Chapter Two

Too tired to keep her eyes open, Bethany fell into a doze. She jerked awake when the old woman-Mrs. Simpson-threw open the door. She stood framed by the purplish evening light, wiping smears of blood from around her mouth before entering. She puttered about the cabin doing eerily normal things-cleaning her knife, tidying her small collection of clothes, disappearing into a curtained-off corner to dress for bed. Bethany watched her warily and so did Martin. His eyes looked more alive now, calculating, measuring, observing instead of just seeing.

Their captor noticed the difference. She came out dressed in thick flannel pajamas, her grey hair pulled back and tamed into a loose braid. She froze by her bed, glaring at her prisoners with a heat that made Bethany draw as far into the shadows as she could. The Visitor stared back, impassive and unintimidated.

“My little hunter and my little dinner have been bonding behind my back,” the old woman said, almost to herself. “That could make things more interesting.” She caressed the controller she always kept at hand, an unpleasant smile curling her lips. “Interesting indeed. Have a good night, little ones.”

Bethany glared at her, fear fleeing before disgusted anger. If only she could get free . . . a soft sound from her fellow prisoner drew her attention to him, and it was obvious he felt the same.

She waited for the old woman-Mrs. Simpson’s name would haunt her forever-to fall asleep. Once she was sure the deep, regular breaths were not feigned, she very slowly stretched out her handcuffs as far as they would go. Then, careful not to clink the chain, she drew her fingers together until her hand was as small as she could make it, and she pulled as hard as she could.

It felt like her shoulder was going to pop out of its socket. She thought for a pulse-racing moment that she was going to make it, but the cuff caught on the widest part of her hand. Growling under her breath, she yanked, setting her heels into the floor and throwing herself backwards. She felt the already abused skin of her wrist tear, but even with the bloody lubrication, she couldn’t get it to move more than another millimeter.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Martin finally protested, his voice barely breaking through the air.

“Don’t see why that would matter since she’s planning on eating me,” Bethany grunted.

“Don’t. I tried for weeks,” he said, absently rubbing at his scarred green wrist. “It won’t do any good.”

Bethany tried a few more frustrated yanks before giving up and crawling back into her corner. “This is stupid. I should have listened to Mick.”

“Mick?”

“My boss. He said I was crazy to come out here, but I don’t think this was quite what he had in mind.”

The Visitor almost smiled, shaking his head. “You should try to rest. You haven’t slept much.”

“You too.” She could barely see him by the moonlight shining through the small window, and she wasn’t sure she was qualified to judge the physical health of his species, but he seemed tired. His only reply was a quiet snort, but he lay on his side with a soft clink of chain, curled like an animal trying to keep itself warm.

***

Eyes slitted open, Martin listen to Bethany’s breathing slow and deepen, his mouth crooking a millimeter upwards. He had long ago come to the conclusion that humans were all crazy, and she was definitely at the head of the pack. Worse, she was a scientist, though not like any scientist he had ever met, of any species; brash, stubborn, and on the edge of annoying, her wild auburn curls and oddly grey-green eyes fit her personality more than the softly rounded face that gave her an innocent air, at least until her expression ruined it.

Silently as possible, he pulled back his bound arm, a slow, steady pull that tested the strength of his manacle. He knew it wouldn’t be any different than the dozens, hundreds, thousands of times he had tried it before, but there was always the vain hope that he had lost weight, or the iron bar that he was attached to had developed a new weak spot . . .

Foolish hope; his chains were as inescapable as ever. Sighing, he glanced to the oblivious huddle of girl across the room from him. How well had the conversion done its job? Could a housewife from the suburbs really kill one of her own? Was her soul destroyed along with her humanity? Martin was afraid he knew the answer to that. Diana was very, very good with her favorite toy.

***

Bethany woke up when the sun stabbed her in the face. She groaned to herself, then yipped when a narrow foot caught her in the small of the back. “Come on, you. I’m not letting you laze about today. You can do that tomorrow, when you’re sleeping in my stomach!” Cackling at her own joke, Mrs. Simpson grabbed her long rope and tied Bethany uncomfortably tight, unlocking her handcuffs and prodding her to her feet with an unkind toe. “Move it. You’re coming with me for a scrub. You mammals have the most disgusting bodily fluids; I don’t want my dinner spoiled by an odor.”

