by Rachel Xu
This was just an animal.
A pet.
Nothing to fear.
“What a pretty bird,” she cooed. “Can you say pretty bird?”
With a squawk of seeming rage, the bird surged forward and burst out of the cage, knocking her backward to the floor. She dropped the flashlight and tried to grab the bird as it flew past her. Catching only a fistful of air, she cried out in dismay as the bird dove through the hole in the floor.
Grabbing the flashlight, she scooted down the ladder—listened—and then scooted down the next ladder to the bottom floor—whipping around just as the bird flew out the gaping front door. Hadn't she closed that door? She was certain she had.
With no time to think straight, Lily tore out the door and scanned the surrounding tree branches for the bird.
Ian was going to be livid.
She turned in a full circle and halted, blinking in the moonlight. The bird was perched on a branch high above her, nearly blotted out by tree boughs. There was no way she could reach it without climbing the tree. Her only hope was to coax it down somehow.
“Here, pretty bird,” she cooed.
“Take the key and then you die,” said the parrot voice from above.
She glanced around. Was anyone watching from within the shelter of the trees?
“Pretty bird—” it taunted with a throaty squawk. “Pretty bird!”
It began to whistle a haunting tune.
“Please—” she said, voice strained and desperate. “Oh, please come down.”
As though in obedience, the bird flew down and landed on the low branch of a spruce overhanging the nearby trail. It continued to whistle the same tune.
Lily crept toward it and when she neared within a meter, it flew away and veered off the path, perching on another low branch. Great, he was taunting her. Leaving the trail, she pushed and crunched her way through the undergrowth and tried to grasp for the bird's long tail feathers. It merely fluttered off to another nearby branch.
This continued a while longer with Lily following the bird farther and farther away from the trail. She kept an eye on the distant lights of the orbs, figuring as long as they were in sight, she needn't fear getting lost.
Though the air was crisp, she'd worked herself into a sweat, and paused to roll up the sleeves of her sweater. Was it getting darker? She peered up through the cloistered boughs of the trees, barely able to make out the moon. The bird was two meters ahead, six feet above ground and within her reach. It was preening the feathers of one wing as though it hadn't a care in the world.
She moved closer, one step at a time, cringing when a twig snapped and the bird startled. He did not look her direction though and she held her breath until it resumed its preening.
Lily's throat tightened as she reached the base of the tree. She took a deep wavering breath. Then, in one swift motion, she snatched the bird's ankle and yanked the creature to her chest—pinning her arms around its flapping wings and hoping it wouldn't bite.
After a moment of intense struggle, the bird calmed down and stopped moving altogether.
She turned around, panting, and squinted through the tree branches, seeing only variances of darkness. The orb lights were no longer in sight.
“Well, well, well,” clucked the bird. “Look who's here.”
Chapter 13
A presence moved through the bushes in Lily's peripheral and ice water flooded her veins.
She clutched the bird tighter and held her breath, not daring to move.
A sudden, deep-throated cackle sounded to her right and something snorted to her left. Then all went silent.
Her only choice was to go forward, in the direction she'd come. She looked up through the leaves and branches to the sky. The moon was gone, snuffed out by pewter clouds. She willed one leg forward and then another—fully expecting to be pounced on by a bear or wolf.
Nothing happened.
The darkness was disorienting. Was she even walking in the right direction? The crunching of her footsteps echoed all around her, and the bird's heart beat calmly within her arms, out of sync with her own racing one.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why had she wandered so deep into the forest? She should never have opened that bird cage in the first place.
What had growled and cackled, and why had they stopped? Was she surrounded by a pack of drooling, camouflaged wolves waiting for the right moment to attack?
Something furry brushed her leg and she lurched forward in full speed panic. The bird screeched and bit her finger. She let go and its silky feathers flapped against her face as it took off into the trees above. Hands outstretched, chin tucked, she tore through bushes and tree boughs, cheeks and limbs burning with pain as branches whipped at her body. She didn't dare slow down.
All at once a deafening chorus of whoops and howls surrounded the forest around her and dozens of glowing eyes blinked at her in the murkiness ahead. She froze like a frightened rabbit and held back a scream as she pivoted in place.
White noise filled her ears and it took a moment to register that the glowing eyes had vanished and the forest had fallen silent. Her breathing was choked and raspy, heart slamming against her ribs. Her skin grew cold and she hugged her arms around her body. It was as though she'd suddenly stepped out into a bitter winter night.
Goosebumps pricked across her flesh like ripples of water and she trembled, lowering herself to the ground, dead leaves crackling beneath her. Her only plan now was to huddle on the forest floor indefinitely; hoping that whatever animal was out there would leave her alone.
A hand clamped down around her wrist: hard and thick and calloused. It jerked her to her feet and slammed her up against a furrowed tree trunk as another hand pressed hard against her jugular. She blinked rapidly, struggling to breathe—unable to make out the face of her attacker.
“What is your relation to Auguste?” a horrible voice hissed, the fingers around her neck releasing slightly.
