Barbie & The Beast

by Linda Thomas-Sundstrom

  Whoever had hold of her dove through another batch of greenery. She followed. Clear of that, they hit wet grass. Her heels sank down into the earth, pitching her off balance. She tipped like the famous leaning tower in Italy. Thook. Her heels then unstuck, and she hurtled toward what ever person was still attached to her via a firm handhold, thinking as she fell that this grab-and-run had to have something to do with the party—the party she and Angie had decided not to attend. This nocturnal kidnapping routine could only be thought up by party boys. Men. Young single men who, having heard her and Angie wavering, were gathering them up before a full retreat.

  Considering this, Barbie swallowed a tempting shout for help. She and Angie must have sounded so silly, so chicken, talking about all those heads. They might as well have flapped their elbows up and down and made clucking sounds—

  “Oof.” She rammed into something hard—her abductor, most likely. The air puffed out of her lungs as she was lifted off the ground and tossed over a meaty shoulder like a sack of potatoes, leaving her legs dangling and her hair in her eyes.

  “You have got to be kidding!” she exclaimed. But the guy carrying her didn’t react to her exclamation or offer up so much as a single introduction, explanation, or apology for what might easily have been grounds for cardiac arrest.

  And wait a minute! Assuming they’d both been abducted, Angie seemed awfully quiet for a person who always had something to say.

  Dang, Barbie thought, bumping along upside down on her abductor’s shoulder. If this really was the welcoming committee, it didn’t bode well for the party. Although her man-wishes hadn’t been about finding a male too in touch with his feminine side, neither did she want to be around a bunch of brutes.

  All she could see now was. . .well, nothing. She couldn’t even make out what kind of jacket the guy carrying her was wearing, though it felt sort of silky as she clung on for dear life. Food for thought: if it was a tux or a nice expensive dinner ensemble, both she and Angie were dreadfully underdressed. Of course, tuxes were rarely worn by weirdos, right?

  Relaxing her grip slightly, Barbie shuffled once more through her options. Shout, kick, get to her feet and cause a fuss—all seemed like good ones. Combined, they should just about do the trick to get her free. At the very least, they’d scare the bejesus out of this guy.

  Problem was, she couldn’t move her legs. The brute must have had an arm over them. Without the use of extremities necessary for a getaway, the only sensible thing to do would be to. . .adapt. Adapt and hope she would someday regain the feeling in her feet.

  Really, since the decision of whether or not she and Angie would actually get to the party had been taken out of their hands, she might as well make a concerted effort to remain polite and ladylike in a very unladylike position, obliging these party boys for a few minutes more. Surely she could find the patience, the humor, to deal with a wise guy like this one, short-term? Perhaps talk to him?

  Of course, talking required breath, and a broad, muscled shoulder seemed to be cutting off her air. Ditto for Angie, she supposed, whose colorful murmurings should have been audible by now.

  Spitting some of the dangling hair out of her mouth, Barbie managed a grimace and the word “Fudge.”

  She tried again. “Are we going far?” Her voice sounded bouncy and staccato, though the guy’s gait was, thankfully, fairly smooth.

  “Not far now,” a very deep, masculine voice replied from beside her left hip.

  Wow. Communication. Good start.

  “Ummm. . .you must be very strong,” Barbie said. “I don’t hear you panting or anything.”

  “I have my moments,” the guy carrying her replied.

  “Is this one of them? Because I can walk, you know. Been doing it for twenty-two years now, give or take.”

  “Ah, but we wouldn’t want you to step on any of those stray body parts, would we?” came the wry answer.

  Barbie knew wry when she heard it. She was, after all, a Bradley. Wry was a common Bradley middle name. She tossed back, “But you’re willing to step on them?”

  “I’ll miss them.”

  “Oh? Eyes of a bat, maybe?”

  “Bats have radar,” he replied.

  “A wise guy, huh?”

  “I like to think so.”

