Authors: Judith James
Broken Wing
This book is dedicated to the lost boys. God bless them. May they all
find a place to belong, and someone to love them as they deserve.
Published 2008 by Medallion Press, Inc.
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2008 by Judith James
Cover Illustration by Arturo Delgado
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset in Adobe Caslon Pro
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 9781605429779
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
I’m one of those lucky people who have a family you can count on through thick and thin, and are also a great joy to be around. I’d like to thank my three best friends and beta readers, my wonderful, literate, talented sisters, Cindy, Linda, and Sandy. Without their insights and always constructive criticisms, and more importantly their enthusiastic support, this book would never have been finished. I’d like to thank my Mom and Dad who didn’t blink an eye when I quit a nicely pensioned day job to try my hand at writing, but said good for you, you can do it. They’ve always been that way. I’d like to thank Karen, who helped me brainstorm at a pivotal moment, and along with Geraldine, graciously changed her itinerary in Europe so I could visit Paris and do a little research. Thanks ladies. A special thanks to winemaker extraordinaire and captain of The Irish Rover, Nick Dubois, who (with some help from his Mom) helped me with my French. Any faux pas that remain are mine.
Thanks also to my ever-patient agent, Bob Diforio, who took a chance on an unknown unpublished author with an unconventional book, and Pat Thomas for listening and for her help with the early editing when I didn’t know anything at all. Special thanks go to the Medallion team, who are so supportive and such a pleasure to work with, from Christy, my copy editor to Jim and Adam and company in the art department. I don’t think there could be a better experience for someone launching their first book. People told me how scary it could be, but these folks made it fun. In particular I’d like to thank Kerry Estevez for all her help, and for saying just the right thing at just the right moment; Helen Rosburg for taking a chance on a first novel that doesn’t quite fit the mold; incredible artist Arturo Delgado and everyone else involved in producing a gorgeous cover, and my editor Janet Bank for her enthusiastic support, always constructive guidance, and for “getting it” and helping me write the book I wanted.
Last, but most important, I’d like to thank my beautiful talented daughter Danielle. A couple of years ago she gave me a very special leather bound journal inscribed with the words. “Whatever journey you choose to embark on in the coming years, here is a place to recount it. I hope it brings you luck.” It was there I wrote the first chapters of Broken Wing, and she is all the luck I’ll ever need.
ROLOGUE
Wearing a new suit, shoes pinching, blinking from the searing sun, his eyes are riveted on the door, black and menacing. The knocker, a grinning gargoyle, watches him, knowing eyes alive with malicious glee. This is bad! A bad place! He whimpers with dread as the door opens. They mean to leave him here. He knows it. Sorry, sorry, sorry! Whatever he’s done, he won’t do it again. Not ever! Please! I don’t like it here! But they push him forward and he’s powerless to resist. “Pretty child!” he hears as the black maw opens. They reach for him, greedy grasping hands pulling him inside
.
He’s running as fast as he can down endless twisting corridors, past open doors, afraid to look inside. He catches glimpses, angry red faces, leering smiles, whips and chains and naked flesh, and something grunting. He hears moans, sibilant whispers, ugly cries of pleasure and of pain as he tries frantically to find a way out. Something horrible, evil, is right behind, reaching for him, grabbing at his heel
,
plucking at his shirt. He dodges and twists, too terrified to turn or look. If he did, it would be upon him, and he’d be lost
.
No door, no escape, and still he runs, breath straining and heaving, heart hammering and rattling in his chest. Up ahead, the figure of a woman turns toward him, beckoning. Hope. If only he can reach her, take her hand, she’ll lead him from this place. A burst of speed, hand outstretched. He’s jerked back savagely, his ankle caught in a grip that burns his flesh and freezes his soul. Still he fights, fingers scrabbling, gripping the carpet, tearing gouges in the floor as he’s dragged inexorably back into the seething, gaping maw. Soundlessly he screams and screams and screams
.
