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  I spent the days and weeks wondering about Force and Courage and the rest of my family. In a lot of ways, being stuck in the cabin was worse than the eight hundred years I'd spent trapped behind that wall in England because there had always been people around the house in York. Here, we were isolated. There was nothing to listen to. Nothing to fill my time except my dark, gloomy thoughts. The cabin was a dismal little place, hardly any light making its way through the filthy panes of glass on the windows. I thought things couldn't get any worse. But I was wrong.

  One night Vilschka came home and told me we were moving. After roasting a rabbit in the fireplace, she gathered up her collection of tools and chains and left for a short while. When she returned, she made a second trip, taking with her the small treasure hoard that had accumulated on the cabin's counter. Then it was my turn. She swept me out of the cabin and into the air. It wasn't long before we reached our new home.

  It was an old mine cut into the side of a low cliff.

  Vilschka had a short length of chain that she wound around my ankle and fixed to the iron rail on the floor of the mine near the portal door. Then she went looking for more chains. She brought back some heavy links that had been used to restrain a large dog, the huge black and tan beast still dangling from the end of the chain. The unfortunate creature was alive when she started hacking it into pieces, its agonized yelps echoing through the tunnel before it finally died. Then she roasted the meat over a fire at the mouth of the mine and stuffed her mouth, her tongue snaking out to lick at the grease that slid down her chin. It was chilling but it could have been worse. It could have been a human.

  With nothing to listen to and nothing else to think about, I couldn't help but worry about what the future held for me. And my mind kept traveling to thoughts of Dare. How he'd survived his captivity. What he'd done. I wasn't sure I could be that brave.

  Unlike me, Dare had been kidnapped while in his living form before he was chained at the back of the harpy's aerie where the sun couldn't reach him. At that point, the harpy's standard MO is to bring back some vulnerable young human and torture it until the gargoyle agrees to her demands, which usually start with an unlimited supply of venom and go up from there. She almost always negotiates for the gargoyle's rune, which binds him to her forever. Without that, the gargoyle would spend his every living moment trying to kill her.

  Dare knew all of that, and before the harpy had a chance to haul home a likely victim he plunged his hands into her cooking fire and charred the skin on the back of his hands, sealing his venomous barbs beneath his knuckles. And he did that after the harpy had torn out his wings. So he did it knowing he couldn't escape from the side of the high cliff she called home.

  For me to pull off something like that, I'd need to be in my living form. Of course, the harpy would want me to make the change, eventually, to get my venom. So I thought I might get the chance to ruin my barbs somewhere down the road. She'd positioned me near the door and my chain was long enough that she could pull me into the sunlight when she wanted to. But Vilschka wouldn't let the sun touch me until she had things set up the way she wanted them.

  I decided that if I got the chance to make the change—even for an instant—I'd close my eyes and try to plug my ears so that I wouldn't be moved by the pleas of her victims. But I never got a chance. And eventually, Vilschka settled on a tool she thought she could use against me. The harpy was probably limited in her choices and had probably grabbed up the first human that was handy—a young lass with short blond hair and big brown eyes.

  At first glance, she didn't seem like the sort of girl who would move a gargoyle's heart. By her dress and hair, she looked like a bit of a harlequin who belonged in a troupe of performers like the ones that traveled the countryside back in my time. But my senses told me she was more than she seemed.

  And when she started singing, I wanted to warn her to be quiet. Because harpies hate music and I was afraid Vilschka would beat her. Which she tried. But somehow the tiny lass dodged the harpy's massive fists. And after that, you wouldn't believe the insults that spewed from the young girl's mouth. I'm talking sailor material. Maybe even pirate.

  And against all odds, I suspected I'd found my soul mate.

  Torrie

  Chapter One

  I think I have a personality disorder. If I were famous, people would probably call me eccentric. But since I'm not, I'm just considered socially awkward. Naturally, there's no treatment for the condition. It's not even recognized by the medical community. People just ignore it like it's your fault for having it and they hope it will go away one day. And while they're waiting, they hope you'll go away.

  But people like me aren't that easy to get rid of. We're always hanging around saying the wrong thing and doing the wrong thing and never realizing it until it's too late and regretting every word that comes out of our mouths. As soon as I'm old enough, I'm going to start a support group. Socially Awkward Dorks.

  I've never fit in. Back in elementary school, I was the kid standing alone on the playground during recess. Well, unless there was a dodge ball game. Then I was the kid with her back against the wall while everyone else tried to nail me with one of the volleyballs.

  I don't know why I don't fit in, exactly. But I do know that I'm different. I don't like scary movies or roller coasters and I don't understand why people would actively seek ways to be afraid. I don't enjoy seeing people humiliated, not even in movies that are supposed to be funny; I have too much empathy for the victim. And I don't understand why sports fans feel so connected to their national teams when nobody from their town is on the team.

