by Renea Mason
He didn’t wait for my response. “It’s shifting residue. Since you obviously don’t know what they are made of, let me educate you. Your husband Michael is a shifter. He can transmute from one form to another, looking like anyone or anything he wishes. Real shifters don’t just change at will like in the movies. It takes effort and can be quite uncomfortable, but oh, the benefits. It’s really quite convenient. Wish I had that talent. One of the unfortunate side effects of shifting is the milky white residue that dries into a clear, crystalline substance. It’s excreted through the pores during the change. So essentially you have statues made of excrement on your shelf. Expertly crafted excrement, but excrement nonetheless. Now tell me how do you feel about your better half now?”
I wanted to strike Cyril, but my anger was better directed back at me. I had trusted Michael.
“Thought he cared for you? That he went out of his way to make you gifts? When all he did was give you the supernatural equivalent of shit. You have some room on your shelf, Miss Hill. Should I be insulted you haven’t asked me for my bodily fluids to predominantly display? I do have different kinds and I’m sure I could find some creative ways for you to extract them.” He moved in closer to my ear. “Wait. That’s right. You’ve had my bodily fluids. Or at least one of them, but you drank it. Guess I wasn’t worthy of the bookcase.”
The fucking tears were back. I could deal with his condescension. I could easily deflect his anger, but the hurt tone lacing his mocking touched something in me. He was such a bastard.
“Are you done?” It was my turn to growl.
His body moved even closer, forcing my back against the wall. Eye contact with him was intense and somewhat awkward in these ridiculous moments we experienced. He sifted my soul when he looked in my eyes. His eyes could easily strip me of all self-control, so deep and hauntingly blue… Fuck! I was worried he was trying to read my mind again. I needed to change the direction of the conversation.
“Cyril, how many times am I going to have to tell you? I didn’t steal anything from you, or conspire against you, and I certainly had no idea what those figurines were made of. Michael was a paramedic on the scene the night you died. You were the only supernatural person I knew, and you were dead. Michael never gave me any indication he was anything other than human.”
I looked away from him as I said the next words. The words I had never spoken aloud were going to hurt, cut me deep even before I said them. Part of me still needed the fairy tale, but deep down, it was all a lie.
“I was so alone,” I whispered, “and homeless. I woke up from a coma after seven months, my muscles atrophied. After a week, I barely regained the ability to talk and had no one. Not my aunt, not my parents, and not you. The moment I opened my eyes it was as if you had just died. No time to grieve and no life to move on to. The figurines and notes were a life preserver. Michael cared for me. He moved me into his home. Being with him was easy, convenient. My need to feel connected to something overwhelmed me. I clung to him and he needed me, Cyril. He needed to take care of me, or at least that’s what I thought and I…needed to be needed. When he told me I imagined you, he was easy to believe because my memory of you was so unbelievable.”
My tears flowed freely. He didn’t move.
I hiccupped, unable to stop the flow of words. “You have to understand, I never looked at him the way I did you. Hell, I lived with him for months and I didn’t sleep with him until we went to Vegas and he talked me into a quickie wedding.”
“You married him in Vegas?”
“We were married exactly three hours before I woke up and found him dead. When I saw him in the garden that night with you I thought I imagined him. I didn’t know it was him until you pulled your knife out and then I was distraught and possibly crazy.” I hesitated. “I guess he’s not really dead, is he?” I looked up to see him shake his head as he started whispering.
His words were soft, but his eyes were not. “Your story, however touching, does nothing to change the evidence. You continue to lie to me and that’s not counting the numerous lies of omission. You married and fucked the very man who led the mutiny that killed me the night you speak of so often.”
I gasped. “Oh, my God! Michael!” He was the bastard who started it all.
His eyes narrowed. “Stop pretending like you didn’t know. You have betrayed me in ways I didn’t even imagine were possible.”
“To betray you, Cyril, I would have to mean something to you. That’s not possible with how easily you cast me aside tonight. Besides, in the end, I avenged your death.”
