Monstrous

by MarcyKate Connolly

  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.

  DAY TEN

  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.

  “What is the matter?” I ask. She cries harder and makes no answer. Her dainty yellow curls cling to her damp cheeks, and her thin arms wrap around her middle. Her skin is only one unbroken color, and not a single stitch or bolt holds her together. My hand runs over one of the bolts securing my neck to my shoulders before I realize what I do.

  Of course, she does not have a tail or wings either, and I am growing rather fond of mine. They are quite useful.

  I step closer and I am pleased to see that all traces of the cursed disease have vanished. No more boils and rash, and her fever has all but disappeared. Father is very good at what he does.

  Her tears seem endless. I cock my head at her, then hand her the roses. The blossoms are a peach color with a darker red hue creeping up the sides of the petals. Father calls them blush roses.

  She does not take them.

  I lay them on the bed beside her, perplexed. She sniffles again and picks one up, twirling it between her tiny fingers. She knows how to avoid the thorns. She must like them. I smile hesitantly.

  “Mama . . .” she whispers as more tears slip from her eyes.

  “Mama?” I echo.

  “I want my mama.”

  Something primal rears inside me, full of grief and other emotions I do not understand.

  Mama. Mother. She misses her mother.

  Did I miss mine when I was in that awful prison? I wish I could remember, but at the same time I am grateful I do not. I do not wish to experience the pain this child is in.

  I drop to my knees before her. “You are safe,” I say, but even I understand it means nothing to her. She eyes me, then the rose again.

  “Mama loves roses,” she whispers.

  “Do you like roses?” I ask. Her face twists and the tears come full force again. She shakes her head back and forth and hurls the rose across the room. Petals burst all over the floor.

  I do not understand this child or her strange emotions. Why would she throw such a lovely thing away?

  “Kym!” Father says from behind me. “What are you doing?”

  I spin. Father appears concerned. Perhaps he thought I was crying. “I brought our guest flowers.” I frown at the broken blossom on the floor. “But I do not think she likes them.”

  “Kym, you cannot get attached to the girls. Now, put her to sleep and come with me.”

  I bow my head. “Of course, Father.”

  The girl flung herself upon her pillow in such a manner that she will not see me. I sting her without a second thought and follow Father from the room.

  I halt in the doorway, an odd feeling coiling inside my chest.

  Mama. That word, something about it—

  Shimmering blue silk skirts. I can feel the fabric between my fingers, and see how it moves like water around the feet of a woman. Mama.

  The primal feeling from moments before returns in a flood, threatening to choke me. I cling to the doorframe, and my claws snap into place, driving into the wood.

  It fades as quickly as it came. No more silk, no more woman—nothing but the fading sense of a familiar presence.

  I run down the stairs. The sight of Father at the bottom calms me.

  He stoops to run his hands over the floor. I tilt my head and watch. I have not seen him do this before. But then again, I do not spend much time in the tower. I prefer the garden or a chair by the fire in the cottage.

  Father mutters as he pulls on a hidden latch in the floor, which slides away to reveal stairs. He notices me staring. “Come on. You have something on your mind. You may ask me while I work.”

  This pleases me. Father is a creator—a scientist, he says—but I have never watched him make things before. I scamper down the stairs after him. My hands shake and I wonder if it is from what just happened in the doorway.

  “What are you making today, Father?”

  He winks. “You eat so many eggs that we need a few more chickens.”

  I giggle. I have been eating a lot of eggs. They are my favorite, next to rabbit.

  When we reach his laboratory, I gasp. It is a mirror image of the room upstairs, before it was whitewashed and prepared for the girls. But this room is different in so many ways. The floor and windowless walls are all cold, gray stone. Along the wall are long, rectangular stone boxes. Shelves filled with all sizes of odd glass jars line the walls. Some contain dried herbs, others hold eyes and tongues and fleshy things I do not recognize, all suspended in murky liquid.

  Despite its underground location, the hidden tower room has a high ceiling. A dozen skeletal specimens of creatures from my fairy tales hang above my head. I reach up, wondering, and touch my finger to the tip of a fish tail attached to the hips of a human-like skeleton.

  Father tsks at me. “Kym, please, no touching. They are quite fragile.”

  I do not answer as I circle the room, examining each in turn. One is huge and equine on the lower half with a human head and torso. Another has a catlike skull, but the body of a much larger beast and ea
gle claws. Most are combinations I cannot name. I am determined to scour my books for every one of them.

  “What is this?” I ask, pointing to one that has a human skull atop an animal’s frame with an insect-like tail. The stinger at the end reminds me of my own.

  “That is a manticore.”

  “What is it doing here?”

  His expression turns grave. “They are all here for safekeeping. And for me to study. They helped me determine the best way to connect your parts, Kymera.”

  A chill slithers over me. “You killed them?”

  “Oh, no, my dear. I tried to save them. The wizard draws magic from these animals. Some people grind their bones for the magic residue that clings to them, but I could not bear to let that happen to such creatures.”

  “You protect them?” I say, relieved.

  “Exactly.” Father slides a lid off one of the strange gray boxes and reaches inside.

  “What are those?” I ask.

  “Cold boxes. They preserve things. Like this.” He pulls a stiff, half-rotted chicken carcass from the box and places it on the stone table in the center of the circular room. A pair of fuzzy, hoofed legs follows.

  Curious, I sidle up to the box and press my palm to the side. I yank my hand away. It is indeed cold. Very cold.

  Freezing, says the corner of my mind.

  “How does it do that, Father?”

  “Some would call it a charm.”

  “But I thought that was magic.” My fairy tales include mention of all sorts of spells and incantations. Wizards cast dark enchantments in the dead of night by waving their arms over a cauldron and channeling the evil magic into terrible deeds.

  He smiles. “Indeed, a charm is magic. But I did not say I call it that, just that some people would. There are other nonmagical ways of doing amazing things.” His smile falters. “I am afraid my science is about as misunderstood by the people of Bryre as your true form would be. They fear everything they do not understand. That is why they forbade the practice of magic within the city walls years ago, and much of science, too.”