Monstrous (5 page)

“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 eagle 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.”

“What is the difference between science and magic?” I do not wish to confuse the two and mistake an innocent man for the wizard.

“More than you think, but less than is visible to the naked eye. Magic is an essence that can be wielded; science requires a knowledge of the physical elements. Both can be used to manipulate the world you see around you. A spell cannot be cast with science, but you can still make unusual things happen.”

“Like me?”

He glances up from the stiff chicken. “Precisely.”

My face lights up with understanding. It is beginning to make sense.

I position myself on the other side of the table to watch
Father work. He murmurs and moves his hands quickly. It is mesmerizing, but not enough that I forget the question troubling me since I spoke to the girl upstairs.

“What did my mother look like?”

Father stops what he is doing and pales deeply. “Oh, Kym. Why must you ask that?”

My face warms. “I think I might remember her. A little.”

“What do you mean?” Father frowns.

“That girl. She mentioned her mother. And then I saw something in my mind. A glimpse of a woman in blue skirts. It was so real, I could almost feel the fabric between my fingers.” I am not sure how to voice that roaring feeling inside when I had the vision, but I hope my stumbling words give Father enough to go on.

Father leaves the chicken and pulls me into an embrace. “My dear child, your mother was the loveliest creature. Your eyes are just like hers, and you have her sweetness, too. If you saw something it is only a snippet of memory your brain has retained. Do not be troubled by it, and do not search for more like it. Any memories you have left will be scattered and confusing. It will only grieve you to glimpse what you cannot have back.”

The truth of Father's words chills me. Whatever my mother was to me once is lost forever.

He returns to his work, and I watch in silence for several minutes, my mind wandering back to my travels the night before.

“Are you certain the curfew is still in effect?”

“Without question,” he says, then pauses. “Why do you ask?”

“Might the king have changed his mind?”

“That is unlikely, given the wizard's continued torment of the people.” He places his hands on the edge of the table. “Why, Kymera?”

I am suddenly uncomfortable. He gazes at me with a strange intensity and I know I must tell him about the boy I saw run by the fountain. Part of me resists. Part of me wants to keep that secret, that boy, to myself.

But Father has been so good and generous to me, I cannot keep anything from him. He must know all about the mission. I do not want to make any errors that might allow the wizard to proceed with his horrible scheme.

“Kymera?” He stares harder than before.

“There was a boy. I think. He ran by me. At the square with a cherub fountain.”

Father's hands tighten around the edge of the table, causing threads of blue veins to pop out on the skin. “Did he see you?” he whispers tightly.

A twinge of fear shivers down my spine. I shake my head. “I hid in the shadows. He had no idea I was there. It struck me as odd because of the curfew.”

His hands loosen their grip, but his eyes get a faraway look in them, like he is no longer in the room with me. “Yes, that is odd. I am glad you told me.” His eyes meet mine. “If you see anything else out of place, you must tell me. Above all, you must not let this boy or any other human see you. Do you understand, Kymera?”

“Yes, Father. I will stay hidden. I promise.”

“Good girl. Now hold this.” He gives me the cold, fuzzy legs, guiding my hand to press them to the chicken body. Both are mangled, but as Father mutters and sprinkles them with herbs from his shelves—pepper to warm, aloe to heal—they thaw and change form before my eyes. The flesh is soft and warm now.

My father is truly an amazing man.

He fastens the legs to the chicken with tiny bolts and resumes his muttering.

“How long can we keep her?” My thoughts return to the girl sleeping in the top of the tower. “Will they all come and live with us?”

Father looks aghast. “Of course not. Where would we put them all? We do not have room for that many girls.” At my crestfallen expression, he pats my shoulder. “Do not worry. She and all the others you fetch will go to a wonderful place. Much better than anything here.”

“What about their mothers? Can they go, too? The girl said she misses her mother.” The remnants of the memory pinch inside my chest, but I swallow the feeling down.

Father's face goes slack for a split second. “Not yet. Perhaps when the wizard is gone they can join them.”

I smile. “I think she would like that.” I run my finger over the outline of the chicken's hoof while Father continues to fuss over the creature. “Tell me about the place we will send her.”

He chuckles. “I wondered how long it would take you to ask that.” He shakes his head. “Belladoma is the most
beautiful city in the world. It lies beyond the western mountains. The ruler is a kind, powerful man. He has a soft spot for young girls in trouble. They will be in the best of hands. The wizard would never think to seek them there. Belladoma's alliance is with me, not the city. He is far too single-minded and focused on Bryre.”

I frown. I feel . . . responsible. For the happiness of the girl upstairs and the others in that prison. “But will they have roses?”

“They will have roses and posies and sunflowers and petunias and hyacinths and every flower you can imagine. They will stay in the palace with the king as his special guests.”

I have not seen the palace in our city yet, but I plan to find it on one of my excursions. I imagine it must be very fine. How much more lovely must this one be in such a rich, happy kingdom!

“Does Belladoma have creatures like them?” I motion to the skeletons on the ceiling. “And dragons or perhaps griffins?” Father's fairy tales tell of such creatures, but I have seen none in Bryre. Not even here in the laboratory. They are supposed to be both wise and fearsome.

Father grows serious. “I am afraid not. The last griffin died more than a century ago, and dragons have been hunted to the brink of extinction for their magic powers. More so than my friends here. They leave their bones behind, but dragons do not. They are pure magic, right down to their marrow.”

“Who hunts them?” I wish to throttle anyone who would do such a thing.

“Who do you think?”

I hiss. “The wizard.”

Father considers the contents of a cold box. “Not just him, but he certainly has had his share of dragons' blood.”

My claws snap into place. “Why?”

He closes the cold box and examines his shelves instead. “It is how wizards got their powers in the first place. Dragons and humans once lived together in harmony. The dragons each shared an affinity with different elements—rock dragons with the earth, water dragons with the rivers, and so on. Eventually those who lived with the dragons began to absorb some of their magic. Those dragon riders became the first wizards.”