“How so?”
“He didn’t survive. Having sex with me was a catalyst. I killed him, didn’t I?”
He pondered for a moment. “You could be right, Miss Hill. It is very possible I’m responsible for his undoing with you, my delivery system. Let me in your head so I can clear all of this up.” He reached for my hand.
“Never! Stay out of my head. You’re not welcome!” I pulled away with all my strength. Free for only a moment, he grasped my arms again.
“Have it your way.” He picked me up and threw me over his shoulder.
I screamed but he ignored me, stopping in front of Overton.
“Stanton, gather up her things. She is far too much of a liability. She needs to be contained.”
“Contained? You son of a bitch, put me down!”
“Stanton, I’m going to need to use your car. You can bring hers once you round up her keys.” His calm demeanor contrasted with my reaction.
Shouting obscenities the entire way to the car, I even screamed “Rape!” to no avail.
He chuckled. “Duck your head. We’re going for a ride.”
He threw me into the passenger seat, fastened my seat belt in a blur, and took his place behind the wheel. He sped off, my back plastered to the seat from the force of his acceleration, exhilarating but frightening.
We stayed silent for a long time until his words cut through the air. “If you’re not hiding anything, and all your claims are true, why won’t you allow me to read your mind? Are you frightened? Is that it? It doesn’t hurt.”
“Cyril, once upon a time you trusted me. You would never think of violating me in that way. I guess I’m just holding on to the hope that man still exists under all…this…”—I waved my hands toward him—“bluster and arrogance. If you want to know something, why don’t you ask like a normal person?”
With no hesitation he asked, “Did you love me?”
I pursed my lips and glared at him. The silence hung in the car. I cleared my throat. “I’m not going to answer that. Got another question?”
Expecting him to laugh, I was dismayed when he didn’t.
He whispered, “That’s what I thought.”
Neither of us spoke for the remainder of the drive.
* * *
Still staring out the damn window five nights later, I watched the world pass by while the black chandelier collected dust. The housekeeper did not visit me with trays of food and toiletries anymore. Instead it was Overton who wheeled in the cart. The door, reinforced with several locks, snapped into place every time it closed. Cyril meant business.
Overton took great offense to me asking if Mary, the housekeeper, was killed for not preventing my escape, and now inhabited the body of someone far less incompetent. His tolerance for my flippant comments seemed to have a limit. He needed to get over it. Bored, he was one of my few sources of entertainment. Provoking him gave me smug satisfaction because Cyril would never let him hurt me.
On the second night of my forced vacation, Overton called Clarence for me.
“Linden, you have a choice to make. I make the call here in front of you so you can hear the entirety of our conversation and you remain silent. If you do not, I will see to it that you are not only confined, but bound as well, and I will make the call in another room. You can forever wonder about what I have told him. Which do you choose?”
“And you call yourself a priest? What would God thi
nk of that ultimatum?”
“I’m not a priest, Linden, I am bound by no oath to God, but in this case, I feel he would firmly be on my side. It is for the benefit of you and Cyril that I would hold true to my threat. No more delay. Are you going to keep your mouth shut or shall I leave?”
“Fine! I’ll be quiet.”
“Thank you.”
He pulled out his phone. Figured he had Clarence’s number. Overton had more information than Google.
He held up one finger to me and then turned away.
“Clarence, this is Stanton Overton. I’m calling to beg your forgiveness. It seems I’ve been an absentminded bugger and you are no doubt beside yourself with worry.”
I tried to grab the phone from his hand, but he spun away too fast.
“Yes, she is fine. Funny story, really. My business associate whom you met at the symphony has taken a fancy to Linden and she too is smitten. He whisked her away on an impromptu getaway to the south of France. He has a villa. It is quite lovely.”
If looks could kill, Overton would have had a very bad night.
