Uncaged (12 page)

             
“How has the poor thing managed to survive?”

             
Bruce shrugged. “She says she eats meat.”

             
Amelia clicked her tongue. “Poor dear. She can’t be healthy.”

             
“I know, but I’ll wait to discuss it further with her. She’s far too weak right now.”

             
Bruce was interrupted by a lad bursting through the kitchen door. The resident leopard shiftie gasped for breath.

             
“Come quick, Miss Amelia. Some men need to speak with you. They look to be worked up about something and all of them are carrying pistols.”

             
“Pistols? Pistols ain’t allowed in the tavern. Everyone knows that!”

             
Amelia wiped her hands on her apron and stormed into the main hall where she was met by two men in uniform. Bruce was right on her heels. They tipped their hats at her and wasted no time in making their visit clear. “Are you housing Wren Whittier, ma’am?”

             
“Who?” Amelia asked, feigning total ignorance.

             
“Wren
Whittier
. She was last seen with Bruce Remington. She’s the daughter of the late Captain Whittier.”

             
“She’s not been here,” Amelia answered.

             
The two men exchanged glances.  “But you know of her?” one man asked.

             
“Why are you looking for her?” Bruce asked.

             
“She’s a wanted lady, sir.”

             
“Wanted for what? Clarify your reason,” Bruce spat back, losing interest in the game. Why the hell were these men asking for Wren and what the hell for?

             
“She’s wanted for murder. We’re here to arrest her.”

             
“Murder? Of whom? The woman’s as weak as a rabbit,” Bruce answered, revealing that he at least knew of her.

             
“Her father, the captain,” the other man answered.

             
“Poppycock! He got sick on the voyage back from
Africa
. He died right along with most of his crew, only he died later. Scurvy and tuberculosis killed the man, not a frail, young woman.”

             
“Do you know her, sir?”

             
Bruce walked up to the man and looked him straight in the eye. “I do, sir. She’s my fiancé.
I
am Bruce Remington.”

             
The man swallowed, though he was the one armed.  “Where is she?”

             
“You have no business here! Get the fuck out!”

             
“She’ll burn for what she’s done, sir,” the other man added.

             
“Burn for what?”

             
“Witchcraft.”

             
“Witchcraft?” Bruce bellowed.

             
Amelia gasped as she looked from the men to Bruce.

             
“Aye, sir. She’s dabbles in black magic. Rumors are swirling that she put a hex on the captain and killed him outright.”

             
“That’s absurd. She’s no witch!”
             

             
“She’ll have her say in the matter, sir. Now, where is she?”

             
Just then Wren walked through the hallway. “Bruce, there you are. I woke up and you were gone.”

             
Bruce’s heart fell. “Go back to bed!” he hissed.

             
“Wren Whittier?” one man asked.

             
Bruce cupped his hand over her mouth and held her to him. “I haven’t seen her in days. This is my sister.”

             
Wren looked at the men with wide eyes. Bruce released his hand from her mouth.

             
The men exchanged glances again. “You are her, are you not?”

             
Wren shook her head.

             
“She looks like a quadroon. What say you?” one man asked the other.

             
The other man nodded. “Aye. A pretty one at that, anoth
er characteristic of a witch.
Most of them are beautiful in appearance, though their souls are black.”

             
“Come with us, miss.” The man reached for her. Bruce pushed her behind him.

             
“Back the fuck off!”

             
“Your sister, aye? She needs to come with us. We have our orders, sir.”

             
“She’s no witch! Who put you up to this? Sheldon?” Clearly this was a lynch mob sent by Sheldon. Bruce knew witch trials were rare these days, especially in
London
.

             
“Practicing witchcraft is a crime. If she’s found guilty, she’ll burn.”

             
“Stop bloody saying that!”

             
The other man reached behind Bruce and grabbed her dress. Wren screamed.

             
Bruce punched the man in the face. The man stumbled bac
kwards and withdrew his pistol.
Amelia grabbed Wren by the hand and started for the back door. The other man grabbed Wren by the wrist before she could flee. Wren screamed in both fear and pain when the man applied pressure to her wounds. Blood squirted from beneath his fingers and streamed down his arm.

             
“What the bloody hell?” The man examined her wrist while Bruce fought his partner.

             
“You’re hurting me!”

             
“Christ! You are a witch! You use your own filthy blood for your death rituals!”

             
“No, no! That’s not true. I was attacked the other night!” she screeched.

             
“By who?”

             
“Vampires!”

             
The man laughed. “Sure, miss and my mother’s the queen of
England
too.
Come with me.”

             
Wren screamed when he pushed her toward the front door. More men, clothed in black, rushed in. They wore hoods on their heads. Bruce fought the man beneath him, pummeling him over and over. The man was a bloody mess, unrecognizable, now lying in a fetal position, his pistol lying a few feet away where Bruce had knocked it out of his hand. Bruce never saw it coming when another man hit him in the back of a skull with a thick stick. Bruce fell on the man in a heap while Wren was dragged outside to a waiting carriage. The man kicked Bruce in the sides and helped the injured man to his feet. The man spat blood on Bru
ce’s back and left him there.
The few people that witnessed the incident were whispering to one another. Amelia fell to her knees to tend to Bruce. She rolled him to his side and mopped a bit of blood from his temple.

