Chapter 32
Chapter
Thirty-Two
By the time I run out of ink, I have pages of notes and a pounding headache.
Kalos’s gaze is looking a little distracted and vague, and I worry over him lapsing into fugue.
We head out with the chicken under Kalos’s arm, and when Borja protests about it, he gives her a mighty scowl that shuts her up.
“I’m going to name it Anali, because it’s always squawking and reminds me of her.” He pets the chicken tucked against his chest as he walks. “It’s a good name.”
“Isn’t that a goddess?” I ask. It sounds familiar.
“Goddess of Light and Good Health,” he agrees. “And squawking.”
I guess a goddess of good health would irritate a god of disease.
I watch him as he strokes the feathers, so tender and careful with the poor abused bird.
He’s good with Dingle, too. There’s a soft heart underneath that jaded exterior.
I wonder if he deliberately buries it because kindness and empathy aren’t things that naturally go with his job.
Then again, why not? There are far worse things than a god full of empathy for the people he must make sick.
I wonder if he ever hates his job.
Omos greets us at the door just as the sun is setting.
He looks unsurprised by the poor plucked chicken and offers to take it from Kalos.
Anali the chicken is settled in with the others in the coop, and I’m starving yet again so after a quick wash-up, I eat and eat while I tell Omos of my notes and Metta’s “cures.”
The monk is not surprised by our story. “The townspeople are a superstitious group, but they mean well. Unfortunately, you’ll find that most villages, especially the ones near the Dirtlands, are rather insulated and backward-thinking.
They’re more enlightened in Yshrem, but that place is very far away.
For the people here, an extended education is a luxury.
They are farmers and ranchers, not scholars.
” He sets down another plate of cheese and some hard bread to go with it.
“But I find that they are the ones that need help most of all.”
He’s right. It’s going to be harder than I expected, but it’s my fault for thinking I could just swan in and offer a few nuggets of advice.
To these people, demons and gods are far more likely occurrences than, say, penicillin.
It makes me a little tired to think of how much I need to get done, but I’m just as determined to help, if not more so.
Kalos and I chat with Omos for a while about the village.
It grows late and we clean up and get ready for bed.
Omos retires to his cot on the far side of the house.
I pour a bit of water in the basin and wash up, my thoughts swirling on the book and the best way to handle it.
One volume containing the simplest answers?
Or several volumes, each one hitting a different ailment? Would that be too much information?
By the time I finish washing, I’m exhausted from the day’s events and ready for bed.
My stomach hurts from all the cheese and bread I’ve stuffed into it, but I know I’m going to wake up ravenous.
It’s the curse of the gods to always be hungry.
I step behind a screen and change into my sleeping gown, and when I come out with my folded clothes, I’m not surprised to see Kalos is already in bed waiting for me.
He pats the mattress in invitation and has left a spot for me.
I’m not getting lascivious vibes from him at the moment, so maybe he just wants to curl up together for a while.
I’m so weary and discouraged that cuddling actually sounds pretty awesome.
How long has it been since someone snuggled me? Not since I was a child.
I climb into bed and fit myself against him, my back to his front. He pulls the blankets over us, wraps an arm around my waist and tucks his chin against my shoulder. “Still want to see this through? Or are you giving up on them like I have?”
“I give up on no one,” I tell him, yawning.
“I noticed. It’s admirable.” His hand smooths up my shoulder and he digs his thumb in, working the muscle. “Sometimes I wish I had the same drive.”
I have to bite back a moan of pleasure at the massage. “If you did, you wouldn’t need me.”
He chuckles. “I suppose not.”
His hand continues to rub at my shoulder, and I roll forward so he has more room to work.
“That feels wonderful,” I tell him, and he shifts his weight behind me, leaning on me as he rubs my shoulder even harder.
I can feel the press of his arousal against my backside, and my thoughts are turning amorous.
As he massages me, liquid heat feels as if its pooling in my veins, and I want more.
I whisper, “Are you going to kiss me now?”
“No,” he says, voice soft. His fingers dance down my back, then up to my shoulder again. “I’m saving my kisses.”
Well, that’s irritating. “For what?”
“Special occasion,” he murmurs, and presses his mouth to my clothed shoulder.
It’s not entirely a kiss, but it’s not entirely not one either.
I’m about to ask what he considers that brush of his mouth, if it’s not a kiss, when his hand skates down my side.
It trails along my thigh, his fingertips light and grazing, and he finds the hem of my nightgown.
His hand slips under it and he begins a slow caress back up my leg, towards my pussy.
My breath catches in my throat.
Drawing tiny circles on my skin, Kalos moves his hand up…
and up…and touches me between my thighs.
I’m not wearing panties as they don’t seem to be much of a thing in this world, and I didn’t feel naked and exposed until just now.
