I won. But there’s no thrill in beating such a pathetic creature. Suddenly, guilt washes over me. I should use these for bargaining with him, making him agree not to hurt me, to let me use the ladder. But I can’t.
Holding one cinnamon roll in each hand, I crawl on my elbows towards him. When I’m within reach, I stop. He hasn’t moved. My stomach drops when I let my eyes move to that gaping slash in his back, skin peeled back, the black fur matted around it with what must be blood. In the dark basement, I can’t see a color difference between blood and fur. But I can see how badly he’s wounded, and I know that my father is the one who attacked him.
Defending me, I remind myself. Harmon would have killed me if my father hadn’t intervened.
“Harmon?” I whisper. Maybe it’s stupid to put myself within his reach again, but I can’t bring myself to be selfish. “I brought you some food. Please don’t bite me.”
He doesn’t move. If he bled to death while I stuffed my face, I’m to blame. But I don’t know how I could have helped, either. I’m not a doctor, and he needs more than a cinnamon roll. Suddenly, my broken ankle seems like a scratch in comparison. I’ve been so distracted by that pain that I barely noticed his. I can’t imagine what kind of agony he’s in. No wonder he snapped at me.
“Here,” I say, scooting forward so he won’t have to move. I extend a cinnamon roll above his head, not wanting to set it on the dirt. My hand is shaking as he lifts his head, but I don’t pull back. He sniffs, then raises his hideous face to look at me. I try not to flinch, in case he can smell my fear. Or in case his thoughts are more human, and he sees my revulsion.
He pushes at my hand with his short wolf nose, then draws back, his head sagging. “It’s okay,” I say. “You need to eat, too. I won’t look.” I turn my face away, not wanting to see him eating with his human lips and sharp wolf fangs, his stubby flat dog nose. After a second, he takes a bite. I wince every time he presses down into my hand for more, sure he’s going to bite me.
But soon, I'm distracted from that fear by the sensation of his lips on my palm. I know I should be thinking of him like a dog, but he's not a dog. He's a boy. And his lips are soft and warm every time they brush against my skin. When he's finished, his face presses into my hand for just a second, and suddenly, I'm sure he's going to lick me, like a dog. My heart skips a beat when his hot breath fills my palm. But he turns his face away without a word.
I let out a breath and back away slowly, suddenly awkward. Once again, he's a disgusting monster, an animal who bit me. But I can't stop feeling weird about how easy it was to forget that, even when he was eating out of my hand. I leave him another cinnamon roll and retreat to my corner, where, my stomach full at last, I fall into a deep, exhausted sleep.
6
When I wake again, the basket is still next to me. The first thing I do is check to make sure no one has stolen my food. Four cinnamon rolls remain, now cold but still tempting. I break off half of one and chew it slowly. My head is clearer now, and the pain is mostly gone. I check my hand, where Harmon bit me, and am happy to see scabs forming over the punctures, and no redness or swelling.
Now that my mind is clear, I begin to question the past few days. Maybe I imagined it all—the eclipse, my father, Mrs. Nguyen’s visit. But no. That’s how I ended up here. At the very least, I should double check that she’s alive and begin to formulate a plan to get out and find my father again.
Someone brought the food, lowered it down from above. Which means someone unlocked and opened the door above the ladder. Which means there is a way out. I don't have anything to negotiate with, but they must want something. I just have to figure out what it is, and then figure out how to give it to them.
Since Harmon is in here with me, I can be pretty certain of who my captors are. It doesn't bring much comfort. No matter their faults, at least the wolf pack didn't throw me in a dark basement with a dying wolf and let me starve for days. From what I know about shifters, which admittedly isn't much, I'd rather be in the wolves' custody.
Still, there's a certain power in knowing even this much. If I know who my enemies are, maybe I can find out what they want. If they're trying to negotiate my release with the wolves, though, I could be in for a long imprisonment. The wolves don't want me back.
But they'll want Harmon. He's their Alpha now, after all.
