Uncaged Page 8

  The wind picked up speed, howling across their slippery backs. The owls and hawk twirled in the high winds, spinning backwards with claws outstretched, screeching out. Bruce stopped when he recognized Amelia’s coarse cry of pain. The animals behind him slid into his back side and all around him, kicking up mud and rain soaked dead leaves. The lion searched the sky for his friend. The other owl and the hawk flew down, lighting on the lion’s head and back. Craning his head over his slick shoulder, the lion eyed the owl. He watched as the owl’s yellow eyes peered into the branches above and then blinked against the onslaught of freezing rain. The owl hooted, calling out to their friend. Another roll of thunder and a flash of lightening blocked the call. The lion nodded and the owl repeated the call. Miserable, hellacious wind howled into their sensitive ears making it impossible to hear.

  His decision was made. He’d go back for her. The lion backtracked into the woods from where he came, walking slowly face first into the heavy slanted rain that sliced into his fur, long wet stripes. The owl and hawk stayed put, unable to fly in the heavy downpour. The other animals trailed closely behind, all of them on the look out for Amelia. Bruce heard her cry again and knew she was injured. He picked up the pace and sprinted forward, his keen animal instinct spotting her exact location. She was hunkered down beneath a heavy fern with one wing dangling lifelessly beside her. Bruce licked her bleeding wing and noticed it had already begun to swell. It would be safer for her to stay in animal form for now. She’d heal much quicker. He knelt his head down and she hopped on top. They’d have to wait out the storm and pick up the trail later. He sniffed deeply. Wren’s scent was gone, lost in the storm. The lion stalked beneath a giant oak and lay down. The other animals plopped down around him, surrounding the tree in a tight circle. Bruce laid his head on his paws and closed his eyes, opening his mind up to Wren. He doubted that she remembered how to let another soul into her mind, but it was worth a try. If things got bad enough he knew she’d shift to escape, though she was sorely out of practice.

  ~*~

  Wren had been moved in the night, awaking at first light in a dim prison cell, shackled next to two other women who she guessed had not bathed in weeks. She pinched her nose at the smell and then flinched at the pain. She looked at her hand. Dried blood flaked off of the end of her nose and her lip was still swollen when she licked it. One of the other women moaned and rolled over her chains. Two yellow shafts of light peeked through a high window, secured by three thick iron bars. Wren studied her prison mates. Both of them were wrinkled, white haired women, clothed in soiled rags. The one nearest to her looked to be close to death. Wren could hear her shallow breathing and watched her body as uneasy, shaking breaths escaped through her open mouth. Her heart went out to the poor souls. How long had they been kept prisoner in these horrid conditions? Wren jumped when she heard the creak of a door. Both of the old women sat upright, coming to life in an instant, wiping at their slobbering mouths, blinking against the morning light.

  “Breakfast, you old hags!” a man bellowed.

  Wren heard a key slide through the lock and the creak of a gate. Her body shook involuntarily when she caught sight of the man who had busted up her face. She moved as far away as possible, crouching into the corner, ducking into a deep shadow.

  “Remember me, do ya?” the man asked, chuckling to himself.

  Wren watched him, not daring to say a word. He tossed a hunk of bread to each of the women. The old women snatched theirs up, eating greedily, groaning as they tore into the stale bread with gummy mouths. Wren looked at her piece of bread as it sat on her bare foot. She couldn’t eat. She wouldn’t eat. She’d rather die than eat something from this brute. He laughed again and then began to back out, closing the gate behind him and locking it into place.

  Wren! Wren!

  Wren’s head slapped the brick wall behind her, nearly knocking her out. She jumped so hard that her chains shook.

  Wren watched the women still eating like starved animals. Neither of them seemed to have heard someone calling her name like she had. She listened as the man’s footsteps echoed down a hall and then heard another door slam. She closed her eyes. Now she was hearing things. She began to wonder if she was sick or ill and dreaming all of this.

  Wren! Wren!

  Wren opened her eyes and gasped.

  “Bruce?” she said out loud. No one responded. One woman eyed her strangely as she took her last bite of bread. She stared at Wren’s foot. Wren kicked her the other piece of bread. The woman snatched it up.

