I thought about what I should do as I ran the curved, open staircase, taking two steps at a time and holding my hand over the classically decorated pediments for support every six steps. My dorm room, by the way, was not only the smallest room but the only one up in the attic.
No need to be a rocket scientist to understand that my room was by far the coldest room in the academy and the only one that had nagging and very annoying water leaks every rainy or snowy season, which mounted to most of the year.
For my protection, Mother Clarisse assigned me this room, casting me away over the top of the third floor. I was alone in the drafty room. It was more of a closet that had been half-heartedly turned into a bedroom by Sister Constance, the bony, parsimonious harridan who was in charge of the night guardians that watched over the dormitories.
The other girls slept in rooms on the floors below me with a fireplace in each room, girls like Tiffany and her bullying blue-blood clique, while I adapted—sort of, not really—to the cold, mean winters.
Sigh.
Mother Clarisse didn’t mean to do it as a punishment. She was protecting me from my schoolmates and the Sisters at the convent. The freaky nightmares came often, and sometimes my gifts had the tendency to show up in the wee hours of the night. I blessed her foresight now, for I had no roommate to awaken.
Stealthily, I slipped up the wooden stairs and onto the third floor, lightly jumping over the ones that squeaked and thanking my lucky stars when I made it into the shower room unseen. The large room was empty.
I brushed my teeth and picked two towels from the stand. The tingling on my shoulder grabbed my attention again. As I undressed, I turned my neck to see a pesky small dot on the soft spheroidal joint of my shoulder. It glowed an odd silvery light, and it wasn’t itching anymore—just tingling.
What was going on? My mind rewound, searching for the first time I felt the tingling. The night before the funeral. Only, I had been so distraught, it wasn’t even registering with me. That was over twenty-four hours ago. Crap. I wiped the mirror with desperation, thinking the glare of the light bulb was making me see things. Must be that I was exhausted.
And, if things couldn’t get any worse…
“Holy crap!” I stood frozen in front of the small mirror. My freaky violet-blue eyes wide open, silently witnessing with horror how three fine and small tender tips swirled out of the rose bud, growing over the first part of my left arm.
I scrubbed the silvery little dot hard. It had sprouted with tendrils growing like vines under my skin, like a live plant tattoo. At first sight, it did look like a tattoo, only it was not. I tried soap then alcohol, but it wouldn’t come off. The more I scrubbed and rubbed it off, the more the bud reacted, growing another diminutive tendril that shot off the bud. It was alive. So I stopped rubbing it.
How large was this thing was going to be?
I saw it more closely. It was quite beautiful, but it was growing.
It was growing!
At that rate, the strange silvery print on my shoulder could get to be pretty large. How large? It was unknown, but if I was to guess, it could be plainly visible all over my arm by the day after tomorrow. In less than two days. Then realization hit me… by tomorrow. The day of my birthday. Holy crap.
How could things be this wrong? Why were these things happening to me?
I touched it, and it reacted at my touch. It swirled its tender tips graciously, as if enjoying my touch by trying to caress my fingers back. It seemed to have a mind of his own. I gasped again.
What could this mean? Why was this happening to me? Was I even human? Was I demonic? God no, please. I just didn’t want to believe this would happen to me now. The thought of being demonic had tortured my very afterthoughts—more so after Mother Clarisse’s death. It was bad enough to be the orphan. I also had to endure being freaky.
Looking at the beautiful atrocity on my left arm, I wondered if makeup would even cover it. The glow under my skin and the constant live movement would be impossible to cover. I blew air from deep within my lungs with frustration. I heard voices inside the shower room. Quickly, I grabbed a second towel and used it as a cape to cover my shoulder. I ran past Tricia and Claudette, who were brushing their teeth, without stopping until I reached my little room.
I slipped on my old hand-me-down pajamas and looked for my old red sweater that mother Clarisse had knitted for me herself last Christmas, after I helped the Sisters clean the wool from last year’s harvest. I needed the warmth and comfort it brought me. Grief grabbed hold of me once more at the memory and shook me hard as I slipped it over my head. I collapsed on my bed.
