by Siobhan Muir
She turned her back on the other woman and stared moodily out at the dreary autumn day. The weather matched her mood.
A disgusted hiss snaked through the air, and the door slammed shut behind the woman’s stomping heels. Bridget smiled until she heard the bolt slide home and realized the crazy bitch had locked her in. She hobbled from the window to the door, her muscles screaming in protest, and like the perfect idiot she was, tried the knob. It rattled, but refused to turn. She wanted to pound against the wooden barrier and raise hell about being held hostage, but she didn’t have the strength to beat through the pain.
“Fuck! God dammit! Mother pussbucket!”
Bridget turned her back to the door and leaned against it, trying to figure out what to do next. Exhaustion nagged at her body like lactic acid, burning through the small reserve of energy she’d built by sleeping. Somehow, she had to find the strength to get back to the bed.
Her stomach grumbled in commiseration, and she pushed herself forward until she balanced on her feet. Another moaning journey brought her across the carpet to the bedside, but she had to lean against the mattress and catch her breath before she could even decipher what the tray held. Her mind identified cheese, crackers, grapes, cherry tomatoes, sliced summer sausage, and a hardboiled egg beside another glass of water and a folded napkin.
They folded the napkin? Since when do kidnappers have manners?
The only thing missing was silverware.
Couldn’t make this easy, could they?
She barked a humorless laugh. At least they’d cut everything into bite-sized pieces for her.
This is just unreal. I’m locked in, but they’re thoughtfully cutting my food for me.
Bridget braced her pelvis against the tall bed and reached for the plate of food. Her hand shook so much she knocked the water glass off the tray, sending a crystalline arc of liquid onto the carpet. She cursed as the glass bounced and rolled a few feet away, leaving a wet trail behind it. She dropped to her knees to crawl after it, but the muscles protested so much she sat on her butt and rested a moment, glaring at the glass.
Smooth move, stupid. Now how are you going to get back up on the bed?
She tried to get her legs back under her, but everything hurt so badly, she could only fall to her side, eliciting a groan. Reaching out with her left arm, she made an attempt to pull her weight up, but she didn’t have the strength.
Shit!
Anger and frustration overflowed her eyes in tears. She laid her head on the floor and let loose all her emotions, including her hunger. Exhaustion washed over her, and she sniffled her way to sleep, trying to ignore the scents of dust and dirt in the carpet beyond her nose.
****
Fredrick found Bridget asleep in an undignified heap on the floor beside the bed. Why was she on the floor? The scents of anger, desperation and wet carpet assaulted his nose as he gently picked her up and laid her in the bed. Tear stains and a stubble pattern etched the skin of her cheek as he tucked the covers around her.
He frowned at the empty glass a few feet from the bed. The food remained untouched, but a water stain streaked the carpet. What had she been doing? Throwing the glass?
He retrieved the cut crystal and replaced it on the tray, then stood looking at his unwilling guest. He wished he could explain to her why she had to stay, but he only seemed to infuriate her each time he tried. She hadn’t touched the food, but surely she’d been hungry. Given the amount of energy it took to heal, he’d thought she’d be ravenous.
Maybe she hadn’t liked his choices. Maybe she preferred only fruit and vegetables. He sighed and shook his head at his clumsy attempts to make her comfortable. He knew so little about her. Before he could stop himself, he reached out and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
Bridget’s skin felt like velvet, and she sighed a little wistfully at his touch. At least, that’s what he told himself.
“It will be better, I promise, Bridget. Just trust me, please,” he whispered.
She frowned a little, but didn’t wake, and he retreated before she discovered him at her bedside. He brought another tray, this one with a fresh glass of water beside a plate of fruits and vegetables in hopes she’d prefer them to the meat.
Fredrick wanted to touch her again, to reassure himself she wasn’t a figment of his visions, but he forced himself away from the bed and the deliciously-scented woman in it. Once the danger surrounding her abated, he’d court her regard properly. But until then, he’d do his utmost to protect her, even if it meant enraging her.