  “Thank you, miss,” the woman said before devouring it nearly whole.

  Wren shook her head and sighed, leaning back against the brick. She closed her eyes again, intent on putting the ugly image of two filthy, desperate souls out of her mind, afraid she’d soon mirror them both.

  Darling, it’s me!

  Wren kept her eyes shut this time and peered into the sound, concentrating on his words, his voice.

  That’s it, love. Stay with me. You remember this old trick, don’t you? Keep your mind open to me. I’m looking for you. Where are you? Speak to me through your mind. Can you see me?

  Wren refocused, channeling all of her energy to her soul. She nodded when she saw him in lion form, lying beneath a tree with a herd of strange animals gathered around him like a child’s storybook. The image was surreal. It reminded her of a religious painting, symbolic of Christ. She wondered again if she were going insane or dreaming strange dreams while in the midst of the plague. Perhaps she was near death.

  Wren? Darling, speak to me. Can you see me?

  Wren focused on the lion’s eyes. The lion stared back at her, cocking his head to the side. Lemony-orange sparks fizzled from his mane. His eyes glowed like hot, amber stones. Wren gasped out loud as a single tear squeezed from beneath her lashes, falling softly on her dusty cheek, tumbling over her swollen lip. She nodded and then remembered that she must speak to him through her mind.

  Yes, I see you, my love. Come and get me.

  I tracked you but lost your scent in the storm. Do you know where you are?

  No, I have no idea. We took shelter in a barn and I woke up here. There are two other women held prisoner here. Bruce, I’m being held on charges of witchcraft! How can that be in this day and age?

  Sheldon is behind this. It’s a lynch mob. He’s taken you into the countryside where superstitions run wild. You will have to listen closely. Find out where they are keeping you. I have friends with me. We will fight to save you.

  Bruce, he has pistols. Be careful.

  Yes, my sweet, I know, but I am truly wild. Your captors are cowards, hiding behind weapons. We must find food now. Call on me the second you find anything out.

  I will, my love.

  As soon as we eat, we will journey onward. And darling, if you must, you know you can shift to escape.

  I don’t know that I can…it’s been years.

  You can’t while you are in chains. The chains will hold you, but the instant you are free, you must.

  But they will shoot me dead.

  You probably won’t get the chance, but if you do, alert me of it. And Wren?

  Yes?

  I love you.

  Another tear slid down Wren’s swollen cheek. I love you too, Bruce.

  ~*~

  As Wren was being led into the church, she realized she’d lost count of the days. She’d tried in vain to reach Bruce, but he never entered her mind or her dreams. She’d grown ravenously hungry and had finally eaten the stale bread thrown at her, only to find it soon lulled her to sleep, making escape close to impossible. Bleary eyed and dizzy from the laudanum that kept her sedate, Wren stumbled forward, looking more like her cell mates every day. Her captor led her to the front of the church and pushed her into a hard, wooden chair.

  “What say you, Wren Whittier? Will you now confess?”

  Wren repeated what she’d said over a dozen times, for days on end. “Nay. I’m not a witch.”

  “What say you
of the marks on your wrists and breast?”

  Wren sighed as she began to retell the story again to another aged clergyman with half moon spectacles. “I was attacked leaving my home.”

  “Why were you leaving your home at such a late hour?”

  Wren sighed again. She’d retold this story over and over with the same result each time. “I was leaving with Bruce Remington.”

  “Were you not ordered out of your home at the wake of your father?” the man asked, pacing the pulpit, eyeing Wren suspiciously.

  “Aye. Mister Sheldon asked me leave.”

  “Why were you asked to leave at such a late hour?”

  “Mister Sheldon has taken over my father’s estate, sir.”

  The man waved his hand at her in annoyance. “Skip the details! We all know this! Why did Mister Sheldon ask you to leave?”

  Wren decided for once to tell the truth. Her usual response was to feign ignorance on why her half brother had banished her from the house. “Because as you can see with your own two eyes, sir, I am a quadroon and he’ll have no color in his newly acquired home.”

