21 The Kiss
Hugleikr's breath was foul with rot-gut, and his last meal had plainly been filled with onions. Natasha shifted to find her best position and make certain her weight was distributed for a flying kick to his ugly, sneering face. She already knew how to get him down by using his strength against him.
"Did you miss me kicking your arse in for you?" she jibed. "Obviously you're desperate for more, so eager for me to do it again."
His face took on a crafty expression, and his yellowed eyes flashed both ways in the dark room. A feeling of sick horror squeezed Natasha's heart at the realization - Hugleikr hadn't arrived alone. For a moment she was the little girl again, alone in the dark.
"Come out," he grinned. "Might as well have some fun with the spitfire before I tear her head from her body and stuff it down her neck."
"We do this quick and easy, with as little blood as possible." Hugleikr's hidden partner stepped forward into the snowlight coming from the paned glass. He was yet another guard, but taller and more slender in build. "The new king sings her praises, so we want to make it seem she's done it herself out of misery over her lover, you might say."
"I want my bloodright," Hugleikr complained.
The other guard ignored his whinging and stepped up to Natasha. He held out a dagger poised in one strong hand. "Well?" he asked. She could see he was tall and handsome with curling brown hair and a strong chin, but something in his face reminded him of the brothers who used to tie her down and force her to sleep in the cellar for days while they had their way with her. Perhaps it was the easy way his lips slicked with saliva, as though he spent the dark hours of the night dreaming of ways to make those smaller than him submit in a myriad of brutal ways.
"Will you take the easy way out of this, huntress, and slit your own throat with this knife I offer?" the man asked. "Or will you force me to part your legs and stick my cock into you before Hugleikr murders you in the dark?"
Natasha held out her hand for the dagger. She had no intention of slitting her own throat, but she silently vowed to leave as big a mess as she could so those who found her body the following morning would know exactly who defiled her.
The man put the dagger in her hand but curled his fingers over her fist. "Ronan," he whispered.
"What?" Natasha pulled on the dagger and felt the sharp edge slit her thumb. Good, perhaps she could leave a few of his fingers on the floor as a signature.
"Ronan," he repeated. "It's my name. I plan on having my share as well if you do anything other than off yourself." Ronan's breath hissed as he found her other hand and pushed it to the front of his breeches. A huge phallus swelled under the worn leather, and he drew back his lips. "I'm ready. I'm always ready. I might even do it to your bleeding corpse. What do you think of that? Does it make you wet your knickers a little bit to imagine such a large serpent crawling between those pretty lips to blow my load inside…"
With a grunt, Natasha flipped the dagger hilt-first and shoved it into the man's belly. His eyes widened, and he reached for her, but she was able to twist away and get Lorelei's large bed between them.
"The little cat has claws!" Ronan cursed, one hand over his stomacher.
"I told you," Hugleikr grumbled. "You never listen to me, always think you know best. Always think I'm stupid."
Natasha listened intently. An argument between them was something she could use. "I always thought you were intelligent," she said in dulcet tones. "When I was in the dungeon we used to talk in trembling voices about Hugleikr the guard."
"The bitch is lying," Ronan said wearily. "Corner her, or it will be you in the dungeon if we're discovered."
"Come and get me, you bastard!" Natasha shouted. She prayed one of the guards outside would hear and come inside or at least send for the king.
"No need to screech." Hugleikr's smile spread like melting lard. "We sent off the guards on a little holiday. Down towards the red sea, you might say. Eh?"
She opened her mouth to shout again, but Ronan launched forward and pinned her in the corner of bed and wall. One hand came over her mouth, a strong thigh thrust between her legs, and her fists were imprisoned overhead in an iron grip.
With all the strength she could gather, Natasha stamped on the arch of his foot with her boot. He hissed again but only pressed closer. Behind him Hugleikr's eyes gleamed, and she watched as he caressed his own crotch with a dirty palm. "Going to do her now?" he asked.
