When the guards were out of sight, I left the tree, flew to the balcony, and landed without a sound. Quickly I folded my wings but not before Pietro had turned to see me, alerted by my shadow.
He gaped at me. I tucked my wings beneath my poncho. His mouth opened but no sound came out. I didn’t know what to say, either—like, surprise?—but then realized if I didn’t sit down, I would fall down.
“Here,” he said, pushing his desk chair at me.
I collapsed onto it, trying to stay conscious.
“What the hell happened to you?” he asked. He tore a shirt from his closet, balling it together and pressing it against my bloody cheek. It was some kind of soft fabric, nicer than anything I’ve ever owned or felt.
“The Chungs were looking for witnesses to yesterday’s duel,” I said, unable to keep bitterness from my voice. “I didn’t tell them anything, so they marked me with a C, for Chung.” I gestured to my face, which was now numb with pain. “They were about to cut my vocal cords out, ’cause I wouldn’t talk.”
“But you escaped, thank the gods,” he said… letting his voice trail off. “I’m… guessing you flew away?”
I shrugged, and Pietro rolled his eyes. “Wings? Seriously, you’ve got wings and you never told me.”
He was half impressed, half pissed, but I didn’t have the energy to fight. I only shrugged again, and Pietro pulled the blood-soaked shirt away from my face, then went into his bathroom, returning with a warm wet towel. Gently he started cleaning the cut, and I felt fresh blood seeping out.
“You need stitches,” he decided. “And new clothes. And a bath. Don’t go anywhere.”
Before I could protest, he had left the room. Had this been a terrible mistake? Had he gone to call the police, or worse, his father, who hated my guts?
CHAPTER 15
I tried standing up but sank back down again, my head swimming. I pressed the towel against my cheek firmly, trying to stop the bleeding. In general I tended to heal really fast, but this was pretty much the worst injury I’d ever had that wasn’t a broken bone.
The door opened and I looked up in alarm. Pietro stood there, leading an older woman into his room. Then he closed and locked the door.
“This is my friend,” Pietro told the woman, whose jaw dropped at the sight of my wings sagging tiredly out of my poncho. “I need you to stitch up her face, and anything else she needs.”
The woman closed her mouth. She wore the standard Pater uniform, but hers had “Dr. Morelli” embroidered on it. “Yes, my lord,” she said faintly, which tickled me. Pietro was barely sixteen, only a little older than me. But he was a prince. A my lord! I tucked that little nugget into my brain, determined to bring it out sometime to give Pietro a little razzing. I wondered if I could get the lab rats to start calling me “my lady.” It was worth a try.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” the doctor murmured as she worked. She’d given me numbing shots, and I couldn’t feel the needle and thread moving through my cheek, thank the gods.
“Yep,” I agreed, feeling really tired. The numbness felt like it was spreading past my cheek, down into my throat, like even talking was just too hard.
“I’m going to give you a couple shots to kill germs,” she said, tying off the thread and biting it loose. Then she swabbed the whole area with something that smelled like the cheap booze a lot of Opes resorted to when they couldn’t get dope.
“Okay,” I said.
“And I’ll give you some tablets for pain,” Dr. Morelli said, straightening up and putting her tools in a black biohazard bag. “When the numbness wears off, it’ll hurt like hell.”
“Yeah,” I said glumly. “I figured.” I mean, that’s pretty much my theory of life, anyway.
Pietro thanked the doctor, got her promise of secrecy, and let her out. Then he stood looking at me, tapping one finger against his face.
“Should we talk about the wings now?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I guess I was experimented on, like a lot of kids,” I said.
“Can I look?” he asked.
Frowning, I nodded, and Pietro slowly removed my poncho, seeing the big slits I had cut into my T-shirt. I felt him carefully move the fabric aside and gently touch my covert feathers with his fingers. I almost jumped when I felt his warm hand between my shoulder blades, stroking my smooth skin.
He leaned back and looked at me. “How come I never saw these when we were kids?”
“’Cause I keep ’em hidden,” I said with exaggerated patience.
“I don’t think you were experimented on,” he said, and I opened my mouth to argue, but Pietro held his hand up, stopping me. “Or at least, not for these wings. There’s no scars, no grafted seams, nothing. They look like they grew out of your back naturally. Totally a part of you.”
I’d always wondered but had never wanted to ask any of the lab rats to look. We’d all seen our share of pain; asking someone to look at more was just cruel. But if I wasn’t experimented on… what did that mean? I shuddered a little at the thought, but Pietro seemed intrigued rather than grossed out.
“I assume they work?” he asked, rocking back on his heels.
“Well, yeah,” I said.
“I’d give anything to have wings like that.” Pietro looked wistful. “They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
Slowly he rose, leaning over me, one hand on the back of the chair. My eyes flared as his handsome face came closer and for the first time I saw him not as my childhood pal Pietro but someone new and different. Someone who had just saved my life.
Holding my breath, I watched as his lips came closer to mine… and suddenly the emotions of the day, the adrenaline, the loss of blood, and the fear all caught up with me. I put my hand against his chest, stopping him.
“Gonna barf,” I said, and lurched to the bathroom.
CHAPTER 16
The McCallum Children’s Home had wretched, green-tiled showers with bad lighting that gave off the feeling that unspeakable monsters in the water pipes could come up through the drains and grab our feet. Besides that, I didn’t trust the cleanliness of the water from the showerheads. Once Calypso got a rash that only showed up after we cleaned her, so we didn’t shower too often. By the time Clete and Moke were twelve, they stank. We all figured we’d rather be dirty than get sick.
Pietro Pater had, in his own private bathroom, a deep porcelain tub that could have held at least three lab rats. There was soap that smelled like flowers. The water was steaming hot.
“Come here,” Pietro said, and before I realized what he meant to do he had pulled my cut-up, blood-soaked T-shirt off and thrown it in the trash. My eyes were wide as I stood there in pants and a sport bra. He reached for my pants button and I grabbed his hand.
“I can do it,” I said, a blush rising.
“Okay, but they go in the trash, too,” he said. “I’ll find something for you to wear.” He put his hands on my hips as if gauging my size, then looked me up and down until my face heated. “Geez, you’re tall,” he said, and straightened up to look me in the eye. He was maybe two centimeters taller than me. Maybe.