Dragging herself reluctantly to her feet, Bethany scowled. It would be a good chance to use the bathroom facilities, or the thickest bush as the case might be; she realized that it had been more than twenty-four hours since she’d even felt the need. Nerves and dehydration, not a good combination. She let herself be dragged at knifepoint around the back of the house, where she reluctantly stripped and used a harsh soap to scrub herself at the smallest of several water barrels. The soap stung her sunburn, but rinsing it with water that hadn’t had a chance to warm in the sun felt good. She wished she had something besides the dirty sweats to change into, especially considering that she was probably going to be working in the garden again.

This time Mrs. Simpson took Bethany into the garden as soon as she set Martin free to catch her breakfast, and his own. Bethany was better at recognizing the weeds this time, and was able to keep half an eye on the Visitor, watching him stalking the edge of the garden near what looked like some ground squirrel holes, first moving so slowly that it didn’t seem real, pressing his hand to the ground, feeling for vibrations. He stayed still, so still she couldn’t even see him breathing, for a long time then, with a lunge so fast that she barely had time to see it, drove his scaly hand into the ground and came up with two squirming, struggling little creatures.

His gaze slid to her and she blinked wide eyes. He gave her a crooked little smile and rose, dusting himself off. He walked over and handed the animals to Mrs. Simpson, who dispatched them cleanly with her ever-present blade. “Well, go on, get something for yourself. You’re useless to me if you starve. Hurry up about it, then get our little dinner a drink and help her water.”

Martin gave Bethany another glance, his eyes flat and emotionless. Bethany ducked her head and concentrated on de-weeding the last row of lettuces. She was grateful when he ducked behind the house; she didn’t think she could stand to watch something as cute as the big-eyed ground squirrels being eaten alive. Though it probably would be better than listening to the woman behind her slurping the meat of their raw bones . . .

Trying to ignore the woman’s sighs of pleasure, Bethany tugged savagely at a larger-than-average weed. It was stubborn and didn’t want to let go, even when she heaved back with all her weight, both hands wound around it.

A cool touch to the back of her hand stopped her; she sat back, panting, ashamed of the frustrated tears in her eyes. Martin remained his usual silent self, digging his claws into the hard dirt and loosening the roots before twisting the plant out of the ground and tossing it out of the garden.

Bethany looked away, straight into the happy, anticipatory face of Mrs. Francine Simpson. She shivered, wondering what the woman was thinking behind that gleeful expression.

She wasn’t made to work as long as she had been the day before, and Mrs. Simpson made sure she had her fill of water, watching close while fingering her knife to make sure she actually drank it. She even went so far as to toss a thick comforter into Bethany’s corner after double checking the handcuff to make sure it was secure. Snarling, Bethany kicked it away; the more bruises she had, the better. Maybe sleeping on the wood floor would affect her taste.

Curling up into a ball, she tried to chase the thought away, feeling tears gather and fall. Poor Mick would never know what had happened to his protégé . . . on second thought, that was probably a good thing.

Night came swiftly and crushingly. Bethany tugged compulsively at her handcuffs every so often, but without any hope that they would suddenly rust through or grow a size larger. She fell into a doze every now and then, but woke from startling, bloody dreams. She watched the cabin fall into pitch darkness and start to lighten again, her chest growing tighter and tighter the higher

the sun rose.

At last, much too soon, Mrs. Simpson stirred in her bed, rolling over and rising with a yawn. “Beautiful morning,” she said to Bethany, her mouth twisted unpleasantly. “Hope you had a good, long sleep.” Stretching her way into her curtained corner, she dressed in her usual slacks and shirt, pulling her long grey hair into a pony tail. “Don’t want to get it messy,” she commented, deliberately casual.

Bethany tried to appear calm and unaffected, but she watched the woman’s every move, drawing closer into herself every time Mrs. Simpson moved in her direction.

After her first teasing comments, however, the woman seemed to be ignoring her. Clutching her boxy torture controller, she unlocked Martin’s manacle and kicked at him. “Up, you. We’ve got a busy day.” She missed the flash of snarl that appeared on his face when she turned away. Bethany shivered, glad that look wasn’t aimed at her.

Disappearing for a moment, Mrs. Simpson reappeared with the usual rope, tying it around Bethany’s waist and unlocking her handcuffs. “Let’s go, outside, little mouse.”

With the woman’s ubiquitous Bowie knife at her throat, Bethany didn’t have a choice but to obey, but she did it as slowly as she dared. “You too,” the woman snapped at her Visitor prisoner, waving the controller at him and motioning him to precede her out the door.

Outside, Mrs. Simpson took them to the back of the cabin, away from the garden and towards a large woodpile. She stopped with Bethany in front of a large log, obviously a platform for splitting firewood, and motioned Martin towards the wood pile, and the axe that lay on top of the freshest pile.

