Whisper in the Dark

by Charlene Perry

  We’re at the outskirts of a camp, or maybe a small village. A wide clearing is carved out of the forest, surrounded on all sides by tall, thick trees. I’m guessing a couple hundred people could live here. Nothing seems permanent; no wood or stone buildings. It’s all tents and brush, like the entire place could pack up and leave at any moment. They haven’t though, not in a long while judging by the worn paths and the way the grassy ground cover climbs the sides of some of the tents.

  People and animals are scattered all around. Not animals; Shifters. A tawny wolf and a lion walk together, heading away from the village. They glance curiously in my direction before continuing on their way into the forest. A woman walks between the tents, three little kids in tow. A young man chops wood, stopping to greet a black bear that ambles over to join him.

  The smell of roasting meat makes my stomach growl. Just the scent of it gives me a surge of energy, and the thought of filling my belly is far more appealing than solving whatever mystery this place is.

  I look to my right, and the wolf is watching me with those odd, violet eyes. He’s a Shifter, but beyond that I know nothing about him. His scent is odd, but I can’t quite put my finger on why. He holds my stare for a few minutes, no doubt trying to figure me out as well.

  His body begins to twist, and from one breath to the next the wolf is replaced by a human. A female human. She continues to stare at me with the same violet eyes, her pretty face framed by blond hair so fair, it’s nearly white. She sits cross-legged beside me, wearing work-worn jeans and a thinning t-shirt over a pleasantly curvy frame.

  She’s impossible. Her very existence is impossible. Female Shifters don’t even exist. I let my eyes travel slowly over her, as I breath in her scent along with the heavy smell of the roasting meat. This beautiful girl. This place. It’s proof that I’ve reached the end. I look around again, expecting to see Whisper walking toward me at any moment. If my mind has constructed this fantasy in its last delirious, dying moments she will surely be here.

  “My name is Hope.” When she speaks, the sound of her voice sends a shiver down my spine. I haven’t heard a human voice in so long. “I want to help you. We have medical supplies. I can patch you up and give you some antibiotics. Can you trust me?”

  I don’t even trust that she’s real, let alone that she will help me. I’ve got nothing to lose, so I might as well play along. I give her a slow nod, and a bright smile spreads across her face.

  “Good,” she says as she stands, brushing the dirt from the seat of her pants. “Follow me.”

  I do as she asks. We pass well-tended gardens and tents of all shape, size and material. A few look like they came right out of a department store, though faded with time and sunlight. Some are fashioned from animal skins and some are barely more than blankets and brush tied together. Anyone on the same path swerves to give us a wide berth, their curious stares snapping away whenever I make eye contact.

  Hope slips through the flaps of a dull, green tent. It’s one of the sturdier dwellings, with wide posts and thick canvas. Inside is a clean, organized and seemingly well-stocked medical facility. Not that I’ve been in many medical facilities, but the layout and equipment remind me of my few visits to BioSol Laboratories. Many of the objects and equipment around the room even sport the familiar stylized microchip logo.

  This room is definitely out of place in the primitive camp. The more I look around, the more unease creeps through me. I also start to consider that this strange Shifter female might actually be able to heal me. She’s watching me with a cautious expression, and when I meet her eyes, she gestures to a low platform in the corner of the room.

  “Get as comfortable as you can, so I can give you a mild sedative before I clean you up.” I growl at that suggestion. If she thinks I’ll willingly let her sedate me she can think again. “You’ve got a nasty wound, and it’s very infected. I’m going to need to cut away some of the surrounding tissue before I can patch you up. I know you don’t like the idea, but if I don’t sedate you, you’ll pass out from the pain anyway. Probably after taking a chunk out of me. It’s safer for both of us this way, ok?”

  I know she’s right. Besides, what have I got to lose at this point? I grudgingly step up onto the platform, settling down onto my belly and heaving a resigned sigh. Let this all be over or let me wake up restored. Either option sounds pretty damn good.

  “That’s great. Thank you.”

