Falling (Girl With Broken Wings Book 1)

by J Bennett

  “Then give me a gun.”

  “You don’t even know how to use a gun,” Tarren’s voice is growing quiet, edgier.

  “Of course I do. Point and pull the trigger.”

  Gabe clears his throat.

  “What?” I snap at him.

  “The safety. You have to take the safety off first.”

  “Yeah…” I pause a beat too long, “clearly that goes without saying.”

  Tarren is already walking toward the door. “Twenty minutes Gabe.”

  “Wait!” My voice is shrill enough to check his steps. “You’ve been doing this your way forever. I get that, but I’m here now, and this is my fight too. After everything I’ve been through…” My voice catches. For once in my life I’m not acting. This is pure turmoil burning my cheeks, crowding inside my throat. “I need to learn how to fight. I need…”

  “Maya,” Gabe’s voice is soft, “please, don’t do this. We’re trying to protect you.”

  “Because you’re so fucking good at that!” I cry.

  Tarren bristles, and he’s as good at bristling as he is at growling. “You’re untrained, which makes you a danger to us and to yourself, and you’ve already proven that you’re over-emotional. We can’t be in there babysitting you while we’re trying to kill this thing.”

  I turn to Gabe even though I know he’s even more entrenched than his brother. “Gabe, come on. Please.” My voice is dust. “I have to be a part of this.”

  Gabe shakes his head. “You don’t want to do this. Killing people. Seeing the things we have to see. This isn’t a good life.”

  “I’m not asking for a good life. I’m asking for purpose.” I look between them, searching for a breach in their faces. There are none.

  “Fine.” I lie down on the bed and tuck my hands beneath the pillow. “Go.”

  “Twenty minutes,” Tarren says and walks out of the room.

  * * *

  In fifteen minutes a Gabe lookalike emerges from the bathroom, his skin raw and patchy from the pumice. Instead of torn jeans and an over-washed t-shirt, he’s wearing a trim black jacket, black pants, black boots and black gloves. No lucky hat. Whoever he is, he hasn’t learned my brother’s smiles or the way his energy is supposed to take even strokes around his thin frame.

  “Still mad?” He asks.

  I lay my head back down on the pillow. “You’re doing this for my own good. I understand that.”

  “We are Maya.”

  “Gabe, I want to learn how to fight. I want to kill Grand more than anything in the world.”

  Bizzaro Gabe sits on his bed and pulls the rabbit onto his lap. He takes a while before answering, another thing the real Gabe wouldn’t do. “I know it hurts…” A pause. “Maya, I know. Would you believe me if I said hate isn’t worth the heartache?”

  I look up at the tiled ceiling trying to find something meaningful in the geometric patterns. Whatever I’m searching for, I come up empty.

  “Grand ruined my life. I’ve lost everything. All I can think of is….” Ryan in a coffin. Eyelashes turning to dust. Worms wriggling through his eye sockets. “Revenge.”

  Bizzaro Gabe winces. Again, he takes his time in answering. “If you let the hate consume you, then you really will lose everything. Don’t let that happen. Please, Maya.”

  “That’s cliché.” I’m in no mood for soft landings. We can’t all laugh our hurts away, or pretend there’s a happy ending coming just because we deserve it.

  “Did you know you can house train rabbits?”

  I turn away from the tiles to stare at the person who is Gabe again.

  “I looked it up,” he says.

  “So?”

  “So, I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Great, I’m in a favor granting mood.”

  “Swear you won’t kill him.”

  “Who?” I sit up.

  “Sir Hopsalot.” Gabe strokes the rabbit’s long ears. It turns its face up into his hand. “I’m gonna keep him. That means he’s family now.”

  “Okay, Gabe. I swear on my beloved floppy hat.”

  “I’m serious.”

  I’m pissed at him right now. Beyond pissed. Blood boiling, steam-shooting-out-of-my-ears pissed, but I can’t say no to Gabe. Not with his sad smiles and mischief eyes. Not when his energy calms every time he picks up the damn thing.

  “Sir Hopsalot?” I ask.

  “Awesome, right?” Gabe looks down at the rabbit and smiles. “He loves it.”