  I try to be honest and keep my word. People don't expect that and don't appreciate it; they'd rather hear a tactful lie than the truth. I like to talk about current events instead of clothes. Not that I don't like clothes; I do. But when it comes to purses, I think a backpack is more practical. And I could care less about shoes. I mean, they go on your feet. How sexy can they be?

  So by now you can probably understand why I don't fit in.

  But I was never big enough to fight back on the playground—not physically—so I fought back with words I'd learned on the school bus, and spent a lot of time in the principal's office…which my parents didn't appreciate in the least. Needless to say, I got grounded a lot which didn't bother me so much after I discovered books. I read a lot.

  And eventually I got really good at dodge ball. I was a small target to begin with. And I swiftly became a fast small target. And when my classmates couldn't hit me anymore, I was an outcast again.

  Things didn't change much in middle school where I always wondered what it would be like to have friends. But I never found out. And every day, I ate lunch alone at the end of a crowded table. That's the problem with living in one place all your life. You never escape your past. At least, not until you go away to college. But if my father got his way, I'd probably end up at CU Boulder like my sister, Sam. And my history would follow me around like an ugly dog for the rest of my life.

  Then something changed just before I started high school. That summer, I'd "suddenly matured" as they would say in the old language. I hit puberty hard, shooting past all the A and B cup sizes and went straight into a bra with a label that said I was a 34-C. I was still short and a little on the heavy side but now my chest entered the room several seconds before the rest of me got there. And the boys in my class weren't slow to notice. Now several previously disinterested boys were suddenly amazingly interested in me. But the interest wasn't exactly mutual. I'd played dodge ball with most of them and the memories weren't especially warm ones.

  So I bought a bunch of loose black clothing to hide in, whacked off most of my hair and occasionally dyed it different colors like blue or purple or black. I'm blond so my hair's really easy to color; I did it myself at home.

  And in the middle of my freshman year in high school, I still didn't have any friends but I suddenly had a self-appointed boyfriend…that I didn't really want. Joey wasn't really
interested in me, per se. But he was fascinated by the leverage on my upper body. I don't think he ever looked me in the eye, never dragging his gaze any higher than what I'm sure he considered his personal squeeze toys. But interested or not, he attached himself to me like a parasitic growth with red plastic gauges and yellow boxer shorts. When I thought about him—which wasn't often—I wondered if he owned five identical pairs of those yellow shorts or only one. It was scary thought. And one that I didn't want to explore too closely.

  He kept his hair really short, which wasn't a good look on him because his head was so round. If you're gonna wear your hair short, you've gotta have a handsome head. He didn't. Not that anything else on him was handsome. He was thin and had an overall scrawny look, probably due to his arms, which were too long for the rest of him. He reminded me of Gollum, only with more tattoos. And he called me piggy like he thought it was romantic and cute. Why would any girl ever want to be called piggy? Especially a girl like me. I'm already self-conscious enough about my weight. And my nose. Polite people would call it upturned. But if you entered me in a dog show, I'd probably bring home a prize in the Pekingese category.

  Joey isn't even from Boulder. He transferred in from a North Denver school after getting into some kind of trouble. I don't know what kind of trouble but he's definitely a gangsta wannabe. He's an EAOO student. That means that he's been kicked out of a bunch of schools and Exhausted All Other Options.

  I tried to tell him I wasn't interested. I tried to tell him he wasn't my boyfriend! But the guy just wouldn't take a hint. Evidently "get lost" isn't assertive enough. And he thought I was being playful that time I jammed my knee between his legs. He didn't realize I was trying to stop him from passing along his genes and creating another Joey Blazic.

  The only guy I was really interested in hung out at the Boulder skate park. He was a really good skater. Way better than me. But I wasn't too bad. He was really cute, with thick blond hair and dark green eyes. He wasn't the reason I skated but I was always hoping I had half a chance with him because he'd never gone to school with me and he didn't know anything about me and my history. But he wasn't interested. I'd like to say he didn't know I was alive but he did. I know that for a fact because of what happened this one time, down at the park.

  I'd had a good morning. At least, I hadn't fallen or bailed. I dropped into a bowl, pumping hard, and came over the coping going faster than I wanted to. But I managed to land my board with only the slightest wobble. I checked to see if he'd noticed. He hadn't. And as I stepped off my board, I tripped and went sprawling. Embarrassed, I rolled into a sitting position and checked my knees.

  While I was picking the small pieces of gravel from my skin, I noticed a pair of jean-clad legs standing beside. Right away, I knew who it was. Because only the really good skaters wear jeans instead of shorts like everyone else; that's 'cause they never fall down so they don't have to worry about putting holes in their Levis. Anyhow, it was him; the blond super skater. And for about three seconds I thought maybe he was there to help me up. It amazes me, sometimes, how naïve I can be. Even after all the burns that have been tossed my way, I still hope for the best from people.

  His lip curled as he looked down at me. "Hey Loser," he sneered, his gaze sliding critically over my thick white legs. "Why don't you just give up?"

