Taken By Terror by Lolita Lopez

Chapter Six

Groggy and stiff, Maisie sat on the stone hearth in front of a roaring fire to dry her still damp hair. After one of Fay’s brothers cut the cuffs off her wrists, she had had a chance to take a quick shower and get some medical treatment for her worst wounds. Feeling in the way, she had decided to sit by the fire and wait until she was needed.

Cotton, Fay’s blond brother, approached with a mug in each hand. He extended them to her and then dropped into a leather chair across from her. The bigger mug held a serving of stew and a spoon. The other was filled with tea. The spicy scent of the warm tea tickled her nose, and she gave it a tentative sip before signing her thanks. She set it aside and held the bigger mug, relishing the heat radiating through the ceramic and soothing her sore fingers. As a streak of lightning lit up a nearby window, she was glad to be safe inside the Ryderwood homestead.

“Your house is incredible,” she said before taking a bite of stew. “I’ve never been in a house this big.”

“Ryderwoods are like rabbits,” he replied. “We have big families and need lots of rooms.” He glanced around the open living area with vaulted ceilings and hand scraped floors. “This was the original building my great-great-great-granddad built. He and my great-great-great-grammy had eleven kids. Eleven! Can you imagine?” She shook her head. “The house has been added onto and renovated every generation.”

“It must be nice to live in a place with so much history.” She sipped her tea. “You probably know all kinds of things about your ancestors.”

He nodded. “We’re proud people. We’re also storytellers.”

“I like a good story.”

“I’d like to hear yours.”

She shrugged before taking another bite of stew and stowing her spoon in the mug. She started to answer him but lowered her fingers. Eventually, she said, “There’s not much to tell.”

“I don’t believe that.”

She shrugged. “It’s true. My life has been mostly me following around my family and doing what I’m told.”

“Sometimes following orders is the safest option,” he replied. “You survived. That’s all that matters.”

“Is it?” she wondered. Ashamed, she dropped her gaze to the floor. “I’ve done things. Bad things.”

Cotton nudged her bare foot with his boot to get her attention. “We’ve all done bad things. It’s a hard world out there. We’re all just trying to make it through, Maisie.”

She supposed that was one way of looking at it.

“Fay says you were born deaf.” He changed the subject to one she didn’t mind discussing.

She nodded. “You?”

He shook his head. “I lost my hearing when I was four. We all got sick. Beggar’s Bloat,” he added.

“I know it,” she confirmed. “But I’ve always known it as Grimace Gullet.” She touched her throat and made a pained face. “I never had it, though. My mom had me vaccinated.”

“We didn’t get the vaccine here until Joonie came. It was too late for our family, but it’s saved a lot of others.” He raked his fingers through his pale hair. “Our Ma died, and one of our brothers. I woke up, and I couldn’t hear. Just this strange full feeling in my ears.”

“Like cotton?” she guessed.

Grinning, he nodded. “That’s one of the reasons everyone calls me that. Before they realized I was deaf, Pa asked if I had cotton in my ears. It sort of stuck after that.”

“Can you hear anything?”

He made a sort-of gesture with his hand. “I hear low tones. Very muffled. Impossible to decipher. I tune it out because it drives me insane if I don’t.”

“I can imagine.”

“What about you? Do you hear anything?”

She shook her head. “I’m missing all the nerves and other bits that help the brain understand sound. My parents had me tested when I was a baby to see if I could get an implant to help. There wasn’t any point.” She hesitated before asking, “Do you miss it? Being able to hear?”

“No,” Cotton answered honestly. “I don’t even remember what things sounded like. I was so young. I think that probably helped me adapt so quickly.” He tilted his head. “Why do you ask? Do you wish you could hear?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted uncertainly. “Sometimes, I think that it would make my life a hell of a lot easier.”

“It would,” he agreed. “For better or worse, we live in a hearing world.”

“Yes, but then I think about what not hearing has made possible for me. I’m not distracted by noise. I can focus. I have a great memory. I feel things differently. See things differently. Everything is sharper. Clearer.”

“I get it.” He gestured to her food. “Eat. I don’t think you’ll be here much longer.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The mean looking one,” he said and gestured to his face, “with one eye?”

“Terror,” she spelled out his name.

“That’s a fitting name.”

“Right?”

“He managed to get through to one of their ships and arrange a rescue.”

Maisie scooped stew into her mouth and thanked him for the information. Cotton stood and patted her back before leaving. She hurried to finish her meal and then carried her empty mugs and the spoon toward the area where she expected to find the kitchen. She passed the large dining area on her way and watched as Terror, Grim and the general called Vicious discussed something serious. Heads low and bent over the map Terror had taken from her stolen backpack, they outlined routes and tapped the different bits of geography. She couldn’t make out their mouths, but whatever they were discussing didn’t bode well for the rest of her night.