  “Nothing wrong with your ego, then,” Barbie muttered.

  “Had ages to perfect it,” the guy agreed, slowing slightly before veering to the right.

  After a hesitation, Barbie asked, “Are we going toward the light?”

  “Is that a metaphysical question?” he returned.

  “Nope. Haven’t got a metaphysical bone in my body. I did see a light back there, though. And I am inquisitive. For instance, I’m wondering why you’re carrying me.”

  “I liked your voice.”

  “You pick up everyone whose voice you like?”

  “Those under two hundred pounds.”

  Very funny. A true wit. So wait, wit meant brains, right? Brains and brawn in the same guy? Surely this was a step in the right direction toward that New Year’s resolution.

  “I’m also suspicious by nature,” she offered.

  No comment from her abductor.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me about the suspicious part?” Barbie asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Damn.”

  “You’d prefer I asked about it?”

  “Conversation might make this situation a bit more civilized,” she suggested.

  “You’re talking about the sack-of-potatoes style of transportation? I’d have carried you differently, in a more civilized manner, but I needed both hands free.”

  “What for?”

  “To open the gate.”

  “I don’t see any gate.”

  Of course, Barbie didn’t have eyes in her butt, and that part of her anatomy was front-facing at the moment.

  “We haven’t gone through the gate yet,” the guy told her.

  “Those lights looked fairly close when Angie and I were standing back there somewhere.”

  “Lights are deceptive,” came the reply.

  “Well, we can’t have deceptive lights, can we?” Barbie did an eye roll. “I mean, who can you trust?”

  Had the guy laughed at that? Barbie swore she’d heard a rumble. She felt a quick shake of his shoulders. Either he’d laughed, or his stomach growled loudly.

  Didn’t they provide food at this party?

  “You sure this isn’t a fraternity bash?” she mumbled, suspicions coalescing into images of beer kegs, sawdust on the floor, and rowdy twenty-year-olds. She imagined platters of Triskets and Cheez Whiz in the can. Kinky abductions without explanation would be just the sort of thing a frat boy might do, while beating his chest with his fists and making Tarzan noises like . . .

  “Ungawa!”

  “Did you say something?” her abductor asked, slowing.

  “I said, ‘Ungawa.’ ”

  “That’s what I thought you said. Is there something wrong with your tongue?”

  “My tongue is fine. The word is a commonly used frat-boy password, I believe.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’d rather not say,” Barbie admitted, “though it could involve old movies on cable.”

  She was beginning to feel a bit like a rag doll. Thing was, in this position, she couldn’t stay tense. If she didn’t relax, it would be murder on the abs. “What if I tell you I’m getting seasick, all upside down like this?” she asked.

  “I’d wonder if it was the truth or merely a ploy to get me to set you on your feet.”

  Blowing the hair out of her face, Barbie muttered half to herself, half to him, “Wouldn’t want to spoil your nice, soft jacket by barfing up late lunch, is all.”

  Expecting to hear choruses of those Tarzan vocalizations any minute now, Barbie was surprised when the guy stopped walking. Whoever said that men weren’t vain about their clothes?

  “Well?” she asked when he made no move to set her down. �
��I’m waiting,” he told her.

  “For what?”

  “The volcanic eruption.”

  “I’m not really going to barf. Not right at the moment, anyway.” Shoot. It was a stupid burst of honesty, Barbie realized too late.

  “Good.” He started off again.

  “Doesn’t mean I won’t change my mind,” she warned, lifting her head, trying to look at him.

  “Nice of you to warn me,” he said. “Very civilized.”

  Scanning the dark as she tried to keep the hair out of her eyes, Barbie realized it certainly wasn’t getting any lighter. They should have reached the party by now. The way she was draped over this guy’s shoulder had to be as uncomfortable for him as it was for her; though she’d been going to the gym regularly for the last year, she still had a couple of pounds to lose.

