Page 12 of Kept to Kill
The Rat was on the girl before Quin had even finished speaking, surprising even him, so the girl had definitely not seen the attack coming. She screamed as he fell on top of her, knocking them both to the ground. There was a loud tear and a feminine yip of pain before the Rat yelled and jumped away, holding his mouth. He dropped to his knees, blood beginning to drip from the corners of his eyes, then his nose. He let out a wheeze before he thudded to the floor.
The girl scrambled back, not stopping until she reached the wall of the tent and drew her knees up, curling into a ball and shaking like a leaf. Quin felt something that was almost like remorse for setting the Rat on her. It bubbled up from some long forgotten place in his soul, but he ignored it.
She’d been telling the truth. He could hardly believe it. She could kill with one touch. Possibilities spanned out in front of him. With such a powerful weapon at his disposal …
‘I knew it!’ Bastian guffawed. ‘I knew she could dosomething! But, gods, that’s some powerful gift.’ Then he frowned, looking at the dead man on the floor. ‘Hope it’s not catching,’ he muttered.
‘Indeed,’ Quin said, joining him. ‘Girl, what if someone touches the body? Will the malady take them as well?’
‘No,’ she muttered, not looking at them. ‘Nothing I hold that you then touch will hurt you. Not a cup, nor a plate, nor those killed by my hand.’
Quin gestured for the soldier to take the corpse away and he considered the girl thoughtfully. ‘Congratulations, girl. You’ve earned yourself a place here.’
She said nothing, didn’t look at him.
‘Get up and come here,’ he ordered forcefully and watched her flinch before she uncurled herself and wobbled to her feet. She turned to face them and he swore. Her nose was bloody and her shift ripped down the middle. He should have realized that dangling release in front of the Rat was a bad idea. He ignored another unwelcome pang of conscience.
She took an unsteady step towards them and another and another until she stood in front of him as he’d ordered. Her hands clenched the tattered sides of her clothes in a vain attempt to keep herself covered, and he had to stop himself from getting one of his cloaks to wrap her in. He wanted her to feel vulnerable, he reminded himself. She needed to know from the very beginning that though she may wield power, she didn’t hold it here. He and his Brothers did.
‘What is your name?’ he asked her.
She still didn’t meet his eyes, and he found himself wanting to put a finger under her chin to raise her head to look at him.
‘Lilith,’ she said and, almost as an afterthought, ‘Lily.’
‘Lilith,’ he said, trying it out, ‘go to the bed and I’ll have someone attend to you. Will the fever come again tonight?’
Eyes on the ground, she shook her head. ’Not for just one,’ she said softly, and then she did as she was told, going to the bed and sinking down on it, her back rigid.
He turned to Mal in triumph. If the girl could be tractable, she could be useful.
* * *
Mal’s gazeflicked over the girl. Lily. She sat stiffly on the cot, staring straight ahead, her eyes vacant, and he suddenly needed to get out of the tent. He turned on his heel and fled, ignoring Quin’s words that rang out behind him.
He emerged into the late winter sunshine and almost cursed aloud, his gaze finding the Rat who had thrown himself into her. Mal was angry. At the Rat. At Quin. But mostly at himself. Why hadn’t he stopped the Rat from hurting her? The way she’d fallen under him, that shocked little cry as his face plowed into hers and he ripped her chemise with his pawing … it had happened so quickly, but Mal could have stopped him regardless of what Quin had wanted. He let out a growl and kicked the dead Rat’s corpse before practically running to the sanctuary of his tent.
But his mind was in a frenzy and there was only one thing that would quiet it. He took out one of his many knives and began to sharpen it. Tonight he would hunt some Rats.
The moon was high as Mad Mal made his way to the perimeter of the camp, easily passing through to the motley tents where the Rats lived, with the sentries none the wiser. The disorder of this part of the camp was in sharp contrast to the straight lines and uniform tents of the Brothers’ side. He moved silently between their dwellings, watched them at their small fires from the dark, huddling together. Some of the luckier ones – or at least those better at stealing – had food or wine. Others skulked about, ready to slit a friend’s throat for anything, everything.
He heard a thud and a cry and moved stealthily in the direction of the noises to find one of the larger ones on top of another, smaller one, his movements leaving little doubt as to what he was doing. The female or male on the receiving end fought him, or tried to at any rate, but was having little success.
Mal was unmoved by the little one’s plight, but the larger suited his purposes, so he sprang forward, grabbed the man by his hair, and yanked his head back. He drew his blade across his neck from ear to ear, grinning in the darkness as he heard the Rat’s gurgling. The one beneath him he left to either crawl out from beneath the corpse or not. He didn’t care. Onward he went, a new spring in his stealthy step, resisting the urge to begin whistling.
Most of his night was spent thus. He didn’t count how many he killed, but by the time the moon had sunk, he decided to make his way back to his tent. Feeling much less frantic now, he passed back, unnoticed once again, into the Brothers’ side of the camp. As he went by Quin’s tent, however, he paused and turned back, letting himself into his Brother’s marquee.
There was a low light from the braziers, and he could make out Quin in his bed on one side of the tent and the girl in her little makeshift bower on the other. He was amused by her attempts to create a line. He’d been up to the tower they’d found her in, seen the sign that called her ‘pestilence’ outside the door, seen the line on the floor and an odd stick propped up outside by the wall.
Inside there had been little besides the usual bedchamber furnishings and books, and he’d found himself remembering his own little cell from when he was a boy. He’d been able to leave his, though he’d typically not done so unless they forced him out. Judging by the bolt on the door, she’d simply been locked up there for gods only knew how many years. He remembered how large the outside world looked when one had grown up in one so small.
He looked at her while she slept. Quin had given her a blanket, finally, though Mal found himself disappointed that he could no longer see her body. He eased forward through her little barrier of Quin’s possessions to stand over her. What a small thing to have such power. His gloved finger grazed her jaw lightly, depositing a smear of blood on her cheek from his night’s excursions, and he grinned, wondering what she’d make of that in the morning even as his cock hardened painfully.
She made a noise and he drew back silently in case she woke, but instead she simply rolled over with a sigh, one of her legs coming into view. He frowned in the low light. There were marks on her thigh; long thin lines. He hadn’t noticed them the day before. Easing closer once more, he wondered what had made them.
Then he came to his senses and turned, making his way back into the pre-dawn light without a backward look. What did he care if she had scars? Most did. What made her seem so special in his eyes? He would destroy it, whatever it was.
* * *
