Monstrous Read online

  “What did the boy do in the palace?”

  “It was all very strange. I followed him to the throne room and watched him open a panel in the dais stairs. He hid a note there and ran off.” I grin. “But I am sly and I read his note. I put it right back. No one will know.”

  “What did it say?” Father’s voice is throaty and he seems to be having trouble swallowing.

  “The meaning baffles me. It said: ‘More girls sick. K suspects wizard. Will remain where he is. More guards.’”

  Father’s hands shake, but then he laughs out loud, startling me. “He is running away. The king is running away and using a mere boy to deliver secret messages for him. No wonder the city council still makes a show of entering the palace every day. They are only there to retrieve messages, not truly holding court.” He sighs and runs a hand through his silvery hair. “Kym, our king is a grand fool. If you can intercept his messages, he has no hope of keeping them from the wizard. He may as well deliver them right to his doorstep. And sending a boy! After curfew! As though no one would notice.”

  I am pleased Father is amused by my discovery. “The king must fear this wizard.”

  “Indeed he does.” Father’s face takes on a grave expression. “The wizard sacrificed his daughter, too. The crown princess.”

  I suck in my breath. “Oh, the poor girl.” I picture a girl in fine clothes, withering in the prison under the wizard’s thumb. It breaks my heart. In a way, it reminds me of that fairy tale about the princess in the tower. “I wish I had been alive in time to save her.”

  Father cups my cheek. “You would have done a fine job of it, too, I am sure. But we can only save those who remain. Mourning the lost will not help those who can still be found.”

  I am lucky to have such a wise, kind father. It fuels my boldness.

  “Father, was there another girl? A small, blond one who I may have played with?” I cannot hide the tremor in my voice.

  “Another girl? No, my dear. You are my only child. We lived in Bryre but briefly, and after that it was only you and I and your mother here in our cottage.”

  Mother. That word again. Every time I hear it, the hollowness inside me expands. I do not know about magic, but words are powerful things indeed.

  “Why do you ask?” Father says.

  “It was another sliver of memory,” I say. “I could have sworn it was a little girl.”

  “Perhaps it was a memory of you looking in the mirror, or a friend you made when we were in Bryre.”

  “Yes, that must be it,” I agree. “When can I hunt down the wizard? I want to destroy him.” The remnants of my shattered memories may be all I have to remind me who I was before, but I know who I am now.

  The vehicle of the wizard’s destruction. Every day I embrace this more wholeheartedly.

  “In good time, child. I am still trying to find him. It seems he and the king are well hidden both from each other and from me.”

  “I know you will find him.” If anyone can do it, it is Father. I just hope it is soon.

  I flutter through the moonlit woods with a heavy heart. Even though he is no longer upset, Father’s words still ring in my ears.

  How could you let someone see you?

  How could I, indeed? I had not meant to, but I have not seen many humans aside from Father and this boy. I must have stared too long at him in the palace and somehow caught his attention. He would not have noticed and followed me otherwise. My curiosity will be our undoing.

  Our work is too important for me to risk. I must push the boy out of my head. It is, according to Father, the only way. I do not see any other.

  So why is my pulse pounding and my breath shorter than usual?

  Pausing at the edge of the city walls, I check for guards, then bound up to the walkway at the top. I take a deep breath, inhaling the glorious scent of roses beneath as the night blooms waft upward.

  Though I saw it for only a moment, that face is etched upon my heart, with lines and planes different from Father’s. Younger. And . . . handsome. Yes, that is the word. Handsome. And his expression, a mix of shock and something I cannot identify. Perhaps no one looked at my former self in such a manner so I have no word for it in my lexicon.

  But I must push him out of my thoughts. I do not know this boy, and Father is certain he will be trouble. He will cause us to fail. Or worse, he might be working with the wizard. Why else would someone be out after curfew lurking around the palace? Yes, the boy cannot be up to anything good.

  My mind flits back to the prison filled with girls in pain. I jump down and run so fast through the alleys that I may as well be flying.

