Willa smiled to herself, then concentrated on catching the rounded tip of the metal object with her fingernail. It felt smooth, though. There was no purchase. It required a gripping, whorled fingertip rather than a ragged fingernail.
“I just need another quarter inch...”
“Back to your bed, child. I hear her coming.”
“I don’t hear anything. Almost have it...”
“Now!”
That got her moving. A shrill tone coated the deep voice. By the time the door opened, she was sitting on the bed arranging her face into an expression of innocence. The one that always kept her out of trouble. Well, almost always.
“Hello, my little jailbirds. Are we feeling more clear-headed now?”
The witch caressed the switch next to the door. A sudden burst of light assaulted Willa’s eyes, but she forced them to stay open in order to study everything: what lay beyond that door (a wooden staircase), the clothing the witch wore (a black long-sleeved shirt, thick black leggings, black boots), the items she carried (a tray of food...two bowls...probably poisoned), and the analog clock hanging in the stairwell (6:33, but whether AM or PM was unknowable).
Even the tiniest bit of information about her surroundings and her abductor might prove helpful. She’d read that FBI trainees learned how to make mental notes on everything in their realm of vision, even when they were on vacation.
“I need to pee,” Willa replied in her sweetest voice. It wasn’t even a lie.
A raven’s-wing eyebrow arched. “That’s what the pail is for.” The witch indicated a plastic bucket next to the bed.
“I can’t go in front of him.” Willa had been working on this strategy prior to the key quest. She figured the witch might allow her to go somewhere else to pee, or the witch might release Mister Fergus from his cage to give them both privacy. He had a bucket too, but she couldn’t figure how he would be able to use it while wearing handcuffs. He probably had to go pretty badly, too.
“If you wet the bed, you will have to lie in it. Not only that, if you soil the sheets, I will cut off your pinky finger and feed it to my wolf.”
“You have a pet wolf?” She used a childish voice an octave higher than her own. Like the innocent expression, it had worked well on grown-ups in the past.
“An intriguing notion, isn’t it?” the witch replied.
Willa nodded. She could imagine herself with a pet wolf, although a pet panther would be even more exotic. Maybe she could have the panther and Harlan could have the wolf.
“Where does your wolf sleep?” she continued in the high-pitched voice, adding a cute head-tilt. “At the foot of your bed, like a dog, or out in the open with his pack? Does he have his own wolf house in the backyard?”
“You’re an imaginative one,” said the witch.
“I’m a writer. You can’t be a writer without an imagination. It’s probably even more important than proper grammar. Editors can fix grammar mistakes, but they can’t fix a lack of imagination.”
“What makes you think my wolf is male?” the witch said in a sly tone. Willa did not like that tone one bit. She adored clever people; sly ones made her hackles rise.
“Oh, I didn’t think of that. Wolves in books and stories always seem to be male, but of course there must be plenty of female wolves too. She-wolves!” Willa added with what she hoped was a disarming grin.
The witch stared at her, then set the tray on a table next to the door.
“Whatever is in those bowls smells delicious,” Willa said. “But I don’t think I can eat until I pee. I promise to behave if you let me go in private. I bet you have a proper bathroom upstairs. You’re an elegant lady. I can’t picture you squatting behind a tree or peeing in a bucket.”
The witch giggled. To some, that giggle might sound charming. To Willa, it sounded ghoulish.
Seconds passed as the witch busied herself with the food tray. Willa studied her from the back. The witch was about as tall as Serna Jo, but skinnier. Her boots showed evidence of wear but were good quality; mud had squished out from between the treads, leaving footprints on the concrete floor with every step.
Finally, the witch said, “Very well. I do hope you behave because if you pull any shenanigans, I will slice off your entire hand to feed to my wolf.”
“Shenanigans is a good word! I’ll add it to my lexicon.”
Poison-green eyes stared at her, unblinking. The expression the witch wore now was inscrutable.
Willa hoped she was winning the witch over. She didn’t know if that was possible with witches, but she was giving it everything she had. A normal grown-up wouldn’t stand a chance. A psychopath, as Fergus believed the witch to be, may possess an innate ability to withstand her charm offensive.
The witch didn’t respond. Wordlessly, she carried one of the food bowls to the cage in the corner. From his perch on a stool within, Fergus studied the woman’s every move, like a wary, red-haired gargoyle.
“You look tired, Lizzy. You’re probably not getting much sleep between all your nocturnal adventures. How’s Ray, by the way? I can’t imagine you’ve done anything too nefarious to him, considering your, shall we call them, tender feelings.”
The black-clad figure stiffened. Even from behind, Willa could see the discomfort the words had evoked.
“Don’t be absurd. I’m not capable of tender feelings.”
A deep chuckle. “That’s true for most psychopaths, but something developed between you and Ray in that warehouse. You know that I know it, too. You felt the transference of your thoughts to me when I held your hand. You don’t yet understand how that process works, but you’ve learned to tamp it down. I see I’ve piqued your
