The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of Ava Lavender(59)

Birds. Littering the floor, covering the chair and the couch, piled around the room in stacks of ten or twenty. Some had been pinned to the wall with wings outstretched, as if in flight; others hung upside down from the ceiling by tiny bits of string wrapped tightly around their curled feet, as if being punished for a terrible crime. Some had been stripped of their feathers, some stripped of their wings. Others were missing their eyes.

The once-warm brandy turned cold in my stomach. I gagged, then swallowed fast to keep from vomiting.

“I didn’t intend for you to see them.” Nathaniel had come up behind me. He gently plucked the long black feather from my hand. He sighed.

“What do you mean?” With growing dread, I noted that he was between me and the door.

He picked up one of the dead birds and shook it in my face. “Masquerading as a holy creature,” Nathaniel said with disgust. Then he dropped it back onto the floor, where it landed with a sickening thud. It was a spotted towhee — a male — with black-and-white wings and a patch of red on each side. The bird’s insides dribbled from a wound in its belly.

“Blessed with wings like God’s messengers, and what do they do with them? Soil them in birdbaths and mud puddles. Eat garbage.” He kicked at a pile of carcasses near his foot. “These monstrosities are the reason no one sees you for what you are.”

He reached out and stroked my wings.

“But I’ve never been fooled,” he said, gently now. “I’ve always known.”

I made a move to step around him.

What I remember most vividly was that he told me he loved me before he grabbed me.

“Please!” I begged, struggling against him. “Let me go!”

I kicked at him wildly. When my foot made contact with his shin, he tightened his grip. I threw my arm back and cracked his rib with my elbow. He dropped to the ground with a shout, and his grip loosened enough for me to break free. I ran for the door, but he caught me and wrenched me back.

He pulled me by my hair back to the room with the fireplace. He seemed surprised to find me so strong; to be honest, so was I. He wrestled me to the ground, shoved me flat on my back, and pressed his knee against my sternum. The pressure against my lungs made it hard to breathe. Or maybe it was the fear choking me. I tried to scream. He gagged me with one of his handkerchiefs. Hot tears streamed from my eyes.

“I wish you didn’t make me do that. You have such a pretty mouth,” he said, stroking my cheek.

He flipped me on my stomach then, my face pressed against the carpet and my arms trapped beneath me. Keeping a firm grasp on my wings, he undid his belt. My wings shuddered. I felt as much as heard my own screams, so wretched and desperate that they sounded inhuman.

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve imagined this,” he whispered. “How many times I’ve been aroused by the thought of downy pillows and cotton balls and rain-heavy clouds.”

He rubbed my feathers between his fingers, then dipped his face to my shoulder blades. I could feel his breath on my skin. “Because that’s what I imagine an angel will feel like.”

I remember pain. White-hot searing pain. And shame.

Then, clutching my feathers in his fists, he began to cry. “You’re just a girl!” he wailed. “Jesus Christ. You’re just a girl after all.” Huge racking sobs rattled his chest.

“You stupid bitch!” he screamed, his voice hoarse with rage. He ripped feathers from my wings as he pushed into me deeper. Fiercer.

The ax blade was little — no larger than his fist — but it was sharp and when he yanked it from the woodpile, maybe he thought it would slice through my wings easily. But mine were nothing like the tiny bird wings he’d amputated before. My wings were strong and virile and had no intention of giving up without a fight. They thrashed and flailed so much that in the end he had to lunge and hack away at them like a crazed butcher.

When it was over, he tossed the ax to the floor next to my amputated wings.

“You tricked me,” he sneered. I moaned while he wiped the blood from his face.

Then he ran.

Emilienne made her way through a puddle in the hallway of her house with slow, cautious steps. In the kitchen she took a glass from the cupboard and placed it under the faucet. With a weary glance at the rain seeping in through the cracks around the windows, she realized that more water was the last thing she needed. One of the cats — the needy orange tabby — rubbed against her legs and mewed. What did Viviane call this one? Underfoot? Well, she thought, reaching down and lifting him into her arms, that seems fitting.

“Are the kids upstairs?” she asked the cat. He blinked once with his cerebral green eyes, which she took as a reassuring yes. As she was carrying him past the living room, the cat made a low moaning sound and jumped out of her arms, skidding on his hind legs as he fled down the hallway. In the living room, René sat on the harpsichord bench, his fingers tapping various keys in a silent song; he was alone.

Emilienne could still see the damage William Peyton had done to René’s face so many years ago. One eye stared blindly over her shoulder, the color muted by a white film; the other eye hung from its socket and rested on the sharp edge of his exposed cheekbone. Of his nose there was only a sliver of cartilage left. There was no mouth, no chin; his jaw hung at a crude and broken angle, which explained why his voice sounded so thick-tongued. As far as Emilienne could tell, he hadn’t a tongue at all. Or any teeth.