by Debra Dunbar
Picking up each petal as I walked, I eventually found myself in the rear of the building, behind where the rack of chairs had stood. There was a door, hidden from view. It was a fire door with bolts and alarms, and it was ajar. I slipped out, not daring to close the door in case it set off the alarm or made a noise. And just as I’d turned to run away, I saw a woman’s hand ease the door shut, locking it tight.
Hope. It was a wonderful thing. The sweet fresh air I now breathed was full of hope. The jagged, cracked blacktop beneath my feet was full of hope. I ran, barely noticing the pain in my bare feet. I climbed a fence. I struggled through weeds and past abandoned buildings, listening for the sound of traffic. Near dawn I finally made it to a road that looked as if it might have seen some recent travel. A car came toward me and I tried to flag it down, my heart racing. What if it was the guards? What if they’d discovered I was missing and had come after me in this car? I couldn’t outrun them with my bare feet.
It wasn’t the guards in the car, and the vehicle didn’t stop. It didn’t even slow down, the man behind the wheel studiously not looking toward me as he roared past.
Which way should I go? Was it safe to stay on this road, or should I try to get farther away before I tried to flag down another car? I was well aware that time was running out. With me gone, would the guards move the other girls? I felt sick at the thought that any help I summoned might not arrive in time to save them.
I turned left on the road, trying in vain to get someone to stop for me. The sun climbed high in the sky then began to sink. My feet were so bruised and cut that I struggled to walk. I started to cry.
“Stop. Please stop,” I shouted through my tears at another oncoming car. “Please, someone help me!”
I broke into sobs as the car pulled over and hobbled toward the man who got out, nearly falling into his arms. Everything poured out of me, jumbled words that told the story of how I’d been tricked into coming here, paying all the money my family and I had, thinking there was a job for me. Throughout it all, I kept repeating that the other girls needed help, that there were more girls, that I feared they would be killed if no one came to save them.
Of course, he didn’t understand me. No one understood me here except for the spirit. The man peered at me in concern, saying words I couldn’t comprehend. It was then I realized he was a police man, with a badge and a hat, and lights on the top of his car. I tried again to tell him, motioning to his gun, holding up eight fingers for the girls he needed to save, waving behind me and pantomiming myself being beaten.
Another vehicle arrived, also with lights but so much like the truck that had brought us to the warehouse that I began screaming and trying to get away. I clung to the police man, terrified that these people with the truck were going to take me back to the warehouse and put me back in the locked room. The guards would kill me for trying to escape them. This police man was my only hope—was the other girls’ only hope as well.
The police man spoke to me in soothing tones and motioned for me to get into the back of his car. Then he followed the people with the truck down the road. I couldn’t stop crying. I’d never been so frightened in my life, even when they put me in that first truck with the other girls, even when that guard led me away. Was this man a friend of the guards? Was he going to return me to them? There was a wire mesh separating us, and I couldn’t open the doors. Had I made a horrible mistake? I’d trusted this man, but maybe I’d been wrong.
I nearly fainted when we pulled up to a building that was clearly a hospital. I went willingly along with the truck-people this time, but started crying again when the police man started to walk away. No! He didn’t understand me. If he left without knowing what I was saying, there would be no one to help the other girls.
A kind woman helped me down a hallway and into a bed. She checked my pulse and blood pressure and spoke to me in a soft, cheerful voice as she looked at my torn feet. I kept repeating my story, somehow hoping that the words would eventually make sense to her. Then she patted me on the shoulder and left. I didn’t know what to do. Was there no one in this town who spoke my language? Why did I have to be the only one who escaped, when no one could understand me? Why couldn’t it have been one of the other girls?
I sat there forever, feeling numb, giving up hope. I was safe now, but I felt as if I’d forsaken the others. How could I live with myself if they died because I’d been unable to save them? I called out to the spirit, hoping she could hear me, that she could unlock the door and leave flower petals for the others. Why had she let me go and not anyone else? Why not the red-haired woman who she clearly felt drawn to, the one I suspected was a witch?
It was hours later that a woman arrived, flanked on either side by two men. She had a cool confidence that let me know she was in charge, so once again I tried to tell her my story, hoping that she spoke my language. She shook her head with a sad smile, pantomiming a telephone. Then she examined my feet and the other two began to clean and bandage them.
When they came back, one of the men carrying a big box with a blue telephone and two receivers. The woman doctor handed me a card and ran her finger down the print.
It was all gibberish—words and letters in languages I didn’t understand. I shook my head and she turned the page, again sweeping her finger down the text and looking at me expectantly. It was then that I saw it—words I recognized as my own. I pointed to the words, starting once again to tell my story, but she held up her hand to stop me and turned to say something to the others.
They handed me one of the receivers while the doctor took the other and dialed. A man spoke on the line, and with his words I started to cry once more. I understood him. I understood every word he was saying. My story poured out of me—everything that had happened from the moment I’d stepped foot in this country to when the police man stopped for me on the road. I told him about my rape, about the girl who had been beaten so badly, about the seven other girls—all of them still locked in the warehouse. He translated and I watched the doctor’s eyes grow wide. She barked out orders to the other two and they hurried away.
