Read Online The Weight of Feathers by Anna-Marie McLemore - Free Book Online
Authors: Anna-Marie McLemore
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heavy with poison. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to keep out what was falling from the sky. If she blinked enough of it in, it might leave her blind.
The rain burned into her. She curled up tighter, cheek against her sleeve. She shut her eyes tight enough to see comet trails of light. She tried to keep out the feeling that the rain was a million lit matches. And the strange smell in the air that was a little like apple cider if apple cider was the venom of some night creature, the rain and stars its teeth.
Cherchez la femme.
Look for the woman.
The moon showed Cluck a stripe of water. He knelt at the river’s edge and plunged in his hands, still burning from touching his shirt. The cold water hushed his palms.
“Cluck?” said Eugenie’s voice.
“Eugenie,” he called out, looking around. “Eugenie.”
Cluck stood up, fingers dripping river water. A dozen little flickers of motion pulled his eyes. The rain weighted down the tree’s branches, making them bow. Older greenery that couldn’t stand up to the chemical withered and slipped down.
The night was coming apart, because this town hadn’t let Pépère save it.
“Eugenie,” he yelled out.
“Cluck.”
He would have missed her if it weren’t for the wings looming over her. She had her back to a tree, leaves sheltering her. Her wings shone with the chemical. It slicked her flower crown and made it look heavy as glass.
Whatever she’d been drinking had flushed her cheeks, but her eyes stayed wide. The moon filled her pupils like milk in a bowl.
Cluck grabbed a handful of her dress. “Is this cotton?” He stretched the fabric, trying to tell.
She sucked air in through her teeth and pointed to his chest. “What happened?”
“Is this cotton?” His shouting cut her off.
“Silk,” she said, the word startled out of her. “ Mémère ’s.”
“Come on.” He pulled her with him, and they ran, the ground sticky under their feet. “Watch your eyes,” he said. Drops had fallen onto his cheeks and forehead. The fumes made him tear up.
The animals had all taken cover. No rustling in the underbrush. Only the steady rhythm of siren calls.
Eugenie stopped cold and slapped Cluck’s arm. “Look.”
About thirty yards off, a girl was curled under a tree, sparser than the one Eugenie had picked. Drops of the chemical rain trickled down.
The girl shielded her head with her arms.
Cluck knew the shape of her. He knew her hands. He’d seen her set them on her hips. He knew her hair, now frosted with chemicals.
And he knew with one look that her dress was made of cotton.
The rain would eat through her dress to her skin, and she would not know why. She was following the rules every teacher since kindergarten would have taught her. Cover your face. Protect your eyes. It held true for earthquakes, debris, hail, but not tonight. Because she was smart, and followed those rules, the rain would dissolve her.
Cluck held Eugenie’s elbows. “Get back to the house. Stay inside.” The rain on his palms cooled. He dropped his hands before they stuck to Eugenie.
“Cluck,” she said. Her pupils spread, the twin moons growing.
“Dammit, Eugenie.” He was shouting again. “Do it!”
She froze. She must have thought he didn’t know how to yell. But he wasn’t Alain Corbeau. When the sky started falling, he yelled.
She wasn’t hearing him. She only heard the panic in him. He saw it in her face. She picked up on his fear, tuned in to it like the static between radio frequencies, because she knew what fear looked like on him. She’d just never seen anyone but Dax put it there.
It threw her. He needed it not to throw her. Not now.
He grasped for something that would get to her.
“You need to make sure Noe and Mason get inside,” he said.
Georgette would have herded all the younger cousins into the house by now. But the names of Eugenie’s little brothers was all it took, and she ran.
Jugar con fuego es peligroso juego.
To play with
The rain burned into her. She curled up tighter, cheek against her sleeve. She shut her eyes tight enough to see comet trails of light. She tried to keep out the feeling that the rain was a million lit matches. And the strange smell in the air that was a little like apple cider if apple cider was the venom of some night creature, the rain and stars its teeth.
Cherchez la femme.
Look for the woman.
The moon showed Cluck a stripe of water. He knelt at the river’s edge and plunged in his hands, still burning from touching his shirt. The cold water hushed his palms.
“Cluck?” said Eugenie’s voice.
“Eugenie,” he called out, looking around. “Eugenie.”
Cluck stood up, fingers dripping river water. A dozen little flickers of motion pulled his eyes. The rain weighted down the tree’s branches, making them bow. Older greenery that couldn’t stand up to the chemical withered and slipped down.
The night was coming apart, because this town hadn’t let Pépère save it.
“Eugenie,” he yelled out.
“Cluck.”
He would have missed her if it weren’t for the wings looming over her. She had her back to a tree, leaves sheltering her. Her wings shone with the chemical. It slicked her flower crown and made it look heavy as glass.
Whatever she’d been drinking had flushed her cheeks, but her eyes stayed wide. The moon filled her pupils like milk in a bowl.
Cluck grabbed a handful of her dress. “Is this cotton?” He stretched the fabric, trying to tell.
She sucked air in through her teeth and pointed to his chest. “What happened?”
“Is this cotton?” His shouting cut her off.
“Silk,” she said, the word startled out of her. “ Mémère ’s.”
“Come on.” He pulled her with him, and they ran, the ground sticky under their feet. “Watch your eyes,” he said. Drops had fallen onto his cheeks and forehead. The fumes made him tear up.
The animals had all taken cover. No rustling in the underbrush. Only the steady rhythm of siren calls.
Eugenie stopped cold and slapped Cluck’s arm. “Look.”
About thirty yards off, a girl was curled under a tree, sparser than the one Eugenie had picked. Drops of the chemical rain trickled down.
The girl shielded her head with her arms.
Cluck knew the shape of her. He knew her hands. He’d seen her set them on her hips. He knew her hair, now frosted with chemicals.
And he knew with one look that her dress was made of cotton.
The rain would eat through her dress to her skin, and she would not know why. She was following the rules every teacher since kindergarten would have taught her. Cover your face. Protect your eyes. It held true for earthquakes, debris, hail, but not tonight. Because she was smart, and followed those rules, the rain would dissolve her.
Cluck held Eugenie’s elbows. “Get back to the house. Stay inside.” The rain on his palms cooled. He dropped his hands before they stuck to Eugenie.
“Cluck,” she said. Her pupils spread, the twin moons growing.
“Dammit, Eugenie.” He was shouting again. “Do it!”
She froze. She must have thought he didn’t know how to yell. But he wasn’t Alain Corbeau. When the sky started falling, he yelled.
She wasn’t hearing him. She only heard the panic in him. He saw it in her face. She picked up on his fear, tuned in to it like the static between radio frequencies, because she knew what fear looked like on him. She’d just never seen anyone but Dax put it there.
It threw her. He needed it not to throw her. Not now.
He grasped for something that would get to her.
“You need to make sure Noe and Mason get inside,” he said.
Georgette would have herded all the younger cousins into the house by now. But the names of Eugenie’s little brothers was all it took, and she ran.
Jugar con fuego es peligroso juego.
To play with
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