Khari'na Made (Muse Book 1)

by Jean Winter

  I can't do this. I can't take any more!

  Lyra wished she could pass out. She wished she could retreat into herself and become a vegetable. But she couldn't! Something was keeping her lucid. Something was keeping her rational, so that every lash, every jolt, every beat of her aching heart over today's devastating turn of events was felt and remembered. Hers to cherish.

  Just this morning she had been cuddled on the sofa, basking in his gaze. Her J'Kor. Her Kade.

  Had he turned her in? Lyra wasn't sure about anything anymore. How in the world could this be God's plan? How was this new situation supposed to help her people? How were they supposed to get the Tohmu'vah back now?

  Maybe this was her time and she would be dead by morning.

  The scripture verse that had seen her through the last few weeks came to mind again.

  “… thy trials will be but a small moment.

  For all these things I have prepared for thy experience and good.”

  Now Lyra remembered more of the prophet Zephram's writing on the matter.

  “And when thou hast proven thyself faithful,

  I will send angels to comfort thee and deliver thee from evil.”

  Boy, could she use some angelic ministering about now. Wait.

  A sudden image of dying in this evil place with angels accompanying her spirit to heaven flashed before her eyes and Lyra shuddered at the possible new interpretation to the verse. That could very well be the right meaning here.

  Oh Jon! Will I get to be with you again sooner than I imagined? Lyra's heart gave a small leap at the thought.

  But our children …

  … Kade.

  It sank again and a tear was caught by the towel below.

  At Mrs. Trewz's return, Lyra resigned herself to rise, but just as she began to laboriously push herself up, a sudden soothing coolness spread across her burning welts and oozing soreness.

  “Do no' move yet,” Mrs. Trewz cautioned, gently administering a salve. “Let this soak in a minute, then we will try to find you something to wear that will no' be too irritating.”

  Lyra breathed in ecstasy, “You are an angel, Mrs. Trewz,” and she basked in the chill, creamy balm settling into her cuts like a mellowing anesthesia.

  Oh, heavenly mercies! What is this wonderful stuff?

  Thank you, Father.

  When it was time, Lyra willed herself up off the floor while Mrs. Trewz sorted through robes and other articles in the lavatory's wardrobe. The burning and stinging returned with the movement, but it wasn't as bad as before. She was put in a light, silk chemise that hung above her knees and a lace-trimmed purple robe that brushed at her ankles, then Lyra was made to sit so her tearstains could be removed with a soft cloth.

  “There, there, miss,” the older woman said. “I do think the worst is over. You have taken his beating and now you have a chance to please him in pleasure-seeking. Try no' to be timid. Do your best to perform as he wishes, and in a few more hours, you will get to rest.”

  Again, the housekeeper's attempt at comforting words sorely missed their mark. Lyra would rather take two more beatings than be subjected to what was coming next.

  The long walk to Malig'ahnt's waiting talons commenced. Step. He's going to kill me. Step. I hope it's fast. Step. Please let it be fast …

  Lyra was shown into a dining room, ludicrously grand with plush rugs, monstrous tapestries, a sculpted ceiling, and thick, velvety draperies. The “king” sat at the far end of a fifty foot dining table, enjoying a first course and entertainment from two scantily clad women dancing suggestively off to the side around a couple decorative poles. Sultry evening music played from a scroll device in a corner while one butler and one maid stood quietly near the far door. Lyra was beckoned.

  The floor was the much preferred object to watch as Malig'ahnt salaciously looked her over, absently swirling the dark red wine in his long-stemmed glass. “We will practice lesson number five now: Serve your master well.” Downing the last of his glass, he held it out meaningfully.

  Lyra regarded the newly opened wine bottle on the table with apprehension. She touched its smooth black neck and a strong impression came to push this on him. But hadn't she been warned that he was more violent when intoxicated? She picked it up and the impression came again. Encourage the imbibing. With misgiving, Lyra filled his glass to the top.

  Taking the glass from her, Malig'ahnt caught her at the back of the thigh before she could move away. A greasy smile oozed as he stroked her leg up and down and nodded toward the dancers. “Perhaps I should have them teach you to dance like that for me?”

