Hawk

by James Patterson

  At eight against one, it took them more than five minutes to subdue me, twisting my arms behind my back, grabbing my feet so I couldn’t move. Then Ki-Iseul leaned over me with her knife.

  “Tell me what happened yesterday,” she said in a voice like razor blades.

  “I didn’t see anything!” I insisted. “Gunfights happen every day here—how was I supposed to know which one was extra special?”

  We both realized my mistake at the same time. Ki-Iseul’s brown eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed into a line so tight that they lost color. “I never said it was a gunfight,” she said.

  Crap. Crappity crap-crap. I forced myself to shrug, or shrug as much as I could, considering there were seven people holding me down. “I was guessing,” I said. “There’s lots of gunfights—it’s an easy way to die.”

  I could see her weighing my words. This would be a perfect time for the Voxvoce to strike—the Chungs were probably as susceptible to it as most people. Come on, McCallum! I thought. Show your paranoia!

  Someone really tall moved in back of the thugs holding me. It was the guy from earlier, the one whose butt I’d kicked when he was on my corner. Now he looked at me and gave me a mean, snide smile.

  “She’s the Pater prince’s girlfriend,” he offered, and I immediately tried to break free again, yanking my arms and legs.

  Ki-Iseul looked at me with loathing.

  “I’m not anyone’s girlfriend!” I spat, silently promising myself that I would kill that guy as soon as I could.

  “Let’s let the Paters know that we will surely avenge my brother,” the princess said. She nodded to one of the Chung soldiers. “Mark her!”

  Two people held my head while I bucked as hard as I could. Someone cracked me again on my temple and I went limp, dazed and nauseated with pain. My limbs were heavy and refused to do what I ordered. I was powerless to stop them, and one of them quickly carved a C into my cheek with her knife. My skin opened under the blade, a sharp, bright pain tracing the edge of my jaw. Warm, sticky blood flowed out over my cheek to run down and drip off my neck.

  “Now what, my lady?” asked one of the goons.

  “She doesn’t want to talk,” Ki-Iseul said. “So cut out her vocal cords. She doesn’t need them.”

  It hit me that I really was going to die. I was already losing a ton of blood from the deep cut on my cheek—I’d never survive losing my vocal cords. I let myself go completely limp while my brain went into hyperdrive. I really might die here. The lab rats wouldn’t know what had happened to me. If my stupid parents ever, ever came back, they wouldn’t find me. They’d never find me. It would serve them right.

  My cheek stung horribly and felt sticky. I smelled the sharp, coppery scent of my blood, heard it dripping to the street. Get yourself out of this, goddamnit, my brain commanded. Feeling me go limp, their hands loosened ever so slightly on my arms and legs. The cold, sharp tip of a knife pressed against my throat—they really were going to cut out my vocal cords. Time for some desperation.

  With one last-ditch effort, I gave an almighty heave, snapping my feet downward and my arms in. They were taken by surprise and I got myself mostly loose. In the next second, I unfolded my wings from beneath my poncho—not all the way—I was hemmed in, couldn’t extend them fully.

  There were gasps. Tentative hands reached out to touch my feathers.

  “You’re a freak!” one of the henchmen exclaimed.

  “You’re the one with the forehead horns,” I pointed out, then crouched down and jumped. Hands grabbed my feet again, but I was able to whip my wings open, gaining altitude. I soared upward, kicking my feet free. The street went silent. Every head turned. I’d kept my wings a secret from the outside world for ten years, and it felt like a failure to blow their cover now. But it had been life or death.

  I glanced down again at the Chung gang, just below me, out of reach, and the guy pointed to his horns. “These are fake!” he protested.

  Shaking my head, I stroked down hard again with my wings, blood from my cheek spraying in the wind as I deliberately whacked Ki-Iseul and another soldier together. Their heads banged hard and they dropped, stunned. And then I was soaring upward, free, untouchable, leaving a trail of blood behind me. By the time they realized their guns would still work on me, I was much too high.

