by Kallysten
Fate, she called it. His parents had always said the mate tattoos were gifts from God—even though they weren’t religious in the least. Chris himself had never known what to think about the origins of mate tattoos, but he’d given a great deal of thought about what they meant.
“What if ‘Fate’ meant for us to meet in different circumstances?” he asked, voicing a question he’d tried to keep at bay since he’d met Marigold. “What if the way she is now wasn’t planned? What if I can’t help her get better?”
Lily watched him intently for such a long time that he started feeling uncomfortable under her gaze. In the end, she leaned forward and spoke very quietly.
“What if things have gone exactly to plan? What if you can?”
He didn’t know what to reply to that.
The words echoed through Chris’ mind as Lily finally turned to the vendor and asked for fresh linguine in different flavors. When, having been served, she said goodbye to Chris, he barely heard her. The vendor had to ask him twice if he wanted something before he could formulate an answer.
He finished his shopping in a daze. Lily’s questions might have been rhetorical, but they’d brought up more questions for him. All this week, he’d gone to Marigold hoping he’d be able to help her, but never truly believing he would or could.
What if this hesitation was the reason why he hadn’t found a way to truly reach her? What if he needed to believe, truly believe? People whose minds he read could not read his own back in return, but they could understand what he projected toward them, be it words or emotions. If Marigold was picking up on his ambivalence, wouldn’t it be reason enough for her not to trust him every time he said he wanted to help her?
He was still turning it all in his mind when he returned to the boarding house and started cooking. The food was meant to be for dinner, but he had it at the back of his mind that if he finished early enough he’d be able to bring some to Marigold for her lunch. Besides, his mother’s spinach lasagna, which he was making today, always tasted even better when reheated.
When he and Idris were kids, it was the only spinach dish they ever consented to eat—not only that, but they even requested it if their mother hadn’t made it in a while. Chris had cooked it for every staff pot luck at his school, perfecting his technique without changing the recipe. A single mouthful was always enough to make him miss home—and remind him of his mother’s love. Now, it reminded him of school, too; something else to miss.
Once that was in the oven, he got to work on the apple pie he’d decided to make for dessert. As Carlos walked aimlessly through the kitchen, he put him to work, showing him how to peel and slice the apples so he could work on the dough. He ended up finishing before Carlos was done, but refrained from taking over. The expression of pride and accomplishment on Carlos’ face when he finally delivered the last of the apples was worth the slight delay.
“They’re moving me to a foster home on Monday,” Carlos said as he watched Chris set the apple slices carefully onto the crust. “They say I’m too young to live by myself, so I’ve got to live with a half-dozen kids instead at that big brick house just off the main square. And go to school.”
It was hard to tell if his grimace was meant for the prospect of his living arrangements or the idea of going to school. Chris tried not to grin so Carlos wouldn’t think he was making fun of him.
“Think of it this way,” he said carefully. “Would you rather be in that foster home with other kids like you and get out of there every day to go to school, or in a cell day in and day out?”
Carlos barked out a quick, dry laugh. “When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound so bad.”
An hour or so later, Chris accepted a ride from Steve to the cottage, so he wouldn’t risk dropping the food he was bringing over. They threw a bike onto the rack at the back of the car, giving Chris a way to get home more easily.
“Have you thought of where you want to live?” Steve asked him. “You’ll have to make a decision soon.”
Chris assured him he would, but in truth he hadn’t given it much thought, focused as he’d been on what to do for Marigold.
Only when he saw a different car in front of the house did he remember that today was Saturday, and Kit wouldn’t be there. As promised however she’d told the other caretaker, Zita, that he’d probably be around. An older lady with graying hair, Zita watched him with clear, penetrating eyes and was very careful not to offer him her hand to shake as she invited him in. She was happy to accept a bit of lasagna and pie for herself, but started demurring when Chris asked if he could feed the other portions he’d brought to Marigold.
“We’re very careful what we give her. We want her to get all the nutrients she needs, you see.”
But as he pushed a little more, Chris had the distinct impression her reluctance might have less to do with diet than it did with the fact that he was a man—and Marigold a utterly defenseless woman. With no desire to argue about his intentions, he went straight for his ace card.
“I’m here on Lily Littlewings’ orders. Should we give her a call so she can vouch for my cooking?”
Zita huffed, looking embarrassed. “There’s no need to bother her about this. I suppose just this time it’ll be okay. Are you sure you don’t want me to give it to her? It’s really no problem.”
When Chris insisted to do it himself, she finally relented and went to get Marigold for him, leading her to the kitchen and making her sit at the small table next to Chris. With no seat left for her, she took her plate presumably to the bedroom, although Chris suspected she’d be keeping an ear out for him.
He fed Marigold small bites, giving her plenty of time to chew each mouthful before he gave her another one. She ate mechanically, with nothing in her eyes and no expression to indicate whether she enjoyed the lasagna, and later the pie.
As he held a glass of water to her lips before offering her more food, Chris remembered his father doing the same for his mother when she’d suffered from a long illness as he was a teen. He’d witnessed the scene by accident, walking by their half-open bedroom door one evening, and at the time he hadn’t understood why it felt like he’d caught them doing much less innocent things.
