Monstrous (11 page)

“They have powerful properties when shed by powerful creatures. I used the last of my stock creating you.”

A shiver wriggles down my spine. “You used tears to create me?”

“Yes, there is a spark of life in them. Every time we cry, we die a little. A tiny piece of our life exits with that drop. I needed quite a lot to bring you back.”

“But the people in this country are sad all the time. Tears cannot be that hard to come by.”

His eyes droop further but he still manages to chuckle. “Human tears are a dime a dozen. These are special.”

“How so? Whose tears are they?”

He yawns wide and Pippa does the same beneath his chair. For a moment, I do not think he heard my question.

“Dragons'.”

My hand freezes over the pot. No wonder they are scarce.

This unsettles me deeply. To get tears from dragons, they would have to be made to cry. I do not like the idea of purposefully making dragons unhappy.

And I do not know what to think of Father using them to bring me back.

Suddenly, I am glad I could not tell Father about my rock dragon after all.

I LEAP UP TO THE CITY WALLS, SKIN TINGLING WITH ANTICIPATION. EVERY
night, the boy has left a rose by the fountain. The blossoms have taken up residence between the pages of a book in my room, and thoughts of the boy and his warm eyes follow me wherever I go. I hunt for our dinner and I feel him watching. I soar over the hedge and he is there in the sky, too. In the garden I wish to share with him, there is no escape from his shadow.

All day I wait until I can return to the city and glimpse him again. And hope for another rose.

I suspect he pilfers them from the palace garden when he goes there to leave a message in the throne room. I only tail him from afar, then sneak in once he is out of sight, for fear he might catch me. If he did, I doubt he would continue
to leave me roses. I do not want to risk that.

I wish Father had not forbidden me to talk to the humans. Sometimes I feel like that princess in the tower from my book—locked away from the world. But this boy has sparked my curiosity; I am half desperate to know him. He has some connection to the king, that much is clear from the messages I intercept. Is he a prince or a servant? Or something else I have no word for yet?

His message from last night made Father shake his head.

Wizard evades guards again. Move D to second position.

What is D, and what is the second position? Father said he didn't know the answer when I asked what it meant, but he did get a faraway look in his eyes.

The winding streets and shuttered buildings pass as I glide to the square with the fountain—our fountain. Every once in a while, snippets of conversation reach me through an open window. It is not until I hear a familiar name that I halt my swift progress.

“That Barnabas. I always thought the king was a simpleton to put any faith in him. Swore up and down he could rid us of that menace and now we're right back where we started,” a woman says. I hover outside the window, watching two woman wash dishes. Barnabas. Darrell called Father by that name. Could they be talking about him?

The other woman snorts. “I heard he made outrageous demands of the king. Marta said he burst out of the palace gates, raving like a loon about firstborns and broken wagers.
He's right crazy, but even he knew enough to get out while the getting was good. If he was still around, I'd bet he'd be blamed for all our girls getting sick.”

“He'd do well to stay gone. The likes of him aren't welcome in these parts anymore.” The woman waggles a huge ladle at her friend. I shrink back against the wall of the house. Could their Barnabas and mine be the same? Did Father have a falling out with the king? He never told me he knew the king. Of course, I never asked. Now, I will make a point of it.

I slip into the alley, but slower than before. I do not like hearing others speak that way of Father. He is good and kind, but they make him sound like a madman who ran out on a city that needed him. Perhaps they meant another Barnabas.

A churning in the pit of my stomach tells me they did not. What was Father's life like before I died? Before he brought me back to life? Did Father warn the king not to make the deal with the wizard? Did he try to stop the wizard with his science and fail when things went south? It sounds like something he would do, and he didn't have me to help him then. I do not know much aside from the fact that he is a doting father, a brilliant scientist, and a man with a noble mission.

Knowing that much is enough. Father can explain it. These women are just gossiping. And gossips are often wrong.

Of course, if Father is keeping secrets, he is not the only one. I have yet to tell him about my rock dragon. Guilt
has calcified into a hard point in my stomach, but I cannot break my silence. I am physically incapable of speaking when I have a mind to tell him about Batu.

Now, every time Father enters a room and I am reading one of my fairy-tale books, I jump. Though truth be told, I have not learned much. My books tend to cast dragons in a villainous light, but I am certain my rock dragon is not the sort who would destroy a village or eat hapless maidens.

No, Batu is different.

He called me sister. Each time I whisper that word aloud, something buzzes inside my heart and thrums all the way to my fingertips. We are connected now, the dragon and I, and not only by the blood bond.

We both hide in the shadows of the world, lingering on the fringes and longing for the sun. The dragon knows what it is like to be feared and hated, just like the city folk would hate me if they found me out.

Perhaps dragons are just misunderstood.

I continue to the fountain with a little less spring in my step. Father and the dragon will both have to wait. If the boy maintains the same schedule as the last week, he will be here soon. My mottled skin turns pink in some places and red in others. I tug my cloak closer. He does not need to see the strange tones that comprise my body. In fact, the boy does not need to see me at all.

I hear the spattering of the fountain's waters and pause. Caution is the watchword, tonight and every night. I creep over to the fountain, circling the edge, just to see if the boy arrived before me and left another flower.

“You,” a soft voice says from the shadows. I whirl, keeping my back to the fountain. My tail is tense and wound so tight around my thigh that my toes begin to go numb. I have to concentrate to prevent my claws from spiking out.