Natasha smacked her forehead into Ronan's face. The impact made her see stars, but she heard the crunch of his nose as it broke. "Little, filthy slut," he swore. "Death's too good for you. Hugleikr, give me the fucking rope and tie up this whore. I'm going to piss on her first before she has my prick, and yours, and mine again. You'll be doing it all night, bitch, before you're allowed to die."
Hugleikr laughed, a high sound of idiotic humor. He fumbled at his belt and produced a coil of twine.
She struggled against them, but two were just too many to fight off – not when the men were as big and ruthless as Ronan. Thinking frantically, Natasha waited for a moment to plant her knee in his balls or bite off his most tender flesh – soon the man would discover she had teeth and knew how to use them.
Her arms were secured behind her back and bound tightly, the jute biting into her skin. Ronan bent and ripped open her shirt before he bent and bit one breast hard enough for her to shout with the pain. At the same time Hugleikr produced his belt and wrapped it around her ankles.
After that things moved very quickly.
Natasha was carried, plunging and screaming, to a wide chair with embroidered cushions. Ronan tore off his own shirt and bound it around her mouth, his nostrils flaring in the soft light from the falling snow. He ripped open his fly and felt inside for his erection…
The door burst open. A lady with long, dark hair carrying a sword and a lantern flew in. When she took in the scene – Natasha bound to the chair, Ronan with his hand thrust into his breeches – she swore and darted forth to spear Hugleikr through his belly with her sword.
The huge guard clutched his midriff, eyes widening as he felt his innards spill over his hands. Slowly he sank to his knees and pitched forward on his face.
Ronan seemed unfazed by the new turn of events. He grinned and beckoned to the lady, who still held her dripping sword. "Your turn next, love," he said.
"I think not." With a crash Thor pushed back the door so violently the hinges broke. He doubled his fist and drove it into Ronan's chin. The guard flew up in the air, twisted, and fell on his hindquarters. With a look of comic dismay he stared up at Thor before falling back in a faint.
"Mmmm!" Natasha struggled against her bonds. She managed to stand, and the lady tore off the dirty shirt covering her mouth before bending to remove the belt lashed around her ankles. "Thor," she gasped, "Why are you here? Where is Loki?"
"I left him when we heard your cries. My lady Sif said we had to…"
Natasha didn't stop to hear the rest. Holding Ronan's foul shirt over her naked breasts, she felt for the discarded dagger, leaped over Sif, and tore into the hall and ran towards the room where Loki lay. After the fight she had just had as well her legs cramped quickly, but she ignored the pain. Her heart was a hammer – no, a gong in her chest. If anyone tried to hurt him again, she would have their guts for breakfast.
In the doorway of the prince's chamber she stopped. The healer stood over Loki, holding a vial of green potion. The smell hit her nose instantly.
Dittany and rue.
There was no time to stop and think. Natasha launched the dagger, swift and true, at the man's arm. It shot through the air and buried itself in his hanging sleeve made of yellow velvet.
"What the hell?" the healer yelped.
Natasha smacked the potion out of his hand and pushed him back onto the fine carpet where the man landed on his buttocks with a squawk. She wasted no time on him before bounding to her feet and rushing to the bedside. Loki lay as before, perhaps a bit paler against the fine lawn of the pillows under his head. Forcing her hands to remain steady, she smoothed his black hair away from his face and leaned to catch the scent of the soap she had used earlier to wash him. It combined with the tea she had spilled onto his collar in a desperate attempt to get him to drink something.
A loud thud echoed behind her. "Natasha, what has happened?" Thor demanded.
"The healer was about to poison him, the one squalling there on the rug. I spitted his wing for him before he could take Loki's life." She never took her eyes off the prince. "Take him out and put him in the dungeons for now before we begin an investigation into their system of medicines and guild-payments. These maggots have fed on our flesh long enough."
"Is this true?" Sif's voice was low and musical.
Natasha ignored them and bent again over Loki. She held her hand under his nose and held her breath. For a long, heartbreaking moment she thought he had left her and she had been too late before she felt the slight flutter of the air from his lungs.
