Rihlia gave her a bright smile and adjusted
the covers. “I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to hear it, Jas, but you
might want to wait a couple of days. How about I make up a schedule
for you?” Rihlia grinned. “You’re quite the celebrity. I don’t
think you’d want all your fans mobbing you at once.”
Jasmine murmured something in the affirmative
and closed her eyes. In moments she was asleep.
Keilor watched Jasmine sleep, deep in
thought. Three citrus, a
illupe
vine, a pineapple plant and
a hairy sugar fruit later, her room looked and smelled like a
garden. As Jasmine’s public liaison, Rihlia had finally suggested
that Jasmine’s admirers switch to another form of gift, and since
then baskets of blooms and bushels of tempting treats
all carefully and discretely tested for dangerous
additives
had begun to arrive in place of
the plants. Not that she would be able to taste any for a few
days
her tender stomach wouldn’t be able to
process much than liquids for a while.
He smiled mischievously and he popped a
truffle into his mouth. No sense letting them go to waste.
Jasmine opened her eyes, smiling a little
when she saw him, and he felt a warm wave slide through him. The
girl had a way about her.
“Morning,” she murmured, and elbowed herself
into a sitting position. He adjusted the pillows for her. “Are my
guests scheduled to arrive yet?”
He surveyed her tousled hair and slumberous
eyes ruefully. “I don’t think you’ll want to greet them just as you
are.”
She yawned behind her bandaged hand. “You’re
right. I guess I probably ought to do something about my hair and
at least wash my face. I probably look kind of scary.”
A fire kindled in his eyes as they brushed
over her body. Even hidden under a soft sleep shirt and a velvet
quilt, her pull on him was strong. “That wasn’t my concern.” He
handed her a glass of thick, almond milk eggnog. “Your
breakfast.”
She sighed. After two days of subsiding on
near liquids, even that tasty concoction lacked appeal. She eyed
the truffles in the crystal dish near her hopefully. “Those look
good.”
He flashed a devilish grin at her and
selected a chocolate ball coated in nuts. He bit into it slowly.
“Mmm. They are.” He licked his fingers as she scowled at him.
“Hazelnut filling, I believe.”
She harrumphed and sipped her eggnog.
“I brought you something.” He lifted a small
package from the floor and placed it on her lap, pleased to see her
eyes light up.
She traced the smooth surface of the silver
paper. With a shy smile, she teased, “It’s not a plant, is it?”
Keilor raised a brow. “You do not enjoy your
new garden?”
“Actually, I love it, though I’m a little
afraid of killing everything off,” she admitted. “I’ve never had a
garden before. Do you think I might be able to find someone to
teach me how to take care of it?”
He propped his chin on his fist and leaned on
the arm of his chair. “I’ll teach you.”
Surely he was teasing. Men like Keilor did
not
run around with pruning shears and weed flowers. “You, a
gardener?”
He winked at her. “It impresses the ladies.”
He waved a graceful hand towards her present. “Open your gift.” He
watched as she awkwardly held the package steady with her right
wrist and worked at the seams with her left, making no move to
interfere. When the paper parted, spilling a cool wash of ivory
silk across her lap, he gently removed the paper and helped drape
the straps of the chemise over her bandaged hand.
He lowered his eyes, feeling an unaccustomed
touch of self-consciousness. “For your comfort, when you sleep. Do
you like it?”
“It’s very pretty, thank you,” she said,
coloring faintly. “But if...Keilor,” she whispered, and there was a
touch of pain in her voice, “I can’t feel...the doctor said…” She
had nearly died, and at the moment she felt no reason to hide her
feelings. Besides, what else could he mean with such a gift but
that he cared?
His brow cleared as he understood what she
was saying. For a moment, he’d feared something else entirely. “It
doesn’t matter,” he assured her. “It is a gift, freely given.” He
brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek. “Enjoy it. I hope
for only your pleasure in return.”
She lowered her gaze. “You Haunt men must
take lessons in charm. Thank you. I will enjoy it.”