With the pain this time, however, I started to feel a slow burn of rage. I felt mostly despair, but maybe crying myself out all night would burn some of the grief and the raw edges of anger out of my soul.
I wanted what had hurt her to hurt.
And I wanted to be the person who hurt it. I felt the hunger for vengeance take me over and wondered at its power even as I fell under its sway. My entire being cried out for vengeance. My body shook with the need to unleash this anger at the entity that had hurt her and taken her from me.
Now more than ever before, the need to hurt the very thing that killed Mother Clarisse in cold blood raged through me like molten fire. I knew vengeance was not a good thing, and I had promised Mother Clarisse to be good, but I would find a way to avenge her death. I would find the evil that took her away from me and pay him with the same courtesy, even if it was the death of me.
This new purpose straightened my spine and lifted my spirits. I had a purpose, and it felt far more urgent than just trying to get to France to find out about my past. It sharpened my mind and cleared the cobwebs of despair that had left me feeling helpless and hopeless after I had read Mother Clarisse’s letter. I hid the poetry book and letter under my bed.
And with the anger and need for vengeance, my urgency to leave redoubled. I felt like my body was barely containing the feelings that were coursing through me, and the desire for revenge erupted into an imperative. I needed it, I realized, like I needed food or water. Somehow, even in the midst of the maelstrom of emotions, even as my body shook with the effort of containing the flood of rage, I knew that what I felt would consume me eventually if I didn’t find a way to overcome it.
Revenge…
My gut whispered to me, revenge would quench these fires.
Only revenge.
I didn’t know what had killed her, but I was going to track it to the ends of the earth if I had to. Whatever it was, it was not going to get away with its crime.
I wiped the tears streaming along my face. I had to be strong. I had to find my way to France. I had to stop crying. I had to grow up. I breathed in and out, forcing myself to stop the sob-fest.
Chapter 5
At first, a bright light illuminated my bed, then a sweetly hummed lullaby woke me up.
“Whoa.”
I gasped and crawled backward like a crab, over my bed and against the wall behind me, at the sight of a dark silhouette in the center of the light, eclipsing it. Something about that darkness frightened me. My heartbeat pounded loud in my head and felt like it was beating out of my chest, but as the shadowy silhouette approached closer to my bed, the light revealed someone stunningly beautiful humming a sweet tune. It was something soft and enticing I had never heard before. He stopped next to me and extended his hand in a formal invitation for a handshake.
“Do not fear me, my sweet girl. I am your guardian angel,” he said, introducing himself. I gaped. It wasn’t what he said though. His words were like caramel pudding, extraordinarily sweet in their unexpected sort of way. It was the richness of his tones—luxurious and syrupy warm, and musical like those of a baritone in church. I was glad I saw him before I heard his voice; I’d never have put the two of them together otherwise. A golden light bathed his body despite his black attire.
Was he a real angel? Reluctantly, I extended my hand to meet his. His had gold claws that
looked to be made of pure gold, pointy and long, almost like the talons of a bird of prey. It matched his silky, shiny feathers on his wings and the color of his hair and eyes. Gold. But his hand was cold—very cold.
He didn’t look older than twenty. Maybe I was hallucinating from skipping so many meals. My stomach growled in protest, and my shoulder tingled insistently. Was that a sign that I wasn’t dreaming? I couldn’t remember ever feeling hungry in a dream.
“Call me Ash,” he said casually as if his name was of no consequence. He said he was my guardian angel. I realized he must know mother Clarisse then. Maybe he brought news from her.
“Is Mother Clarisse with you in heaven?” I was hopeful.
His eyebrows shot up and his eyes widened, but he recovered quickly, twitching his lips slowly with mirth. And then he gave me a smile that seemed so genuinely sweet that unexpected warmth rushed through me. “She asked me to look after you,” he said.
It made me happy to know she still cared about me from wherever she was. It also occurred to me that Ash might know something about my parents. I smiled back at him. “Are my parents in heaven too?”
“Oh, sweet pea. Wherever they are, they aren’t here with you… but I am,” he said.
