The Broken Angel's Wings: Death's Order, #2

The Broken Angel's Wings

by

Alisa Tangredi

Copyright © 2013 by Alisa Tangredi

Viverridae Press

Los Angeles, California

Also available in paperback

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Apart from actual historical events and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, businesses, incidents and dialogues are products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and should not be construed as real.

Cover Design by Flipcity Books

Formatting by: PyperPress

To siblings everywhere.

"The trouble is, you think you have time."—Gautama Buddha.

Chapter 1

Hildie: 1918, Haskell County, Kansas

Mrs. Wilkins, the baker's wife, was awakened with a jolt by a loud banging on the front of the door. She and her husband lived in a smallish room with a bed, kitchen, and bath, at the back of the bakery where she slept until 3 a.m.; the time to begin baking the bread. They'd lived there ever since the children had grown and moved on to lives of their own, and the older couple no longer needed much in the way of living space. Mrs. Wilkins looked over her shoulder at her snoring husband, then at the cuckoo clock on the wall, which read one-thirty in the morning. Who on earth would be banging on the door at this hour? She pulled on her robe and peeked out to see who stood beyond the glass. She could make out a small person, a child, leaning against the bakery door.

Dear God, she thought. Hildie, the little girl who lived in the attic over the grocery with her mother, pounded her hand repeatedly against the door. The mother was pregnant, the father one of many off fighting in the war. Was the baby coming? Was it here?

She rushed to the door and opened it, shocked at what she saw. The little girl appeared to have been severely beaten and there was a large gash that ran down the right side of her face. Wearing nothing more than a simple cotton dress that was dirty and torn, she was shaking, her dress covered with obvious bloodstains. Blood ran from the girl's legs onto the stoop in front of the door. What has happened to this child?

Hildie held a blanketed bundle in her arms with a quiet ferocity, making it obvious she had no intention of releasing it. Through a small opening in the blanket, Mrs. Wilkins could make out the features of a newborn infant. Dear God, she thought again. They were the only words that came to mind.

"Hildie? Come inside right this minute—we'll take care of you. Oh my dear, sweet girl, who did this to you? Is your mother all right?

Hildie stared up at Mrs. Wilkins with hollow eyes that did not seem to focus. She was in shock.

Mrs. Wilkins ran into the other room and pulled on her husband's arm until he awoke.

Hal, something terrible has happened—you have to get over to the Somers' apartment and check on Lillian. Hildie's here and it's bad. Terrible.

What? Hal wiped his eyes, not quite awake.

Get over there!

Mrs. Wilkins pushed her husband out of the bed and dragged him into the shop where Hildie stood, clutching the newborn. She witnessed an expression in the child's eyes so bleak that Mrs. Wilkins froze, as horrified realization seared through her. She had seen that same look in the eyes of soldiers returning from the war, soldiers who had witnessed and experienced unspeakable things. Her husband swore under his breath, but she heard him when he said, Goddammit, no. Those sons of bitches. He grabbed his rifle from the side of the bed and ran out of the room. When he got to Hildie, she ran into a corner and hunkered down, holding the blanketed infant closer to her.

Damn it to hell, Hal growled under his breath as he raced out into the night.

Mrs. Wilkins set the kettle to boiling to prepare a bath, then grabbed some milk from the icebox, poured it into a mug and carried it to the girl, using small movements so as not to frighten her.

Hildie, do you think you can drink this? She held the milk up to the girl's bloodied lips, but the girl turned her head.

That's a very bad cut on your face. May I tend to it? Hildie's haunted eyes were slow to focus as she turned back to Mrs. Wilkins. She spoke, almost in monotone.

The baby. Needs to eat. Don't know how to—

Oh, no. Not her mother— Mrs. Wilkins feigned calm and she stopped dabbing at Hildie's wounds, concentrating her attention on the tiny infant the girl held in her arms.

May I take the baby? See if it is okay?

She needs to eat. Mother said something about some powder food, or goat's milk.

Your mother is all right then? she asked, already knowing the answer, but needing to hear it.

My mother's dead. They are all dead.

All dead? What on earth is the girl talking about?

At that moment her husband came back through the door of the shop, the color drained from his face. He met his wife's gaze as she squatted on the floor next to Hildie, tears in his eyes.

