Khari'na Made (Muse Book 1)

by Jean Winter

  Lyra couldn't restrain her need to know. “But did the committee grant—?” Another sudden firing through her spine and Lyra grunted in pain. Her head jerked against the seat back.

  “Ah, ah, ah. Lesson number one.”

  With effort, Lyra rolled her head forward to regard the monster grinning smugly before her. She held her tongue, but it was hard. Very hard. His few words regarding his possession of her were no help to her fevered brain as it tried unsuccessfully again to put together the pieces of the puzzle. It sounded like he was just capitalizing on her sudden availability. Was she the new khar of Serpahn Malig'ahnt? Was she, even now, traveling to her new, permanent residence?

  Something tiny within her cracked under the mounting dread and rational thought suddenly began to turn elusive.

  In silence, they drove at a leisurely pace through the city, the light of the late afternoon continuing to sink closer to the sharp patchwork of city horizon. Malig'ahnt's eyes wandered lazily over every part of her and Lyra definitely didn't like the look on his face when they got to her bared, cuffed leg, hitched up on the seat beside her. She adjusted her skirt over it, but he leaned forward and casually pulled the fabric away again, making sure she felt his hand linger at her thigh.

  Through a dangerously erratic pulse, Lyra turned her head away as if he were not worth her notice. It was the only way she could think to fight back—not let him see her fear, her anger, her sorrow, the expression of which only seemed to encourage him.

  She was this close to cracking and succumbing fully to gay insanity. The temptation to mentally retreat from reality and go somewhere else—a safe place—was almost titillating. Lyra remembered reading a few psychological dissertations regarding experiments (highly unethical ones) scientists at the university had conducted on certain animals and slaves, studying how much horror the brain could process before things began to just shut down.

  Just disconnect and drift away. Her brain was ready to leap off that cliff into the swirling, gray softness below. It will make things so much easier.

  No. Something else cut in. You must stay present and in control. Let the Spirit guide.

  But I am not worthy anymore, she lamented. I have messed up so badly.

  Lyra, my daughter, you have not.

  The clear, almost audible thought got her heart beating in her chest again, and shaking her head slightly to clear it, she quietly compelled her body to sit up just a little taller.

  Okay. She would try.

  Eventually they turned onto a cobbled driveway and, looking out the window, Lyra's mouth dropped open at the size of the mansion that rose up before her—five stories stretching east and west with window after window after window. A brief glimpse of one side as they came around proved that it extended even deeper than it was wide. It must have at least two hundred rooms! She could get lost for days.

  The carriage slowed to a stop.

  “Give me your leg,” Malig'ahnt ordered.

  Obeying, Lyra felt a cool hand grasp her ankle as the cuff was unlocked with a key from his pocket. Then it started to slide up her calf. Slowly. Sensually. Lyra braced herself for further groping as the fingers went higher, up the back of her thigh.

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” a solemn, aging butler greeted through the window with a bow, purposefully overlooking the new woman and his lord's indecent handling of her. “Your father is awaiting your arrival just inside.” Malig'ahnt's scowl at the interruption was also overlooked.

  With one more wanton glance, the hand was removed and Lyra's cuffed wrist began to get unlocked. “I have armed guards posted around the perimeter o' my estate,” Malig'ahnt told her. “Attack dogs roam the grounds. Ten men alone make constant rounds through the house. Every man has his own tracker. Do I need to expound further how stupid you would be to try to run?”

  “No, my lord,” Lyra dutifully whispered.

  He hopped out and Lyra pulled her boot back on. She had just stepped to the ground to follow when the maddening burst of current constricted her muscles again and she stumbled backward, letting the side of the coach catch her fall.

  “Lesson number two,” he called out from ahead. “Always two steps behind. No more, no less.”

  Lyra grunted through the shock and staggered forward as quickly as she could, taking the proper proximity behind him as he continued on through fifteen foot double doors to the butler waiting to take Malig'ahnt's jacket.

  “Serpahn, I do no' approve o' this decision,” an old, hunched man grumbled from his wheelchair nearby. Weak as he was, a certain fire and authority still lingered in his tone.

