Marley: The Message

I haven’t posted in a while.  For the first time in months, that’s been because there’s too much going on.  I have hope that Anya will be found.  And fear for her safety.  I guess I’m getting ahead of myself.

I decked out the apartment for Christmas—live tree, garland, wreath, stockings—the whole shebang, though I more closely resembled Scrooge than George Bailey.  I even made a fucking turkey with all the trimmings.  I had this stupid idea that everything should be perfect and welcoming for Christmas in case Anya came home.  To let her know that I hadn’t forgotten, I hadn’t given up.  And because not doing it was admitting she wasn’t coming back and that was something I just couldn’t contemplate.

But of course she wasn’t there when I woke up Christmas morning.  Because this is reality, not some childish fantasy where a bearded old man makes everything right with the world.  As the day ticked slowly by, I turned on marathons of traditional Christmas movies that I didn’t really watch.

Out in the hall I could hear doors opening, ecstatic greetings of friends and family.  Doors closing again.

No one knocked on my door.

Eventually, I busted out the chocolate covered cherries and  got a little schnockered on eggnog.

I fell asleep on the couch vowing that I would get a cat or dog—some other living creature to share my space.

And I heard her voice in my dream .  “I didn’t have a choice.”   It was the beep of the answering machine that pulled me out of sleep, and I fell all over myself trying to grab up the phone.  “Anya!  Anya!”

The dial tone resonated in my ear.  I tried *69, but no one answered at the other end.  I dropped the phone back in the cradle with a clatter, stabbing at buttons to make the message playback.

Anya’s familiar voice filled the room.  “ Forgive me, Marley.  I didn’t have a choice.”  That was it.  No contact information.  No Merry Christmas.  I knew her well enough to recognize the edge of tears in her voice.

I didn’t have a choice.

The implications of that statement filled me with a bone deep dread as I dialed the number for the Baltimore PD detective who was lead on her case.  Of course Detective Scaletti was busy with his huge Italian family.  I could hear raucous laughter and what sounded like two dozen voices competing in the background as I told him what had happened.

Kudos to him for not putting me off.

The call was traced to a payphone in some tiny town in Wyoming that doesn’t even show up as more than a dot on Google Maps.  Detective Scaletti got in touch with the local sheriff or police chief or whoever out there who came back in less than a day claiming that if Anya had ever been there, she wasn’t there now.

Scaletti says his hands are tied.  Wyoming is out of his jurisdiction and local authorities have promised to keep an eye out.

That’s not good enough.  None of these people are motivated to find her.  Not like I am.

I’m going to Wyoming.

Marley: What Are You Afraid Of?

What are you afraid of?

Dr. Nolan asked me that in our session last night.  I didn’t answer.  Fear is such a personal thing, not something I’m going to share with this woman who has become a voyeur to my life.

But I did think about the question.  What am I afraid of?

Right now, that’s so easy to answer.  Losing Anya like I lost Ava.  Like I lost my parents–or maybe they lost me.  She’s all I have left as an anchor in this world where I feel constantly out of sync with everyone.  The only person who seems to get me and still give a damn.  The only person I know for sure actually loves me.  Without Anya, I am alone.  And now that I’m an adult, there’s no system, imperfect thought it may be, to absorb me.  There’s nothing to save me from Myself.

As long as I have Anya, I can deal with the fact that I don’t know who I am.  Because I have an identity.  Anya’s best friend.  Anya’s soul sister.  But without her, I am nothing.  Not really.  Sure, I know that I love B grade sci fi movies and chocolate.  That I love history and hate math.  That I’d rather have chicken than beef.  I know all sorts of boring little details about my preferences and my habits.  But I don’t know who I am.  I don’t know who or where I come from.  Whether my parents were sinners or saints.  I don’t know whether I have her hair or his eyes.  And I certainly have no way of finding out.

I’m such a goddamned cliche.

Marley: Do I Really Have To Do This?

I’m supposed to journal.  Dr. Nolan says it will be “good for” me.  It’ll help me “find my voice” and maybe shed some light on the dreams.

Nightmares, more like.

Why the hell would I want to shed light on them?  I don’t ever remember them when I wake, not really.  Just that lingering sense of terror.  And that fades with the daylight.  No, I’m quite content leaving whatever it is in the dark.

