by Siobhan Muir
“I gave her a message to give to Mr. MacGregor,” Bridget said crisply. “If she hates it so much that I’m here, perhaps she can convince him he should let me go back to my quiet existence in Boston as soon as is convenient.”
“Yes, she does have a rather low opinion of humans.” Cynthia’s eyes strayed to the clothes. “Oh, these are for you. I had to estimate your size. I hope they fit.” She handed the pile to Bridget.
“Thanks,” she said taking them. “Did my coat survive?”
“I’m sorry. It was ruined by the blood.”
A vague memory of a bloody shawl flashed across her mind’s eye as disappointment out of proportion to the loss overwhelmed her. She’d loved that coat, and the destruction of it just added to the ridiculousness of her week. Tears sprang to her eyes, and her breath caught in her throat.
Over a stupid coat? Get a hold of yourself!
Her favorite coat, her favorite coffee shop, and a lousy, cheap book. Rather than explain anything to Cynthia, she just leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes again.
Cynthia’s hand settled on her arm and warmed her right through the sweatshirt. “I’m sorry this is so difficult for you. I don’t really know why Fredrick wants you to stay, but I know it’s really important to him, otherwise he would’ve let you go when you ran.”
“But I don’t know any of you, and he wouldn’t let me go when I asked. Why would that make me want to stay?” Bridget asked in a very quiet voice as she opened her eyes.
Cynthia sighed. “It wouldn’t. It wouldn’t work with me that way, either. Fredrick went the wrong way about this whole thing. It’s just that he had a vision of you in danger, and he’s determined to protect you.”
“Why? Who am I to him? Why does he even care what happens to me? I’ve never seen him before last night in the coffee shop.”
“All I know is he said he had a vision of you.”
“A vision.” Bridget raised an eyebrow. “Like he’s a psychic.”
“Yes.”
When the dark haired woman said nothing more, Bridget exclaimed, “Oh, come on! It’s hard enough to believe in the whole werewolf-vampire thing, but a psychic vampire? Give me a break!” She crossed her arms over her chest in defiance.
“What’s so hard to believe about the existence of a psychic vampire?”
“I don’t know. This whole experience is just too weird.”
“I imagine it must be to you. But one thing I’d like to convince you of, regardless of whether or not we can break you of your delusions that vampires and werewolves are a myth.” Cynthia squeezed her arm in emphasis. “Fredrick is trying to protect you in the only way he knows how because he cares about you. I know he had a poor way of showing it, but I doubt he’s had much time to explain. He said he had a vision of you surrounded by danger, and he drove all the way to Boston to try to protect you. When he failed to do it there, he brought you here to care for you. You sort of dashed his hopes for that by healing yourself. He still thinks you’re in danger and wants to help you.”
“Yeah, I’m still in danger because of him! I’d be safe at home. Why won’t he let me go?”
Cynthia sighed. “I don’t know. He has his reasons. Maybe, if you let him, he can explain.” She patted Bridget’s arm again before rose from the bed. “He’s honorable and a gentleman, but even his tolerance will run out if you push him too much.”
“I don’t want to push him too much. I just want to go home.” Bridget dropped her hands on the bed at her sides. “Don’t I get a choice in what happens to me?”
“At the moment, you don’t,” Cynthia said without rancor. “Our strength and speed can keep you here indefinitely, like it or not. Just trust that we’re not trying to hurt you.”
“You know, you never told me what a luna was.”
Cynthia paused on her way to the door and gave Bridget an amused smile.
“The Luna is the Alpha female of a werewolf pack.”
She winked and left Bridget gaping after her.
Holy shit! Cynthia is the Alpha female of the werewolf pack? Then she shook her head. No, no, no. There’s no such thing as werewolves.
Bridget liked Cynthia despite her upholding Fredrick’s decree, but some things were just too fantastic. Her gut told her she could believe the woman about the food, though that might just be her stomach demanding sustenance. She decided they hadn’t deliberately tried to hurt her. Hold her, yes, but not hurt her.
