Chapter 2
Monday ran. She dodged people on the side walk, a few giving her a disapproving glance but she had to keep running. She imagined sirens behind her, lights tracking her down the pavement. The sounds of the city echoed against the pavement as her ragged breath became her running anthem. Don’t look back is all she could think about.
As she ran, the buildings had changed from the mossy elite bricks to the more eclectic ones of Martha Street. Bright paint had transformed the cracked bricks into a miss-matched mob of color. The farther Monday ran, the more fatigue set in. A stich in her side forced her to stop. She lead against the glass, catching her breath and listening for any sound that she was still being chased. Nothing, the sirens were gone if they had ever been there.
Monday stopped to catch her breath and turned to see what she was leaning against. The window belonged to a bakery, between the man sweeping inside and the window was a cake that caused her to stare. Decorated with a nature theme, the cake was a cream color with acorns and berries sprinkled around the tiers as blue hydrangea flowers wrapped the cake. Around the cake were cream cupcakes with little acorns and hydrangea on top, they were made with such precision that Monday imagined the little bees hanging off of the cake were swarming them just for a taste of the sweat nectar that Monday so desperately wanted herself. Monday rested her head on the glass just staring at the mouthwatering masterpiece.
The world suddenly swirled around her as every breath felt like an ice cold dagger ripping her apart from the inside. Monday felt the world start to fade. She vaguely heard a bell somewhere as the world lost focus. Monday slide down the glass and curled up against the brick underneath. All she needed was something to eat. She tried to look up into the passing people’s faces but her head was throbbing. Monday felt wobbly as she heard the bell go off again.
“Shut up you stupid bell,” she muttered and looked up. A man in his early 30s stood over her. Everything about him seemed stretched; he was tall with long limbs that seemed to stick out of his black slacks and his long neck adorned with a Star of David stuck out of his blue shirt. His raven black hair was slicked back and gave his hawk like face an added edge, hazel eyes bore down on her. Monday looked at his brown apron; BORNE BAKERS was stamped on the front in blue letters. Monday groaned, she didn’t feel like running again.
“No soliciting. I don’t do hand outs and I don’t need any more vagrants to scare away my customers.”
“I don’t want to be a vagrant,” she mumbled. Monday wanted to move but didn’t have the energy to stand back up.
He reached down to Monday, but she wormed her way out of his reach. “You have five seconds to leave or I’m calling the cops,” the man pulled her up to her feet by the arm. She tried to run but fell over herself.
She couldn’t run this time. Monday felt tears coming but didn’t want to cry. “Please don’t call the cops. All I need is something to eat and I’ll go. If you have anything that’s stale I’ll take it and be out of your way. I don’t have any money but I’ll find a way to pay you back just please don’t call the cops. Please!”
The only thing holding her up was his grip on her arm. Monday felt weak again. Monday couldn’t tell if her speech worked, the man just puzzled. He looked around nervously and pulled her inside. Monday gave up fighting, hoping that whatever he did, didn’t involve the cops. He gently put her down in a wooden chair, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He sounded like he was talking to a lost puppy. Maybe he would hurt her after all.
Monday looked around after he left her alone. The room itself was nice. The walls were a burnt orange color that gave color to the hard wood floors. On one wall was a long wooden counter beneath it was smaller cakes as elaborate as the cake in the window. On the wall behind the counter was a massive blackboard with prices written in yellow chalk. As Monday sat by herself, with only the noise from the small TV hanging in the corner, she tried to imagine what the man was going to do with her now that she was inside. A few moments later he came back and put a slice of cake on the counter in front of her.
“Sorry about that. My husband gets mad if I don’t try and scare off drifters. Been meaning to through this out, but you could use it more than the dumpster.” The man picked up his broom from the corner and went back to sweeping as if nothing had happened. Monday looked at her food, then back to him. He looked up to see her not eating and looked confused, “Something wrong?”
“I almost ate poisoned food this morning. I’m kind of wary of food now?”
The man came over, pinched off a piece, and ate it, “Better?”
Monday still didn’t touch the cake. “I can’t pay for this now, but I’ll find a way to pay you back,” she promised.
He shrugged. “You can have it. It’s on the house.”
“Thank you Mr.?”
“Borne. You can call me Ezra though.” He went back to work, and Monday gave into hunger. It was stale carrot cake, but the relief of filling her empty stomach was all she cared about. It hurt to have something on her stomach but it also felt refreshing. Ezra left the room again and came back with the rest of the cake and a glass of water. Monday devoured another slice. “How old are you?” he asked.
“I’ll be 18 this summer.” Monday said, taking a sip of water. Ezra shook his head sadly, “What’s your name?”
