Legends of Astræa: Cupid's Arrow Book 1 (Legends of Astræa Series) Page 7

  The blood fountain and the gory battle had transformed. I was standing outside, right in St. Mary’s rose gardens with him and five curious blue-skinned creatures who took off in the air, flying toward the blue sky. Even though I had decided not to act like a coward, the whole situation was too intense and overwhelmingly puzzling.

  “I have been looking for you for—so long,” he said.

  My heart could have stopped at that moment. Was he Mother Clarisse’s killer? I swallowed hard. I held my hand up to ward from him, trying not to freak out. I was doing a poor job. This cannot be happening, my mind repeated over and over.

  His gaze searched, trying to recognize the cloistral gardens. I didn’t know what he wanted from me. Almost, as if reading my thoughts, he warned me.

  “Now, I will come for you.”

  My primal instinct was to scream, but I think I was hyperventilating instead, because my chest was heaving, constricting for air. I was unable to croak one word. Gratefully, my feet moved away from him and those blue creatures. As if I could outrun them in my dreams. I never did. Compulsively, I turned my head to see if by chance they had disappeared. Crap. The blue furies were reaching for me. I was cornered, incapable of escaping. My heartbeat was thrashing in my ears, interrupted by the clear sound of wood desks scratching wooden floors.

  Suddenly, I felt my face plastered atop my book. I opened my eyes. I was back inside the classroom, sitting at my desk. Most of the girls in the classroom broke into nervous laughter around me, and a few others watched me with pity or contempt. I inhaled, suppressing a yawn.

  Daydreaming has been a regular thing happening during classes. But I think this was the first time it happened during Mr. Tarbelli’s literature class. One more reason for everyone to mock me more. Mr. Tarbelli’s voice took on a more intense tone to gather everyone’s attention. I nervously wiped my face with sudden panic, hoping I wasn’t drooling, and sat straight up in my chair.

  I looked up at him, fighting another exhausted yawn.

  CRAP.

  He was staring right at me. He stopped droning on about Othello. What was his problem with me? I looked down again, feeling my cheeks heat with either anger or self-consciousness, after the unequivocal feeling of the black knight’s touch that lingered persistently. I couldn’t decide which. Did I mention that I hated dreams of any kind?

  The bell announcing the time rang out, literally saving me from my own realizations and Mr. Tarbelli—hopefully. However, Mr. Tarbelli didn’t deviate his stare from me. He was so-o very annoying. The girls around me gathered their things, still giggling and scoffing at me. Numskulled, insufferable idiots.

  I rubbed my shoulder for the hundredth time this morning, gathered my notebook and pencil, and followed the trail out of the classroom. On the threshold, Mr. Tarbelli’s voice stopped me. Crap.

  “Miss Ailie, please stay. I’d like a word with you.”

  I turned around, catching an envious look from several of my classmates before Mr. Tarbelli firmly shut the door in their faces. They would be running from him if they had seen him like I had in my dream.

  Once we were alone in the classroom, he took off his thick glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. I shifted my weight on my feet and cleared my voice. What did he want?

  “I am sorry. I won’t keep you long. You’ll make it to biology class on time.” His eyes flickered to the clock. “I just wanted to ask you why I haven’t seen you at the library of late.”

  His voice was rich and melodious, his accent foreign, a blend of British and French and some other language I didn’t know.

  “The library?” Caught off guard, like a moron I repeated.

  I couldn’t tell him the truth, like, I haven’t been going to the library, sir, because I am tired of you finding out somehow—don’t know exactly how—about my unusual reading habits, my freaky talent for moving books with my mind, or my having a photographic memory. It was something Mother Clarisse devoted a great deal of time to making sure didn’t happen. Also, you’re making my life unnecessarily difficult because you’ve ruined my best getaway spot. It’s the last place Tiffany or any of the girls would spend their leisure time, so please get your nose out of my life.

  I almost laughed out loud, thinking about what his reaction would be if I ever actually said any of that. I sobered when I remembered some of my past punishments for “talking back,” and that was with Mother Clarisse there to blunt some of the meaner Sisters’ inclinations. I tried to make my face look as average as possible, uncurious, eyes dull and uncomprehending as I looked past him at the chalkboard.

