Monstrous (9 page)

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.”

I stare down at my twisting hands. He cannot be right about all of them. It cannot be true about that boy. He leaves me roses. He wants to know me. “Surely, they are not all bad. I am part human, too.”

“No, my dear, they are not all bad. But the ones who strike out of fear are in the majority. Even if you found one or two who did not fear you, they would be overwhelmed by the others.”

“What do you mean?”

Father sighs. “Let me be clear. If the humans find out what you are, they will kill you. They will hunt me down and kill me for creating you. Anyone caught sympathizing with you would be murdered as well.”

My entire body grows cold. “Are they so vicious?”

“Yes. They are ruthless. Stay as far from them as you can.” He cracks his book again but then closes it halfway to examine me. “You have not seen that boy again, have you?” His eyes narrow and I cannot meet them.

“No,” I lie. “I have not.”

Satisfied, he returns to his book and we wait for breakfast to finish cooking.

If there was any doubt I have to hide the roses from Father, it is gone. His words tear apart my insides. I cannot believe what he said is true of the boy. If the humans caught me, I could defend myself. That is why Father gave me the claws to fight, the tail to stun, and the wings to flee.

I want to please Father, but it is no longer the only thing I desire.

I want to see that boy again.

IN MY BOOKS, THERE IS ALWAYS A PRINCE, AND HE ALWAYS HAPPENS
upon the damsel in the most unexpected places. As I flutter between the sunbeams shafting through the forest, I cannot help but wonder if I will meet my prince here, like this. Does that boy ever wander through this forest? Could a creature like me even have a prince to call her own?

Perhaps somewhere out there is another hybrid like me. Or maybe Father could make me a prince.

By the time I reach the river that meanders around the edge of our woods, the sun is at the very top of the sky, smiling down at me. I usually love days like this; everything in the forest is bathed in warmth and I can drink it in. But today my unsettled thoughts hang over me like a shadow.

Of course, this is the first time I have wandered off
without a task from Father. He is away at a market, he said, foraging for the materials he needs for his experiments. He will be back by dusk, but the afternoon is mine. And I want nothing more than to read my books by the river. I settle onto an outcropping of rock that glitters in the sunlight, and crack my book.

A yapping sound disturbs me. My keen ears perk. The sound gets louder and I scowl.

Pippa.

That blasted sperrier followed me.

She bursts through the foliage, then skids to a stop, eyeing the rock I perch on warily. She growls.

I stick out my tongue. “There is not enough room for you up here, anyway.” She paces for a few minutes, the rumbling in her tiny throat unceasing, then finally curls up near a bunch of ferns about ten yards away.

I settle into my seat, a depression on the boulder that just fits me, and let the stories paint pictures in my mind.

In this one, the miller's daughter loves the king's youngest son. Trolls and gremlins roam the land and wizards make deals, extracting promises no one can keep. Though the prince is handsome and brave, and the girl is fair, it does not end well.

One look at the multicolored skin of my arms, and the weight of my tail curled around my leg, remind me of how different I am from the girls in these tales and the girls I save each night. Father says I am perfect, but would a prince agree if he knew what I am made of? Would he value me for the usefulness of my parts, or for the contents of my heart?
Or would he only value me as a prize to slay like the monsters in the story?

My fairy tales have shed no light on this subject.

Father gave me them to educate me about the behavior of humans and their many odd customs. And the trickiness of wizards. In my books they never fight fair. I must be prepared when I meet my evil wizard.

The sun has traveled a great distance in the sky. I should go soon to be sure Father does not beat me home. He might not view my newfound freedom as fondly as I do.

But I am not quite ready to leave this place yet. I stretch out on the rock and stare up at the blue sky through a web of leaves from an overhanging tree. Everything is sunny and bright. I could bask in it forever.