  The man studied her, pacing back and forth, rearranging his spectacles and scratching at his wiry hair. “You say that Mister Sheldon asked you to leave because of a bit of black blood has leaked into your veins?”

  “Aye, that is right, sir.”

  “If I’d not heard it from your mouth, I’d never have guessed it. You’re just half a shade darker than any white woman I have ever known. And with blue eyes. You’d pass as purely white, no doubt.”

  “My skin has paled, sir. I’ve been locked inside. I assure you, I’m a quadroon.”

  The man scratched at his skin, pacing before her and then stopping to slam his eyes shut in apparent thought. His next words were so loud that Wren jumped back.

  “Now you lie! You’re a liar under God’s roof! You pretend to be part black to save your soul when we all know that Mister Sheldon banished you from his home because you’re a witch! You conjured a spell to kill your very own father!”

  Wren gasped. “No, sir! That’s not true!” Wren bit her lip. She had kept quiet during all of the questions from the previous men. She could bear it no longer. “Why is this happening? Witch trials are a thing of the past. There is no such thing as a witch! Not in this day and age!”

  The man pulled at the cotton covering Wren’s breast, exposing it for all to see. Wren crossed her arms over herself in embarrassment, shocked he exposed her breasts in a house of God.

  “What say you of this, Wren Whittier? Bite marks to the breast and to your wrists?” The man pulled at her arms, exposing her wrists, holding them above her head. “The court will take notice of Wren Whittier’s bite marks. Both on her breast and both wrists, clear indications of the devil’s work, using one’s own blood for witchcraft.”

  “But I was attacked!”

  “By vampires?”

  “Aye.”

  The room gasped.

  “You believe in vampires, but not witches?”

  “I am not a witch!”

  “Or were you consorting with them? Socializing with other vile souls, other beasts such as yourself, practicing evil? Muttering dark spells meant to darken other souls! This woman is a witch!”

  The room gasped again as he pulled her to her feet and ripped her bodice, exposing her breasts fully. A minister came forward, addressing the unsettled crowd. Wren looked out into the crowd, noticing their out of date clothing and bonnets. She felt as though she’d traveled backward in time, one hundred years. Clearly this was a town of utter superstitious fools! Mere country folk, hell-bent on excitement of any kind.

  “Wren Whittier has had her say in this. Six experts have questioned her and still she refuses to admit to witchcraft. My decision is final.”

  A hush fell over the crowd. A single baby cried in the back of the room as he announced his sentence, an eerie foretelling of Wren’s fate.

  “She will burn at sunset tomorrow!”

  Wren heard the hoots and the jeers, the sickening cries of joy at her death decree. Her captor came up behind her, pulling her forward to walk her back to her prison cell. Wren took one step forward and felt herself falling. The cheers turned to strident buzzing. She closed her eyes against the sound and screamed his name in her head.

  Bruce!

  And then her world went black, again.

  Chapter 8

  The lion woke with a start, snorting and growling. His followers lay around him, waiting for their king to lead them onward. Their heads cocked at the sudden movement. A few of them were on their feet, ready to move in an instant. It was the first sign from Wren he received in days.

  Wren! Wren!

  Bruce heard nothing. Nothing but the roar of his own blood and cracking of twigs beneath the two panthers that paced in front of him. He stood and sniffed. Nothing. He could have sworn that she called out to him.

  They had traveled for days, then stopped and waited. Bruce was afraid they had traveled too far. Some of the shifties had ventured into the nearest town to ask questions. Bruce wanted to lay low. The witch hunters were probably looking for him as well, wanting to lock him up for cavorting with a witch. He nudged Amelia awake and nodded. She hopped onto his head and they were off. He couldn’t wait any longer. He would shift himself once he got into town and ask questions of children if he had to. His entourage followed close behind. He was closer to town than he realized, reaching the nearest home within minutes. He shifted back as did the others, except for Amelia. It would be too painful for her to shift back until she was completely healed. Bruce lifted her to a low lying branch. Amelia blinked her yellow eyes at him. He nodded as he bent to open the bag of clothing the jackal had carried on it’s back. He selected a pair of breeches and a clean cotton shirt and a worn pair of boots. The others dressed quickly too, each of them having carried a bag of clothing. Only the lion did not carry his own. Even in animal form, Bruce was a leader, one to be served. He had been surprised at the ease with which he had fallen into his former life, at his regal presence to those he had not seen in fifteen years. Now he could only be grateful for their respect and hope to honor them all.