  I slow as I reach the square with the fountain, now wary of entering an exposed place. I slink through the shadows, losing a feather or two to the rough stone walls. The welcome cool seeps through my wings and cloak to my taut muscles and flaming skin. A familiar scent meanders through the square—that of baking bread.

  A flush creeps up my patchwork neck and I switch to my cat’s eyes. Before I can complete a scan of the square, the boy steps around a column and approaches the fountain. The smell of bread grows stronger.

  I freeze, switching back to my human eyes. I will myself to blend into the black shadows surrounding me.

  When he reaches the fountain, he stops and rests something on the rim. The playful cherubs block my view of it. My throat closes. I am trapped. If I move an inch he will see me.

  The boy tosses something into the fountain, then runs a finger through the waters. He raises his eyes and—to my shock—meets mine without flinching and winks. Before I can recover my senses, he bows, then runs off down his usual alley.

  All instincts are on alert. Is this a trap? What did he leave at the fountain’s rim? How did he know I was here? I curse myself for my stupidity. Despite my efforts, I have not been cautious enough. I am not good enough to fulfill the mission Father created me to complete.

  I am a failure.

  I close my eyes, listening to the night sounds and sniffing the breeze to ensure the boy has truly left. The echoes of his steps and his familiar scent fade as he travels away from me.

  I breathe out slowly. He saw me. How strange are his manners!

  What did he leave on the fountain? Curiosity rears its head, too powerful for me to resist. I must know.

  I leave the safety of my shadows and circle the fountain, the cherubs happily spraying me as I pass.

  There, on the edge of the fountain, is a perfect red rose. Its scent must have mixed in with the other roses in the area, masking it from me until now.

  The boy who smells like bread and cinnamon left me a rose.

  I pick it up, wary of thorns and barbs. I press the crimson petals to my nose. It tickles, but smells divine. The warmth on my neck rises to the crown of my head.

  I like this flower. I like this boy. Someone working for the wizard would not leave a gift like this. Would they? I must ask Father, I know, but part of me resists. What if he thinks the flower is under a spell? What if he makes me get rid of it? I want to keep it, smell it, and stare at it as long as it lasts.

  It is the loveliest thing I have ever seen. That boy left it for me. It is mine. I should not have to give it up.

  Perhaps I will tell Father in the morning. Tonight, it is just for me.

  A smile creeps over my face and I dip my hand in the water, swirling the images of shining coins at the bottom. I wonder what those are for. Father will know.

  I tuck the rose into my thick, braided hair and hurry to the prison.

  Tonight, a new pair of guards is posted outside, and I am forced to circle around. I watch their patrol carefully and time my own movements to evade their notice.

  On the roof, it does not take me long to pry the shingles up. More shadows than before are posted in the girls’ room. I count at least five tonight. I toss down the vial of powder and watch the smoky plumes curl around all the bodies in the room, girls and guards alike. Soon they all slumber, and I can go about my business.
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br />   I have devised a system for deciding which girl to take each night. I go bed by bed down the line. It is fair and requires less thought.

  These girls, they are beginning to unsettle me. While I am grateful not to be a weak child anymore, sometimes I wish I could remember what it was like to be completely human. To have a simpler life, free from the call of duty, and the strange impulsive tugs of animal instinct.

  One where I could meet a boy offering roses by a fountain without fear of the repercussions.

  As I gather the girl in the designated bed, I realize another child has already taken the place of the one I took the night before and each night before that. Every bed in the prison is filled again. I gape for a moment too long and hear the creak of the front door opening below. The guards posted outside return for the change in shifts, just like they do every two hours.

  Instinct takes over. I bolt through the rafters.

  The second I hit the trees beyond the walls, I wing home, letting the night air wash away my fear that all my efforts to save the girls of Bryre and defeat the wizard will come to naught.

