by Jean Winter
“What Canon?” Malig'ahnt sneered. But quickly understanding that Kade was not going away, he hastily grabbed a nearby bar stool for a makeshift weapon.
“Part o' the old charter,” Kade answered, “when Caldreen was first formed. Old, but still honored. In the Bill o' Entitlements, it maintains a man's right to defend the honor o' the woman he loves.” As he spoke, Kade had inconspicuously worked a hand into his satchel. In one swift move he removed his bola and flung an end toward the brandished stool where the claw wrapped itself securely at a joining in the leg. Then he yanked, taking it out of Malig'ahnt's hands to haphazardly land at his feet. “And unfortunately for you—” Holding up his bola with the attached bar stool swinging lightly in the air, just an inch above the floor, Kade tipped his chin toward the huddled body on the bed. “—that is the woman I love.”
He spun and swung with all his might.
The stool wheeled through the air, hitting Malig'ahnt clean in the gut with a loud smack. It sent him sprawling into a low table which broke from the force and both wood and man collapsed to the floor.
Then Kade sprang.
The beating of Malig'ahnt to a pulp began—a feverish, pummeling to cleanse his fury and aching heart of what this monster had put Lyra and himself through. Only part of him was aware of the profanities he sputtered as he went. Only part noticed when Malig'ahnt stopped fighting back. Kade was blind to his surroundings, to reason, to his own sense of ethical restraint. Die, you—!
“Kade?” A frail voice pervaded the consuming rage. A cooling salve to his burning soul.
Dripping with exertion, shoulders heaving as his lungs fought for air, fists stained red with the bloody head he held by the hair, Kade turned to the sound.
There, under shadow of the four-poster canopy, a body shifted weakly against the wall at the head. Lyra! The bloody head got dropped.
Kade's rush to her side came to a crashing halt, however, when he finally got a clear look at the huddled victim amid the scattered pillows and tossed sheets. Gods! What had he done to her? Lyra's long, beautiful hair had been savagely cropped short. One eye was swollen shut, bleeding over a mean cut near her lip. Her legs and arms bore scratches up and down. The scratches and bruises were nothing, however, compared to the numerous patches of crimson bleeding through her light slip. On Lyra's back, they seeped through the threads so profusely that it was nearly one, big stain.
The taste of bile mixed with his saliva and Kade was almost afraid to touch her for fear of hurting her more, so fragile did her state appear. He sat gingerly at her side.
“Lyra?” His voice caught as he spotted more telling streaks of red, low along the front of her chemise. “Oh … gods, Lyra, I—I am so sorry I could no' get to you sooner.”
Her attempted smile of relief came out more like a grimace. “What are you doing here?” she said in a whisper, a tear forming at her cheek.
He touched her tenderly at her neck (it was one of the few places that appeared unscathed) and tried to grin, “Well, I am your stalker. You canno' get away from me, remember?” Lyra's answering chuckle sounded like a weak cough, and the grin left. “Lyra, are you okay to —?”
A dark, gurgling laugh rippled from the other side of the room. “She is more than okay, J'Kor,” Malig'ahnt slurred through a split lip and swollen, bleeding gums. “Most invigorating sex I have ever had.” Kade couldn't believe the man was still conscious! A puffy, red eye turned on him, enjoying his horrified expression. “Even better the second time,” he wheezed, and Malig'ahnt closed his eyes as if with a blissful memory. “She must have enjoyed it—”
“You bloody pustule o' filth!” Kade snarled. He was so filled with revulsion that he could barely see straight and he started back to finish the job he had begun with Malig'ahnt's head.
“No! Don't kill him,” Lyra rasped weakly, sounding like it was take everything she had to just form the words on her lips. “He isn't worth it.”
Hesitating, Kade glared at Malig'ahnt who lay there smirking at him somehow through the angry red mess that was his face. He deserved to die! But Lyra was right. Muttering an unintelligible curse, Kade forced his fingers to uncurl and turned his back on the miserable, broken lump ruining perfectly good floor space. Besides, he still had to get Lyra out of here.