  “There’s a flock of children walking this way, Bruce,” said a man who had been a panther only moments before.

  Bruce nodded as he surveyed the group of young girls and one boy carrying fishing poles.

  “You all stay back. I don’t want to frighten them,” Bruce whispered.

  Bruce emerged from the woods, behind the children, kicking a stone and whistling. The boy was the first to turn and look.

  “Hello,” Bruce said easily.

  The boy looked away and tugged at an older girl’s skirt. She turned to look behind her.

  “Hello,” Bruce repeated, smiling.

  The girl was half way into her teen years and probably already interested in men. Bruce flashed her another broad smile. She smiled back, blushing.

  “Hello, sir. Good day.”

  “What town is this?”

  “White Friars.”

  Bruce nodded. “I’m just passing through. Is there an Inn where I can stay the night? I don’t want to be on the road at night and besides, I’ve heard of witches around here.”

  All the children stopped and turned.

  The girl’s smile turned to a frown. “That’s right, mister. There’s a witch trial going on.”

  Bruce’s heart sped up, cold beads of sweat formed on his forehead and slid between the coarse hairs at his arm pits. “Oh?”

  “Aye. Evil abounds, but not to worry. She’s to burn at sundown.”

  “Sundown you say?”

  “Aye, on the morrow.”

  “Does this witch have a name?”

  The girl nodded as she crooked her finger at Bruce, wriggling it, urging him forward. Bruce leaned closer, bending down. The girl moved a stray lock of hair away from his ear and whispered. “Wren Whittier,” the girl hissed, sending a cold shiver down Bruce’s spine.

  Bruce
stiffened and nodded. “Thank you. On your way, now.”

  “Will you stay for the burning, sir? I’ll be there,” the girl cooed, batting her lashes at him.

  “I suspect I’ll be long gone by then. I don’t want to rest where the wicked lie.”

  The girl knit her eyebrows together as disappointment flashed across her face. “Good day, sir.”

  “Good day.”

  When the children disappeared over a hill in the road, Bruce ran back to the others as sick dread filled his insides like a cancer gone mad.

  “She’s here. We’ve got to find her. She’ll be burned tomorrow.”

  “Burned?” a few of them said in unison.

  Amelia fluttered on the branch, worried at the news. Bruce paced back and forth, grabbing fists full of golden hair. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  Wren! Wren! Answer me, goddamn it!

  Amelia’s yellow eyes followed Bruce’s every step. Her head turned a nearly complete circle as he walked behind the bush to call out to Wren in privacy. She turned her head back around and watched the others shift their feet and wait for orders from Bruce. Bruce fell to his knees and tried again!

  Wren! Answer me, darling! Tell me where you are!

  Bruce only heard the call of a robin and its mate, fluttering tree to tree. He ground the palms of his hands into his eyes and unleashed a terrible roar, scaring the birds out of the trees and the lesser creatures back into their damp holes. Amelia fluttered nervously. One of the wolves smoothed down her feathers. Bruce stood up and joined the others.

  “Let’s go find her. We’ll ask every person in town if we have to. Remember, her captors are armed. We’ll only shift when it’s safe. They’d rather shoot an animal than a man. Amelia, stay here. I’ll come back for you later.”

  Amelia blinked her response. Bruce took off down the road and the other’s followed. Dread thick as mud collected in the bottom of his belly as he feared the worst. Wren not answering meant one of three things. She was blocking him-which he refused to accept-or she was drugged or asleep, a possibility, or she was dead. Bruce didn’t want to even consider the latter. For once he hoped she was drugged, at least she would be able to deal better with the shock of her impending doom, but doom would not come to White Friars, not at least to Wren Whittier. Bruce would make damn sure of it.