Broken Wing

by Judith James

  DEDICATION:

  This book is dedicated to the lost boys. God bless them. May they all

  find a place to belong, and someone to love them as they deserve.

  Published 2008 by Medallion Press, Inc.

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO

  is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © 2008 by Judith James

  Cover Illustration by Arturo Delgado

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset in Adobe Caslon Pro

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 9781605429779

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m one of those lucky people who have a family you can count on through thick and thin, and are also a great joy to be around. I’d like to thank my three best friends and beta readers, my wonderful, literate, talented sisters, Cindy, Linda, and Sandy. Without their insights and always constructive criticisms, and more importantly their enthusiastic support, this book would never have been finished. I’d like to thank my Mom and Dad who didn’t blink an eye when I quit a nicely pensioned day job to try my hand at writing, but said good for you, you can do it. They’ve always been that way. I’d like to thank Karen, who helped me brainstorm at a pivotal moment, and along with Geraldine, graciously changed her itinerary in Europe so I could visit Paris and do a little research. Thanks ladies. A special thanks to winemaker extraordinaire and captain of The Irish Rover, Nick Dubois, who (with some help from his Mom) helped me with my French. Any faux pas that remain are mine.

  Thanks also to my ever-patient agent, Bob Diforio, who took a chance on an unknown unpublished author with an unconventional book, and Pat Thomas for listening and for her help with the early editing when I didn’t know anything at all. Special thanks go to the Medallion team, who are so supportive and such a pleasure to work with, from Christy, my copy editor to Jim and Adam and company in the art department. I don’t think there could be a better experience for someone launching their first book. People told me how scary it could be, but these folks made it fun. In particular I’d like to thank Kerry Estevez for all her help, and for saying just the right thing at just the right moment; Helen Rosburg for taking a chance on a first novel that doesn’t quite fit the mold; incredible artist Arturo Delgado and everyone else involved in producing a gorgeous cover, and my editor Janet Bank for her enthusiastic support, always constructive guidance, and for “getting it” and helping me write the book I wanted.

  Last, but most important, I’d like to thank my beautiful talented daughter Danielle. A couple of years ago she gave me a very special leather bound journal inscribed with the words. “Whatever journey you choose to embark on in the coming years, here is a place to recount it. I hope it brings you luck.” It was there I wrote the first chapters of Broken Wing, and she is all the luck I’ll ever need.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Glossary

  PROLOGUE

  Wearing a new suit, shoes pinching, blinking from the searing sun, his eyes are riveted on the door, black and menacing. The knocker, a grinning gargoyle, watches him, knowing eyes alive with malicious glee. This is bad! A bad place! He whimpers with dread as the door opens. They mean to leave him here. He knows it. Sorry, sorry, sorry! Whatever he’s done, he won’t do it again. Not ever! Please! I don’t like it here! But they push him forward and he’s powerless to resist. “Pretty child!” he hears as the black maw opens. They reach for him, greedy grasping hands pulling him inside.

  He’s running as fast as he can down endless twisting corridors, past open doors, afraid to look inside. He catches glimpses, angry red faces, leering smiles, whips and chains and naked flesh, and something grunting. He hears moans, sibilant whispers, ugly cries of pleasure and of pain as he tries frantically to find a way out. Something horrible, evil, is right behind, reaching for him, grabbing at his heel, plucking at his shirt. He dodges and twists, too terrified to turn or look. If he did, it would be upon him, and he’d be lost.

  No door, no escape, and still he runs, breath straining and heaving, heart hammering and rattling in his chest. Up ahead, the figure of a woman turns toward him, beckoning. Hope. If only he can reach her, take her hand, she’ll lead him from this place. A burst of speed, hand outstretched. He’s jerked back savagely, his ankle caught in a grip that burns his flesh and freezes his soul. Still he fights, fingers scrabbling, gripping the carpet, tearing gouges in the floor as he’s dragged inexorably back into the seething, gaping maw. Soundlessly he screams and screams and screams.

  Gabriel crouched on bended knee, hunched against cold stone above an ancient alley fetid with the smell of piss and vomit and cooked sausage. A door slammed in the distance. The sound of cursing, a man’s and then a woman’s, was followed by slaps, screams, and then silence. Far away, the sound of a guitar drifted to him, melancholy in the cold night air. There were sounds from the building behind him, closer, but muffled through stone and mortar and thick brick walls. He tilted his head back and took a long swallow from the decanter beside him, as he gazed, unfocused, into the distant heavens.

  Once, years ago, before all sense of wonder had been beaten out of him, he’d climbed up here on a crisp, late, August night, and stumbled into an enchanted fairyland. Magical lights had danced overhead, streaming across the sky, leaving arching trails of color and fire in their wake. He’d made wishes upon them, one after the other, and dreamt for a short time that they might come true. Stupid child!