  “Uh—I’ve been busy.” It sounded lame even to my own ears.

  “Busy. Uh, sounds like a load of twaddle to me.” He arched an eyebrow. Okay, I agree, but a bunch of… twaddle? Who speaks like that anyway?

  His eyes had no trouble focusing on me or reading the clock at the back of the room, without his thick, vintage 1950’s glasses. To get a prescription like that, he’d have to be practically blind with his glasses off. Why was he pretending to need them? There was definitely something not quite right about him. He was hiding something. I edged toward the door.

  “I—hum—uh… I’ve been practicing music for Mr. Pratt.” I lied again, secretly praying no one was keeping score and crossing my fingers that Mr. Tarbelli’s curiosity would stop short of asking another teacher about my whereabouts.

  I hated lying, but being too unnaturally smart was asking for a lot more trouble than a small white lie. Rule number one of my life, no doctors. Rule number two, never expose my gifts to anyone, or I could end up as a road show among other things that wouldn’t play as benign as becoming a circus freak, such as being exorcised (e.g., Sister Clementia). Rule number three, never attract any unwanted attention. Mother Clarisse had been emphatic about these rules throughout my life. I opened the door, not caring if he thought it was rude.

  He called after me as I left. “I’d be happy to show you some new titles that I think you’d like, and there is a new Latin dictionary that…”

  I didn’t hear the rest of what he said as I darted down the hall, but his words had upset me. I’d memorized the Latin dictionary that we had in the library the summer before and had been itching to get my hands on a different one. I wanted to see if I could resolve some issues I’d had in translating old texts I had stolen from the internet. He couldn’t know that… could he?

  I’d devoured everything I could find, even found a way to break through the firewall and opened the Internet access temporarily for my use. I researched some ancient Greek, Sumerian, Esperanto, and other languages like Sanskrit. Not that I had a thing for dead languages, but these ancient texts or mythologies seemed closer to giving me answers to what I relentlessly sought.

  Where did I come from? Why was I cursed with nightmares? Why did I have a photographic memory, levitation, telekinesis, and healing gifts? I’d been more inclined to think of them as “curses” and not the other way around. I needed answers. Logical ones. I wanted the truth, and school textbooks allowed at St. Mary’s never offered any real answers to anything. Latin had opened my taste for ancient languages and had broadened my understanding of anatomy, botany, and so many mathematical concepts, including logic and philosophy.

  Grievously, none of these texts explained something as obscure as my gifts, as Mother Clarisse used to call them, let alone the types of dreams I was having. Offering me a new Latin dictionary was like waving the newest Teen Vogue magazine to any of the girls at the academy. It was like piranhas on a piece of meat, like we saw long ago on a National Geographic video during biology class.

  Crap. Why was he so interested? How could he have known that I wouldn’t be able to resist asking about a new Latin dictionary?

  I swore he had some sort of powers himself. He always knew what I read even when he wasn’t inside the library when I read it. He was always throwing out quotes or references to the texts I had just read. He was too creepy, and that made me skittish.


  Maybe I was just being paranoid. My mind moved in different ways to figure out how to get to France, away from my nightmares. I had to find a way to get close to Mother Superior’s office. I needed to find my file. I needed an identification of any kind. But my chances were not very good with Sister Magdalene hovering around the place as the temporary headmistress.

  I would figure out something.

  Chapter 7

  I want to see my reflection on these floors before our new Mother Superior arrives,” Sister Magdalene commanded. Her habit covered her very scrawny body but not her witch shoes only reserved for prison guards, Russian cold war matrons, and old lady spinsters. That afternoon, I worked on my demerits. She had assigned me the polishing of the floors in the hallway and Mother Clarisse’s old office.

  I must have seemed too discombobulated to her, as I was holding back my grin while appearing to be somber. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. It just felt a little dicey to have the opportunity to be in that office alone. I’d thought of breaking into it at midnight, but now here I was, and I couldn’t stop grinning at my good luck.