“Monday.” She said, going back to her cake. She started feeling full again but kept eating, fearing this could be her last meal for a while. Ezra laced his fingers together on the counter and leaned forward. “If you were this hungry, why didn’t you just go to a shelter?”
Monday forced down her bite, choosing her words carefully, “I can’t go home. If I go to a shelter now, then they might find me and send me back. The way I look at it I only have to wait until I’m 18 and they won’t look for me anymore. If I can just stick it out till then, I’ll be okay.”
“You almost passed out in front of my shop. Is your family really that bad?”
Monday looked down at her plate and pushed it away, feeling ashamed. “Please promise me you won’t call the cops. I’ll leave and never come back. I just can’t go home.”
Ezra pursed his lips and sighed. “I should, but I won’t. Feeling better?” He asked.
“Yes. Thank you,” Monday said. She didn’t know what to say to him. She played with her hands in her lap. She looked up at him, feeling lost. “Why did you do that? You could have sent me away like everyone else.”
“Could have, but remember being down on my luck with nowhere to go,” He picked up her plate, “I hate seeing people suffer. It drives my husband crazy when I try to help everyone out.”
“Husband?” Monday asked.
Ezra held up his left hand, showing a wedding band. “Michael, we’ve been married 6 years this month. You’re eating our leftover anniversary cake.”
“Did you make this?” Monday said.
“Hell no! I can make better than that store bought crap. It’s only here because I hate eating my own cakes,” Ezra laughed. He pulled a piece of cake from under the counter. “This is my work. Try it.”
Monday felt a little overfull but tried it anyway. It was a pumpkin spice cake and it taste melted in her mouth. “I don’t know why you hate eating your own cakes. This is the best cake I’ve ever had. Why would you hate eating this?”
Ezra beamed. “You spend hours or even days working on something, just to destroy it. I can’t do that to my work.”
“So you make cakes but hate eating them?” Monday asked. “Doesn’t that seem pointless to you?”
“Probably, but people make things all the time that they never enjoy.” He said. “So what were you doing this morning that almost got you poisoned?”
“I was eating out of the garbage behind Le Veau when some guy warned it was it was poisoned. He sounded crazy, but I thought it was best not to try it,” Monday said. She thought back to Pat. On the surface he didn’t seem sane, from screaming about myths and eating poisoned food, but the fear in his eyes made Monday rethink. She looked Ezra in the eye. “He kept going on about these things called Nightlings. Do you know what they are?”
Ezra looked surprised. “It’s Syringa folk lore. Everyone knows the stories. Why?”
“The man who warned me about the food told me about them. The way he talked about them made it seem like the town was possessed?”
Ezra shook his head, “It’s just a tourist trap that they use to bring people in. There’s a few place that sell souvenirs. You must be new to town if you’ve never heard of them. Some people in Syringa live in this weird fear of them, but it’s just a local legend.” Monday lend in with interest, “What’s the legend?”
“There’s a poem about them,” Ezra rested his chin on his hand, and told the tale with solemn tone, “Men by day, monsters by night. Nature sent, for sin to fight. Heaven fallen, Hell’s delight. Blooded revenge, Man’s demon hound. Bitter hearts and bitter bound. Gifted with angels flight, has become the Nightlings plight.”
The tale captivated Monday but broke her heart. She could identify with their bitterness and from what she could tell, Ezra could to. Ezra looked back to her and shook his head. “It’s just some tourist gimmick. Nothing to worry about.”
Monday didn’t believe in fairy tales or myths. She believed the world had enough evil in the world to need a villain for heroes to fight, but the Nightlings seemed relatable. Lonely creatures with bitters hearts. “They sound tragic to me,” Monday said meeting Ezra’s eyes.
He gave her a sad smile. “They probably are, if they existed.”
“Communist, do you want to say grace?” Sorin’s grandfather asked. It was times like this that reminded him how much he didn’t fit in.
“Bless us Oh Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive, from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord.” He said with his Romanian accent. He didn’t speak with a thick dialect but he made sure to emphasize it when his grandfather felt the need to insult him, “Amen.”
His grandfather sneered, Aunt Beverly slightly shook her head, and Chloe smiled. For the past few months, this was how most dinners would go. It was a script that Sorin followed like a sermon. His, grandfather, who had suffered a stroke years before Sorin arrived, would usually sit in his wheel chair and find a new way to insult him. Aunt Bev would try to keep peace between them. She was a pudgy woman in her 40s who dark brown hair was already striped with gray. She had kind eyes behind her thick glasses; she was the kind of person who gave up her job as a nurse to take care of his grandfather full time. Chloe was five; she ate up everything that Sorin said with enthusiasm. He was different to her, his brown skin and gray eyes clashed with the rest of the family, but she didn’t judge him for it. It didn’t bother her that she looked more like a Blair than he did.