Martin froze, his wide eyes on Mrs. Simpson’s face.

The woman gave him that mad, joyful, cruel smile. “You seem to enjoy spending time with our little dinner,” she said pleasantly. “Here’s your chance to spend every last second with her.”

“No,” Martin said hoarsely, the first word Bethany had heard him speak to their captor.

“No? You’d choose for me to do it? Trust me boy, you’ll be far kinder.”

His shoulders slumped, the Visitor moved to the wood pile, his steps dragging. Bethany watched him, her heart speeding so fast it made her dizzy.

“Hurry up, you,” the old woman snapped. “I can’t do it all. I’ll have to hold her.”

Martin slowly hefted the axe. It was big and heavy, with an edge sharp enough to catch the morning light and throw it back in painful glints. He swallowed once, hard, blinking at the weapon he held.

“Don’t try anything,” Mrs. Simpson warned, waving her controller. “It’d take a while to cook your brain, but it would work eventually. Not a very comfortable eventually either.”

Eyeing the controller, Martin slowly lowered the axe to his side. Mrs. Simpson nodded. “Good boy. Now, you, on you knees.”

“I don’t think so,” Bethany said, ignoring the prickle of the knife at the base of her spine.

“Don’t make it any more unpleasant than it has to be,” Mrs. Simpson said, her voice almost reasonable. “This way it’ll be over in a second or two. Otherwise . . . well, it’s all the same to me. Your choice.”

Martin was fingering the axe handle, his eyes on Bethany. He nodded at her once, almost imperceptibly, his eyes flicking to the controller in Mrs. Simpson’s hand.

Closing her eyes for a moment, Bethany started to keel, placing herself before the log, which would be right at neck level once she was down. Halfway there, she threw herself backwards, one elbow driving back into the older woman’s gut.

Mrs. Simpson might have thought of herself as a Visitor, but she still had human reflexes. She grunted and went down under the attack. She lost the knife, but managed to keep hold of the controller, and jammed her thumb down on the main button as she went down.

Martin fell with her, his back bowing with the pain. Growling, Bethany rolled, grabbing the woman’s hand and beating it into the ground until she lost her grip on the controller and dropped it.

Yowling and kicking, she twisted under Bethany, reaching for her fallen blade. Bethany wrapped both arms around the woman’s neck, pulling her back. The woman bucked, throwing her head back; her skull caught Bethany in her already blackened eye and the girl’s grip slipped, letting the woman make a lunge for her knife.

She crowed triumphantly when her fingers grasped the handle, and slumped with a queer, gagging groan when the blunt edge of the axe hit her behind the left ear.

Lifting Bethany from atop the limp woman, Martin used the axe’s edge to cut the rope from around her waist. They both stood panting for a moment, looking at each other from inches away, each as surprised as the other.

Martin blinked once and backed away. Setting the axe handle against the log, he braced it and took a deep breath. Bethany was going to ask him what he was doing, but she didn’t have a chance; balling his hand into a fist, he ran the inside of his green arm along the sharp edge from just below the wrist halfway to his elbow. The skin parted like butter, leaving a gash at least six inches long. It looked clean for just a moment, then blood began to bead along the edges of the cut, pooling until it ran, dripping onto the dry grass.

“What . . . “ Bethany whispered, her throat closed tight.

The fingers of his opposite hand dug into the gash; Bethany squealed in protest and the Visitor hissed in pain, but it was only a moment before he grunted and grasped something, drawing it from the wound.

It was a green-slicked ball of metal, not much bigger than a marble, with eight short, slender prongs jutting from it. Martin looked at it for a moment before throwing it as deep into the trees as he could.

Bethany grabbed his arm, inspecting the wound. It wasn’t as deep as she’d feared, but the blood flowed freely, coating the fingers than held his wrist. It was an odd sensation, the fluid cool against her fingers. “Oh my go . . . we’ve got to stop the bleeding,” she gasped.

“It was a tracking device, too,” Martin explained tiredly. He thought for a moment before reaching up and tearing off what was left of his sleeve, using it as a haphazard bandage. “Let’s go.”

“I . . . go . . . yes, but . . . we can’t just leave her!” Bethany protested dizzily, staring down at Mrs. Simpson’s unmoving form.

“Yes we can. Think you can find your way back to wherever you came from?”

“Eventually, but . . .”

“Good. There’s a couple of canteens inside. I’ll get them. You grab some food and let’s get out of here before she wakes up.”