Roaring

by Lindsey Duga

  He was right.

  “Flames just poured out. Before anyone even realized what was happening, six people lay on the ground, crumbling to ash.”

  Searing tears rolled down the corners of my eyes, dampening my pillow.

  “I killed them. I killed them all. Doesn’t matter whether or not I meant to, or wanted it, they died because I wasn’t strong enough. Plain and simple. My fault.”

  My sins.

  I was meant to be a soldier. Their deaths should walk with me, not smother me. But they did. Even after they cut off my wings and I felt like limbs were missing…the flames stayed inside me. They came forth in response to emotions of distress, anxiety, anger…panic.

  I’d told myself I’d gotten over it all. I was older, certainly stronger, than the thirteen-year-old scared kid on the lab room floor. But had I?

  Then I saw myself in Millie, on the office floor, begging to die. It was me who wanted to die then, and instead I killed everyone else.

  My sins. My fault.

  Monster.

  Feather-light fingertips brushed my jaw. Surprised at the touch, I moved my arm slightly above my head to find Eris leaning over me. A curtain of chestnut waves fell across her shoulder while her gaze held mine—strong and unyielding.

  Before I could move, or say anything at all, she closed the small distance between us and pressed her lips to mine.

  Her kiss was brief, but it was gentle, tentative, and brave—her in a kiss. Her hand lay across my jaw, while the base of her palm rested against the pulse in my neck. I was sure she could feel its restless beat—not that I cared if she could. In fact, I hoped she did. I needed her to know how she affected me. How, with one simple, innocent kiss, I was completely gone.

  It wasn’t that her lips were smooth and full, or that she smelled like fresh cotton with just a hint of herbal tea, lemon, and honey, or even that she was so brave and good that she saved children from a den of monsters and pulled people out of warehouse fires…

  It was that…in this kiss, I felt forgiven.

  Instead of being offered a chance at redemption, she gave redemption to me freely. She was telling me that she saw all of my sins and ugliness but believed I could be saved anyway.

  It was everything I didn’t know I needed.

  Although the kiss was short, she didn’t retreat. She met my eyes and her fingers against my jaw seemed to press harder on my skin.

  I reached up and parted the curtain of her hair to brush her bottom lip with my thumb. Her eyelashes flickered downward, gaze jumping to my mouth.

  Ah. There it is.

  Sin replacing virtue. Lust replacing chastity.

  And if this made us sinners, I wouldn’t walk through the gates of hell—I’d run through them.

  My hand wove into her hair at the back of her neck and I guided her mouth to mine.

  But before we could kiss for a second time, a knock sounded at the door.

  Eris practically fell. Pressing her fist to her lips, she stumbled back a few steps. Except she forgot that a chair was there, so her feet got caught in its legs and she fumbled to steady it.

  The door opened and an old nun walked in. She looked from Eris’s red face to my irritated expression and said, “Ah, he wakes. How are you feeling?”

  Before I could answer, Eris bowed her head, lips pressed together, and escaped the room.

  I fisted my hands at my sides, frustrated I couldn’t just up and chase after her.

  The old nun cleared her throat, trying to capture my attention. “Mr. Clemmons, I’m Sister Adaline. I believe we have much to discuss.”

  I was still staring after Eris when she said, “About having a dragon in my church.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Siren

  An amazing thing happened. Well, many amazing things.

  We escaped the Cerberus Club. We rescued three children. Colt breathed fire. I dragged him out of a burning building. Kind nuns took us in and gave us food, aid, and shelter.

  And then I kissed Colt.

  I wasn’t sure how much of it was a moment of weakness and compassion for his horrible past, or just purely because I wanted to. Regardless, I was both thrilled and absolutely petrified.

  Of course, it wasn’t as if we could just talk through what that kiss meant, at least not soon. The nuns had been giving me this herbal tea with lemon and honey that might help my raw throat, but there was no telling exactly when, or if, my voice would come back.

  Being unable to talk honestly hadn’t bothered me until Colt woke up. Just like in The Blind Dragon, I felt this desperation to answer all his questions and ask hundreds of my own. Did he feel all right? When had his dragon wings been removed? What had the BOI done after he’d accidentally killed those people? I wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault. He’d been a child coping with something wholly supernatural, and far, far too powerful. How could he be expected to control something like dragon flames?

  They’d been cruel to force that on a child. Crueler still to let him believe those people’s souls should mar his.

  When he told me all those things, when he laid his arm across his eyes, I knew I had to do something. Anything.

  Down the corridor, twenty steps from Colt’s room, I stopped and leaned against the cold stone wall, recalling that moment. With a soft groan, I covered my face with my hands.

  That first kiss had been innocent, but I knew the second kiss wouldn’t have been.

  I should call myself lucky that Sister Adaline came in when she did. I should, but God forgive me, I wished she hadn’t.

  Moving my hands from my eyes to my burning cheeks, I licked my lips, still feeling his.

  For over a day, I’d been hovering by Colt’s bedside, anxious for him to wake. Despite the nuns’ assurances, I’d been so worried that he’d never open his eyes again. That all the smoke in his lungs and the deep scratch on his side had been enough to do him in.

