by Karen Glista
The door knob clinked the sound of tumblers falling and then it creaked open. “Dinner is served,” Trixie said with a warm smile.
Donja’s eyes trailed to the clock atop the ornate table, 6:57 p.m. Shocked by the lateness of the hour, she turned back to Trixie who was smiling like an old friend.
My goodness. Aren’t you the perfect Jekyll and Hyde?
She tried to force a smile, knew damn well that she should, yet beleaguered by rage left over from their last encounter, she took a step forward, unable to control her tongue. “So, you’re going to offer me food? Is that before or after you knock the filthy Indian on her ass and cut out her heart?”
Trixie just stared. She swung the door wide and with a wave of her hand, gestured. “Your meal’s waiting.”
Donja took a breath, eyes locked on Trixie’s face and deduced that she was indeed, nothing short of a psychopath, actually—they all were. Second thinking her bitter approach and keenly aware that she was indeed starving, she forced a smile, though weak at best and headed for the door.
In the hallway, Donja waited while Trixie locked her door. Baffled, she cocked her head.
What the heck?
Trixie must have read her thoughts. “It’s just to prevent some rogue Iridescent from getting into your room, hiding and waiting in hopes of your Chippewa blood. Quite the rare one you are, my dear,” she chuckled, “and we must keep the Queen safe for his lips only.”
Donja shivered, but held her tongue. She followed behind Trixie who was dressed to kill in black stilettos and a shiny blue mini with half her derriere hanging out.
Donja’s stomach growled pitifully and Trixie flashed a saccharin smile. “Poor baby, you are hungry.”
Donja felt a wave of disgust, but she forced herself to return the smile, after all, the woman held power over her and at this moment in time, she had no intentions of rocking the boat. She followed behind as Trixie sashayed the hallway, taking the opportunity to survey the mansion in hopes of discovering a phone, an open door or an escape route. They passed several winding hallways and a large room with a big screen TV where six to eight men, whom she assumed were Iridescents, were lounging on leather furniture, lost in an action-packed movie.
My God, how many men are guarding this house?
Finding the staircase, she gripped the ornate bannister and about half way down the winding descent, she caught the sound of background music. Glancing out the windows as they passed the great room, with her pumps tapping rhythmically on the hardwood floors, she noticed two guards on the deck and beyond the bannistered rails, a red and yellow sunset all but devoured by the rugged mountains.
Entering a massive dining hall, she saw a man seated at the head of the table which occupied the room. Silver candelabras adorned an elegant lace table cloth, the smell of food enticing. He rose to his feet, his head neatly shaved, his dark mahogany eyes which perfectly matched his complexion reflecting the flames.
“Donja,” he beamed, with perfectly squared teeth polished a ghostly white. “My name is Garret.” He waltzed from the head of the table, cutting the distance between them, a giant of a man, regal and handsomely dressed in an expensive, three-piece suit. “You look even more beautiful than I imagined,” he said, then softly kissed her cheek. Towering over her, he pulled out her chair. A bit stunned, she sat down as he tucked her in. He took his seat and as if on cue, a young man, eighteen, perhaps twenty, with a long blonde mane bound tight into a dangling tail approached and served their plates, followed by crystal stem chalices filled with red wine. Donja noticed that in addition to both their plates, the young man set a third, directly across from her. After a nod from Garret, the young man backed away and took a stance like a store front mannequin, blue eyes gazing at nothing.
“Zaroc, my son, is running a bit late,” Garret stated with a sickening tone of graciousness that forced her gut to clench. “He’s actually tying up a few loose ends with Jonas who graciously arranged your trip.” He paused with quirky smile. “I just hate the word abduction.” He unfolded his white, cloth napkin with a glance that washed over her so quickly that she felt chilled. “Is your food satisfactory?”
Donja felt her temper flare, but bit her tongue, eyes locked on her plate of roast beef, potatoes and broccoli. She took note of a salad and what appeared to be fresh baked yeast bread and though plagued by anger, decided it might be best to eat before coiling to strike. She tried to control herself, but his choice of words, his demeanor, everything about him set her on edge and without thinking, she said, “Well, Garret, you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t find your choice of words appropriate.”
