By the Light of the Moon (28 page)

Iris didn’t dare stop. She couldn’t. If she stopped she would die, and so she walked, one step in front of the other. One more. One more.

• • •

When Moira came to, her head felt foggy. It was different from her usual detachment from reality. It hurt, sluggish and dark. She sniffed. Her eyes felt caked shut with sleep. The little crystals poked and prodded at her eyelids. Instinctively she tried to lift her hands to rub them away, but she couldn’t move them. Carefully, she coughed against the blockage in her throat. Why couldn’t she open her eyes and why was everything so dark? Where was she? Why couldn’t she move?

She could feel the slimy taste of phlegm on her tongue and swallowed it again, breathing against a constricted chest. She’d had nightmares like this once or twice, but it had never felt so real. She held her breath for a long moment, trying to listen for any sounds. There was a fire in the room, crackling merrily, much more strongly than her own had burned. Apart from that, she could only hear the rushing wind outside the way it sometimes howled past the towers and down the steep walls.

Moira shuddered and then shook her head a few times. Something was shifting on her face; a blindfold. It could only be that. Slowly, the fog was lifting more. Her hands were aching, especially her wrists and she couldn’t pull them from behind her back. She was beginning to panic, trying to move, to swivel or crawl. All she accomplished was to fall on her side and realize that her feet were bound, too.

Suddenly, a strong set of hands lifted her up again and propped her back against the wall. She felt a little like a doll, manhandled with no more effort than a toy.

“Ow … ” she mumbled, rolling her shoulders and moving her head again as though that would help her to see.

“You brought that on yourself, child,” Brock’s voice answered from all too close and Moira jumped a little, trying again to lean away from the sound. Before she could tip over one more time, his hand landed on her shoulder and kept her right there.

“You might still feel a little dizzy. Careful now, you wouldn’t want to hurt yourself.”

Moira’s heart beat rapidly and so hard, it almost hurt each time it slammed against her ribcage, and pulsed in her temples.

“Wha … Ah … ” she closed her mouth again, shocked. She could hardly move her tongue - but all Brock had to say was a little chuckle as he squeezed her shoulder. It was a little too hard and Moira exhaled a sound of discomfort again. She didn’t like to be touched and this was worse — she couldn’t even see, couldn’t even really protest. Her head was burning; her skin felt yet again as though something dark was alive under her skin.

“Don’t worry, it’s part of the potion. You’ll be fine in a little bit.” Brock tried to soothe her, but there was little comfort in the sound of his voice or his grip.

“Where … ?” she got out, more sound than word.

“Not far away at all … ” he said, and this time he did smile. Then he leaned forward and pushed down her blindfold until it slipped over her nose and around her neck. She closed her eyes against the bright light of oil lamps and the roaring fire, then blinked and finally looked around. It was a small room, much smaller than her own, sparsely decorated but the walls were filled with shelves; books upon books and vials and glasses full of uncountable ingredients and trinkets. It was the octagonal structure of the room that made her realize that she was in one of the towers. Brock’s chamber.

Reeling around to face him, he was smiling at her — but it wasn’t a good smile. It was a smile that made her shudder to her core.

“Why … ” she asked, and just as he had said, she could sense the feeling returning to her tongue slowly. It was prickling uncomfortably.

“Oh, child. That’s what we have to find out, don’t we … you and me. Why you are here.”

Frowning at his cryptic answer, she tried to swallow again. Everything felt swollen and dry, prickled half-numbed still. Finally, she looked down at herself. She saw her legs bound together, lying on stone floor. Brock himself was squatting next to her and by the fire.

“You … are quite more interesting than I ever could have guessed, aren’t you, child?” he asked her, but Moira had a feeling it wasn’t a question at all. He was simply making sounds, filling the air. He felt different; and she wondered why she had never noticed this before. It wasn’t something she could put a finger on, but he felt off. Smiling his thin and dangerous smile, he poked at the fire, producing a small fountain of glowing sparks.

“Here I was for years, blinded by thinking you might just be one of the more interesting humans I had ever met,” he went on, poking harder until he pulled out the iron rod, glowing dangerously at the tip. He raised his brows and with swift motion wielded the poker, stopping the glowing point an inch before her face. “But that’s not what you are, is it, Moira?”

