Broken Wing by Judith James Page B

shoulder, sending him on his way. The crew, faced with his complete and utter indifference, had long since abandoned their harassment. Muscles aching, weary and hungry, he returned to his room. Sleep still eluded him. It came to him that night, though, and so did the dreams.

    The boy is lost, somewhere in the big house, lost and calling for him. He searches frantically, racing down endless corridors, tearing open doors, hunting from room to room, sick with dread. He finds him, whimpering, terrified, cowering
before a grunting, red-faced satyr. He knows him well. The German. Enraged, he reaches for his dagger, stabbing and stabbing, sharp blade into yielding flesh, plunging through cartilage and tissue, grinding against bone, over and over as the boy sobs in terror and blood gushes and spurts and pools on the floor
.
    He looks around. The boy has disappeared. There’s blood on his hands, but the urgency and rage are fading. He’s calmer now, floating, detached. He sees the bed. Luxurious, opulent, red silk and satin, a woman on it, beautiful and coarse, wearing only stockings, legs splayed wide in invitation, her busy fingers tugging, sticky with her own juices. “Come,” she tells him, command, not invitation
.
    Waking with a groan, his heart pounding with rage and fear, Gabriel heaved himself from the bed and prowled restlessly about the room. He stopped by the window, leaning his forehead against the cool pane, his body still shaking. Letting loose a gasp that was half sob, half laughter, he fumbled about until he found his brandy. He’d been drinking less these past weeks, but he always made sure he had a ready supply, close to hand. One never knew. He padded to the fire, stirring it and adding another log, trying to ward off the sudden chill that seized him.
    It seemed the longer he went without sleep, the more vivid his nightmares became, and the worse they became, the more he avoided sleep. He’d hoped that hours of strenuous labor would purchase some dreamless slumber, but he couldn’t seem to escape the viciouscycle that robbed his nights of rest or peace. He was grateful for it in a strange way. He’d been forgetting himself lately, caught up in a fantasy world, pretending he had a place here. It was foolish, and dangerous. The dream had served as a much-needed reminder of who he was and where he came from. He smacked his fist into the wall, abrading his knuckles, the sharp shock of pain helping him collect himself. This place was the fantasy, only the dreams were real. Best not forget it.
    Knowing he’d sleep no more this night, he donned a pair of breeches. Neglecting to put on boots or fasten his shirt, he made his way outside and down the steep cliff face to the beach. Still shaken, the dream had been so damn real, he began applying himself to the bottle in earnest. Wind whipping his hair and shirttails around him, grim and weary, he looked up toward the house. It was quiet and cold tonight, retaining none of the warmth and cheer that had been there earlier in the day. It had passed through, evaporating, as if it had never been.
    Nursing the bottle, he noticed with dull surprise that the moon was almost full. It reflected off the surface of the still water, a brilliant, beautiful, ghostly highway, beckoning unwary travelers to a haunted world of mystery and imagination. Duplicitous bitch! He shuddered and raised his bottle in salute before starting back, not really aware of how he managed the steep path in the state he was in, not really aware ofwhere he was or what he was doing, until he found himself standing under the tall oak, looking up at her room.
    Well, she’d promised him the moon, he told himself with a drunken chuckle. Barefoot, with a bottle in one hand, he managed to pull himself onto the lower branches. In short order, he leveraged himself over the balustrade and onto her balcony, without spilling a drop. Her door was open to the breeze, and he nudged it wider, standing there for several