  “I acquired the proper signatures,” Malig'ahnt said, casting the man an unconcerned glance, “if that is your concern.”

  Lyra's form was eyed up and down with distaste and she and the old man met gazes for a moment. He did not seem to like what he saw there, either. “She has trouble written all over her, Serpahn. I do no' like cleaning up after you.”

  Assessing his appearance in a mirror on the foyer wall, Malig'ahnt removed his neck sash and began to roll up his sleeves. “Everything will remain under control,” he assured. As if to prove his point, the handcuffs he had tucked in his back pocket were pulled out for his father to see.

  The man frowned. “Do no' kill her.”

  “O' course no', Father,” Malig'ahnt patronized. He passed some fingers through his straight, white blond hair until, satisfied, he turned fully to the invalid. “Where is the fun in that?”

  The smile Lyra got froze her to the marrow of her bones and she struggled a moment more with the urge to let herself go happily insane.

  “Turn around,” Malig'ahnt murmured to her. As she did so, her hair was swept aside. “What is this? Two necklets?” he grumbled, working both clasps open while Lyra forced herself not to cry.

  It was only metal. They were just things.

  Her symbols of love from two wonderful men were tossed aside in a key tray on a secretary table. “You will no' be needing that anymore.”

  Malig'ahnt took his time bringing her hair back from over her shoulder. Long fingers ran through it, observing its soft, silky fullness and Lyra suppressed the urge to shudder. Over and over again. Malig'ahnt Sr. finally just muttered something to himself and motioned for his young nurse to push him elsewhere to other business. Lyra and the monster were soon alone.

  “You have very pretty hair,” Malig'ahnt said softly.

  Lyra kept passively silent.

  A small drawer at the secretary table was opened. Then her hair was being gathered up, an object was removed from the drawer, and schlick, schlick, schlick …

  Merciful God! Her hair! Her beautiful hair!

  “But, it is too long,” he concluded.

  When he was done Malig'ahnt let her locks fall to the floor in a heap—seventeen inches of glossy, feminine glory sheared like wool! Lyra had never considered herself a vain woman, but a tear escaped down her cheek as she became keenly aware of the missing weight down her back. There wasn't even anything to brush against her neck.

  “Better,” he said, tossing the scissors back in the drawer. The fallen locks were carelessly swept to the side with a foot and Malig'ahnt, walking around her, began a critical assessment of her appearance.

  “Mrs. Trewz!” he suddenly yelled, his voice echoing down long hallways and across high, domed ceilings. Lifting Lyra's chin, he directed a mocking smile down at her. “Lesson number three: Always be presentable.”

  “My lord?” a breathless housekeeper answered as she hurried from a room.

  “Mrs. Trewz, have her prepared.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The small, round woman's tired, reddened eyes regarded Lyra with an inscrutable expression. “This way,” she said and began to walk away.

  Only after following the servant around a corner did Lyra dare reach a hand to mournfully feel the cropped shortness at the base of her skull. The absence of silvery chain links was noticed as well. There was just … emptiness.

  “Mrs. Trewz, please
help me,” Lyra whispered to the housekeeper. She had to try. The woman did not seem unkind.

  “Shhh. Do no' speak,” the woman warned in an undertone. “There are ears everywhere and you might as well learn your place from the start. Besides, what do you expect me to do?” They continued down an endless hall lined with an impossibly long, plush runner. After a minute, Mrs. Trewz seemed to reconsider and spoke again, softly, “The less you speak the better. If you can keep him sober, the girls say it does no' hurt as much. However, he does no' last as long when he is drunk. You must determine which you prefer.”

  That information was probably intended to be comforting, but Lyra was working hard to not get sick all over the woman.

  She was presently shown into an incredibly luxurious bathroom with a huge tub set into the floor looking like it could hold six or seven people. There was also a separate shower, three sink basins, cabinets, stacks of soft, thick towels, padded recliners, and a deep wardrobe.

  “Wait here,” Mrs. Trewz said. “I will send someone in to help you.”

