I almost wished, just this once, the Admissions Breather would know what had happened back there. Almost. As it was, she was going to wake up with a killer hangover, but that was about it. A hangover, and what looked like a nasty purple blood-bruise inside her left arm. It almost didn’t seem like enough.
I smile, my teeth sliding into place at the thought of my dinner. I tell myself, for the first time, I am going to fit in here just fine.
“Come on, Sherlock.” The dog barks, looking up at me. His teeth appear at the sight of mine. “I think our luck is changing.”
John Harvard’s toe gleams in the moonlight. It still smells like pee.
I rub it.
Gargouille
by Mary E. Pearson
lood still seeped from the wound in her thigh. The stub of the arrow protruded, catching on the bars every time the cart hit a rut, tearing her flesh a bit more. She tried not to call out because that only made Frans cackle at his fine catch, smug at the riches he surely thought awaited him at the end of the road. A lifetime of wages for his ilk. But the folly was his. Though her thigh would bear the scars of his arrow for the rest of her life, her back was already healing. She could feel the flesh beneath her cape knitting itself back together, erasing the evidence.
She held her face close to the bars, looking to the horizon, knowing they wouldn’t come, knowing they shouldn’t, but still she searched and hoped for a black cloud in the distance. For two days they had been on the road traveling north, past hillock and cottage, past thicket, field, and forest. The duke’s château couldn’t be much farther. She had never traveled this far by cart before, and now it was sinking in: by foot or by cart was the only way she would ever travel again—that is, if she lived.
I love you, Giselle. I love you. . . . I choose you.
It was those words that had caused her to be so careless. For that moment she was stronger than the world. Stronger than knife and net. Stronger than fear. After he left, she couldn’t contain her joy. She danced for the flowers in the meadow. She sang. She spread her wings without an eye to the world.
“Gargouille! Gargouille!” A dozen children rushed across the square, forgetting their game of stones at the sight of the approaching cart and the enormous wings strapped to the top, unmistakable even from a distance.
“Back!” Frans shouted, pulling on the reins. “She bites!”
“I don’t bite!” Giselle called out, reaching through the bars. “But come closer and I will ring your tender little necks like capons—and then stew you for supper!”
The children ran away squealing, and Giselle heaved a momentary sigh of relief. The villages were the worst. Frans used their fear to keep them at a distance, but their intense curiosity still prodded them to poke long sticks through the bars and throw rotten food and dung to watch her flinch. Frans didn’t mind these antics, but when curious hands drew too close to the precious cargo strapped to the top of the cart, he shouted warnings about her special powers to kill and maim. For this much she was grateful, that their fears and imaginations gave her some distance from their cruelty.
A cautious crowd milled forward. He let them have a good look while he took a long swig of ale and recounted the tale of her capture. The story had changed with each village as Frans learned what held their attention. He also learned when to cough from his dry, dusty throat so that story-hungry villagers would refill his flask, eager to hear of his bravery and his long, harrowing journey.
She looked out at the curious faces staring back at her, their eyes sweeping over her face and arms, scrutinizing her filth, the sweat and dirt streaks, her long black hair now matted with blood and tangles, the dark circles she must surely have under her own eyes by now. She probably did look like a wild beast.
She turned away, gazing to the south at the dim, smoky horizon, no sign of wing or rescue. Soon it wouldn’t matter, and that was why they didn’t come. Soon she would begin to forget. One day? Two? She wasn’t sure. It was so rare that gargouilles were captured. It hadn’t happened in years—at least to none of her clan. Now she had shamed them and put them all at risk. Anyone associated with her would have to make a hasty departure and begin a new life elsewhere. Giselle would cease to exist. But the worst part was Étienne. She would forget him, and he would be obliged to forget her too. This new reality made her suddenly roar with pain, an unearthly sound that chilled every darkening corner of the town. Shivers ran through teeth. Villagers screamed and crossed themselves. Frans hit the bars with his whip to quiet her. “Étienne!” she cried again, and slumped in a heap at the bottom of the cart. Étienne.
Frans bellowed warnings at her to show his bravery to the crowd, but Giselle only looked at the ground surrounding the cart and not at him. Feet edged closer.
“It looks almost human.”
“Can I touch it, Mama?”
“Are you daft? Those things are crawling with vermin!”
“And their bite is poisonous—especially the females.”
“Poke her with the stick and see what she does.”
Giselle felt another jab in her ribs and pulled away to the other side of the caged cart, still casting her face downward to avoid the stares of the crowd. That was when she saw him. Among the many feet crowding the ground around the cart, she saw his shoe. She would know it anywhere. She didn’t look up right away. Slowly she lifted her head and deliberately looked at Frans first, trying to brace herself before she turned to scan the crowd. The slighte
st slip or gasp could bring his doom. She had been careless with herself—she couldn’t be careless with his safety too. But then shame overtook her and she cast her eyes downward again. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. How could she have done this to him? To them? Tears formed in her eyes, and trickled down her cheeks. Villagers laughed and jeered at the crying animal who had frightened them just minutes earlier.
Go away, Étienne. Forget me. Soon I will forget you. Her throat squeezed back a sob and she looked up.
His eyes were locked on hers, bright against the darkening sky. His lips pulled tight and his jaw twitched. He was as still as stone except for the breeze lifting the black hair at his shoulders. Her eyes traveled down to his fists clenched at his sides. It took what was left of her strength not to reach out to him, not to reach through the bars and touch the cheek that had caressed her own just days ago. The ache of need ripped through her. If she could speak, she would. Instead she shook her head, trying to tell him to go. It would be more than she could bear if he were found out too. He eyed the padlock on the bars. No, Étienne, no. It will do no good.
He shook his head in return and then sneered, spitting on her. His action drew a smile from Frans, who allowed him to take a step closer, so close he could have reached out and wiped the spittle from her face. Giselle feared he would. “A miserable little wretch, isn’t she?” he called to Frans.
“She’s a gargouille, boy, what would you expect? But you should have seen her a few days ago. A beauty she was. Won’t be long before the duke has her cleaned up and shining again. She’ll be a prize, this one will.”