Page 9 of Beguiled
“Perhaps he should. But first he needs his wounds cleaned, or you will indeed kill him from neglect.”
“That’s one way to do away with him.”
“He deserves the benefit of the doubt until he proves otherwise.”
“Until he betrays us all to the Inquisitor.”
“You gave me a chance to prove myself,” I said more gently and with a note of teasing. “And now you cannot imagine the camp without me in it.”
Irontooth mumbled under his breath, then took a swig from his stein. Even with his severity, he was a caring man at heart.
“Perhaps he will be an asset,” I added.
“Or he could be the ruin of us all.” Irontooth’s brow furrowed as he glanced in the direction of the dungeon. Older than my father by many years, Irontooth had become a father figure to me nonetheless.
“We are strong and capable of defending ourselves against one man.”
“But he isn’t like us.”
I wanted to remind Irontooth I wasn’t like the outcasts either. But the truth was, I no longer saw the differences. I only saw the ways we were all alike.
“Do whatever you need to in order to get the truth from him. And if you can’t stomach torture, I’ll send Tommy down to do it.”
I followed Irontooth’s gaze to the dungeon entrance, where Tommy stood guard. With the unnatural growth of thick hair covering his body, he almost resembled a bear. At times he acted like one. One of the biggest and most muscular men on the island, he was a ferocious fighter, sometimes too much so for my sensitive heart. “You gave me a week. I shall use my methods and shall not tolerate any interference.”
“Take care.” Irontooth lowered his voice. “He might be a spy for the queen.”
I nodded. We’d discussed the possibility that the queen might know I was still alive. After all, when the huntsmen had returned without my body, the queen would have questioned them further. And what if she’d tortured and extracted information from the huntsman who’d set me free?
I needed no further urging from Irontooth to be careful. I had enemies on all sides, and I couldn’t forget that. However, Mikkel was chained hand and foot to the dungeon wall. What harm could come of wresting more information from him this week by befriending and softening him so he would tell me all his secrets?
With a final word of assurance to Irontooth, I sped away and gathered medicinal supplies to tend to the prisoners’ wounds. A short while later, Tommy opened the door and lowered the ladder. As I climbed down with my torch in hand and supplies in a bag over my shoulder, I could feel the prisoners watching me warily.
I hopped down, walked to the center, and then studied each of them, trying to decide if Fowler and Gregor had wounds that needed tending too. From what I could tell, they were nicked and bruised but would easily heal. Still, I crossed toward them.
“If you must inflict more pain,” Mikkel said, “please spare them and abuse me instead.”
I halted.
“I beg of you.” His voice was strained. From his own pain? Concern for his comrades? Or both?
I paused for several moments, hoping he believed I was considering his offer. Then I spun abruptly and stalked toward him. “Very well. If you insist.”
“No.” Gregor yanked against his chains, attempting to protect his master but failing.
When I reached Mikkel, I held the torch up to shed more light upon him. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut with purple and blue surrounding the puffy skin. His other cheek was bruised too, likely from Irontooth’s fist. Both sleeves were saturated with blood and stuck to his arms. The front of his tunic was smeared with blood, from the cuts on his arms or elsewhere I couldn’t determine.
There was only one way to find out.
I lodged the torch into a wall holder, set the bag of supplies down, then slid my knife from its sheath. I held it out, letting the light glint off the sharp blade. I kept my attention focused on Mikkel’s face, gauging his emotions. Was he afraid of me and what I could do to him?
Even battered as he was, he was still handsome, perhaps more so now that I’d seen his kindness and consideration toward Gregor and Fowler. Certainly more so than any noblemen I’d ever met.
He didn’t look at the knife but leaned his head back against the wall, his body as relaxed—or as much as possible with his arms spread out and manacled to the crevice where the floor and wall met. His position might not be entirely comfortable, but at least I’d spared him having his arms chained to the wall above his head.
I shifted the knife closer to him. And still he ignored it. Instead, he studied my face—what was visible of it above my veil. “So, will you tell me your real name?”
I slid the knife to the drawstring of his tunic at his collarbone. “I shall question you, my lord. Not the other way around.”
