Monstrous (4 page)

THIS IS MY FIRST TRIP INTO THE CITY. I TUCK MY CLOAK BETWEEN MY
wings and fly down the forest path, buoyed up by my purpose. The sun set hours ago and the moon winks down as though it knows and approves of my task.

This will be a good night. I will not fail Father. I will save the other girls from the prison and Father will give them the antidote to the wizard's disease. He cannot save them without me. He needs me.

This is why he gave me fairy tales to read. I must learn about wizards and magic to understand the canny nature of our enemy.

According to my books, wizards are a wily, unpleasant lot—trapping maidens in towers, bewitching entire villages, spoiling the land so nothing can grow. It does not surprise
me in the least that one has found a new way of terrorizing the people of Bryre.

I will do everything in my power to stop the one who killed me and my mother. Who is killing Bryre's girls now.

Father told me how the wizard plagued them for months, then disappeared not long after my death. The evil man only hid so he could devise new plans to torment the city and resurfaced less than a year later. It is up to Father and me to keep them safe.

The tall trees thin to new growth with sparser foliage and I settle back onto the path. Father's parting words echo in my ears.

Do not let anyone see you.

I will not fail him in that, either. I gather my cloak around me, pulling up the hood to hide my face and tucking my tail close to my back. My cat's eyes see clearly even without the moonlight. No traveler can sneak up on me.

The trees are now behind me and rough cobblestones pass beneath my feet. I break into a run, reveling in the night breeze over my face. When the walls of the city come into view, I slow and slip into the trees surrounding them. I know there will be guards, but Father showed me how to put them to sleep. Between my tail and the vials of sleeping powder tucked into my belt, they are no match for me. I purr, content in the knowledge that I am a well-planned creation.

I close my eyes and use my heightened senses to tune in to my surroundings as Father taught me. The guards at the eastern gate snore. Crickets chirp in the trees and field
around the city. A hundred sleepers breathe out as one, like a whisper spoken just for my ears. Somewhere inside the walls a child cries, and I fight the urge to fly to it and snatch it away from its undeserving parents. No child should have to suffer. Another guard paces along the length of the wall above me. Though Father gave me the means to defend myself, I have no wish to hurt the guards if I can avoid it. We all want to keep Bryre's children safe.

Still, I hold my breath until he is out of earshot.

Alone again, I leap to the top of the wall, skitter across, and drop down to the other side.

Landing in the soft grass makes me want to remove my slippers and curl my toes into the earth, but I suppress my instincts. I cannot lose sight of my mission.

I remain crouched in the grass as I take in the city with my blue eyes back in place. It is endless. Buildings made from red bricks and dark wood go on for miles in neat little lines intersected by other roads and houses. Trees and flowers, their muted colors shimmering in the moonlight, adorn all of them. I thought our cottage and yard were big, but this is enormous in comparison. How many people live in this one place?

I could stay here drinking it in for hours, but I remove Father's map from my pocket instead. The best route to reach the prison house and not attract attention is marked.

Without hesitation I melt into the shadows.

As I wander through Bryre, I notice some things out of place. Not all the houses are as neat and bright as I first
thought. Many gardens have fallen into a sad state, choked with weeds and debris. The windows of some houses are boarded up, like they've closed their eyes and gone to sleep. They feel hollow, and I walk through these sections as quickly as possible.

I round the last corner on the map, and a glittering fountain comes into view, so different from the streets I just passed. Cherubs spout water into the sky, laughing as it falls back to their faces. They are so lifelike that I reach out to lay a hand on one, just to be sure it is marble. It is cool and wet beneath my palm. Despite Father's repeated reminders to stay hidden beneath my cloak, I dip my tail in the water and splash the cherubs. A laugh escapes my throat and I slap my hands over my mouth.

It is quiet enough here in the middle of the night that a mere laugh could have the entire city after me.

Footsteps echo down an alley on the other side of the fountain. Fear slides up my scales and my claws snap forward unbidden. If I am caught, Father will be found out. And the wizard will exact yet another round of revenge. I cannot allow that to happen. I pull the hood down to conceal my face, tuck my tail under, and take cover in the shadows of the nearest building.

I do not breathe at all.

Moments later, a figure about the same height as myself dashes into the square, rounds the fountain, then ducks into the alley beyond. The boy—and I am certain it must be a boy—did not even sense my presence.

But I saw him. And smelled him—a faint trace of
cinnamon lingers in the air, and his chestnut-brown hair streaked with moonlight still dances in front of my eyes.

What could a boy be doing out this late at night? Father said a curfew forced all children to be inside by sundown. Dark magic is the most powerful in shadows and moonlight, and the risk of catching the disease curse is greater at night. It is well past that time, and something in my brain tells me the boy is my age. He definitely should not be out.

But I am not here to rescue a boy. I am here for the girls the wizard locked up. The map guides me past the fountain and down the street the boy came from. Like him, I run. The buildings on these streets are larger than the cottages I passed before. More of them rise for two or three stories and have sturdy brick facades. These do not look like homes.

The building marked on the map as a prison comes into view. A square brick structure with two floors and ivy crawling up the sides. It looks like the other buildings around it. Hiding the girls in plain sight. Clever and diabolical. I wonder if there are charms to keep intruders out, but nothing holds me at bay when I approach.

Now all I have to do is get past any guards the wizard may have stationed here. I expect they will be wily, but Father prepared me for this as well. I make my way to the back of the building, checking carefully for any prying eyes or the telltale sounds of nearby guards. When I am sure I am alone, I fly up to the roof and quickly furl my wings, crouching close to the shingles. Below my feet, many hearts flutter in silent slumber. All those girls.