It was hard to think straight. It was hard to look at her with the evidence of Malig'ahnt's revenge and lust smeared all over her body and still form something lucid. The cuffs! A useful thought finally came. Get the cuffs off.
A quick scan of the room yielded nothing. The bedside table, the dresser, the bar top. No key. A rummage through Malig'ahnt's jacket tossed over a chair produced Lyra's tracker, though, and more guilt pressed on Kade. How much of this had she endured as well? Kade hurled the tracker vehemently against a wall where it broke into several pieces. Then he stomped hard on the casing, smashing it to bits. He wouldn't be needing that thing anymore.
The key was finally found in Malig'ahnt's pants pocket.
Malig'ahnt gazed at him blearily as he continued to lie in pain on the collapsed table. “You may get away with this, J'Kor,” he wheezed behind a wet cough, “but you will always know that I had your woman. She screamed in pain over me and begged for mercy under me.” The yellow eyes gleamed with a spiteful, obscene pleasure. “And when she cries in the night, you will know whose face she is seeing in the darkness.”
Kade turned hardened features on Malig'ahnt. “You had better pray to the Mother she does no', Serpahn. One little whimper from her and you will be seeing my face in the darkness. I will get to you again, and when I do, you will experience firsthand every … single … thing you did to her.” Kade held up the thick, hardened handle of his bola. “Shall I show you right now where I am going to shove this?”
Malig'ahnt's eyes grew large. But then Kade just conked him smartly on the head with the handle, thoroughly disgusted and completely done with the man.
Malig'ahnt went out cold, but his words echoed hauntingly through Kade's head. As much as he hated to admit it, they were true.
Lyra was fast losing consciousness again as Kade removed her raw, reddened wrists from the cuffs. She squirmed weakly at his hand on her back as he bent to pick her up.
“I am so sorry, Sugarpip,” he mumbled, the sick tightening of his stomach returning again as he hesitated. She was in such bad shape!
Kade finally decided to just bend her over his shoulder like a sack of flour, and he hasted into the hallway, planning to retrace his steps.
“Hold it.”
Bloody whor'! Another guard! This one stepped around the far corner, gun already pointed, ready for trouble. Word must have gotten to the remaining men that something was up. Kade knew he shouldn't have trusted that maid! How many more guards had Sal been able to take out before the ruse was unveiled? He hoped his friend was okay.
The guard advanced slowly. “Put the woman down and stick your hands—”
Thunk!
A strange expression came over him, then he crumpled to the floor, unveiling a body behind, holding aloft a large, heavy candlestick. Kade blinked in surprise.
“You are welcome,” Hana grunted, sullenly tossing the iron candlestick to the side. “I went downstairs and began listening. I think the boys outside became suspicious when nearly everyone on their last radio check sounded the same. If you want to get out o' here unseen, follow me.”
# # #
A hazy figure crowned in a halo of light bent over Lyra, taking her up in his arms. She tried to cling to her preserving angel—but fell into darkness.
Soft sunlight beamed through the edges of the canvas door as she lay in her bed. Then a head poked in, silhouetted by the brighter light beyond.
“How are you doing?” a beloved voice said.
Lyra blinked a few times, trying to focus on all the familiar objects of her home, the feel of her bed, the outline of the person coming toward her. Kade? She smiled sleepily.
“Hi, Twitterbug.”
Jon's face sharpened
in her vision. He knelt to kiss her gently on the forehead and, for a brief moment, Lyra was disappointed.
She got over the feeling fast. “Jon,” she murmured, reaching a hand to run through his curls.
Jon settled on the floor next to her and their lumpy, scratchy bag of a bed, and took her hand in his.
“Am I … dead?” Lyra looked around in wonder. This was their home—their last home before Jon was killed.
“No,” he chuckled. “You are still very much alive. It takes a lot more than one self-centered, spoiled brat to bring my Lyra down.”
As Lyra sat up, her long, wavy tresses brushed against her arm, cascading softly down to the blanket below. She crawled into his embrace and plaintively rested her head against his warm chest. “So, this isn't heaven? And we can't just sit here like this for the next hundred years or so?”
His laugh was soft. “In time, my love. We will be together forever, I promise. You. Me. The children.”
