(Author's note: I've written this, a sequel to Wolf at the Door, in response to the wonderful positive comments I've received – thank you all for taking the time to express your opinions. I don't think it'd be necessary to read the first story to follow this one, but if you wanna, and leave some more comments, feel free!)
Samantha Brennan was dabbing a few final strokes of blue to the canvas when she felt the rain begin. She looked up at the darkening sky, without protest; the storm had been generous enough to hold off all day, letting her sell a few of her works at the village market, then return here to put the finishing touches on another one, so she couldn't complain. Quickly she cleaned her brushes and put them and her paints away in her bag, then lifted the board from the easel and held it up, regarding it proudly: a lean, young wolf of silver and black fur and cunning, copper-red eyes, perched upon a fang-shaped rock jutting up from the moss- and leaf-covered earth in a dense forest of dark pine.
The rock was real, as was the forest surrounding it: the wild woods of Panderich Forest, far from the easy trails for the tourists on the opposite end of the Aberdeenshire park. Samantha had discovered this heather-flanked, secluded clearing bordering her property, and had come here many times since. The wolf, however, was a product of her mind.
"You are Sigurd," she whispered softly, lovingly to it. "Swift and straight, as fearless as your father."
Heavier drops pattered onto the canvas, and beside her, her collie Mac whined for attention. She smiled down at him. "You're right, Big Mac, let's get back before we're both soaked."
Siskins, treecreepers, goldcrests and coal tits sang to her as she packed up quickly, careful not to leave anything behind. She was always conscious about leaving this place immaculate. It was, for her, a sacred site, a focal point not only for her creative urges, but her spiritual ones.
Then, of course, there was the sex...
The slope that led back to her property was steep and treacherous in places, but it was one she had walked scores of times, even in pitch black, and despite carrying her easel and painting and equipment in both hands, she moved with a grace that belied what a former friend had once charitably described as Samantha's "sturdy frame". She was a stocky woman in her early thirties, with shoulder-length chestnut-brown hair pony tailed behind her, full lips and nose inherited from her mother's Mediterranean genes, and a full figure that hugged her black jumper and jeans. She knew she'd never be considered svelte, and didn't care either, having learned to her immense satisfaction that there were those who appreciated "sturdy frames"...
As her home for the past year came into view, Mac bounded on ahead, barking all the way, but Samantha took her time, not wanting to trip and damage the painting. She lived on what was once a working farm, complete with cottage, an adjoining field now overgrown, and a dilapidated storehouse that now stored her equally dilapidated car. It, like many other properties in the area, had been sold off cheaply. It was isolated. She preferred it that way.
Mac was out of sight behind the house, still barking. Shaking her head, she speeded up a little along the gravelled path surrounding her house. "Okay, Mac, we'll get you inside and fed-"
Behind her, the sound of the sliding metal door to her storehouse made her stop and turn, spot a man in dark green clothes emerging.
The closer sound of boots on gravel made her turn back, in time to see a large man with a round, hairless pink head smack her across the face with his fist and send her spinning to the ground. White hot pain shot ran through her like electricity as her head spun, and her limbs refused to obey her. Things happened around her, but she felt distanced from them, as if she was encased in a bubble: rain drummed onto her, gravel rubbed against her face, hands grabbed her by the belt and dragged her along like a sack of potatoes. There was Mac, still barking.
Then there was a gunshot...
It must have been only seconds when she'd recovered more of her senses, but it felt much longer. She found herself on the rug in front of her living room fireplace, the coal slack she'd thrown on that morning now lit. She was surrounded by strangers, one of them, a woman, demanding in a harsh Scots accent, "Where the fuck are we?"
Samantha struggled up onto her elbows, moving her jaw back and forth, wincing at the bruise she knew was rising on her cheek, and looked up. There were three men, all dressed in heavy-looking dark paramilitary clothing, and the woman, a tall, thin figure with glacial Nordic features, dressed in a smart dark business skirt suit and pointed shoes – one of which she sent into Samantha's belly. "I asked where the fuck we are!"
Samantha bit her lip in pain, gasping through gritted teeth. "W-Where- what do you mean?"
"I mean where's the motorway? We missed the turnoff!"
It seemed so absurd – people asking directions at gunpoint – but Samantha was too hurt and confused to laugh at it. She swallowed, replying hoarsely, "T-Twelve miles down the road, to the A505. The- the signs round here aren't good-"
The woman, looking like a heroin-addicted Blondie with shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair, grunted. "Told you we'd missed the turnoff, dickheads." To Samantha again she barked, "We want the keys to that piece of shit parked in your barn."
Samantha started to rise to her feet, but a heavy foot from the bald man planted on her rear forced her down again. She looked up. "K-Kitchen drawer, near the sink. But the transmission's gone from it, it won't run."
One of the men cursed. "Jessie, what the fuck-"
"Shut up." The woman grunted. "This is getter better by the fucking minute. Les, go out and check on it yourself. Antony, what about that dog?"
