Drink of Me - Jacquelyn Frank

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the basement’s ceramic tiled floors. The Hall of Baths was just around the corner. There were over a dozen doors, big and small, down the long hallway. These were the private baths. There was a set of double doors at the end that led to the communal baths. Opposite the public hall was a private entrance leading to the Prime’s Bath.

      Here the Pack divided. Rye and Delano took Chayne into one of the larger private chambers. Darcio headed for the communal bath after only the briefest look at Reule to see whether he might change his mind about needing any assistance with the outlander girl. Reule turned to the Prime’s bath, kicking the door shut quickly in his wake. He was greeted by a wall of hot steam that he inhaled deeply. He smiled. The baths were naturally self-replenishing hot springs and the best way Reule could think of to warm a girl suffering from exposure. He walked over to a bench close to the edge of the gently bubbling water in the large pool.

      He laid the girl out on the bench, intending to warm her with the steam first before introducing her to the water. He didn’t want to shock her systems. He figured he was going to be on his own for some time before the apothecary arrived, and Para would have her hands full for a little while before she could come to play well-meaning chaperone. Reule chuckled at the idea. Para was still a reasonably young woman, but she was ferociously protective of anyone she deemed in need of mothering, which tended to be just about everyone. She was perfect in her role of head housekeeper, guarding the undermaids from the roaming hands of the under-butlers and soldiers constantly roaming the halls. She ran the household impeccably and Reule had never had a complaint, except perhaps when she tried to mother him as well. He’d never been comfortable with a woman’s concern.

      Reule shrugged off the distracting thoughts and concentrated on unwrapping the bundle in the blanket. He pulled back the wool horse blanket, and the stench of mildew struck him again with its pungent odor. The room was lighted by electricity, so Reule got his first real look at the young female. Her small body was curled up tight in a fetal position, and her tangled brown hair was plastered across her face just like her stained shift adhered to her body. Reule lowered himself onto his haunches so he could study the knots and webbing of the hair wrapped around her head and face. He sighed, realizing there wasn’t much he could do until after he had her in the water and they’d begun to wash away the dirt encrusted on her. He hoped they wouldn’t be forced to cut off her hair. There were Sánge superstitions about cutting a woman’s hair. Bad enough to be an outlander in Sánge territory with winter about to trap her inside the city for several cycles, but with the bad luck of shorn hair besides?

      Not for the first time Reule wondered how long the girl had been confined in that attic. Had she been a prisoner? Had they thrown her away up there after they’d finished using her?

      The thought ripped a furrow of rage in his gut, and his teeth locked tightly together as he fought back the rushing fury. Often, his most potent emotions would spill over, emanating without his intention to those surrounding him. Though normally no one could read his thoughts without his permission, his unique power of emanation took some effort to control. With emanation, Reule could make those around him know and feel his needs. Just as, without a single spoken word, the slamming of a door could leave a perfect impression of the departer’s displeasure, he could create the same effect with the flexing of his mind. The trick was preventing it when it wasn’t desired.

      The Sánge leader reached out to touch the exposed skin of the girl’s hands and arms. She was still chilled, but nowhere near as cold as she had been. The blanket and vigorous ride had done their part, and now the heat of the steam seeped into her as well. Reule stood up and ran a hand through his dampened hair, the steam curling the black locks into the natural waves that he usually brushed out or braided back. He grasped his short, brown fleece-lined jacket and his tan hunter’s vest, shedding them both into a careless pile at his feet. His coffee-brown leather knee boots were the next to go, their perfect cobbling allowing him to slide them free without Drago’s usual assistance. He stripped off his beige linen shirt, the fabric already soaked with moisture from the steam and his sweat. He was three days out from his last bath and he was looking forward to shedding the grime of riding, stalking, and death.

      Just then he heard the click of the door opening and shutting, and though it wasn’t far from where he stood, he couldn’t see who entered through the dense wall of white mist. But he could feel her well enough.

      “Come here, Para.”

      Pariedes moved unerringly through the fog of moisture to find him. When she caught sight of him half naked and standing over the girl, he could feel her disapproval even without seeing the prim press of her lips.

      “Now, now, Para,” he teased her, “I still have my breeches on. Isn’t that what covers all the important parts?” When Para blushed from neck to hairline, Reule threw back his head and laughed. The housekeeper recovered quickly enough to wave him back with a threatening swing of her hand.

      “You’re a scoundrel, My Prime!” she accused after almost smacking him in the nose with that dangerously flailing hand.

      “Aye, and you’re not the first woman to tell me so,” he countered as he watched her bend over the small girl.

      “She’s badly neglected,” Para said, tsking in disgust. “Bloody bastard Jakals. The lot of them should burn to death staked in the desert sun.”

      Reule folded his arms across the breadth of his chest and peered down at her. “Who said Jakals had anything to do with it?”

      Her head snapped up and her dark eyes flashed with indignant pride. “I’ve eyes in my head and a brain as well, haven’t I?” She scoffed at him. “What else would keep you a day overdue and have you bringing home two victims as your only game? Really, My Prime!”

      “My apologies, Pariedes,” he said with graciousness and a conceding bow. “You are right. What of my hunting trophy, Para? Do you think she’ll survive?”

      “I cannot tell you that. She’s an outlander, Prime Reule. I know not what she is. She’s too fair to be Gemin or Opia, and while she’s got the build of a Jakal, she’s—”

      “This girl is no Jakal,” Reule said sharply, the impulsive urge to defend her riding him hard. “I located her by sheer feeling alone,” he said more gently when Para looked at him with surprise. “No Jakal could ever feel the depth of pain and sorrow this girl was feeling when I found her. They only siphon it off others. The utter power of what she felt could have fed a troop of Jakals for a week. I’ve never—”

      Reule broke off when he realized Para was staring at him with open curiosity. When he frowned darkly, she cleared her throat, quickly turning back to fuss over the young woman she now knelt near.

      “Poor thing. We can hardly see you.” She tsked again and turned to Reule. “Your blade, My Prime?” She held out the flat of her palm expectantly.

      Reule wasn’t in the habit of handing his dagger over to anyone, not even a Packmate. It was an unspoken tenet amongst warriors never to surrender one’s blade. Natural weaponry like nails and fangs worked well enough, but a knife, sword, or throwing star were essentials in battle and self-defense.

      Reule reached for the dagger sheathed at his waist, the blue metal blade singing sweetly as it passed over the cusp of its scabbard. “With what may I assist you?” he asked with just enough formality to make her feel, without emanation, that his service was the only way she would see use of the knife.

      “Cut away her garment. It’s disgusting and riddled with who knows what diseases and parasites. I’ll have it burned. Then we’ll bathe her and see if we can’t make something out of this nest of hair.”

      Reule bent to his task and carefully pulled the edge of the fabric away from the girl’s throat. He could see her pulse beating in her neck and he hesitated.

      Sánge, bautor mo.

      The words suddenly echoed in his mind in a whisper-soft voice that seemed too innocent to know of such things. He suppressed a shudder of indefinable feeling and pressed the blade to the tattered gown. Slowly, carefully, he cut a good six inches down her breastbone before withdrawing the cutting edge.

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