Wicked Pleasures (10 page)

“It appears so,” Roark answered. “Azelda is an
unusual artist.”

Hundreds of the bodiless, scraggly-haired heads
obstructed her view. It resembled a reoccurring dream she’d had as
a child where she was stuck in a massive pile of bloody doll parts.
She shuddered.

“Unusual isn’t the word I’d use,” she whispered.

“She’s back there.” Roark encouraged her to move
further into the cluttered space.

Bronte wanted to turn back but she knew Roark would
force her to continue. She had no choice at this point. And if she
could get some answers, it’d be worth it in the long run, at least
she hoped. She wasn’t sure why she had to come here for so-called
answers, but wondered if Roark wasn’t getting a sick thrill from
her fear and anxiety. She shrugged off her thought and pushed
through the plastic heads.

The floor was uneven and she was careful as she
moved through slowly, afraid of what was below her. Roark’s string
of curse words made her look over her shoulder. “What is wrong with
you?” she asked.

He had to duck to keep from banging his head on the
low ceiling. With each step he took he got twisted up in the
strings attached to the doll parts. Bronte smiled at the sight.
He’d laughed at her enough over the last two days.

As absurd as this all seemed, she had a feeling this
was serious.

Turning forward, she kept going until finally she
came to another room. Bronte knew immediately this was where the
toxic smell came from. Sitting in the middle of the space was a
large black pot of bubbling liquid.
Straight from a child’s
scary fairytale.
At the moment, it was her worst living
nightmare.

Bronte didn’t want to look around. The less she knew
about the shack the better, but curiosity caught the best of
her.

Clear glass containers filled with colorful liquids
lined the shelves on one wall. To her right was an empty birdcage
littered with feathers and droppings. Bronte found the red parrot
sitting on the windowsill. He lifted his clawed foot and scratched
his ear, then in a singsong voice it shrieked, “Company. Company.
Company. Fuckin’ company.”

Bronte laughed. If she hadn’t she would have cried.
She wished she could close her eyes and wake up in her bed with her
only concern being an author with a bad book. Her brain didn’t want
to absorb what was happening; she had a witch standing two feet
before her, a brawny ogre following behind her and a scraggly,
cursing bird on the side. Whether she liked it or not, she was
going to have to slog through until something changed in her
favor.

“Sit,” Azelda barked, pointing a crooked finger at a
chair against the wall.

Bronte hated being ordered about, but she guessed it
was best not to argue with a woman who had a bubbling cauldron in
the middle of her house and doll heads hanging from the ceiling.
She glanced down at the raggedy chair cushion and bile burned the
back of her throat. Bird feathers, seed and droppings covered the
worn material. “Uhh, do you have another place I could—”

“I told you to sit.” Azelda’s tone vibrated the
room. The bottles bounced together making a chiming noise. The
parrot screeched, “Pissed her off. Pissed her off.”

Bronte gave a quick swipe of her hand down the seat
and sat, keeping all of her extremities as close to her body as
possible, thankful that she had boots on. There was no telling what
lived in the shack besides the witch and parrot.

“You.” Azelda pointed a bent finger at Roark. “Get
out. You’re energy upsets the pet.” The witch reached over and
tapped the parrot on the head who responded with a loud squawk.

Bronte’s heart raced. She didn’t like Roark, but
oddly reason she felt safer with him near. “He should stay,” Bronte
said in a rush.

Azelda’s beady eyes landed on her with invisible
force. “I didn’t ask you!”

Bronte turned and gave Roark a pleading look. Then
he said, “I’m staying, Azelda. I’m her captor and I can’t take a
risk that she’ll escape.”

“I’d turn her into girly pea soup before she could
take one step in any direction,” Azelda cackled.

Bronte swiveled around, eyeing the witch
. Beastly
woman.
Bronte wanted to tell them both to jump off the nearest
cliff, but she remained quiet. She didn’t want to test the witch’s
patience.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Roark’s unyielding tone
left no room for argument.

Bronte was grateful that Roark didn’t falter. He
stood at her left shoulder and didn’t make a move.

