Chapter 3: Return
It was late in the morning when the red flare was launched, hissing and trailing white smoke and light. Meg had jumped at the sound, then berated herself for being so easily startled. Someone was trying to make contact, but who? It could not have been Christine, unless she had somehow gotten her hands on a flare gun.
All around her, the camp sprang into action. No, it probably wasn't Christine who had fired the shot, but it could have been a member of another search party who needed help transporting her back to the city. Meg slipped easily into her small backpack (courtesy of her small, vibrantly green wings) and lifted off, stirring up quite a breeze as she went.
A few of the young men watched her as she rose into the sky, but she ignored them. She usually had that effect on young men. It was something she'd gotten used to in her first year of flight. If we find Christine today, I am definitely setting her up with someone. She's too amazing to go unnoticed in the dating scene!
Several others followed close behind her. She knew they would outstrip her in a few minutes, so she went as fast as she could towards the column of smoke. It would dissipate into the wind in a few minutes, so time was of the essence. Below, Marque was shouting something about first aid.
It only took a few short minutes to reach the spot where the flare had been launched. Still, as they landed, Meg was completely spent, while the others with their larger wingspans and efficient bodies were hardly winded at all. She looked around enviously for a moment, struggling for breath, and took off her little backpack.
"Meg!" There was Christine, one wing broken and painfully bare in two places, but eyes shining with more life than they had in a while. Meg ran forward to hug her, but stopped short. There was a man next to Christine, a man with no wings and a scarred-up face who looked distinctly criminal. He had two cases and a folder of papers and a gun. I hope that's the flare gun. Otherwise we're all in danger!
Christine, to her credit, took the slight gracefully. She motioned at the man and back at her friend. "Meg, this is Erik. He saved my life."
"Well, err, nice to meet you…Erik. And thank you for saving her," the girl added, not wanting to seem ruder than she'd already come off. Marque saved her from further awkwardness by bursting through the undergrowth at a sprint. He didn't give Erik a second glance.
"Well," he panted, "no one seems to be in need of CPR, except me." He stood up and continued to breath rather too hard than was healthy. "It's been a long two days, people. Let's go home." Then he started jogging back to where the equipment had been left.
Meg followed him, reluctant to further extend herself in flight. "Christine, I'll…catch up with you later. Mom will want to see you too, she's been worried sick." She was about to turn her back and start walking, but she remembered: "Oh, and you missed your chemistry final. I did too, but…just thought you should know." They waved at each other even though they would all go back to the city together. She followed Marque back to the camp.
Christine blinked. That was a bit anticlimactic. Maybe she's found herself in another short fling with him, though he really doesn't seem her type.
She looked around at the others on the team who'd landed around her and Erik. He glared at them suspiciously and kept his head low, though that did little to help; for the first time, Christine realised just how tall he was. He had seemed smaller in his narrow, low-ceilinged home. I must have seemed positively tiny.
"We should go." Her good wing brushed his shoulder. He pulled away rather abruptly, then looked at her face as if searching for some insult. "Or…do you want to stay?"
"I don't want to be alone, but I don't want to be…ridiculed." It felt like a hollow word, with less weight in the air than it carried in his mind. A half laugh, half sorrowful cry jerked from him as he looked away. "You do not know me. What makes you think I am worth taking into your home, worth protecting?"
"Anyone who would save my life is worth something great to me," she said, a little too quickly. She reconsidered and found that she'd meant every word. "I may not know you well now, but if you want, I can. Remember? We can be friends." Then she was compelled to say something she was not in a position to say, but he looked like he needed the reassurance. "I won't let anyone hurt you. If they've hurt you before, I won't let them get to you now."
Erik wanted very badly to believe her, but there were still some doubts. What good was a single, kind soul in a riot out for his blood? What good was her word against the judgement of a court or the results of scientific experimentation? "You must understand…Christine." He hesitated on her name, for it was a lovely one. "You owe me nothing. And when people know about you, about me, about us, there will be persecution. It is inevitable. I don't feel I have a right to intrude on your life like that."
"Look at this, Erik; you saved my life!" she repeated, trying to get her point across. "If anything, I owe you. I'm trying to repay you in the only way I can at the moment. If you want to stay here, you can. I can visit…I mean, if you want me to." Here she lowered her eyes.
"I am not a good person."
"You are good to me!" She was looking at him again with those blue, blue eyes and her sweet, innocent hope. "I've only known you for a day or so, but I'd have to be blind not to see that you're a genius, a fascinating man."