Fredrick did dislocate my shoulder when he wouldn’t let me go.
Bridget thought about the conversation she’d had with Cynthia as she munched on a carrot from the plate beside the bed. It really didn’t matter if she believed in vampires or werewolves. They did, and acted accordingly. Any attempt to escape would be stopped quickly and efficiently. What she had to decide was whether her freedom was worth any price, and that included her life.
Cynthia said Fredrick thought danger still threatened her, but hadn’t said from what or from whom. What if the danger Fredrick “sensed” was that of her own hand? Did she value her freedom that much? Could she really kill herself to escape?
The sobering thought settled in as she ate the food left for her. Could she slit her wrists? Or even stab herself in the heart? She snorted. Fredrick had taken her pocketknife and wisely hadn’t provided silverware, so slitting or stabbing weren’t options. Hell, since she was really just dreaming, why not imagine a gun or a syringe full of poison while she was thinking about it?
Bridget laughed humorlessly.
She finished the food and sat up, stretching gingerly. The aches and stiffness remained, but her arm didn’t hurt as badly; and she could move a little better. Sliding out of the bed, she reached for the clothes and slowly dressed. They’d selected a deep purple cashmere v-necked sweater and a pair of black jeans with the tags still on them.
Someone has good taste and a good sense of size.
She loved the softness of the cashmere against her skin, and a smile peeked out of her somber thoughts. The cashmere didn’t take away the stiffness, but she felt better walking around in it. They’d brought her socks, too, but she didn’t think she could get them on her feet unless she sat down.
Bridget shuffled over to the window and sat on the chair positioned for the best view of the darkening sky outside. As she pulled the thick warm socks over her toes, her mind drifted back to her captivity. She shouldn’t waste energy trying to run. They’d just hunt her down and haul her back, probably less gently than they did before. They’d keep her, like it or not, and that was that.
She supposed she could just stop eating and drinking according to the Rule of Threes. Cannot do without air for more than three minutes, cannot do without clothes in harsh weather for more than three hours, cannot do without water for more than three days, cannot do without food for more than three weeks. She’d be free in three days if she chose that route.
Bridget looked back to the empty glass sitting on the table and grimaced.
I’d have to start tomorrow.
Besides, did she really have the willpower to kill herself for freedom? Or could she think of a better way to escape that didn’t necessarily involve her death?
Maybe I could charm them into thinking I’m docile. All I have to do is play along, swear I won’t run, and lull them into a false sense of security. She’d have to be careful to keep her acquiescence believable, but in the end she’d catch them napping and slip out unnoticed. They could keep their mythical creatures delusions, and she could move away. Out of the state. Out of the country. Hell, even out of her old life and into a new one.
But do you really want to run from him? The traitorous thought came out of left field.
Of course, I do! Nice clothes, food, and a sexy man aren’t freedom.
They don’t have to be a prison, either.
Bridget let those ideas flutter about her head for a while as the sunset and the light faded from the world outside. She sat in the dark, watching lights along the paths in his
yard come on. She wondered what it’d be like to wander his grounds without someone chasing her.
What would it be like to see the gardens bloom in spring? Had he planted bulbs for daffodils, crocuses, and tulips? Maybe bluebells and grape hyacinth? God, she wanted to be outside, even if she didn’t have her coat. She pressed a hand to the cooling glass, letting the condensation halo grow around her palm as she heard the door click open behind her.
Awareness crept up Bridget’s back, lifting the small hairs on her nape, but she didn’t turn to see who’d stepped in. The scents of spiced apples and vanilla reached her increasingly sensitive nose and reminded her of the coat wrapped around her in her dream. She sighed and continued to stare out the window into the sullen gray evening.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Fredrick’s voice asked.
“I was thinking of ways to get outside,” she said to the window.