I had nobody, not even Gavril. Not one friend left in this world. Then the reality of my life hit me again. I was alone. Horribly alone. Suddenly, my gaze was filled with tears. I was alone—alone in the world with crazy dreams like this one.
“Tell me what worries you,” he asked me, raising my chin with one of his gold nails, clumsily wiping my tears. “Come on. You can tell me.”
I sighed, trying to form a coherent answer. “Everything,” I said. I am angry. I am alone. I am sad. I am confused… I am scared. I am hungry and emotionally exhausted. They all came nagging at me, simultaneously.
“Sounds like you need my help and advice, sweet pea.” He sat next to me, making me feel closer to him, as if we were old friends. I gaped. If I hadn’t been so shocked that he moved my bed with his weight, I would have blurted out a laugh. His image was so opposite from a traditional guardian angel, with his leather pants, black silk shirt, and black cowboy boots. “Tell me, I’m all ears.” He crossed his black leather covered leg, patting my knee in a motherly way. It made me like him.
He seemed human. Only, if it wasn’t for his golden wings, golden hair, and gold talon nails, he could have played the part of a cowboy in a terrible western movie. But I don’t think I would have felt this way if he were in a white tunic, carrying a flaming sword.
He caught me staring at him, all of him.
I blushed. Embarrassed at being caught, I diverted my gaze toward the wall in front of me. He turned my chin gently with one of his talons again. His face got closer to mine. I felt my warm breath between us.
He sighed.
I waited to feel his breath between us. I blinked my eyes and straightened when I didn’t feel anything coming from him, as if he wasn’t breathing. He smiled and kissed my forehead. His lips were unnaturally icy cold against my skin.
“Tell me about your school friends. They must adore you,” he prompted, distracting me from the unnatural feeling.
I exhaled and looked at the floor. My face must have reflected my thoughts and bafflement.
“No? But I am sure they must respect you.” He arched his eyebrow, waiting for my doubts to emerge.
I shook my head silently. He frowned.
“What about your teachers and the benevolent Sisters? They must care much for your well-being.” The more he asked, the grimmer the picture was getting. I held back the waterworks for another time. I calmed and instead smiled sheepishly, feeling frustration tightening deep inside me.
“I am so alone.” My voice broke.
“Oh, sweet pea, I am so, so very sorry.” He embraced me in his cold arms, rocking and humming the strange lullaby that numbed the hot shame his questions had evoked.
The cold felt shocking for a moment, but then it helped, and I felt my pain and fear and shame sooth away. I started to feel a little better. But still, I wasn’t used to physical intimacy with anyone. Only Mother Clarisse had ever hugged me like this, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about this beautiful stranger, even if it was just a dream. So I let him hug me for a very short minute. I didn’t want to be rude or ungrateful.
“You are not alone. I am your only friend and I am all yours,” he said, brushing my waist long and colorless platinum hair away from my face and combing it all gently over my right shoulder, making me trust him instantly. He was my friend. Tears pent up at his kindness, making me wonder if this was real. “But we know the unfairness of that.”
I nodded in agreement. “Lately, I am so angry at those who have hurt me. I am scared I won’t be able to hold back.” There, I said it, and I hated that that was the core of my fight.
“I’ll bet you wish sometimes there was some way to get even with them,” he said, echoing my fears.
“I do sometimes,” I agreed, thinking of Tiffany’s humiliating taunts. “But NO, I—” I shook my head denying the implication. I pressed his cold chest away, feeling somewhat uncomfortable with his adumbrated cold embrace. “I just want them to love me and accept me for who I am.” I wished they would.
“Good, this is good. Confronting your deep desires is a good thing,” he petted my head. “Tell me more about this anger you feel.”
“I am so angry at whatever killed Mother Clarisse. If I ever find out who or what did it…” I broke into sobs without finishing my confession.
“Shush, sweet pea. This is good. Now feel this anger, let it run free. It will make you feel all the better when you release it,” he said.
“Really?” I was astounded at his suggestion. Could it be that easy, that simple? I blew my nose using my bedsheet.