  Her fingers were starting to tingle. Blood was rushing to her head. Not to worry, she told herself. She’d read somewhere that being upside down, in the form of head-and handstands, brought blood and nutrients to your brain. This meant, according to what she had read, that a person could think better, feel better, and look perfectly pink cheeked without an application of blush.

  Okay, so the last part was her own take on the matter. Still, it remained a fact that a good percentage of people were on either their feet or buttocks most of the day. Maybe it made sense to return some gravity-challenged blood up north.

  “You know,” Barbie pointed out, not so sure about anything, since she could no longer feel her toes, “this kind of over-the-shoulder stuff went out with the cavemen.”

  “Did it? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” the guy said.

  “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe you weren’t listening?”

  “I’m quite a good listener, actually. I heard you mention you’re a teacher. And something about Oreos.”

  “That’s called eavesdropping, not listening,” she growled.

  “You weren’t whispering, you know.”

  “My friend and I were having a private conversation.”

  “In voices that would wake the dead.”

  “Oh? Is there a law against talking in a graveyard?”

  “Not that I know of, though noise does carry farther than you’d expect. Cemeteries are usually on the quiet side.”

  “Yeah, I suppose that’s why it was chosen for the party.”

  “Party?”

  Not realizing that an upside-down stomach could perform a flip until hers did, Barbie stifled a yelp. There was something in the way he had said that. As if he didn’t know about the party.

  “You aren’t actually going to be sick, are you?” he asked, slowing again.

  “Put me down. Right this minute. This position is barbaric.”

  “You’ve never dreamed of being swept off your feet?” he asked cockily.

  “Oh. That.”

  The guy laughed again, soft and low and just loud enough for Barbie to hear, the rumbling sound toying with her attempt at reviving a reality check. Her stomach had, mere seconds before, done an impossible one-eighty, for Pete’s sake. She was numb all over, and he was laughing?

  Maybe she could kick him with one of her partially paralyzed legs? Then she could mess up his hair. Guys hated hair mussing when they were all dolled up for a party. His hair smelled faintly—and rather nicely, come to think of it—like spice.

  As she thought briefly about how pleasant good-smelling hair was on specimens of the male gender, the brawny brute beneath her had the audacity to laugh again, shaking her up, sabotaging her little revenge plan. Thing was, she had to admit, this particular brute had a nice laugh. She liked guys who were able to laugh easily and freely. She liked all the little eye wrinkles on old men’s faces caused by a lifetime of merriment.

  One thing was certain: laughter was high on her checklist of male characteristics acceptable for further exploration. As was spice-scented shampoo.

  So. . .?

  No! Do not go there!

  Bad Barbie!

  Brutes do not warrant consideration of that sort!

  Wildmen are not to be taken seriously! Unless your name is Angie Ward, of course, for whom the word wild, when applied to a man, would elicit pure, unadulterated glee.

  Which had to be why Angie remained so quiet. She was probably having the time of her life.

  Barbie shook her head. To get back on track, trying hard not to sound agitated she said, “I can’t say I’ve ever envisioned this position in my dreams of being swept off my feet. I mean, it’s not really very romantic, is it?”

  “What’s unromantic about it?” her abductor asked.

  “Oh, it could have something to do with my rear end being so near to your face. Not to mention the fact that you’re wrinkling the clothes I recently spent all my hard-earned cash on, and I won’t be able to make a proper first impression.”

  “You believe that, about clothes and first impressions?”

  “Not usually. Hardly ever, really.” She added a heartbeat later, “Yet I do hate to iron.”

  There was now a lightness to the guy’s tone. “In that case, I guess I’d better put you down.”

  “It would be the gentlemanly thing to do,” Barbie agreed.

  “And I,” her companion remarked, “have always striven to be a gentleman.”

  Chuckling as if amused over some private joke, he bent his knees and bent his back until Barbie could feel the ground beneath her feet. Steadying her with his hands on her shoulders, he waited until she had her balance before letting her go.