  This night’s sky was black, cold and uncaring; relieved only by the glittering shards of harsh and distant suns so far from his reach they offered no warmth, no illumination, and no comfort. Desperate to escape the nightmares that chased him through his sleep, he caressed the blade held tight between his fingers, wincing as cold steel slid delicately through tender flesh. There was a little frisson of pain, almost pleasure, as crimson life oozed in a d
elicate band, slowly encircling his wrist. Again and again, steel kissed flesh. Not too deep. Not now. Not yet. Dead inside, lifeless and empty, the crimson bracelets offered a needed proof that for now at least, he was still of this world.

  Holding his arms out, he turned them experimentally, left, right, his wrists barely visible in the pallid light, though his eyes had long since grown accustomed to the dark. The blood had thickened, slowed, almost stopped. Angry dark lines mingled with paper-thin silver and white ones, in an intricate pattern of defiance and despair. He allowed himself another swallow, a solitary pleasure, a small comfort on a cold and cavernous night. He sensed the dampness in the shifting wind as it lifted a strand of his hair and fluttered against his cheek. It was a cold caress that chilled him to the bone. Looking up, he saw clouds scudding and scurrying across the night, like frightened little creatures scrambling to escape some implacable, hungry beast.

  Slumping down out of the wind, he rolled onto his back, fingering the blade. He drew it gently across his cheek, back and forth. His lips curved in a jaded smile. He knew he wouldn’t do it. He had no skills but those of a whore. No assets, nothing of value but his body and his face, and while he lived he needed them, treacherous and degraded though they were. As for death, well … there was the boy to consider. He didn’t understand it really, how he’d left himself vulnerable this way. There had been a plan, money hoarded and hidden, a goal, and always there had been some small measure of control. He could refuse a thing if he wanted. They would punish him, yes. Make him pay and try to make him regret it, but they were running a business and he was valuable, and they never went too far.

  Then the child had come, and something inside him, something weak and treacherous, had betrayed him. He’d wanted … needed … to protect the boy, to keep him safe and innocent. Well, as innocent as a child could be this close to the brimstone, he reflected, with a grin and another swallow. They’d found it amusing, but more importantly, they had found it profitable, and so it was allowed, because Gabriel would do anything to protect the boy. And so he had, anything and everything.

  He pulled himself up, sitting with one leg bent. Tucking the blade in a coat sleeve, he wrapped his arms around his knee and rested his chin. A chill had seized him. His task was almost done. It seemed the boy had a family. He supposed all stupid lost little boys dreamed of a family that would come to find them, moving heaven and earth until they were safe again at home. It never happened, though. But this time, against all odds, it appeared to be true.

  Wee little Jamie, well, James, now, he supposed, had a family who’d been searching for him these past five years, and they’d found him, or the runners had. There were two of them now, posted in front of Madame’s establishment to make sure that the child would not be lost again. They were coming for him, this family of his, a man and a woman, all the way from England. They would arrive before the week was out.

  Good! He was glad for the boy. He couldn’t have kept him safe much longer. He was a pretty child, fast growing succulent and sweet. There had been a close call already. He would soon be worth more than Gabriel’s obedience, and then he would be lost. Now he could scamper home, safe and sound, singed by the flames perhaps, but not consumed.

  As for himself, well, the sooner the brat was gone, the better. He would be free at last. Free to leave, to look to his own best interests … Ah, Christ! Why bother pretending? Hooking the decanter with two fingers, he tipped it up again, draining the last few drops before hurling it to the cobblestones below. He chortled in drunken glee at the sound it made as it shattered and scattered into thousands of tiny pieces. Take your enjoyment where you can, boy. You’re naught but a catamite, and a whore. There’s nothing to live for, no one who cares, and your pleasures are few and far between.

  He settled back again with a grin. He was as stupid as any of them. He’d let himself pretend that Jamie Boy was his family. It had given him reason to go on from one day to the next, and though he was glad, truly glad, and deeply relieved that the boy would soon be gone, he dreaded it, as well. It was a bone-deep dread, a stomach-clenching terror of returning to the desolate, lonely void where he’d lived most of his life.

  Maybe, once the boy was gone, he’d find the courage to give himself some peace. Not here, though. No. He had a distant recollection of being by the ocean, skin pricking, the smell, and taste of salt. It was the only peaceful reminiscence he owned. He guarded it jealously, embellishing it with memories borrowed from books and other people’s stories until it took on a luster and familiarity that felt like home. That’s where he’d go when the time came. He would journey to the ocean, lay himself down, and let the water wash him clean. He was so damn tired. Oh, Christ! He wasn’t crying, was he?

  As if to mock him, a drop of rain, fat and gelid, splattered against his cheek, mingling with his own hot bitter tears. It was followed by another, and then another. Clouds were racing overhead now, and thunder moaned and grumbled in the distance. Good God, but drink could turn a fellow into a maudlin fool! Needing to piss, tired of self-pity, tired to the bone, he dragged himself stiffly to his feet.