“How else do you expect to carry on a war if you cannot kill a fly,” he said. In a sense, he was right. But I was quite sure Mother Clarisse would have never approved such behavior. I sighed, feeling uncomfortable with his logic.
“Ash—I… I don’t think I can do it. I wouldn’t like to hurt anyone.” I debated constantly on this, and I hated the ambivalence.
“Of course not, sweet pea, but could you live with the knowledge that you have been given the powers to make justice and you have chosen not to?”
He had a point. I couldn’t. Therefore, I was hoping, even wishing to meet whoever had hurt and taken Mother Clarisse from me.
“I can’t believe that you, of all the people in the universe, are an advocate of vengeance,” I said.
“Sweet pea, must I remind you that most angels are avenging angels? Destroying anything or anyone who hurts you should be… you know…” Ash pointed his index finger up, looking toward the ceiling, but I gathered he was speaking of God himself. “Doing his work for sure.” He winked at me. I could never be so presumptuous to think I had angel powers or that I would be doing God’s work.
“Oh, Ash, I don’t know.” I inhaled and continued. “But I don’t want to be evil.”
“Forgive me. I forget you are so… innocent, and no one has ever told you how very special you are.” He held my face in his hands.
“Well, don’t take it the wrong way, but I hate being special,” I told him, feeling somewhat deflated. The whole point of my existence had been to hide “how special” I was. Nothing good ever came from it. “I just want to be a regular girl, maybe fall in love, have a pet, a family one day.”
His neck stiffened, and he shook his head. “Is that what you really want? Or is that something those silly nuns have made you think you should want?”
I wanted to tell him those were my ideas and mine alone. If it was up to Mother Clarisse, I would never leave St. Mary’s. “But—”
He pressed one of his golden claws over my lips. “You can do amazing things you don’t even know about yet. How can you know that you want a normal life if you don’t know yet what you’re capable of?” He paused, looking straight into my eyes. “You will do things, g
reat things the world has yet to see. Show them you are superior to them.”
I was not ready for his sight into this imaginary future. I gasped. “Wouldn’t that be conceited and narcissistic?” I asked him.
He cleared his throat, letting his mouth lie in a thin morbid line as he straightened his shirt collar. “Sweet pea, I promise you, you will enjoy putting the world on its knees. I assure you, they will respect you ever and ever after,”
“But then they wouldn’t love me,” I said.
“Love?” He laughed. “Love is overrated. Now, respect is something they will respond to, inferior little humans that they are.”
“I don’t believe that. Even animals can love one another.”
His irises lit with cinder-red flames, and he stiffly crossed his arms in front of his chest. He huffed loudly, a tad frustrated with me. I wondered why.
“You are so very young. I will teach you so many things, sweet pea.” His gold talon traveled my neck, his tongue sweeping his lips. I grabbed his beautiful hand, feeling a sense of relief wash over me. I needed to learn so much—he was right. He had brought me the hope I so desperately needed.
“Thank you, Ash.” I smiled at him, filled with love for this angel, truly grateful. I couldn’t wait to learn so many things. I wanted to experience the world so much. He cleared his throat, taking his hand away from me.
“Sweet pea, then you must find a way to leave this dreadful place. I will protect you outside these walls.” He stood and turned to see my face. “The world is lost. Humans are selfish. They will never learn to know true love.” His words carried such despair, it almost broke my heart and my faith in humanity.
“But isn’t love everything that is good in the world?” I asked him.
“They will envy you and respect you, but they will never love you,” he said, his voice elevated.
I gasped at the cruel and hurtful words. I wiped my face and raised my gaze toward him. “Mother Clarisse loved me,” I told him.
Then he turned on his boot heels and left me alone in my room, before I could even ask him who I truly was, mumbling something about having “an incurable martyr on his hands.” Had I done something to displease Ash? He left me feeling a heavy weight in my chest from his unyielding words “but they will never love you,” that slowly tore me with fear.
Legends of Astræa: Cupid's Arrow Book 1 (Legends of Astræa Series) Page 5