  The women looked to be twins, slowly turning to the rhythm of the music in choreographed synchronization, their red, lace panties having only a thin strap going up the back. Lyra went back to the view of the more appealing floor. Malig'ahnt's smirk broadened at her modest reaction and his searching fingers reached higher up her leg. Lyra quickly put the bottle down and stepped away, but that only made the smirk open into a mocking laugh.

  She was basically ignored while he ate, until he ordered her to take his half empty soup bowl away. Before Lyra could touch the bowl's rim, however, Malig'ahnt swiped the dish off the table. It flew through the air and crashed into tiny shards on the hard floor to the side. Thick, creamy soup spattered everywhere.

  “What a mess you have made, whore,” he said lightly. “Clean it up.”

  Somewhat shaken by the stunt, Lyra found some towels and a bowl on the buffet along the wall and stooped to do as commanded. It wouldn't have been that big a deal but for her sores that cried out against the action. Cuts that were trying to scab over opened again. Lyra fought through it and methodically began to clear up the mess. After recovering from another short zap for “taking too long,” Lyra made herself move faster.

  Through the long meal, she served him his food and refilled his glass anytime it looked close to half empty. A stronger sweetmalt was brought out after a while and with determination she began to encourage that instead. Lyra endured more intentional spills, biting her lip through the pain and wiping up wayward tears with the strewn food. Eventually, the dancers were dismissed and some dark bean tea was brought. Malig'ahnt wiped his mouth on his sleeve and pulled at her robe to bring her closer as she lifted the cup, nearly causing Lyra to spill some with the motion.

  With a dull sneer he wrapped an arm round her lower back, making her sit down on his lap.

  Lyra sucked in a breath as his arm brushed against reddened, open skin. “S-some tea, my lord?”

  His sickly sweet scent and intoxicated breath nearly made her gag.

  Malig'ahnt disregarded the question, concentrating instead on sliding her robe off one shoulder, then the other. Lyra implored the Holy Spirit to tell her to do something. Fight back. Defend herself. If she received that kind of prompting she would follow it immediately, knowing that it was God's will and, somehow, He would help her find a way out of this nightmare.

  Submission.

  More malt.

  They were not the messages Lyra wanted. Swallowing hard, she allowed her robe to get worked off her arms and fall away across his knee. Then Lyra poured a liberal dose of the hearty liquor into his teacup. Malig'ahnt looked up at her in mild surprise.

  “Do spirits not … heighten the experience, my lord?”

  The yellow eyes narrowed, but after a moment he just slurred, “Indeed,” and took the hardened tea. He downed it in one gulp then Malig'ahnt paused with the cup in mid-air. “I do believe my suit is soiled, woman.” And he deliberately tipped it to let the last few drops spill onto his starched white shirt.

  Lyra knew what he expected. Dully, she undid his buttons under his husky gaze. The bottom one was scarcely finished when his hand began sliding up her thigh under her chemise.

  “You are far too wiry and scrappy, but J'Kor was rather possessive o' you the other night at his mother's gala.” The speech had definitely slowed. Thickened. “What do you do to instill such regard and loyalty in him, I won
der?”

  The fingers groped wantonly under her garment's light silk and Lyra managed to hold still … until they reached a point where only her husband had known. She jumped and Malig'ahnt suddenly pushed her off his lap, standing to remove his dinner jacket and shirt the rest of the way, revealing a surprisingly lean and sturdy build despite the lifetime of leisurely living. His dark smile became hungry. “Shall we find out?” The jug of sweetmalt went to his lips and he said, “I think it is time to move on to my favorite lesson: Pleasing your master.” Tipping it up, a large portion of what was left poured sloppily down his throat. Then he held it out to her. “Care for a swig? It will 'heighten the experience.'”

  “No, thank you, my lord,” Lyra whispered.

  His laugh made Lyra start second-guessing the Spirit's prompting. She second-guessed more when, retrieving his jacket and grabbing Lyra's wrist, Malig'ahnt dragged her, stumbling, from the dining hall.