Gabriel crouched on bended knee, hunched against cold stone above an ancient alley fetid with the smell of piss and vomit and cooked sausage. A door slammed in the distance. The sound of cursing, a man’s and then a woman’s, was followed by slaps, screams, and then silence. Far away, the sound of a guitar drifted to him, melancholy in the cold night air. There were sounds from the building behind him, closer, but muffled through stone and mortar and thick brick walls. He tilted his head back and took a long swallow from the decanter beside him, as he gazed, unfocused, into
the distant heavens.
Once, years ago, before all sense of wonder had been beaten out of him, he’d climbed up here on a crisp, late, August night, and stumbled into an enchanted fairyland. Magical lights had danced overhead, streaming across the sky, leaving arching trails of color and fire in their wake. He’d made wishes upon them, one after the other, and dreamt for a short time that they might come true.
Stupid child!
This night’s sky was black, cold and uncaring; relieved only by the glittering shards of harsh and distant suns so far from his reach they offered no warmth, no illumination, and no comfort. Desperate to escape the nightmares that chased him through his sleep, he caressed the blade held tight between his fingers, wincing as cold steel slid delicately through tender flesh. There was a little frisson of pain, almost pleasure, as crimson life oozed in a delicate band, slowly encircling his wrist. Again and again, steel kissed flesh. Not too deep. Not now. Not yet. Dead inside, lifeless and empty, the crimson bracelets offered a needed proof that for now at least, he was still of this world.
Holding his arms out, he turned them experimentally, left, right, his wrists barely visible in the pallid light, though his eyes had long since grown accustomed to the dark. The blood had thickened, slowed, almost stopped. Angry dark lines mingled with paper-thin silver and white ones, in an intricate pattern of defiance and despair. He allowed himself another
swallow, a solitary pleasure, a small comfort on a cold and cavernous night. He sensed the dampness in the shifting wind as it lifted a strand of his hair and fluttered against his cheek. It was a cold caress that chilled him to the bone. Looking up, he saw clouds scudding and scurrying across the night, like frightened little creatures scrambling to escape some implacable, hungry beast.
Slumping down out of the wind, he rolled onto his back, fingering the blade. He drew it gently across his cheek, back and forth. His lips curved in a jaded smile. He knew he wouldn’t do it. He had no skills but those of a whore. No assets, nothing of value but his body and his face, and while he lived he needed them, treacherous and degraded though they were. As for death, well … there was the boy to consider. He didn’t understand it really, how he’d left himself vulnerable this way. There had been a plan, money hoarded and hidden, a goal, and always there had been some small measure of control. He could refuse a thing if he wanted. They would punish him, yes. Make him pay and try to make him regret it, but they
were
running a business and he was valuable, and they never went too far.
Then the child had come, and something inside him, something weak and treacherous, had betrayed him. He’d wanted … needed … to protect the boy, to keep him safe and innocent. Well, as innocent as a child could be this close to the brimstone, he reflected,
with a grin and another swallow. They’d found it amusing, but more importantly, they had found it profitable, and so it was allowed, because Gabriel would do anything to protect the boy. And so he had, anything and everything.
He pulled himself up, sitting with one leg bent. Tucking the blade in a coat sleeve, he wrapped his arms around his knee and rested his chin. A chill had seized him. His task was almost done. It seemed the boy had a family. He supposed all stupid lost little boys dreamed of a family that would come to find them, moving heaven and earth until they were safe again at home. It never happened, though. But this time, against all odds, it appeared to be true.
Wee little Jamie, well, James, now, he supposed, had a family who’d been searching for him these past five years, and they’d found him, or the runners had. There were two of them now, posted in front of Madame’s establishment to make sure that the child would not be lost again. They were coming for him, this family of his, a man and a woman, all the way from England. They would arrive before the week was out.
Good! He was glad for the boy. He couldn’t have kept him safe much longer. He was a pretty child, fast growing succulent and sweet. There had been a close call already. He would soon be worth more than Gabriel’s obedience, and then he would be lost. Now he could scamper home, safe and sound, singed by the flames perhaps, but not consumed.