The only difference tonight was that his cousin, Henry, was over. He was a few years older than him be Henry casted a large shadow. He was taller than Sorin, with cropped dark hair and thin glasses that highlighted his Blair blue eyes. Unlike Sorin, he looked like his father. Henry had brought Chloe home from a play date and stayed or dinner. He added an extra distain to the table.
Sure enough, Henry added after everyone lifted their head, “Sorry, I couldn’t under what you said. Can you speak English?”
“Henry,” Aunt Bev shot him a disapproving glance, “If you can’t behave, then you can leave.”
“It’s okay Aunt Bev,” Sorin turned to Henry, smirking, “You’re still my favorite pulă.”
“That had better mean cousin assho-”
“Henry, Chloe!”
“Yes mam,” Henry glared at Sorin, “So how was your day ‘pulă’. Aunt Bev said you spent the day with Marcus.”
“Yep,” Sorin liked Marcus’s company as much a Henry hated it. Marcus worked with the family for a social program. Being his father’s assistant, Henry was often in meetings with Marcus. “He took me by my parent’s grave.”
Aunt Bev glanced at Henry, warning him to play nice. Grandpa spoke instead, “I don’t like him. He medals too much. No much better than that slut your father ran off with-”
Sorin’s fork scraped the bottom of his plate, his grip was too tight. Aunt Bev intervened, “Chloe, why don’t you tell us about your playdate? Did you have fun with Lucy?”
Suddenly the door rang. Before Sorin could get it, not wanting to be at the table, their house keeper opened the door instead. A moment later, she came back, “Mrs. Blair, your brothers here.”
“What’s he doing here?” Aunt Bev asked. Abe Blair came into the dining room. “You could have called first.” She told him.
“Sorry about the interruption, I just came by to pick Henry up.” He said.
“Great plan, Dad,” Henry kept eating, “to bad I drove myself here.”
“I also wanted to talk to Sorin.” The table was quite. Sorin’s uncle didn’t hate him but didn’t like him either. He often just ignored Sorin’s presence in the family. “We have a hunting trip coming up and wanted to know he could come. You’ve hunted before?”
Blair hunting trips were a private affair, in the few months that Sorin lived with the family he was never invited along. Sorin shook his head, “I’m not much of a hunter. My dad tried to teach me but I wasn’t very good at it. I’ll just slow you down.”
“Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time in the garden like a-”
“This is a special trip,” Abe said, “We have some unique game this time.”
The reaction was sudden. The color drained from Aunt Bev’s face, Henry looked down at his plate, and even Chloe was quite. Blair hunting trips were a private affair, in the few months that Sorin lived with the family he was never invited along. Grandpa spoke up, “I don’t want him to go. It’s a coming of age tradition. For Blair’s only.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, he’s a Blair. Is about time that he came along.” Abe glanced at Sorin, “It will be a bonding experience. Don’t you think?”
Sorin looked around the table. The way that everyone looked at him made him uncomfortable. He felt his uncle’s hand on his shoulder. Sorin didn’t want to, but he felt like he didn’t have a choice. Sorin nodded his head.
“Great,” His uncle said, “We can go later this week.”
“What are we hunting?” Sorin asked.
“Snipe,” his Aunt answered. She looked at him with such a look of sorrow; he felt the hair on the back of his neck stick up, “You’re hunting snipe.”
Monday finished her cake as Ezra finished sweeping the bakery. The sun started to set, casting an orange glow throughout the bakery.
Ezra finally put the broom down. “I hate to kick you out of here, but I need to run a few errands before it gets too late. You understand, right?”
Monday nodded and stood up, ready to leave, but Ezra asked her to wait. She waited as he disappeared back into the kitchen and came back with a paper bag; he scooped up the leftover cake and handed it to her. “It’s not much, but it should tide you over for another day or two. If you want, you can come back for more.”
Monday looked down at her bag. Her eye started to water, but she held tears back. Monday hung her head, not wanting to meet his eyes. “Why would you want me to come back? I can’t pay.”
“Because I know what it’s like to hit rock bottom. If you want to pay me back, then you can give me a smile.” Monday looked up at him and gave him a small, genuine smile. Ezra smiled as he placed his hand on her shoulder, leading her out of the bakery.
After they said their goodbyes, Monday stood outside the shop for a few moments, enjoying the setting sun, until the streetlights flickered on and the sky faded to black. The wind picked up and chilled her to the bone. Monday wrapped her jacket around her, holding the bag close to her so that her food wouldn’t go cold.