             
“Bruce, Bruce!”

             
Bruce moaned and opened his eyes then sat up quickly. “Wren!”

             
“They’ve taken her, Bruce!”

             
“No!”

Chapter 7

             
Wren awoke freezing, shackled to an iron bar, lying in the back of a rickety wagon. The wind was blowing in icy gusts, chilling her to the bone. Her teeth rattled and shook as she shivered to keep warm. She bit her tongue once, tasting coppery blood when the wagon hit a muddy hole. She glanced up at the sky. Giant, gray storm clouds boiled in the distance. The smell of autumn rain was in the air, mingling with the wood smoke that puffed from the many cottages they passed. She had no idea where her captors were taking her though she knew she was in dire trouble. Witchcraft was a serious offense, though the ferocious witch hunts of the 17
th
century were a thing of the past. Nevertheless, it was well known that small country towns still held ridiculous superstitions and even witch trials. She was likely being taken to await her fate in a jail cell, though she already knew too well the fate of those accused of black magic. She shivered at the thought. Where was Bruce?

             
Thunder rumbled through the sky as another village came into view. Wren watched as a young woman ran outside to retrieve her laundry from a line hanging between two giant oaks while balancing a crying babe on her hip. A bolt of stark white lightning struck a nearby tree. The baby wailed louder as the woman reached for the last pair of breeches flapping in the wind and then darted inside, dropping a tiny child’s smock on the dry ground. The miniature dress tumbled onto the road where the wagon flattened it. Freezing raindrops fell in torrents, stinging Wren’s face. She buried her head beneath her arms, but the shackles only allowed her so much movement. Within seconds she was drenched. The wagon picked up speed, jostling her from side to side. She heard a whip crack and a man yell at the horses as another fierce bolt of lightning streaked across the road. Wren fell over sideways when the wagon made an abrupt right turn, into a field of sunflowers. The tall, willowy flowers slapped at the sides of the wagon as they journeyed forward. Bees swarmed, disturbed by the storm and now a runaway wagon.

             
Wren scream
ed as rain pelted her and angry
bees buzzed around her face and stung her arms. Just when she thought she’d die of bee stings, the wagon tumbled out of the field and stopped. Wren slapped at the remaining bees and shook her hair out. She thought her heart would stop when a man stepped into the back of the wagon and stomped toward her. Her shivering turned to violent spasms of fear. The bee stings were forgotten when he kicked at her boot and
bent to unlock her shackles.

             
“Get up, witch!”

             
Wren stood on shaking legs, anxious to be anywhere other than the freezing wagon. She stumbled when he pushed her forward. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest. The last rays of golden light were fading fast, dipping away into the purple horizon as a monstrous clap of thunder echoed. She jumped at the sound.

             
“Get a move on, witch!” the man bellowed as he pushed her off the wagon and onto the wet ground.

             
Wren’s legs crumbled beneath her. She was starving and still not recovered from her blood loss. Her ankles were still chained, making walking difficult while her captor kicked at her heels and pushed her shoulders with a heavy hand. Wren cried out when she nearly fell again.

             
“Don’t play all helpless with me, witch! I know you’d just as soon turn me to a rat!”

             
Wren noticed an old barn and suspected they were stopping to wait out the storm. The man pulled open the heavy doors and pushed her forward. Wren pitched forward, unable to keep her balance when she stumbled over a stone. Her legs lay outside of the doorway, covered in mud. The man kicked them inside and ignored Wren’s screams of agony when he pulled the doors shut. He pulled her by her hair and deposited her against a wooden beam where he re-shackled her hands.

             
The barn was pitch black inside except for a stream of light comin
g from a few missing planks.
The man plopped down on a square of hay across from her. Wren began whimpering softly.

             
“Shut up, you bloody witch!”

             
Wren stifled another sob and swallowed. Rich, thick bile stung the back of her throat as a wave of nausea rolled over her, heating her from within. She gasped for air and hiccupped.

             
“Stop your bloody crying!” the man roared.

             
Wren shuddered as she clamped her mouth down tight. Her teeth chattered and she ground them together. Another loud hiccup escaped her and then the man stood, towering over her.

             
“I warned you!” he spat as he landed a hard fist into her face, stopping the cold and the fear instantly.

~*~

             
Bruce gathered every available shiftie in and around the tavern before going after Wren and her captors. He found her scent right away and shifted along with a hoard of other shifties just outside of town. Swift feet carried them through the woods, close to the road. Birds thick as tar lighted from the trees, fearful of the odd assortment of wild animals stampeding beneath their nests.
             

             
Behind the lion ran two leopards, three panthers, four wolves, a two headed jackal-the Siamese twin Grimm brothers, two owls and one hawk took up the rear. Bruce guessed they were maybe thirty minutes behind Wren’s captors when the first roll of thunder echoed off the mighty oaks that he dodged like a runner in an obstacle course. Bruce ignored the gamey scent of buck that flamed into his nostrils, reminding him of his hunger. He shook his head and journeyed onward as the other animals followed like stealthy hunters on whispery feet.