  Taking one last look at the angry sky, he sketched an elegant, mocking bow to whichever almighty sadist ruled the universe. Crossing his arms over his chest, shirt wet with blood, rain, and tears, he made his way back toward the sounds of shrill laughter, and the soft moans of men and women in pleasure and in pain. Opening the door, he stepped inside. Moist and seething, it smelled of whiskey and rum, tobacco and semen. It smelled like sex and desperation. He grinned. It smelled like home.

  CHAPTER

  1

  Sarah, Lady Munroe, was also known as the Gypsy Countess, a moniker given her on account of her unfortunate parentage and her even more unfortunate behavior. Less than five years ago, the polite world had been shocked and titillated when she left her elderly husband only a week after her nuptials. It was widely rumored since that she dressed as a man, consorted with pirates, and counted among her numerous lovers her own half brother, Ross. All but the last charge were true.

  She glanced at her brother now, in commiseration. Their plush, well-appointed carriage jolted and shimmied, rattling teeth and bone, as they made their hurried approach to Paris. Just ten years ago, the streets of this city had run red with blood as its citizenry turned on their betters in an excess of patriotism and democratic fervor, hacking many of them to pieces. Now, poised on the cusp of a new century, these bloodthirsty idealists, finally sated and shocked by the efforts of that ravenous matriarch, Madame Guillotine, looked for reassurance and order. Their attention had been drawn to a sallow young Corsican, Napoleon Bonaparte. Brilliant, charismatic, and politically astute, he was fast becoming a force to be reckoned with on the Continent, and a cause of great concern to Britain.

  None of this had any negative impact on the commerce and custom of the finer Parisian brothels. Uncertainty, danger, and war were aphrodisiacs, and brothels were operating to capacity, catering to the well-heeled and providing delicious diversions to suit any need, regardless of political orientation, or sexual preference. It was to just such a place, Madame Etienne’s, Maison de Joie, that Ross and Sarah now hurried in hopes of finding their younger brother.

  “Oh, God, Ross, do you really think it’s him? Could it be after all these years?” Sarah closed her eyes, desperately wanting to believe it, and desperately afraid of what it meant if it was true. The thought of the innocent child she’d played tag and soldiers with, living in such a place these past five years, filled her with horror.

  Ross reached across, patting her hand. “I have very good reason to expect that it is, my dear. Our agents have done a thorough job of investigating. This child is the right age and coloring, and they indicate there’s a striking family resemblance. They’ve been able to trace his route from London to the Continent. He arrived at Madame Etienne’s a month after James disappeared.”

  He glanced out the window, troubled and far more aware than Sarah of what that meant. “We must be pr
epared, Sarah. He’s not likely to recognize us, and he’ll not be the child you remember. He has doubtless been through an ordeal. He may be … damaged in ways that—”

  “Shhh,” she interrupted, gripping his hand. “Think of it, Ross! After all this time, we’ve found him. If he doesn’t remember, then we’ll remind him. If he’s hurt we’ll heal him, and by God, we will bring him home!”

  Leaning back into the cushions, Ross nodded in agreement, some of his anxiety subsiding. She would have made an excellent commander, he reflected. She had the ability to look at a complex situation and find its heart. He thought about what she’d said and prayed to God it would be that simple.

  The warm spring day gave way to the cooler shadows of late afternoon as they wended their way through the city, silent, lost in thought. It was a city of contrasts. Beautiful boulevards verdant with spring buds were lined with stately homes girdled with black wrought-iron fences and window boxes riotous with color. Scattered among them were abandoned dwellings, defaced and looted, with broken gates and tumbled walls, the detritus of revolution and civil strife.

  As they approached the city center, they passed narrow alleys crammed with tanners and fishmongers. The stench that escaped them joined the clatter of carts and the screeching of merchants in a noxious tumult of smell and noise that left Sarah feeling nauseated. The congestion grew heavier as they advanced through bustling neighborhoods lined with shops and restaurants, crowded with the scent of flowers, freshly baked bread, and the pungent odors of tobacco, coffee, and perfume. Everywhere, swelling crowds argued, haggled, and socialized. It all reminded her of some great, rushing, bellicose beast. This beast had swallowed her brother.

  It was well past four in the afternoon, and the city had quieted as its inhabitants sought their dinner, when they finally arrived at Madame Etienne’s. The elegant town house, with its cream brick façade and rose-trimmed windows, perched on a corner on top of a hill, as if guarding the warren of alleys and narrow streets below. There was a large balcony on the second floor and a smaller one on the third. A liveried doorman stood at attention. A knocker in the form of a grotesque gargoyle was the only hint that the house was anything other than a benign and sober, private domicile.