  Reluctantly? It seemed to Barbie as though he’d released her somewhat slowly. His fingers ran down her arms as if getting in a last feel.

  P, for pervert.

  Out of habit, Barbie tugged at her little burgundy jacket and straightened her skirt by running her hands over her hips. Waiting for the head rush to subside, she patted her shoulder-length and hopefully still-straight brown hair, making sure it was in order, then squinted in an attempt to see the man who had carted her through the graveyard.

  She couldn’t see diddly, other than a very tall outline; it was too dark to fill in the rest. And though she was all ears, she couldn’t yet hear Angie’s protests. At all.

  There was no sound of approaching footsteps, no ching of glasses or clink of beer steins. There was no sudden blaze of lights, followed by shouts of amusement over her predicament. No Surprise! You know. . .Party time! Nothing.

  Rotating slowly, eyes wide open, as if that would help her to see through the surrounding blackness, Barbie peered out from where the mysterious guy had set her. The only thing she could almost make out was a tall headstone not far from where she was standing. A headstone, as in a gray marble thing with a decaying body beneath it.

  Goose bumps reared up then dribbled down her back like pinballs over metallic speed bumps. The tiny hairs at the nape of her neck stood up. Could she have been wrong about this? Had she been insane to humor this guy? Where the heck was Angie?

  “So,” she said as Old Mr. Suspicion crept into her consciousness and rooted there, warning that this mystery guy might truly be some kind of weirdo, even if he did possess a few nice attributes.

  She began again. “Where exactly is the party?”

  Chapter Three

  Darin Russell faced the girl in the dark and put one hand to his throat. Something was clawing at him from the inside out. Something, he acknowledged with a shudder, that he had learned only with great difficulty to get a handle on.

  His pulse was racing. The burn of raw nerve endings caused his fingers to curl. A familiar numbness accompanied his attempt at facial expression, and the muscles under his clothes strained at the cloth.

  Nothing out of the ordinary here, he thought facetiously— except that these things were happening a bit early.

  And wasn’t that the damndest thing? Usually it took a full-on flood of moonlight to instigate the twitching, on the nights when a full moon rode the skies.

  He glanced up. Cloud cover hid the huge silvery orb that was
n’t quite full, he knew well enough. . .yet he had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering. His free hand had closed more tightly over his windpipe as if to choke off unnecessary sound. All was dark. The dark before the storm. Yet for the lack of light he was truly grateful, because the woman standing next to him wouldn’t be able to see the hunger in his eyes.

  Easing up on his throat, he smiled wistfully. By his calculation there were twenty-two more hours until the moon would take him. Twenty-two more hours until he would shed this semblance of Darin Russell and become what he was destined to become—a wolf, for frig’s sake. Kid you not. A damned wolf.

  The thought still gave him pause. Hell, he’d never get used to the idea. Who, after all, would have thought it possible? Who, if they hadn’t experienced it firsthand, would believe? But it was true: a mingling of man and wolf blood flowed inside his veins.

  Jesus. It was insane, and a physical impossibility, as far as medical sources were concerned. Animals and humans could not share one body. Animals and humans possessed no characteristics that would enable them even to mate or produce offspring. Yet here he was, Darin Russell, a werewolf. An anomaly to beat all anomalies. It was a truly wicked twist of fate.

  Was it a nightmare? You bet. Though the realization of what he became each full moon was no longer the shocker it once was. Still, he did often wonder if he’d ever be fully comfortable inside his skin. Hell, as he and the wolf became more familiar, the wolf had begun to assert itself, with no lunar prompting. The wolf was trying to gnaw its way to the surface right now. Sniffing out pleasure, sensing excitement in the air, Wolfy wanted to muscle in, to be a part of this. Wolfy wanted a mate as badly as Darin did.

  Stand in line! Darin wanted to shout, right before uttering a swift and silent prayer of thanks for those twenty-two hours he had left.