In the empty kitchen, she found the sink filled with dirty dishes. Wanting to be helpful and to thank the Ryderwoods for their kindness and generosity, she pushed up the sleeves of her borrowed shirt and turned on the hot water. She found the sink stopper, soap, dish rag and towel in a drawer. When there were plenty of bubbles floating on top of the water, she shut it off and started to scrub the cups and mugs first.

It was simple work, the sort she was used to handling. Her stepfather had always seen her as little more than his maid and cook. She had been taking care of all the laundry, meals and cleaning for her family since the day her mother first got sick. She allowed herself a moment of pettiness as she imagined her stepfather having to fry his own eggs every morning and wash his own clothes.

As she smirked at the image of him barefoot and eating scorched eggs, Maisie became aware of the presence of another person. She kept rinsing and drying the last few dishes rather than turn around. The familiar scent of Terror hit her, and she faltered momentarily before regaining her composure. She could feel him. He was moving closer, like a cat stalking its prey.

He must have known that she was aware of him. He stopped behind her, so close that the tips of his boots were touching her heels. Trapped between his body and the sink, she couldn’t retreat or move forward. When she tried to step to the side, his arm was suddenly there, reaching around her to place three empty mugs in the soapy water. She glanced over her shoulder, looking up and realizing that he had her in the same predicament he was in back at the mine. Then, he had been the one immobile and surrounded by her as she cleaned his cell and his body.

He stared down at her, his one-eyed gaze never wavering, and she understood that he was testing her. He wanted to see how long she would allow him to invade her personal space. If he expected her to shove him away, he would be standing there forever. She pretended to ignore his warm breath on her neck and the slight shift of the toes of his boots against her heels as she scrubbed, rinsed and dried the mugs. Not ready to move just yet, she cleaned both sides of the sink until they shined and then placed the damp towel and rag to dry on the edge of the butcher block counter.

She inhaled a sharp breath when his hand moved to her hip. His searing hot palm slid along the side of her pants, gliding over the empty belt loops. She breathed raggedly and marveled at the sensation of being touched so intimately by a man. Until now, she had only ever been pushed or smacked or shoved out of the way. His fingers slipped under the too-big flannel shirt and grazed her belly, his trimmed nails scratching ever so slightly.

An electric arc sizzled through her. She couldn’t help it. She pressed back against him, silently begging him not to move away just yet. She ached for his touch. She wanted to be held by him and feel safe in his strong arms. She wanted to turn and face him, to lift up on tiptoes and brazenly brush her mouth to his jaw. Would he kiss her back? Or would he turn his face and reject her?

Before she could work up the courage to try it, he stepped away and left her alone by the sink. She didn’t need to hear to know someone else had entered the kitchen. Lowering her sleeves, she turned around and found the general eyeing them suspiciously as he walked into the room. He shared a look with Terror that communicated his disapproval.

It was clear to her in that moment that what she wanted most from Terror she would never get. The general’s expression was one of disdain and irritation. He didn’t like her. Maybe because she was the daughter of a Splinter operative. Maybe because she had technically been part of the cell that had been holding Terror hostage. Maybe because she was deaf and a Defect.

It didn’t really matter why the general disliked her. She had seen the easy friendship between Terror and the general. It was clear to anyone who could see them that their friendship went back to childhood. They were like an old married couple, sharing glances and quick words to communicate entire paragraphs of thoughts. If the general didn’t approve of her, Terror would take that to heart and keep her at arm’s length.

The general stepped forward and made sure she was paying attention by waving a finger in her direction. She nodded to assure him she was watching. He spoke carefully, not too slowly thankfully, and explained that a rescue team was on the way but they had to hike out to meet them before sunrise. Wanting to ask questions, she glanced around the kitchen until she saw a pad of paper and a pencil. She walked over and snatched it up and then scribbled her question on it.

“What about your wounded man? Are we carrying him out with us?”

Terror’s face softened fractionally at her question, but the general looked annoyed as he said, “That’s not your concern.”

She frowned at him and scribbled her reply. Holding it up, she let them read it. “Yes, it is. That man almost died trying to rescue me.”

“Not that you needed rescuing,” the general retorted. “I wonder why that is?” He took a threatening step forward, looming over her like the giant he was, and she took one back, putting space between them. “Bit odd that you—just you—survive the landslide. That you are the only prisoner who made it up the mountain. That you just happen to fall in with people who can understand you and communicate with you. A bit more than a coincidence, huh?”

Maisie glanced at Terror who stared right back at her, stone-faced and cold. Her stomach dropped as she realized that Terror could so easily cast any concern for her aside. Only moments ago, he had been touching her, pushing the boundaries between them as he tried to suss out whether or not she felt the same needful pull. Now, he looked at her as if she were a prisoner to be questioned. He would believe anything his friend, the general, said or insinuated.

He’s not your friend. You’re nothing to him. Be careful.

Taking a deep breath, she started to write out her defense but then stopped. Crossing out the few words she had written, she sighed and wrote two letters. “No.”

