His paws kneaded the fabric of her jeans, claws slipping and catching gently. Possessive little beast. Everybody in the whole damn world thought they owned her lap, and all the appurtenances thereto.
She wondered how long human sperm remained viable in the female body. Was Dougal waging a posthumous war with Brian for her womb?
She shook her head. That would have been part of Freshman Health in high school, sex-education for hormone-ravaged ninth graders. Mom and Dad wouldn't sign the permission forms for either of the girls. They seemed to think Jo and Maureen would stay virgins forever if nobody mentioned the fact that men had penises and women had vaginas.
Odd idea, and a little late in either case.
The cat shifted on her lap, redirecting her hand to his left shoulder blade. She wished she could be that simple and straightforward. Cats didn't have any of those body hang-ups. If a cat wanted something, either food or sex or a warm sunbeam on his belly, he went out and got it. If he wanted his shoulder scratched, he told you which one and how long. Hedonist. Mister Marmalade had his harem and his windowsill and his milk; all was right with his world.
Brian appeared around the corner of the house. He saw her and shook his head.
"Nothing?"
"The hedge is a solid wall. Fiona tells it to open when she wants to leave. Right now, it isn't even playing dead-end maze with me."
Shit.
"Can't you cut a way out with that knife of yours?"
"That wouldn't be wise. The hedge has defenses."
"Can't you magic it open?"
"It's my sister's pet." He grinned down at the cat. "You seem to have better luck seducing them than I do."
She blushed. Her quick smile faded as fast as it came. "What happens when she gets back?"
"I don't know. Fiona's a wild card. She might say she's bored with me and let us go, or she might turn you into a toad. You'd make a very lovely toad."
Somehow, she didn't think he was joking. Maureen shuddered.
"Isn't there any way we can fight her?"
Brian chewed on his lip for a moment. "Again, I don't know. She drained my power. My mana, if you will. It'll be days before I build up anything worth mentioning. I have no idea what your strength may be. It's obviously greater than Dougal thought, or you wouldn't be here."
She closed her eyes. "I'm tired. Don't expect much from me. If this tree wasn't behind me, I don't think I could even sit up straight. Last night was just about the first sleep I've had since I left our apartment. You don't want to ask how I got it. And I haven't been eating much, either."
"I know how you got it." His voice was gentle. "What I don't know is how you held out as long as you did. How did you escape?"
She decided to put it in the simplest possible terms. He deserved to know.
"I'm crazy, Brian. I'm schizophrenic. I turned him into a delusion and stepped aside into one of my private little worlds. I've had plenty of practice. Anyway, it fooled him into thinking he'd won. This morning, I just unchained the paranoia and let my own personal Doberman have him for breakfast." She opened her eyes, and met his glance, and held it. "Still interested in sleeping next to me?"
He waited long enough for her to know he understood.
"Yes." He grinned. "You'll keep me from getting bored." Then his expression sobered. "Maureen, you never told anyone about the rape, did you? Not even a priest or therapist?"
Cold fire shot through her like a lightning bolt. "I didn't say it," she whispered, too quiet for him to hear. "Jo, I swear I never said it. God as my witness, I didn't break my promise. I never told."
"No," she added, aloud.
She shook her head. She had to learn to be honest with herself, even about this. Jo would skin me alive if she knew what I've covered up. She was just scared of Daddy, scared of what he would do if he ever found out about her and Buddy.
But I couldn't say what he did to me without Daddy finding out about the rest . . . .
Brian squatted down so she wouldn't have to squint up at him against the sky, and spoke softly. "There's something you ought to think about, something the psych-boffins are always sniffing after, in combat veterans like you and me. It's called 'Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.' Some of the symptoms are damned close to schizophrenia. I've walked that road myself. As you Yanks would say, 'Been there, done that.'"
Maureen froze. She knew about PTSD. They'd had months on it, in her various psych courses back in college. But that hadn't applied to her. That hadn't explained the voices, hadn't explained the things she saw that no one else could see--hadn't explained the ways she had been "different" long before Buddy Johnson stalked into her nightmares.
Her mind filled the gaps with its own added diagnosis. That's the Blood, magic, a whole world the shrinks won't admit exists. A lot of "crazy Maureen" has always been the power in my blood struggling with a world that doesn't believe in magic. Advice from trees was a strength, not a symptom.
Brian seemed to read her thoughts. "Nobody here would call you crazy. You deceived Dougal by using your power. You killed him by using your power. In this world, you're not schizophrenic. You're a witch."
She felt calm washing through her, the cool relief of a lanced boil draining pus. She hadn't told Brian, but he knew. The years of hiding were over. She'd never dared admit the true problem, even to herself.
"My delusions are real?"
"They aren't delusions."
"I really was talking to the trees?"
"How do you think Fiona controls her hedge?"
Her glance dropped to the cat in her lap. Her hands had switched to rubbing his cheeks, pulling his eyes shut in an ecstasy of attention.
"The rest was just Buddy Johnson?"
