The Lion and the Artist

by Veronica Sommers

  He gives me a half-smile. "I'll circle around to the front. Wait five minutes and try the back door. If it's locked, check the windows."

  He ducks back under the magnolias and moves through them like a shadow. In a moment, he's out of my sight.

  I'm alone, my arm in a sling and my feet in giant boots, crouching in the mud, trying not to flinch as a large yellow jacket buzzes near me angling for the dying flowers on the azalea bush. I'm not allergic, but I've been stung by those little striped cretins before. It's not fun.

  I decide that Oakland has had enough time to get to the front door—and I've had enough of my proximity to the yellow jacket, who has now been joined by a couple of cohorts. Time to go.

  I straighten and walk slowly through the tall, clumpy grass to the back steps. They're concrete, chipped at the corners. The top step has cracked, and half of it is slanted aside, as if making up its mind whether or not it wants to maintain its purpose or slide off into the weeds.

  Gingerly I bend the handle of the screen door downward. It gives with a soft click. Unlocked.

  When I pull on the door, the hinges scream with all the fervor of a banshee. I freeze, holding the door an inch or two open.

  I can't get through this gap. I have to open it further.

  Holding my breath, I whip the door open, shortening the wail of the hinges to a swift screech. Holding the screen door with my back, I turn the knob of the inner door. It doesn't seem to be locked, but it is stuck. I push with all my might, leaning into it—no luck.

  Gritting my teeth, I turn the knob and shove the door with my right shoulder. The screen door squeaks again, and the thud of the impact seems to shudder through the building. Whoever is inside must have heard that. Ugh.

  But it was worth the noise, because the door opens, and I'm spilled into a dark, musty hallway. Softly I inch forward, careful not to let my boots clunk too hard against the dusty hardwood. Scraps of corroded carpet cover the hallway floor at intervals, and I walk faster on those sections, my footfalls softened to faint thumps. The first doorway leads to an empty tiled space—once a mudroom or a laundry room, apparently. A closet to my right, under the slanting steps. Another doorway to the left—the kitchen.

  Voices echo through the silence, coming from one of the front rooms. Emily's light, mocking voice, and Oakland's deep tones. It's all I can do to keep from running in there and demanding that she stop this and leave us all alone. Like that would do any good.

  I have to find Laura. And she's probably somewhere upstairs.

  I ease up the stairway one step at a time, keeping as close to the wall as I can to minimize squeaks. When my line of sight surpasses the top step, I squint through the gloom, peering down the dark hallway. It's carpeted, but the carpet is stained with grime and mold. The smell chafes in nostrils. I don't even like to think what the mold and dust in this house is doing to my lungs.

  One of the bedroom doors on the right is ajar, and I toe it open, cautiously peeking around its edge.

  Laura sits in a stiff-backed chair, bound with several coils of rope. She's been gagged, but as I enter the room, she tries to scream through the cloth, and her eyes widen—not with relief, but with panic. She's shaking her head violently.

  "What?" I whisper, stepping forward and reaching for the gag.

  A massive hand closes around the back of my neck, and some survival instinct deep inside me paralyzes my body. This giant hand could snap my slim little neck in two like a toothpick. I only hope that its owner will ask questions first and kill later—or not kill at all, preferably.

  Still guiding me by the neck, the owner of the hand reaches out and wraps his fingers around the back of Laura's chair—and lifts the whole thing, with her still on it, as easily as if he were lifting a suitcase. I risk a quick glance at him out of the corner of my eye as he steers me out of the room, toward the stairs. He's immense, with rich brown skin glossy enough to accentuate his carved muscles. His face is younger than I expected, and striking, like a statue cut from mahogany—broad lips, fierce cheekbones, and dark, flinty eyes. His tightly-curled black hair stands out from his head in a bushy crown.

  He's wearing a pair of black briefs and nothing else. I can't help staring at the flex of his massive thigh muscles as he trundles Laura and her chair down the stairs, forcing me along with them.

  When we step into the room where Emily and Oakland are standing, I note the shock on Oakland's face. Whatever backup he might have expected Emily to have, it certainly wasn't this giant man. The guy must be nearly seven feet tall.