The general’s mouth settled into a frustrated line. He looked at Terror who gave a subtle shake of his head, silently telling him to drop it. The general held her gaze and said, “We leave in three hours. You should get some rest.”

When the general was gone, Terror stepped toward her. He reached out to touch her, maybe to take her hand and draw her in close, but she sidestepped and gave him a wide berth on her way out of the kitchen. As she went to find some place to rest, she settled her mind against Terror. Whatever kindness she had shown him in the mines didn’t matter. Whatever she thought she felt for him was a lie.

You’re infatuated with him.

Cursing herself for the ridiculous dreams of romance that only a stupid little girl would entertain, she accepted the truth of the matter. He wasn’t going to save her. He wasn’t going to take her away from her shit awful life. She had built him into something he could never be.

He didn’t come for you because he cares. He came for you because he suspects you have something he needs.

She accepted that she was nothing more than a pawn. She was like prey being batted between the paws of a cat, between the Splinters who needed her back and Terror’s people who wanted to exploit whatever intel she possessed. Once either side got what they wanted, her life was over. The Splinters would kill her to tie up loose ends. Terror’s people would probably send her to prison as a collaborator.

Someone grabbed her shoulder, and she was roughly spun around and pushed toward the wall. She lifted both hands to shove at her attacker, but her panicked gaze landed on Terror’s face. His expression was fierce, but he wasn’t angry with her. It was something else, something darker and more possessive. He planted his hands on either side of her head. He held her gaze for an uncomfortable moment. She looked away, unable to meet his stare a second longer, but he wasn’t having it. His warm finger slipped under her chin and tipped her head back so she had no choice but to look at him.

“I will keep you safe, Maisie.”

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to trust him.

But she had lived in the real world long enough to know that the only person she could trust was herself.

She grasped his hand and held it against her chest, right over her heartbeat, and used her fingertip to tap out her answer. “No, you won’t.”

His face slackened when he translated her taps, and she ducked out from under his arm to escape. He caught her wrist and hauled her right back into the cage of his arms. With the wall against her back, she couldn’t escape.

Strangely, she didn’t want to escape anymore. Her belly clenched as he leaned down, his face closing the distance, and she thought maybe, finally, she was going to get her first kiss. She breathed shakily and rose up on her toes to meet him halfway, her eyes closing as she waited for the first touch of his mouth on hers.

Terror jerked away suddenly and pushed her behind him. Realizing he had heard something that made him stiffen with alarm, she stayed where he had put her. His hand moved to the sidearm holstered at his hip, but his flexed fingers eventually relaxed. Slowly, he turned back to her and lifted his hand. Her eyes closed as his rough, hot palm touched her cheek. When his thumb swept her lower lip, her eyelids fluttered apart, and she reached up to hold his wrist between her smaller hands. Aching for his touch, she leaned into his palm and wished she could stay just like this, safe and protected by him.

He tapped her chin to make sure she was paying attention before he spoke. “The two pilots who crashed earlier have just arrived. I need to speak with them. Go find a place to rest.”

She nodded dutifully and stayed in the hall while he left to meet with the pilots. Needing to do something to settle her nerves, she found her scavenged boots on the old metal tray by the front door where she had left them. The mud had dried, and she worried it would leave a trail that would dirty up the very nice hand scraped floors. Taking the boots in one hand and the stiff bristled brush dangling from a nearby hook in the other, she carried them both outside. She braced herself against one of the porch rails and began to meticulously scrub the dried muck from the soles.

Worried thoughts tried to take hold, but she forced them out of her mind. Right now, inside the Ryderwood compound, she was the safest she had been in weeks. Danger awaited her, but she refused to dwell on it or worry needlessly. She had made it this far, mostly alone and relying only on herself. With Terror at her side, she figured she had a fair chance of surviving at least another day. Maybe even two if her luck held.

Fay appeared from the shadows of the porch, and Maisie nodded in her direction to let her know she had seen her. When Fay took the brush from her hand, Maise frowned and shot a questioning glance her friend’s way. Fay set the brush on the porch railing and said, “You should go inside and get some sleep. My room is upstairs, last door on the right.” She gestured with her head toward the house. “Go.”

After weeks of sleeping on dirt and concrete, a real bed would be as wonderful as sleeping on a cloud. Unable to turn down what was likely to be her last chance for proper rest, Maisie nodded and handed over her boot. Fay picked up the brush, and she re-entered the cabin, crossing the main floor of the house and taking the stairs to the second floor where the family bedrooms were.

At the top of the stairs, she noticed Terror watching her from down below and paused for a moment, catching and holding his gaze. He touched his forefinger to his lips and then brought his palm down to his other fist. It was a simple sign that said so much. “I promise.”

Taken aback, she could only nod. The fact that he had asked someone to teach him—probably Fay, if she had to guess—confirmed her belief in him. She wasn’t sure what the near future would bring, but she was certain that if she went with Terror, she would be all right.