Page 57 of Jailer to the Death God
I’m still holding the base of Arawn’s cock, thinking about giving it another lick, when his fingers curl under my chin and he tilts my face up.
He’s bending forward, his green eyes searching mine. “You swallowed it all?”
“Yes.”
“How did it taste?”
“Rich, creamy. Salty. I liked it.”
“And you’re all right?”
“Of course.” I tuck him back into his pants and move to my seat while he takes over buttoning them. My coat has been open since I got into the carriage, so I fasten two of the buttons. I’m not sure why. Maybe to signal the end of this session, to convince myself this door is firmly closed between us from now on.
When I glimpse my shredded panties on the floor of the carriage, I pick them up quickly and stuff them into my coat pocket.
“I have never felt anything so exquisite,” Arawn says. “It’s a wonder humans are not constantly doing these things to each other.”
“Some people do it multiple times a day. That’s never been me, but I used to play such games more often, before the plague. Now I’m too busy.”
“I knew of sex, of course,” he says. “I’ve seen these activities in human memories, when souls pass through the Furnace. But experiencing it is—incredible.” He draws his shadows back into himself and shifts to his human appearance. “Strange to think that after one year of this, I will return to an existence void of such desires.”
“A pity,” I murmur, opening the window curtains again.
Arawn picks absently at the claw punctures in the seat cushion. “I fear I have destroyed this.”
“It’s all right. I can have someone replace the fabric after our journey. I think we’re coming into the first hamlet we’re supposed to visit today.”
Moments later, the carriage bumps to a halt, and a guard opens the door. After Arawn and I emerge, to the sound of cautious cheers from the gathered citizens, I request water and soap for our hands before we begin.
After the washing, I explain to the villagers how the “healing” works. In every town we tour throughout that long first day, I repeat the same explanation—that the magic of “Vaughn of Terelaus” isn’t the usual healing power they’re used to. He can’t fix broken bones, mend cuts, or repair diseased teeth. Those needs require a regular healer, with the familiar golden magic—if any healers still remain in this land. Otherwise, the injured or sick will have to depend on their own natural healing and the aid of a local physik.
Once the people realize Arawn’s mark is a promise of survival, not an alleviation of their plague symptoms, some of them are a little less enthusiastic, while others recognize the mark for the gift it is. Thankfully there are no seething, rageful crowds, and no riots, even when Arawn leaves some citizens unmarked in each town. Beyond the royal city, people are simply grateful that we have come—happy for any help we can give.
We journey from village to village, sometimes with just a few minutes of travel between stops. News of my betrothal to the Terelonian healer has gone before us, and we’re congratulated by village leaders in every location. A few of them offer small gifts, which I accept with a pained heart. I don’t want to offend them, but I hate to take anything from my struggling subjects.
During our bouts of travel, neither Arawn nor I suggest any more sexual interaction between us. But I think about it every time the two of us are shut into the carriage. I think about swinging astride his lap and putting that thick, warm length of his inside me, or bending over in front of him while he laps through my folds.
Thinking about sex while so many in the kingdom are suffering and dying is despicable, and as the day goes on I begin to hate myself for it. I try not to look at Arawn, since the sight of him now triggers the most licentious thoughts.
I should never have done that with him. It was wrong. We framed it as the fulfillment of a bargain, as a one-time indulgence, but it has shifted the dynamic between us, the vaguely antagonistic push-and-pull I was becoming comfortable with. And I’m not sure I can handle any more change.
My breath puffs white in the bitter black cold. The horses stamp, shudder their coats, and blow out great breaths while Farley murmurs encouraging words to them in a low tone.
“That was the last village for the day,” I tell Arawn as we climb into the carriage. “We’ll travel half the distance to the next one, then stop at an inn near Hatchell’s Ford. My parents used to go there sometimes, to get away from palace life. Occasionally they would take us along. It’s especially lovely in the summertime. We’d race boats on the river, and swim, and have picnics—”
My throat tightens until I can’t speak.
Arawn watches me curiously, a slight frown bending his brows. “The good memories of your family cause you pain.”
“No… yes.” I press my fingertips to my temples.
“Your mother—did she have dealings with the gods?”
“What?” I frown at him, startled by the abrupt shift of topic.
“Answer the question.”
“I don’t remember my birth mother. My stepmother… she knew a lot about the gods, but she seemed rather antagonistic toward them. Every time my grandfather spoke of them, she would change the subject. I learned to ask him my questions when she wasn’t around. He was a firm believer in the divine—he visited temples regularly. He even burned incense at your shrine. Few people do.” I wince apologetically at him. “Most humans are too afraid of death to worship you.”
