Chapter 15 #2
She said nothing. It was the safest course at the moment.
“I think your time would probably be better spent volunteering. I’ve spoken to Delia Armitage at the Child Relief Fund, and she said they’d be glad to have you. You’ll start Wednesday, 3:00 to 5:00 p.m. I don’t think I need to tell you to dress appropriately, do I?”
“No.” The word escaped her, a breathless refusal.
“No, what?”
“No, Marc. Of course not.” But that wasn’t what she meant.
She meant, No, I’m not going to put up with one of your mother’s fellow old-biddy harridan who’s always checking my clothes and reminding me you married beneath you. She meant, No, Lucy is my friend, my last friend, and you’re not going to take her away from me.
Marc, thank God, heard what he wanted to hear.
“That’s settled, then. Good girl.” But his eyes were the same, bright and paralyzing.
“I don’t think Lucy’s a proper friend, Sophie.
She seems a little… déclassé, if you know what I mean.
You’re flying with the eagles now, you shouldn’t spend time with the sparrows. ”
Another one of his goddamn clichés. “Yes, Marc.”
He slid around the corner of the kitchen island, and the copper-bottomed pans metal-muttered. They were polished each week by the maid service, and their buzz was a rattlesnake’s mouthless warning.
“I can’t see why you’ve allowed that to drag on so long.” He sounded thoughtful; Sophie braced herself—for all the good it would do. “You’re a new person now, Sophie. You don’t need your old life. Do you?”
He wouldn’t stop until he’d made her say it. “No, Marc.”
“All you need is me, and I’ll take care of you. I’ll tell you what to do.” He was within five feet, and getting closer.
Her throat was dry. Her hands wanted to twist together; she kept them dangling by her sides only with an effort. If she flinched now, it would be waving a red flag in front of a bull. “Yes, Marc.”
He took her shoulders, almost gently. His hands were warm and manicured, and a fresh bruise on her right biceps ached as his thumb rubbed it. “Now, there’s one other question. We know how… forgetful you are.”
Oh, God. He wasn’t going to let her go until he really hurt her.
“How,” he continued, fingers tightening slowly, “am I going to be sure you don’t forget?
” His grip dug in until it rubbed against her bones, and Sophie gasped.
Next would come the slap, and the yelling—and she knew she was dreaming because this had already happened, she had fled, she knew she had escaped, and this was a nightmare but it wasn’t stopping, and Marc’s enraged face twisted into something plum-colored and horrible, the pots rattled and the sunshine pouring through the window dimmed, became a flat darkness—
—and she sat up, her mouth filling with a rancid scream.
Someone had her shoulders, light filled the room, and for a moment she thought everything had been a hallucination, that Lucy was still alive and she was trapped in the kitchen with Marc right before he knocked her to the ground and kicked her, shouting, the red explosion of pain in her belly enough to make her cry, at last.
“It’s okay,” someone said. “It’s all right. You’re safe, it’s just a dream.”
Sophie froze.
Zach’s hair was mussed; he looked about as far away as it was possible to get from Marc’s manicured blondness. He’d shaved, but was still in the same rumpled navy-blue T-shirt and jeans as last night. Sophie stared, struggling for breath as the panic attack descended.
“Jesus.” His hands were gentle, and she could shrug out of them if she wanted to. She didn’t dare—who knew when the fingers would bite down, when he would start to yell? “Must’ve been a doozy. What was it, sweetheart?”
God, just leave me alone. Irritation warred with the need to breathe, her lungs closing up shop.
She managed a short sharp inhale, a long gasping exhale, her body refusing to work.
The shakes spilled through her, and the werewolf kidnapper did a strange thing—pulled her forward, folding his arms tightly around her.
The covers were all rucked up, cocooning her legs, and the slant of sunshine against the cheap curtains made her think late afternoon.
The heat of him soaked into her muscles, made it easier to breathe. Musk swirled around her, an almost-physical weight. She could smell the concern on him, clean and male, somehow healthy. Almost… pure, if that word could ever apply in her vicinity.
The panic-constriction eased. She took a deep breath. He was stroking her hair, murmuring something she couldn’t quite hear because her ear was pressed against his chest and the thunder of his heartbeat drowned everything else out.
Slowly, very slowly, the shakes retreated. Now she could discern the words—things like, “It’s okay,” and “I’m here,” and “Just let it all out.” Soothing, therapeutic nonsense. It didn’t matter. He smelled comforting, and that was another thing—how could she tell?