  She kneels in front of me, reaching out a tentative hand to touch my paw. When I don’t react, she gets a little bolder and moves up my foreleg, her thumb kneading in slow circles until she finds what she’s searching for. I look away when she produces a syringe with a long, thick needle.

  A tiny pinch precedes a pleasant warmth that spreads through my body, pushing the pain away in its wake. I’m almost clearheaded for a moment, long enough to hear her call over her shoulder.

  “Brom, he’s ready.”

  I don’t like the sound of that. A dark figure pushes through the tent opening, and I push myself up. At least I try to push myself up, but instead I feel my head loll to the side.

  “You sure about him?”

  “I tailed him for a day, I’m sure. Just help.”

  “Okay. It’s your hide if this goes bad.”

  Training

  Breakfast cereal. Grain and preservatives processed into crunchy lumps resembling... flowers? Stars, maybe. A few weeks ago, I would have gladly gone hungry to avoid such garbage, but for the first time since I learned how to cook for myself, I remember what hungry really means.

  I eat quickly, refusing to let my mind focus on the slightly sour taste of the oat milk. It’s a little worse than yesterday, but not nearly as bad as it’s going to be tomorrow. The fridge has been on the fritz for three days now, and it doesn’t sound like there’s any plans to replace it in the near future.

  “Good morning, ladies.” The soft, almost feminine voice carries down the hall moments before Paul’s round form enters the small dining room.

  “Good morning, Paul,” the four of us say in unison. Our combined voices sound almost happy to see him, though none of our faces reflect any joy.

  It’s a practiced routine, one that’s been played out since well before I came here. Paul likes us being happy to see him. Paul also likes to touch our hair as he makes his morning loop around the table before settling into his own bowl of empty calories. Any time he passes us, his chubby fingers seem to automatically reach out and touch a stray lock or gently tug a ponytail. It’s a simple fetish. A little disturbing, but easy enough to endure. My roommates tell me he’s never taken his attentions any farther.

  “Still no word on the new fridge?” Paul sticks his nose in the milk carton and makes an exaggerated expression of disgust. It’s not far gone enough yet to pass up the nutritional value, but our guards don’t face the same rationing as they impose on us.

  “Nope.” The response comes from Chris, sitting at the opposite end of the oak table. His deep voice sounds as distant as it always does. He’s tall and well-built from spending hours each day working out. Honestly, he’s the most entertaining thing here. There’s no exercise equipment in this starkly furnished bungalow they use for our holding house. Instead, he gets creative with the furniture and door frames. In his mid-twenties with a handsome face and chiseled body, I watch him out of the corner of my eye while the others are passing the time in front of the television.

  He catches me looking sometimes, and the spark in his eyes is one I know too well. Our guards aren’t allowed to hurt us, not in any serious way. But Chris is a man on the edge of doing something stupid. He’s my ticket to where I want to go, if I play my cards right. It’s too soon though. It needs to be his idea.

  “May I clear the table, Sir?” Mary’s voice is barely a whisper as her eyes stay focused on her empty cereal bowl. And so begins another day of phase one training.

  This phase is all about obedience in the day-to-day. We don’t do anything without being told. We don�
�t even get to take a piss without asking in a very specific manner; low voice, eyes down. It’s simply about control. Our ability to practice self-control in all things at all times, and our ability to accept that we are controlled by our masters in all things and at all times.

  Any lapse in obedience, however insignificant, is met with immediate punishment. Solitary confinement in a locked closet... no food, no water, no pot to piss in. Each incident is met with a longer sentence. Sounds easy enough to avoid. I came here with every intention of towing the line and getting passed up the chain, and I still managed to spend most of my first three days in there.

  “Yes, Mary,” Paul waves his hand dismissively. “Ann will help. The two of you can clean out that fridge when you’re done, so it’s ready to swap when the new one arrives. Laura, you can see to the laundry. Hanna, it’s your turn for the shower.”

