“Still,” Malachi said, his tone conversational now. He turned in his chair, gazing out the windows again, leaving Darius at his back. “You did succeed beyond what I thought you were capable of with Samuel. Now my decision is which of those two things merits my attention. Your success… or your failure?”
Darius kept quiet. It wasn’t a real question and Malachi had already decided what to do with him.
“For the moment, let’s focus on the positive, shall we? After all, I do owe you a debt still, for your aid with the two traitors.”
He hesitated, giving Darius an opening.
“Of course, you owe me nothing, my Lord. I was only too happy to help you, and we both know you were only biding your time. If anything, I may have blundered in too early and ruined plans of yours.”
He was babbling, but unable to help himself.
His chest still hurt, and things still felt off. It was all from the wound that Malachi gave him to make it appear that a Soul Gaunt had done it. That had somehow allowed Malachi access to him, his inner-self, and now he was no longer his own man.
“Yes, I could have broken free whenever I wished. There was no way for you to know that, given your limited abilities. But you are correct when you say that you moved too soon— another failure, although a small one.”
Malachi sighed, then turned back to him with a smile.
“There is potential in you, Darius. Therefore, I choose to forgive your foibles. This time, at least. Take Samuel to Towering Oaks, tell them you rescued him and make it convincing. You can let them believe a Soul Gaunt is still at large, that will help to unnerve them and provide a distraction to Solomon if he returns. For now, I will allow you to be the contact for Samuel. Until I have another task for you.”
“Yes, my Lord. Thank you.”
Darius scrambled to his feet, grateful to be dismissed with so little trouble. Yes, what happened hurt, but it could have been oh-so-much worse.
He bowed and started for the door.
“Oh, one more thing.” Malachi had risen behind him. “Your story must be believable. How would you possibly have taken him from a Soul Gaunt and show no signs of it?”
Darius whimpered as his body turned on its own to face Malachi.
Chapter 49
Jocasta had never felt so disgusted. Not even at times when her ship was becalmed and she’d been unable to bathe or clean herself for days on end. Jamshir’s touch was repulsive, his odor nauseating and his personality repugnant. Yet, she had done what she needed to save her House and submitted to him, pretending that she enjoyed it when he asked. Which he did, incessantly.
Finally, he left her and she tried to sleep, in a filthy bed, which was in a room that smelled of mold and dust. She didn’t get much rest.
He returned to her in the morning and repeated the act, and she repeated hers, even going so far as to feign disappointment when he decreed that it was time for him to resume his duties.
She hoped that would give her time to try to find someplace to clean up, maybe even to leave. After this, she was almost ready to abandon House Whispering Pines and return to her seas. But no. She’d never been driven from anything before and wasn’t going to start now. She’d see this through. She’d add the strength of House Glittering Birch to that of her own and then…
Then when Solomon returned, with or without Celia, she’d be in position to dictate terms. Then House Whispering Pines would get its rightful due.
“Come, dear,” Jamshir said, holding out his hand.
He’d already risen from the bed and thrown his clothes on. They were stained and rumpled and smelt bad, though it was hard to tell if the stench was coming from them or from Jamshir himself.
She pushed back the covers and took his hand, allowing him to help her up. His gaze wandered up and down her body. For a moment, she thought she would have to endure more of his attentions, but he only turned and began to leave the room.
“Come to the grand hall,” he said over his shoulder. “We’ll have breakfast and then I’ll show you the rest of the tree. It will be something to tell our grandkids.”
He smiled in what she was sure he meant to be an endearing manner, but truly only served to show dark, yellowed teeth.
Once he was gone, she sank back down onto the bed, and put her head in her hands. Jocasta never wept. Never. She wouldn’t now either.
♦ ♦ ♦
Breakfast consisted of thin gruel and a few pieces of fruit that had turned and attracted tiny, fast-moving flies. It was served by an older woman, her dress dirty and threadbare, who glanced at Jocasta, snorted and left the room without a backward glance or any sort of pleasantry. Jocasta ate a small amount of the gruel and tried to keep her eyes from the sight of Jamshir apparently relishing the fruit.
He didn’t seem to notice her lack of appetite, and when the meal was done, let out a satisfied belch.
“Now,” he said, rising and taking her hand. “Let us go.”
Jamshir was inordinately proud of his House and showed her unkempt and disheveled rooms as if he were revealing great wonders of the world to her. He held her hand, his palm sticky with the residue from his breakfast and several times pulled her into a side room or even pushed her against the wall of a hallway to kiss and grope her. He showed no regard for whether anyone else was present.
It was all she could do to allow it to happen and not