Lyra nestled further into his arms and sighed happily, contentedly, at the thought.
But, wait. Something wasn't right. Her husband's scent was the same as always—newly chopped hay and fresh evergreen—but, somehow, it wasn't what she wanted. Not what she needed. Not right now.
She took a deep breath. “Jon, I … I think I love him.” What a terrible thing to admit to her own husband at such a beautiful moment, but Lyra couldn't bring herself to not be honest.
Jon stroked her hair softly against her back for a minute as he stared out the open door flap into the brightness beyond. Lyra's trepidation increased, but when he did finally turn his face back to her, there was a softness there she did not expect. “Lyra, I would never expect you to live the rest of your life alone. Do not hold back on my account.”
Relief mixed with further consternation washed over her. “Yeah, I know that, I guess, but Jon, it's more complicated than that. He's a … and we're not … and I'm just not sure how to handle … us.”
Jon kissed her warmly then pulled back, looking deeply into her eyes. “My love, there are some things that Heavenly Father commands us in no uncertain terms. And then there are other things that God, in His wisdom,” he tilted his head with a shrug, “leaves for us to figure out for ourselves—using our best judgment and in faith. It is the only way for us to really grow.”
“Ugh.” Lyra plunked her forehead against the solidarity of Jon's broad chest. “Not that again.”
Jon's hearty laugh resounded through her. “Yes, that again.”
“Well, if that is true, then I must be a giant by now, because it seems like that's all I am doing these days—sitting there, on my own, trying to figure out what I should do and how I should act and what is the right choice. It's exhausting! And I don't know that I'm making such good choices, anyway. Things just keep getting worse and worse.”
“Father tests His most valiant spirits to prove them, Lyra. Just remember that the greater the test, the greater the reward. You have already been rewarded with something few have ever experienced.”
Lyra reluctantly nodded agreement. She still didn't feel worthy of the access she was granted to the Tohmu'vah or the implied destiny that she may share with it. It was absolutely overwhelming.
Jon added, “And you have also been given something else that, in its own way, is just as special.” Loving fingers brushed across her cheek. “The loyalty and unconditional devotion of a good man.”
“Thank you, my love. I know.” Lyra gazed up at him fondly. “You were always there for me.”
Her husband's kiss this time was long and passionate, and Lyra held him to her tightly, soaking in his love, but then Jon drew away, and his eyes held that familiar, mischievous glint. “Yes, Twitterbug,” he said with a grin, “but I wasn't talking about me.”
Falling. Falling. Falling. Plop!
Plop.
Plop.
Lyra forced eyelids open to an unfamiliar bed situated in an equally unfamiliar, albeit cozy, room decorated in white lace with blue accents. She was positioned on her stomach, and someone was seated in a small chair at her bedside.
“Kade?”
“No, Mistress,” a soft voice replied—a servant woman. She stirred at some fizzing medicinal balls she had just dropped into a bowl of water. “Lord J'Kor left two days ago. He has much business to attend to what with this lawsuit against Lord Malig'ahnt, the new post at headquarters, and moving back to Caldreen, and all.”
“What? Where am I?” The shocking news nearly had Lyra swooning in her fragile grogginess and the reflex to get up was instantly regretted. The skin and muscles in her back fiercely objected. Ow! A quick assessment showed the entire area covered in damp bandage strips soaked in some strong-smelling liquid.
“Try no' to move, Mistress,” the woman said, dipping a rag into the medicine bowl. She rang it out just enough so that it wasn't dripping then balled it up loosely to place over Lyra's swollen eye. “You are in my Lady J'Kor's home. Her son brought you here after retrieving you from the Malig'ahnts'. You have been asleep for nearly three days.”
Lyra's one good eye focused on the brown-haired woman before her—not too much older than herself, sturdy, square-jawed, but having a pleasant softness about the eyes. “Do you know when he is coming back?”
“No, Mistress.”
“Well, did he leave a note or something for me?”
The servant continued holding the warm, damp cloth to Lyra's eye. “I do no' believe so, but once you are able to get yourself up and about, I have orders to let you attend my lady. She will be able to answer your questions much better than I. Other than that, I only know that I am assigned to you until you are able to care for yourself again.”