It took Monday a while to find her way back after wandering through the empty streets. By the time that Monday made it back to the graveyard, dusk had passed and the full moon was the only light. The darkness, Monday admitted, gave the cemetery a sinister edge as the creepy glow from the moonlight cast off the headstones; the city’s only noise calmed down and imagination filled in the void with creeks that echoed, giving Monday goose bumps as she hugged. Before Monday went back into her makeshift home, she decided to pay Alyson one last visit before she turned in. On top of her grave was something new, a gift.
It was a single vibrant blue rose, the bright pedals had an unearthly beauty to them, and they captivated Monday, as they seemed to glow in the moonlight. Monday picked it up. Someone had trimmed away all of its thorns. She turned it over in her hands, admiring it, and thinking about the boy from this morning.
Monday heard a voice from somewhere in the graveyard.
“Thought you would leave me there to die.” Pat stumbled out from behind a mausoleum. He was twenty feet away but even from a distance Monday could tell he was drunk. He locked his eyes on her as he staggered over. “Leave me to the Nightlings?”
“I didn’t leave you to die,” Monday said, staying calm, “I had to escape.”
He came closer to her, his glossy eyes were cold. “And leave me to the Nightlings?” He was now starting to scare her; there were no houses nearby so no one could hear her scream.
“It wasn’t the Nightlings who were after us,” Monday said, her voice began to crack; “It was only the owners.”
“They are part of them. They all are. Everyone could be a Nightlings. You can’t trust anyone.” Pat stepped closer to her, so close that Monday could smell the alcohol on his breath, “Even you could be one. You have the eyes for one. Black eyes, for a black heart.”
Monday stepped back as he raised his hand to her face. “You are one aren’t you?” he asked raggedly.
“I’m not, Pat,” Monday said moving away, “They don’t exist.”
“LIER!” Pat yelled, lunging forward. Monday moved away and ran as Pat chased her. She was faster than him, but she knew her last meal would only carry her so far. She dodged graves as she heard him yelling for her just a few steps behind. The cold cut through her throat and made every breath painful. She had to keep running. She saw an open mausoleum, so she made a quick turn for the safety of the Iron Gate, but before she could make it she felt Pat grab her hair. Her head jerked back as he pulled her onto the ground.
Monday pushed away from him. She tried to crawl but he grabbed her foot and pulled her back. She dug her nails into the ground but it didn’t help.
“You’re not getting away this time, Nightling. You can’t hurt me!” Pat shouted.
Pat pinned her down and she kicked at him, but he was too intoxicated to care. “Please Pat! I’m not a Nightling! Please let me go. Please Pat!” Monday pleaded. Pat glanced over to a rock lying nearby. He reached for it, as Monday closed her eyes and started to cry.
The end never came. She heard Pat scream and the weight on her chest lifted. Monday opened her eyes and saw Pat staring back at her, twitching, as blood gushed out of an open wound in his neck. Monday felt frozen in shock as she watched Pat fall over, his eyes looking out in frozen horror. The horror intensified, when she looked up and saw what had killed him; she scrambled back against a tombstone.
She screamed.
The man-sized creature was thin and bony. Its leathery wings matched its pale skin. They stretched out behind it, creating a shadow over Pat’s body. Blood dripped down its pointed face and down its fangs, coating leathery ears that poked out from a mop of dark hair. It snarled at her and she let out a small gasp. The creature’s black eyes seemed to bore into Monday; she felt her heart race as she pressed herself even more into the head stone. Thankful she had something to hold her up.
The creature crawled over to her and knelt down in front of her. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth and she started to gag. The creature seemed to study her. Monday wished that it would kill her and end this nightmare. It reached out a hand and held her face, its bloody claws dug into her skin. To her surprise, it spoke in a harsh but familiar voice, “I didn’t expect to find a Fledgling tonight.”
Monday felt around her and found the rock the Pat had almost killed her with. The creature seemed to back up a bit and Monday seized her only chance. She hit the beast against the side of his head. Dropping the rock, she scrambled to her feet and ran as fast as she could.
“Monday!” The creature hollowed. She looked behind her; it was running on all fours like a wolf and was gaining on her. A glint of gold around the creature neck, reminded her where she had heard the voice from before. At that moment, Monday didn’t think of Fledglings or Pat or even Alyson in her own grave, but with her own hopeless escape. Monday turned to see how far away the gate to the cemetery was, when suddenly hit her head on the stone wing of the angel’s grave. Monday fell to the ground, unconscious; the last thing she would remember was the monster looming over her.
Novels by Megan Bennett 