The boy steps out of the alley not ten feet from me, closing the gap further. My breath stutters as though a lump prevents it from passing. Is this a normal reaction for a girl surprised by a boy? Everything in me screams it is.

No words will form on my lips. He steps closer, holding out a hand, palm up. His other hand remains behind his back, but I already know he holds a rose. The scent matches those I keep hidden in my room.

“Please don't run away this time,” he says. His voice has a pleasant tone, with a slight rough edge. A shiver runs up my spine with every word. I rather like it.

Father would not. He would be furious that I stand here, staring at the strange boy out after curfew and radiating warmth in the middle of the night.

I take a step back, keeping close to the fountain.

“Please, I just want to talk to you.” He inches forward.

I bite my tongue and insist my feet stay in place. Part of me aches to talk to him, but instinct screams to flee. To get as far as I can from the very awake, very aware, human boy. This is different from my interaction with the girls. Getting nearer to me is not something that ever crosses their minds as a good idea.

He takes another step. In a few paces he will be right in front of me, close enough to touch. Close enough to hand me the rose himself.

“What is your name?” he asks. I purse my lips and shake my head. Father would not want me to tell him that. It might be dangerous. I cannot risk him discovering Father's plan. Or what I am.

“I'm Ren.” He points to his chest. I remain silent. My throat is so dry, I could not talk even if I wanted to.

“I've never seen you in the city until recently.” He pauses, his brow furrowing. Another step. “But something's familiar about you.”

And then another. The scent of baking bread rolls over me stronger than before. I want to close my eyes and breathe it in, but that is out of the question. I have not yet determined whether he is friend or foe.

One more step and we will be inches apart. My hands quiver beneath my cloak. My claws ache for release. My knees bend without my willing it, ready to launch into the air at the slightest provocation.

He moves the hand behind his back and holds out the rose as he takes the final step.

I cannot help it; I skitter back, gripping the edge of the fountain. Water splashes my fingers, but can do nothing to cool my burning skin.

He holds up both hands, one still clasping the rose. It is red. It is perfect. “Don't run, please. Can you speak?”

I hold my breath and stare at the petals of the rose. A drop of water from the fountain hits one and rolls off, leaving a deep red trail in its wake.

I realize I am about to let him come closer. What will happen? What does he intend to do? Panic surges inside my
chest as he closes the space between us.

Instinct takes over. My tail whips out from beneath my cloak and stabs Ren in the leg. His smile fades as his eyes lose their focus. He stumbles and sways, and I catch him before his head hits the rim of the fountain.

I am hyperaware of three things: Ren is in my arms, he is unconscious, and it is my fault. I press my hand on his chest—his heart beats against my palm. He will wake like the girls always do, but seeing this boy limp and up close affects me differently. I rescue them, but I rendered him vulnerable. Robbers might find him. Or worse, the wizard.

This was wrong of me. I need to maintain greater control. Ren is nothing to fear. I pry the rose from his hand and tuck it in my braid. Then I hoist the boy up in my arms and head for the palace. He will be safe in the garden until he wakes tomorrow.

I stop in the alley just beyond the guardhouse, and push in the two bricks that open the secret passage. I hurry through the tunnel, and in minutes step out in the moonlit garden. Ren does not stir. His stillness worries me, but his chest rises and falls as he breathes. Satisfied, I set him on a carved marble bench beside a bush of sweet roses. Before I can think better of it, my hand traces the line of his jaw. I want to commit every facet of his face to memory.

On the other nights I only sensed him or saw a quick glimpse; this is different. His skin is browned by the sun and, before he fell asleep, I saw that his eyes are rich like the soil in my garden. His hair is the same color, but streaks of sunlight run through it.

I must not see him again. This was dangerous. Too dangerous. I cannot confide in Father about it.

Settling back on my haunches, I take in the beauty of this garden one more time. As I gaze at the roses, the world fades, leaving the same rosebushes, but bathed in the sunlight of high noon. A man describes them to me, his hair dark and his bearing regal. He has such kind blue eyes that I instantly trust him. Indeed, a sense of overwhelming gratitude fills me in this vision.

“I know how much you love roses,” the man says. The sun sparkles off dewdrops that cling to the petals, lending the roses a magical feel. The memory is so vivid that I reach out, but it is gone startlingly quickly.

It is only me, and Ren, and the silent flowers in the moonlight.

It takes me a few moments to get my bearings. Have I been to this garden before? The scene in my mind appeared nearly identical, right down the curling wrought-iron gates. I can believe I loved it, and I would not be surprised if I had befriended a gardener in a past life.

Still, the feeling the man was something more is unshakable. And it troubles me. These visions or memories or whatever they are come upon me so unexpectedly, yet not one of them has included Father. Have I just forgotten my memories of him entirely? That makes me feel even worse. Surely he has noticed when I explain the glimpses my brain gives me that he is not in them.

Perhaps I should not pain him any longer by recounting them. Yet I am now terribly curious to know how I could
have possibly been in the palace garden.

I run from the palace, heading straight for the prison. Over the last few days the wizard has stationed a pair of guards outside as well as those he has inside the walls. They patrol around the prison every half hour. The wizard knows someone takes his girls.

He must never find out who.

I circle the shadows until I am in the guards' blind spot, then fly up to the roof. Between my cloak and the darkness, they have yet to see me. I move a few shingles aside and drop down into the rafters. I have not made the mistake of entering by the wrong room again since that first night, but the guards have caught on. From my perch on a high beam, I can see four guards below, settled in corners of the room.