She says it might help me remember what happened to me.  Maybe something about my parents.  I was two.  What the fuck does she think I’m going to remember from when I was two?  And why would I want to remember the people who abandoned me?

It’s how I feel most of the time.  Like I’m this freak that no one wanted, so they just dumped me off on the State.

Except…sometimes I have these–I can’t really call them memories, more feelings I guess–of being small and cherished and safe.  And how stupid is that?  I am an orphan. No one cherishes me.

Well, okay Ava did.  But she’s dead.  All because of that son of a bitching drunk driver.  And now Anya’s gone and freaking disappeared.  If she’s whole and safe and in one piece when I find her, I may kill her with my bare hands.  If she’s not…

I can’t think about that.  I have a flight to catch.

Marley: Conall As A Bully?

Conall went rigid the moment he opened the door.  “What are you doing here?”

I couldn’t see around the bulk of his body to see who he was addressing.

“You know I wouldn’t come here for me.  It’s Clara.”

I know that voice. I shifted, angling for a better view.

“Where is she?” Conall demanded.

“In the car.”

As Conall pushed past the speaker, heading in the direction he’d indicated, I finally got a clear view of who was outside the clinic.

“Derek?”

They both swung toward me, the boy with surprise and Conall with a virtual snarl on his face.  “You know him?”

Whoa, down boy. I nodded in response, hoping that the What In Holy Hell Is Wrong With You look on my face wasn’t going to set him off further.

I glanced behind him at the dilapidated For Taurus and saw a pale, young girl in the passenger seat, face half hidden with a curtain of lank, blonde hair.  I had the impression of huge, dark eyes before my attention was dragged back to Conall.

“How?”

I gave him props for keeping his voice even when his body shook with what I could only assume was repressed rage.  I couldn’t understand where this was coming from.

“He was beaten the other day.  I found him in an alley not far from the police station.  He refused to see you or go to the police, so I took him back to my room and patched him up.”  Keeping a cautious eye on Conall, I looked over at my erstwhile patient.  “You’re okay,” I said in disbelief.  “Your face isn’t even bruised anymore.”

“I’m a fast healer,” said Derek uncomfortably, stepping back when I reached out to inspect his face.

I dropped my hand and looked back toward Conall, whose face twisted with some inner struggle.  Something is very seriously wrong here. He was starting to scare me.

“So that’s why he was in your room,” Conall muttered.

I stared at him, more astonished than suspicious.  “How did you know that?”

“Knox mentioned it.   I don’t know how he knew.”

I frowned.  All that looking over my shoulder, thinking I was crazy.  It’s only paranoia if they’re not after you. “I was followed.  Given everything that’s happened, that’s not such a big shock.”

Conall’s gaze shot to Derek.  “You?” he demanded.

“No.”

Derek reared back a bit as Conall got in his face.  “Are you lying to me?”

“No, man!  I swear.  I wouldn’t work for that son of a bitch for anything.”

What son of a bitch?  Who are they talking about?

I didn’t take the time to ask because I was way more concerned with the fact that Conall was looming over Derek, fists bunched in the boy’s shirt.

“Conall!”

He didn’t respond to my shout.  Holy hell, was he growling at the kid?

I looked back at the car.  Saw the huge, bruised looking eyes peering out behind clasped knees.  And saw myself.  That pale face had nothing to do with illness and everything to do with terror.

My temper flaring, I marched over to the men and pushed between them.  I placed palm against each of their chests and shoved.  It was like pressing at steel-reinforced concrete walls.  Neither of them budged.  “Okay look,  I don’t know what the fuck your problem is with each other, and I don’t give a damn.  But it’s going to stop right now.”  I glared at each of them in turn, daring them to contradict me.  “You are scaring that poor child to death.”

Both of them looked back at the car, expressions of shame and contrition crossing their faces.  They backed away from each other, and suddenly I didn’t feel so claustrophobic.

“Stay,” I told them, and crossed slowly to the car.

The big, dark eyes followed my approach.  I rounded the hood of the car, circling to the passenger side door.  I made no move to open it, just crouched down eye level to the girl.

“Clara?”

The big eyes blinked.

“I’m Marley.”

Blink.

“Can I open the car door?”