“So Cynthia mentioned. Why do you want to leave so badly?”
“Why do you want me to stay so badly?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
She snorted. “That’s probably true. I don’t believe in vampires and werewolves, either.”
“No, you don’t. I cannot help what I am, but I also cannot prove it to you without hurting you, and I don’t want to do that.”
“Why not? Aren’t vampires creatures of the night? Evil, soulless folk, damned by God? What the hell do you care if it hurts me or not?” She turned her head and glared at him as she dropped her hand from the window.
Fredrick wore a black t-shirt with the long sleeves hitched up to his elbows and a pair of faded blue jeans that looked well-loved. Gray cowboy boots with sloped heels and rounded toes covered his feet, and she recalled the photo of the racehorse in her dream. Her hands wanted to see if the muscles under the jeans were as hard as they looked, but she clenched them into fists in her lap.
“Despite the stories out there, vampires aren’t actually damned by God. Although some of us might think so, given our need to consume blood and our longevity compared to the rest of the population at large.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and the shirtsleeves tightened around his biceps. She’d felt those arms around her, and the memory made her shiver. “As for why I don’t care to hurt you, you don’t choose whom you love, you just love them.”
The image in her head popped as Bridget barked out a laugh of disbelief. “Love? You call this love? Oh, right, you’ve lived forever, so back in your day, the time of Neanderthals, you just clubbed your mate and then held her captive for a while until she gave up trying to escape, right? This fits right in. Love someone, hold them captive until they acquiesce to your dominance. Excuse me while I cry bullshit!”
“I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Oh no, I really do,” she said in a falsely cheerful voice. “Because I always kidnap and torture my loved ones, too. Nothing says true love like dislocating a limb and locking someone in.” She dropped her head and sighed as she closed her eyes. “Just go protect me from whatever, and leave me alone.”
Silence descended around them, and she hoped he’d gone, but the scuff of his boot against the carpet and a rustle of clothing told her he’d crouched in front of her. She opened her eyes to look down at him in surprise. His gaze traveled from her knees up her chest to her face, his expression full of resignation. She hated the twinge of guilt pricking her thoughts and raised her chin in defiance of whatever he chose to do next.
“If you don’t believe in vampires, it stands to reason you don’t believe in psychics, either.” His voice was quiet and full of sorrow, but no less firm for its softness. “Be that as it may, I’ve had dreams of you in your white coat, with your red hair and green eyes, always in some sort of danger. Many people have insisted my visions are just dreams, and dreams are only something my subconscious has constructed from things I’ve seen in my waking life. But before last night in Boston, I’d never seen your physical form in my waking moments, and you were certainly in danger. Do you believe in psychics?”
“I’ve never met anyone who’s psychic.”
“You have never met anyone who’s a werewolf or a vampire either, and you don’t believe in them.” He gave her a half-smile.
“Those are fairytale creatures, meant to scare children into behaving. Psychics generally don’t try to harm the greater population,” Bridget said, trying to recapture some of her skepticism.
“I think if you’d been around during the Salem Witch Trials, you’d have a rather different perspective about that.”
Bridget sighed. “Let me guess. You’re a psychic vampire. Is reading minds one of your ‘gifts’?”
He actually laughed. “No, I’ve never been able to do that, much to my own chagrin when it came to women. No, my psychic abilities are limited to visions of possible futures of people, either myself or someone I know.”
“But you said you didn’t know me before last night in Boston.”
“What I said was I’d never seen you physically before last night in Boston. I did not say I didn’t know you.”
Bridget narrowed her eyes. Pompous jackass. She hated guys who thought they were so clever, so self-assured by trying to sound wise without having true wisdom. At least Fredrick didn’t wear a smug smirk.
“You’re an asshole,” she said at last, turning back to the window.
“Sorry?”