There was an intimacy to these gestures, to the mere fact of sharing food with a loved one, of taking care of her. He barely knew her at all, she knew him even less, there was no love between them, at least not yet, but the fact remained that they were mates, even if only Chris knew it. If anyone was going to take care of her, it should be him.
Afterward, he wiped her mouth with a napkin and kissed her cheek lightly, just long enough to get a peek at her emotions. She was calm, not precisely content, but at least at peace, relaxed. Maybe now would have been a good time to enter her mind, but he was loath to take this peace from her. He’d return tomorrow, or maybe even Monday, and they’d start anew. He’d face the dragon again, and hope not to upset her once more.
The thought of her dragon reminded him of the other thing he’d brought for Marigold, and he pulled from his shirt’s breast pocket the tiny dragon Isa had given him. A dragon, like her. Did she even know anymore that she could be something other than a dragon or a child?
He fixed one of the wings that had become bent in his pocket and set the origami piece on the table in front of Marigold, close to where her right hand had rested, inert, throughout her whole meal.
“It’s a present for you,” he said softly. “A friend gave it to me, and I thought maybe you’d like it. See? It’s a dragon.”
At his last word, her nostrils flared and she blinked. She looked down at the table, at the tiny piece of folded paper in front of her. She didn’t try to pick it up or even touch it, but right away her eyes filled with tears.
Alarmed, Chris rested a hand on her back, rubbing light circles there, and tried to get her attention by saying her name. She didn’t seem to know he was there at all and merely wept, her lips moving soundlessly for a moment before she finally uttered a croaking whisper that m
ight or might not have been a word.
Zita came in almost at once, which confirmed Chris’ suspicions that she must have been right outside the kitchen if she’d heard that bare whisper. She looked completely baffled.
“She’s never said a word the entire time she’s been here,” she said, a little breathless. “What did you do?”
Chris pointed at the bit of folded paper next to Marigold’s hand.
“I just gave her that, and she started crying and saying… I’m not even sure what it was.”
Even as Zita came closer, Marigold keened again, her lips forming the same word once more.
“It sounds like… a name,” Zita said. “Something like… Elsa? No. Wait. Isolde maybe? Do you think that’s it? Like in the story, Tristan and Isolde?”
They both leaned forward and listened intently as Marigold said it again, and exclaimed together, “Isolda.”
Watching her clutch the tiny dragon, Chris couldn’t help but wonder about something. He hadn’t meant to do this today, but there was only one way to figure it out…
He touched her cheek gently with his fingertips, returning into her mind. He’d expected to face Marigold’s dragon form yet again, and he inhaled sharply when he saw he’d been wrong. This time, she was kneeling on the ground, rags barely keeping her human body decent as it curled around the little girl the dragon always defended so fiercely. Chris had always thought the little girl was a representation of Marigold herself, of the innocence she’d lost at the hands of her captors, but he was beginning to think he might have been mistaken. The child was blonde, while Marigold’s hair was much darker.
He came to sit on the ground just beyond an arm’s length of where Marigold knelt. He repeated her name softly until her eyes finally lifted toward him. In here like out in the real world, she was crying.
“Marigold?” he whispered, putting all the warmth he was capable of in his words. “Is this Isolda?”
But even as he gestured—oh so slowly, as non-threateningly as possible—toward the little girl, she simply vanished from Marigold’s arms. Marigold wept only that much harder.
“Marigold, look at me please. Who…”
Chris lost his words when she did look at him. Had she answered his request, or was it only a coincidence?
In her tear-filled eyes, he could see more pain than he’d ever witnessed before, let alone felt himself. He had to fight himself not to wrap Marigold in his arms and hold her tight. It’d have made him feel better to try to comfort her, but he couldn’t imagine for one second that she’d welcome the touch.
He was about to ask once more about Isolda when Marigold raised her cupped hands toward him, opening them to reveal an origami dragon. This one wasn’t made of school paper, but formed out of glittering ice.
“Isolda,” she said in between sobs. “Where’s Isolda?”
Ice. An ice dragon. A little girl Marigold wanted to protect. Flowers Marigold had sniffed so carefully, maybe searching for the scent of the hand that had picked them rather than the scent of the flowers themselves. Isa.
Understanding struck Chris like a blow to the back of the head. In his surprise, he let go of Marigold’s hand and severed their mental connection.
“Holy shit,” he breathed, staring at the crying woman in front of him.
“What is it?” Zita asked, sounding both excited and afraid. “What happened?”
“I’ve got to go,” Chris said, stumbling to his feet. “I’ve got to check something. I’ll be back soon.”
“But where are you going?” Zita asked, looking from a still weeping Marigold to Chris and back again.
“To school.”
CHAPTER TEN
Nobody was at the school when Chris, panting from exertion, all but jumped off his bike to go bang on the door. He took a few harsh breaths before it dawned on him that of course no one was there: it was Saturday. The children wouldn’t be back until Monday. The idea of waiting that long—of making Marigold wait yet a little longer—made him want to howl in frustration.