  CHAPTER 14

  For the first time ever, I didn’t give my mythical parents a full half hour on my corner. I was practically guaranteeing that this would be the day they showed up.

  I flew high enough to be out of sight, but I knew I had totally rocked the world below—news of the freak bird-girl would no doubt travel everywhere in the City of the Dead. I really hadn’t had a choice. I wasn’t going to die to keep my secret. It just meant that I had to—

  My head swam for a second. I took my hand away from my cheek and saw that it was coated thickly with blood. Looking down, I saw that my whole right side was red with blood, soaked down to my boots. And I was dizzy.

  Flying took real strength, and I was weak, was losing too much blood, and was still several kilometers from home. Where was I? I flew downward till I recognized the buildings below—this was one of the few nice areas of the city, where trees still grew and houses and cars and people were clean. This was where Pietro lived.

  I straightened out my arms and legs, heading downward fast. If I lost more blood I would just drop out of the sky, breaking all my bones and probably my wings, too. Anyway, it was Pietro’s fault that this had happened to me. Time to ante up.

  The Pater homestead—palace—was on the outskirts of the neighborhood, not far from the high stone walls of the city. It was huge, covering an entire city block, with an enormous protected courtyard in the middle. Its smooth plaster walls were painted a warm terra-cotta, and most windows above the second floor had balconies. The palace had its own ten-foot walls, and they’d had the brilliant idea of gluing broken glass bottles on top, to keep Paters in and Opes out. I counted three armed guards wearing the Pater colors, and I knew I’d no doubt missed some.

  All the same, it wasn’t hard landing in a tall oak tree to wait for an opening. From where I clung I could see directly into Pietro’s room—its balcony’s glass doors were open. As I watched, the hallway door swung open and Pietro entered his room by himself, closing the door behind him. Time to take a chance.

  When the guards were out of sight, I left the tree, flew to the balcony, and landed without a sound. Quickly I folded my wings but not before Pietro had turned to see me, alerted by my shadow.

  He gaped at me. I tucked my wings beneath my poncho. His mouth opened but no sound came out. I didn’t know what to say, either—like, surprise?—but then realized if I didn’t sit down, I would fall down.

  “Here,” he said, pushing his desk chair at me.

  I collapsed onto it, trying to stay conscious.

  “What the hell happened to you?” he asked. He tore a shirt from his closet, balling it together and pressing it against my bloody cheek. It was some kind of soft fabric, nicer than anything I’ve ever owned or felt.

  “The Chungs were looking for witnesses to yesterday’s duel,” I said, unable to keep bitterness from my voice. “I didn’t tell them anything, so they marked me with a C, for Chung.” I gestured to my face, which was now numb with pain. “They were about to cut my vocal cords out, ’cause I wouldn’t talk.”

  “But you escaped, thank the gods,” he said… letting his voice trail off. “I’m… guessing you flew away?”

  I shrugged, and Pietro rolled his eyes. “Wings? Seriously, you’ve got wings and you never told me.”

  He was half impressed, half pissed, but I didn’t have the energy to fight. I only shrugged again, and Pietro pulled the blood-soaked shirt away from my face, then went into his bathroom, returning with a warm wet towel. Gently he started cleaning the cut, and I felt fresh blood seeping out.

  “You need stitches,” he decided. “And new clothes. And a bath. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Before
I could protest, he had left the room. Had this been a terrible mistake? Had he gone to call the police, or worse, his father, who hated my guts?

  CHAPTER 15

  I tried standing up but sank back down again, my head swimming. I pressed the towel against my cheek firmly, trying to stop the bleeding. In general I tended to heal really fast, but this was pretty much the worst injury I’d ever had that wasn’t a broken bone.

  The door opened and I looked up in alarm. Pietro stood there, leading an older woman into his room. Then he closed and locked the door.

  “This is my friend,” Pietro told the woman, whose jaw dropped at the sight of my wings sagging tiredly out of my poncho. “I need you to stitch up her face, and anything else she needs.”

