Read Online From a High Tower by Mercedes Lackey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mercedes Lackey
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illiterate knew about women like that!
The devil take you,
she snarled in her mind.
I need no man to protect me!
âTake his breath!â
she shouted to the night-sylphs above her. There was a flash of puzzlement in his eyesâwell, this was not the reaction he expected. But there was no time for him to do more than have that instant of puzzlement. Because the night-sylphs reacted immediately to her order.
Quicker than the tick of a clock, they dove down on the captain and enveloped his head before he even had a chance to respond to what must have seemed to him like the cry of a mad person, wrapping their long hair about his face and neck. He couldnât
see
them, of course, but he could most certainly
feel
what they were doing. They could not do
much
in the physical world, but they most certainly could make air move, and they made it all move out of his lungs.
She could see his head
through
them. He clawed at his throat, trying to gasp, and unable to. His eyes bulged, and he staggered backward, tripped, and fell behind his desk. The padded carpet meant he didnât make much of a noise, and it seemed he wasnât thrashing. But then again, his ramming her into the wall hadnât brought his men running into the office to see what the matter was, so perhaps they were used to violent sounds coming from within.
Sadistic bastard.
She felt her mouth forming a silent snarl. Well, he had just taken on an opponent that was going to give him a taste of his own back.
But she didnât want to kill him, after all, so she added, quickly, âOnce he is unconscious, give him his breath back,â and turned her attention to getting herself out of those irons.
She closed her eyes and concentrated all her attention on her hands and wrists. The irons had been made for a manâs bigger hands and thicker wrists and were very loose on her. Loose enough that she was certain she could get them off. She might lose some skin doing so, but she was sure she could get them off.
It was all going to depend on relaxing her hands while at the same time trying to squeeze them into the smallest possible shape . . . which was not the easiest thing to do, when you were crushing them
and
scraping the skin off. . . .
Painfully. And soon they were damp with blood.
At least the bleeding is making them more slippery.
She ruthlessly closed herself off from any distractions, the better to concentrate, and finally sensed the manacle on her left hand moving past the first knuckle of her thumb. By this time she was sweating freely, and unashamedly crying a little in pain, since by this time it felt more as if she was degloving the skin of her entire hand, not just scraping a little off.
And then, after agonizing momentsâher left hand popped free! Now able to bring her hands in front of her, she managed to keep herself from tearing at her right wrist by an act of pure will, and slowly forced the other manacle off as well. Her wrists were definitely scraped and bleeding, but to her relief the damage wasnât as terrible as it had felt. Now she looked for her sylphsâand the captain.
âWhere are you?â she called softly, when silence and an apparently empty room met her searching gaze.
âMaster . . .â
came a small voice from the other side of the desk.
âThe man fell down and we let him go, but he is not moving.â
An ice-cold chill went down her spine at that. Surely notâ
But her luck was well and truly out, because as she hurried around the desk, it was obvious that the captain was quite dead. He was completely still, his face set in an expression of horror, and his eyesâ
Her first reaction was acute nausea, followed by terrible guilt, as the half-dozen sylphs looked up at her with solemn eyes. They might be a
little
malicious, but they never deliberately went past frightening their victims a bit. This was neither expected, nor welcome, to them either. What
The devil take you,
she snarled in her mind.
I need no man to protect me!
âTake his breath!â
she shouted to the night-sylphs above her. There was a flash of puzzlement in his eyesâwell, this was not the reaction he expected. But there was no time for him to do more than have that instant of puzzlement. Because the night-sylphs reacted immediately to her order.
Quicker than the tick of a clock, they dove down on the captain and enveloped his head before he even had a chance to respond to what must have seemed to him like the cry of a mad person, wrapping their long hair about his face and neck. He couldnât
see
them, of course, but he could most certainly
feel
what they were doing. They could not do
much
in the physical world, but they most certainly could make air move, and they made it all move out of his lungs.
She could see his head
through
them. He clawed at his throat, trying to gasp, and unable to. His eyes bulged, and he staggered backward, tripped, and fell behind his desk. The padded carpet meant he didnât make much of a noise, and it seemed he wasnât thrashing. But then again, his ramming her into the wall hadnât brought his men running into the office to see what the matter was, so perhaps they were used to violent sounds coming from within.
Sadistic bastard.
She felt her mouth forming a silent snarl. Well, he had just taken on an opponent that was going to give him a taste of his own back.
But she didnât want to kill him, after all, so she added, quickly, âOnce he is unconscious, give him his breath back,â and turned her attention to getting herself out of those irons.
She closed her eyes and concentrated all her attention on her hands and wrists. The irons had been made for a manâs bigger hands and thicker wrists and were very loose on her. Loose enough that she was certain she could get them off. She might lose some skin doing so, but she was sure she could get them off.
It was all going to depend on relaxing her hands while at the same time trying to squeeze them into the smallest possible shape . . . which was not the easiest thing to do, when you were crushing them
and
scraping the skin off. . . .
Painfully. And soon they were damp with blood.
At least the bleeding is making them more slippery.
She ruthlessly closed herself off from any distractions, the better to concentrate, and finally sensed the manacle on her left hand moving past the first knuckle of her thumb. By this time she was sweating freely, and unashamedly crying a little in pain, since by this time it felt more as if she was degloving the skin of her entire hand, not just scraping a little off.
And then, after agonizing momentsâher left hand popped free! Now able to bring her hands in front of her, she managed to keep herself from tearing at her right wrist by an act of pure will, and slowly forced the other manacle off as well. Her wrists were definitely scraped and bleeding, but to her relief the damage wasnât as terrible as it had felt. Now she looked for her sylphsâand the captain.
âWhere are you?â she called softly, when silence and an apparently empty room met her searching gaze.
âMaster . . .â
came a small voice from the other side of the desk.
âThe man fell down and we let him go, but he is not moving.â
An ice-cold chill went down her spine at that. Surely notâ
But her luck was well and truly out, because as she hurried around the desk, it was obvious that the captain was quite dead. He was completely still, his face set in an expression of horror, and his eyesâ
Her first reaction was acute nausea, followed by terrible guilt, as the half-dozen sylphs looked up at her with solemn eyes. They might be a
little
malicious, but they never deliberately went past frightening their victims a bit. This was neither expected, nor welcome, to them either. What
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