  "You have another shifter?" Oakland says, whirling to stare at Emily.

  "Did I fail to mention that?" Emily smiles, primly smoothing her pantsuit. "His name is Vaughn. Prime specimen, isn't he? But his skill set is quite a bit different from yours." She sidles up to the burly man and runs her hand over his chest and abs. He stands immobile and silent, but from the way his hand goes rigid around my neck, I can tell that Emily's touch is unwelcome for him. He must be one of the people she has blackmailed into working for her.

  "I'm Oakland," says Oakland politely, extending his hand. He can be so smooth when he wants to be. He looks calm and relaxed, as if a giant shifter weren't holding the girl he loves by the neck. "What kind of a shifter are you?"

  The man's fingers loosen slightly, instinctively, as if he means to reach out and shake hands with Oakland. But Emily steps between them. "Vaughn, why don't you show, instead of telling?" She smirks at Oakland. "You may want to step back."

  Vaughn shoves Laura and her chair to one side and pushes me against the wall. Then he steps to the center of the room and tenses, his body turning clear and watery for a second before it surges and morphs into the form of a gigantic, hulking, dark-furred bear. Laura yelps behind her gag, and I gasp. The bear must weigh nearly a ton. Several hundred pounds, at least.

  Oakland backs up a step, and I see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. He's nervous. Of course he is. Who wouldn't be, facing down an enormous grizzly bear shifter?

  Emily strokes the bear's cheek and scratches it under the chin. The creature growls deep in its throat. It doesn't move away from her, but its eyes hold a heavy sadness.

  "Vaughn is one of my special friends," says Emily. "He's going to make sure you don't try anything stupid, Oakland honey. If you do, he'll slap little Red-Head there with one of those big meaty paws of his. The result won't be pretty, but it will be messy. If you don't want to spend the night cleaning her viscera off the floor, I suggest you do as I say."

  "And that is?" Oakland's voice remains level, but I can hear an undercurrent of stark despair in it.

  "You failed me," Emily says, her eyes turning icy. "You made me look like a fool to my buyers, my rivals. Thanks to your blunder, the security protocol in that facility has been changed. Months of work, lost, and what do I have to show for all my time and effort and investment? Nothing. Nothing at all."

  "I can fix it," Oakland begins.

  "No," she says. "You can't. I can't get what I wanted now. But what I can do is make an example of you, my sweet. I can show my other go-fers and worker bees what happens when someone screws up a job. If you want these two girls to live, you'll lie down and take your punishment like a good kitty."

  "No, Oakland," I say.

  Emily snaps her fingers. "Vaughn, let's make Red-Head's mouth a little wider. Apparently she likes to talk, so let's give her more room for the words to spill out."

  In a split second, the point of the grizzly's sharp claw is pressed to my cheek, digging deeper, deeper—a trickle of blood runs down to my jaw—

  "No! Please no." Oakland sinks to one knee before Emily. "Please. I'll take whatever punishment you think is right. Just let her go. Let them both go."

  "Oh, dear boy." She traces a wiggly line through his curled dark hair. "Not just yet. I'll let them go, after they've watched what I'm going to do to you. Now—take off your clothes and lie down."

  Oakland tenses, but he obeys, slowly. I grind my teeth togeth
er, wanting to protest but fearful that my words will make it worse. He strips to his underwear and lies down on the moth-eaten carpet, while Emily takes a compact and a tube of lipstick out of her purse.

  "I like to look good for a torture session, you know," she says conversationally, glancing at Laura. "It's such a delightful contrast—me, perfectly put together, pretty as a picture—and the person I'm torturing, sweating and drooling and writhing. Such satisfying juxtaposition." She smears on the lipstick, pops her lips once, and snaps the compact shut.

  The instant she closes it, Oakland's body contorts, his back arching and his hands clawing at the ground. The cords of his neck strain, and the muscles along his jaw stand out starkly. He doesn't scream. Laura whimpers and looks away, but I can't turn away, can't close my eyes. I will be here for him, all the way, no matter how much it hurts to see him like this.

  He relaxes for a bare second, and then she twists him up again, without even moving a finger. Oakland writhes, sweat breaking out across his forehead, his teeth bared. For a second, his form shimmers.