The one Jessie called Ant, a gaunt, swarthy lad with thin eyebrows and a permanently bemused expression, nodded. "Put it in the bin."
Anguish welled up inside Samantha. She had rescued Big Mac from the shelter soon after moving here, had worked hard to give him a better life than the one he'd had with his previous owners. He was a faithful companion, made her smile, laugh many times. That these bastards could-
Jessie caught her attention again with another kick. "Wipe that frown off your face, cow, or you'll join your mutt. Got it?"
Samantha bit back her initial reply with her pain, and nodded.
Contempt vied with satisfaction to twist Jessie's features, as she sat in Samantha's recliner, lifting up some junk mail from the adjacent table and reading the front. "Samantha Brennan. You live alone here?"
For a heartbeat, she thought about lying and saying she was expecting a husband or lover back soon. She couldn't lie to save her life. Literally. Instead she just nodded again.
"Any visitors expected?"
She shook her head.
Jessie casually flung the envelopes aside. "Well, then, here's how things are going to work, Sammy: we'll be staying here for a few hours until it gets dark, and then we'll leave you to this shithole. If you try to run, or fight back, or call for help, we'll gut you." She crossed her legs, making her skirt ride up and expose a stockinged knee. "Understood?"
So many emotions, so much pain running through her, but Samantha nodded.
Jessie gave a smile that never reached her eyes. "Now, how about some tea and biccies?"
Samantha rose again, wincing, even as she was accepting that these people, when they did leave, would not leave her alive, let alone unharmed.
The living room was small, cramped – and painful with memories now, of Mac's blanket, that horrible chewing bone he always pushed under the sofa then whined to have Samantha retrieve for him. She focused instead on the many paintings she had hanging on every wall: paintings of wolves, wolves on hills and in the woods and even at her doorstep, each wolf different, unique, each frame inscribed with runic symbols that few would understand or see as anything other than decorative.
Above the fireplace hung the painting of the largest wolf of all, her first painting: Fenris, a monstrous wolf as big as a bear, with blood-red eyes that burned into all who stared at them. She looked up to it.
And prayed to her Master.
Jessie and her gang were sat around the television, commenting on the news report about a jewel robbery in Edinburgh that afternoon. Samantha worked in the kitchen, staring out every so often at the distant road, but never seeing any headlights. The storm had passed, but the darkness had remained, and even now was swallowing up the light that escaped from her house. She wished she could escape too-
She almost dropped the knife she was using to butter toast when she felt the huge hands grip her by the hips. "Hello, darling."
It was the big, bald one, the one Jessie had called Billy. A huge, threatening man up close, despite the deceptively smooth, melodious voice. "You're a nice fat bird, aren't you?"
She didn't look directly at him, but at the reflection they now shared in the window, parodying some lover's embrace, as if that might distance herself from his violations, from the knowledge that he might have been the one who had killed Mac. It was someone else's breasts that he was fondling now through her damp jumper, it was someone else's rear that he had his erection pressed against.
But then he broke the spell as he leaned in and licked her ear. "You have lovely fat tits. Say it."
Samantha's voice was gone, and her grip on the butter knife in her hand tightened until her knuckles turned beetroot. She thought she'd wet herself.
The hand on her right breasts squeezed until pain shot through her. "
Say it
."
Samantha's voice was paper-thin. "I- I have lovely fat tits."
He grounded himself against her as he chuckled, and the hand on her breast now descended to her crotch." Yeah. Bet you have a juicy virgin's hole, too. Don't you?"
Samantha trembled, despite the hold he had on her. Her gaze fixed on the reflection of his neck as he struggled with the tab on her jeans, undid them, fat fingers slipping under the waistband of her knickers.
No. No one touched her there but her Master. She took an oath.
She pointed the butter knife in his direction. She would rather be dead than break that oath, even against her will, and if she could kill this bastard-
No... not yet...
She froze. The voice in her head! Her Master's Voice! She gasped aloud.
Behind her, Billy chuckled, unhearing, whispering, "Aye, I've got the touch, darling."
Samantha ignored him. It had been her Master speaking! But He'd never sounded so clear, so close before... and unbidden too, without ceremony!
For what felt like the first time in ages, hope welled up within her – quickly extinguished by pain as Billy roughly pressed at her clitoris.
Then stopped as Jessie called out from the living room. "Get that fucking tea in here now!"
Billy withdrew his hand, put his finger in his mouth and smacked his lips. "Looking forward to getting a better taste later, love."
Samantha disregard him as he left, buttoned up her jeans and prepared the cups and teapot. Help me, Master. Please...
The men lounged about as if they owned the place, keeping their guns close at hand. Jessie, however, was on her feet and studying some of Samantha's paintings. "You have a thing for dogs?"
Samantha stood there, tray in hand like some servant, setting it on the table in front of the couch. "They're wolves."
