Red Rider RIsing: Book 2 of the Red Rider Saga D.A. Randall (top 5 ebook reader TXT) 📖

Each one eager to taste it when night fell.

Behind them, Jacquard squatted and poked at the logs beneath the base of the vat, reducing the flame. I imagined them boiling me for their dinner as I stared into each ravenous glare.

A shorter man marched at me, grinning with malice. “The party won’t start ‘til nightfall, Mademoiselle,” he said through tobacco-stained teeth. “Why don’t you get some sleep?”

The men behind him laughed as his fist struck me and my world went black.

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35.

I awoke with a start. I lifted my head and blinked, breathing the sulfuric air rapidly through my nose. The gag had grown stale against my tongue.

The man named Jacquard rose to a sitting position on the platform, where he had been sleeping. My sudden movement apparently woke him. He snorted, stretched, then regarded me with a scowl. “Up and ready for the day?” he said without humor.

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It remained bright outside, but the shadows had shifted to the opposite angle. It was a little past noon. I had gotten a full but fitful sleep that I now felt in my sore limbs.

I looked back at each of my wrists, still bound to the thick pillars. I shook my numb arms as best I could and rotated my wrists to get the blood flowing back into them. My lower back and the calves of my legs ached from standing suspended for so long. Below me, the crossbow still lay useless on the ground.

Jacquard yawned and stood to fully stretch.

I heard his back crack as he twisted his torso. Then he faced me with his hands on his hips. “Go on.

Struggle some more for me.”

I breathed slow and even.

“No?” he asked. “Too tired? Get some rest, then. You’ll need all your strength tonight for screaming.”

He sat back down and leaned lazily against the long counter beside the bubbling vat. He glanced at it, wondering whether to adjust the fire again. Then he folded his arms and studied me.

“You thought you were something, huh? You really thought you could beat us.”

He continued to study me from head to toe, watching for any sign of resistance, satisfying himself that I could not escape. Then he rose slowly and walked behind the long counter. He bent behind it and I heard him open cabinet doors and slide heavy objects across shelves. He stood, producing a small flask and a large bottle of liquor.

He poured himself a small sampling and sipped it, 321

then eyed me again, looking disappointed that I had not moved a muscle. He lifted his flask toward me. “Your good health, witch.” He emptied the flask and filled it again.

I steadied my breathing. Everything had happened so fast, I barely had time to think. And I could do nothing with the entire cult watching me.

Jacquard would be a different matter, I hoped.

I kept still, spread between the pillars like an animal carcass to be carved and eaten over a fire.

Or Samson, the Bible hero who lost his great strength and was captured by his enemies who jeered at him, thinking him helpless. Until he asked them to place him between the pillars that supported their stronghold, where he pushed the supports apart when God restored his strength, destroying them all.

I lifted my chin and tried to relax. I allowed Jacquard to study me again before he poured himself another drink.

I couldn’t reach the crossbow, but I had a few advantages left. Reminding myself of that helped me calm down. First, they had left only one man to watch me. More important, they imagined me helpless. Which I might be if not for Pierre.

Sweet, ingenious Pierre, who suggested the crazy idea of helping me fight like a wolf, before my first night out at Favreau’s farm. “I can’t give you teeth,” he had said, “but I’ve got something that might work for claws.”

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He was so proud of his brilliant invention, as he should be, always asking me how my blades were working.

I fixed