“An asshole,” she repeated with a snarl. “A jerk. A self-involved, delusional, megalomaniac who’s so insecure with who he really is that he has to make up stories about amazing abilities and longevity. You think you’re so clever, so smart, that if you tell me you know me, I’ll ask how that can be possible. And the music will swell, and you’ll tell me you’ve known me all your incredibly long life, seeing me in different guises as different people, but always with the same energy and grace, and I’ll turn to you with tears in my eyes and say I knew there was something about you that I sensed, and we will rush together and kiss and then the credits will roll. Yeah, I’ve seen the movie, read the book, and heard the story. The problem is, you’re really not that clever, and I’m really not that stupid.”
Another silence ensued, and even through her disgust, she sensed his anger building. Her skin heated with the radiance of it as he rose to his feet.
“You are incredibly angry.” His anger coiled under his voice like a threatened snake. “And I suppose you have good reason, given I’m holding you here against your will. But before you grace me with another one of your ignorant outbursts, perhaps you’d let me finish what I came here to tell you.”
Bridget gaped at him in astonishment.
“The story, as you so inelegantly put it, goes like this. Cynthia told me your mother’s maiden name was Cymru, the Welsh name for the Goddess.”
“So?” she sputtered.
“There are hundreds of myths about the Goddess taking human form to see how Her children care for the world, but I’ve never met the Avatar of the Goddess.” Despite his evident anger, his said the title with reverence. “My mother, despite my father’s disdain, worshipped the Goddess. A Priestess blessed each of us, but she had a special message for me. She told me I would be called upon to serve the Goddess in an important way. Then she placed her hand against my chest above my heart and gave me the Goddess’s mark.”
To Bridget’s surprise, Fredrick stepped back and pulled his shirt off in one smooth motion. He wore nothing from the waist up but a small gold Celtic filigreed ring on a thin golden chain. She damn near swallowed her tongue at the full view of the spectacularly muscular body he displayed.
Holy crap, he’s gorgeous!
A dusting of black hair spread across his broad chest and came together in a black line disappearing into his pants below his navel. She yanked her eyes away from his “happy trail” and back up to his chest before her stare became obvious. The scents of vanilla and cinnamon filled her awareness as he stood before her and pointed to his left pectoral muscle with his right hand.
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“Look here, Bridget.”
A small circular mark resembling a scar marked the skin above his flat, coppery nipple. It was about the size of a fifty cent piece and shimmered faintly in the light. Without warning, he swung away from her and turned off the lights in the room, plunging it into darkness. Her eyes took a few moments to adjust, but when they did they were drawn to the mark on his chest glowing silver. The glow gently illuminated the ridges of his muscles, tempting her hands to stroke the hard edges. When he knelt in front of her, she realized the mark formed a familiar shape and appeared to be moving.
She bent forward to get a closer look. The glowing image of a great spreading tree surrounded by a circle beckoned her, and she reached out her hand to touch the mark. It looks like the lapel pin he wore in the dream. When her fingers contacted his chest, a bolt of electricity shot through her, and she gasped. He gave a deep satisfied groan and pressed his chest harder into her hand. The pressure buckled her injured arm, and she fell into him with a squeak of surprise. He caught her and held her close as the energy intensified.
Bridget felt as if she’d found a missing piece of herself. She’d come home to a place of comfort and peace, where everything was familiar and welcoming. Against her better judgment, she relaxed into Fredrick’s warm embrace and placed the side of her face against the mark on his chest. Power flared, and for a moment the room blazed with brilliant light as pleasure radiated through her body.
“Holy Goddess!” Fredrick moaned, and Bridget jerked back.
She immediately missed their amazing connection.
They froze for a moment in the darkness, both breathing hard and wondering what had happened. The circled tree still glowed silver on his chest, a small pool of light illuminating the space between them. Bridget reached backward for the chair and caught sight of another shaft of light sliding over the carpet near her feet. Frowning, she pulled her hand back to get a better look, but the source moved with her.