“Oh.” Then not wanting to appear ungrateful, Lyra added, “But, thank you for taking care of me, Mrs. …?” The medicated rag was soothing. It smelled like crushed gentazel leaves—useful for taking down swelling and relieving itchiness.
“Martul, Mistress. Mrs. Martul. But please feel free to call me Martee.” Mrs. Martul grinned. “It used to be Wylm, but ever since I married Mr. Martul in grounds keeping everyone started calling me Martee.” She chortled. “Even my lady.”
Lyra smiled. “Well, I'm—”
“You are Lyra, o' course, Mistress. The whole household knows who you are—the entire city, as a matter o' fact. You will no' be needing any introductions for yourself in Caldreen anymore, I can tell you that. No, this whole fiasco with Lord Malig'ahnt made sure o' that.”
Drat. It just kept getting worse and worse! Well, at least, she was out of that awful man's clutches. Her Kade had saved her—
“Martee, was Malig'ahnt responsible for everything? I mean, having me taken from my lord?”
“Oh, most certainly, Mistress! Did you no' know that already? The story is that he twisted arms and made threats to get the committee to rule in his favor. That is why my lady and Lord J'Kor are working so hard on this suit against him. It is about time someone stood up to that louse. I have a niece that used to work for him …”
Lyra's sigh of relief reflected about a hundred pounds of worry and uncertainty shedding off her soul and she lay quietly, peacefully, under Martee's hand whose chipper chatter soon moved on to more pleasant subjects. The dressing on her back was eventually changed and Martee brought her some food.
They passed the rest of the evening together with a selection of books. Thankfully, the woman read well enough to keep Lyra distracted from her pain and conflicted longing over J'Kor. Relieved as she was to know for sure that he had not given her up, the knowledge of the dramatic change in his living situation bothered Lyra to no end—especially the part about working for the military again. She prayed he would stop in soon to visit.
By bedtime, a gaping hole had undeniably opened up in her heart for him. And Lyra succumbed to it fully. It would be insulting to deny her love anymore, anyway, it was such an obvious reality. So, drifting off to sleep that night, Lyra's head swirled with memories of him. She prayed for his welfare and begged the
Father to somehow reconcile their ability to be together. Soon.
The next day brought no J'Kor, nor the next, nor the next. No notes, no messages. Lyra started to go stir-crazy in her little room. She had to get up. Walk around. Do something!
The first few steps were shaky and a little dizzying, but a firm grip on Martee's arm helped as Lyra bit her lip through the pain. Every step, every shift of her body, was a reminder of Malig'ahnt's physical cruelty, but she was not to be deterred. The itch to seek that audience with Lady J'Kor was insufferable. Lady J'Kor meant news. She meant a better understanding of J'Kor's motivations and plans.
Consequently, on the fourth day, determined to dress herself and present herself to the lady of the house, Lyra swung open the wardrobe to find something other than a too long nightgown to wear. She was flustered beyond imagination to find a few of the frocks from “home” she had altered hanging uniformly on a rod, waiting for her. When had these arrived? Lyra shook her head. No. He must have come back to drop these off before she regained consciousness. He would have visited her otherwise.
Surely he would have.
Grimly, Lyra pulled on the nicest one and regarded her appearance in a hand held mirror. Great gutlins! Her hair! She couldn't go anywhere looking like that. Fortunately, Martee was able to entreat another house servant with hair cutting experience to come to Lyra's room.
Her reflection in the mirror afterward showed a cropped cut with layering that caused her waves to bounce buoyantly about her crown. Lyra grimaced at the image, reminded of her scrappy, tomboy days when her knees were constantly scraped and her hands chronically dirty. Oh well, it would grow back. Eventually.
It was with immense anticipation, then, that Lyra finally stood before the door to Lady J'Kor's drawing room later that afternoon. Her hustle forward to kneel before Lady J'Kor and take her hand in a respectful kiss cost her, however. Sharp pains shot through Lyra in multiple places along her back and she had to remind herself to take it easy.