  Hope surged and filled me with energy to last until I had gotten what I was looking for. I decided to start the hallway first, since Sister Magdalene was putting Mother Clarisse’s office in order before the new Mother Superior’s arrival.

  “Have you noticed how filthy these floors are?” Simone said to Tiffany as they strolled, giggling openly with their shiny new shoes and muddy soles over the clean floor. I wrung the dripping mop inside the bucket. I was supposed to be the example for the other girls, but in all reality, I was now target practice for them. The anger coursed like a shivering darkness.

  I prayed my anger wouldn’t get out of control. If it did, there was no telling what I might do. As if I didn’t have enough issues to deal with… Electricity sparked at the tips of my fingers. France, France, France, I repeated to myself, wishing they would get a clue. Otherwise, they would be dangerously in trouble. My humiliation was turning fast into restrain.

  Mother Clarisse’s voice rang in my head, a memory of her helping me control an outburst of power. The furniture, responding to my frustration, had started to fly around the room. She had knelt beside me, ignoring the furniture, and held my hands.

  “Breathe, little one, and start again. One step at a time. Don’t try to do it all at once, just start with the first little step.”

  I sighed.

  The memory of Mother Clarisse’s breathing exercises after a nightmare episode helped me calm down. I had learned some control over my freakish gifts, but I still struggled, lately more than ever. So I’d read everything that even hinted at knowledge of the occult or science to find any answers, or at least better ways of control.

  I hadn’t told Mother Clarisse because I knew she’d already done all she could for me, and I didn’t want to worry her more. But every day, more and more for the last month, I had the certainty that my gifts were growing somehow… exponentially, and there was nothing I could do to stop them.

  I shuddered a little at the thought of what could happen if I lost control now, or during a nightmare maybe. I had to keep myself under control until I made it to France. People did that every day—maintain control of their emotions that is. I could do that too. I had to believe that, to keep the rage and despair at bay.

  Slowly in and out, I breathed, and held back from doing something I would regret later. When I felt my heartbeat slow and my mind return to a less panicked state, I started to recite algorithms. Then I moved to thinking antonyms for hate, anything with the letter A. Appreciation, adoring, admiration… approving.

  I breathed better once Tiffany’s ADD kicked in and got bored of me. I glared at them as they left me alone. I made perfect timing, as sister Magdalene left the office for evening prayers. This was my best chance.

  The waiting room’s old sepia pictures of the first founders of the convent, the order crest, the paintings, and even the wooden carved cross hung as they had for the last sixteen years. I entered her office and felt a pang of sorrow when I saw Mother Clarisse’s three birds orchids blooming inside her office. Triphora trianthophoros was a rare native flower that the Sisters found in the beech forest of the island. Mother Clarisse loved them. My gaze moved along the wall across from her desk. She had been proud to present the academy’s honored students over the years on that wall. My picture had been taken down. I closed the door to the office.

  St. Mary’s hadn’t felt like home since, well… But it was my home, even though it didn’t sound like any description of “home” I had read about in my books or seen in photos from the girls at the academy. Even if I didn’t understand what home meant, I longed for it with all my heart. Particularly now that Mother Clarisse wasn’t here with me anymore. The loss was still latent, still raw in my throat. I shook my head. I had to focus. France.

  I turned my gaze to the wall clock. I couldn’t take too long to search for my file. Gratefully, I knew this office like the palm of my hand. The Sisters and Mother Clarisse never locked anything. Thank heavens.

  I had spoken too soon.

  Facing the large school cabinet, I pulled the first old drawer a tad too enthusiastically, almost breaking my fingers from the effort as the drawer didn’t open. It was locked.

  Sister Magdalene had locked all the files. I exhaled, wishing that for once my gifts would be useful. Picking locks was not one of the things that St. Mary’s taught in their extracurricular classes.

  Think, Ailie. Think.

  My eyes locked onto a little bowl on the desk. It was full of metallic clips. I had seen how the large mechanism of the school clock worked inside, last time the Sisters took it down for a good clean and oiling. A lock was a much simpler mechanism. I grinned at the stroke of inspiration. I was going to learn one way or another how to pick a lock.