  The woman closed her mouth. She wore the standard Pater uniform, but hers had “Dr. Morelli” embroidered on it. “Yes, my lord,” she said faintly, which tickled me. Pietro was barely sixteen, only a little older than me. But he was a prince. A my lord! I tucked that little nugget into my brain, determined to bring it out sometime to give Pietro a little razzing. I wondered if I could get the lab rats to start calling me “my lady.” It was worth a try.

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” the doctor murmured as she worked. She’d given me numbing shots, and I couldn’t feel the needle and thread moving through my cheek, thank the gods.

  “Yep,” I agreed, feeling really tired. The numbness felt like it was spreading past my cheek, down into my throat, like even talking was just too hard.

  “I’m going to give you a couple shots to kill germs,” she said, tying off the thread and biting it loose. Then she swabbed the whole area with something that smelled like the cheap booze a lot of Opes resorted to when they couldn’t get dope.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “And I’ll give you some tablets for pain,” Dr. Morelli said, straightening up and putting her tools in a black biohazard bag. “When the numbness wears off, it’ll hurt like hell.”

  “Yeah,” I said glumly. “I figured.” I mean, that’s pretty much my theory of life, anyway.

  Pietro thanked the doctor, got her promise of secrecy, and let her out. Then he stood looking at me, tapping one finger against his face.

  “Should we talk about the wings now?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “I guess I was experimented on, like a lot of kids,” I said.

  “Can I look?” he asked.

  Frowning, I nodded, and Pietro slowly removed my poncho, seeing the big slits I had cut into my T-shirt. I felt him carefully move the fabric aside and gently touch my covert feathers with his fingers. I almost jumped when I felt his warm hand between my shoulder blades, stroking my smooth skin.

  He leaned back and looked at me. “How come I never saw these when we were kids?”

  “’Cause I keep ’em hidden,” I said with exaggerated patience.

  “I don’t think you were experimented on,” he said, and I opened my mouth to argue, but Pietro held his hand up, stopping me. “Or at least, not for these wings. There’s no scars, no grafted seams, nothing. They look like they grew out of your back naturally. Totally a part of you.”

  I’d always wondered but had never wanted to ask any of the lab rats to look. We’d all seen our share of pain; asking someone to look at more was just cruel. But if I wasn’t experimented on… what did that mean? I shuddered a little at the thought, but Pietro seemed intrigued rather than grossed out.

  “I assume they work?” he asked, rocking back on his heels.

  “Well, yeah,” I said.

  “I’d give anything to have wings like that.” Pietro looked wistful. “They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

  Slowly he rose, leaning over me, one hand on the back of the chair. My eyes flared as his handsome face came closer and for the first time I saw him not as my childhood pal Pietro but someone new and different. Someone who had just saved my life.

  Holding my breath, I watched as his lips came closer to mine… and suddenly the emotions of the day, the adrenaline, the loss of blood, and the fear all caught up with me. I put my hand against his chest, stopping him.

  “Gonna barf,” I said, and lurched to the bathroom.

  CHAPTER 16

  The McCallum Children’s Home had wretched, green-tiled showers with bad lighting that gave off the feeling that unspeakable monsters in the water pipes could come up through the drains and grab our feet. Besides that, I didn’t trust the cleanliness of the water from the showerheads. Once Calypso got a rash that only showed up after we cleaned her, so we didn’t shower too often. By the time Clete and Moke were twelve, they stank. We all figured we’d rather be dirty than get sick.

  Pietro Pater had, in his own private bathroom, a deep porcelain tub that could have held at least three lab rats. There was soap that smelled like flowers. The water was steaming hot.

  “Come here,” Pietro said, and before I realized what he meant to do he had pulled my cut-up, blood-soaked T-shirt off and thrown it in the trash. My eyes were wide as I stood there in pants and a sport bra. He reached for my pants button and I grabbed his hand.

  “I can do it,” I said, a blush rising.

  “Okay, but they go in the trash, too,” he said. “I’ll find something for you to wear.” He put his hands on my hips as if gauging my size, then looked me up and down until my face heated. “Geez, you’re tall,” he said, and straightened up to look me in the eye. He was maybe two centimeters taller than me. Maybe.