  He lists our simple orders as casually as if he were commenting on a grocery list. He always has our actions planned in advance, able to set us up on our next task without even taking a moment to think about it. I imagine him up at night, pouring over a spreadsheet as he calculates the time each will take and the best order to make everything run smoothly.

  And it does run smoothly, for the most part. Mary and Ann rise in silence to begin clearing the dishes, their matching ginger hair in identical ponytails. They are both tall and slim, with angular features and a dusting of freckles. They aren’t related, but they could pass as sisters easily. I doubt it’s a coincidence they were placed together... no doubt there’s a market for matching pairs. My stomach turns at the reminder of the future in store for these girls.

  Not if I can help it.

  Laura rises next, her curvy, five-foot-nothing frame topped by a shock of curly, copper hair. She’s a little less obedient than the twins, though a huff of irritation at her assigned duty is the only protest she makes before shuffling off. She, too, learned her lesson the hard way. I wasn’t here to see it, but apparently she nearly died in her first week from all the time she spent in the closet. Now, she walks a fine line... doing as she is told, with just a hint of the attitude that still simmers under the surface.

  Then there’s me. Hanna. I don’t say much. I don’t complain, or talk about being rescued, or cry in my pillow at night. I’m not homesick, because I have nothing to go home to. I’m basically neutral, indifferent to my surroundings. Except for when one of our keepers gets angry...

  Paul never loses his temper. If one of us disobeys, he deals with it without emotion. No, when it comes to anger issues, that prize goes to our third keeper, Zephyr.

  “Well, well, I hope I didn’t miss breakfast?” Mr. Cool Breeze himself strides into the room just as I rise from my seat. His chosen name says a lot about him; overly dramatic and not as tough as he thinks he is. I’m pretty sure he believes the word means something fierce, but no one bothers to point out otherwise.

  He makes a loop around the table, giving my ass a stinging slap on the way by. I squeak in surprise as if I wasn’t expecting him to do the same damn thing he does every time he gets behind one of us. He takes any opportunity to push, pull, slap or restrain us... and it’s blatantly obvious he wants to do a lot more than that.

  Unfortunately for my master plan, his physical advances aren’t sexual. Not even a little. He likes to terrorize women the same way some sick fucks like to torture animals. The only time Zephyr gets a little heat in his gaze is when Chris’ shirt comes off during a workout session... but that’s a fantasy that’s never going to materialize.

  The sting of the slap is still fresh as my eyes dart to Chris. As always, he’s looking back at me. It’s a fleeting connection before we both turn away; quick enough that no one else ever notices. It’s progress.

  We aren’t permitted to make eye contact with our keepers, ever. The first few times I tried, it got me thrown into the closet. Then Chris caught on... I only look to him when pain is involved. It’s such a subtle gesture that he would never suspect it’s intentional, but it’s reinforcing the connection in his subconscious.

  The way he handles us, the way he looks at us; Maybe he’s a dom, maybe he’s a sadist. The exact definition doesn’t matter for my purposes. He gets turned on when we’re getting roughed up. The heat in my eyes, the hitch in my breath, the way I bite my lower lip... they’re all cue’s that I like that, too.

  It’s just a matter of waiting, of keeping up this little dance, until they finally get the clue that I just happen to be exactly the kind of plaything a certain wealthy client is waiting for.

  I leave the table in silence, padding down the hall on bare feet without a backward glance. The bathroom is tiny, with a pedestal sink, low toilet and water-stained shower stall. Still, only being able to shower every four days makes it a sweet, blissful luxury. The water isn’t hot, and the five-minute timer by the sink is as good as Paul’s voice in my head; if the water’s not off by the time that bell rings, you’ll be spending a cold, wet night in the closet. I don’t think any of us has risked testing his sincerity on that one.

  I pull the thin, gauzy dress over my head and brace myself for another thing that only happens once every four days. I look in the mirror. It’s full length and only slightly warped, hanging on the inside of the bathroom door. My eyes instantly blur with tears that won’t fall, as I force myself to take steady, deep breaths.