I turn to the corner of the basement and squint into the darkness, trying to make out his form under the ladder. If I ally myself with him, maybe they'll take us both as a package deal, and he won't leave me here to rot. After all, he told me to say I belonged to him. As much as the thought makes me bristle with indignation, it might matter to these people.
In the darkness of the basement, I can't see him. I listen, straining my ears for the sound of his breathing. Suddenly, my heart begins to hammer against my ribs. I can't hear him breathing. What if he's dead?
Picking up the broom, I part the straw that makes the head and prop it under my arm like a crutch. Holding onto the handle and bracing the end on the floor, I hop towards Harmon's territory. Part of me doesn't want to see him lying there, dead. But I can't seem to stop myself from investigating. Not knowing is worse than finding out the truth.
When I come within sight of his spot, it looks impossibly flat. I move closer, straining to see what I already know isn't there. The spot under the ladder is empty, except for a twisted blanket pushed against the wall and a bloodstain in the dirt.
I sink down onto the floor and stare at the empty space. As bad as this basement was with him in it, now that he's gone, I know that I’d rather share this dungeon with a monster than face it alone.
I’m still sitting on the cold dirt floor when I hear him howl, somewhere in another room. I shiver and sit up straight, listening. Then it comes again, a yipping howl of pain. I wince. Listening to him howl, followed by a loud, shrill whine, I know he’s in pain. As awful as he can be, I never wanted him to hurt.
I think of that big red gash on his back, and I wonder if they’re poking it, torturing him. I crawl back to my corner and wait, heart hammering, for them to come for me. Instead, whatever they are doing to him goes on and on, until I think I’ll go crazy having to listen to it. I can’t imagine what he’s going through right now. And I don’t want to.
If they kill him, I’ll never get out. The wolves won’t bargain to get me back. They’ll be glad to be rid of me. I can’t stop thinking about how creepy all the shifters I’ve met have been—from the suggestive comments Efrain made and the way he looked at me, to the things my cousin and that other guy said. They treated me like a bargaining chip, and if I didn’t turn out to be as valuable as they expected, they’d find some other twisted use for me.
I shiver and wrap my arms around myself, huddling into my corner. Without my mother to protect me by locking me in her attic, I have no chance. I’m completely alone and in the hands of a bunch of animals who live by their own rules. Or no rules, if the wolves are to be believed.
When the howls subside at last, and only a quiet whimper drifts into the room, a soft, feminine voice speaks. I strain to hear what she’s saying, but I can’t make out her words.
“Can you undo it?” Harmon asks, his voice hoarse and still garbled as he speaks past his new teeth.
The answer is so soft I can’t hear it. Frustrated, I move towards the tiny door, trying to hear the other side of the conversation.
“I didn’t do anything,” Harmon growls. “She wanted to Choose my mate.”
I’m still hovering near the tiny door when it swings open. Stifling a cry, I stumble back against the wall. On all fours, Harmon lurches through the opening on his crooked legs. Watching him walk is worse than anything, that one human leg so repulsive suddenly, when attached to the wrong body. But when he enters the room, his middle is swathed in a wide, white bandage. I can’t tell if that’s all that holds in his guts now, or if it’s a bandage.
Swallowing hard, I force down my questions and close my fingers around the h
andle of my broom. Pathetic as it may be, it’s my only weapon.
Without so much as a glance in my direction, Harmon paws his blanket from the knot against the wall, spreads it out, and collapses onto it. And still no one has come through the door. When I’m sure no one is going to, I begin to creep towards Harmon. In the dark, his white bandage moves slowly up and down as he breathes. At last, I reach him, and whisper a question into the darkness. He doesn’t answer.
I place a hand on his side, tentatively, and a shudder passes across his skin. But he doesn’t stir. I sit over him, in the near-dark, waiting for him to wake up so I can ask him what happened. But after a while, I grow drowsy. It’s not Harmon now, but an injured animal. So I lie down beside him, not against him but close enough that I can sleep with my hand still resting on him. If they come to take him away, this time I’ll know it. If he wakes in pain, I’ll know it.
