Healer's Touch (36 page)

“Shh, love.” He leaned over her so she had little option but to look at him, and he brushed a hair from her temple.

She was struck, yet again, by how similar his eyes were to Jonas’.
Don’t think it, don’t think it.
But it was too late; Jonas’ face swirled before her mind’s eye even as her insides constricted in an impotent effort to withdraw from Braph. She squeezed her eyes tight against reality and forced the imaginings down, staring at blackness. “Fuck you.”

He laughed, a hand brushing her still covered breast as he reached further down.

“You’re a dead man.”

He shushed her again, his face taking on a dreamy quality as his fingers parted treasonous moist skin.

Llew couldn’t stay there. She couldn’t be in that reality. She closed her eyes again, screaming silently in an effort to block out the sounds of his pleasure. His face pressed beside her ear reminded her briefly of the time, just north of Cheer, when Jonas had sobbed into her shoulder.
No!
She pushed the memory aside, instead recalling images of tussock, trees, anything innocuous. His beard had barely broken his skin, and dug into hers. She remembered a hand running over a jaw in Benton . . . 
Stop it!
The singing of a bellbird, the cheep of a fantail. The
slap, slap
of flax blades . . . Or was that the sound of his thighs on hers?
Shut up, shut up, shut up!

A moan. But it wasn’t from Braph, it was feminine. Llew’s eyes shot open. If she could have clapped her hands over her mouth, she would have. A moan of animal pleasure had escaped her lips!

Braph’s head no longer pressed against hers: he looked down at her, a pleased smile lighting his face. That didn’t look anything like Jonas.

She hadn’t liked it! It didn’t matter what her body felt. She hadn’t liked it! Stupid body. Stupid power. Stupid. Stupid.

He withdrew, rolled from her, off the bed. She snapped her eyes shut again. To see him like that would make it all too real. She would not look upon this man’s flesh. She wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

He didn’t speak as he slid his trousers back up his legs.

She opened one eye a little.

He was drenched in sweat, and she still couldn’t lift a finger. No. She
could
lift a finger, for her pinky waggled, drawing a smile from him. But it was all, and she felt exhausted. And disgusting, feeling him dripping from her.

He cleared his throat, gave her a nod and left. The door clicked shut.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Click.

A woman entered the room, helped Llew from the bed, and led her to the wash-room. Llew could now walk, but her mind was once again groggy, something for which, this time, she was grateful. She felt bruised, and sick, and dirty, and, and . . . she didn’t know what else.
Numb.

The woman had already filled the copper tub with steaming water. She unbuttoned Llew’s dress and helped her into the water, then sponged her gingerly across the shoulders and down the arms. The slightest downward slide sent a violent shiver through Llew, and the woman abandoned her efforts, dropping the sponge into the water and taking a seat on the wicker stool by the wall, leaving Llew to take care of herself.

Llew sat in the water, unmoving and unthinking. Water dripped from the drenched tips of her hair. It was as long as it had been that evening in Cheer, the night she’d killed a man. She needed to trim it. Damn hair. It didn’t take much to look feminine again, and that only led to trouble. Stupid hair.

The house filled with the baby’s wail again, so ghostly, yet so real and chilling. Still she didn’t move, just sat staring into the water, seeing nothing. Thinking nothing.

The wailing continued.

The woman stood, hovering over Llew for a moment hesitantly, then left, pulling the door closed behind her. Closed, but not locked.

Llew’s eyes burned, tears filling them and overflowing, dropping into the bathwater. She made no sound. Her shoulders bounced with her silent sobs.

She noticed the chill of the water first, and then that her mind was clear of its fog; she could move her limbs of her own accord. And she was alone.

Her head came up. She was alone. Her head was clear. Her body was under her control.

She stepped from the bath, shook out the towel from the floor and pressed it to her face, chest, a shoulder. And then she began to rub, to scrub herself dry. Not just dry. She wanted to wash him from her, but he was still there, clinging to her, his breath warming her ear, his groans filling her head. Her own moan echoed too, startling her. She viciously scrubbed at her ear with the towel. She’d rub it off if she had to.

She stood and gripped the edge of the bath, fighting against the sobs racking her body. Anger flooded through her and she kicked the tub, stubbing her toe.
Stupid. Stupid
, she chastised herself while she squeezed the throbbing toe in bunched fingers, trying to squeeze out the pain. She cursed herself for allowing him to paralyse her with so much hurt and then to exacerbate it by injuring herself – not that a stubbed toe would stop her. The simple fact was that her head was clear of fog, her muscles were hers to control, and she was alone, unsupervised. What in the empire of hell was she still doing there?

She dumped the towel and pulled the dress over her head, suppressing the revulsion. It was the dress she’d been wearing and likely one her mother had worn too. If she got out of here, she would never wear a dress again. She pulled on the knickerbockers the woman had brought to the wash-room. Llew would gladly have worn five layers of the ugly, scratchy, frilly things, if she thought it would offer her some protection.

She opened the door slightly and peered around the door frame, checking the hallway. The house still rang with the baby’s wail and it sent a shiver through Llew again. She’d never seen children in the house and couldn’t imagine Braph as a father. In many ways it was less disturbing to think the villa haunted. But still . . . That noise . . . 

The short hallway between the wash-room and her room was empty. She pulled the door half-open and stepped through.

The rhythmic chug of hidden machines provided the chilly wails with background percussion. Braph was in his room, evidently so focused on his task he couldn’t spare anything to keep Llew under a haze.

She stopped at the top of the stairs. Peering into the dimly-lit main hallway below, she considered her chances of escape. The door was just there: down a few steps, along the hallway, and past doors behind which were all the other members of the household. It was very likely locked. But when would a better chance present itself?