  It’s not the dark circles under my eyes and unfamiliar waves of red hair. It’s not the ribs and hip bones that jut out slightly where soft curves used to be. It’s him. I see him every time I look in this mirror. First, it’s just eyes in the shadows. Silky, black fur as he walks toward me on silent, feline legs. Then, human hands and strong arms wrap around me as his face nuzzles against my neck.

  I cover my mouth with my hand to stop the sound of my grief. It’s a cruel joke that whatever psychosis lets me see him so clearly, won’t also let me feel his touch. I’d gladly give up my remaining sanity to feel those hands against my skin. To feel his lips and his body pressed against me.

  I love you, I say though the Link that was gone even before they removed it from my body. His mouth forms the words without sound as I reach out to touch his reflection. Then he’s gone.

  Once every four days.

  My heart is filled to bursting by just the sight of him, before shattering all over again with his loss. My grief gives way to anger, and I’m ready to endure whatever comes next to get to my goal.

  I stop the timer at four minutes and fifty seconds. I’ve got showering down to a science at this point, with not even a second wasted. I pull my towel-dried hair back into a limp pony and slide a fresh dress over my head. It’s identical to the one I took off, and to the one I’ll put on tomorrow. When I graduate out of this phase, I’ll have a new rising sun tattoo on my wrist to go with it.

  I take a calming breath, averting my eyes from the mirror as I open the door. A hand grabs my wrist, and I nearly shout before catching myself. Chris. He pulls me down the hall behind him. He’s sweaty from working out, dark stains around his collar and armpits. I’ve been in the bathroom for twenty minutes tops, so he must have been going at it pretty hard to get this heated up.

  Oh, shit. I thought he was leading me to the closet, but we veer toward his room instead. The keeper’s rooms are off limits. I dig my heels in, and he immediately spins to grip my neck with his free hand, shoving me roughly against the wall.

  I close my eyes, forcing myself to imagine that the rough hands on my wrist and neck belong to Damon. That he is here, angry for the danger I’m putting myself in and desperate to prove that I am still his. A moan escapes my parted lips, as my back arches toward my captor. My imagination has convinced my body, and my core ignites at the prospect of having Damon again.

  “Fucking witch.” Chris’s seething voice breaks the illusion, and I open my eyes to see his hazel gaze burning into mine. I swallow against the nausea rising in my stomach. I press my throat into his hand until I’m close enough to dart my tongue out and taste his mo
uth. His eyes widen in surprise, the expression fading to something more sinister as a grin spreads across his face.

  Now, he gets it.

  “You’re not allowed to touch me...” I whisper. It’s the first time I’ve spoken directly to him. It’s a risk, but I definitely want him to remember that little rule.

  Anger flashes again in his eyes.

  “Why is that?” I ask, my voice as low as I can manage as I reach a hand out to grasp a fistful of his shirt. “Why do Paul and Zephyr get to have the girls they want, but you have to follow the rules?”

  His stops breathing for a moment before taking a slow, deep inhale that makes his already broad chest expand impossibly wider.

  “Are you fucking with me?”

  A valid concern.

  My doe-eyes speak for themselves, I hope. But just in case he doubts my sincerity, “I... I thought you knew?”

  He licks his lips, his mind working out the new information as he tries to figure out what to do next. The tent in his jeans tells me problem solving isn’t going to be his strong suit at the moment.

  “If you talk to them, I’m sure they’ll cover for you, too. Just like they’re covering for each other. Then you can punish me for talking to you. For touching you.” I slide my hand down his firm torso, slipping it under his shirt to scratch my fingernails along his abs. “For disrespecting you.”

  He slides an arm around my waist, his hand slipping down and then up under the hem of my dress until he can grab a bare ass cheek. He squeezes, hard, as he presses his teeth against my neck. I use the pain of his grip to channel another convincing moan. He shudders in response.

  Go, asshole. Go talk to your buddies. See how they respond when you accuse them of fooling around with Horizon Zero property.