I thought of Ashara’s mouth—full and defiant, and ever chastising. Unlike Esioul, I hoped she kept it shut so they wouldspare her the Hand. I knew she was clever. I knew she was wise. I also knew that sometimes she couldn’t help that damnabletongue.
Hold on just a little longer, darling. I’ll find you.
Retracting his claws, Falstaff plunged the thumb into her palm. It slid in easily, like a knife through churned butter. Blood bubbled in its wake, sputtering around the base of its sides. Esioul grunted, her body arching against the binds as it pierced through cartilage and bone to pass through her hand and into the soft flesh of her stomach.
He released the thumb, her hand now pinned to her navel.
I blew out a breath, warring with the urge to say something stupid, somethingimbelic, something that might exchange my body for hers. Though, if he meant to kill her I’d be no good to Ashara a corpse.
His helm tracked the expanse of her body, the movement stiff, no doubt deciding which part of her to carve into next. Wrapping his fingers around the small curve of her hip, he prodded and poked at what little flesh was there, hunting for the optimal spot.
“Art thou and the grey laurel bound in any plot or scheme wrought against the Dendralis?”
Silence.
All the laurels were innocent, but they’d continue to ask. Again and again, until we were most likely dead, bled out on the floor.
This time, he didn’t afford her the grace of repeating himself.
I had a strong stomach, but the acidic sting of bile was already thick on my tongue. He’d made his selection, albeit a predictable one. It was the acolytes’ favourite, too. They avoided major organs with a healer’s precision—the bastards wanting to keep us alive, for now. Pain, though…pain was the bounty of love. We all watched, even Roderiq, his eyes usually clamped shut by now, as the metal thumb drove into her side, the length of it shuddering as it scraped against bone. Lips pressed into adownturned line, she fought with a scream, her brow furrowed and face reddening as the rod rammed deeper and deeper inside her.
The silence was thick, my breaths shallow and fast.
That was the last of the thumbs; mercifully, he’d have to use a thinner one next. She’d bleed out on the slab if he retracted the others without a sister to patch up her wounds. The smaller ones could be just as malicious, especially when honed on a nerve or joint, but recovery was easier.
He selected another.
“Final chance, heathen, ere I do that which the Blood God hath inspired within me. He watcheth now and hopeth thou wilt yield Him the truth.”
Beneath the mesh, his mouth must have been wet, for I heard the soft smack of lips as he swallowed.
“If not, His adoration is most potent this day.”
Ambling back to stand between the bare soles of her feet, he cradled a toe between two fingers, lifting her foot from the stone as if to examine the extent of the dirt caked to her skin—we were washed weekly, but filth was tenacious and the grime built up quickly. He let it drop, her heel smacking the slab.
“Let me show thee, heathen, the measure of love bestowed by our Lord.”
With the lightest of pressure, he dragged the Blood God’s finger up over her foot, tracing its arch, upwards to her ankle, trailing over the bone in her calf.
Say something. Find Ashara.Do something.Find Ashara.
With his other hand, he hoisted her skirts, revealing two knobbly knees that shook. Blood God damn me, I almost looked away at the sight of it. We shouldn’t be here. It was too vulnerable. Toosick.Wherever the finger’s point kissed, her skin puckered and my own did the same, as if I too could feel the ministrations of its phantom spike.
Do. Something.
With a heady dose of self-loathing, I sealed my lips shut, giving Esioul the only thing I could, small as it was: my witness.
Up and up it went until it paused at the mound of her sex. He lingered there, hovering over her, chainmail practically vibrating as he watched her squirm. I cast my gaze to the floor. Fuck.Fuck. Chain rattling, I gave my bound hands a small, useless shake. Maxius stared at me with wide, rounded eyes from the opposite beam and thrashed, trying in vain to wiggle himself free. Roderiq was crying, tears streaming down his face in silent rivers. Even Iagor’s gummy mouth lay agape, his face slackened in either disbelief or horror.
We braced.
But Falstaff moved on, and with a stiff hand he trailed it across her skewered hip and the hand pinned to her stomach. The finger’s tip brushed the peaks of her breasts before outlining the dip of her throat, rolling with the wave of her swallow. Dragging it over her lips, she closed them tighter, her breath huffing from her nose. Rested in the inner tear duct of her eye, he paused, leering closer towards her.
“What profane, heathen fellowship art thou and the grey laurel a part of, that ye would dare scheme against the Blood God?”
Silence.
A long, breathy sigh seeped from under his helm.