  But now that he was awake, perhaps it was time to shift my attention back to the children that I felt somewhat responsible for. I enjoyed being with them and it would give me the chance to clear my head, which still felt very much overheated.

  The grounds of St. Agnes were that of a typical Roman Catholic Church. There was the main sanctuary, with an altar, pews, stained-glass windows and dusty old hymnals. It was connected by stone-covered walkways to the rectory and to the convent where the nuns lived and took care of orphans from time to time.

  They didn’t have the facilities of a full orphanage, but they housed what kids they could until they became of age to live and work on their own. And from what I could tell, the kids loved St. Agnes. They had a little schoolroom, a vegetable garden, and plenty of space to play and adventure. Just being here for a day made my insides warm. This was what I’d wanted—a quaint life. Tending to gardens, cooking, feeling like I was a part of a community, a family.

  It made me miss my own. How were Stan and Madame Maldu and my little band?

  Leaves skittered across the walkway to the chapel and batted against the new navy blue dress the nuns had given to me. Their kindness so far had made me realize that I would’ve been content to stay here and become a nun. To sing and follow the word of God and take care of children…it seemed like a happy enough life to me. But then I’d gone and kissed Colt and, well, now I wasn’t so sure.

  I opened the door to the narthex and was met with a deep and profound quiet. Sister Louisa had said the kids would be here, but they couldn’t be. Not in this silence. Or maybe they actually were reading their bibles. Doubtful.

  Just to make sure, I creaked open the massive oak doors and peeked inside. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the stained-glass upper windows on either side of the nave. The glass murals told the stories of the three recognized archangels of Roman Catholicism. Raphael was to the left, holding his staff, his right palm outward, wi
th gold sunlight shining through as if he actually was healing someone—like in all the stories. Gabriel was on the right, holding his fabled horn as if to proclaim some prophecy of the birth of a saint or the savior himself.

  Then there was Michael. The angel closest to God was in the window behind the altar wearing robes of red and gold, covered in silver armor. In both his hands he held a sword pointing downward, with his eyes cast up to the heavens.

  Multicolored lights of the stained glass decorated the dark wood of the pews and hit the gilded gold statues of angels, Mary, and of Christ. Autumn wreaths hung on the doors and on the front of the altar—that one in particular seemed messier than the rest, and I guessed the children had made it.

  The sanctuary was mostly empty with the exception of one lone figure sitting up at the steps of the altar. It was a man in a dark coat and fedora, hands tucked into the folds of his jacket and head bent low, the brim of his hat hiding his face.

  Is he praying?

  Not wanting to interrupt his time with God, I turned to leave when a curtain pulled back to my left, in the north transept area. The curtain of the confessional. A woman came out dressed all in black—mourning clothes.

  As she walked up to the man, he looked up at her with a question in his eyes. She shook her head, and then passed through the crossing, down the aisle straight toward me. Realizing this, I quickly opened the door for her, and she went by me with a small nod of thanks. Her black cloche hat was pulled down far enough to cover her forehead and cast shade over light blue eyes. Strangely, it felt as if I’d seen her before. Dark hair, mature features, an enigmatic air…

  She probably just had one of those faces that were so striking they seemed memorable.

  I started to follow the woman out and let the door close behind me, to leave the man to his prayers, when he called out to me. “Excuse me, miss?”

  Rhatz. I can’t answer.

  But it was incredibly rude to just walk away. So I turned and hurried down the aisle to the man.

  He was now standing at the bottom steps of the altar, wearing a sharp, expensive suit and a gentle expression—one that was not quite a smile, but close to one, as if he wanted to smile but couldn’t find the strength to do it. He was handsome enough, with brown eyes and brown hair, sides lightly streaked with gray.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Sister, but do you know where Father is?”

  He thought I was a nun. Wishing I’d brought my pad of paper with me, I shook my head.

  “I see,” he said with a sigh, then walked over to the front pew and sat. “I suppose I’ll have to come back next week then. I just…” He leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his brow with another deep, labored sigh.

  Even if I could speak, I wasn’t sure what I’d say.

  The man looked up again, inspecting me. “How long have you been a sister?” he asked.

  I waved my hands while shaking my head.

  “Oh, you’re not?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re mute?”

  I gestured to my throat, making a tiny squeaking noise.

  “Oh, I see. Throat not feeling well, eh? My apologies.”

  I shrugged, then, when he still looked troubled, I tried to mime pouring tea and holding a cup to my lips.

  At that, he actually smiled. “How clever. My son loved charades.”

  Loved, as in past tense.

  The smile faded from his lips, reading the sadness on my face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. You’re just easy so talk to, I suppose it’s because you can’t talk back. If you need to leave, I understand.”

  When he hung his head again, he felt very much like a man who had just lost everything. Steeling my nerve, I crossed to the pew and sat next to him, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

  Glancing up, he gave me a small frown. “Are you sure?”

  I was a far cry from a priest, or even a nun, but this man reminded me of the one I’d just left who had also needed his own confession, so I nodded.

  The man wrung his hands and then took a deep breath. “My son died because of me.”