****
Bridget woke to complete darkness with a vague memory of spiced apples and gentle hands. Turning her head to scan the room, she struggled to understand where she was and how much time had passed. Frowning, she tried to remember why being in the bed felt so strange.
Wait a minute. I was on the floor!
Sitting up, she reached out to switch on the bedside light. Squinting against the sudden glare, Bridget found the tray laden with fresh fruit and veggies and a new glass of water.
Someone’s been here. Couldn’t have been Ms. White Bitch. She would’ve kicked me before she helped me.
Bridget shook her head and grasped the glass, swigging water to ease the dryness of her throat. It took her a few moments to realize her hands no longer shook from fatigue or stiffness, and she could sit up with ease. Her right arm still twinged, and her ribs ached a little, but not as badly as when she’d shuffled across the floor. The only real discomfort she felt came from her stomach, reminding her she hadn’t treated it well.
Not my fault.
As she finished the water, she noticed a little blue plastic tube standing upright next to the plate. Curious, she picked it up and read the small print carefully.
arnica montana
HOMEOPATHIC MEDICINE
ACTIVE INGREDIENT: listed above. USE: for self-limiting condition listed below or as directed by a physician. WARNING: DO NOT USE if pellet dispenser seal is broken.
There were other warnings, but she skipped them to read what it was supposed to treat.
TRAUMA, BRUISES, MUSCLE SORENESS
She’d certainly experienced all that in the last few hours. She shook the tube and listened to the rattle of the pellets inside. Skeptical, she wondered if it had been made just to keep her complacent; but the seal remained unbroken, and the tube looked official. Of course, given the decorations she’d seen in the house on her way out, Mr. MacGregor and company had enough money to make anything for their own purposes.
Breaking the seal, she sniffed at the contents, but nothing came to her nose. She rattled the tube again and considered her options. On the one hand could be pain relief and rest. On the other could be pliability and submissiveness to whatever he chose to do to her. She cocked her head to one side thoughtfully. Any rape with her would be pretty pathetic if the drug made her so pliant. She didn’t want to be raped, but if she felt ambivalent about it, it really didn’t constitute rape. All she had to do was not care.
Yeah, right. And how do I get myself not to care?
Bridget debated for a while until she heard a gentle knock at the door. Shaking her head, she leaned back and closed her eyes. She supposed she could tell whoever it was to go away, but if she truly wanted to get out of this place she needed the door unlocked. The memory of the deadbolt sliding home made her shiver.
“May I come in?”
Bridget opened her eyes to see Cynthia hesitating on the threshold. The black haired woman held some clothing folded neatly into a compact pile.
“How are you feeling?” She crossed the room, setting the clothing down on the bed. “You haven’t touched any of your food. Aren’t you hungry?”
Bridget’s mind was still stuck on the first question.
“Why haven’t you eaten anything? Do you think it’s poisoned?”
“Poisoned?” Good God, she hadn’t even considered that, but it made sense. “Whyever would I think anything like that? It isn’t as if you�
�ve held me here against my will or locked me in or anything. Oh, wait. You did, didn’t you?”
“I heard that you left the house last night.” Cynthia continued as if Bridget hadn’t spoken at all. “I’m impressed. I can’t imagine you were feeling very well after what happened to you in Boston. I guess we underestimated you.”
“Is that why you locked me in here?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The door. Didn’t you notice it was locked?”
“I thought you wanted your privacy.”
“Oh, yeah, like I have a key to this place. Why would I have locked myself in when I was trying to get out last night?”
“Usually when humans realize they’re dealing with inhuman creatures and they can’t get away, they barricade themselves in some sort of structure.” Cynthia shrugged. “I assumed you understood what you were dealing with and hid in your room out of desperation.”
This woman’s insane.
“And locked it from the outside?” Bridget snorted. “Are you suggesting I buy into this delusion about werewolves and vampires?”
