Chapter 7 #2
A gasp caught in my throat as his fingers touched my back, burning where his hand trailed over my bare skin. He stopped, his fingertips pausing on my spine. I knew what caught his attention.
My tattoo. The symbol of the White Raven, of the power of the Day Realm.
An outline of a white raven, wings spread open in flight, with the AEgishjálmur, the Helm of Awe, above it and a trail of runes following down my spine. A marking of protection and awe-inspiring power. I had received it when I turned sixteen, in a ceremony to signal my coming of age.
Goosebumps coated my skin. His nearness sizzled my body and my stomach was swimming with queasiness at the closeness of the Night Raven. It itched my bones, making me uncomfortably aware of him.
He gripped my laces. “Stop moving,” he grunted callously, his breath gliding down the back of my neck. His large hands threaded the eyelets, pulling me back into his frame with every harsh tug. The Northerner had manhandled me since the moment we met, but it had never felt personal or intimate.
I detested this more.
“Are you done yet, thrall?” My tone taking on an uppity snap.
He yanked me violently against him. Using the laces to hold me in place, I could feel every muscle along his thick thighs and torso, the way his physique engulfed mine, but it was his semi-hard bollur pressing into the back of my ass which stole every ounce of air.
Huginn-Muninn.
“You ever call me that again . . .” His arm came around, his wrist flicking the blade he carried in his right hand.
Slice. It was so fast I didn’t even understand .
. .until ten inches of my hair that had been draped over my left shoulder fluttered to the floor in a cloud of plumage.
“Next time I will cut it all off. I don’t make empty threats. ”
I stared at the small section of shortened locks, now ending below my chin, the lost hair splaying over the wood floor like snow.
In our culture, hair represented our feathers.
Trimming it was one thing, which was still done very seldom, but we never cut it off.
Some believed it was an insult to Huginn and Muninn to do so.
Only the old and sick lost their plumage, a sign that the body was dying and would soon turn in its hair for feathers and be set free.
Raw rage and grief vibrated my body. A panic attack hummed at the edges.
“Do not forget yourself,” he growled in my ear, his mouth grazing my skin. “You are my prisoner, kanin. And I have no qualms about ripping you off your pedestal and showing you the real darkness of this world.” He shoved me away.
My fingers reached up and touched the severed ends as if they would scream out in pain, calling on our deities to punish me.
He sauntered to the cupboard, taking a pair of dark trousers, tunic, and boots from the shelf. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the outline of him changing, stripping himself of the blood- and urine-stained gray thrall’s uniform. Something I should never let myself forget. He was my enemy.
My white ceremonial dress lay in tatters on the floor with a drift of my hair, as if little by little I was being peeled away from myself. There was no doubt he would try to break me, strip me of every last fiber. I couldn’t let him do it, no matter how many layers he tried to take.
Suddenly despising the choice of the red skirt and floral bodice, screaming betrayal of who I was, I whirled around and strode out of the room. His presence, especially half naked, made me want to grab his blade and stab him in the groin.
“Are you hungry?” The older man smiled when I reentered. “You must be starving. Here . . . sit.” He motioned to a chair. “I’ll get you a bowl and some mead.”
My belly still rolled, but I forced a thin polite smile, sitting down. My fingers played with my short strands, stroking at it as though I could magically grow it back. The soothing action ebbed the panic wanting to curl me into a ball.
The Northerner was a monster. The further he got me away from my kingdom, the less likely I could get home. I needed to get away from him.
Tonight.
My eyes darted from the room my kidnapper was still dressing in, to the old man.
His inquisitive gaze flicked to me as he ladled out the stew.
Sitting straighter, I dropped my hands from my hair, taking the steaming bowl he was scooting toward me.
Leaning in, my fingers brushed over his, my voice barely above a whisper. “Help—”
It was the only thing I could get out before the Northerner came back into the room, dominating the space, his dark eyes tapering on me. I sat back, my focus lowering to the stew, fear pumping in my ears, afraid he had heard me. Comprehended what I was doing.
“Come, have some stew.” The man nodded to the chair farthest from mine, doling out food for him, like I didn’t just ask him for assistance. Did he not hear me?