He raised a brow. “What’s that, my dear?”
She exhaled, fighting for control. “I just mean that you speak of my trip here, which was nothing short of kidnapping like—”
“Like it was meant to be,” he laughed robustly and disgusted by his boisterous display, Donja could only stare in silent rage. He cocked his head with a demanding presence, eyes staring right through her. “You’ll get over it.” he smirked. “And let’s cut the formalities. Call me Dad.”
“Dad?” Her lips trembled.
“But of course, I’ll soon be your father-in-law.”
Her cheeks burned and then she spied the butter knife beside her plate. She suppressed the desire to sink it in his chest and instead met his stolid gaze. “For the record, my Dad’s dead and as for your son, forget it, I won’t marry him, not now, not ever.”
His eyes narrowed as a wicked smile spread upon his face. “Oh, but you will.”
Donja gripped the table defiantly. “And if I refuse?”
His demeanor shifted. “How is young Frankie?”
Donja gasped. She gripped the table and as her shock gave way to anger, her eyes narrowed. “You keep my brother out of this.”
“Temper, temper,” he smiled.
“You dare touch my brother and I swear…”
His demeanor flipped. “You swear!”
He clicked his fingers and the young man who served their food walked over and knelt on his knees.
Garret casually leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of the boy’s cheeks. The boy closed his eyes, yet Donja noticed he trembled.
Garret turned and winked at Donja then snapped the boy’s neck as if it were nothing.
Donja jumped up and screamed. She turned to run from the dining hall, but two burly guards were at the door. She turned back and watched as Garret leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “Please, my little firebrand, tell me more about what a badass you are.”
Donja swallowed.
“Now I suggest you sit down for our meal,” Garret said.
Donja walked back to the table, horrified. She locked her eyes upon him. He was a psychopath obviously accustomed to getting his way. She thought about Frankie, swallowed hard and sat down.
“Good girl,” Garret said, “I’m glad to see you understand the situation.”
One of the guards came in, threw the boy’s body over his shoulder and marched away.
“Well, where were we?” Garret said, his voice like honey. “Oh yes, you wanted to know if you could call me Dad.”
Hearing footsteps, with her heart in her throat, Donja watched as the young man she had met earlier came strolling toward them, dressed in a white silk shirt beneath a navy vest with tight slacks to match.
Garret stood up, a smile on his face. “Zaroc, you’re late.”
“Sorry, Father, I was a little preoccupied.”
“With?”
“Trixie. She’s a little insecure about my bride-to-be.”
“You put her in line, didn’t you?”
“Well, not me, but he had his way with her and it got a little too heated. I’ll miss her.”
Miss her…my God! Thought Donja.
Trembling, though her interest piqued, Donja queried, meeting Zaroc’s gaze. “He? Who are you referring too?”
Zaroc’s smile faded as he flashed his eyes to Garret.
> “No one who concerns you, my dear,” Garret said sipping his wine which Donja realized was not wine at all, but blood. Her stomach churned.
“Sit down, son,” Garret beckoned with a disarming smile, “Donja and I were just getting acquainted. Lovely girl.”
Zaroc, stranger that he was, walked directly to Donja with a smile that could easily set you at ease. He leaned down as if they were lovers, turned her face and kissed her, plunging his tongue into her mouth. Donja squirmed and was about to protest, but he pulled away with a smile. She caught his scent.
Sandalwood…just like, Torin.
She fought an onslaught of tears.
“Yes, she is lovely,” Zaroc sighed. He circled the table with fleeting glances which Garret returned.
Watching the obvious ritual unfolding between them, it occurred to Donja that Zaroc was either blatantly insecure, or as terrified of Garret as she was. She studied Zaroc, long dark locks cascading down his back, a hulking man, heavily muscled but his immature mannerism didn’t match. He took a seat directly across from her, tossed his dark hair over his shoulder and glanced at his father with a boyish grin, waiting for approval. He and Garret shared a brief look and as if on cue, Zaroc unfolded his cloth napkin and placed it in his lap.