I sleep fitfully, half of my mind on alert for someone to come in or for Harmon to wake. Finally, near dawn, I sleep for a few hours. When I wake, Harmon has turned to face me. His eyes are open, watching me, their paleness almost glowing in the dimly lit room. Still drowsy, I lie there, returning his gaze, neither of us moving, for what seems like forever.
Finally, awareness sinks in. I’m lying next to a boy. A boy who wanted to kill me the night we were captured. A boy who already hated me because I almost killed his father, and because my father almost killed him. A boy who is now a beastly human-wolf hybrid who bit me just days ago.
A boy who kissed me like I was the only girl on earth.
“What you doin’ there, Stella?” he whispers.
“Nothing.” I sit up quickly, then gasp at the pain in my ankle when it touches the floor. Biting down on my lip until the throbbing subsides, I manage not to cry in front of him.
“What’s wrong?” Harmon asks, his eyes still intent on me.
“Nothing,” I say again, bracing my hands on the floor to scoot away. “Just my ankle.”
He reaches for my hand as if to stop me, then pauses, staring at his wolf paw like it’s not his own. He sets it down on the dirt and studies his mismatched paws. One is wolf, the other is a deformity. Long human fingers, wolf claws, fur.
While he’s temporarily occupied with figuring out what he is, I take the opportunity to scoot away. I don’t know how he’ll react to the realization that he’s no longer the sexy, strutting guy he was in his own pack. Now he’s not only a prisoner, he’s a monstrous thing, a creature. I should feel sorry for him, that he’s lost everything. But for the moment, I only think of how little sympathy he and the wolves had for me when I arrived in their valley after losing everything.
7
I’ve lost track of the days since I’ve been here, sleeping and waking at odd times in the dark basement. But after what must be a week, I’m going crazy sitting around doing nothing. In my mother’s attic, I was always cleaning, or building something, or she let me out to help around the house or in the backyard. When I had nothing else to do, I could always read.
While Harmon lies motionless under the ladder, recovering from whatever was done to him, I push myself upright with the help of the broom and hobble around the room. Outside, the sun is shining, but it barely makes it through the dirt-streaked window. Still, my eyes have grown accustomed to the gloom over the past week.
I hobble to the wooden bins that line the wall beside the freezer. Since the last time she visited, I’ve been waiting for Mrs. Nguyen to return as promised. But I have been too preoccupied with other things—pain, hunger, fear—to dwell on it. It has lurked in the back of my mind, though, a nagging voice wondering if this is yet another trick. No one is trustworthy here. Whether it’s my mother, who threw me in her attic instead of welcoming me into the family, or a father who didn’t jump to my rescue the moment he saw that I was in danger.
Using the edge of the bins for balance, I hop down to the one I think holds the body. With a quick glance at the door to make sure no one is coming, I grip the heavy wooden lid and lift. Inside, a mountain of dusty potatoes greets me. She's gone.
My pulse quickens as I lower the lid, feeling guiltier now than I did before opening the lid. How did they get a human body out without my noticing? I don’t sleep that deeply. Maybe I have the wrong bin. I hop to the next bin and grip the edge of the wooden lid.
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
I spin around, my heart slamming against my throat so hard I can barely swallow.
Harmon has pushed himself up on his one human elbow. His mouth twists into a smirk, grotesque on his half-human face.
It gives me a certain courage that I wouldn’t have if he was still the gorgeous boy I met three years ago. “Don’t you want to know if she’s still here?” I ask. “Or where we are? How to get out?”
“I know where we are.”
“So do I,” I say. “We’re in a dungeon, and there’s a body in one of these bins. And if they’d just throw her into a bin of potatoes and leave her for dead, what do you think they’ll do to us?”
He just sits there, not blinking, watching me like I’m a child having a tantrum. “I think we’ll be okay,” he says at last.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, throwing up my hands. “Don’t you want to get out of here? Don’t you want to be able to go lead your pack, and be able to eat whatever you want, and use a real bathroom instead of a bucket, and wear something besides this stupid dress.” I tear at the puffy, bedraggled skirt as I speak.