“Not hungry.” The Northerner wrapped a belt around his tunic, the new clothes fitting him snugly. The dark-colored clothing made his features more pronounced and intimidating.
“Nonsense. Sit.” The stout man practically dragged his huge frame to the table and shoved him down in the chair in front of the stew.
I almost wanted to laugh, watching the Northerner bristle, his lip curling, bewildered by the man’s conduct in daring to touch him.
He was used to people cowering at his feet.
“Everyone around here is hungry. Food isn’t easy to get in these parts. ”
“Yet . . .” The Night Raven lifted his spoon, scooping up bits of meat.
“That was the last of the livestock.” The man poured mead into our cups. “Every season it gets harder here.”
The steam from the stew wafted up, the strong vinegary aroma wrinkling my nose.
“Not up to your standards, kanin?” the Northerner muttered to me, picking up the cup of mead and taking a huge gulp.
Glaring at him, I forced a spoonful of broth into my mouth, the thick acrid substance attacking my throat. It took everything I had not to gag and spit it out. I had never tasted anything like it before, nor did I want to again.
“Eat up.” The other man was seated, slurping happily at his soup, encouraging me to take another bite before addressing us both. “You two have names?”
“No names.” My kidnapper shook his head, consuming more of the mead, placing his blade on the table.
“Of course.” The man bobbed his head and continuing eating.
Scooping a small spoonful of broth into my mouth, I realized I never thought about the Northerner having a name. Someone with a family, a life besides being a brute. Did he have a wife? A child?
I shoved the notion out of my head as quickly as it arrived. He was nothing more than a monster. A fiend I needed to escape from. Kill if possible.
My mind was busy, threading through ideas on how to flee, when the Night Raven’s mug clanked heavily onto the table, snapping my focus to him.
He blinked, head shaking as if he was trying to clear his vision.
Confusion stopped the spoon at my lips and a prickle of warning burrowed into the back of my head, watching his countenance.
What was wrong with him? Was he drunk?
Swaying, he tried to lift his arm, reach for the mug, a panic widening his eyes. I could see the shift, a dawning in his expression. His attention snapped to the host, fury straining his jaw. “Whaaattt diiidd yoouu dooo . . .” he slurred.
The older man smiled, taking another bite of his food like nothing was wrong.
My heart beat faster, frozen to the chair.
A noise hissed from the northerner’s throat as he tried to stand, his hand grappling for his blade, lurching for the man. Stumbling, his legs bowed, crashing him to the ground, knocking over his seat. His knife tumbled to the floor.
I couldn’t move. A numbness held me in place, watching him struggle to reach for his weapon.
His regard slid to me, an intense emotion I couldn’t decipher on his face.
Lids heavy, his mouth moved lazily around his words, producing a hum which sounded like run, but too garbled to understand.
The Night Raven’s eyes closed, his huge body going limp.
My breath filled my ears, my pulse hammering in my neck. “Is—is he dead?”
The man scooted back his chair, the sound grating. “Not yet.” He rose, walking over to my abductor and picking up the knife near the Northerner. He kept his gaze on the Night Raven, a smile pulling at his lips.
My focus went to the innocent mug on the table and understanding clicking into my head.
“Huginn-Muninn,” I choked out, and my spoon dropped from my hand, clattering into the bowl.
“You drugged him.” My feet shot me up with excitement, a sense of hope.
“I knew you heard me. That you would help me!” Elation filled my veins.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I bounced over to the man, getting a good look at the Northerner passed out cold.
Freedom buzzed through me, my legs itching to run.
“He told me no one here would lift a finger, but I knew you couldn’t sit back and do nothing .
. . let him take me,” I gushed, gratitude slipping easily from my lips, my mind already on how I could get home from here.
“Do you know anyone who has a horse I can borrow? I promise you will both be greatly compensated for it.” My mouth was running faster than my thoughts.
“I mean, you will anyway, for helping me. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.
Your kindness . . . you saved my life . .
. what he was planning to do with me . .
.” I stood over my kidnapper, the reason my best friend was dead.
He was vulnerable. Helpless. I could slice his throat and take his life right now.
It would be so easy. It was what he deserved.