"I was supposed to give you this message a long time ago," she murmured into his ear. "Take this sign from Astrid the guard, Frigga the queen, and Natasha the huntress – three women who will always love you."
Her heart bleeding, Natasha bent over his still, white form and pressed her lips to his cheek. She held the kiss long enough to feel scalding tears course over her fingers to land on his skin.
Outside the snow pattered against the window. The fire crackled and popped as the log Thor had put on earlier settled on the glowing coals. The king himself cleared his throat, and his robe rustled as he turned away, perhaps to hide a tear…
And stopped.
Loki's eyelids shivered. A long sigh seemed to stream from his mouth. Natasha sat up, a sob catching in her throat as she watched his eyes open and lock onto her face.
She meant to stand up and give him room, but with a quick movement Loki's arm shot out from the heavy blankets and cupped the back of her neck. His lips spread in a smile of what could only be called pure mischief.
"Did you miss me?" Loki asked her.
"Your step-father is quite well." Sif sat beside the brazier, feeding it knots of pine and cones of sweet-smelling wood. They were in an enclosed courtyard with a half-roof open to the sky. Loki insisted fresh air was good for him, but in the snow it was the best they could do while he grew stronger.
"That's good news," the prince snapped. "After all we've been through the past few months, if Ivan had died I would have gone on a rampage."
"No you won't," Natasha said calmly. "At least, you will go on a rampage, but it will be against those vultures who call themselves healers."
"With the king's permission," Sif added pointedly.
"We'll get his permission." Loki spoke with absolute determination.
"Did you see Ivan yourself, Sif?" Natasha was nearly afraid to ask. He had been so weak when she and Loki had sent him into the forest on horseback so they could confront Lorelei themselves.
"No, since I was thrown into the dungeons before I could return home. However, my brother has sent a letter to tell me he was found at the edge of our estate. He was nearly as weak as the prince here…"
Loki uttered a howl of protest. "I'm not weak! If you lot only allowed me on my feet and to eat beefsteaks instead of feeble broth, by the gods you would see my strength."
"I was going to add," Sif continued with one sidelong glance at Loki, "since then your stepfather continues to improve. We can go to visit him as soon as you are ready."
"We are ready now," Loki added with an indignant huff.
"Do you realize you sound exactly like Ivan when he was your patient? And actually," Natasha said with a surge of triumph, "I have a present for you."
"Oh?" A look of amused curiosity glinted in Loki's green eyes. "I happen to enjoy presents."
"Maybe I should go and find the king." Sif rose to leave, but Natasha stopped her.
"No, you'll enjoy this just as much as Loki will." She felt in the pocket of her greatcoat and produced a linen-wrapped bundle to hand to the prince.
Loki received it and carefully folded back the fine material to reveal a strange device. It had a handle with a trigger attached to a long tube. "I give in," he said at last. "What is it?"
"Something called a fowling piece. You point it at a target and pull the trigger – no, please don't point it at me – and the resulting explosion launches a lead ball to obliterate your victim."
Sif exclaimed and pushed closer to look at the device. "How very cunning! I would dearly love to possess one. But what will you use as a target?"
"Certainly not my chest." Gently Natasha pushed the barrel of the revolver away and beckoned for the others to follow her to the open window of the courtyard, looking out over the grounds of the palace. An old oak grew ten paces away, and a large circular object hung from one of the branches. "I thought you might like to try this instead."
Loki's breath caught in his throat, and he felt for Natasha's arm. "Is that what I think it is?"
"The gong. Yes."
He bared his teeth, raised his arm, and pointed the present at the disk, waving in the late winter wind. There was an explosion, and a covey of pigeons broke from a nearby brush. Loki raised the barrel of the fowling piece to his lips and blew the smoke curling up from the barrel.
Natasha nodded with satisfaction at the ragged hole blooming in the center of the ruined instrument. "You're a natural," she said.