Trying to recall everything he knew about the girl, Chris thought back on the three interactions he’d had with her, but she hadn’t given him much to go by. Her teacher though… Chris hurried back to his bike even as he remembered. Her teacher had mentioned she lived in a group home.
And just that very morning Carlos had told him where the group home for foster kids was in Sanctuary: right off the main square.
Fate, it seemed to him, must be quite enjoying this little game.
His legs felt like cotton candy and he was parched, but he had to go on. He had to find the girl. He had to know for sure if he was right.
And then…
But one thing at a time.
More than a dozen roads converged onto the central square. Chris biked down two blocks’ worth of seven of them before he found a big brick house with a jungle gym in the backyard. He tried to calm his racing heart and to get a grip on his breathing before he went up the steps to the front door and knocked. He even ran his fingers through his hair, damp with sweat, and tried to comb it a little, but judging from the wide-eyed look the woman who opened gave him, he must still make quite a sight.
She looked to be about his age, or maybe a little older, with small laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and a wide, flour-covered apron on top of her jeans and tee-shirt.
“Can I help you?” she asked, sounding somewhat wary.
“Isolda,” he panted. “I mean, Isa. I need to talk to Isa. Is she here?”
The woman’s wariness only increased.
“Why do you need to talk to her?”
Chris’ tongue felt too thick, his thoughts too slow to explain everything now. He laid his fingers on the woman’s hand where it rested on the door jamb, pushing at her his urgency and the pain of Marigold’s tears. She jerked her hand back, cradling it and looking at him with even wider eyes than before.
“Isa,” she called out without taking her eyes off him. “Isa, there’s someone here who needs to talk to you.”
It took a few seconds before the young girl appeared at the top of the staircase right behind the woman. She looked sullen until she saw Chris standing there, then smiled a little shyly and came down the steps. He could see already that she would ask why he was there, but he spoke first.
“Isolda? That’s your name, right?”
She froze, and after a second or two, nodded.
Holding out his arm toward her, he showed her the inside of his wrist and the name tattooed there.
“Does this name mean anything to you?”
Her eyes grew wide as they traced Marigold’s name, and suddenly flooded with tears. She clutched his wrist with both hands, opening a connection between their minds.
Her thoughts swirled around the image of two dragons flying in an evening sky, one of them a shade of gray with red wings, the other smaller, almost pure white and glittering with frost. At first he thought they were flying for fun, racing each other maybe, but soon he realized what the buzzing sound in the background was: two helicopters were pursuing the dragons.
Maybe the gray dragon could have attacked one and prevailed as she was larger than the helicopter, but that’d leave the white dragon at the mercy of the second helicopter—and of the soldiers with guns and nets inside it.
A shot rang like a canon in the cool evening air. Everything seemed to blur and accelerate. The gray dragon was hit, and losing altitude. She roared out toward the white dragon, and Chris heard words ring out in that wounded cry.
Go! Fly as far as you can! Hide!
The white dragon—Isolda—roared back in reply, the sound filled with fear and pain and grief. She didn’t want to leave her sister behind… but she obeyed her. She’d promised she always would.
One helicopter fell behind, presumably to get Marigold. The second one continued to hunt Isolda. She tried breathing a jet of ice toward its propeller, but she was too tired, too terrified to aim properly. She kept flying as fast as she could, sometime
s climbing higher or falling low to evade gunshots. As night fell, she finally managed to escape her pursuers by plunging straight into some dark woods, shifting back to her human form and hiding at the base of a hollow tree.
The connection broke abruptly, and as he blinked and returned to the here and now, Chris could see the woman had pulled Isolda back, forcing her to let go of Chris. Isolda was sobbing—and Chris himself had to wipe at his eyes.
“What’s going on?” the woman asked, alarmed, and it wasn’t clear whom the question was for.
“Is she here?” Isolda asked as her sobbing subsided. “Do you know where she is?”
Chris nodded and tried to swallow back the lump blocking his throat.
“She’s in Sanctuary. She was… hurt.” At Isolda’s widening eyes, he hurried to add, “She’s fine, her body’s fine, but her mind… well, she hasn’t spoken in a long time. Except today she said your name.”
“I want to see her. Can you take me to her?”
The woman was still holding on to Isolda, and she didn’t let go when Isolda tried to step forward again. Isolda didn’t say anything, but she turned a blank look on the woman. All of a sudden, the air was misting around the three of them with each breath they took. Chris shivered at the sudden chill. The woman let out a gasp of surprise and let go of Isolda, looking at her hand as though it’d been burned.
Not burned by heat, though, Chris guessed. Burned by the intense cold produced by an ice dragon.
“I want to see her,” Isolda repeated, and it wasn’t a request or a plea. It was a demand.
“See who?” the woman asked, rubbing her hands together. “What is going on here?”
Chris explained, in as few words as possible, about Marigold and who she was in relation to Isolda. The woman’s expression softened.
“Of course,” she said, finally understanding. “Of course. We’ll go see her right now. Let me just tell Jake.”