  "He's trying to shift, but he can't, you see." Emily waggles a finger at him. "Not when his nervous system is so occupied with the pain. Right, sugar?"

  Oakland doesn't answer. He's gasping through his teeth, every muscle tight and hard as his body twists and strains, his brain telling him that he's in agony when in reality, nothing is touching him. Nothing but some very powerful mental magic.

  Emily approaches him and bends over, admiring his face. She glances up at me. "He's beautiful, isn't he? I do love him like this. So sexy." Her fingers fiddle with the inseam of her crisp dress pants, and I glance away, sickened.

  But it's a mistake to show her my emotion. "Oh, we're a little prudish, are we?" she says, smirking. "Let's have some fun, then. Want to see what else my brand of mental magic is good for?" She leans over Oakland again. "Do you want me to make it stop, darling? Say 'please.' "

  "Please," he groans.

  "As you wish." As she speaks, his body relaxes, and he lies limp and panting, arms outspread.

  "Watch closely, little Red," says Emily. She kneels beside Oakland, tracing his abs and then licking his sweat from her fingertip. Leaning down, she laps a tear from his cheek and then kisses him, a wet, lascivious press of her lips and a long swirl of her tongue against his tightly closed mouth. "Do you want me, Oakland?" she says softly.

  "Hell no," he answers. And it's obvious, nearly naked as he is, that he has no response to her touch. I smile, triumphant.

  And then Emily flashes me a wicked grin as Oakland gasps again—a different kind of sound this time. Not pain. Pleasure.

  She isn't even touching him.

  He hates her. He loves me. And yet, with the power of her magic, she's making him react like he did on the rocky point by the ocean, in my bed last night, and this morning, when he set me on the counter and made me his.

  "No," I say brokenly. "Don't do this."

  "Oh, but it's such fun!" Emily says. When she touches him, and I think I might transform into a beast myself and rip her head from her neck.

  But I can't. My powerlessness hangs heavy on me, unbearable, a torture of its own. I can't help Oakland, not with the giant bear shifter ready to smash me with a single blow from his paw. I can only stand here, and watch.

  It's strange how much Oakland's pleasure looks like pain—a similar tension of the limbs, the same arching of the spine—but now his cheeks are flushed, his head thrown to the side, fingers digging into the carpet, his green eyes a searing furnace of lust and fury.

  "Stop," he pants. "Emily, stop!"

  She's completely distracted with him now, focused on thrilling the nerves she was torturing a minute ago. This is my one chance. It's either wait this out until she starts hurting him again, or make a move now and hope for the best. I don't know if there's a time limit to her magic, if she'll wear out eventually—and when she does, she might kill him. She only promised to set me and Laura free, not him. And honestly, once Oakland is dead, she'll probably kill me too. Laura she might keep, as a trophy, a new slave to bend to her will.

  It's now or never.

  Tearing my eyes away from Oakland, I inch quietly along the wall, circling the massive grizzly. A shudder runs over his fur, as if he senses my movements; but he doesn't move. He only stares at the strange scene before him, ears twitching in response to the cries of pleasure that are escaping between Oakland's clenched teeth.

  I'm furious inside, raging irrationally at him for his response to Emily's magic, even though I know it isn't his fault. Emily must know that with this talent, she could be the most powerful, most sought-after woman in the world. It's a mark of her character that she prefers giving pain instead of pleasure.

  I've reached the bear's other side. Quickly I dart to Laura, and our eyes meet. She casts her gaze down, squinting at her right forearm, where a silver cuff engraved with symbols catches the light. Her suppression cuff—the talisman that Thessaly gave her, so she could control her powers. Laura snaps her gaze back up to mine, then blinks at the talisman again.

  She wants me to remove it. But if I take it off, how will that help? She'll only set the whole house ablaze. My skin shudders at the thought. I haven't been able to light a candle since the fire at the beach house; hell, I can barely use the stove without flinching. I can't set Laura loose. I can't be burned again.