He leaned back and gave her a lazy grin. “Of
course, I have to admit the thought of you wearing it may cause me
to loose sleep—” he laughed and caught the pillow she tossed at
him, “—but the gift of your smile makes the sacrifice worth
while.”
She wagged a finger at him and he chuckled.
“I will call for Rihlia. She will wish to help you prepare to meet
your admirers.” He kept the pleasant expression on his face until
he was safely out of the room. The moment the doors closed behind
him, he lost all traces of amusement.
He looked critically over the two Haunt
captains he’d personally selected to guard Jasmine while she
thanked her admirers. Each had achieved a reputation for vicious
ferocity in battle during the years before Jayems officially came
to power. Isfael had guarded his back during the ambush that had
taken Keilor’s father and the rest of his family. When the battle
had been over, only the two of them had been left standing; bloody,
but alive. Isfael had been by his side ever since.
He turned his eyes to Raziel. That Haunt had
been feared as the most devastating warrior in the realm before an
attack by jealous rivals had brought him down. They tortured him
and left him for dead, going on to slay the rest of his family.
Raziel had recovered and single-handedly destroyed his enemy’s
entire clan. He was fearless, soulless.
The Haunt knew him as the Immortal.
Those two were the only ones in the entire
garrison who could hope to best him in battle, and Jasmine couldn’t
have been safer if he’d been standing by himself. But just to be
sure…
“Her visits are to be short, safe, and
pleasant. If she so much as looks distressed, remove the irritant
at once. Take care of her.” He began turn away, but paused. These
might be his friends, but still… “One other thing, comrades. If you
take a liking to her, I’ll have to slit your throats.”
Isfael growled and made an obscene sign.
Raziel gave him toothy grin. Satisfied, Keilor walked away,
smiling.
Chapter 11
“Stop fussing. You’re not my nurse.”
Rihlia grunted and shifted her grip around
Jasmine’s waist. Jas had one arm flung around her shoulders for
balance. She’d already threatened to dump her friend on the floor
or have one of their escorts carry her. “No, and I’m not a pack
mule, either. I told you to let me get the books for you. I would
have been there and back by now.”
With an effort, Jasmine straightened and took
most of her weight on her own feet, hiding what it cost her. It had
seemed like a great idea to go check out the library. What better
way to while away the long hours she was forced to stay abed than
with a stack of books? Besides, she was sick of staring at her own
four walls.
Unfortunately, she’d overestimated her
stamina, and she was relieved when they staggered into the library
and Rihlia dumped her onto a bench. Breathing heavily, Rihlia
dropped down beside her. “Somebody else is carrying you back.”
“Oh, knock it off,” Jasmine grumbled, panting
for real. “I’m not that heavy.”
Rihlia grinned and dropped the act, hopping
up with a sickening amount of energy. “What would you like me to
get first?”
The immense old library had few patrons that
day, and the silence peculiar to such hallowed halls of books made
Jasmine feel right at home. The room was octagon in shape. Shelves
of books rose to the carved panels of the arched ceiling. Trees
grew right out of the floor. Benches had been built around them to
provide seating. High, arched windows filled the western facing
wall and provided plenty of reading light.
She sighed in delight. It was perfect. No
doubt everything she ever wanted to know about these people was in
here, and she couldn’t wait to get her hands on it.
One of the little giraffes—villi—that were
such popular pets in this world walked up to her and gravely
sniffed at them. Lemming wagged her tail politely and returned the
greeting. Amused, she watched as it sauntered off, curiosity
satisfied.
Independent little creatures, she
thought.
“Can I help you?” A voice inquired, and she
turned to find an older man with the expression of someone trying
to keep his thoughts to himself. He bent to pet the villi who’d
greeted them, creaking with the movement.
“I was hoping to learn a little more about
the history of the Haunt, and especially about charmers. I don’t
suppose you would know much about it, would you?”
If anything, the librarian grew more dour,
but he moved off to find the books. Uneasy, Jasmine murmured, “I
don’t think he likes me, Ri.”