“Shall we?” Garret said, a fork in one hand, his knife in the other.
Tremulous, Donja watched them for a moment eating and though she wanted to protest, scream, fight, her gut was rumbling. Finally, with hunger overriding emotions, she unfolded her napkin, picked up her fork and dived in, shoveling it down. She chewed aware of their intense scrutiny.
“Where are your manners?” Garret asked softly.
Donja met his gaze while taking another bite.
“You eat like a starving beast?” He scowled offensively.
Donja wiped her lips with her napkin. “Not that you care,” she snapped, “but yes, I’m starving, thanks to…” her words trailed away and she dropped her head wishing she had kept her mouth shut.
“This girl’s a delight,” Garrett chuckled, “I haven’t been this entertained in years. It sounds like we need to apologize,” he chuckled again. “Well son, what do you say to that? Best get down on your knees and beg forgiveness,” he laughed.
“What’s…she, talking about?” Zaroc stammered.
Donja noticed Zaroc was all but cowering, avoiding eye contact with his father.
Garret leaned back in his chair with a glint of humor in his eyes.
“Well lad, I’m waiting. Get to it, handle your woman.”
Zaroc was clearly rattled. He gave Donja a look. “Are you saying they starved you?”
With concern for Frankie once more in her mind, Donja dropped her head.
Keep your mouth shut.
“Answer me,” Zaroc said and Donja heard Garret chuckle.
She raised her head. “Yes,” she whispered, “no food or water and…abused.”
Garret leaned onto the table. “Poor little kitten,” he chuckled.
“Abuse of what kind?” Zaroc asked.
“It’s okay,” Donja whispered, eyes back to her plate, aware that Garret was watching her. “Forget It.”
“I asked you a question,” Zaroc said.
“That’s good, son, make her purr,” Garret chuckled.
“I was duct taped, slapped and…touched,” Donja whispered.
“Are you insinuating that Jonas groped you?” Zaroc asked with an anxious tone.
“Well he’s,” she paused, “pretty familiar with my body, if that’s what you mean.”
“Father, she was supposed to be mine,” Zaroc protested.
“Well lad, shall we have him killed?” Garret said as he waved his fork toward the guards. “Give them the order if you wish. Show the little lady what she means to you,” he said matter-of-factly as he returned to his meal.
Zaroc just sat there, his jaw twitching and as Donja watched, he cut his eyes to Garret who was enjoying his meal. Without a word, Zaroc picked up his fork and returned to his meal.
They ate, cloaked in silence, but Donja didn’t fail to notice Zaroc watching her every move. She finished up her meal, wiped her lips and tossed the napkin on the table.
“Done?” Zaroc asked.
“Yes.”
Zaroc got up, circled the table and pulled her chair out. “Come, I have something to show you.”
Towering over her, Zaroc escorted her with his hand in the small of her back. Inside the great room, he ushered her to a hallway concealed by the staircase. They marched in silence, his scent as well as his firm hand unsettling. Nearing the end of the hallway, he opened a door, their destination a vast library where the smell of books and parchment filled the air. Across the expanse of the room with towering shelves housing books by the thousands, Donja saw a woman in a beige dress with ebony locks and eyes to match. She raised her head from an open book.
“Mother,” Zaroc said with measurable warmth flowing from his eyes, “I thought you had taken your leave for Vancouver.”
“No, I leave tomorrow,” she replied softly.
Donja studied her face. She was an ineffable beauty, no more than twenty, too young to be his mother.
Maybe she’s one of them, though I’ve never heard mention of a female Iridescent.
The woman snapped the book she was reading tight, a fringed book marker hanging midway through the pages. “You must be Donja,” she said and Donja realized she was sizing her up. She rose to her feet, dainty with a figure most girls would die for and padded the plush carpet toward them. She removed her glasses and planted a quick kiss on Zaroc’s cheek, who bent his towering frame to accommodate her lips. A great silence fell upon them until finally the woman said, “Donja, I do hope you will find it in your heart to save my son.”