“Yes. Yes. I certainly understand your concern. It is entirely my fault. She forgot her cell phone here in the States and asked me to call and let you know that everything was fine, but it completely slipped my mind. I’m a bachelor and not really used to minding others. I will make sure she knows you wish her well.” Overton winked at me. “Yes. It’s quite fortunate. I wouldn’t be surprised if she marries the bloke. They seem to be rekindling an old flame.”
I made no promise about physical violence in our agreement. I poked Overton hard in the ribs.
He gasped and sucked in air, shot me a dirty look, and chuckled to cover.
“Thank you. She should be back in two weeks.”
I shook my head.
“I will let her know. My best to you.”
Overton hit the end button on the phone.
“Two fucking weeks! Are you out of your mind?”
“No, my mind is quite sound. You have no need to worry. The police and your job have all been taken care of. So don’t fret.”
I kicked him in the shin.
He grinned. “Behave,” he said and exited the room.
* * *
In an attempt to keep from going stir-crazy during daylight hours, I counted river barges for fun, but around three each morning things got a little more interesting. I wasn’t sure what kind of game Cyril played, but it had to be some kind of psychological warfare. Cyril entered the room clad in his leather fighting gear. He walked to the window, looked outside for several minutes, ignoring my presence. After taking in the sights, he undressed. As he stood, his impressive physique was a silhouette over the illuminated cityscape. A work of art to be appreciated no matter how pissed off I was.
He lowered his head as he removed his pants. Each time his erect cock sprang free from the lacing at his crotch, he glanced up to see if I watched him. Of course I did.
Nude, he turned toward the window, his profile accentuating all his manly features. After several minutes of contemplation, he walked into the bathroom and took his shower. I didn’t intrude. When finished, he emerged wearing only a towel.
He removed the towel, sat on the edge of the bed, and lay down beside me on his back with his eyes closed. No snoring, but his breathing slowed as though he slept.
The fact he said he didn’t sleep made the ritual suspect. The first two nights I slept on the floor. The night before last, I climbed into bed opposite him. He still had not spoken to me, but in all fairness, I had not spoken to him either. Sleeping on the floor murdered my back, and the bed had plenty of room. I didn’t have to touch him. But the sheets posed a different problem; they smelled like him. Inhaling his scent, with him lying so close, was a dangerous combination.
The next night, things were different. Around midnight the door opened and in stumbled a bleeding Cyril.
“Dear God, what happened?” I said, breaking my silence as I ran to him.
He dragged one leg. Seeing him hunched over and grimacing in pain, I put my arm around his waist. I tried to provide support, but my attempt was futile. So much blood. I guided him into the bathroom to the bench on the far wall of the shower. Once he was seated, I ran to the vanity searching for a washcloth. Before I attended to him, I turned the shower on a low trickle so I could wet the cloth.
Grasping his chin with one hand, I used the washcloth in my other to clean away the blood. Relieved his face lacked wounds, I realized I needed to examine the rest of him. His stare lacked expression and he made no move to stop—or encourage—me. I grabbed the hem of his shirt and he assisted by lifting his arms. Faint lines of blood streaked his chest, and I wiped them away. No wounds visible, thank goodness.
“I need you to lean forward so I can check your back,” I said, my voice gentle.
Still silent, he moved without resistance. It was hard to see him vulnerable, nothing menacing about him now. Once satisfied he was wound-free above the waist, I knelt and began to unlace his boots. My standard Cyril-issued white nightgown streaked with red and wet where my knees rested on the ground. I pulled off his boots and he raised each leg to help. When he raised his left leg, he winced, revealing a deep gash in his pants, oozing blood.
“Cyril, I need to get your pants off.”
Even in his condition he managed to raise an eyebrow.
“You know what I mean. Your leg, I need to get a look at the wound.”
Taking a deep breath, I reached for the lacing on his pants and pulled the string to untie them, like undoing very tightly laced shoes. Beginning at the top of his waistband, I pulled apart the thin pieces of leather. With each subsequent crisscross, I had to insert my index finger under the lace to pull it loose, causing my finger to rub along the ridge of his very large cock. I blushed with each movement. On my second trip down, pulling the ties free, he groaned. I looked up to meet his eyes, almost black with…what? Pain? Lust? Both?
