“You can’t be serious,” I said. “There isn’t enough room for both of us in here. Surely, you have another tent.”
“This is it,” he said.
He lay on his side and gathered me to him, spoon fashion.
“I’ll never be able to sleep like this,” I said, pulling away from him. “You’re hard as a rock.”
“Not totally, but if you keep moving around like that, I will be.”
I froze. I didn’t want to encourage him in any way. What was he playing at? I jabbed him with my elbow, but it had no effect. His breath became slow and deep. Brodie was already falling asleep. He brought his hand around and cupped my breast.
“Hey!” I yelled.
“Kidnapper’s prerogative,” he mumbled and pulled me even closer. He snored softly. He was sound asleep but managed to hold me tight, even while he was unconscious. He was hard but warm and comforting in a weird abductor sort of way. I thought of being kidnapped, of Chechnya, of forced marriage, and Ebola. My life had changed in all sorts of ways lately.
Then my thoughts turned to my mother, who had given me a Chechen middle name and never explained it. The secret to my abduction lay somewhere with her. Not a comforting thought.
I had seen her only a few weeks before I moved to England. I had quit my job in New York, and I had given away my meager belongings. I was left with one large suitcase of stuff that I felt was worthy of a well-paid editor in London. I put it in storage while I took the train trip to my mother’s.
It was the goodbye I was dreading, not because it was a sad farewell, but because I dreaded any contact with my mother.
Her house was set back behind a long, gravel driveway and a forest of trees. The house was little more than a large, meandering log cabin, and it was encircled by a group of outbuildings in various stages of disrepair. Animal sounds got louder as I approached. Three mutts ran up to me, greeting me with slobber and muddy paws on my clothes.
“Oh, good. I need a hand,” my mother said, appearing from nowhere and barely giving me a glance, unsurprised at seeing me after a three-year absence.
I followed her around to the back of the house. She wore a rust-colored poncho and green parachute pants. Her hair was like mine—thick, wavy auburn, and it fell midway down her back. She was slim and pretty, and I felt a pang when I noticed the lines surrounding her green eyes, the eyes that everyone commented on, and the eyes that I inherited.
“Hi, Mom,” I said to her back, not breaking my stride.
“Lotus Flower,” she answered.
“Excuse me?”
“You can call me Lotus Flower now. My Yogi says that the ‘mom’ title weighs down my chakras.”
“Of course,” I muttered.
We stopped at a huge cage, which was filled with at least fifty rabbits. The smell was unbearable.
“I need to get the one with the black circle around its left eye,” she explained.
She opened the cage and walked in, holding the door open for me to enter. The last thing I wanted to do was enter the rabbit cage, but my feet moved on their own, probably some holdout from the days when I wanted to please my mother.
“You’re raising rabbits?” I asked, pretending to search for the rabbit and trying to evade the worst of the rabbit poop.
“Yes, of course. I thought you knew that.”
How could I have known that? We hadn’t had any contact in three years. My mother didn’t believe in phones, letters, or e-mail, all things she called psi energy zappers. The last time I saw her she was busy with her weaving business, making meditation rugs at a breakneck speed. My mother was crazy but productive.
“Isn’t this against your belief system? Rabbit farming?” I asked.
“I breed them for holistic health practitioners, who give them to patients for therapy purposes. It’s a holistic health thing, Abigail. I don’t expect you to understand.” She squatted among the rabbits, searching.
“I understand,” I said, peeved. “These are for the patients who don’t respond to crystal healing.”
I recalled with more than a little hostility a horrible week when I was eight when my mother insisted on treating me with crystals for a raging ear infection. I still had a little trouble hearing in that ear.
My mother stood up with the rabbit in question in her hand. The object of her search found, she motioned for me to exit. She put the rabbit in a smaller cage and dusted herself off. “Chamomile?”
I nodded and followed her into the house. We walked through the cluttered living room toward the kitchen, and I traced my finger along the mantel, stirring up months’ worth of dirt and dust. “The house hasn’t changed, I see,” I commented.
My mother poured the tea and sat across from me at the kitchen table. She looked worn but not unhappy. As long as I could remember, she was alone, and unlike me, she seemed to like it that way.
She had always refused to speak about my father, letting him be the big mystery in my life. Growing up, I imagined him as someone completely different from my mother, someone sane, someone with money, someone who would let me buy lunch in the school cafeteria, someone who wouldn’t force me to live in a shack in the desert or a hovel in the mountains and eat royal bee jelly. He was the big hole in my life, but he filled up my imagination, making my life bearable.
“I’m moving,” I told her.