Cynthia sighed. “Unfortunately for you, it’s not a delusion. However, I can guarantee the food is fresh, organic and safe. I’d be able to smell any poison in it.”
“You sound like you expect me to believe you, but you’re one of my captors. Hard to believe someone who won’t let me leave.”
Cynthia laughed. “You’re right. I wouldn’t believe me, either, with that perspective. But I give you my word as a woman and a Luna that the food is safe and will help you replenish the energy you’ve used healing the wounds in your side and your shoulder.”
“My shoulder?” Bridget narrowed her eyes. “How do you know about my shoulder?”
“Fredrick left me a note.”
Of course he did. Then her curiosity got the better of her.
“What’s a luna?”
Cynthia cocked her head to one side just like a curious dog. “Tell you what. I’ll trade you that information for you telling me who you are.”
Bridget groaned and shook her head. “I don’t understand what the big deal is! My name is Bridget Shanahan, and I’m a project manager for a company in Boston.”
“That’s just your cover story to hide among the humans. I want to know who you really are.”
“What are you talking about?”
Cynthia looked at her a moment with consideration, then tilted her head back and took a deep breath in through her nose. “You smell like an autumn pine forest with the bitter tang of frustration for flavor. Humans don’t normally smell like that. In fact, they usually smell like raging pheromones, sweat, fear, and primate.” She bit her bottom lip with an especially sharp looking tooth. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Don’t know what?”
“That you’re not completely human.”
Bridget opened her mouth to protest, but Cynthia held up one hand. “I know you think you’re human, but my nose tells me different. Werewolves are especially good at determining scents, and each species has basic scents that identify us. You don’t smell like anything I have ever encountered before. And that list includes Faeries, trolls, vampires, werewolves, dryads, goblins, and the Water folk.”
Bridget groaned. “Faeries and goblins, too? I feel like I’ve landed in the Lord of the Rings.”
“You’re none of those, but you’re not completely human. You have some human scents, but not the basic ones, which makes me wonder what your ancestry is. Where were you born?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Cynthia sighed and turned to go. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I’ll leave you alone if you prefer your solitude.”
Chagrin at her bad manners smacked Bridget hard. “I’m sorry. I’m just really confused about everything. I don’t understand what you’re telling me because it just seems so fantastic. Please, don’t leave. I’d rather have company if you’re all so determined to keep me here.” She gestured to the end of the bed.
Cynthia’s smile filled with smug amusement, and Bridget realized she’d been manipulated, but she really did want someone to talk to, however off the wall. The black haired woman sat on the bed, folding her hands in her lap as she waited expectantly.
Bridget snorted. “I was born in Portland, Oregon.”
“Did you live there long?”
“No, my dad got a job in Detroit, so we moved up there soon after I was born.”
“Did you spend all your time in the city?”
Bridget frowned. What did it matter? “No, every summer, we rented a cabin in a little town on the Upper Peninsula near Lake Superior.”
Those summers were the best time in Bridget’s family history. Her father hadn’t been so drunk and stressed all the time, and she’d met her best friend, Kate Blackamber. Kate had lived with her great aunt after her parents died. They’d been peas in a pod and spent as much time together as possible. Their friendship had bloomed and solidified even after Bridget stopped visiting ThreeLakes.
“What’s your dam’s name?”
“My what?”
“Sorry, your mother’s name.”
“Abigail Colleen Shanahan, why?”
“What was her last name before she got married?”
Bridget frowned, trying to remember. “I think her last name was Cymru.”
Cynthia’s head came up and her nostrils flared. “Cymru, as in “Wales” in Gaelic?” She pronounced it “khoom-ree”.
“I guess. I don’t know Gaelic.” What is she getting at?
“What was her mother’s name?”
“I don’t know. Gramma never came to see us, and we never visited her. Mom didn’t talk much about her. Why?”
Cynthia grinned just like a kid who’d grabbed the brass ring on a carousel.
“There’s a legend I’ve heard that talks about the Goddess of the Gaels taking human form periodically and giving birth to children in hopes those children will help the human race restore the balance of nature.”