I gasp as his fingers part the cleft between my legs and skate downward into the wetness pooling there.
He finds the entrance to my body and traces a circle, then glides back up to my clit and traces another circle there.
“So wet,” he whispers in my ear. “I like that.”
“I thought…we…weren’t…kissing,” I manage to choke out between touches. It’s like he knows just how to caress me, and it’s a struggle to speak between each teasing, wet circle drawn around my clit. I claw at the blankets with desperate need, jerking my hips as he touches me.
“This isn’t a kiss. This is just a little appreciation. This is me wanting to make you feel good.” He rubs his face against the crook of my shoulder, my neck, and moves in to gently bite my ear. “Now be a good girl and be quiet, else you’ll wake up the monk.”
I bite down on the corner of the pillow and spread my thighs a bit more for his touch.
“Now, should I make you come?” He teases into my ear, even as he frames my clit between two fingers and rubs both sides of it. “Or should I leave you wanting?”
I growl into the pillow.
“Thought you’d say that.” Kalos licks a stripe along my ear, then nips at it again. “I can feel you quivering under my hand, Elsie. Does it feel nice? Should I sink my fingers into that pretty cunt of yours and make you want my cock?”
Oh god. His naughty words make me clench deep inside.
I manage a nod, because yes, I want that very badly.
I want to come so hard. It’s been ages. Even back home, I’d only manage a furtive masturbation session in the shower when I wasn’t exhausted between jobs.
It’s been years since I had a date, and even longer since I’ve had honest-to-goodness sex.
Having this moment with Kalos feels downright decadent.
And it makes me greedy for more.
“Let’s see if you’re any wetter,” he whispers in my ear, his weight pressing me into the mattress even as his hand pushes deeper between my thighs, fingers dipping into my core. “Yes, you are, aren’t you? I can hear just how wet you are.”
His thumb finds my clit, and I have to bite into the pillow even harder to keep my cries silent.
I bury my face in the pillow even as my hips frantically buck against his hand, desperate for release.
I need this. I need this so badly. The sultry, almost sullen whispers of the god in my ear just make things that much sexier, and when I come, it’s with a limb-quaking, vision-blurring intensity I haven’t felt in ages.
It’s so good.
I gasp for air against the pillow, now wet from my biting, and aftershocks tremble and twitch through my legs. I float down from my orgasm, luxuriating in the release. Man, I needed that.
Kalos tucks me against him again, rolling our bodies back in the bed until I’m pressed against his side once more. His hand possessively covers my pussy, still wet with my climax. I slide my hand back and cup his neck, dazed. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’ve been waiting months to do that.”
“You could have done it at any time.”
“If I’d had the ability, aye. But I didn’t until now.”
Thanks to Apathy, that is. He didn’t have the energy or the drive because of his Aspect. I don’t think I realized until just now what I’ve been missing out on. I tilt my face towards his in a silent request for a kiss, but he just pats my pussy. “Go to sleep, Elsie. There’s time for more later.”
“You don’t want me to touch you? Make you feel good, too?”
“Later,” he reassures me. “This isn’t about demanding that you touch me. This is just me enjoying you.”
Sounds good to me.
It’s morning. I work a mortar and pestle, crushing leaves and grinding them into a paste. “And this is good for a fever?” I ask Omos, double-checking my work. “I want to make sure before I write it down.”
“Fever and chills,” he agrees, walking away from the table to grab more herbs.
I set down the pestle and take up the quill to write notes down, so I won’t forget. As I reach for my book, something wet drips from my nose. I swipe at it, and my hand comes away covered in blood.
Gasping, I pinch my nostrils shut, but there’s blood gushing down my face, covering my mouth. When I try to wipe it away again, my teeth crumble in my mouth. My face is falling apart. I put both hands on my jaw to keep it in place, but it’s like trying to hold sand—
“Elsie.”
I awaken with a jerk, a sob in my throat. My hands scramble to hold my face together, pressing furiously against skin and bone.
“You’re all right,” Kalos murmurs against my ear. “It’s just a dream.”
The terrible thing with lucid dreams is that they feel so real. Even now, I can feel the sensation of my teeth crumbling, the blood gushing from my nose, the hot wet feel of it coating my face. Just a dream, I tell myself over and over, until it registers in my head.
“Am I bleeding?” I whisper, touching my mouth repeatedly, expecting to feel blood and broken teeth.
“You’re not bleeding. I’ve got you. Go back to sleep.” He strokes my arm and tucks his chin into my shoulder. “I’m right here.”
I cling to him, breath shuddering. “I fucking hate dreaming.”
“I know.”
His calm reassurance eases me back into sleep, and this time my dreams are quieter.