  Looking around, the intense sensation of deja vu was overwhelming. It was like she was back at the auction on preparation day! Lyra sank to a recliner in the corner and curled herself into a ball.

  Father? Are you there? She tried to remember the loving impression she had received in the carriage. She hoped it was real—that the Great Creator was not judging her recent actions as harshly as she. “Please let me feel Thy presence. And then I will be able to handle anything. Thy will be done,” Lyra finished, her bottom lip trembling.

  It wasn't long before a tall, blond maid with an obviously attractive figure entered. She eyed Lyra with reserve as she briskly told her to undress and get in the tub. Then the maid began to run some water.

  When Lyra was handed a sweet smelling soap and washcloth, she mumbled an automatic thank you and the somber, somewhat cold young woman hesitated. “You do no' seem to be my lord's usual type,” she observed stiffly.

  “I am sure I am not,” Lyra solemnly returned. “He didn't bring me here because he liked me.”

  The maid said nothing more.

  Lyra proceeded with her bath and bore the unfriendliness for a while until she suddenly had a strong feeling that she should heal the woman. Heal her? Heal what? Lyra couldn't see anything obviously wrong. Besides, didn't she have greater problems of her own to handle at the moment?

  The prompting returned again and this time, as the maid happened to turn for some towels, Lyra saw her hedge as if in pain. She also saw some discolored skin at her right shoulder peeking out from under her uniform.

  “Does that hurt? There?” Lyra tentatively motioned toward the spot.

  The woman's mixture of surprise and distrust was evident. “Aye, some. I think some muscles were … strained recently.”

  “I might be able to help you with that, if you like. I have some skill in doctoring.”

  “What is it to you?”

  The maid finished spreading out some oils and lotions on the vanity and returned to Lyra with one of the towels. Honestly, Lyra was a little relieved at the rebuff. She didn't need to wear herself out any more than she already was.

  “It was just an offer. You don't have to take it,” she said, taking the towel. Lyra moved to start wringing out her hair until she dismally remembered she didn't have enough to do so anymore.

  “All right,” the maid suddenly said, appraising her coldly.

  Lyra looked up at her. “Okay.” Wrapping the towel round herself, she told the woman to take a chair. Then Lyra stepped behind her and gently slipped the maid's sleeve off her shoulder.

  It was a long bruise that extended across her back more than Lyra had at first supposed. Ugh. This was going to sap even more vital energy than she'd feared. Lyra bit her lip and quickly dove in before she could talk herself out of it.

  It took about a half hour. For some reason Lyra felt that she needed to be extra thorough and she concentrated hard on every centimeter of throbbing muscle until the sweat was beading up on her forehead. The woman held still with only an occasional surprised, sideways glance until, finally, Lyra's “song” was finished and she dropped weary arms to examine the fruits of her labor. It looked good. Really good.

  The maid took that cue to carefully lift her arm and move it around. With some alarm she suddenly craned her neck around. “Did you cast some kind o' spell on me?”

  “No.” Lyra shuffled to a recliner to rest and gave a short, bitter laugh. “It isn't that easy.”

  “Are you a witch?”

  “No. It's called being a 'song mage', I guess.”

  The utter weariness. This wasn't good.

  A moment later, the maid was standing beside Lyra, hands filled with the lotions and other bottles of various things she had set up earlier. Her study of Lyra had transformed to a guarded curiosity. “If you can sit up, we can finish you right here.”

  Body lotion. Sweet oils. Some makeup. Nail polish. Continued eerie throwback to auction day.

  After a while, the young woman quietly offered, “Do no' let him get drunk. That is when things can get … dangerous.” She twisted the lid back on the bottle of polish. “And I hope he does no' use his belt on you. You seem like a nice person.”

  Lyra gulped. “Is there any way you can help me, miss?” (She had to try again.) “He has much more than that planned for me. I know it.”

  Indecision, perhaps a bit of compassion, flickered across the maid's pretty features. Then they turned to stone. “I canno' help you. And I will no'. In fact, I welcomed your arrival. I was supposed to spend tonight with him and now I can go home and be with my husband, instead.”