Rihlia cleared her throat and sat down beside
her on the bench. “Not everyone here likes humans. It’s especially
bad because you’re...uh—”
“Charmer,” Jasmine supplied, saying the word
like a curse.
Rihlia bit her lip. “It would have been worse
if Jayems had let you go back home and anyone had found out. There
might have been war. As it was he had to deal with an uproar once
word spread that a…uh, that you were here.” Her face darkened.
“Some people even wanted to kill you.”
“What!” Jasmine stared at her in alarm. “What
did I do?”
Upset, Rihlia rubbed her arms and wouldn’t
meet her eyes. “Nothing. It’s just that too many of the older
generation still remember what it was like before they came here.
They’re worried you might be some kind of danger to them.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Jasmine scoffed. “What
am I going to do, single-handedly annihilate the entire Haunt race?
Give me a—” she stopped in mid-tirade, suddenly realizing what else
Rihlia had said. “Ri,” she said slowly, “They’ve been here for over
two hundred years. You told me that yourself. How could they
possibly remember anything?” Rihlia was silent. Jasmine swallowed
hard. Addressing the floor, she asked, “Just how long do you guys
live, anyway?”
“Three hundred years is considered a good,
old age,” the librarian supplied, returning with a stack of books
and a register for Jasmine to sign. It took her a moment, but she
scrawled her signature with a heavy hand at the bottom. He set the
books on the bench beside her and went about his business.
She rubbed her face, wondering if she’d ever
get used to living in an alien world. Three hundred years!
“You don’t look so good,” Rihlia said,
worried. “I think we’d better get you back to bed.”
Without being asked, Isfael picked her up
like an infant and Raziel followed with her books. Jasmine squirmed
and grumbled at the indignity of it, but she truly was too tired to
argue. Even with the annoyance of Isfael’s fur tickling her nose
and making her want to sneeze, she was asleep by the time they
reached her room.
The books were a revelation.
Jasmine traced the leather scrollwork on a
book’s blood red cover, admiring the craftsmanship. The gilt edges
of the pages and the gold title winked in her reading light. The
Haunt were a people who took pride in their literature and wrote
even their histories with passion. No bloodless recitals of bare
facts here.
She scooted down against her raised pillows,
seeking a more comfortable position. It was after midnight, but her
mind was too seduced by the glory of Haunt history to give in to
slumber. The first book she’d read had barely mentioned charmers,
but this one seemed more promising.
Hours later, she closed the book and set it
on her nightstand. The trouble with reading a no-holds-barred
version of history was that unflattering views of one’s self or
people were often printed. She had to admit, humans did not look
good from a Haunt perspective.
In her opinion, it had been a good idea to
separate the two races. Nothing but tragedy had resulted from their
mixing. The charmers had been taken from their homes and families
by other humans, mostly warlords, whether they were willing or not,
and used to lure Haunts to often grisly deaths. If they possessed
any kind of beauty, they were often disfigured to ensure that the
males chasing them were actually Haunts. She shuddered, thinking of
the descriptions of branded and noseless women. If they were lucky,
their masters only forced them to wear masks for the rest of their
lives.
The captured males had been tortured—mostly
for the thrill of it, if she understood the text correctly. Any
useful information had been obtained by “the suggestive power of
the charmer herself” whatever that meant. Useful information
usually consisted of where to find and annihilate any remaining
Haunt, women and children included. Sometimes the captured one was
“enspelled” and forced to lead the way to the others. As a result,
the Haunt took to assassinating any known charmers, and they were
notoriously successful. There were long lists of charmer kills and
their assassins. Such stalkers were treated with great honor, and
hailed as heroes.
If she had been born a Haunt, could she have
blamed them? In the case of charmers, mutilated and forced to
participate in torture and genocide, maybe some of them preferred
to be dead.
She would have.
The blackest of the charmers, those who
participated willingly in the slaughter of Haunt for the chance to
wallow in ungodly wealth, were singled out for vilification in the
history. The author seemed to relish listing their various crimes
and the measures taken to bring them down. It wasn’t pretty.