“Pardon?”
“Save my son’s life.”
“By marrying him and giving him a baby?”
“The baby is the least of my worries, it is his life that concerns me.”
“Mother, please,” Zaroc whispered.
She met his gaze with a questioning flare of her arched brows. “You haven’t told her, have you?”
“Mother, would you just let me handle this my way?”
“Very well,” she whispered, heading for the door.
Donja watched as she took her leave and just as her hand found the door knob, Donja called out to her. “You’re Chippewa, aren’t you?”
She paused, easing the door open. “Yes.”
“You were one of the women in the wedding album. I recognize you.”
“Yes,” she said as her demeanor shifted; a faraway look in her eyes.
“Who were all those women?”
Silence fell upon them, the woman contemplating. “They are descendants of the Durent Clan—aunts, sisters and cousins.” She raised a hand to swipe a lock from her brow. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She disappeared to the hallway.
Donja turned and immediately surveyed the room, searching for a phone. None existed, at least none she could see, but she did spy several computers in a nook behind a wall of books. Zaroc made his way to an ornate desk and pulled out a mahogany, high-back chair. Donja followed and nearing the desk, saw the wedding album. Her eyes widened, avoiding the chair. “That’s the wedding album. You had Jonas steal it, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Why, what’s so important about these pictures?”
“Because they were twice stolen,” he said.
Donja took a step back. “I don’t understand.”
“They were the property of the Iridescent Council, photos and hand-drawn images of Chippewa brides taken as consorts dating back hundreds of years. The album was in my possession, you see, I had stolen it from the Council chambers to remove my mother’s picture. She’s immortal, one of the few brides who crossed over. She didn’t want someone like a Council maid or caretaker to get their hands on it for fear they would discover her secret. It happened once and the woman, who was my mother�
�s cousin, was blackmailed. Anyway, I had every intention of returning it but unfortunately, it came up stolen…again.” He took a breath. “I couldn’t prove it, but I suspected Nara Engadine to be the thief. At the time, she lived in the home now occupied by your family.”
Donja tucked her hair behind her ears, recalling her mother’s tale of Nara. “And this Nara, who was rumored to be a ghost, was aware of Iridescents?”
“Ghost, how did you know of the rumors?” he asked.
“The realtor told my parents.”
“Ahhh,” he breathed with open lips, his eyes on her neck.
Donja raised a hand to cover the spot where Torin marked her. “And you say Nara knew about Iridescents?” she asked hoping to escape his eyes which were still on her neck.
“Of course, and like I said, I suspected her to be the thief, but she denied it,” he sighed. “I must have searched that house a thousand times, but couldn’t find it and look at you. Move in and find it immediately.” He took a step forward, towering over her, reached out and touched her hair. “Where exactly was it hidden?”
Donja moved back, as if examining the album. “In a faux attic discovered during construction.”
He shook his head. “Well I’ll be damned. That Nara, she was a sly one and I’m not surprised she went to such extremes. She had an axe to grind.”
“Why?”
A smile slowly spread upon his face. “Long story short, she was my consort.”
“That’s impossible,” Donja blurted, “she lived alone with a female caregiver who inherited her home when she died.”
“No, sorry that’s not how it went. Dear Nara was a Chippewa female, marked by an Iridescent nicknamed ‘Lion,’ dubbed such because he had a head full of wild curly hair that resembled a lion’s mane.
Donja recalled the lock of hair bound in leather found in attic. It had the initials L.C.N.
That was Nara’s husband? That accounts for the all the lion heads throughout the manor.
“Lion worked for my father,” Zaroc said drawing her from thought, “and quite by accident, my father found out that he was swindling money from his business and that he had used the funds to buy Nara that estate. They argued and when a fight ensued my father killed him. Nara was told to get off the estate, but when my father found out she was pregnant, he allowed her to stay until she could give birth.”