“Cyril, I’m going to need you to use your good leg to raise your hips while I slide down your pants. On the count of three …”
I hooked my fingers in the waistband on either side of his hips and counted, “One…two…three…”
He lifted his hips and I wiggled the pants down his legs. He sucked air through clenched teeth, and hissed. The wound went completely through the side of his leg, visible on the back. It looked like he had been skewered by a sword, a very large sword. The blade had to have grazed his femur.
“Oh Cyril, that looks awful. You need stitches.” I looked up into his eyes.
He mouthed the word no. It sounded like he tried to speak, but a rush of pain cut him off.
I clasped his hand and looked into his eyes. “I’ll be right back. If you won’t go to the hospital, I’ll find Overton.”
He grunted something that also sounded like a no, and pointed to a closet to the right, concealed behind a mirrored door.
Damn. I looked at that mirror a dozen times and never noticed the hidden door.
I made my way to it and pushed on the door like I did the old medicine cabinet in my aunt’s apartment, and it popped open. The shelves housed many supplies, even extra deodorant.
Double damn. I located some gauze and bandages, grabbed the unopened bottle of peroxide, and made my way to the shower. Cyril sat patiently. Luckily my concern for him overrode my usual lust-filled stupor I was prone to when around him. I placed the first-aid items behind me on the floor, away from the water, and grabbed the handheld showerhead.
“This is going to hurt but I have to clean it off.”
He gave me a look that said go for it.
Holding the showerhead so water could drip over the wound, I placed a palm on his cheek. He moaned in pain while he clenched his fists at his sides on the bench. My free hand cupped and stroked his cheek, reassuring him it would be done soon. I replaced the nozzle and grabbed the gauze. When I went for the peroxide, he told me no.
I didn’t argue. I coaxed him to shift so I could ba
ndage both the front and the back of the wound. I used Band-Aids in substitution for butterfly sutures in an effort to keep his skin together, then placed heaps of gauze pads on the laceration and wound, then more gauze around his leg to hold the dressing in place. I stood and took the towel from the hook outside the shower, then returned to dry him off. He watched me. My dress was soaked in water and blood. I dried every inch of him with a clinical detachment that impressed me.
“Come on, let’s get you to bed.” I extended my hand.
Carefully, he rose to his good leg and hobbled, using me for support the entire way. With my free hand, I pulled back the covers. I didn’t offer to get something for him to wear since I knew he went to bed each night sans clothing. I urged him to sit. “You’re going to have to lie on your right side.”
He got into position. I walked over to the cart and retrieved another Cyril-approved white nightgown, then strode into the bathroom to change. I turned out the light and returned to the bed. With curtains open, the city appeared more illuminated than usual, most likely a sporting event. I started to pull the covers up around him, but he motioned for me to leave them.
I complied. “Can I get you anything?” I whispered.
“No.” He closed his eyes.
Walking across the room to the opposite side of the bed, I paused, pulled back the covers, and climbed in. I turned to face him, but his back was to me, the injury forcing him into that position. He couldn’t look me in the eye. There was something liberating about having him face away from me.
“Cyril, why aren’t you healing? Don’t you heal faster because of what you are?” I didn’t expect an answer, but perhaps he too found some freedom in our position.
“I lost a lot of blood. It takes much longer when I’m low. That’s how Michael and his men managed to kill me.”
Dear God. The blood was everywhere that night. It made sense. How could Michael do such a thing? Without thinking, I reached out and traced the branching patterns on the skin of his back. He was quiet as I caressed him with a featherlight touch over the tightly woven pattern. His breathing had become erratic from the pain, but it seemed to stabilize somewhat under my touch. It was too much to believe he would find comfort from me. As surly as he usually was, I was surprised he let me help him at all.