  God, please. Oh God, please …

  Down a hall. Up a couple flights of stairs. Another hall. And another. It felt like she was being drawn ever deeper into the monstrous, ravenous maw that was this man's unholy home, until finally, a door was opened and she was shoved forward.

  The light that was switched on only dimly illuminated the space, leaving much still in ominous, purple shadow. Lyra gazed upon what could only be Malig'ahnt's personal suite: a huge, lavish, four-poster bed, pillowed sofas and lounges, a richly stocked bar, and doors leading presumably to his own lavatory, closets, and who knew what else. Arched windows overlooked impressive grounds that glimmered softly in double moonlight.

  Then Lyra was suddenly brought against the wall. She screamed as her back made contact with the surface and Malig'ahnt pressed himself on her.

  “Please, my lord,” she whimpered.

  “Perhaps you should have taken my offer o' the sweetmalt,” he jeered, breathing heavily. “But do no' worry, this will be a 'good' kind o' hurt.” Malig'ahnt gazed into her frightened eyes … and didn't seem to like what he saw there. He stepped back and gave her such a slap that it knocked her clean to the floor. “You will appreciate me before the night is through,” he snarled through haggard drunkenness.

  Still grasping for anything steady, Lyra was lifted by the arm and dragged onto the bed. The handcuffs were brought out again and, threading one end through a large metal ring fastened securely to the wall above the pillows, Malig'ahnt locked Lyra's wrists tightly up over one shoulder.

  Then he was sliding hands down her arms, down her body, to her knees where he pulled them apart. FATHER, HELP ME!

  Defend yourself.

  Defend yourself. NOW!

  A fire exploded within Lyra—a boiling rage and righteous wrath that made her forget her fear, her broken body, her exhaustion, the consequences of her actions—and she raised burning eyes to the subhuman.

  “Gladly.” With a mighty grunt she head butted Malig'ahnt square on the bridge of his nose.

  He staggered back onto his heels, holding it in shock.

  “Lesson number seven, my lord,” Lyra muttered. “Careful who you tick off.”

  An unknown strength beset her as she heaved a tremendous crescent kick to the side of the man's already bleeding face. His head spun violently around to bounce sickeningly against a thick, solid bedpost where his body hovered for a few seconds, eyes wide in surprise. Then slowly, slowly, it tipped over, falling face first over the bed's side. Lyra thought she heard his skull rebound off the sideboard before it was all over and he lay quietly half off the mattress, head hanging just above the rug.

  Her hard, panicked breathing boomed in her ears as she stared in stupefaction at the motionless body. It was a full minute before she had her first coherent thought.

  Oh no, I've killed him!

  Another minute ticked by. Lyra's pulse finally slowed and, succumbing to morbid curiosity, she carefully poked at his side with a foot. No response. Gathering courage, Lyra worked one leg under his body, lay the other overtop his bared back and, locking her ankles together, struggled to pull his shoulders and head back up next to her. Her back screamed in protest, but Lyra clenched her teeth through it. She had to know.

  Somehow, she managed to turn his head to her with her toes and Lyra couldn't say if she was relieved or disappointed when she beheld his light breathing. He was only knocked out cold. Malig'ahnt's nose, however, was bleeding profusely onto the sheets. It was probably broken. One eye was also fast swelling up where it had hit the bedpost.

  New fear began to well up inside. This really was not a good thing. Eventually he would wake, and he was going to be so angry. The belt whipping would feel like a gentle breeze compared to the punishment she would get for this.

  Wearily, Lyra leaned against the wall on one shoulder; her restraints were just a little too short for lying down. She looked upon the slumbering man again and wondered: He had been so drunk, would he have any memory of what happened? Then a thought struck her.

  No. It was stupid.

  But what other option did she have?

  Taking a corner of the bedsheet with her toes, Lyra started wiping away the blood on his face as best she could. (Thank goodness no one else was around to witness this ridiculous manner in which she had to work.) Her foot went on his face to tune into him and after she got over how silly she felt, Lyra started to hear something.

  The same off-kilter tones as in the bathroom when she was trying to concentrate on herself began to buzz most unpleasantly in her head, but she drove on anyway. She needed to do this, and she needed to do it well.

