House of Vultures, Maggie Claire [fun to read .txt] 📗

the use of Carreglas.” Another answer bubblesout of my throat unbound, despite my efforts to quell it. “I wantto know about Cane and Cyrus, and their father too.” Embarrassmentforms a pit in my stomach. I feel like asilly child for asking about boys. There are so many more importantthings going on right now!

“You feel uncomfortablefor the questions in your heart?” The Carreglas’s visage shifts,fading and solidifying as it floats around me. “Do not worry overwhat is said here. Whatever is asked remains in my confidence.”Crossing in front of me, the image raises a finger and brushes itagainst my cheek. Every place where we make contact seems to buzzwith electrical energy. My teeth rattle with the strange current.“Some say truth is perception. What do you say to this,Iris?”

“I’m not here to playgames! Just show me how things truly are, and I will figure out therest,” I answer, throwing my hands up into the air in frustration.It gives me the chance to back away from the specter and releasemyself from its touch.

The ghostly creature laughs, its shapeflickering with every chuckle. “Spoken like a true Gwen. But youare young yet. You will learn that in the minds of youradversaries, the truth that they cling to is not always the realitythat you hold precious. The people of Déchets believe themselves tobe justified in their battles. You, and the rest of Cassé, claimthat they are wrong. Who determines what is truth?”

“Do you only speak inriddles? All my life seems to have been filled with half-truths andmysteries. I just want to know what’s real!” I howl, my handsgrasping at my temples as if they radiate with pain.

The ghostly face turns very still asshe points to me once more. “Very well, Iris. Reality you shallsee.”

A blinding flash of bluishlight stains my eyes, and in its afterglow, I see the faintlikeness of the Carreglas’s true form lying in a smooth rock basin.It is a white stone with streaks of iridescent violet and ceruleantarnish. It appears to be no larger than the size of mypalm. How could something so small andinsignificant cause all of this?What’s so special aboutCarreglas?

Then the light shifts, and aheartbreakingly familiar scene appears before me. Two dark hairedboys play in the fields in front of my white sided house. My fathernervously drives up to the front door, his eyes twitching toobserve every movement around him. My mother stands on the porch,wringing her hands as he approaches.

“Is it done?” Mom asks,her voice both a soothing balm and agonizing curse to my ears. Myheart forever bleeds its sorrows from my unhealed emotional scarsas a sharp pain tears into my chest.

Dad nods, and my eyes drift shut as hespeaks. “There is nothing more to be done. If the people of Déchetsdecide to use their gifts against us, then we are doomed. We don’tstand a chance against them, darling.”

“Then we need to take ourdaughter and find the Pith. I know you don’t see it from my side,but my father always claimed that there were—”

“Stop, please. I cannotlisten to this!” My father slumps as he scuffs his feet on thestairs.

“Do not shut me out!” Mymother cries, reaching out for my father’s arm to stop him fromentering the house. “Listen to my warnings, my love. The leader ofDéchets is ruthless! He will stop at nothing until he’s overtakenCassé. Being this close to the Devil’s Spine is suicide! Do youwant that for our daughter? Or do you want to give her the chanceto survive?”

My father stares hard at my mother,assessing the sincerity of her words. “We will leave, but I willnot take our child to the Pith. On that decision, dear wife, mymind is made up.”

“Our bags are packed. Iwill tell our daughter. She’ll be upset that we’re leaving on herbirthday. But if leaving tomorrow allows her to see even one moreyear, it is worth the sadness she’ll face today.”

Then, as subtly as a gentle breeze, Iwatch my mother turn her body toward the door. As she twirls, theleaves and dust in our front yard rise up and spin at the exactsame speed. She turns back, drawing her hand in a slow motion fromthe left of her waist to the right. The vortex forming in ourdriveway stills at her command.

“No! She couldn’t havebeen a Windwalker!” I cry as the vision fades. The weight of mysuspicions about my mother falls around my neck like anoose. How had I never noticed itbefore? “Iwatched her die that very next day. Surely if she was a Windwalker,she would have been spared!”

“Did you see her die?”Echoes the voice of the Carreglas around me. I want to affirm it,but doubts creep into my mind. “What did you see that day really,Iris?”

Dread almost stops my tongue as Iwheeze. “Show me.” The fateful day appears in translucent images.It is sunny, and for a moment the brightness blinds my sight. Westand near an open netting where colorful birds from all over theland squawk and flutter. My seven-year-old form presses against thenet, nose peeking through the mesh. The stiff breeze toys with myhair as the dust on the path begins to twist behind me, but I amtoo entranced by the birds to care. From this outside perspective,I can see my parents tense and face the opposite direction of thebirds, hands linking as they wait for the attack.

The Windwalkers materialize as thoughthey are a creation of the breeze. My father pushes my motheraside, and she spins as a tornado envelops her body. That’s when mychild self faces the scene, witnessing my father’s disintegration.Every detail is painstakingly accurate, right down to the momentwhen his hair crumbles like dust.

“Run!” he shouts his lastwords to me, and obediently, I scamper into the shadows. Yetreviewing the events of this day, I wonder if he hadn’t beentalking to my mother, who twirls helplessly not six feet away, verymuch alive.

“Where is she now?” Iwail, a thousand thoughts and curses in my mind.How could she abandon me? Why did she leave me behind tosuffer everything that has occurred since then? Did she ever care for me atall? Why did sheallow my