Steadying herself on the banister, she placed a foot on the top step and eased her weight on to it, half-turning as she did. Just as she thought she could relax, the step creaked. She froze, closing her eyes and listening for a change in the sounds of the house. After several tense moments, she opened her eyes and saw it.

Hanging on the wall at the top of the stairs, in amongst all the clutter Braph thought important to display but which simply got lost in the mess of his walls, was Jonas’ knife. There was no hiding that ivory-coloured handle and perfectly crafted blade in the jumble of mechanical parts; it appeared organic, living, by comparison with the other artefacts. It just hung there, the knife-belt hooked over a protruding piece of metal.

Llew eased her weight back to the foot not yet on the stairs and stood before the knife. She reached a hand up, stopping just shy of touching it. What was Braph thinking leaving it in plain view, unsecured? But Llew was never supposed to be alone and perhaps he sought to taunt her with the reminder of Jonas, never thinking she might be in a position to take it. But here she was, standing before it, unsupervised. Dismissing a niggling feeling that it was some sort of trap, she gingerly unhooked the belt.

A door opened and she spun round, fearing it would be Braph. But it was the woman, returning to assist Llew. Without looking up, the woman ascended the stairs.

Llew drew the knife and waited. A few steps from the top, the woman glanced up and gasped. Llew brandished the weapon.

“Keep coming. Act like nothing’s wrong. Come on.”

The woman took a last few tentative steps to draw level with Llew. She was calm in the face of the knife, perhaps confident that Llew wouldn’t use it. Well, Llew certainly would use it if the woman gave her cause. She was getting out of here, and as far as she was concerned, everyone else in this house had their own part to play in what Braph had done. Now she had the knife, their safety only extended as far as their cooperation.

“My room.” Llew gripped the woman’s shoulder, turning and pushing her toward the door at the end of the hallway. “Do you have the key?”

“No.” The woman sounded on the verge of tears.

Llew cursed silently. She couldn’t have the woman running straight to Braph before she’d had time to leave a decent distance between her and this house. But without the key she couldn’t lock the woman in.

Inside the room, Llew floundered for a moment. She didn’t have a rope or belt to tie her captive, except the belt in her hand, and she had every intention of returning all of Jonas’ possessions to him. Her eyes settled on the knife.
“Except this,”
Jonas had said.
“Wounds inflicted on an Aenuk with this blade heal at the same rate they would on any person
.” Perhaps now was the time to find out what he meant by that. It was the kinder option – certainly kinder than stabbing the woman, anyway. While Llew hated the woman for not protecting her from Braph’s behaviour, she had to accept that this woman was likely as much his victim as she was.

Remembering the hand-shaped scar under Jonas’ jaw, she wondered if it really was all that much kinder. Perhaps if she did it slowly it wouldn’t burn like that. She just needed her weakened.

Llew lifted the knife and drew it lightly across the mound of her thumb. The sharp blade sliced the skin easily and, despite her intention to appear unfazed, she snatched her hand away and sucked in air. The cut was tiny. Driving the knife back into its sheath, she grabbed the woman’s wrist. The familiar tingling began in the fingers, subtle enough that she might have missed it if she weren’t concentrating. She held her hand up, watching the self-inflicted cut. At first, it seemed nothing was happening, but as the tingling trickled up her arm, across her chest, down the other arm and to her hand, the injury began to glow, with the red blood sparkling pink. She nearly let the woman go, but forced herself to tighten her grip, glaring at the woman when she felt her try to free herself.

With such a small wound, it was slow, but it was working; she was draining the woman, and the wound was failing to heal.

“I’m sorry,” she said as the woman began to weaken.

She let the woman lie on the bed. “I’m sorry,” she said again, “But I can’t risk you going to Braph.” The woman nodded.

When she judged the woman weak enough, Llew relaxed her grip and left.

Using the banister to minimise the weight she put on the stairs, she skipped down them several at a time. What sounds she produced were so light and brief she was almost certain Braph wouldn’t hear them.

The mechanical drone continued in his room, and the hall was empty, with every door closed. She pressed her ear to the first door on the opposite side of the hallway from Braph’s room and heard the faint but distinctive murmur of Nilv’s dry voice. She turned the handle and found the door unlocked.

Candlelight from below reflected off a banister post. More stairs.

She eased the door closed behind her, hoping the sound of the latch clicking home would be quiet enough not to be heard over Nilv’s drone. There was no break in his yammering, so Llew eased herself on to the stairs, feeling her way in the dark. She could make some words out now: he was talking about her. Surely he wouldn’t blab on like that to captives other than her father? She couldn’t leave him behind, not when she was this close to having him back.

The stairway bent in a hairpin halfway down, but was sturdy and there were no creaks to give her away.

It was her father who did that. As soon as the candlelight lit her, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. At first Nilv didn’t seem to notice, but when Llew reached the last step, he turned to see what his captive was staring at.

Llew stepped into the room wielding the knife, orange light flashing down the blade.

“Release him.” She pressed the tip into Nilv’s shoulder. “Now.”

“How did–?”

“I said, release him.”

“You won’t get far with him, girl. He’ll only slow you down.”

“Release him.” She pressed harder and blood seeped through his shirt. “I’m not bluffing.” She raised the blade to his cheek.

Nilv hesitated for a brief moment before giving a small shrug, careful not to press his cheek against the blade. He reached down and unstrapped her father.

“Llewella, I’ll only slow you down. Get out while you can.”

“You saved me once. It’s my turn.”

“Llew–”