Erik felt himself stop breathing. She wants to know me, she…admires my skills.
"I want you in my life," she said, honestly and a little shyly. "Maybe I'm just sentimental, but I do. I think you deserve another chance, something better than living alone. 'It is not good that the man should be alone.' Do you know the end of that quote?"
His acknowledgement was gruff and short. "'I will make him an help meet for him.'"
"You know what it means; no one should ever be alone. Come with me."
She started walking slowly to where Meg and the search party had gone and held out her hand. He took it. His hands were cold, with long, spindly fingers. Perhaps it was strange for them to maintain such intimate contact as strangers, but Christine knew he needed it.
So they held hands and walked together to the city.
…
There was a crowd of people waiting outside her apartment complex (former mansion) when she arrived home. Erik noted from his seat in the cab that she spoke to most of them, clearly showing them she was well for the most part, then let Meg cover for her. She was more an introvert than an extrovert. Perhaps he was just looking for something they had in common.
The driver looked back at him. "She's paid up already, you know. You can get out." Erik returned the look rather blankly. "Or…not, if crowds just aren't your thing," amended the driver. "It might take a while to clear this lot. You know, news and cameras and the like." He grew steadily more unnerved as his intimidating-looking passenger remained silent. "Look, I get it; you don't want the attention or the gossip around you and the girl. I'll keep my mouth shut if you want, no fee required."
Erik did not react. He only continued to look out the window at Meg and Christine waving off the cameras and eager-but-not-close friends. The cabbie snorted and faced forward again.
"Fine. Whatever. I'll just shut up now."
It took a while, but thankfully none of the reporters or cameras glimpsed him sitting very still in the backseat. The cab had been comfortable enough, he supposed, but Christine had been cramped with her wings, forced to hunch over, and there was nothing he could have done to ease her discomfort, for any movement might have hurt her bad wing.
At least he never had to worry about such discomfort. He only had to worry about the treatments, though at his current strength level, he could not afford to do another one. I am too weak to remove the things I hate. And what of Christine? What if she found out? If she knew, she might run from him, or alert the police, or worse: turn him over to the doctors. He shuddered. She could never know.
I have to bide my time, wait until I am strong, and then I will be normal again. Until then, I hide. Just a while longer…
"Erik?" There was the subject of his thoughts. She opened the cab door and exchanged a word of thanks with the driver, handing him a few bills. "I can show you your place, if you like… Unless you want to find a place in the city for yourself, of course."
"No," he said. He stepped out of the cab and picked up the few things he'd brought with him. "I'll stay where you want me to stay." Her bright reply had him taken aback.
"Well, come with me! I think you'll like the place I have in mind…" Behind her, Meg gasped. Erik found himself growing wary of the way her eyes glinted mischievously.
"Surely you don't mean…?"
"Oh yes, I do." Christine smiled. The man just stood there as the cab drove away and watched them, confused. "You'll like it very much. It's secluded, has all the amenities…" She went on listing, counting off on her dainty fingertips, "…and a rather nice bedroom. What do you think?"
He would have said something terribly awkward had his quick tongue not saved him. "I think it sounds like a hotel," he jested. "A regular dream come true."
Christine bit her tongue and felt her face warm. He'd been looking at her for that last bit. He probably had no idea what he'd just done to her insides. And since when did she melt over the opposite sex? She was supposed to be completely focused on her studies! Shame! The poor man's had almost no socialisation for years, and here you are having suggestive thoughts about him! He needs time to adjust! Meg giggled, but she muttered a quick 'shut up' and turned around. "You go on ahead, Meg, tell your mom I'm all right, she's probably worried sick."
"Oh! Right," she exclaimed, and lifted off towards to top balcony of the complex. "I'll tell her to get something ready for dinner, we're celebrating tonight!" Then she flitted away and was gone. The girl that was left shook her head of curls and sighed.
"You want to fly." It was a statement, not a question. It was an observation, not a supposition. She looked at him, and he was still amazed at how comfortable she acted around him. She had a few, light moles on her neck and sternum, which shifted as she turned her head. Her every mannerism fascinated him.
"I do, but I can't yet, obviously. But you, do you want to fly?" She was treading thin ice here, she knew, but she had to if she was ever to understand the current.
"I have always longed to." He shook his head slightly and looked towards the apartment complex. It still had the facade of a mansion, with a generous garden and large open spaces. It was several stories of high windows. "Let's go. You don't want to keep your friend's mother waiting."