  DAY TWENTY-ONE

  I LIE ON MY BED, ALLOWING THE MORNING SUN TO WARM MY NAKED, mottled arms. I stretch toward it, grinning as I recall the secret stashed beneath my pillow. I reach under it to retrieve the latest rose. The boy has left one for me at the fountain for the past several nights. The petals of this one are flattened, but the scent lingers. I press it to my nose and remember the boy.

  Brown hair, brown eyes. Everything about him suggests warmth. I am warmed just thinking about him.

  He is an odd one, though. Each night I follow him to the palace, staying hidden in the shadows, while he sneaks in and hides a note in the throne room. I memorize them all, and by the time I reach the fountain, a rose awaits me.

  I have been exceptionally careful, and the boy has not spotted me again. But he knows I am out there, since he keeps leaving me the roses.

  The notes are almost as strange as the boy. Father is delighted by them, though I cannot decipher their meaning yet.

  Disease spreading. Move D to first position.

  Two guards deserted, need more recruits.

  “Kymera!” Father calls for me and I shove the flower back into its hiding place. I do not want to tell him about the roses yet. He would not be happy that a boy is leaving me gifts.

  “Coming!” I call back, and throw on my clothes. Father depends on me to feed the chickens in the yard each morning and I am a little late. Their hooves scratch the earth with impatience.

  I fly to the kitchen and grab the bucket of feed. It always fills overnight, but I never see Father do it. I must ask someday where we keep the feed in case I ever wake first.

  When I toss the feed into the midst of the chickens, they commence a riotous squawking and look ridiculous with all the fuss they make. Feathers dot the yard, amid the grass and dew and sunlight. I cannot help laughing. I love these chickens. And the eggs they give us. I must collect a few right after I water my roses.

  Pippa amuses herself by digging in the soil at the far end of the garden while I water the red-, pink-, and blush-colored blossoms. She has learned not to chase the chickens while they feed, though it took a lot of pecks and blood to get there.

  She whimpers at something lodged in the dirt and bats it with her paw. Then she scrabbles at it even more determinedly. I pause in my task to see what she has found. Her furious digging kicks up dirt every which way, so I can barely see into the hole she is making. I shove Pippa aside.

  “Bad Pippa! Bad!” I growl at her, certain she has ruined my lovely roses. The sperrier slinks back but continues to whine. “Go away! Shoo!”

  A good chunk of the roots at this end of the garden have been torn up. I huff as I press the soil back on top of them, ready to eat Pippa out of spite.

  I stop.

  Something else lies in the dirt. Chills shiver over me as I reach my hand between the twisting roots and hit something hard and unyielding. I tug, but it does not give way. I yank harder, then fall backward into the pile of dirt Pippa left behind, holding the strange thing in my hand.

  Except it is not so strange. In fact, I know exactly what it is.

  A bone.

  It is long and white and resembles the arm of the mermaid hanging in the tower laboratory. Curious, I put it next to my forearm—it is almost the same size. What is this thing doing beneath my roses?

  I scramble in the dirt on my hands and knees. I dig around the roots until I feel more bones under my fingertips. I brush off the dirt, revealing a rib cage and another bit of arm.

  I keep digging until my dress is caked with damp soil, then stand back to survey my work.

  It is a skeleton and it does indeed remind me of Father’s creatures. The top appears human, but the bottom looks like a larger version of the pygmy goat legs Father uses to make the chickens, hooves and all. Only one thing is missing.

  Its head.

  Despite the warm sun, goose bumps pop out on my skin. My gut feels as though it is filled with the earthworms dancing through the soil, whispering that this is not right. A headless skeleton does not belong under my rose garden.

  Something is wrong.

  I hurry back toward the house, only to be stopped by the empty egg basket at the door. Father will need the eggs for breakfast. He is waiting for me. I fly to the coop and grab a few as fast as I can.

  Father rests by the stove, the pot already boiling. I toss the eggs in, snarl at Pippa to scare her out of the chair next to him, and take a seat. He kisses my cheek, eyes widening at my appearance.