  I unbent one end of the clip and poked at the lock. I felt something click inside as I pushed on the mechanism’s engrained teeth. But nothing happened. I sighed. I tried and tried. It kept clicking but wouldn’t do more than that. Thieves and spy actors in movies made it look easy. This was terrible. I couldn’t afford wasting this opportunity trying just to unlock one drawer. But I wasn’t quitting just yet.

  My mind was so focused on the lock and mechanism inside the lock that I felt as if I could see inside the lock. Suddenly, my brain conceptualized how the mechanism worked. If I could just use my mind as I did when I moved books. I focused on twisting the key engrain instead.… click. It opened. My gaze returned to the now useless metal clip still in my hand. I threw it away, feeling like dancing for my victory. I had picked a lock—successfully. My future as a thug was a possibility. Right.

  Quickly, I fanned through the names on the files. The file cabinet had every single file of every single girl at the academy.

  Except mine. Crap.

  I moved to other school cabinets and repeated the operation. At first, I was moving things inside the mechanism of the lock, but it was like walking blind inside a room looking for your shoes, and all you do is trip over things. What had been so different that first time?

  I had been so upset and focused on the mechanism that I swore I could see it from inside… did I? I did move the mechanism the right way. I inhaled and kneeled closer to the lock. I looked at it and concentrated, but I was still not seeing the mechanism inside. Crap. I was getting upset now. I closed my eyes and concentrated harder, as if I was looking at it with my eyes.

  Suddenly, my mind made me feel as if I was inside the lock and understood which engrained had to be twitched… click. This cabinet contained accounting files, inventories, and other merchant files, but still not one thing with my name.

  Even though I felt like patting my back, as I hadn’t spent more than a minute on the rest of the locks, I had found nothing. Crap. I hit my fist on the top of the third cabinet, even when I knew it could call for trouble. Blankety-blank.

  My glance rested on the door two steps behind me. It led to the con
vent files. The ones with every nun in the convent’s history. I mentally kicked myself for not thinking of it before. I guessed I could blame it on the fact that those files were hidden behind a door. I struggled a little longer than I expected with the lock that wouldn’t open on the first or the second try or the third, fourth, or fifth trial. This door lock gave me a little more trouble; it wasn’t like the other locks.

  The bolting mechanism extended from the center of the doorknob into the doorframe’s latch hole to keep the door closed and it was stuck. I realized then it wasn’t the lock but the door that needed maneuvering. I lifted the heavy old door with the help of the handle to release the spindle from the thin brass strike plate in the frame of the door.

  It was so dark inside the closet size space it was hard to see very well. I rubbed my eyes to help them focus and adapt to the darkness. Then, I searched the files. I considered the ones that were at least sixteen years old. I almost screamed for joy when I saw one with my name—Ailie. I gasped instead, containing my excitement as I opened the folder.

  It was empty. Not one paper. Not even a last name. Nothing.

  The gruesome disappointment and heartbreak I felt—as I closed my file, locked the Sisters’ file cabinet, and locked the door—was leaden with despair and hopelessness. I sighed, determined not to give up yet. I moved next to desk drawers, bookcase drawers, shelves, and finally the out-of-reach places. I was literally running out of options. I didn’t have a ladder to reach the dusty high shelves that probably hadn’t seen a soul for many years.

  I knew I didn’t have much time left to explore, so I used my mind to pull the first of the books. It fell straight into my hands, sending a nasty cloud of dust into my face. I held my breath as my nose twitched and itched to sneeze. I cleared the dust by fanning my hand and held back an impending sneeze.

  Then I pulled another book with Roman numerals and no title on the leather spine. It was a very old anatomy tome. I pulled another, then another and another. Old Latin, astronomy, anatomy, chemistry, and botanical tomes. I sorted through the dusty pages of each and every one of them. I found no hidden files, letters, paper, not even a bookmark. They were just very old books, nothing that would reveal where I came from. Frustration overwhelmed me.