  “Sir Hopsalot,” I say formally, “I hereby solemnly swear that no harm shall come to you by my hand. I humbly apologize for my previous attempts to kill you. Let us be friends hereafter.”

  “Ha! Hear that?” Gabe picks up the rabbit between his hands. “I think she likes you.” And because he’s Gabe, the matter is closed. If I could be grateful for silver linings it would be that I was given such a good brother who cannot read minds, because when I’m looking at his tousled, damp hair, his too-vulnerable-for-his-own-good eyes, what I mean is that I’m seeing those things in spite of the energy that pulses around him. Blue as blue, true as true. The song is always here, and it always comes first.

  “Are you two done?” Tarren is standing in the room, suited up, his face affixed with an expression of heroic stoicism. He looks like someone whose daring exploits are accompanied by theme music, or at least someone who has daring exploits.

  Gabe lets Sir Hopsalot down on the bed. “Pee in the corner if you have to,” he whispers to the rabbit. Then he shoulders his backpack, and his energy is changing again, turning in tight circles.

  “Be careful,” I say to them. Well, mostly to Gabe.

  As soon as they shut the door, I close my eyes and slowly count down from 10. The sounds crowd in.

  10 – Rain turning angry against the windows

  9 – Rabbit’s heart tapping inside its ribs

  8 – Car pulling into the parking lot, breaks wincing

  7 – Television audience erupting in laughter from the next room

  6 – Pipes rattling as water flows through them

  5 – Girl talking on the phone in the room above, laughing a loud honking laugh

  4 – Steps along the corridor outside

  3 – Old man humming a song in the room to the right, his voice raspy as wind

  blowing across dead leaves.

  2 – My own breath running the circuit of my lungs

  1 – The song, haunting in the background. Louder than everything else.

  Gabe was smart enough to power down his computer before jumping in the shower, but he doesn’t realize how easily I can follow his keystrokes even from across the room. His password is CDTTGMF. Gabe really shouldn’t have saved all of Krugal’s info in a folder on his desktop. A girl could get curious.

  I turn the water cold in the shower. It helps with the pain of scrubbing off my skin for the second night in a row. Then I suit up in my angel-killing uniform — the one with the stretch pants and heart holding teddy bear. I try to be all serious and professional while doing this. I don’t succeed. It doesn’t matter; I’m getting used to looking stupid.

  Chapter 41

  Krugal’s house isn’t far away, and I like running — it helps me not to think. Instead, I feint in and out of the shaggy pine trees lining the road and feel the cool rain sliding down my back. Whatever grand goodbyes the sun might want to give on the horizon are censored by the clouds.

  A dull gleam beneath a street light hails my eye, and I randomly decide to pocket the half-used tube of lipstick. I think I already know what I’m going to do with it.

  I find Tarren’s SUV parked a block outside Krugal’s gated community. For no good reason except that I’m starting to go giddy with fear and the certainty of my own stupidity, I pull out the ruby lipstick and draw sideways Ms on the back window to make sloppy wings. I am Zorro.

  Tarren is right about me getting in the way. Being untrained. I’ll probably bumble in and get us all killed. I know this, and I’m going anyway. I have
a reason somewhere in my head; something about being part of the team, using my curse for good, seeing justice done. Ex malo bonum. The repentant monster. I draw a halo over the wings.

  At the gate, the guardhouse is empty. A camera perched on the fence is turned away, and its red light is dark. I hear a slow and steady heartbeat coming from the thick hedges surrounding the gate. Gabe and Tarren have found tranq guns to be of substantial value on their missions.

  I launch myself over the gate, arcing to avoid the sharp points at the top. The wind picks up, gusting rain into my mouth and eyes. Strands of hair stick to my face, and I tuck them back behind my ears.

  I run down the street, just your average everyday girl out for an evening jog in her teddy bear PJs. Headlights sweep behind me, and I drop low, suddenly very interested in retying my shoes. When the light crosses over me and moves down the street, I am back up, running again — head down, eyes puckered to resist the rain — past stately, sprawling houses with glittering chandeliers in the window.