She waited for more information. I couldn’t tell if she truly wanted to know or if she was at a loss for words. She was normally taciturn around me. If I were charitable, I would say that she was unsure what to say to me, but it was more that my mother didn’t feel I was worthy of her words, probably because I thought everything she said was baloney, and she knew it.
“I’m moving to London. I got a really good job,” I said, brightly.
“I thought you already had a really good job. An establishment job just like you always wanted.” She took a sip of tea, but her eyes never left mine as she watched her accusations hit me.
“Well, this is even more of an establishment job. A magazine about rich people, capitalists, and royalty,” I spat out. “And I’ll be the features editor. I’m going to write about dinner parties and castle remodels.”
I challenged her to tell me that I was wasting my life. I wanted to explain that I deserved a cushy job and cushy life after working myself through school, making my way up in a man’s world after growing up without any decent parental figure in my life.
“Interesting,” she said in a tone, which said she didn’t find it interesting in the least. If only I could get a job in astral projection, crop circles, harmonic convergence, reincarnation, or channeling, then my mom would find me interesting.
“Would you like to see my collection of fairy photos?” she asked. Her face brimmed with excitement, as if she just recalled she had them.
I spent an hour looking at her photos and shared a mung bean sandwich for lunch. When it was time to go, I slipped her my work number in London, in case she ever needed it.
We didn’t hug goodbye, but she grabbed my arm and pulled me to her. She stood on her tiptoes and whispered in my ear. “You’re stronger than you think,” she said and turned quickly on her heel and walked back up to the house.
It was a pretty average visit with my mom. No word about my Chechen background. No hint of impending danger. Certainly nothing about me being a princess.
I thought about being a princess. A captive princess in a tent in the Africa wilderness with a hunky mercenary pressed to my backside. Then I thought about Cinderella and how she would handle the situation. Surely, Cinderella would have gotten the African wildlife to help her. Same with Snow White. Animals would have flocked to her rescue. I thought about animals. Then I thought about snakes. Then, to stop thinking about snakes, I thought about chocolate. And then sleep overtook me, and I thought no more.
***
“Wake up, woman.”
I was having a very pleasant dream, and I didn’t want to wake up. I cuddled closer to Brodie. I dimly understood that my head was wedged under his chin and my hand rested on his lower abdomen, but I was in that delicious early morning deep sleep, and I didn’t want to move.
“Wake up, woman,” he said, a little bit of urgency in his voice.
I moved even closer. Geez, he was comfortable. And—I realized—a healthy man in the morning. His ready-for-action state reminded me that I shouldn’t have slept so well, shouldn’t be clutching on to him as if he was my lover and not a terrorist middleman, sending me off to be sold to some warlord.
Whatever. I was really sleepy.
I moaned lightly, snuggled up against him, and fell back asleep.
“Get. Up.” My head hit the floor with a bump, and my eyes flew open.
“Ow! Stop it!” I yelled.
Brodie had thrown me off of him and was giving me a good shake. “Wake up, you daft old thing.”
I gasped. “I’m awake, and I’m hardly old. I’m in the prime of my life. No lines around my eyes and not even the least bit of tick, tick from the biological clock!” Well, perhaps the teensiest tick, tick, but he didn’t need to know that.
Brodie crouched over me, grabbed my arm, and threw me out of the tent. I skidded through the dirt, stopping about a foot away. He made quick work of the tent, taking down our campsite in seconds.
“You better do what you need to do, quickly. We’ll be driving for quite some time,” he said.
“What time is it?” I asked. It was pitch-black, and I couldn’t have been asleep for more than a couple of hours.
“It’s time to go. Hurry up. Breakfast will be on the road.”
I visited my little bush and got dressed. I had just enough time to medicate my feet before he ordered me into the Range Rover and off we went.
I fell back to sleep in record time, my head slumped against the car door. I woke up hours later with a long line of drool hanging precariously from my mouth. The sun was high in the sky, and the Range Rover had slowed to a stop in front of a tin structure and a tall tower with “Petrol” written on it in pink letters.
Brodie got out of the Range Rover and opened my door. “Don’t think about running,” he growled low and soft.
I hadn’t thought at all about running. There was no place to run to. We were in the middle of nowhere. But I found it more than interesting that Brodie was worried about the possibility of my escape.
At that moment, I began to obsess about escape plans. Uppermost in my mind was escaping unharmed and undead.