Emboldened, I pry up several shingles as quietly as
possible, and poke my head through the rafters. Two shadows move in the darkness. Guards. No sign of the girls. Perhaps they are in the next chamber. I can sense they are close.

I unlatch one of the vials from my belt and toss it into the room as Father instructed. Plumes of white dust blossom when the glass shatters, filling the space in seconds. The shadows cease moving as the white dust dissipates. It looks as though their dark forms absorb it, but I am sure it is a trick of my eyes.

In a few moments, they sleep soundly on the floor.

I land softly on the stone floor of the room. The guards' faces are slack and loose. They do not look like bad people. I wonder why they work for the wizard. A spell, most likely. Father says magic can do any number of unexpected, tricky things.

The room is more of a hall extending in each direction, with torches in holders along the walls. The door I seek is on the inner wall. The locks are no match for my claws and I am inside in two minutes flat.

Nothing Father told me prepared me for this.

Row after row of cots fill the room, and sickly girls in a wide range of ages sleep on them. The youngest cannot be more than seven and the eldest eighteen. The tang of blood hangs in the air like mist and it threatens to overpower my animal senses. These girls are not merely sick; the curse has taken its toll on their bodies with boils, bloody rashes, and fevered dreams. I stumble between the rows in shock. I cannot count how many girls are here, but the enormity of my
task hits me full force.

I can take only one each night.

Stealth and time are on our side, Father said.

How—How can I choose just one? One poor soul to rescue from this nightmare?

A noxious sensation fills my innards and I rush to the nearest chamber pot to heave my supper.

I was once here. This is where I died.

Father claims he does not know, but in my gut I have no doubt. Did he choose not to give me my memories after all, knowing he would send me back to this horror? If so, it was a true kindness.

I rise from the floor, the sickly feeling replaced with a ferocious desire to rip apart the wizard who stole, poisoned, and tortured these girls. I will save them. Even if it takes the rest of my life to do it.

I gaze into the sleeping faces, wondering which one should go first. It is cruel to make me choose. Why did Father not give me guidance on this? Why did he not tell me who needs to be saved most?

I am surprised to realize my face is wet. I touch my cheek.

Tears
is the word my mind brings forth. People cry when they are sad.

Yes, I am sad. This awful place makes me sad.

A child in the corner catches my eye. Streaks of damp line her dirty cheeks. She has been crying too.

I will take her first.

I creep closer. She is a small thing and should be easy
to carry. Under the dirt, disease, and darkness, her cheeks bloom with a hint of pink. The same color as the roses in my garden. Her hair is a tangle of golden curls, framing her face in a manner not unlike the cherubs at the fountain. She sucks on her thumb as she sleeps, a continuous, unconscious motion.

Yes, this child deserves to be saved the most. Tonight is her night. Our night.

My arms slide under her slight body and I scoop her up. Her head lolls. Then her eyes pop open. Her fingers fall away from her mouth.

“Hush,” I whisper, realizing too late that I left my cat eyes in place over the human irises. A soft whine grows in the girl's chest as she struggles in my arms.

She must not wake the others.

My tail whips forward and stings the girl's chest. Shock registers for a moment—then she goes limp in my arms. I know it is a necessary evil, but I wish I did not need to put her to sleep. I wish to talk to her, tell her how much better her life will be now. That she is safe and when she wakes she can play in my rose garden.

Her sweet face again reminds me of the marble cherubs.

When I get home, I will ask Father if I can have a fountain for my garden. I think these girls would love it while they stay with us.

I tiptoe to the door of the prison room, dodging back into the corridor with the sleeping guards just as the sounds of shuffling feet echo down the hall. I fly through the hole in the roof, replace the shingles, and retrace my steps through
the winding streets. The girl is tucked into my cloak. She can breathe, but she will not be easy to spot.

Neither am I. The shadows welcome me like an old friend. By the time I reach the walls, my arms begin to tire. Father is waiting; I must go faster. I pause in the cool grass below the parapet, listening for any approach.

I hear nothing but the snoring guards at the gate.

With one jump, I reach the top of the wall. I turn my cloak around, tying it in a makeshift sling to hold the child.

I stretch my wings and take off into the night.

FATHER WAS PLEASED WITH THE GIRL I CHOSE. HE PATTED HER HEAD AND
mine when I brought her home and laid her out in the guest room in the tower over his laboratory.

“You have done well, my child,” he said, then bade me leave so he could do his work to cure her. I wanted to stay and watch, but Father insisted I needed my rest.

Now, the next day, I still glow with his praise. I did well. I saved that girl. I wonder if she will like my roses.

I consider the blossoms as I water the bushes. I will pluck two and give them to her. It will make her simple room lovely. Roses make everything a little better.

I roll the word
rose
around in my mouth, repeating it out loud several times as I cross the yard. Something about the sound of it is pleasing. Soothing, almost.

I climb the stairs of the tower attached to our cottage, where the girls will sleep at the top. The same tower where Father worked so hard to create me. The stone steps do not creak, but sometimes the wooden exterior sways a bit in a strong wind. The winding stair is dotted with small round windows through which streaks of sun light my steps.

The room at the top is sealed by a heavy wooden door, and I use the key hanging from a peg on the wall to open it. When I enter the whitewashed room, the girl is already awake and sits up, her legs dangling over the side of the bed. Her slight form is lit up by the sun streaming through the window behind her. She sniffles and wipes a tear from her cheek. I remembered to keep my cloak pulled close; I am sure she cannot be crying at the sight of me.