Hal?

It's bad. The Gardner brothers. I don't know what all— He looked down at Hildie and something seemed to catch in his throat. I think one of 'em did that to her face with a belt buckle. She'll need stitches. If you can handle that, I need to go get the sheriff and take him to the Somers' place—that poor girl doesn't need to see another man tonight. Hildie, child, I— Without finishing, he exited the way he came, leaving Mrs. Wilkins on the floor next to the child, her mouth open. She tried to conceive of what Hal was implying, but she could not wrap her head around something more terrible than she already imagined. Such things did not happen. Not to sweet girls.

She helped Hildie up, careful not to jostle the infant she held clutched to her chest. Leading Hildie into the living quarters, she sat her down at the kitchen table. Taking a bottle of antiseptic from under the sink, Mrs. Wilkins poured a large amount into a cloth.

This will hurt, child.

Hildie spoke in the same disturbing monotone. I doubt it. Closing her eyes, she let Mrs. Wilkins clean her up. When Mrs. Wilkins got to Hildie's legs, she asked, Sweetie, may I lift up your dress?

Hildie's bright green eyes burned into Mrs. Wilkins'.

Can you stitch up my face? Mr. Wilkins said I'd need stitches.

Mrs. Wilkins sat back on her heels and assessed the determined expression on the child's face.

It'll hurt.

I doubt it, she repeated in the same alarming monotone. Hildie held the bundled infant tighter. The baby was oddly quiet. It should have been crying.

Hildie, I need you to set the baby down. I need to make sure she's okay. I've got a box of old bottles with nipples around here, somewhere and I'm sure we can get her eating something, okay—but I need to check her over. Would that be all right with you?

Nodding, Hildie handed the bundle over to Mrs. Wilkins, who took great care as she unwrapped the swaddling. The baby was naked, a girl, the umbilical cord still attached. The cord was ragged and torn from an inexperienced attempt to separate it from the placenta. Mrs. Wilkins tied off the cord as close to the abdomen as she could. The baby girl's breathing was even and rhythmic. Her eyes were open. Mrs. Wilkins was shocked by the clear green eyes that looked back at her with complete awareness. She could swear that the pupils in those clear eyes were swirling and changing color from blue, to red, to amber and back to blue again. Probably a trick of the light. She did a meticulous examination of the arms and legs, counting the number of fingers on the hands and feet, and she felt the baby's head for any lumps that should not be there. She then turned the baby over to check the back of her head, shoulders and the area along her spine.

That's when she saw it. Two crudely stitched gashes over each shoulder blade. There was very little blood around the wounds, which had been sutured with a heavy needle and the type of thread used for trussing a chicken. Aghast, Mrs. Wilkins applied antiseptic to the crude, amateurish stitches.

Hildie? Child, who did this? Mrs. Wilkins searched the eight-year-old's beaten and slashed face.

Mama said it had to be done.

Did your mother do this?

Mama's dead.

Reexamining the gashes on the infant's shoulders, Mrs. Wilkins grew more and more apprehensive by the moment.

Child, I'm going to ask you again. Who did this?

Mama told me I had to.

***

Hildie pulled aside the frayed silk curtains from the dirty attic window that faced the street below. She watched the people going about their lives; walking along the dusty street, talking, some in a hurry, heads downcast, unaware of the serious child watching them from above. She adjusted the blue star flag placed in the window until it hung straight; a flag that let the world know one of their loved ones was fighting in the war. Hildie's father. Gone nearly eight months. He had enlisted along with so many others when America—what had her parents said? Joined its allies. Blue meant someone was fighting. Gold meant someone had died. Hildie saw a lot of gold star flags in other peoples' windows. She wondered if anyone else noticed such things or acknowledged that inside, behind the flag, there might be a child who missed their father.

She looked over her shoulder. Her mother lay on the room's sole bed, her breath coming in short bursts. The baby would arrive soon.

Child, I need you to come here. There are things I need to tell you.

Hildie went over to her mother and sat next to her on the bed.

***

Hildie could hear Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins speaking in low tones in the other room. Mrs. Wilkins had mixed a sleeping draught that Hildie agreed to drink, but she remained wide awake nonetheless. She did not know when or if she would be able to sleep again. The baby, however, had no trouble sleeping and lay peacefully in Hildie's arms. She would name her Evlin. That meant bird—at least according to one of her mother's Latin books. She and her mother had made a game of reading a small bit to each other every night. If they weren't learning words in Latin, they would read an item from the Encyclopedia Britannica. They would not be doing that again.