Brodie gassed up the car, and we got back on the road. I was more or less rested, and I busied my mind with escape scenarios: I could overpower Brodie, throw him out of the car, and drive away to safety. I could steal the knife he wore on his waistband and stab him in his throat, throw him out of the car, and drive away to safety. I could sit quietly and wait for Prince Charming to come on his white steed, kill Brodie, save me, and drive me away to safety.
All my escape scenarios were equally implausible.
Brodie threw me a sandwich and a bottle of water. I took a bite. Chicken. We chewed for a few miles.
“It’s a long trip to Chechnya,” I said. “Do you think that shower breaks can be arranged during the trip?”
Brodie ignored me and started on his second sandwich.
“You can’t like riding around with me in this state. Dirt and sweat aside, Mr. Brodie, I do have dried vomit in my hair.”
Brodie didn’t care about my vomit. He didn’t care about me, for that matter. He ignored me completely, and we drove in silence for a few more hours. I figured he had forgotten about me until we stopped at another tin structure and tall tower, almost identical to the last one, except the sign on the tower was faded blue instead of pink, and the “P” was missing, leaving it to announce that “etrol” was available.
Brodie opened the passenger door and hauled me out by the elbow. We walked around the tin structure, through a rickety door, and then we were in the filthiest bathroom I had ever seen. I had reported from crack houses in the worst parts of New York City. Crack house bathrooms were nicer than that bathroom.
“What? You want me to vomit again?” I asked.
“It has a shower,” Brodie explained.
It was almost thoughtful of him. I asked for a shower, and he almost provided one. The room was about six by six feet. A toilet with no seat and the remains of past patrons took up one half of the room, and the other half was the so-called shower.
An ancient showerhead hung high over tile that had once been white but was now dingy in the best places and black with mold and who-knows-what-else in the worst. I supposed that the metal grate in the middle of the room was the drain. This was ground zero for germs. This was a Clorox commercial waiting to happen.
“Thanks but no thanks,” I said, backing out.
“C’mon, Princess. This may be your last chance to get clean for a while.”
“Clean. Yeah, right. I’m not getting in there. That’s a bubonic plague shower. That’s tile-covered typhoid fever. No, thanks. I’ll stick with my vomit. At least I know where it came from.”
“Fine. I couldn’t care less. That will save us time.”
Something in the tone of his voice made me think that he could have cared less, that he was hurt by my refusal of his gift. I had a sudden urge to make him feel better –I supposed it was the Stockholm syndrome rearing its ugly head—and so I pointed to a nearby hose just outside the bathroom.
“I suppose I could shower with that,” I said. “That would be just great.”
“Right. Take your clothes off.”
I thought about that a moment. Stockholm syndrome only went so far.
“Very good,” I said. “You can just wait for me at the car.”
“No doing. Where you go, I go. Just take your clothes off and get cleaned up. I don’t have all day. This isn’t a spa in London.”
Talk about stating the obvious.
We were at a standstill. And that’s just what we did. We stood still, eyeing each other without moving a muscle.
Brodie had a way of standing, his feet shoulder-width apart, his arms loose, down by his hips, that portrayed a man at ease, like he didn’t have a care in the world. But he was a wall of muscle, armed to the teeth, his jaw set, and his eyes unblinking in an inhuman sort of way.
I knew that he was tightly wound, ready to spring at any moment. He could kill me in a heartbeat. Displaying any patience with me at all when he had complete power over me was touching in a way. He stood waiting, and I stood deciding.
“Have you forgotten that I’m engaged?” I asked. “What would my intended say about me disrobing in front of you?” I batted my eyes and flipped my hair.
Brodie arched an eyebrow. He stepped toward me, and I backed up until I hit the wall. He closed the gap, mashing his torso against me. He traced his finger along my lips. His touch was feather-light, and my body sagged toward him.
“Are you playing with me, Princess?” he whispered. His finger traced the contours of my jaw and glided down my neck to my chest. “That might not be a good idea. I never learned to play fair.”
“Um,” I said. I tried not to swallow my tongue, but my body was no longer taking my orders. I tried to get my brain to think. Nothing was coming to me. It was probably too late to teach him to play fair, I thought.
“H-how about if I just wash my hair? That would put me in a great mood,” I stammered.
“Two minutes,” he said, releasing me.
I still felt his hands on me and my body hummed, as if he flipped my on switch with the light touch of his finger. He was dangerous in more ways than one. A cold shower would do wonders.
I got my shampoo and soap from the car, flipped my head forward and washed my hair, face, and hands with the hose. It was heavenly. I never felt anything so wonderful before.
And I wasn’t naked.