  And there it is: the home of Harold Krugal. It’s large, but not ostentatious. No fountain out front. A mere handful of latticed windows. The back door is unlocked, and the security alarm is dead. I close the door behind me and take a deep breath of the holy shit what am I doing? variety.

  Beads of energy roam around the house, and I recognize the unique signature of each Fox brother. I creep through the rooms and find an older woman laid out on a couch, tranqed and probably dreaming the trippiest dreams of her life. A vacuum stands in the middle of the floor, looking lonely. I step around the vacuum, crouching low, suddenly forgetful of why I’m here. The hunger whispers in my mind, separating the chords of reason away from my hot, growing appetite. Not so repentant after all. The thin film of light around my hands is evident in the darkness. The bulbs are pressing against the fabric of my gloves as I look at the woman, watch her confused aura shiver. I might even be drooling.

  And then I turn away, because little Maya is clamoring in my mind, screaming something stupid like you’re in control. I keep moving through the house, honing in on the boys. I hear the faint creaks of their footsteps above and something else. A soft click like a latch unhooking.

  I make it to the staircase, and Tarren and Gabe are just above me. Something isn’t right. There’s another clear bead of energy. I hear their voices whispering.

  “Master bedroom is clear,” Gabe says. “This is his office. He’s got to be in here. The rest are guest rooms.”

  “Alright. We go in, we take him out.”

  The knob turns. I’m running up the stairs, skipping four at a time. Gabe pushes open the door, and Tarren steps through, gun raised.

  “Don’t!” I cry. I’m past Gabe before he can swing his weapon around. I plow into Tarren, and his gun goes off, softened to a hiss by the attached silencer. I hear a sharp crack as the bullet lodges in the wood paneling of the desk in front of us. Tarren and I are tangled on the ground, and he flips over, pinning my arms against the floor. Gabe is behind him, gun trained on me…again. He’s looking at the teddy bear on my chest.

  “Maya,” he says, confused.

  “Stay on Krugal,” Tarren growls to his brother, really growls. He lets go of my wrists and I sit up. His eyes are turning gray as if I couldn’t tell from his sparking energy how pissed he is. I turn around and look at the figure sitting behind the desk. Krugal hasn’t moved, and when our eyes meet I see calm resignation.

  “You can’t kill him.” I turn back to Tarren. “He’s human.”

  Chapter 42

  It is a dark and stormy night. An old man tightens his grip on the arm rests of his great wing-backed chair. His eyes, dark and hostile, are sunken into bruised pouches of skin. He is prepared to face the two shadowed figures moving toward him, brandishing their pistols.

  A young woman stands in the back of the room. There is something strange about her, something wild and hungry. This is when the lightning should sear across the night sky like a jagged wound throwing the old man’s eyes, the guns, the girl into relief before releasing them back into the shadows as a long peal of thunder swells overhead.

  There is a monster in this room, but the heroes are moving the wrong way. Sad heroes. Mean heroes. Heroes who are too sarcastic for their own good. My mind is going crazy again like every other time I need to concentrate and stay calm.

  Harold Krugal sits ramrod straight in his chair. His wispy silver hair is combed back from a high forehead and heavy brow. There is something wrong with his aura. A bookshelf behind him holds different-sized bottles, each protecting an intricately-built model ship — the kind I imagine brought conquistadors over to this side of the world. A bottle lies on his desk encapsulating a half-constructed model.

  Gabe keeps his gun leveled at the man’s head, while Tarren steps up to the desk and says, “You’re Harold Krugal.”

  “I am. What, you need the safe combination? Can’t crack it yourselves like proper thieves?”

  “We’re not here for your money.”

  “I see.” He glances at me. “Slumber party then?”

  “This isn’t a joke.” Tarren doesn’t need the scar to look menacing. He’s somehow composed himself entirely of jagged metal and rock: steel voice, flint eyes, granite face, iron jaw.

  “That, I am sure of.” Krugal tents his hands and waits.

  “You don’t seem surprised to see us,” Gabe says.

  “I crush dreams for a living. I’ve faced my share of threats before.”

