by Siobhan Muir
“I have no idea what’s going on.”
She tried to pull away, still shaking her head. Dizziness assailed her, and her legs gave out again, making her slump against him.
“Shh, shh, it’s all right, love. I’ve got you.”
He scooped her up in his arms, cradling her against his warm chest and carried her over to a fluffy armchair with burgundy upholstery. Light glinted off something on his chest, and she fingered a silver lapel pin over his heart. It had the shape of a tree with spreading branches and roots in a circle of silver. The design seemed familiar to her as if she’d seen it somewhere before, but the memory refused to focus.
One thing was very clear: she liked to be in Fredrick’s arms. She liked it a lot.
She didn’t want him to release her, but he set her down in the soft chair and strode swiftly through the furniture to the counter as if he owned the place. She watched his ponytail slide across his shoulders as he prepared her hot drink, not sure if he’d chosen coffee or tea. His hair reminded her of the Stanton-bred racehorse someone had bequeathed to him on their deathbed for his charitable help on their behalf.
Bridget groaned. Where were all these memories coming from? Confusion swamped her. She lived in Boston and worked as a project manager, didn’t she? How the heck would she know about high societies or racehorses?
Her questions popped like soap bubbles when Fredrick returned and draped his trench coat over her. The coat held the scents of the man who’d worn it and coffee, a strangely comforting combination.
“You looked cold, love,” he said as he brushed her cheek with the back of one finger. “I’ll have your coffee in a minute, and we’ll make the best of this mess.”
“Okay.”
He gave her an approving half-smile that melted her heart and retreated to the counter where the coffee maker percolated in happy industriousness.
Bridget pulled the coat around her shoulders and wriggled down into the chair, grateful the pain seemed to be gone. It had been a long and trying day, and she didn’t want to go to a fancy coming-out party, anyway.
We can always introduce me to the Elder Society later.
Wait, introduce me for what? I’m no one special.
She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands in the vain hope she could scrub reality back into place. When her gaze refocused, she still sat with his spice-cake-scented coat over her and the sounds of the coffee brewing. The soft music played a counterpoint, and a periodic rumble of a furnace accompanied the breeze of warm air brushing the tendrils of hair at her neck.
How could she really be here again? She thought she’d left Snickerdoodles to go home. I forgot my book, didn’t I? When did I make plans to go out with Fredrick? I don’t remember meeting him before, but it feels like I’ve known him forever.
“Fredrick, how long have we been together now?”
He glanced at her over his shoulder as he poured coffee into two mugs. “What an odd question, love. We’ve been together for six months.”
Bridget shook her head. No, no, that couldn’t be right. I just met him last night, didn’t I?
“I can’t seem to remember the first time we met.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the chair.
Fredrick’s hand settled on her knee, and she cracked her eyes open. He held a cup of coffee out to her, and she worked one hand free of the trench coat to grasp it. Heat seared her palm, and she hissed, adding the other hand on the handle.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, love.” He watched her drink with his head cocked to one side, a small smile hovering over his lips.
“I’m sorry we’re so late. I really did want to dance with you.” What the—? Where did that come from?
“Ah, now, see. We can dance right here if you’re feeling up to it.”
“Here?” Bridget looked around the room and found an open space where chairs and tables had stood just moments before. Where did they go?
“Right here. Right now.” Fredrick took her cup and set it down, then peeled his jacket away from her. He offered her his hand as he raked his gaze over her body, his smile widening with approval.
Gathering her courage and her strength, Bridget grasped his hand and slowly rose to her feet. Her side gave a minor protest, but once she stood, the pain receded. The silver lapel pin winked at her as he turned and led her to the open parquet floor, and she tripped a little on her leucite heels.
Fredrick pulled her into his arms, holding her steady. Bridget had the odd sensation he protected her from more than just the floor.
“Easy now, I’ve got you. I’m here, Bridget. I’ll always be here from now on.” He hugged her like he held spun glass, laying a soft kiss on her forehead. “I’ll never leave you unprotected again. I promise you.”
Bridget snuggled into his embrace, reveling in the warmth and solidness of his body. She closed her eyes and inhaled his scent. Was this a dream? Or was she really here? It felt real and smelled real, but what about all her unclear memories?
His lips pressed against her temple, and he squeezed her gently. “I promise to care for you forever.”
Dizziness hit her again, and she sagged against Fredrick’s chest. Her ears rang with white noise, and Bridget fell into it as her stomach lurched. She gritted her teeth against the urge to empty her stomach as something jostled her body for a few moments, then stopped suddenly. Fredrick’s comforting presence had disappeared, and she wondered where he’d gone.
So much for protecting her.
But was she really in danger? Memory moved like thick mud, but unease sang through the murk, warning her of big, impending changes. What had they been?
The warning became clearer. She concentrated on it, and her awareness sifted through the viscous sludge, drawing closer to the source. Individual sounds separated out until she could distinguish the spaces between the words, but not the words themselves. The voice sounded human and male, but the tones were hysterical, as if the owner grappled with fear.