“Of course I want to get out,” he says bitterly. “But when is that going to happen? Look at me.” He holds up his hands. “I don’t even know what I am.”
“Then why are you so calm?”
“Because what you’re doing, freaking out, is not helping.”
“Easy for you to say.” I turn back to the bins. “You’re the Alpha now, right? They’ll negotiate to get you back. The pack can’t function without its leader. But what am I? A freak for not being a freak? They don’t want me back.”
“Stella…”
“Don’t patronize me,” I snap, and wrench open the next bin.
And even though I knew she was here, even though I saw her before, it still startles me. I let out a little shriek and drop the lid.
Harmon chuckles.
I spin around to face him, fury swelling inside me. “Just because you’re some werewolf freak and probably eat dead bodies doesn’t mean it’s normal,” I hiss. “The only dead body I’ve ever seen is my father. There. Does that make you happy?”
The smile drops from his face, but he keeps staring at me with those inscrutable blue eyes. “She’s not dead.”
“How do you know? She could die any time, and we’d never know. We’d lose our only hope of getting out of here. Do you even know who this is? Mrs. Nguyen, my babysitter. You know her?”
“I know…of her.”
I throw open the lid to the bin and gesture at her body. “Then why don’t you tell me all about her, since you know so much. How about you start with what she has to do with all this magical weirdness around here. Or maybe we could start with the important stuff first, like why they threw her in a bin of potatoes—.”
“Onions.”
I stop ranting long enough to take a breath. “What?”
“They’re not potatoes,” he says. “They’re onions.”
“Onions, whatever,” I explode. “That’s not the point. I’m sick of being kept in the dark. Why won’t anyone tell me anything? I know your secrets, Harmon. You’re a werewolf. Big freaking deal. I’m over it. So just tell me what’s going on, so we can figure out how to get out of here before they throw us in the onion bin with her. Because like I said, if they’ll toss another shifter in the basement and forget about her, or I don’t know, maybe they threw her in with the food because they’re planning to eat her? So what are they going to do with us?”
Harmon pushes himself up, wincing, and seems to be trying to figure out how to sit with his mismatched legs. It occurs to me suddenly th
at he might have an actual tail. The thought makes me shudder in revulsion.
“She’s not a shifter,” he says.
I throw up my hands in exasperation. “Well, whatever you want to call her. A form shifter, a skin walker, a weremouse, a projectionist, a person who takes the form of an animal. Sorry I’m not up to speed on your terminology.”
“She’s not a shapeshifter,” he says.
“Fine,” I say through clenched teeth. “A witch. Does it really matter?” I turn my attention to the body lying in the bin, still wearing so much camo it looks like she’s joined the army and is setting off on her first mission. Nothing is impossible anymore.
“It’s somewhat important, if we’re putting labels on things,” he says.
“Well, I saw her turn into a mouse,” I say. “So she’s a shifter to me.”
“Really? You saw her body change from human to mouse?”
“She left her body, and turned into a mouse.”
“Yeah,” he says, lying back down with a grimace. “That’s what sorcerer’s do. Shifters don’t leave their bodies. They transition into something else. Like us.” He lifts his half-human hand and flexes it, staring up at it like he doesn’t recognize it.
“A mirror,” I say, remembering what she told me.
“What?”
“A mirror. That’s what she is.”
“No,” he says with exaggerated patience. “A mirror is when she does it to a human and refuses to give the body back, thereby killing the rightful owner, and then she pretends to be that person. That’s a mirror.”
“Right.” I look back at her body and a shiver goes through me. I remember standing over my father’s body, shaking him, unable to wake him. Running next door to Mrs. Nguyen, crying. I remember her calling Dr. Golden and coming over to look at my father. Telling me he was dead.
A lump swells in my throat, and I reach out to touch her cheek. She held me while I cried. She went to the funeral with me.
Beastly Beauty: A Fairy Tale Retelling (Girl Among Wolves Book 2) Page 4