the ruse, but … I hate that you had to believe for a minute that I—”
“No! No, my lord,” Lyra quickly assured him. “That was smart. And your—your magic was—” She still wasn't sure what to make of it. Everything had happened so fast. “What was that?”
“Everything okay over there, my lord?” Sullee called, crawling out from under the carriage. It seemed he had taken shelter below his new axle.
“Aye,” J'Kor answered. “I will be over in a minute to help you see about moving that tree.”
“Is that one really dead?” Sullee pointed at the body on the ground.
“Aye.”
“My lord, what was that?” Lyra tried again. He had been collecting information about her all day, but it seemed the questions about him just kept multiplying.
“Eh … old skill set.” J'Kor shrugged dismissively and something that had been strapped to his palm got returned to a pocket. “I always keep a few things on me whenever I go out with Sal, just in case. Distraction, misdirection, fear o' the unknown—magician's usual tools. It gets me a quick upper hand in a confrontation.” J'Kor took a long look at the body. “I was bluffing, though. That sparkshot I detonated against that man's chest was my last one. I had nothing left. And I have no' used one to actually kill anyone—well, no' for a long time, anyway.” He turned back to her. “Are you sure you are no' hurt?”
Maybe she wasn't sure. She was still trembling. With care, J'Kor touched her cheek and Lyra looked into those eyes—those kind, amazing eyes. He had risked his life for her. For her virtue.
Oh, Great Father! He … he IS my miracle!
It was a sure bet no other lord at that auction would have been able to take on hired thugs like that. No other lord had been willing to go up against Malig'ahnt in the first place. Shakily, Lyra stood and J'Kor quickly followed. She looked up at him.
“… It is you.”
“Aye,” he confirmed, confused. More worried now that she may be in clinical shock, he started to reach for her arm. “Lyra, are you sure—?”
And Lyra went to him. She wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing her face into his broad chest in a heartfelt, totally unreserved hug. Tears she had been holding back began to flow. It had been such a terrifying day. “Thank you, my l-lord,” she whispered haltingly as she clung to him. “It is you. Thank you f-for protecting me.”
It took a moment for J'Kor to get over his surprise, but then his arms were responding in kind with a warm, sure embrace. It felt good. Really good.
A nagging sliver of cold reality reminded Lyra that he would likely still be on her in his bed within the hour, but for the time being, she gave in to the simple knowledge that her Heavenly Father had sent this man to save her today. For the time being, he was a saint.
“My Lyra,” J'Kor murmured into her hair, “I told you the truth. This commitment is real to me. I will take care o' you.” She felt his warm breath on the top of her head as he continued, almost wistful, “When you were on stage, I felt this overwhelming urge to protect you. I could no' ignore it.”
Lyra smiled through her tears and clung to him even tighter. She had no doubt where that urge had come from. The Father had put her on a strange and frightening path, and it seemed this man was somehow supposed to help her along it. He was a slave owner—a loyal patriot to the enemy nation. He knew nothing of God or morality. He might even possibly be involved in the occult. But she needed to trust him … for evidently God did.
J'Kor pulled away a little. “I know you have been afraid, but do you believe me now?”
Lyra was still afraid—of his past, his loyalties, his expectations. However, when she looked into his eyes … “I believe you, my lord.”
Smiling, he swept her up in his arms and carried her back to the carriage. “By the way,” he said with a grin, “your track record with men continues to be impressive. Remind me never to pick a fight with you.”
Lyra laughed. “After what I just saw, my lord, I don't think I'll be challenging you anytime soon.”
She got set on the coach step, facing him, and a warm, calloused hand brushed tenderly along the side of her jaw, clear eyes boring deeply into hers. Then, cautiously, he leaned in and Lyra's smile faded as J'Kor reached behind her head to bring it closer. Her lips to his.
“Got to unhitch the team and see about hooking them up to the tree,” Sullee muttered, striding by and briskly opening up a nearby tool compartment.
J'Kor hesitated and drew back.
In a somewhat husky voice he told her to get in and rest. Then with a brisk clear of his throat, he left her to help Sullee remove the tree from the road.
Inside, Lyra dizzily flopped onto a bench seat. Her head swam. The last few minutes had been intense, and she wasn't just referring to the hired rape attempt. This J'Kor … Lyra slid the cowl neck folds of her gown back up over her shoulder and looked out the window to see him gathering the reins while Sullee detached the carriage traces from the team.
Trust. Trust. You have to trust. He is your miracle.
# # #
The work rag helped clean Kade's hands up as Sullee finished strapping the threshers in again. What a night! He may have appeared calm and calculating, but on the inside, his heart had been pounding nearly out of his chest when he planted that sparkshot bomb in the shirt pocket of the rancid Slap just before tossing another one and stealing the gun. As for Lyra—
He climbed back in the coach and saw her curled up in the corner again, looking slightly disheveled and harried.
… remember, old man, how gently she needs to be handled. The phrase he had been thinking before the taxi's unexpected stop was finally completed.
It was even more true now. Her part in his charade had been the scarier one.
He took one of her hands to hold and said gently, “How about I take you home now?”
“Okay,” she whispered, still a little nervous, but trust was finally beginning to win out.
The carriage got under way and Kade draped an arm across Lyra's shoulders. Comforting and protective. Something deep within stirred. Something of selflessness and compassion. It suggested he let her alone for this first night. Hadn't she had enough “excitement” for one day?
Then she shifted, leaning her head against his chest, cuddling into him like a child, and her tantalizing smell wafted up to his nose. Her nearness, her softness, her angles and curves, the light rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, it all filled and saturated his senses with such a delightful headiness that the notion of thoughtful restraint quickly waned away.
Rationalization took its place. Enticing. Wreathing.
Sure, this had been a rough day, it whispered, but wasn't lovemaking—that mutual intimacy—a good way to slough it all off? The release of tension. The rapturous pleasure. Inviting the mind to turn itself over to simpler, more felicitous thoughts. It had always helped Kade relax and settle into a nice, contented sleep. It would work for her, too. And after today, she really needed a good night's rest. They both did.
Besides, for all the trouble he'd put himself through for her, he deserved everything she had to offer. What was a
little sex to an experienced khar, anyway?
But, he would ease her into it. Aye. He would be the epitome of thoughtful tenderness. Under his hand, she would quickly come to appreciate a side of lovemaking she'd probably never known before, probably never been shown, and she would be so surprised, so gratified, so grateful that—
They turned off the road onto his property.
Up ahead, Kade could just make out the solid dwelling that generations of J'Kors had called home basking in the achromatic effervescence of moon glow. He could relate as he looked down at Lyra, warm and solid on him, glowing in that gown. So close. Just a fabric's width away. “Do you want to see?” he said.
Her head nodded ever so slightly and it rose to peer outside. “How much of this land is yours?”
“Over two thousand acres all the way to the coast. This is ancestral land. My great, great grandfather J'Kor settled here about a hundred and fifty years ago. He had a particular talent for sheep raising that has been passed from generation to generation since. That is where my family initially made its fortune. I was born here.”
“And now you own it all?”
The scent of the poppamung weeds in his pastures as they released their fruity fragrance by the light of the moons drifted in. One of his flocks had nestled nearby in the lush grass and every now and then the soft bleat of a lamb not yet ready to settle obediently down next to its mother could be heard. The taxi passed his stand of broad-leaved sparcal trees that rustled gently in a strolling breeze. It was background to the chorus of crick-bang bugs that echoed through the great, framing branches, adding greater depth to the evening's lullaby. Kade loved beautiful spring nights like this.