She immediately wanted to sooth the insistent fearful qualities and worked hard to pull herself closer through the thick fog. Sounds intensified, and light pierced the murk in ragged tears, demanding her attention. Bridget struggled to reach for the light, but her body felt weighted down; and she began to sink away from it.
Help!
She didn’t want to fall into the darkness again. She didn’t want to be trapped there forever, lost in the black blankness. She screamed her silent terror, and the voice she’d heard reached deep down into her darkness and wrapped a cord of bright light around her, dragging her back to consciousness.
“Bridget Shanahan, come back to me. Don’t leave just yet. Hold on! I’ll help you if you just reach for me!”
“Uhnnn.” She groaned and slowly opened her eyes.
Light speared her sight, and she squinted until the pain receded. Details of the room around her settled into solidity. Her eyes took in an elegantly decorated room in warm colors; a burgundy bedspread over emerald green sheets draped around her body. One brick wall appeared beyond the oak footboard and made a solid background to the man seated in a chair at her bedside.
Bridget immediately recognized the handsome man from Snickerdoodles, and her heart fluttered with excitement. She’d danced with him, and now he sat here in her bedroom. Wait, what was he doing in her bedroom? Her eyes snapped to the bedspread again. This wasn’t her bedroom!
“Where am I?” she asked as she struggled to sit up, but aborted the effort when pain shot through her side.
“Just rest for now. You aren’t ready yet.” His familiar voice settled some of her uncertainty and fright.
“Why do I hurt? What’s wrong with me?”
The pain felt like she’d been hit by a baseball bat beneath her ribs on the left side. What was wrong with her? She hadn’t felt this bad, even after she’d woken up on the couch in her dream. She pushed her hand down to test her injury, but she couldn’t feel anything.
“Do you r
emember me, Bridget? I met you at Snickerdoodles.”
Oh, she remembered, all right. She remembered the scent of his skin and the warmth of his body beside her. At least, she thought she did. He’d wrapped his trench coat around her, hadn’t he?
She closed her eyes and shook her head to clear the cobwebs of mixed memories.
“I returned your book and tried to hail a cab for you. Do you remember that?”
No. Wait. Yes, she remembered the terrible kidnapping scene in the book and how she’d left it on the table in the coffee shop. Her memories played out in a reel until it ended with red eyes and searing pain.
Bridget’s eyes flew open, and she stared at her companion with dawning unease. His expression filled with concern and compassion, his eyes a deep chocolate brown. No sign of red anywhere. They weren’t even bloodshot.
“You’re Fredrick MacGregor.”
“That’s right.” A smile flitted over his lips.
“And you smell like spiced apples and vanilla.”
His black eyebrows disappeared into his hairline, one tendril falling across an eye. It looked soft and smooth, and she wanted to push it behind his ear for him. His smug look banished any tender feelings that might have developed.
“You were stabbed in the side, and I brought you to my home here in Gloucester to take care of you.”
Stabbed? She’d been stabbed? Gasping, she wrenched the emerald bedclothes away from her body and scanned the skin of her belly. The bruised pain she felt directed her eyes to her left side, but there was nothing there, not even discoloration. If she’d been stabbed, where was the scar, the scab?
Is he just teasing me? What kind of a jerk does that? Then the rest of his words sank in.
“Gloucester?”
“Yes. It was the safest place I could think to take you.”
Bridget narrowed her eyes as she raised her gaze to meet his again, her hands still holding the bedclothes up.
Safe for whom, you chocolate-eyed kidnapper?
“Normally you take injured people, like those with stab wounds, to the hospital. Or at least call the paramedics.” What was she doing in Gloucester in a richly decorated bedroom? Was it his bedroom?
There are worse places to be, a traitorous voice remarked.
“There was no time, and I knew I could care for you as well or better than any hospital,” Fredrick replied to her unasked questions.
Riiiiggghhhtt, that’s what all the sociopaths say to their victims.
“I have to go.” She tried to sit up again. She’d make it home come hell or high water. Goosebumps zinged along her leg when it appeared out of the covers.
“Whoa!” She jerked her legs back under the emerald sheets and stared incredulously at the man sitting next to her bed. “Where are my clothes?” And that sexy dress?
“I haven’t had time to get any from your apartment.” His eyes never dropped from hers. “I’ll send someone presently.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Presently? Who uses words like ‘presently’? And how do you know where I live?” She groaned, frowning. “You looked in my wallet from my coat.”
“That seemed to be the most logical place to look for your name and home address.”
“That’s just great. A perfect ending to a perfect day.” She sighed, slumping back in the bed. “Stabbed, kidnapped, and naked in a stranger’s bed. It just doesn’t get much worse.”
“Except, perhaps, being kidnapped by a vampire with a house full of werewolves,” he suggested, a half-smile curling his kissable lips.
She snorted. “Thank God there’s no such thing as vampires or werewolves.”
He stilled as if the life within him bled away, leaving nothing but a quiet, waxen shell, and his face lost the humor in it. Unease crept through her as she stared hard at him, clutching the covers so tightly her knuckles turned white. The scent of spiced apples shifted to a dirt smell, like moist earth or the desert after the rain, and her stomach cramped with visceral fear.
“Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you for whatever you did. I think I remember being stabbed. It hurt like hell. How bad was the damage, and how long have I been here?”
