The Charmer

29

The books were a revelation.

Jasmine traced the leather scrollwork on a book’s blood red cover, admiring the craftsmanship. The gilt edges of the pages and the gold title winked in her reading light. The Haunt were a people who took pride in their literature and wrote even their histories with passion. No bloodless recitals of bare facts here.

She scooted down against her raised pillows, seeking a more comfortable position. It was after midnight, but her mind was too seduced by the glory of Haunt history to give in to slumber. The first book she’d read had barely mentioned charmers, but this one seemed more promising.

Hours later, she closed the book and set it on her nightstand. The trouble with reading a no-holds-barred version of history was that unflattering views of one’s self or people were often printed. She had to admit, humans did not look good from a Haunt perspective.

In her opinion, it had been a good idea to separate the two races. Nothing but tragedy had resulted from their mixing. The charmers had been taken from their homes and families by other humans, mostly warlords, whether they were willing or not, and used to lure Haunts to often grisly deaths. If they possessed any kind of beauty, they were often disfigured to ensure that the males chasing them were actually Haunts. She shuddered, thinking of the descriptions of branded and noseless women. If they were lucky, their masters only forced them to wear masks for the rest of their lives.

The captured males had been tortured—mostly for the thrill of it, if she understood the text correctly. Any useful information had been obtained by “the suggestive power of the charmer herself” whatever that meant. Useful information usually consisted of where to find and annihilate any remaining Haunt, women and children included. Sometimes the captured one was “enspelled” and forced to lead the way to the others. As a result, the Haunt took to assassinating any known charmers, and they were notoriously successful. There were long lists of charmer kills and their assassins. Such stalkers were treated with great honor, and hailed as heroes.

If she had been born a Haunt, could she have blamed them? In the case of charmers, mutilated and forced to participate in t*****e and g******e, maybe some of them preferred to be dead.

She would have.

The blackest of the charmers, those who participated willingly in the s*******r of Haunt for the chance to wallow in ungodly wealth, were singled out for vilification in the history. The author seemed to relish listing their various crimes and the measures taken to bring them down. It wasn’t pretty.

Eventually the Haunt became so successful at killing charmers that efforts had been made to breed them, but that had proved unsuccessful. Charmers were a wildcard mutation, and defied all efforts to recreate on demand. Thank God.

Now she understood why Keilor had been so repulsed by her in the beginning, and so angry. He and Jayems must have truly cared for Rihlia to go through all the effort to first humor her, and then to protect the dreaded charmer from their countrymen.

And speaking of their countrymen, just how opposed to her were they? Could she expect a lynch mob if she tried to wander out alone? She shivered, knowing she could never hope to outrun any Haunt who wanted her blood.

Taking a deep, calming breath, she reminded herself of the cadets. They certainly had no aversion to her. Maybe it was just the older generation she had to watch out for. It would pay to be wary, though. Now that Rihlia had accepted her role as Jayems’ wife, there was no reason to go back to Earth. There was nothing there for them now.

Besides, she sort of liked it here. The weather was mild, the people interesting, and if she discounted the poisoned desserts, the food was the best she’d ever had. In fact, if she could just figure out how to live two hundred and fifty more years, life would be just about perfect.

***

“Tell me about your cousins.”

Jayems looked up from the stained glass he was soldering, not the least bit startled, and Jasmine knew that he’d heard her outside the door of his hobby room. She pulled a stool up to his workbench and looked with interest at the vice. Grinding and polishing tools and sundry pieces of colored glass were neatly arranged on the work surface.

“Your wife is taking a nap.” She shook her head. “I think the privileged life is going to her head. I swear she spends half her days napping.”

Jayems grinned with satisfaction. “Her new duties as my lady are demanding.”

Jasmine decided not to touch that one.

Noting her interest, he laid another line of soldering wire and heated it with his torch, shaping the frame of his project. With his eyes still on his work, he asked, “What was it you wished to know?”

She flicked away a speck of ground glass on the bench top. “Keilor and Fallon...they’re about the same age?”

“Keilor is two years older.”

“Oh.” She propped her elbow on her knee and rested her chin on her fist. She’d adopted the comfortable loose trousers and tunic of the male formal attire, and she was much more comfortable in those clothes than she’d been in the beautiful gowns she’d been given to wear. It was difficult to relax in a dress that probably would have taken a month’s pay—back when she still had a paying job—to buy. All she could think of when she wore one was how guilty she’d feel if she damaged it.

There were times when she felt like a maid mistaken for a movie star and put up in a fancy hotel on credit. She kept waiting for the day when the management figured out she was an impostor and came to collect on the bill. “What happened to Keilor’s parents? I never hear anyone talk about them.”

Jayems reached for another piece of glass with a trace of a frown. “They were murdered in an ambush when he was eighteen. He and one of his friends were the only ones left alive.” He glanced at her stricken face. “He still visits his family’s memorial on the anniversary of their death. He brings his mother jasmine flowers. They were her favorite.”

She looked down, unable to say a word.

“She would have liked you.” He chuckled. “Had she been still alive the night you became ill, I would have suspected her immediately of slipping you the Sweet Surrender.”

She grinned wryly. It was good to find humor in that night.

The mood didn’t last. There was something else she needed to ask, something that had been keeping her up nights. “Jayems...are your cousins always so...flirtatious with women? Or is it the charmer thing, do you think?” Her eyes darkened with painful wisdom. “I’m not naïve enough to think it’s my great beauty and charm that attracts them.”

Jayems turned to face her. “If you wish to know their hearts, ask them, Jasmine. They will tell you the truth.”

She sighed. “That’s not how it works where I come from.”