Caged Bird Act 8

Circe.

Dove stayed there, frozen in place and staring back at the awful figure in front of her.

Then ran.

She skirted round the corner and bolted up the street, almost forgetting where Mrs Chevey’s was. She turned her head. No one there.

She reached the door and took a deep breath. She had never been happier to get herself inside before. The door to the outside was closed immediately. Dove found herself peeking through the window to make sure there was nobody coming to get her. But surely, that wasn’t him? That couldn’t have been the man she’d painted. He couldn’t have known she was there, right?

The stranger from last night was Jaggar Thorne.

But he was so dangerous. So unapproachable. Her father’s enemy. Oh, Circe, was she in danger. He hadn’t been after her, though. Not this time. He’d attacked somewhere else.

He hadn’t quite been after her last night either. He’d laughed at her jokes.

But that didn’t stop her thundering heart. In fact, it made it worse. She didn’t understand, she didn’t understand any of it. Go back moments to the explosion, she couldn’t understand why they had to hit Foxtrotters. Go back to last night, she couldn’t understand what a wanted werewolf would be doing lingering in a garden filled with roses. Filled with her. She didn’t understand why he’d been in her head, why he knew her name for Circe’s sakes, go back to the woods, she couldn’t understand what the Hunter had meant, she couldn’t understand why people wanted to hurt her, Oh Circe, she couldn’t understand how she was twenty years old in Mookaite away from home, away from whatever home that had been. Circe, go back to her childhood garden, when she hadn’t understood why she had to hurt, oh Circe, she was nine and she didn’t understand any of it. The world came in spins. The world blackened under the dimness of the inn’s candlelight.

Think you can fucking survive out there, Dove?

“Dear, are you quite alright?”

Mrs Chevey's soft voice broke Dove’s panicking thoughts. She was in the doorway of her tea-room, wrapped in a shawl and looking rather worried.

Dove spun around.

“Mrs Chevey. There was an- an attack. Foxtrotters. I’m not sure if we’re safe.”

Her face grew solemn.

“My, an attack? Were you hurt, dear? What happened to Foxtrotters?”

Dove forced herself to calm down to think clearly.

“I saw the explosion happen. I wasn’t too close.” She brushed some dust off her shoulder.

“But there were three men, and they had Foxtrotter from what it looked like. The shop was destroyed. I don’t think anyone else was hurt.”

Mrs Chevey moved to the door and muttered something under her breath.

“I have protective enchantments. From the past few years, I’ve made sure to be careful. I can even conceal my inn.”

As she spoke, there was a quiet hum, and a line of dark blue energy glowed faintly outside.

Would that be enough?

“Thank you for alerting me, dear. Anyone else that is already a visitor will be able to see it. No one else will be able to find us. We should be quite alright. You, poppet, better stay inside. Now, keep right there and I’ll be back with a cocoa.”

When Dove finally got to bed that night, her body felt exhausted. She’d taken a steaming shower to relax herself. The enchantments Mrs Chevey had done did clear her mind. But the thought of encountering that man again. Thorne. One of the most wanted werewolves in Britain.

You fucking dreamed of him. You painted him.

Dove groaned. None of it had been a dream, though, had it? She hadn’t imagined that bite. She hadn’t thought those eyes up. Surely not. It had been real. All of it.

But what did this mean?

Sure, her father had banned werewolves from sorcerer “communities,” but that wouldn’t warrant a visit from the most dangerous werewolf in the country, would it?

Circe’s pigs. What else would?

Dove laid her mind to rest by the sheer fact that she hadn’t been murdered by such a werewolf. And if that really was Jaggar Thorne that night, she hadn’t been hurt, had she?

She thought of her neck, marked by teeth made from dragon claws.

But it didn’t make sense. She would have an infliction, or would’ve been murdered in cold blood, sure enough. What stopped him?

His hand had been in her hair, stroking her cheek, struggling to breathe, panting and hot, gentle with his touch, his golden voice…

She shook the thoughts from her head and let them swim away. And they did, for a while.

But the guilt of seeing Foxtrotter being kidnapped like that. Dragged from his own burning store.

That kept her up, most of the night.

Foxtrotter had been one of the many sorcerers who openly spoke out about the war. Misled Countess Sypha on purpose. Mookaite had been targeted before.

What if it was Moonan’s Tearooms?

Her heart clenched. The Moonan’s were known for their fighting in the war of course. But a stabbing hope in Dove’s mind chipped away at the anxiety that threatened to spread.

The Moonan’s were also known for their efforts towards making those affected by lycanthropy live more comfortably and freely. Heather Bridgers, most affiliated with the Moonan’s, had made prominent changes to werewolf rights and other magical creatures just after leaving Chiaroscuro. So, if a werewolf was going to target someone, it would be those against said werewolf, right?

And then the gloomy thoughts returned.

Like Henry Levany. Her father.

A man most especially against werewolves. Against the freedom of any magical non-human. It didn’t matter what her beliefs were. She was a Levany at the end of the day. The enemy. Nothing could change that. But Dove had left the home that housed those dreadful beliefs. She was her own person, who had never shared the same opinions her parents had fed her growing up. Her parents were in positions of power, her house had more enchantments than Mrs Chevey. They probably already had extra protections in place. Dove tried not to worry so much, in fear of her skull splitting. They were awful people, Dove of all people knew that, but she couldn’t help but feel anxious. She kept repeating to herself that she had done nothing wrong. There was no reason to be hurt.

She just hoped a dangerous man like Jaggar Thorne knew that too.

Her mind slowly stopped whirring as it got well into the night. Dove slipped off to sleep somehow. But her dreams were not inviting. Her subconscious mind was still scared. It was filled with moonbeams and teeth.