Moira’s entire body twitched into a frozen state of terror. She went slightly cross-eyed focusing on the glowing metal all too close to the bridge of her nose. For a long moment, she couldn’t breathe until a tiny croaking plea escaped her throat.

“Peace?” Brock mocked as though he hadn’t understood her muffled, lazy tongue. Almost lovingly, he moved the glowing poker in a perfect, tiny circle around the tip of her nose and Moira pressed her eyes shut, expecting the worst.

“Please, please don’t hurt me,” she managed, working hard on making her heavy tongue enunciate the words properly. Her fingers could feel the warmth of the fire on the stone ground even where she sat, and Moira wanted to turn her face away from it and from the glowing poker but she didn’t dare move. Everything felt thrown into the sharp relief of impossibility. Brock, her old Brock, tutor, mentor and confidant who knew maybe more about her inner workings, her fears and problems than anyone else. How could Brock be threatening her?

“Why?” she asked when he didn’t answer, she sniffed and tried to fight the last remnants of fog that made it hard to concentrate and think; that made it hard to feel anything very sharply and to connect ideas. “How?”

“You were alone, and nobody expects you all night, or even tomorrow. You made it quite easy, you know?” He gave her a strange smile and then extended his free hand to brush his fingers over her cheek and chin. The poker wasn’t bright hot anymore, its glow darker, but it didn’t look less dangerous, nor was she less disturbed by the sudden touch. “I fed you a rather potent draught, my girl. It made you sleep like a baby when I brought you up here. Even now, it is working on you, making your mind a little more pliable. I can’t have you slip into one of your fits, now can I? That wouldn’t be any use to me.”

Moira stared, trying to understand the sudden workings of her mind, testing, probing. She was scared, deathly scared, but she could keep herself from slipping away into the dark place, where she’d shiver and shake and throw up the contents of her stomach or fall to the ground without true consciousness.

“But … ” she started and then found herself so confused she didn’t know what to say next. She stared at him again. He was the same man, her Brock — the man who had shown her the constellations of stars in the sky, had told her about the history of their country, had taken her on walks through the valley and pointed out the different plants and their properties. He had been a friend, someone she trusted.

“But why?” she finally got out, hurt and afraid and still utterly confused.

“I told you, child. You are not who you pretend to be,” he said calmly and pulled the poker from her face. Almost distracted, he eyed the glow, and then blew on it. For a moment, it glowed brighter again but then went darker. Shrugging, he stuck it back into the fire and a tear ran down Moira’s cheek. When he saw it, an almost paternal smile slid over his face and he reached over to brush his thumb under the fleshy part of her lid.

“There, there,” he cooed, “you don’t have to cry, child. I only get nasty if you lie to me. Ask your sister. And you wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

“My … my what?” Moira stuttered, too distracted by that claim to consider the rest. “I have a … you know my … ? What?”

“Oh child, so many confusing things in your tiny little crossling mind,” he chuckled, gently shaking his head. “You should concentrate a little better lest you want me to get cross with you. Now again; you wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

Swallowing hard, Moira shook her head. “No, no. I wouldn’t, I won’t. But … ”

“Tut, tut,” Brock shook his head, patting her cheek. The first one was delivered gently, the second stung; Moira’s mouth fell open in a moan of pain. “Remember, it is I who is asking the questions here, little one. That little mouth of yours is only for answers now, understood?”

This time, she nodded and Brock looked reasonably satisfied. He looked her over again, and finally got to his feet. There was an ease of movement to him that surprised her.

He didn’t groan or pause like an old man, not then. He simply got up and walked easily across to a large desk with various utensils. Moira doubted that even she could have gotten out of squatting for a long time so easily.

“Brock?” she asked, tremulous and careful.

“What did I say about questions, my dear?” he asked, but there was an almost fatherly smile on his face when he looked back at her. She couldn’t see what he was doing but his hands were moving, grasping different things, distorted by the dancing shadows in the room. “But why not; you may have one. Ask away, little one, it can be like one of our lessons, for old time’s sake.”