Clara shifted her gaze back to where Derek and Conall stood, both apparently trying not to look threatening.  She looked back at me and nodded slowly.

I pulled open the door and knelt behind it.  “Thanks.  You okay?”

Nod.

“I knew I should have worn my ‘Boys are dumb’ t-shirt today.”

Two blinks.

Tough crowd.  “You’ve seen this kind of thing before, haven’t you?”

Slow nod.

“It’s scary isn’t it.”

Clara hugged her knees a little closer, and I tried to keep my voice soothing.  “Nobody’s going to hurt you here.  They didn’t mean to scare you.  They’re just…well, I don’t know what they are, but they’re finished now.”

The girl just continued to watch me with those eyes that were so much older than her body.

“Do you think maybe you’d like to come inside?”

The knees unfolded a little, and Clara hesitated, looking briefly at the guys and back at me.

“I’ll stay with you, if you like,” I said, offering her hand to the girl.

After a moment, Clara took it and stepped out of the car.

Marley: Now What?

I woke disoriented in a sprawling, empty bed, in an unfamiliar room.

I shot up to my elbows, startled and confused.  The furnishings were spare and masculine but comfortable.  I laid very still for the couple of minutes it took to remember the night before.  The kidnapping.  The wolves.

I sank back down against the pillows and was enveloped in a spicy, woodsy scent.  Conall.

My rescuer had spent the night on the sofa, and I was far too tired to argue with him.  He’d fit well enough spooned around me by the fire.  If he wanted to continue his chivalry, who was I to argue?  It was a dying practice, after all.

Conall was…an anomaly.

I shouldn’t trust him.  I didn’t know him.

But he’d rescued me.  Held me while I fell apart last night.  And he hadn’t taken advantage of my vulnerability.  He was, by all appearances, a gentleman.  Kind, smart, and outrageously sexy.  And the closest thing I had to an ally in the midst of all this insanity.

The thing is, I really want to trust him.  And that freaks me out.  The only people I have ever trusted without question are Anya and her mom.  As a kid, they made me feel safe when my world fell apart.  And maybe that’s it.  I feel safe with Conall.

Yeah, and okay, if I’m being honest with myself, safe isn’t the only thing I feel.  I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a man before.  It’s almost…primal.  And it really makes me wish we’d met under other circumstances when I could actually think about pursuing it.  But we didn’t and I can’t, so I might as well put it out of my head.

I’ve got another police report to file.

Conall: After She Wakes

Christ this is hard.

She’s in agony, and I can do nothing.  I, who have spent my life helping to relieve pain, have to sit by and wait.  She says it will pass, but her face is pinched and white, with none of the bloom of color I saw earlier.  Is this what all her seizures are like?  I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years as a doctor.

She’s so fucking stubborn.  Waited until I’d gone to make tea to pick herself up off the floor when she could barely move.  She’d rather hurt herself than let me help.  And then the panic when she started to remember.  I could hear the trip hammer beat of her heart, racing with fear.  I forgot myself for a moment, moving faster than I ought to maintain my cover.  But I had to protect her from the threat, even if the threat is her own memory.

It is instinctual.  Primitive.  I don’t entirely understand it.  Don’t know if I can accept the truth of what this means.  For me.  For her.

She is afraid of me.  With what she remembers, I can’t blame her.  She knows she was drugged, and I’ve no proof other than my word that it wasn’t me who did it. It isn’t like I can tell her the truth.  I have to tread carefully in what I tell her, to feel out what she remembers from before the seizure.  Nothing between the bar and the wolves.  The ludicrousness of the situation is probably in my favor.  What justification would I have had to drug her and dump her in the woods, hoping she’d be attacked by wolves?  My own injuries support my story that I rescued her.  She need not know I wasn’t in this form when I did it.

She wants answers.  So do I.

Knox thinks she knows about Anya.  That has to be what all this is about.  It’s the only reason he’d have tried to kill her.  The only way he’d be allowed to do so under Mirus law.  And with the IED still in town, he’d never risk executing a human without cause.

But she doesn’t know.  That was so clear in our conversation at the Den.  I’ll confront Knox tomorrow and clarify that.  And clarify that she is under my protection.  At this point, ignorance is the only possible thing that can keep her safe from our world.

She must be kept safe at all costs.

This human woman.

My mate.