27

Carrington was still trembling when she stepped out of the CityWatch vehicle and onto her front lawn. After Isaac left her she had remained frozen in place for several long minutes before seeking refuge in a small hallway bathroom to examine herself. Her face was pale except for a long purpling mark that ran the length of her right cheekbone. Her eyes were bloodshot, her mouth quivering. She’d splashed water on her face and tried to appear as normal as possible when her ride arrived, but she knew there was no hiding what Isaac had done.

She walked up to her front door and let herself in. She heard muffled voices coming from the kitchen and knew the rest of her family was sitting down to dinner. Her brother’s sweet laughter fluttered across the room. She wanted to join them, but she couldn’t let Warren see her like this.

She quietly moved to the lone staircase and took the stairs quickly but as silently as possible. She knew her efforts were in vain when she heard the boy squeal her name as he raced toward her.

“I can’t play now, Warren; I’m not feeling well,” she said, moving into her room and shutting the door.

A few seconds later a tiny knock sounded at her door and she pushed the lock into place.

“Carrington?” Warren said. “What are you sick with?”

Fear. Hopelessness. Pain. “I don’t know, but I don’t want you to get it, okay?”

“Will you be sick tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll try not to be.”

“I’ll get Momma. She always helps me get better when I’m sick.”

Before she could object she heard his feet scamper away. Carrington lay across her bed and waited for her mother’s arrival.

It happened only minutes later. Carrington let the woman in. When her mother’s eyes landed on the mark marring her daughter’s cheek, concern filled her expression. She said nothing, knowing nothing could be said, but left to return with a cold compress and something for the ache. She gave Carrington an apologetic glance; Carrington knew she wanted to ask what had happened but wouldn’t.

Her father’s face appeared in the doorway lit with concern that quickly turned to anger as he also saw the mark on his daughter’s face. He pushed past his wife into the room and nearly made it to the bed before Carrington raised her hand for him to stop.

“I’m fine; please, I just want to be alone,” she said. She could feel her father’s anger across the space between them. “Please, Father, it was my own fault. It won’t happen again.”

He stood before her for a long second, his ragged breath like a heated bull preparing to charge.

“He cannot get away with this,” her father hissed.

“Come, dear, leave her be,” her mother said.

A typical reaction, Carrington thought, turning away. Better not to ask questions even in the face of clear trouble. Just sweep it under the rug.

“Come,” her mother said again, and Carrington heard both of her parents shuffle out of the room.

“Is she dying?” Warren asked, his voice floating through Carrington’s closed door.

“Of course not,” her mother replied. “Where do you come up with these things?”

Warren launched into a story he had heard from another boy on the street as her family moved away from the door and back down the stairs. Carrington slipped off her shoes, downed the pills her mother had given her, and climbed into bed fully dressed. She laid the cold pack on her cheek and felt warm streams draw lines down her face.

Exhaustion caught up to her quickly and with the lights still on, ice pressed against her skin, and tears dripping over her lips, she fell fast asleep.

A noise startled Carrington awake. Her head was fuzzy and a stinging ache pounded through her shoulder. She reached over to rub her upper arm and found that the spot was cold and damp. She pulled herself up into a sitting position, and the frozen compress her mother had brought her, now a sweating pack of icy water, dropped to her lap.

The noise came again against her window, small and sharp. A bird was pecking away in the darkness but not with a continual tap, which was odd. The room was dark; the sky outside was dark. The house was still. How weird that a bird would be bothering her window at this hour.

Carrington pulled her legs free of the blanket and planted her feet on the floor. A chill rumbled up her legs. The damp shirt hanging on her shoulders didn’t help. She should change, she thought, but not until after she dealt with that pesky bird. She moved to her window, released the latch, and yanked the bottom panel open.

She only opened it about an inch to scare the creature off. The movement felt stiff and strained. She expected the flapping of fleeing wings, but nothing came, and after a moment of silence she closed the glass. The bird must have been startled by her movement.

She stepped toward her closet and searched for a dry top. The rapping came again. Frustrated, she spun around and covered the space to her window in a couple of easy, long steps. Yanking the window open enough to push her head outside, she looked around for the responsible party. It was difficult to see, but the faint light from the streetlamps revealed that there was nothing to either side of her window.

Confused and tired, Carrington strained to see in the distance. Maybe the bird was circling around, waiting for her to think the coast was clear before heading back to the glass. She was barely cognizant enough to consider that a bird probably wasn’t smart enough to devise such a plan.

“Psst,” a voice hissed.

Carrington’s eyes grew wide and she continued to search for the creature. Could it really be calling to her?

“Psst,” the voice called again, and this time some sort of clarity presented itself. That was a human voice. Her eyes dove toward the ground and she saw a man standing half shrouded in shadow. He waved up to her and motioned for her to come outside to join him.