  Sick roiling tossed Lyra's stomach about. “But I thought Malig'ahnt had multiple khari'na.”

  “He does. So?” And Lyra was given an annoyed glare for her apparent naivety. “Lord Serpahn Malig'ahnt gets whatever he wants, whoever he wants, whenever he wants, in case you have no' noticed by now.”

  “B-but you're not implanted, and you are married. Why would you choose to work here?” Lyra sputtered.

  “I get bonuses for 'extra services,'” she said testily. “My husband was injured several months ago and is still unable to work. Besides, I have no choice, the Malig'ahnts are our landlords. It is a trade-off I have accepted until I can hopefully earn enough to quit in the next few months … before I am fired over my pregnancy.”

  Lyra sat in quiet horror as the maid wrung her hands for a moment until, with a calming breath, she decided she could continue with the preparation. Lyra was almost afraid to ask, “Do you know if the baby—?”

  “No. I do no' know who the father is,” was the terse reply.

  “I am so sorry.”

  When it came time to arrange Lyra's hair, neither one of them was sure what to do, it was so roughly chopped. It really needed a proper trim first—not that Lyra cared much to doll herself up at all for the creature slithering somewhere about his luxurious lair. Her head still hurt from falling outside the compound besides. That area of her scalp was quite tender to the touch.

  The maid noticed Lyra's attention drawn to it. “Can you no' heal yourself?” she asked suddenly, simply.

  Uh …

  Lyra had not really thought of that possibility yet. Mumbling some excuse about her healing being a rather new skill, she turned to the mirror and gingerly parted her hair for a better look. Would it work? Listening to herself?

  Touching the spot, Lyra closed her eyes to concentrate and soon heard something, but as she zoned in on the tone, she quickly recognized it as the maid's. The woman was respectfully asked to step away and Lyra tried again, but with no better result. In fact, the harder she concentrated on herself, the more she kept hearing the maid's song—all the way from the other side of the room. Wow.

  A second song entered now, low and just off of E minor as to grate at the nerves like fingernails on a script board.

  “Leave us, Hana,” said the voice of Malig'ahnt.

  Lyra jolted at the man's
sudden presence. Evidently, she had not noticed when he entered. Through the mirror, he gave her a malicious grin as Hana curtsied dutifully and turned to go.

  “Oh, Hana,” he added like an afterthought, “I still want you to stick around tonight, in case this one does no' pan out.”

  Hana couldn't quite hide the frustration in her features as she mumbled a quick, “Aye, my lord,” and left.

  They were alone again.

  And Lyra was in nothing but the bath towel!

  Help me be strong. Oh God, help me be strong!

  Malig'ahnt strolled toward her and began to take off his belt. “Time for lesson number four: Gratitude for your master's corrections.”

  # # #

  The young private was taken aback by Kade's brusque order and cleared his throat nervously. “Er, what was the name o' the prisoner?” he said, shuffling through some papers to his left.

  “Khari'na Lyra … o' Fantilly.” Kade wasn't sure how she would be listed on the register.

  The private thumbed through a few files, stopped at one, and pulled it out. His eyes did a quick scan, until they paused, then peeked up at Kade, rather discomposed. Kade raised a brow in question.

  “Sir, I am sorry,” the private cleared this throat again, “but I do no' think I am allowed to give you any information. This is your khar that was brought in, and according to this file, you are no' granted access.”

  Kade tried not to panic. “Private, I assure you I am authorized to see her. There was just some misunderstanding with her paperwork. Just tell me what cell block she is in and I will happily get out o' your hair.”

  To his credit, the soldier shook his head and hastily closed the file. “Sorry, sir, but I do no' think I can. I would need authorization from my superior—”

  “So get authorization.” Blast! This was not going as easily as he had anticipated.

  The kid started to pale. “He is in a meeting, sir.”

  Kade rolled his eyes. O' course. “Well, let me speak with Colonel Thyks, then.”

  “Er, same meeting.” The private's eyes resorted to scanning the room for the nearest security guard.