  “Good morning, my dear. What on earth have you been up to?”

  I wipe my dirty hands on my dress. “It was not me, Father. It was Pippa.”

  He reaches down to scratch her head. “What did she do now?”

  I pick at the dirt under my fingernails and frown. “She was digging in my garden. At first I thought she was just going to spoil my roses, but she found something.” That shivery feeling returns but I shrug it off. “It was a skeleton, like one of those creatures in your laboratory.”

  Father’s face softens. “My dear, I am sorry. I did not ever expect you to find that. Yes, a faun was buried near where your garden lies. He was . . .” He glances away momentarily. “. . . a close friend. He was the first hybrid I knew to die in the wizard’s never-ending search for more power. I buried him there, some time ago, and planted the roses over his grave. Both as a tribute and to keep his bones from being used by others.”

  “But . . . where is his head?”

  “The wizard took it as a prize. But I take heart that I managed to salvage the rest of him.” He sighs heavily and leans back in his chair.

  My poor father. How much he has suffered! I throw my arms around his neck, wishing I could squeeze all the sadness out of him. He hugs back, then sets me in my chair again, dusting the dirt from his shirt.

  “I see you had another successful evening,” he says, unhappiness lingering in his gaze.

  “Is she awake yet?” If Father wishes to change the subject, I will not press him. I cannot bear to see him upset.

  He shakes his head. “No, she slumbers still. We will check on her at midday.”

  The girl I rescued last night had a pretty ring of dark curls around her face. It is very similar to my own hair, and I am determined to arrange mine in the same manner. It framed her sleepy expression so prettily. Perhaps that boy would like it, as long as the rest of me stays hidden beneath my cloak.

  Father opens a book as we wait for the eggs to cook. I watch them bobble in the boiling water, but sneak a few glances at him. The book is worn leather and has an embossed dragon on the cover. Of all the creatures I have learned about, those fascinate me the most.

  “Is that a book about dragons, Father? Will I get to read it, too?” I ask hopefully.

  He glances up from his reading. “This is not a storybook for you, I am afraid. You would find it a bit dry. It is for research only.”

 
; I frown. “What are you researching?”

  “Dragons, and their movements over the years. Like I said, there are no stories here.”

  Disappointed, I change the topic to another that has been troubling me for days.

  “Father?” I say.

  He looks sideways at me. “Yes?”

  “Am I like her?”

  He frowns. “Like who?”

  “Your daughter. The one who was human.”

  He closes the book and removes his glasses. “Oh, my dear, you are just like her because you are her. You think like her, speak like her, even move like her.”

  “Do I look at all like her? Darrell seemed so surprised by me the other day that I wondered.”

  He smiles. “Of course, some parts of you do. Much of your face and skull had to be replaced, but your eyes are hers. Your hair is a different color, but I daresay I like it much better.”

  I twist a long black lock around my finger, watching the way the light reflects off bits and pieces of it. “What color was it before?”

  “Gold like the sun. Now you are dark like the night. Fitting, is it not?”

  My breath hitches in my throat. “Will I ever be able to walk into Bryre in daylight without a cloak like I did before?”

  “Now why would you want to do a thing like that?”

  I twist my hands together in my skirts. “I wish to know more about the people there. You told me I loved them before. I want to see the city with the sun shining down on the fountains and the flowers and—”

  He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “No. You are a hybrid. You shall never walk among the humans. You are better off not wishing for it.”

  My face burns with shame. Despite what Father may think, I do wish for it. I appreciate what I have gained in my new life, but I cannot help wanting to know what I lost. I may be a hybrid now, but they are nearly extinct as well. “Why do you think ill of them? Are you not human too?”

  “Of course I am. But you are not. I have told you before, they fear what they do not understand, and a girl with wings, a tail, and a cat’s claws and eyes would terrify them.” He cups my chin as tears form in the corners of my eyes. “They would undoubtedly lash out at you, and that is something I could not bear.”