Life seeped back into him as he cocked his head to one side, his eyes narrowed in consideration. “You have only been here a few hours. We didn’t do anything but look at your wound. You healed all by yourself.”
“Yeah, I know I’m healing. I just want to know what you did to close the wound and how many stitches I needed.”
“I told you. We didn’t do anything. Your body healed on its own.”
“What are you talking about? What do you mean, ‘healed’?” She lifted the bed sheets away from her body again to get a better look at her left side. The skin appeared a little pink at her waist, but nothing suggesting a stab wound. She looked back up at him, anger coiling. “What did you do to me?”
Fredrick shook his head. “Nothing, Ms. Shanahan. I would like to know how you managed to heal so quickly, but it appears you didn’t know you could do that.”
“Of course I didn’t know I could do that!” Bridget dropped the bed sheet to her waist. “No one can do that except in science fiction novels.”
His gaze locked onto her chest, and a predatory expression flooded his features. An odd combination of exhilaration and lust zinged through her, which only pissed her off more. She growled and jerked the sheets back up.
“Nice.”
He coughed and had the grace to look chagrined. “Forgive me, but I’ve found it very difficult to turn down an opportunity to view such beauty.”
“Focus, Mr. MacGregor. You brought me here, and I wake up to find myself naked with a stranger asking me how I can heal like…like—”
“Like the Elder Races.”
Bridget blinked. “Elder Races?” Why does that sound familiar?
“Yes, like vampires and werewolves.”
Okay, this guy has completely lost his mind.
His lips tightened, and he shook his head with a sigh before he rose and strode across the room to a small bureau. She watched his ass the whole way, trying not to appreciate how well his jeans fit. His legs weren’t bad, either.
She missed what he’d picked up, but she caught sight of her pocketknife when he flipped open the longest blade and held it against his palm. Before she could say anything, he dragged the blade across the flesh of his hand.
“What are you—?”
He hissed in pain, but very little blood flowed from his palm; and the wound zipped itself together like a Ziploc bag. Bridget stared hard at his hand, wondering when she’d entered the Twilight Zone. The old 50s show would have explained everything, but when he snapped the pocketknife closed, her feelings of unease settled happily into her guts along with reality. Who was this guy? Why did she feel this overwhelming attraction for him? And why the hell didn’t he bleed when cut? No one’s skin zipped itself together. If that was the case, there’d be thousands of doctors out of work.
“Who are you?” She shrank from him.
“I told you that before,” he said as he causally put the pocketknife away. “My name is Fredrick MacGregor.”
“Okay, then, Mr. Obtuse, maybe a better question should be, what are you?!”
“You’re right. That is a better question.” Fredrick offered her a mischievous smile, but showed no teeth. “I’m a vampire. That’s obvious enough. However, I would like to know what you are.”
“What I am is pissed off and wondering where in God’s name are my clothes!”
His face scrunched up, and he dug a finger into one ear at her shrill exclamation, but otherwise appeared unmoved. That just pissed her off more, and she welcomed it. Being mad was preferable to being scared, and right now, she was plenty scared with his admission of being a vampire.
Why should I believe him? He’s delusional!
If her clothes were gone, she’d just scrounge something at hand. Scanning the room beyond his immobile visage, she didn’t see anything resembling her clo
thes, but she’d just use the sheet until something better presented itself.
Bridget gathered her strength to move, but checked herself when someone else came into the room. The woman was tall and had black hair, but her eyes glittered in the most unusual color of gold in the overhead light. Her movements had the liquid grace of a predator, but when she saw Bridget looking, she smiled gently as she carried a tray laden with a soup bowl, mug, and bread. Bridget’s stomach growled with appreciation, but she didn’t want to eat here. She needed to get home.
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” the black haired woman said with satisfaction. “I hope you have rested well. Fredrick has been a gentleman, right?” She seemed amused as if at some inner joke. “I brought you something to eat because it never occurs to him to feed his guests.” She grinned as she set the tray down on the table next to the bed and shot a glance at the man sitting on the bed. “Have you asked her yet, Fredrick?”
“Asked me what?” Bridget raised her eyebrow. “And where are my clothes?”
“We had to cut them off you to get to your wound.” The dark-haired gave her contrite look. “We’ll get more for you soon. Until then, you should just rest.”
“So you did do something to make my wound heal.” Bridget crossed her arms over her chest and dropped her chin.
“No, we didn’t do anything to you.” The woman’s face showed surprise. “Your body took care of itself. Didn’t he tell you? Fredrick, what have you been doing up here all this time if not talking to her?”
“I have been talking to her. She doesn’t believe in vampires or werewolves, so I was showing her that we do exist.” He mirrored Bridget’s pose, crossing his arms.
“You have to admit, to the uninitiated it would come across as rather fantastic.”
“Everyone knows about werewolves and vampires.”
“And they think we’re myths, Fredrick. We’re safer because of it.”
“You don’t think I know that?”
It was evidently an old argument, well worn and comfortable to the combatants, but they appeared to have forgotten she was even there. This could work to your advantage. She tried to think of what she could do without any clothes. The answer came back as “not much”.