  My eyes widened, but I kept my hand where it was.

  “I’m a bad man, and an even worse father. I was a rum-runner, and a damn good one,” he continued. “I worked heavily with the mob, but every day it became more dangerous for my family. I tried to leave, but it’s practically impossible to get out once you’re in. I should’ve seen the writing on the wall when they were tightening the screws on me. I should’ve sent my family away. But I was arrogant and wrong. So wrong. They gunned him down in an alley. Left him there for me to find…not even two blocks from our apartment.”

  The silence stretched inside the chapel. So big and heavy it could carry across a canyon created by the legend Paul Bunyan himself.

  I could feel the glares of the archangel Michael, and of Gabriel and Raphael. I could almost hear their holy voices whispering, You’re just like him.

  Colt may have gotten involved with me because of his job, but now he was helping me and staying by my side out of the goodness of his heart. I’d been so relieved to be at St. Agnes, where the world was peaceful and happy, that I’d forgotten how we’d gotten here in the first place. My creator hunting me down with guns and monsters. Not Colt. Me.

  He had almost died in the fire, all because he’d been helping me.

  I was scared that if Colt stayed with me any longer, this stranger’s guilt would be my own.

  “I’m not asking God for forgiveness,” the man said softly, his voice like the lowest note in the church organ. “I don’t deserve it. But this might be the best place to talk to Jacob. To tell him how sorry I am and how much I miss him.” Then he sighed deeply, placed his hands on his thighs, and stood. I followed as it seemed the right thing to do.

  “I’m sorry to take up so much of your time, miss. I do hope your throat feels better.”

  He started down the aisle, then stopped and turned back toward me. He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out what looked like a hard candy in a red cellophane wrapper. “Here. It’s my favorite brand of throat lozenges. As thanks for listening.”

  He dropped the lozenge into my outstretched palm and walked down the aisle through the giant oak doors into the narthex…leaving me with a sin I hadn’t even known I was carrying.

  Selfishness.

  I was being selfish in keeping Colt with me. True, I’d told him he should leave, but that’s the kind of person he was. He helped people, and he didn’t abandon them. Leaving the BOI meant he didn’t live on blind faith. He decided what was right and what was wrong and, in me, he must’ve seen something right.

  That should’ve made me feel better, but it didn’t. I felt worse. So much worse. Because I was selfishly accepting his help when I should be running away from him. Running away from everyone.

  I mounted the steps toward the altar and stood there, looking up into the face of the angel closest to God in his red robes and silver armor and all his glory.

  While in The Blind Dragon, I used to imagine I was one of them.

  An angel, alone, in the spotlight.

  Tell me what to do, Michael.

  But I already knew what I had to do. I had to leave Colt, and everyone and everything I cared for and disappear and never speak a word again. I’d run from him for the third time, but it would be the first time that I didn’t want to.

  The creaking of the giant oak doors echoed through the chapel and I whirled around, expecting to see the man again. I hurriedly unwrapped the lozenge and stuffed it into my mouth—maybe it would soothe my throat enough for me to talk to him. To tell him that his son was listening, and then to tell him he shouldn’t wear his hat in the sanctuary.

  Two small heads poked out from the doors. Marion and Kenneth.

  Their faces lit up with great big smiles w
hen they saw me. “Eris!” Kenneth called, running down the aisle. I was nearly knocked over as he flew into my stomach, wrapping his thin arms around my waist. Marion followed her brother, but slower, much more mature for her twelve years of age.

  The rest of the kids headed toward the altar as well, holding hymnal books. Sister Edna took up the rear with young Eugene at her side, gripping her hand. He’d really taken a shine to the nun.

  “Oh, Eris.” Sister Edna greeted me with a smile. “Will you be joining us for choir practice?”

  Sucking on the throat lozenge that held a rich cherry flavor, I shook my head. I had a lot of thinking, and planning, to do.

  “Please, Eris, please?” Kenneth whined, still holding my waist.

  “Leave her alone, Kenny,” his older sister admonished. “Her throat still hurts.”

  But…it didn’t, actually. Not anymore. The tasty, soothing lozenge seemed to coat my sore throat and vocal cords in a protective, healing film.

  Clearing my throat, I tried to speak.

  “It’s feeling better,” I said, then blinked in surprise. My voice sounded surprisingly normal.

  “I would say it’s feeling a lot better.” Sister Edna chuckled. “Well that’s wonderful. Will you be staying then?”

  Kenny had reluctantly let go, but looked up at me with pleading eyes. I smiled down at him and ruffled his hair. “For a few songs.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Dragon

  Sister Adaline wore a traditional black habit with a white collar. She looked like a kind old woman, the quintessential image of a nun.

  But looks were deceiving. Who was this woman and what place had we come to that knew about monsters and dragons?

  She smiled at my confusion—it must have been all over my face—and leaned over to pick up the glass of water from my bedside. “Here, drink.”

  I took the water but didn’t drink. My fingers curled around the glass, and I imagined it cracking under the pressure of my hold.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “The abbess of St. Agnes. Mother Superior, if you will—are you familiar with canonical order? Hm, doesn’t matter. Either way, you can just call me Sister.”