"Do you know what happened?"
"No, not really. When she first came to the harem, she was like…a wounded animal. She wouldn't speak to anyone. Wouldn't look at our faces. It was so sad." Maggie grew silent, frowning as she remembered.
"Tell me more," Phil said softly.
"I was afraid she would starve to death. There were nights when she refused to go out for…food." Maggie gave him an apologetic look. "That was before synthetic blood."
"I understand. And Vanda would refuse to hunt? Wasn't that painful for her?"
"Oh yes. Something awful. I would beg her to go hunting with me. Even when she did, she would barely take enough blood to stay alive. I always had this terrible feeling that she was punishing herself."
"Why would she make herself suffer?"
"I asked her, but she would never say." Maggie finished her Chocolood, then took her dishes to the sink to rinse them out. "She reminded me of a sparrow with broken wings. All brown and downtrodden. She wore this old brown dress, and her hair was brown, too. A lovely brown, streaked with dark red highlights, but she pulled it back severely in a bun. It was like she wanted to crawl into a hole and never fly again."
Phil sat in silence. This was not the Vanda he knew. As far as he could tell, she had suffered from a case of post-traumatic stress syndrome and depression. She might still be suffering from the aftereffects. After all, she'd gone from one extreme to the other, from the broken brown sparrow to a purple-haired, whip-toting, wildcat prone to violent outbursts. The real Vanda—the one she was afraid to be, lay somewhere in between.
He finished his beer. "She never confided in anyone?"
"No," Maggie set her cup and saucer in the dishwasher. "Her first year in the harem, she hardly spoke at all. George, the Coven Master back then, gave us a small monthly allowance. Cora Lee, Pamela, and I would go shopping or to the movies. Vanda spent her money on art supplies."
Phil sat back, surprised. "Art?"
"Yes. She painted. Every night. All night." Maggie grimaced. "Ghastly pictures. Red paint everywhere. Blood, dead bodies, swastikas, barbed wire, wolves—"
"Wolves?"
"Yes." Maggie shuddered. "She painted them with such huge, vicious teeth."
He swallowed hard. What the hell did wolves have to do with the war? Or with Vanda?
"Then one night she went crazy," Maggie continued in a low voice. "She piled all the paintings in a heap in the backyard and set them on fire. She burned her art supplies, too, and never painted again."
Phil crumpled the empty beer can in his fist. "Did she ever say why she stopped painting?"
"Just that she didn't want to remember anymore." Maggie sighed. "But of course, she still remembers. We all remember the painful memories from our past."
His own painful memories crept out of hiding, brought to mind by Maggie's words. It had been nine years since his father banished him. Nine years since he'd seen his family. During the first few years, he'd received letters from his sister. She didn't know his whereabouts, so she left the notes in his hunting cabin in Wyoming, hoping he would find them.
He hadn't been to the cabin in four years. What was the point? He could never go back to his father's pack. That part of his life was over.
Maggie suddenly brightened. "I know what might help. Darcy interviewed the harem girls for that reality show a few years back. There might be a copy here somewhere."
Maggie dashed from the kitchen to the living room. "Eew." She wrinkled her nose at the leftover pizza sitting on the coffee table.
"I'll get it." He closed the box, then hurried back to the kitchen and stuffed it in the fridge. By the time he returned, Maggie was sliding a disk into the DVD player.
"I found it!" She showed him the case titled The Sexiest Man on Earth.
"I remember that show." Phil settled on the couch. "That's when the ladies won the money that financed the nightclub."
"And Darcy won the Sexiest Man," Maggie added with a laugh. She located Vanda's interview on the menu, then sat on the couch next to Phil.
Vanda's image came on the TV screen. She was smiling at the camera, her lovely dove gray eyes twinkling, her lips full and sweetly shaped. The zipper on her purple catsuit was pulled down just low enough to show some cleavage. Phil found himself smiling back.
Maggie chuckled. "You're so smitten."
He hushed her when Darcy's voice came on, asking Vanda to tell the audience about herself.
Vanda began, her clear voice showing just a hint of accent. She was born in 1917 in a small village in southern Poland. Her mother died when Vanda was eighteen, and as the oldest daughter, she'd taken over the care of her large family. A father, four brothers, and two sisters.
Her smile started to fade when she talked about her mother's death. She was frowning by the time she told how the Germans and Russians invaded Poland in 1939 and her father and brothers marched off to fight.
Her face grew pale. "My father urged me to escape with my two younger sisters. I packed some food, and we fled south to the Carpathian Mountains. I'd been there before, and I knew there were some caves where we could hide. I…never saw my father or brothers again."
"How terrible," Maggie whispered.
Vanda continued, describing their long trek into the mountains. The youngest sister, thirteen-year-old Frieda, took ill, and by the time they found a shallow cave, she could hardly walk. Vanda stayed with her and sent her other sister, Marta, to fill up their water bags.
Marta didn't come back. The next morning, Vanda made her sick sister as comfortable as possible, then went to fetch water. By that evening she was frantic with worry. Marta was gone and Frieda was failing fast.
She went in search of her sister, and squealed with joy when Marta stepped into her path. But Marta attacked her, bit her, and with superhuman strength carried her off to a cave. The vampire who had turned Marta was there, and he changed Vanda, who was too weak from hunger and blood loss to fight off two vampires.
"The next evening," Vanda said, "I was still reeling in shock from what had happened. But I rushed back to my little sister to see how she was. She had died. All alone."
Vanda covered her face, and Phil could tell the film had been edited. The camera rested on Darcy for a moment, and when it returned to Vanda, she was composed once again.
She quickly explained that the war had been so difficult that she'd joined the harem to find a little peace and relaxation. Then she smiled and said she was happy to participate on the show, and the interview ended.
"Poor Vanda." Maggie sniffed. "She lost everyone."
"Not quite." Phil used the remote to turn off the television. "She has one sister who might still be alive."
"Marta?" Maggie made a face. "Marta should have helped her save their sister."
Phil nodded. "Vanda may feel that her only surviving relative betrayed her."
Maggie took a deep breath. "Well, at least you know why she's so angry now."
"There's still a lot she didn't say. She was transformed in 1939."
"Oh, you're right." Maggie sat up. "And she didn't come here till 1948. That's eight years unaccounted for."
"And she merely called it 'difficult' in the interview. I have a feeling she went through hell."
Maggie's eyes filled with tears. "Of course she did. It was in her paintings. Dead bodies, swastikas, barbed wire, blood."
And wolves. Phil swallowed hard. How would he ever gain Vanda's trust if she was terrified of wolves?
Maggie touched his arm. "I want to see her. Even if all I can do is give her a hug."
"Of course. She'll be at the Horny Devils."
"I've teleported there before, so I know the way." Maggie rose to her feet. "Would you like to hitch a ride?"
"Yes." He wrapped an arm around Maggie's shoulders. Vanda wouldn't be able to avoid him now. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell her about my being a shifter."