  I was starting to think that I had died on the street below, and this was some dead-dream, not reality. My world was harsh, dirty, and dangerous, and that’s what I was used to. Pietro’s world was rich, clean, and full of anything he wanted or needed. I had no idea what that felt like.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked. “You have a funny look on your face.”

  “Is this real?” I blurted.

  In answer he stepped closer. I smelled his clean scent, the laundry detergent of his clothes. I was about to step backward because he was too close, but he put his arms around me, tilted his head, and held me in place with one hand gently cradling my chin.

  “This is real,” he said softly, and kissed me.

  I’d never been kissed on purpose before; had never kissed anyone else except Calypso. And that wasn’t like this. There wasn’t anything like this.

  Pietro pulled his head back a fraction. “Quit thinking,” he said, and kissed me again. This time his mouth was firmer on mine, and just when I got panicky about running out of air, I remembered to breathe through my nose.

  I wound my arms around his neck and pressed closer, tilting my head opposite to his so we could kiss harder. I don’t know how long it went on, but finally he pulled away and smiled. His face was as flushed as mine, and he had blood smeared on his cheek and shirt.

  “That’s all I’ve been able to think about since I saw you that day,” he said. “You have to believe that I gave my second no orders to kill the Chung prince. I was as shocked as you were. Please believe me.” I looked into his dark brown eyes, saw the earnestness on his face. Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe his dad had given the order without telling Pietro.

  I stepped backward and nodded awkwardly. “I’m going to get in the bath,” I said.

  “Let me know if you need help washing your hair.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. But no way would I take him up on it. We couldn’t pretend to just be friends or even just a couple of kids anymore. Not after a kiss like that.

  That bath, no lie, was the highlight of my entire existence. I sank into the hot water, submerging myself to get my mohawk wet, just for the delicious feeling of being surrounded by pure, clean water. It was heavenly, lending serious weight to my already-dead theory. When I surfaced, I stretched my wings out to dry, letting them hang over the back of the tub. Rinsed of dust, they were prettier than I remembered.

  The bathroom door cracked open. I was about to yell when a hand quickly put a stack of clothes on the stool by the door. “Here!” Pietro sa
id. “Hope they fit.”

  Turns out, when my hair isn’t full of City of the Dead grease and dirt, it’s fluffy like a donkey’s mane. It was still black and shiny, but so soft and silky. My skin was a whole shade lighter than what I thought it was. And the bathwater was so gross and dirty that I quickly drained it and rinsed the tub out before anyone could see it.

  The clothes, including bra and underwear, fit. It was a pair of soft, worn jeans and then a gray, long-sleeved T-shirt. He’d already cut slits in the back for my wings. Right now I had so many emotions flooding my mind that I didn’t know what to do, what to think. I was still a bit light-headed, super tired, and super hungry. Why had I come here?

  “Come out, you big chicken,” Pietro taunted me from outside the door. Then he seemed to realize what he’d said and laughed. “Chicken!”

  I opened the door. “Very funny. Like I haven’t heard that before… my lord,” I added, giving him a snide smile.

  Just then there was a quick rap on Pietro’s door. It opened slightly before he had given permission, and frowning, Pietro walked quickly over.

  A servant poked her head in and whispered, “My lord, your father’s coming!”

  “He’s out of town!” Pietro said.

  “He’s back and headed this way!” She looked terrified.

  “Thank you.” Pietro closed the door and locked it.

  “I’ll go,” I said, picking up my ratty backpack. I hated for it to touch my nice new clothes.

  “I wanted you to spend the night,” Pietro said in a low voice, holding me by the elbows. “I want us to be close, like we were when we were kids.”

  A booming voice in the hallway shouted, “Pietro? Where is my son?”

  “I need to go,” I said again. “He hates me.”

  Pietro didn’t deny it. “When will you come back?” he asked urgently, as his father tried the doorknob.

  “Pietro! Why is this door locked?” his father bellowed.