…
Christine sighed as they at last reached the set of rooms she'd envisioned for her new friend. It was her own apartment, and it was clean and not very used since her high school years. "Here we are. When my dad passed, he insisted that I have a good place and not have to pay rent, so you can stay here."
"Do you not live here?" Erik asked.
"I dorm at the university with Meg, usually, and I stay here on the weekends. Most of my personal things are in our dorm at school," she explained. "Here, I'll show you where everything is."
The place was bright and airy, with the typical huge windows and high ceilings of the homes of the winged. "Sitting room, as you can see, and kitchen," the girl began, pointing out the kitchenette on one side. "The couch also folds out into a bed if you'd rather sleep out here than, you know, in my room." Erik did his best to conceal the reaction he was inwardly having over that particular bit of information. Sleeping in her bed was not something he was ready for, and he berated himself for it. He set his sparse belongings down on the low, Korean-style coffee table, noting that there were also several board games on thing: chess, Scrabble, and a deck of cards.
"Do you ever play those games? They look fairly new," he said offhandedly, trying not to seem awkward in the new space. It was hard when his coat was so stiff over his body.
"Sometimes, with Meg and her mother, but like I said, I don't really stay here much. Speaking of her mother, though, it might take some reasoning to convince her to let you stay. She's very frugal." Christine mentally kicked herself for rambling.
Erik smirked. "And you obviously did not think to consult her before letting me into your home." She shrugged sheepishly, and he smiled wider, an unusual and uncomfortable gesture for him.
"Well, I was thinking more of her goodwill than her money mentality at the moment," she justified, chuckling at herself a bit."
Her voice is melodic… Maybe she sings. "I can pay, you know. I have money." He didn't want to rely on charity for a living space when he could afford to pay rent.
"Yes, but it would be so much easier on me and Mrs. Giry if you stayed here. She always complained about marking this apartment occupied when I'm barely here."
"I see," he replied rather testily. Christine wondered if she'd done anything to annoy him. He motioned for him to follow her down a small hallway, though it was far bigger than the passages of his treehouse home. It was also entirely glass on one side to let light and people through. She brushed her fingers against each door in turn as she named them.
"That's the bathroom, it's fairly neat, don't worry. And this is my room, though I guess you'll be staying here now." Erik thought going in and exploring her room would be inappropriate at the moment. She hadn't exactly denied that he'd be comfortable in her room.
"And what about the room at the end of the hall there?" She looked at him and smiled, and his chest constricted.
"You're going to like this," she hummed contentedly. Then she strode over and opened the door for him to follow her.
The walls that weren't plate glass, all three of them, were covered in books from floor to ceiling, and the ceiling was high. Sliding ladders on each wall provided access for those who couldn't fly. In the centre of the room was a desk, cluttered with papers, and two large reading chairs with arm and wing rests. A piano sat close to the window, with its keys facing the door. Erik sighed.
It was a beautiful room, and felt more used than any other in the apartment. He found out it was, a moment later.
"I study here a lot, and practice playing or singing. It helps me focus." Her voice was tender, and he found himself wondering why. A curl had strayed from the usual mess of ringlets to drape over her forehead.
He wasn't sure what to say, so he kept silent.
"Do you play?" she asked, wanting to keep conversation flowing. She knew he did, and quite well, but she just wanted to hear him answer.
"I play and write. I brought music with me to sell, actually, for a living."
"You're a genius, you know that?" And he didn't know what possessed him, but he adopted a smug air just to joke.
"I know, thank you." Christine laughed her beautiful, bell-like laugh, and he chuckled along with her. It felt wonderful to have someone to laugh with (instead of at his expense, as with Nadir). The girl stuck out her hand again, and he took it graciously.
But she made him reckless and bold, so he kissed that soft, pale hand before releasing it. The gasp she made pushed him into a state of thrill. Had she gasped with delight or with fear? His mind reasoned it was delight, but his heart assumed fear. When he looked up again, she was smiling, and her cheeks were pink. Or was that just a flush from the sun that poured in generously from the windows?
"Well," Christine said a bit breathlessly, "you're quite the gentleman. Where did you learn that?"
"A book called Social Graces," he answered. "I must admit, it was a bit out of date, and I read it only out of curiosity."
"I think you'll find it very useful when you go out for a date."
"And I find it interesting that you say 'when,' not 'if.'" She shrugged again, shoulders and wings lifting with the movement. He envied that freedom of movement under his stiff coat.
"You're an intelligent man, to say the least, and women nowadays are looking more for what's up here," she said, tapping her temple, "than a hot body."