  Emily speaks, and my attention lurches back to her—but she hasn't noticed that I've moved. She's still gazing into Oakland's face. "Did you know," she says, "that the human heart can only handle so much pain or pleasure? Eventually, the onslaught of all that intense sensory feedback just makes the brain go pop! Game over. Either that, or the heart gives out from the strain. I wonder how much ecstasy our precious Oakland can take before he—pops. Quite a lot, probably, given his shifter stamina. Let's find out, shall we?" And with the last two words, Oakland screams. I can't tell if it's from pain or pleasure, and I don't care.

  I reach down and unclasp the bracelet on Laura's wrist.

  Laura's eyes gleam, strange and savage, and she bends her head toward Emily, staring intently. The next second, flames lick from the hem of Emily's pantsuit, from the ends of her hair, from the shoulder seams of her blazer. She screams, falling to the ground, rolling furiously, trying to put out the flames. The old carpet eats the fire greedily and roars higher while Emily shrieks, engulfed.

  Desperately I fumble with Laura's gag, then with her ropes. But my hands are suddenly encompassed by two huge, dark, powerful ones.

  "Let me." It's Vaughn, in human form again. Pausing to pluck the silver cuff from the floor, he picks up Laura and the chair again, and heads out of the house.

  He's helping us. The bear shifter is helping us. The thought barely registers before I whirl, my eyes seeking Oakland.

  He lies, wasted and spent, soaked in sweat, his eyes glassy green in his handsome face.

  "Oh, god, no. Oakland, no!" I rush to him, kneeling, holding up his head with my right hand. "Come on. We have to go."

  But my words are faint and broken, lost under the piercing wails of the dying Emily and the crackling roar of the growing fire. The flames are everywhere now, crawling up the walls, licking the edges of the ceiling, chewing the carpet closer, closer, to where Oakland's body lies—the beautiful muscled body that I now wish was smaller and lighter, so I could lift it.

  Fumbling through his discarded pants, I jam his wallet and keys into my pockets. Then, seizing his wrist, I pull as hard as I can. He moves an inch, and another. And then he's stuck on a ridge of curled carpet and bent boards, and he won't move any farther. I struggle, hauling one of his arms over my shoulder, heedless of the pain spiking in my bite wound.

  "Come on, Oakland." I cough, retching smoke. My heart thunders in a panic, racing, racing—I'm going to burn. He's going to burn. We're both going to—

  Once more I lunge, trying to get some momentum going so I can move him. I can't heave his entire torso off the ground, but I manage to get
him over the ridge in the carpet and gain one more inch toward the door.

  It's not enough.

  The fire is going to eat us alive.

  "You're not going to get him!" I scream at the flames. But my eyes fall on the red-and-black thing that was Emily, and I know that in mere minutes, we will look the same.

  Unless I leave Oakland behind.

  I could run out of the house into the fresh air and be safe. I could live.

  He'd want me to do it. He'd force me to leave him behind, if he could.

  But this is my choice. No one can make me stay, or go.

  There are things I want to do and design. Children I want to have, places I want to see. My life could still be rich and lovely.

  Except that it can't. If I leave him, not a moment will go by that I don't regret it. I will feel the ache of his absence until the end of my days.

  I can't be happy without this man.

  I throw off my sling, grip his wrists, and give one final, fierce tug.

  The fire is singeing his ribs. I stamp at it, screaming hoarsely. I sit down, nearly in the flames myself, and kick both feet against his body, rolling him toward the door.

  A massive shape fills the doorway, and huge hands grip me and Oakland by our arms. Vaughn drags us both from the blazing room, through the foyer, and out onto the grass, where he dumps us roughly beside Laura. She's untied now, rubbing circulation back into her arms. Her silver cuff is on her wrist again.

  I hunch over Oakland, brushing my hand over his rough black curls, tracing the shape of his ear. He's breathing, thank God. He's alive. And thanks to his shifter nature, the scorched skin along his side should heal quickly. I hope any damage to his tortured brain, nerves, or heart will heal equally fast.

  Above us, the old house vomits black smoke from every window. Fire engines will be arriving soon, along with police and ambulances and a barrage of difficult questions.

  "We have to leave," Vaughn says gruffly. "You have a car?"

  "Yes," I manage, through another coughing fit.

  He slings Oakland over his shoulder. "Show me."