Her head whirled and she tried to shake it clear of the confusion, the dulling fog that made nothing seem real.

“Are you … are you Brock?” she asked, swallowing down a hard and painfully dry lump in her throat.

To her surprise, the man started to cackle. He continued chuckling for a while, pottering about with the various objects but finally, he turned around to her again. He had a cup and a knife that glistened in the firelight. He placed both on the mantelpiece and then pulled a little stool closer to her side.

“Yes and no,” he answered finally, long after Moira had stopped hoping for an answer. “I am the same man you have known for years, that’s all you need to know now, child. Besides, it is not my identity that is in question here, remember? It is yours.”

Moira coughed, cleared her throat and shook her head.

“I don’t know what anybody told you … but I … I am exactly who I am.” She halted, wanted to scratch herself, feel the relief of hard nails across her skin but they were tied behind her back. Instead, she pushed them deep into the flesh of her palms. It offered a minimal relief.

“And therein lies the problem,” Brock commented easily.

“Did … O … did the Blaidyn say something to you?” she asked next, her whole body rigid suddenly with fear. Her insides were screaming, begging for him to deny it. She thought she could live through this, whatever he was planning, if only it wasn’t Owain who had given her away, who had brought her into it.

“Your filthy little pet?” Brock asked with a cold chuckle and shook his head. Relief and anger flooded Moira’s face and Brock smiled. “Oh, I see. It’s love, isn’t it? You know, you’re not the first who mistakes lusting for some savage creature for love; but then, you’re no better, are you? Dirty little crossling that you are.”

Moira swallowed; what was he talking about? She understood the vague reference to Owain and to his wolf but the rest was frightening. Nobody spoke to like this, certainly not her old Brock. Her face went scarlet at the thought of anyone knowing about her and Owain and what they had done. Did Brock also know how he had turned her down the moment they had finished and everything had felt so perfect and wonderful? She wanted to cry again, wanted to hate Owain and beg him to come and find her; but she knew he was in a cell. Because of her.

• • •

“Now, my turn,” he continued simply without giving her the opportunity to contest any of his statements. “Where is your mother and what is she planning with you?”

“What?” Moira asked, eyes wide. “My … I … ” she shook her head, and then had to swallow against the rhythmically pulsing heart that felt like it had slipped up into her throat. “I don’t … I … never met … do you know who my mother is?”

Brock eyed her closely, her eyes, the tears glistening there, the very real emotion that at times Fae and Humans could share. He didn’t answer the question, though, however much her eyes were begging.

“Why are you here?” He asked next, picking up the cup from the mantle.

“Uh, I … you brought me here,” she whispered and at the clear displeasure on his face, she quickly added; “I don’t know, I don’t know anything, I am here because I grew up here, I don’t remember anything else. My father told me my mother brought me here because I was conceived out of wedlock, that is all I know, I swear!”

Brock grunted swirling the liquid in the cup with a gentle circular motion of his hand. Finally he moved in and pulled her head back again.

“Please … what … ” Moira asked but he didn’t give her any time to prepare herself when he pinched her nose close again and started to pour the liquid down her throat. It didn’t taste quite as vile as the last time she remembered and she was too thirsty and too afraid of his glowing poker and his knife to close up to her throat. She drank down as much as she could, feeling some of the sticky liquid pearl down her chin and into her dress. The taste was again of herbs and tea, she thought she tasted some wine, but what else there was she couldn’t say.

When the cup was empty, she coughed and he let go of her, waiting until she had steadied herself, her eyes swimming and sniffling as she was. She blinked and breathed in hard, trying to fight the sudden nausea. Her stomach revolted, panicked and tried to expel the liquid again but almost gently, Brock cupped the back of her neck and held her nose and mouth closed with an iron grip, forcing her spasming stomach to keep it all, forcing her to swallow it back down, however vile.

“There, there, you wouldn’t want to waste all my good efforts, now would you, there’s a good girl; swallow. Swallow. Good girl.”

When he finally let go of her, Moira drew a ragged breath, panting and catching up on the lost oxygen. Her stomach was still hiccupping now and again, but she managed to keep the concoction down, eyes and nose watering instead.