  Unfortunately, Malig'ahnt's soul song proved to be rather difficult to follow. One tone would be four and a half cycles off a certain note and the next was six and three quarters, like there was no steady key in which to settle. Some tones ran up and down in strange chromatics so that when she heard them together, it sounded like someone was sitting on a keyboard. More precious energy got sucked away.

  Finally, Lyra pulled her foot back to study the fruits of her labors in the room's dim lighting. It looked good. And she was absolutely exhausted. A little more fancy toe work got the remaining blood wiped from Malig'ahnt's nose then Lyra rested against the wall again to recover for a minute. She had to resist the fog of sleepiness that tried to roll in, though. Her work wasn't done yet.

  Upon first glance, Lyra was disheartened to find nothing of any substantial nature within reach—just soft bed linens and fluffy pillows. After some indecision, however, she awkwardly brought a leg up for her hand to catch. Then curling her lips back in distaste, she raked her nails hard against the side of her calf as high up her leg as she could reach. Satisfactory bright red lines appeared along with a little seepage. She did the same thing to one upper arm. Ouch!

  The even more revolting injury to self-inflict, however, was a black eye. Lyra had to careen her face into her cuff's edge, and it took a couple determined tries to finally create a cut with swelling large enough to be easily visible. Next, Lyra brought over the bedsheet corner, still damp with some of Malig'ahnt's blood, to soak into the lower half of her chemise. Then she pushed the linen away and studied the still form of Malig'ahnt one more time. Lyra grimaced. If she was going to pull this off, she would have to do one more thing.

  Yuck.

  With great reluctance, she resigned herself to working his pants off his hips. He had loosened them before crawling onto the bed with her, but to her greater horror, Lyra discovered that the man was wearing no underwear. Yuck! Yuck! Yuck! At least he was lying on his stomach.

  Through it all, the man continued an award-winning impression of a lifeless lump. If she was lucky, he would sleep until morning. Or later. Lyra cuddled lethargically over the pillows against the wall and closed her weary eyes.

  Lyra wasn't lucky.

  She had only just entered a nice, deep sleep phase when a light stroke at her ankle startled her awake. She beheld Malig'ahnt sitting up, watching her with a very strange expression. Remember what you're trying to sell!

  Dra
wing her legs up in defense, she began to whimper pitifully, “No more, my lord. Please! No more …”

  He surveyed his room, himself. A hand went to his head, searching for proposed injuries. Or maybe it was just a motion of puzzlement. Then he studied her again, moving a little closer to touch the scratch on her leg. Lyra's shudder at his touch was not an act.

  He looked at the blood spots on the sheets and on her. “What happened?” The mumble was largely to himself.

  Hiding her face in her arms, Lyra went into violated-and-broken-beyond-ability-to-cope mode. “No more! No more! Please, no more!” she sobbed over and over again.

  His long silence after that was torture in and of itself. Then her leg was touched again, but it was a soft touch, inquisitive.

  “No wonder J'Kor is so protective,” Malig'ahnt finally murmured, his voice smoother, like he'd metabolized some of the alcohol in his system already. Had she helped with that? Dang. “Is it this good with you every time?” he wondered. Shifting closer, his hands began a wandering search up her body. “How about we have another go and find out?”

  Blast it all, she had done too good a job!

  With a tremendous thrust Lyra kneed him in the gut, and when he doubled over, her heel found its mark on his chin. A little crunching sound told her she had managed to crack something. Then she threw herself over him and locked his head between her thighs. She squeezed. Hard. Harder.

  Malig'ahnt's struggle to break away had Lyra holding onto her restraining ring, pressing her shoulder into the wall for leverage to keep him down. God give me strength! And shortly, his struggles began to weaken. Panting for air, Lyra strained with all her might to not let up until, several seconds later, he lay still.

  Good lord, she was going to have to heal him again! Lyra moaned. She was too tired for this. And in too much pain. And her patient was such a scumbag. She begged the Father to make him sleep longer this time.

  Somewhere on the grounds, the frightful clucking of chickcocks tainted the otherwise arcadian intermission of night, followed by the taunting screech of some small animal echoing over a sudden clamor of angry, barking dogs. But the ruckus did not last long and all went quiet again.