Damn blue flags might as well be an advertisement. Gardner brothers knew they were alone up there.

What did Sheriff say?

He thinks that damn grain alcohol the three were selling must have been the batch that finally poisoned them. Horrible sight. Got what they deserved, if truth be told. Just wish it had poisoned them before they went after those poor— Mr. Wilkins didn't finish his sentence, but Hildie filled it in for him in her head.

She knew the grain alcohol hadn't killed them. She reached inside the collar of her dress and brought out a locket. Her mother had worn the locket, but Hildie took it when she fled the attic apartment with Baby Evlin. Hildie rubbed her finger across the surface where a jeweler had engraved the outline of a thistle. Carefully opening the clasp, she looked inside, making sure the contents were intact, then closed the locket and placed it back inside her dress.

Someone's got to get word to her father, she heard Mrs. Wilkins say.

Hildie knew that would not be happening. Her mother managed to tell her that much. The telegram lay face down upon the writing desk in their attic room. Someone would find it soon enough. Everyone would know they were hanging the wrong color flag in the window. The wrong color advertisement that they were alone. Hildie pressed her forehead against the baby's cheek. The baby opened her clear green eyes with their strange, swirling pupils. She reached up with one tiny hand and touched the wound running down the side of Hildie's face. A slight electrical current passed from Baby Evlin to Hildie. Hildie took the baby's hand and kissed it. It doesn't hurt. It just itches. It'll be all right. Don't you worry. It will all be fine.

***

The sun came up, but the usual smells emanating from the bakery were not there. Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins had decided to leave the shop closed for the day.

Hildie heard a commotion coming from the other room and raised her head to listen harder.

What in Heaven's name—what is happening out there?

Hildie stood up, holding the baby close, and walked into the shop. Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins were standing at the window, looking into the street. Mrs. Wilkins held her hand to her mouth. Hildie moved closer, worried.

A man stumbled down the street, his skin a strange blue color. White froth mixed with blood came out of his ears, nose and mouth. He toppled over in the street. People ran to assist the man, while others took off running in the opposite direction. She looked to see where they were running and saw two other people who collapsed and lay helpless, their skin blue, noses bloodied.

They look like the Gardner boys did when I found them, said Mr. Wilkins.

Are you sure? Sheriff said poisoned grain alcohol was what did it.

That young man there? That's Jack Cutter. You ever seen Jack take a drop of anything?

We have to go out and help them!

Mr. Wilkins put on his coat. More people were gathering in the street, some running, some calling out for help, others stooped over those lying in the street. Hildie stood without a word, staring at the pandemonium. She held the baby in her arms a little tighter, as her mind filled with dread and foreboding. Hildie and Evlin were not safe there. They had to leave.

Hildie tiptoed back into the living quarters, her mother's words echoing in her head: "Steal what you have to—" Her eyes moved around the room, searching for anything she might be able to take with her. Mr. Wilkins had filled a bag with her clothes when he went to the apartment with the sheriff and she inspected the contents of the bag quickly, selecting only those few items that would travel well and she could wash over and over. There were shoes, thank goodness, but no coat. She went over to the pegs on the wall where coats were hung and hunted through them until she found one that would work. The wool coat was too big for her, but heavy and warm and it would have to do. She gave scant thought to the fact she was stealing from the people who helped her.

"Steal what you have to—" Hildie did as her mother said. Hildie thought she was raving; that the pain of the baby coming was doing something to her mind, but Hildie was wrong. Her mother knew. She knew.

***

Come here, child.

Hildie's mother lay on the bed, sweat beads on her brow, her speech muffled as if her tongue might be swollen. Sitting on the bed and picking up a cloth from the water basin, Hildie wrung out the excess water and placed the cloth on her mother's forehead. She tried to make head or tail of the mumbling coming out of her mother's mouth. Hildie begged her mother to get a doctor or midwife to come help deliver the baby, but her mother insisted that it be Hildie, and Hildie alone, who helped her. The conversation ended abruptly and Hildie knew better than to disobey and talk back. Now, however, her mother spoke with great urgency:

Man in my dreams, her mother said.