“So be it. Just keep your mouth shut.” Azelda
stepped toward a three-legged table and began mixing two liquids.
Vapor rose from the beaker and a foul odor mingled with the
existing stink in the air. Bronte tensed, hoping she wouldn’t be
asked to drink the solution.

The witch wobbled to her and Bronte started to
tremble. She watched as the old woman dipped her gnarled pinky
finger inside the glass and swirled it around the bright blue
liquid. She brought her finger out, started for Bronte’s face and
she darted back. “It’s okay, girly. It won’t hurt, at least not
much.”

A rustling sound behind her made Bronte jump and
then she felt Roark’s large hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I
won’t let anything happen to you,” he said.

Although she had no reason to trust him, she sensed
his protectiveness.

The witch swiped the warm substance on each of
Bronte’s temples. Seconds passed. The bird squealed loudly, echoing
in the small room. Nothing happened. Azelda bent and stared into
Bronte’s eyes. She didn’t blink, but she felt her blood rushing
through her veins and warmth following. The witch moved, placing
the tube back into a wired stand on the table then she lowered her
elderly frame into a wooden chair, propping her cane against the
wall. “Now, it’s time for the truth. The serum will help you accept
reality.”

Bronte doubted that anything the old woman said
could make the occurrences over the last two days acceptable or
believable. “I think this will be a waste of time,” she said.
Movement on the wall caught her attention. Narrowing her gaze, she
focused. A lizard had his eyes on her from his perch. “Don’t let
that thing near me.”

“Stop talking and listen to details. That’s what
you’re best at,” Azelda whispered.

Bronte narrowed her eyes.
Was that a backhanded
compliment?

“One-hundred years ago there lived a family of
wolves,” Azelda began. Bronte snorted, but she held her tongue. “By
day the tribe would carry on, masked as humans. At night, they’d
transform into their true identities. No one ever knew of the
secret. It was not the life they’d chosen, to hide like criminals,
but peace lived in their hearts. They lived in a world where no one
would understand.”

“Seriously?” The serum wasn’t working. “Tell me
you’re not.” She sniffed back her sarcasm. What sort of story was
the old woman conjuring?

Azelda paid her no attention. She pressed her hands
together and continued. “They were a kind family, with humans and
with other creatures of the night. There was one rule the leaders
placed upon the entire pack. They would not cross the boundaries of
revealing their identity to anyone, for any reason. Doing so would
put the family, with generations to follow, in jeopardy.”

The witch’s voice swirled inside Bronte’s head. She
opened her mouth but words were lost. Enjoyment settled over her
body and through her limbs. She’d never known such satisfying love
as if every worry and concern had been lifted from her mind. Her
vision blurred as she focused on Azelda’s wrinkled face. The old
woman’s features transformed into a beautiful young woman with pale
blue eyes. “What did you give me, Azelda?” She wasn’t sure if she
actually said the words. The fog consumed her.

“Born of the pack was a mighty young wolf. He was a
true leader and his capabilities were astounding. As human he was
clever and as a wolf he was powerful. He caught the eye of many,
for his good looks, charm and ability. He was fixated on becoming
something great as a wolf and as human. He’d been with many lovers,
but no one had turned his heart until the one day he met a lovely,
young lady. She had indescribable beauty and charm too. Her pale
features and kind heart were irresistible, even to a wolf. At
first, the wolf found her a challenge. She resisted his charisma
and had feistiness unlike any woman he’d ever met. Eventually, the
woman grew weak against the wolf and fell in love. The wolf had
also fallen, although he knew the threat this placed on his
family.”

“Love. Such a splendid thing,” Bronte said. She
laughed so hard that she cried. It took her a few minutes to
control the fit of humor. “Man, did you give me drugs? I’m high as
a kite.”

Azelda sniffed loudly. “Just sit there and relax and
listen, girly.”

“Okay,” Bronte responded. The lizard smiled and she
waved at him.

“Once the clan heard of the atrocity, they talked to
the wolf, hoping he’d see how the love between him and a human
could never work. They’re not meant to intermingle. However, the
young man had a stubborn streak and believed that his love would
carry them through any obstacle. Unfortunately, love had blinded
him. He didn’t take into consideration the consequences, because
with every action comes a price.” The witch’s voice trailed off, as
if she needed to regain her thoughts.