Her heartbeat eased, muscles loosening. When the attack finally stumble-shivered to a halt, Sophie found herself sweating, the light filling the room was pearly winter-filtered sunglow, and the man holding her was rubbing her back, his fingertips finding sore spots, working them gently through her rumpled blouse.
God, I slept in my bra. Ugh. But she was warm, and for the first time in a long, long time, she felt…
Well, she felt safe.
It was ridiculous. He’d kidnapped her, for Christ’s sake. But her brain kept running over the things on the rooftop, their eyes dripping hellfire, and the way he hadn’t even hesitated—whatever he was or they were—to throw himself at them.
To get them away from her.
Still, would she be in this mess if it wasn’t for him? He’d done something to her. The misty faces were still there, pale but swirling just below everything her eyes saw. Spirits, he called them.
A fast track to the psych ward and the ruination of everything she’d worked for since fleeing Marc Harris was more like it.
“Better?” Zach asked, the word rumbling in his chest.
I don’t know. Still breathing, at least. “I guess so.” She had to clear her throat twice; she was dehydrated and her head hurt like hell.
“Still seeing the majir?”
“Ma-zheer?” She blinked. He was very warm, and for a moment she wondered what it would be like to just relax for a moment, leaning against someone. The idea passed, and she struggled away, her left palm sending a flare of pain up her arm as the scab scraped tangled sheets.
“The spirits. Faces, you said last night.” He let her go, but didn’t move off the bed. He should have looked awkward, half-kneeling, watching her with unblinking dark eyes. But he didn’t. He looked as self-contained as a cat, and as graceful, too.
She nodded, biting her lip. This is so crazy. I’m pretty sure I’m still sane, though. He told me I was. How could he know what I saw unless it’s true?
“Good.” He slid off the bed, a short sharp movement. “Better get cleaned up. I’m not sure we should stay here much longer.”
“Where exactly are we?” Her nylons were ruined, of course, and there was nothing else for her to wear. Her mouth tasted like the floor of a cattle barn.
“Motel.” The sun gilded his hair as he crossed to the window. Peered out, his shoulders stiffening a little. “I think it’s called Happy Arms. What a name.”
“Oh.” How could I sleep? I must have been exhausted. She lifted her left hand, blinked at her palm. The scab was red and angry-looking, and she didn’t have anything to bandage it again. “Ouch. Dammit.”
That got his attention. “What?” Three long strides had him back at the edge of the bed; he seized her wrist and turned her hand up, examined the wound. “Jesus. When did you do this?”
“S-Saturday.” When I was getting away from all of you. A sudden lump in her throat; she sucked in a harsh breath as he manipulated her hand, squeezing the scab slightly.
“Must’ve bled. Probably how they tracked you, they’re like sharks.”
A bolt of pain raced up her arm. She winced, and his gaze rose. He studied her face for a long moment, and she was suddenly sure there was something sticking in her eyes, or sleep-drool on her chin.
“You really don’t have a clue about any of this, do you?” His fingers loosened.
She snatched her hand back. Sarcasm was probably the best response. “Is it that obvious?”
A shadow of irritation crossed his expression, and he retreated a single step.
“Look, I’ve handled you badly. I’m sorry.
I snatched you off the street because you were in danger and because you smelled good.
It’s not the best set of reasons in the world, but it saved your life. You think you could work with me here?”
“Because I smelled good?” What the hell?
“Yeah.” One corner of his mouth lifted again, all irritation vanished. “You smell even better now.”
“I haven’t even had a shower.” The man was a complete lunatic, she decided. Her back ached, but overall—and all things considered—she felt reasonably good. Getting enough sleep was probably the answer to all the world’s problems.
If she could sleep for a week, though, it wouldn’t bring Lucy back. It wouldn’t stop all this.
“Better hurry, then.” He turned back to the window. A ripple passed through him, as if he was going to turn into that… the werewolf-thing again. She huddled on the bed, waiting.
But he didn’t. He just stood there, staring out the window like a movie was playing int he parking lot. Silence stretched between them.
Maybe she could risk a serious question. “So what happens now? I don’t suppose you’re going to take me home.” I sound strange.
His broad shoulders rose, dropped. “I’m not so sure you have a home to go back to, Sophie. Is that short for Sophia?”
You are so not the first person to ask me that. “No, it’s just Sophie. What do you mean, you’re not so sure?”