Papa—?

Shush, now. Listen.

Hildie held her tongue. Her mother wasn't making sense. Dreams weren't real. Hildie knew that.

Her mother's voice sounded wet and ragged. Man in my dreams—name—rope—rope for hanging—rhymes with rope—danger—hanging—people hunting.

Hildie started to weep. Mama?

It rhymed with Rope—remember—child—protect the child—special—need help—protection—promise me—PROMISE ME!

Her mother's behavior terrified the young girl. Mama, we'll all protect the baby. You, me, Papa when he comes home.

Malcolm—your father—killed—not coming home.

Hildie blurted, Yes he will!

Her mother shook her head, struggling to continue. So sorry—so sorry.

Tears stung Hildie's eyes. She tasted salt in the back of her throat. What? Mama, stop it, you're scaring me. Stop it!

Couldn't tell you—the telegram—it's on the desk—protect the baby—people will try to harm—won't be easy—people you think you can trust—many others—always— Her voice trailed off.

Scared and confused, Hildie pressed the compress to her mother's head. Mama. Try to make sense. Who would want to hurt a baby? Her mother had always possessed a talent for knowing things before they happened: storms, or people coming to town, or where to find precious objects that were lost. What Mama was going on about now, however, insinuated something very different from her usual matter-of-fact manner with her foresight. She sounded delusional. Hildie applied more cold water to the compress.

Her mother shook her head, continuing with effort. You—must hide—it from others. When the child is born, you will need to take it, run away and never come back. Do you understand?

Hildie's eyes widened. Not without you!

Hildie, listen to me. Her mother grabbed her arm tightly, her voice suddenly lucid, focused and intense. I will have the baby. But it will be too much for me. I know this to be true.

No. No, Mama. That's wrong.

I am not wrong. Please listen. There is a man. This is important. Remember the man's name. She started drifting off again. Rope, rope, rhymes with rope—for hanging.

A contraction ripped through her mother, who arched her back. Grabbing the blanket, she put it between her teeth and bit down, suppressing a scream.

Hildie wiped her eyes, but the tears continued to come. Her mother was wrong. Her father would be coming home, her mother would be fine, the baby would be fine and they would get out of there together. It had to happen that way. It had to.

Between contractions, Hildie's mother forced out a few words. Get that powdered baby food that you mix. Or goat's milk. That will have to do for a while. You can find some. Money is in the coffee tin. Steal more when you run out. Steal whenever you have to. Protect the child. Do whatever you have to do to keep it hidden. Teach it to be calm and quiet and to never get upset. Her mother's breathing became raspy and blood ran from her nose. She whispered three final words: "Cut its wings." With that, her mother screamed as she made one final, agonized push.

"Cut its—Mama, you're talking crazy! Everything will be okay, you have to make it okay. Mama, please make it okay. Mama? Please?! Please, Mama!"

Her mother's eyes were open, unmoving, blood from her nose already congealed on her face as the infant was released from her mother's womb. A girl. Hildie could only cry, terrified, as her new baby sister came into the world, pushed from her mother's now-dead body. Hildie held out her hands and took hold of the baby, so slick with blood she almost lost hold. Hildie retched amidst her sobs from the sickly sweet odor of the blood in the air. Hildie held the infant, staring at the tiny helpless person. The baby girl had piercing green eyes, much like Hildie's, unveiled by the blue film that Hildie had seen on other newborns. The baby girl seemed to be completely aware of Hildie and reached up, brushing little fingers against Hildie's mouth. That was when Hildie felt it—a slight buzz.

The baby did not cry. Aren't they supposed to cry? Hildie laid the baby on her mother's stomach with shaking hands and stood up, filled with despair. She took a frantic survey of the room for something, anything that would help her clean up and wrap the new infant. She looked down. She needed to cut the umbilical cord that still connected the baby to her mother. Her mother. She looked at her mother's face, now slack. Hildie could barely see through the flood of tears running down her face. Her new responsibility terrified her. How was she supposed to do anything? She needed to get help. The Wilkinses across the street. Her mother liked them.

The baby broke her silence and wailed from across the room. The sound was deafening to the already distraught Hildie. She rushed to