“That’s very true,” Bronte said.

“The love stricken lad revealed his secret to the
beautiful lass, because he didn’t wish to keep anything from her.
She swore she’d never breathe a word to anyone, and she was
sincere.”

Azelda pushed her body from the chair, reached for
the beaker of serum and poured it into her palm. She came to
Bronte’s side and drizzled the liquid over her head. The liquid
seeped into her scalp—tingly and hot. She squirmed but she was a
prisoner to paralysis. Her brain was functioning, but her body
refused to respond.

The witch returned the glass onto the table and sat
back down. “The young lady kept her word, but little did she know
that her father suspected his daughter was in a dangerous
situation. The daughter snuck out one night to meet her wolf. The
father followed her deep into the woods,” Azelda continued. Her
voice sounded like it came from a tunnel. Bronte’s vision blurred
again and she fell through a haze. She could see the woods. It was
dark and the night air was cool against her skin. She wrapped her
arms around her waist for protection as she looked around her
surroundings. The moon became bright and cast a silver glow.

And then she saw it—

Wolves and humans scattered the area, many were on
the ground while another group stood high upon a cliff, howling. It
was an amazing sight of beautiful lean bodies in human form and
others with thick grey and brown fur and yellow eyes.

Movement to her left drew her attention. Among the
clan was a lovely woman. Her blonde hair hung like gleaming satin.
She was perched upon a rock, her long dress hung to her ankles and
her feet were bare. Her bright smile and eyes glistened in the
moonlight. Beside her sat a man, his back was to Bronte. The woman
looked up at him and a joyful smile curved her lips. He bent,
kissed her on the forehead and Bronte knew they were lovers. Wolves
and humans may not belong together as partners, but the tenderness
the two shared couldn’t be denied. It brought tears to Bronte.

The wolves’ wailing became louder. Bronte watched,
mesmerized, as the animals seem to pay reverence to the night. The
howling sounded like beautiful music.

“
Nooooo!”
The word split the air, followed by
a loud scream. The whistling stopped as silence defeated the pack.
Bronte searched for the man and woman, wondering what had happened,
and then she saw the motionless body sprawled on the rocks near the
woods. A pool of blood surrounded the figure. Bronte looked up high
onto the cliff where the wolves and humans stood at the edge
peering down. The beautiful young woman was now kneeling next to
the dead man. “Daddy! Daddy!” the woman wailed.

Bronte’s breath held. Tears fell to her cheeks as
realization became heavy inside of her.
The woman’s
father!

The wolves stood staring. The woman’s cry was the
only sound heard. The brawny wolf, the one who’d been sitting next
to the woman, knelt next to her. His naked torso glistened in the
pale light and his hair matched the dark night. Bronte could see
his profile and her heart skipped a beat.
Roark!

“What happened?” Roark stood tall, his shoulders
broad and his back straight. His eyes turned a glossy yellow. He
bellowed up to the wolves who were peering down from the rock’s
overhang. They stood vacant as the eerie calm remained. “Come now,
my love.” Roark urged the woman.

Moments passed in tortured seconds, until the woman
finally stood, her sobbing moans faded. The quiet was deafening as
she lifted her chin to look at Roark. Her dewy skin and red eyes
stood out as proof of her heartache. “You!” she whispered. “You
all!” She lifted her hand and sliced it through the air. “You’re
beasts. How could you?” Roark was the target of her last words.

He reached out to touch her, but she stepped back.
Fury lit her eyes and they glowed like fire through the shadows.
“Don’t touch me,” she said through a moan. With the last words, she
ran and disappeared into the night.

Bronte watched in horror.

Azelda’s voice penetrated the hazy surroundings and
Bronte attempted to ignore them. She rushed to Roark’s side and
tears streamed from his eyes as his shoulders slumped. “Roark!” she
yelled. “Roark!” she screamed. He didn’t hear her, nor did he
realize she was there.

As quick as she’d been drawn into the woods, she was
jerked back through the fuzzy tunnel to Azelda’s shack. “The pack
knew they’d be hunted once the word was out,”
the witch said through the blur. “They were a peaceful tribe. The
death of the human was the fault of one. A
deceitful
one.”