Partially clean and back on the road, I took the moisturizer from my overnight bag. Brodie was driving faster now. Perhaps we were nearing our destination, and he was impatient to get there. I was no closer to escaping, but at least I didn’t stink, and my face was covered in Clinique day cream with a subtle concealer and SPF 15.
Brodie seemed less antagonistic, and I hoped he would give up on the abduction, or at the very least give me enough information for me to get out of it on my own.
“You keep calling me Princess,” I said. “A Chechen princess? That’s funny because I thought I was Episcopalian. Actually, Mom always said that organized religion was just too much bad karma. She even hinted to me that my father was merely a psychic wave of good vibes. An incarnated Beach Boys song, as it were.”
I waited for Brodie to yell at me to shut up, but he stared straight ahead and kept driving.
“So, Nashkha is a Chechen name,” I continued. “Got to hand it to Mom. She actually knew my father. I thought it was just a one shot deal. Anyway, as a princess, I suppose I will have duties and responsibilities. Hey, I could get into this. Maybe this Makhmud guy is decent looking, a stand-up guy. Maybe we’ll really hit it off.”
“Makhmud Gurzhikhanov is seventy-three years old,” Brodie said. “He’s a documented paranoid schizophrenic, and he loves playing with knives.”
“You don’t have to sound so gleeful about it, Brodie. You know, your karma can’t be real good if you decide to go ahead and do this thing.”
“Don’t worry about a thing, Princess. Half up front, half on delivery. Consider this thing as good as done.”
I pushed down my panic and tried to think clearly.
“I respect a man who follows through, who can be counted on, who takes on a responsibility and never shirks,” I said. “I’m sure Montou is thrilled that you’re doing this for him.”
Brodie shifted a little in his seat. He was uncomfortable at the mention of his boss.
“Ah, I see,” I said. “Montou doesn’t know anything about this, does he? That changes things.”
If Brodie had gone rogue and was doing this on his own, maybe Montou and the other Les Terribles would be on his heels, and they could help me escape. It was the best news I got since being kidnapped. My heart did a little flip of excitement.
“Montou is happy being a politician now. I’m not,” he said.
“I see. Just out of curiosity, how much does a Chechen princess go for these days? Maybe you and I can make a deal?”
He grunted. “You don’t have that kind of money. You can’t get that kind of money.”
He was right. I couldn’t even get a cash advance on my Visa card. I hunkered down in my seat and thought long and hard about escape plans.
We camped early and ate dinner.
“Do you think this Makhmud guy will bring together the clans and triumph and all that?” I asked.
“I don’t get paid to think,” he said, slicing an apple with the blade of his Swiss Army knife.
His attitude was starting to wear thin. I thought about my odds in leaping across the table, grabbing his knife and stabbing him.
Not good odds.
His sixth sense must have been humming, because he closed the knife and put it back in his pocket.
“That’s good,” I said. “Because I’m not paying you. This is just chit-chat.”
Brodie took a bite of his apple. He leaned back and gave me that look again, his head tilted to the side, his eyes boring through me.
“No, he won’t triumph. The guy’s a freak,” he said. “But he will get a lot of attention. The legend of the first clan resurrected will bring in a number of followers.”
“Am I really a descendant of the first clan?” I asked.
“As far as I know.”
“And my father?”
“Don’t know him. Don’t know who he is.”
My heart sank. If all of this could lead to discovering my father and reuniting with him, it would almost be worth it. But there was always disappointment where my father was concerned. I changed the subject.
“You like the mercenary business?”
“Beats being an accountant.”
“I’m not so sure. I mean, if you count in morality.”
“I don’t.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think you would.”
“It’s late, Princess,” he said, softly. He rose and offered me his hand. I took it, and he helped me up.
In the tent, he pulled me close to him again, spoon fashion. Immediately, his breathing slowed, and his hand went to my breast. “Damned bras,” he muttered and began snoring lightly.
I pulled against him, but his grip tightened. I tried to elbow him in the chest, but he had me wrapped up tight. I was caught for another night, but I was determined to do whatever I could to get away the next day. We wouldn’t be in the middle of nowhere forever. Sooner or later, there would be people around and confusion, and I would take advantage of that and make my escape. For now, I settled back against him and fell fast asleep in his arms.
***
I had the most marvelous dream. Beautiful butterflies flew over my body. Their wings batted my skin, provoking a marvelous fluttering sensation. The feeling was extraordinary, and I moaned and squirmed with the pleasure of it all.
I moaned again, but my voice was deeper than usual. Much deeper. In fact, it wasn’t my voice at all. It was Brodie’s. And the butterflies were not butterflies. They were his hands.