“I'm his granddaughter,” she choked out the words.
“Who is your mother?”
“She's—dead.”
“Who was she?”
“Let me go—” she garbled, straining to breathe as the hand pressed into her throat.
“Answer me,” he screamed, throwing her to the ground.
She landed hard, smacking her forehead against the root of a tree. Pain streaked through her skull like a lightening bolt.
Not a second later, her attacker was upon her, pressing his weight into her back—his scruffy cheek against her own. He let out a long exhale; breath like a dead rat. She choked on a flow of nausea and tried to claw out his eyes, but he grabbed both wrists and pressed her fisted hands into the ground; her knuckles crunching into a rock. She cried out in pain.
“Who was your mother?” he repeated, pushing his knee into her back and putting his face against hers again. A glob of spit landed on her lips.
“Screw-you.”
“Wrong answer.” He let go of her and she gulped for air as the pressure on her lungs released.
The relief was short lived. He grabbed her by the shirt collar and pulled her back up to her feet. Before she could catch her breath, he clamped the back of her head in his palm and smashed her face into a tree. The skin tore from her cheek.
“Who was your mother?”
She sobbed. “Let me go, you have the wrong person—” Blood from her face trickled into the corners of her lips, filling her mouth with the taste of copper. He relaxed his grip and moved away from her. She wobbled in place and tried to look at her assailant, but couldn't see. Had he gone? Not waiting to find out, she stumbled away and broke out in a run. With one arm over her eyes for protection against branches, she ran blindly, looking at the ground only and using her other hand to feel for branches.
A shout sounded nearby, followed by a rolling growl and a screech. Moments later, heavy footsteps clopped behind her—gaining on and then reaching her side.
She was lowered to the ground and lain across a bed of moss.
Lily opened her eyes and realized she was dead. At least, it was the only logical conclusion—for all around her the forest was suffused by white light with a greenish tint. It was as if she'd donned a pair of night vision goggles.
The animal who had nuzzled her cheek was seemingly gone; she was alone.
She sat up and examined her crushed knuckles, but there were no abrasions. She lifted tentative fingertips to what she thought was a shredded cheek, but it was as smooth as a baby's bottom.
There was no pain.
Lily pulled herself to a standing position and surmised her surroundings. There was a big boulder, a rotting log, and a row of ferns. She took a few steps through the trees and realized she wasn't far from the trail at all: A gargoyle statue was perched nearby.
Relief stampeding through her veins, she approached the statue with brisk steps, pushing aside various branches as she went and fully expecting to find the whole row of them with their zig-zagging lights.
She reached the statue and nearly cried.
There was only one gargoyle and no dirt trail: not even a clearing. An unlit, white orb lay at its feet.
“Where are your buddies?” she asked, heart sinking.
“Foraging through the forest, of course,” a voice responded.
Lily jumped backward, breath catching in her throat as the gargoyle turned its solid stone head and looked at her with glowing red eyes.
No, she wasn't dead.
She was dreaming.
“You—you can't be talking to me,” she said.
“Okay then, crazy lady.” It stretched out its legs, one by one, and instead of marble, a very fine fur covered its entire body and face.
“How . . . how are you talking to me?” She lifted a tremulous hand to her breast and glanced all about.
“What kind of stupid question is that? With my mouth, of course. Having a tongue helps.”
She blinked. “I've obviously fallen and smacked my head. But as long as you're talking—how do I get back to the mansion?”
“You want to go to the mansion? You're going the wrong way.”
“Can you show me the right way?” she said, deciding to play along with her delusions. If this was only a dream, at least it was more pleasant than the nightmare she'd just endured.
The gargoyle studied her a moment with a look of mild curiosity and rubbed a paw across its heavy brow. Its face was flat with eyes the size of eggs and four tusks jutting out of its muscular jaw. “All right, I'll take ya,” it said gruffly, “but don't you go telling Ian I been talkin' with ya.”
“You k-know Ian?”
“Um . . . Ian? What's 'Ian'? Crazy talk!” The gargoyle shifted its gaze as though nervous. “You's lucky you came across me instead of some of the others. You're walking about the woods during hunting time, don't ya know. Not very smart. Plus, there's something sinister wandering this forest. I don't like it one bit.”
“That's why I need to get back to the mansion.”
“Follow me, but hurry. I don't want to be seen with you.”
With that, the gargoyle took off in the direction she'd just come and ran through the trees on all fours, breaking through the branches like a charging bull. Surprised by how fast it could run on such stubby legs, she hurried after it and tried to keep up; but soon fell behind.
“Wait,” she cried, “wait—”
But the gargoyle was gone.
The greenish light in the forest was fading, shadows forming all around. Was she going blind? Quickening her pace, she followed the path of broken branches before her, and reached a clearing.
“There you are, slowpoke,” a voice said to the right of her. The gargoyle was sitting on a pile of dry leaves.
“You could've slowed down,” she said.
