A boy, having accidentally stepped into a nest of vipers, cried out to the Mistress of Serpents for aid.
Serpent turned the vipers to glass and entreated the boy to leave the nest without breaking the glass. For it is you who have entered their home without invitation, she said. Why should they change their nature in their own home?
—COLLECTED FOLKTALES
Night had fallen, and the cool breeze sighed across Jack’s heated skin. Raucous laughter swelled inside the house. Jack winced when something heavy crashed to the ground. Guilt for his part in leading these men to Jasminda’s home had not waned. And now it sounded as if they were breaking the place apart.
He smelled Jasminda’s presence before he heard her footsteps. She crept up the back steps to kneel beside him. Her palm slid across his forehead, and he pressed into the touch. Another loud thunk resounded from within the house, followed by rising voices.
“It sounds like a tavern in there,” Jack said.
“It is.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“They discovered my father’s gin. They’re three noses into the still.”
There were few things more cruel than a drunken soldier. Jack rolled his cheek back into her hand. “I am sorry for it.” The men’s intoxication would not bode well for them.
Jasminda’s fingers skated across his scalp, soothing the dull ache in his head. The breeze picked up, whistling a warning in the air.
“How much longer will the storm trap us here?” he asked.
A shifting of clouds revealed the moonlight, illuminating her pensive expression. “Another twenty-four hours or so.” Her vivid dark gaze drove into him. “Do you think you can walk?”
He rose onto an elbow, searching her inscrutable expression. “I believe so. Are we going somewhere?”
A knife appeared in her hand and with a snick, his ropes were cut. “They’re all distracted now. I think we should try to get you out of here.”
Shock momentarily froze him, but he shook it off and rose to his feet. She wrapped an arm around him, helping to support some of his weight. Jack was grateful for it; much as he hated to admit it, he needed the aid. His wounds and bruises complained noisily, but he ignored them, focusing on finding his footing.
“What’s the plan?” he asked as they stumbled down the back steps.
“Stay alive.” He wanted to grin at her response, but instead pursed his lips at the shooting pain that stabbed his chest. He boxed it away and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
The two of them sank into the shadows cast by the moonlight, keeping to the tree line, and skirting the side of the house with quiet steps. Inside, discordant voices began a bawdy drinking song.
They had just rounded the corner of the house when the front door slammed open. Jasminda’s arm turned to stone around him. Jack held his breath. The moon blessedly chose that moment to sink behind a cloud, leaving the yard in darkness. It was too dim to identify the man who lurched forward, but he walked straight toward them, stopping a handful of paces away before a thick-trunked dogwood. If he looked to his right, he would see them standing stiff as statues, trying to blend into the night.
The soldier unzipped his fly and began to piss. His stream was seemingly endless; how much gin had there been? Jasminda trembled.
Finally, the soldier finished and tucked himself back into his trousers. He turned toward the house, swaying on his feet. Jack exhaled slowly, ready to weep with relief, when the bloody moon broke through the bloody clouds, brilliantly illuminating the yard.
Yet, the soldier—Pymsyn he could see now—had his back to them, staggering toward the cabin. Jack swallowed. Just a few more steps. He counted them down as Pymsyn drew farther away.
On the porch, the soldier’s hand met the door handle. From the corner of Jack’s eye, he saw Jasminda blinking rapidly, watching the man’s every movement. They dared not move, out in the open as they were. Once the Lagrimari was safely inside, they could regain the cover of the shadows.
But instead of opening the door, Pymsyn turned around.
A bone-deep chill took over Jack’s body.
Pymsyn’s eyes widened. His alcohol-soaked brain took several moments to process before the connection was made. Jack spotted the moment it did, as recognition and outrage crossed the man’s face.
In that split second, Jack reacted. He pulled the knife Jasminda had used on his ropes out of the front pocket of her dress, where she’d slipped it. At the same time, he adjusted his hold on her to appear menacing and lifted the knife to her throat.
The maneuver was swift and left him aching. But by the time Pymsyn raised his voice to shout, to all appearances Jasminda was at Jack’s mercy. A hostage, not a savior.
“I forced you to do this,” he whispered. She struggled against him, though he sensed she was not playing along, but rather rejecting his plan. It did not matter, her tussling would only reinforce Jack’s story.
He held her tighter. The sweet fragrance of her hair filled his nose. He inhaled the scent as the soldiers streamed drunkenly out of the cabin.
Jasminda was wrenched away, taking her warmth and aroma with her. Blows from the angry soldiers came down thick and fast. Jack was sorry to have undone all her healing work—he hoped she would not be too angry with him over it.
The severity of the men’s punches paled in comparison to what he’d suffered when he’d first been discovered. A few days of rest and relaxation and several fifths of gin had turned the men soft.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Jack wheezed during a break in the action. Once again a foot to his midsection stole his breath. A kick to the head stole his consciousness.