Ransom

“Yes, I understand. She has made a remarkable mess in an incredibly short period of time. Our guards should be equal to handling her.”

“Should be,” Redpelt agrees.

One small human female has lulled them into a false sense of security and taken advantage of their expectations. This will be a good learning experience for those who survive.

“If the king will not pay for her, and she proves to be a liability…” Redpelt wriggles his brows at me. He has always wanted to throw someone out of an airlock. It is a fantasy of his, one that has yet to be indulged. It will not be indulged with Astaria, just as it has not been allowed for any of our other prisoners.

“We have many dangerous, violent warriors under our command,” I remind him. “She can be broken just as they were, turned into a compliant and useful creature.”

“She’s no warrior. She’s a woman. A human woman. What will you do to her? Her body is too frail to withstand any of the punishments we would use on a warrior.”

“It is easier to punish the frail than it is the strong.”

Redpelt remains unconvinced.

“I haven’t been able to do the calculations as to how she slew her guard. Either she has some supernatural strength, or she has abilities in excess of that of a normal human.”

“You mean supernatural strength?”

“I was referring to something more…paranormal, sir,” Redpelt shudders.

“There's no such thing as the paranormal,” I remind him. “Everything in the universe is normal. It’s just as yet unencountered.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We are going to do nothing. I am going to go deal with her.”

“Is that wise? She has slain many guards. If she was to slay you too…”

“Redpelt, please. Let’s not become hysterical.”

I am forced to enter the kitchen through the ventilation shaft because all the doors are barred with bits of my guards, and I have no desire to spook her. I do not fear what she might do to me, but I very much fear what I might have to do to her if she becomes violent.

“Hello.” The princess smiles.

There is no more pretense between us in terms of wondering if she is the cause of the carnage on my ship. She is absolutely to blame, and she will absolutely be punished. I lower my voice and speak with authority.

“I am going to need you to stop killing my guards.”

She gives a little shrug and puts a spoonful of salted caramel into her mouth. She then proceeds to speak around it, and it is a testament to her elocution that I still understand the word.

“Why?”

“Well, they would prefer to be alive. And I would prefer that they remained alive.”

“Why did you free me then?”

Free her. Not kidnap her. Not abduct her. Free her. Redpelt’s instincts seem to have been correct.

“If I have freed you, then perhaps you owe me some kindness in return.”

“I’ve shown you great kindness,” she says, offended, pulling the spoon from her mouth and dashing it about in the air as if it were some royal implement of conversational punctuation. “You,” she says, pointing the rounded end at me, “are still alive.”

Now it is my turn to laugh. The notion of such a little thing doing me any harm is beyond belief. Whatever she did to the guard was no doubt an act of surprise. Perhaps she had some small weapon secreted on her person. Some of the high-intensity laser-based guns can be secreted in a human’s orifice without causing any discomfort. I will have to search all her holes to determine that she is not holding something dangerous.

She stands up and approaches me, swaying her hips with a feminine sashay designed to tease me. I watch her come toward me, idly wondering if this might be the last thing I ever see. There is certainly something faintly eerie about her, a darkness that lurks behind her bright, young eyes. She still has the teaspoon clutched in her hand. I am sure I will not be felled by small cutlery, but not as certain as I was five minutes ago.

I watch her as she approaches, a faint smear of caramel on her left cheek where she must have brushed her finger against her face. I cannot afford to show any kind of consternation at her brutal actions. She would interpret it as weakness. I find myself defaulting to the ruleset I would use with another warlord.

“I am a bad girl, Blackmane,” she whimpers, her rosy mouth forming the words in a breathy and alluring way. “What are you going to do with me?”

Now she is taunting me, smiling to herself, her eyes glittering with amusement at a joke I am not supposed to be in on.

There is almost certainly something I am missing here. Whatever she is doing to cause such carnage is not physical. She is a weak little female, though perhaps she has some natural talent for knife work and butchering. I have known some glorious psychopaths in my time, and every single one of them was fascinated by the blade from the moment they could hold one.