  “Who is it?” Tarren asks. “There’s radiation all over the house. Who’s been infected?”

  Krugal tilts his head and smiles as if amused by a private joke. “People are sheep,” he says. “They don’t want to excel. They want to watch football and drink beer. They want to throw back diet pills instead of running. People are getting so fat they’ve had to expand airplane seats. Incredible isn’t it? We’re choking on our own excess, begging for more.”

  “Who is it?”

  Krugal takes the bottle between his hands, gives it a small push. “It’s still a jungle. We each must decide for ourselves whether we are sheep…” The bottle spins lazy between his fingertips, “…or wolves.”

  “And so you wanted to give your own a little leg up on the food chain?” Tarren keeps his scowl firmly fixed in place.

  “People are dying,” Gabe speaks up, “innocent people.”

  “Yes, and that is unfortunate. I had hoped that the animals would suffice, but it seems they are not enough. Then again, people die every day. They’re starving in Africa. Suffocating in China. You’re not saving them. There’s no difference. Human life is a commodity like everything else.”

  “Humans are not commodities,” Gabe’s voice is rising.

  “No?” Krugal touches the glass bottle to pause its motion. “Then why do we send our soldiers off to war with paychecks in their pockets?”

  “I’m not asking again,” Tarren says.

  A crazy laugh itches in my throat. How could any of this possibly be real? Even the shadows are just right, cutting across Krugal’s face, pooling in the deep lines of his sagging skin.

  “You’re going to tell us who and where.” Tarren pulls a short blade from his belt. “Now, or I’ll start cutting. Fingers first.”

  “It won’t work.” This is me, still lingering behind the two boys. I’ve got a part to play, so I hush my voice, turn it hollow and cold. “He’s not afraid, because he’s already dying.” I’ve been watching the weak flicker of Krugal’s energy. It lays close to his body, churning slow like sludge and hued a murky brown almost to the core. “That’s why he didn’t turn himself.”

  “The tumor is inoperable,” Krugal confirms. “I won’t really be needing my fingers much longer anyway. You’re welcome to them.” He spreads his hands on the desk. His rings click against the polished surface reminding me of another click I heard a short while ago. Then I understand.

  “The angel was here,” I say, and the jump in Krugal’s energy confirms it. “It went
out the window. I heard the noise right before you stormed the office. He’s been stalling.”

  “You keep strange company.” Krugal is looking at my gloves. There are many clever responses available, but it’s me, and I’m not, so I don’t. Instead, I turn and make my way down the hall, touching each door until I find the one with the smell I recognize from the small shred of fleece. The lights wake at my touch and throw me into a world of confusion.

  Zac Effron is hanging out above the bed. The Jonas Brothers rock on the ceiling. Random visuals fall into my swinging gaze: white comforter with small roses dotting the trim, green and silver pompoms hanging off the bed post, computer desk with books and stuffed animals crammed into the cubbies, clips and hair bands on the dresser, brush filled with long, copper hair, quotes scrawled on the closet door. The one in the center says:

  An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind - Ghandi

  I suppose this is ironic. Little wooden bubbles hang on the wall, each holding a picture. In the first, three cheerleaders hide behind their pompoms, eyes squinted in laughter. She must be the frizzy redhead in the middle, freckled and pale and no more than fourteen.

  Here she is again, younger, throwing a teddy bear at the camera, then sitting on a bench with Krugal and another woman, also redheaded. In one more picture she’s clutching the woman’s wide waist as they sit on a jet ski together.

  “There’s a door back here,” Tarren says behind me. “A deck, the carpet is wet.”

  “It’s her. She’s the angel,” I say.

  Tarren peers over my shoulder at the pictures. “You sure? I’ve never seen one that young. Children can’t survive the infection process.”

  “I’m sure.”

  We look at each other, and for the first time I’m glad for Tarren’s tight, repressed energy field. As I try to regain my bearings, try not to totally freak, I hold on to his hardened features: the squared shoulders, the locked jaw, those eyes, more blue than gray now, keeping their chill.

  “Stay focused,” he tells me.

  “I’m fine,” I say and then say it again, louder. “I’m fine.”

  “Good.”