Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

“Well,” he said. His tone conveyed anger, and anger was the one thing she did not wish to cause. “So. We are delayed.” He stood up from his ministering to the fire and turned, looking down at her. “Shall we see about food?”

“Please,” she said softly. “You must let me go. There is no profit in this, you know it.”

“Profit? Oh, but you are wrong. There is indeed great profit. More than you realize. Yet there are … forces … in my way. But that is no matter to you. What matters is, you must be hungry.”

She hated that jovial tone that masked his ire. It was a false beguilement, and for its strangeness it seemed more terrifying than his anger.

He continued to move about behind her, outside her vision. She tried to turn, to see what he was about, but she could not twist that way in her bindings. He dragged something to the table-a sack-and drew something out. She heard him sawing on it. Bread, she hoped. But water would be better. She was so thirsty, and she had been alone for so long.

“Your soul, then,” she said softly, licking her dry lips. “Your soul does not profit from this.”

“What do I care of that? God will deal with me one way or another.” The sawing went on. More sounds. Liquid being poured into a wooden cup. She licked her lips again. It smelled like sweet ale.

“Now then.” He moved to crouch in front of her. His eyes tracked over her face in so familiar a gesture, it almost made her weep. Weep more than she had. At first she had wept for the sight of him, and then for all that came after. “You must be thirsty,” he said. He seemed oblivious to her turmoil. “But just to make this interesting, let us see if you deserve this ale.”

“Please. For the love of our Lady…”

“Now, now.” He raised one hand in a gesture of silence. In his other hand, he clutched the cup. She could see the glimmer of the foamy liquid within. “This will be amusing.” He set the cup behind her again on the table and took a deck of cards from the scrip on his hip. They seemed newly printed, like the finely carved block-printed decks she had seen before in Paris. The reverse design was Moorish, and the deck itself was clean and unmarred. “Tell me what the card is on the top of this deck, and I shall grant you a drink.”

She shook her head. “I am no seer.”

“It’s only a game, Madame . Come. Play with me. Look, I’ll make it even easier. You just tell me the suit. Coins, cups, swords, or batons? That’s a twenty-five percent chance. Much better than most people get. Much better than I got.” His eyes gleamed with a malicious glint, with memories that should have been long forgotten but had, instead, festered.

He tapped the deck with his finger. “Tell me.”

“I don’t want to play this game. Please. Just give me the ale. I thirst.”

“But you must play. Play the game with me. Coins, cups, swords, or batons? Come now, beautiful Madame . Tell me.”

She inhaled a shaky breath, twisting her wrists in the bindings. Already the flesh was raw when she had strained, trying to free herself when he was gone.

“I would not have imagined this of you,” she whimpered.

“Did you not? Well. Then you did not know me at all.” He rubbed at his clean-shaven chin. His small eyes glimmered, but his smile did not reach them. She could tell by the tense set of his heavy brows, by his teeth digging into his lip, that he was pretending a calm he did not feel. He shoved the cards nearly under her nose. “Choose.”

“I don’t know.” She struggled to look back at the ale on the table, but she couldn’t see it. “Please!”

“Tell me!”

“Swords!” she cried, sobbing. The first thing to come into her mind was a weapon to slay him with.

He relaxed and sat back on his heels. The cards lay on his palm, and with his other hand, he slipped the topmost card off the pile. Pinching it between two fingers, he turned it over. Two of cups. “A pity. You lose. No ale for you.”

She moaned and more tears spilled from her eyes.

He put the card under the deck and rested his fingers on the top again. “Shall we see if you get any bread now?”

Spent, with a sheen of sweat cooling on his skin, Crispin lay back on the bed with Avelyn tucked into the crook of his neck. She was signing again, giggling as she showed him new words for impolite things.

She must have felt him chuckle against her face, and she raised her head. Her silvery blond hair lay in disarray over her shoulders, framing her petite breasts and small, round belly. Her smile was bright. Pearly teeth caught the firelight. “Who are you?” He felt soft and warm against her, and utterly relaxed. He pointed to her chest and enunciated. “Who … are … you ?”

She frowned and signed the motion for “Avelyn.” He shook his head. “No. Who is…” And he made the sign for her name instead of pointing.

She seemed especially pleased by that and leaned in quickly to kiss his mouth. His hand slid along her flank, down her hip, and over the swell of her bum before she drew beyond his reach when she pulled swiftly back, sitting cross-legged. She did not seem burdened by the cold, sitting naked, clothed only in her long hair. Shadows hid her privities, though irregular wavering hearth light lit in brief flickers the tuft of ash blond curls directly below her belly. He watched her with languid eyes.

Her hands tried to explain, but he was not versed in the intricacies of her alien language. He allowed her frustration for several slow breaths before he grabbed her and pulled her back against him. “No more talking,” he said to the top of her head. “With your hands or without.” He tilted up her chin and repeated himself to her bright gaze. “No more talking. You must leave soon to return to your master. What if he received a message while you were gone?”

She blew out a sigh and began signing again. He closed a hand over hers. “No more. Sleep a little, eh?”

She tried to continue to sign, but his hand squeezed hers and he pulled her down beside him. His eyes drifted shut.

Crispin awoke sometime in the middle of the night. Avelyn still lay beside him, and in the light of the glowing ashes, he saw the shape of Jack Tucker, snuggled down in his pile of straw in the opposite corner.

He should have sent her on her way instead of selfishly holding her to him. There was little to be done about it now. He wanted to hear Jack’s news as well, but that would also have to wait. He lay back and stared up into the gloom of the rafters. Avelyn stirred, mewling like a kitten, and suddenly her bright eyes opened and she moved, propping her chin on his chest.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.

She merely smiled under heavy-lidded eyes. Still keeping his gaze, she bent her head and kissed his chest, lips trailing over his flesh until she reached a nipple and took it between her teeth. He hissed at the sensation that shot to his belly and lower. Eyes darting quickly toward Jack, still snoring, he grasped the blanket and threw it over their heads before he nuzzled his face into the warm softness of her body.

Crispin yawned into the rosy light of morning drifting in through the shutters. Jack stood stiffly, pissed into the chamber pot beside his bed of straw, and scratched his backside. Yawning as he finished his business, he shuffled toward the fire and picked up the poker. Sleepily, he jabbed it into the ashes before leaning it against the hearth and grabbing a small square of peat and a few sticks. He placed them on the glowing coals and blew on it until it sparked to a quick flame. More sticks and one of Henry’s quartered logs made for cozy warmth and light.

It was then that Avelyn jumped out of bed and stretched her small limbs. She was naked and the firelight flickered over her pale, smooth skin.