She saw him lazily toss a small rock into the air and catch it in his palm. Had he been throwing rocks at her window? Carrington shook her head and took a deep breath. She closed her eyes, thinking maybe she was dream-walking, but when she opened her eyes again the strange, rock-throwing intruder was still there.

He stepped fully into the light and smiled.

Carrington gasped and yanked her head back inside her room. She shut her window with a bang and took a step backward. It couldn’t be. The room fell silent except for her labored breathing and she waited. A rock dinged off the glass panel of her window and she jumped.

Clearly he wasn’t going away until she went to see him.

And you should go.

The thought seemed odd —dangerous, even —but it was too strong to ignore and suddenly felt like the right thing to do.

Before she fully digested what she was doing, Carrington found herself wrapped in a long, thick robe, taking the stairs downward, straight out the front door, and into the cool evening.

She saw him tucked back out of the light just a few feet from the closest streetlamp. Her heart started to race the closer she got, and a sudden urge to throw herself into his arms was hard to fight. She lost the battle with her smile and elation filled her chest. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed him until he was only feet from her.

“Hello,” she said.

His eyes were filled with a joy she remembered from the shelter where he gave her a beautiful flower, where he walked among those gathered, where he spoke of beauty and a journey, where he started the dull fire inside her chest that she had struggled to extinguish.

“I’ve been knocking at your window for hours,” Aaron said.

“I was asleep,” Carrington said. “I thought you were a bird.”

Aaron’s face broke into a wide smile. “How magnificent it would be to be a bird, don’t you think? To fly and soar and dive, tumbling through the open air. Would you like to be a bird?”

“I would like to be free like a bird.”

Aaron clapped his hands together in excitement. “Perfect —then we shall make you a bird. Come.” He started to move away.

“Wait. Where are you going?”

“To make you into a bird; I thought that part was clear.”

Carrington laughed and shook her head. “I can’t be a bird; I’m a girl.”

“Who says what you are?”

“Everyone around me.”

“I see. Well, what if I say you are a bird? Am I not someone around you?”

“I don’t have feathers or wings. How would I fly?”

“You’re right; maybe you couldn’t fly, but you could be free. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Come,” Aaron said, extending his hand. “I’ll show you.”

Carrington stepped forward to take his hand and caught sight of her feet. They were bare, and she thought for a moment that she should be able to feel the cool grass beneath them, but she didn’t. She stopped and sensed things weren’t as they should be. Then she felt warmth come across the underside of her toes and up into her heels. She remembered then who she was and who she wasn’t. This must be a dream; she knew she couldn’t actually be free, just as she knew the grass was actually cold.

“I can’t go,” Carrington said.

“Why not?”

“This is a dream; it isn’t real.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because in reality I can’t walk away from my life. Freedom is an illusion.”

Aaron closed the distance between them and placed his hand on her cheek. “Look at me.”

Carrington did and her body filled with comfort.

“The real illusion is that you are not free. The truth lies within you, within who your Father is.”

Father. The way he said the word made her chest fill with warmth. How she would like to meet this Father he always spoke of.

Carrington realized her feet were becoming cold and she quickly looked down to see that the grass was still there and cold after all. Once she saw it, the warmth returned. She couldn’t explain what was happening to her mind or body, but she suddenly felt fear strong enough to make her pull away from Aaron’s touch and wish to be safe in her bedroom.

When she looked up, Aaron was gone and she saw a tall figure moving toward her. It wasn’t the same shape Aaron had formed in the shadows. This figure was someone else entirely. Carrington grabbed a handful of her robe to keep from tripping over it as she turned to race back toward her house. But when she whirled around, her eyes landed on the monster that haunted her waking moments, and her heart sank. Isaac stepped up to her and wrapped his hands around her neck. His eyes were filled with hatred dark enough to swallow Carrington as she struggled to free herself from his grasp. He lifted her off her feet and she tried to scream for help but the words were stuck to the back of her throat.

“Don’t forget whose you are, love. You’re mine,” Isaac said.

Carrington shot up in bed, her eyes blinking hard against the light in her bedroom. She scrambled from the sheets, the feeling of being choked still lingering, and ran to her window. She opened the panel and found nothing but the silent night. A light breeze flowed in from the outside and danced over her skin. She shivered and felt that her top was actually wet from the melted ice compress. Turning back to her room, she saw the lights were still on. She glanced over to see her robe still hanging where it belonged. Her hand went to her cheek, where the skin was tight from swelling. All was as she had left it.

She gazed back through the open window and longed to see Aaron’s face under the streetlamp. She ached to be a bird, to be free. But this was real life, and in this reality she had no wings and no freedom.