The man on the phone asked where I was hurt, if they’d beaten me, or injured me in any way besides the rape. I told him that I’d not been hurt, but that many of the girls had.
The police man came back, and spoke with the doctor, then left, motioning that he was going to stand right outside. The doctors checked between my legs, taking samples and speaking to me with soothing words. The whole time I kept looking for the police man. Had he gone to rescue the others? I needed to make sure he was going to help them. I needed the blue phone back with the man who spoke my language.
When the doctors were done, they handed me my clothing. After I dressed, they brought the blue phone back, and this time it was the police man who took the other receiver. I told him my story once more, answering all his questions, impatient that he do something, that he rescue the others before it was too late.
He had me draw a crude map of where I’d gone when I’d run, then asked if I could point out the building if he drove me by there. I shivered in fear, but trusted him to keep me safe. He told me he was going to rescue the others, but that they had to be careful. They had to do paperwork things to make sure the bad men would go to jail, and they had to plan so that my friends, my sisters, would not be harmed during the rescue.
My sisters. I don’t know if they felt the same, but these last few days had created a family. We were bound together now, no matter how far we might roam.
The blue phone was taken away, and I went with the police man. We drove through the night, and finally I was able to point out the building, recognizing the fence and the bay doors. Then he took me to a building with lots of other police officers who ran around in a flurry of activity. The police man put me in a room with a table and chairs, gave me more food than I could eat in a week and several cans of soda, then left.
Hours I sat. I knew it was morning, knew this was the day bad things were supposed to happen to
us. With each sweep of the clock hand I grew more anxious and afraid. Had I been too late? What if the police man arrived to find an empty warehouse and my sisters gone?
I’d dozed off when the door finally opened and I saw her. It was the red-haired girl. Her skin glowed with a pearl-like sheen. Her eyes were black pools, shining with an inner light. And extending from her back were two enormous feathered wings. They were crimson like her hair, with gold feathers along the tips. They were folded tight as she came through the door, but expanded once she cleared the doorway.
She was not a witch.
I stared at her without comprehension. Had she died? Was this her spirit come to bid me goodbye? Or was she truly an angel? There had been rumors of them for the last few months, that angels and demons were walking the earth in numbers greater than ever before. We’d already seen elves and dragons and phaya naga, angels and demons weren’t such a stretch of the imagination for us anymore.
“I’ve come for you Lai,” she told me. Then she stepped aside and the others walked in. Tears filled my eyes. I felt that all I seemed to do the last few days was cry, but this time they were tears of joy. I jumped to my feet and ran to them, hugging each one and telling them I was so glad they were free, that they were alive. My heart was full. I even hugged the spirit-woman who had come in last to stand beside the angel.
“Will you send me home?” I asked the angel. Would I be given a plane ticket and sent back, or turned out on the street to fend for myself? It would be a hard life, but at least I was free. At least I was alive.
“If you wish, but you always have a home with us, Lai.” The angel hugged me close, wrapping her wings around me in addition to her arms. They were soft and warm, like a childhood blanket. Instantly I felt at peace, protected and loved. “We’re family, all of us. No matter where we go, there will always be a bond to hold us together. We are only a thought away from each other. Do you understand?”
I nodded against her, breathing her in. She had an earthy smell, like autumn leaves, like the damp ground in springtime, like warm summer sun on freshly mown grass. I did understand. There was something magical that held us together—something this angel had done. We’d never be alone. Our sisters would always know where we were, if we needed their help. And with one thought we could arrive. It was a precious gift that this angel had given us.
“But you and the others who wish to remain—you and Sugar and Baa, and Pillow until her father is released—you will all have a home with me. It will be a home for all my sisters as long as they need it, a home they can return to whenever they want.”
“And you?” I asked, looking into her strange, otherworldly eyes. “You will be like our mother?”
“I will be your sister, your sister and protector. From this point forward, I will be your guardian angel.”
It was a miracle. All the pain of the last week faded away, replaced with the warmth of family and home. My family. Mine. I was finally coming home.
Also by Debra Dunbar
The Templar Series
Dead Rising
Last Breath
Bare Bones
Famine’s Feast
Dark Crossroads (2018)
The Imp Series
A Demon Bound
Satan’s Sword
Elven Blood
Devil’s Paw
Imp Forsaken
Angel of Chaos
Kingdom of Lies
Exodus
Queen of the Damned
Half-breed Series
Demons of Desire
Sins of the Flesh
Cornucopia
Unholy Pleasures
City of Lust
Imp World Novels
No Man’s Land
Stolen Souls
Three Wishes
Northern Lights
Far From Center
Penance
Northern Wolves
Juneau to Kenai
Rogue
Winter Fae
Bad Seed
Acknowledgments
A huge thanks to my copyeditors Kimberly Cannon and Jennifer Cosham whose eagle eyes catch all my typos and keep my comma problem in line, and to Damonza, for cover design.
Most of all, thanks to my children, who have suffered many nights of microwaved chicken nuggets and take-out pizza so that Mommy can follow her dream.
About the Author
Debra lives in a little house in the woods of Maryland with her sons and two slobbery bloodhounds. On a good day, she jogs and horseback rides, hopefully managing to keep the horse between herself and the ground. Her only known super power is 'Identify Roadkill'.
debradunbar.com