Bridget raised an eyebrow. In her experience, humans didn’t give a damn about nature unless it stopped them from getting where they wanted to go or doing what they wanted to do.
“Each country has a bloodline stemming from the Goddess, and those from the Welsh line came from the Cymru Clan, Cymru meaning Wales, or the Goddess Herself. I’d guess you’re descended from one of the Cymru Clan, which would explain why you don’t smell human, but more like a pine forest. You aren’t completely human if your grandmother was, or rather is, the Goddess.”
“Whoa! Hold on here.” Bridget shook her head as she put both hands out to forestall any other weird pronouncements. “Trust me, I’m human enough. My parents were ordinary, dysfunctional people. My dad was a drunk, and my mother is a normal, guilt-driven Catholic woman who prefers her men manipulative and abusive. Why would the child of the Goddess, if there is such a being, put up with my asshole father until his death? If she was so special, wouldn’t she have raised my brothers and me with knowledge of our birthright?”
“You said she was a normal, guilt-ridden Catholic. Perhaps she fell out of favor with her Mother and turned her back on her heritage.” Cynthia shrugged. “The Catholic religion did a number on the druids and the ‘nature-lovers’, as they were called. I can only guess, but it sounds like your mother was trying to hide her ancestry and abilities.”
“What abilities? The only abilities my mother had were making her children feel awful and getting in the way of my father’s fists,” Bridget said bitterly. “There was no magic, no spiritual pursuits other than Catholicism, and certainly no escape except alcohol. It’s a wonder my brothers and I even survived to adulthood.”
“Are you a Catholic?”
Bridget snorted. “I gave up Catholicism for Lent one year, and by the time Lent was over, it didn’t seem all that worthwhile to pick back up again. I never was into the whole ‘guilt-by-birth’ thing. Sin doesn’t get handed down to us like an inheritance.”
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br /> She stopped before she got going too much. The old argument she’d had with her brothers, who practiced Catholicism, still irked her. She didn’t need to tell a perfect stranger, and a delusional one, she’d never felt comfortable worshiping the graphic displays of Jesus’s suffering to get a free pass to a paradise. All bets were off if sex happened before marriage, which meant she’d lost her free pass years ago.
“My brothers and I have agreed to disagree about Catholicism,” she said at last. “I won’t even talk to my mother about it. She goes into this whole ‘Hellfire and Brimstone’ rant that would make you think she’s Southern Baptist.”
Cynthia gave her a compassionate look. “Did you ever feel good as a child? You know, comfortable and happy some place, as a kid?”
“Yeah, those summers in Michigan were the best. Free to roam through the big trees, or play in the lakes or even just sit in the cleared meadows and fields, telling stories and weaving flower crowns.”
Cynthia smiled and sniffed again. “Wow, you smell really good, like the forest after a hard rainstorm or a meadow of cherry trees in the spring when the blooms come out.”
“Stop,” Bridget said with a frown. “Why do you keep sniffing at me like that?”
“Two reasons, actually.” Cynthia winked. “The first is werewolves are very similar to their canine counterparts, and smelling everything tells us a lot about what’s really going on. And second, I know it annoys the hell out of you, which makes you smell more like a forest fire, all hot, smoky, and singed.”
“You’re so weird,” Bridget said after a moment, but Cynthia’s grin was infectious. “I’m not going to break you of this delusion, am I?”
“’Fraid not, m’dear,” Cynthia told her cheerfully. “Nor Fredrick, either.” Then her smile faded. “I’m not sure why your door was locked, though.”
Anger returned in a rush. “Try asking Miss Verto Vawdge who brought the last tray of goodies. First she insulted me, then locked me in.”
Cynthia shook her head in confusion. “Fredrick didn’t mention anything about you being locked in. You’re welcome to explore the house whenever you feel like it. I’ll speak to Miss Vértolvaj and remind her of Fredrick’s instructions.”