He grimaced. "If only that were true." Then, to keep her from wondering what inhibited him, he adopted a casual manner. "Thank you for bringing me here. I look forward to meeting with you again. It's good now, not being completely isolated."
Christine smiled her infections smile and he felt his mouth twitch in answer. "My pleasure." She turned and walked back to the sitting room, towards the door, to leave, possibly to the university. He noted, with some embarrassment, that he was still following her like a little lost pup. She didn't seem to notice, thankfully. "Just remember that you're fascinating and work it," she suggested, winking playfully. "Most females can't resist someone who's done so many things like you."
Then she was gone, and Erik was left wondering just what he'd gotten himself into. And he already owed this girl so much more than just the apartment.
…
Philippe de Chagny paced around his office. It was a warm day, and he disliked warm days. The papers on his desk were strewn here and there, unusual for him. He was usually quite fastidious.
The clock ticked. Each second seemed longer than the last. A bead of sweat joined the dampness that leaked into his white collar. At last, out of a haze of tension, he turned the brass hourglass on his desk over. Ignore it. Before you know it, Guidicelli will be here and the whole deal will be over. His wings, both a smooth dark brown, were tense and slightly disheveled. He'd forgotten to preen them that morning in his haste.
A knock sounded, and he jumped to answer it. It was the aggressively prejudiced woman herself, instead of one of her bodyguards, much to his relief. He nodded at her and stepped aside to let her pass. Then he moved around and sat behind his desk, wanting to assume a position of power. His phone vibrated in his pocket, making him more nervous.
"You know what I'm here for, Mr. de Chagny."
"I do. But I don't intend to go through with this. It's wrong." The woman hissed and slammed a manicured hand on the hardwood desk. He noticed with some distaste that they were painted red, red like the coverts on her macaw wings. The combination of red on red was incredibly tacky in his eyes.
"It is right! I have the research here, it is imperative we act now!"
"You don't know that," he countered just as fiercely. "And the researchers don't know it either. This is just their hypothesis and a few lab tests, nothing concrete!" A strand of blond hair fell out of place from where it had been gelled to his temple.
Carlotta Guidicelli put her hands on her generous hips and hummed. "De Chagny, you are a powerful man, and you have money. Your money is your power." She leaned in even closer. "I have more power than you," she whispered. She smelled rather strongly of jasmine soap. Philippe fought the urge to sneeze.
"How much does a man like you value his wings?" The threat laced the air like a threaded needle, piercing and almost spiteful. The man felt the blood drain from his face. "Criminals, at least, are anaesthetised before the procedure."
"You can't do that," he insisted hoarsely, through gritted teeth. "And even if you could, I wouldn't be afraid. What I know to be true is more valuable than my ability to fly."
The woman leaned back again. "And what about your loved ones, hmmm? I know you have a kid brother still in college, and cousins…"
"They would gladly give up their lives to prevent you from spreading your lies. You cannot use them against me," he said, trying to sound confident. He stood up. The hourglass he'd tipped over was almost out. He pointed at it like it was an indicator that Carlotta should leave. "Go. You're wasting your time and mine. I won't do it."
She fluttered her black crow wings. "Yes you will," she crooned. "Just check your messages. Your little infidel girl can't send text messages, can she?" Philippe went even paler, if that was possible, and his throat was suddenly constricted and dry.
"No," he croaked. His fingers fumbled unlocking his phone. There it was, one message from his dear Ciara's smartphone. She was blind, most of the functions of the phone were useless to her. She couldn't even call, she was mute. He read the message in his shaking hands. "You monster," he hissed. "You evil bitch!"
"I'm not the monster, she is. She is not only wingless, but born with three disabling mutations!" Carlotta countered, cackling. "She is the lowest of the low, and soon, you'll be a criminal for having her in your home."
During her monologue, Philippe had rounded his desk. The cold metal in his hand weighed him down. The woman sighed as she felt the barrel of a handgun against her high hairdo. "Philippe, darling, haven't you learned anything from action movies?" She typed something, presumably to one of her thugs. "Put the gun down, or she dies. Really, all I have to do is press 'send.'" She looked at him imperiously. "Well? Is the deal on?" Victory was already flashing in her dark eyes.
The man lowered the gun to his side, hating that this hellion had so much control over him. He would never regret his bond with Ciara, no, but he hated the servility that this subhuman wench could force over him. She was gloating now.
"You need to say it," she chanted, singsong and sadistic. The young man knew he had lost.
"Deal," he confirmed. "Just, please…don't hurt her."