Its grin withered. “You shouldn't linger here, lady—it isn't safe. Nopey-nope-nope.” The gargoyle peered into the still forest behind her with a narrowed gaze and then focused its red eyes back on her. “Why are you still standing there! I told you to get back to the mansion.” There was a sense of urgency in its voice.
The forest was nearly dark again and Lily could barely make out the trail ahead.
With a snort, the gargoyle took off in the direction she'd come from, its thudding footsteps growing softer and then silent as the distance grew between them.
Still figuring it was only a dream, she wandered down the path blindly, hands stretched out, wondering if it would lead her to Ian's workshop.
Her foot snagged without warning and she tumbled down an embankment, striking the back of her head on a boulder.
Chapter 14
Lily awoke with a headache.
She blinked and squinted in the harsh slivers of sunlight beaming down on her. The twisted tangled branches high above stretched up to the sky; some of them barren, others covered in bronze and russet leaves.
She groaned and sat up, rubbing the goose egg on the back of her head. How long had she been unconscious? It was daylight now—had she lain on the forest floor the entire night long?
She climbed the embankment and found the trail again. Up ahead, visible now in the sunlight, the gargoyles were perched in their usual places with orbs in hand. She went to the first one, touching its head. It was solid and cold. Marble. She turned around. Ian's workshop was in the distance behind her, the lights off. She didn't remember reaching it, let alone passing it, but perhaps in the darkness she'd walked right by it. Had she tripped over the same blasted root again and dreamed the entire series of events? She looked at her knuckles and touched her cheek. Perfectly normal.
A man's form appeared from behind the workshop.
Ian.
“Lily! I've been searching everywhere for you—” He closed the space between them and folded her in his arms brusquely.
She stood stiffly in his engulfing embrace, half delirious and confused. His heart was racing against her chest. “I'm s-sorry,” she said, fighting tears as nightmarish memories played over and over in her mind's eye.
It must have all been a dream as she'd lain there unconscious. It had to be—otherwise, how could her hands and face be free of injury?
“I must've fallen,” she said. “Hit my head pretty darn good.” She touched her fingers to the tender swollen area behind her ear. “I had the strangest dream, too.”
He held her at arm's length then, studying her face—fine lines about his eyes. She was chilled to the bone and his warm palms fairly burned her triceps.
She shivered involuntarily and he wrapped his strong arm around her waist, providing ample support as they walked together down the trail to the backyard.
When they reached the mansion, a fretting Hannah put her to bed, insisting that she rest until the headache was gone.
When Lily's eyes fluttered open a couple of hours later, it was to find Ian sitting in a ladder-back chair next to her bed, his head hung low. Instead of being disturbed, she was pleased to see him. He seemed to sense her gaze and she greeted him cheerfully when he looked up. He was wearing an open-necked black pullover sweater and gray jeans, his short hair spiked on top.
“I brought you brunch,” he said, smiling. “Oatmeal and buttered scones.” He rose from the chair and retrieved a legged tray that was perched atop the chest of drawers.
“Oh, that's so kind of you,” she said, letting him prop the pillows behind her so she could sit up.
He settled the tray over her lap and sat down again in the chair next to her bed. “How are you feeling?” he asked, eyes wider than usual. So this was what he looked like when he wasn't brooding.
S
he took a sip of tea from a China cup and smiled at him again. “I'm feeling much better. Headache's gone.”
“Do you . . . ” He paused and cleared his throat. “Do you remember anything about last night?” He furrowed his brow, watching her carefully.
She dabbed a cloth napkin to her lips. “I remember it, but most of my memories are just of a nightmare.” She let out a laugh. Why he was so grave anyway? She was fine. “And by the way,” she said, “I think it's about time someone removed that root from the path before I kill myself on it.”
He cracked a half smile. “Can you tell me about the dream?”
Frowning, she broke off a piece of scone and chewed a moment before responding. She then told him about being attacked by a hideous man who'd asked about her mother and smashed her face; how she was calmed down by what she thought was a horse; and finally, how she was led back to the trail by a walking, talking gargoyle. It struck her then that she couldn't recall whether or not she'd actually gone into Ian's workshop and lost his bird. He'd made no mention of it—and she didn't dare ask.
Ian listened in silence, the slightest twitch of a muscle in his cheek the only sign of distress. She took another sip of tea and fiddled with the spoon in her oatmeal. Recounting that nightmare had sapped her appetite, replacing it with mild nausea.
“You're certain this man was asking about your mother?”
“Yes.” She met his gaze. “But as I said, it was only a dream.” She pointed at her cheek. “Hello.”
He straightened in the chair, hands on his thighs. “I think it's about time you left this place, Lily. You can't stay here any longer.”
“But, I don't want to leave.”
“How much money do you want for your half of the estate? Give me a number—any number—and it's yours.”
“Ian . . . I'm not leaving.”
He stood up and paced at the foot of her bed. “I want you gone by dinner time.” He stopped and stared down at her, one hand gripping a canopy pole, his knuckles white with tension.