  Now, if I were a kickass heroine like the ones I read about, I'd have a whole list of comebacks to throw back at him. Like, "Why don't you just pull your head out of your backside?" I wish I were that kind of person, but I'm always taken by surprise when people are mean. I get kinda shocked speechless. So I just stared up at him. Seriously, you'd think I'd just witnessed a murder instead of a minor cut down. At least I didn't cry. But my reaction was just one of the things that makes me a loser.

  With crap like that going down in my personal life, you'd think I'd be happy to get home at the end of the day, right? Wrong. My father is like this total control freak and I live under the weight of his big fat oppressive thumb. For some insane reason, he's convinced that one day I'm going to do something crazy bad that will bring shame upon his tribe. He's ridiculously old school and thinks that giving up your virginity before you're married should be a punishable offense. If he had his way, all offenders would be publicly water-boarded twice a day in the public square, or down at the mall.

  At the same time, he thinks that girls and women should always behave like ladies. I don't know how he expects all of us to be ladylike in today's world and remain virgins. But whatever. It's really sad because, when it comes to my virginity, my paternal dictator doesn't realize there's no one at my school worth losing it to.

  So when I'm at home, I lock my bedroom door and read. And stand up to him whenever I get the chance. Like the time I cut up one of his dress shirts to make a top to skate in. Okay, maybe that was asking for trouble but he has like thirty of them hanging in his closet. I didn't think he'd miss one little pink shirt. And one time I dyed my hair four different colors. My father said my head looked like a patchwork quilt…whatever that is.

  But when I came home with two new piercings I'd paid for with my Christmas money, it was too much for my pater's conservative sensibilities. He grounded me for a month. And the only place I was allowed to go—besides school—was the library. Which is where I was headed the night everything changed.

  Chapter Two

  It was a Saturday evening in January and I was on my way to the library to pick up enough reading material to get me through a month of grounding. On my shoulder, I carried a backpack with a few things that might come in handy if I decided not to go home afterward. I wasn't running away. Not really. But I was upset enough that I wanted to leave the door open in case I changed my mind.

  So I'd stuffed three long-sleeved tops into my backpack along with a brand new package of undies, the ones that are labeled with the days of the week. Yeah, I never outgrew the weekday-panty-phase that most girls give up in second grade. And it cracked me up that Sunday always seemed to be either black or red. You'd think those colors would be reserved for Friday and Saturday. What were they thinking, right?

  Buried beneath my undies was my makeup bag with some eyeliner, mascara, lip-gloss and a large compact for eye shadow with a fair-sized mirror. And in one of the side pockets I'd stashed my toothbrush along with a tiny sample tube of toothpaste. So, even if I was running away, apparently I didn't plan to be gone long.

  The evening was cold but clear, the stars glittering overhead like tiny rhinestones on a black velvet dress. Which is what I'd wear to my wedding, if I ever got married. Which wasn't likely, considering my limited options. I didn't like the sound of Torrie Blazic. It just didn't have the right ring to it.

  I was still wearing my new piercing jewelry—the gold rings in my eyebrow and lower lip—but knew they wouldn't last long. As soon as my father calmed down enough to speak again, he was going to make me hand them over.

  My breath formed a fog in front of my face as I hunched inside the brown suede jacket I'd found in a Boulder thrift store for ten bucks. It was fringed and vintage and killer but I was wishing I'd worn a warmer coat and thinking that running away really wasn't a good idea. Not tonight, anyway. Not before I went back home and got my heavier coat with the hood.

  And while I was having this timely epiphany, something clamped onto my shoulders and hauled me up into the sky. I was so surprised that I screamed. And I'm really not the screaming type. But I was in shock, my legs pumping the air like I was treading water. "What the hell?" I shrieked. "Let me go!"

  My staring eyes locked on the ground below, and I was so busy worrying about falling that I didn't look up to see what had grabbed me. And as I tried to make sense of what was happening, I wondered if I'd been singled out by a government drone. Why would I jump to that conclusion? I don't know, but I thought my father might secretly work for some unavowed branch of the CIA and he'd suddenly outlived his usefulness—which wasn't hard to believe—and the agency had decided to "off" him and his entire f
amily. Secretly, of course. They wouldn't want any loose ends or witnesses. Hence the drone. That might sound like I'm the kind of person who's always looking for a conspiracy theory to latch onto, but the truth is I just have a healthy imagination. My father doesn't work for the CIA or anything interesting like that. He's just a government accountant reporting to a branch office in Boulder.

  Anyhow, I finally tore my gaze from the ground below but it was too dark to make out what was carrying me. Strangely enough, it seemed to be flapping through the air, rather than buzzing or droning. And I couldn't hear the hum of an engine driving the thing. But that didn't stop me or my wild imaginings. I just decided it was one of those crazy clockwork spy drones I'd heard the government was developing. Some of them are supposed to look like bugs so they can crawl around the villas of millionaire drug lords and eavesdrop. This one was on a much larger scale, of course. I figured it probably cost at least a million.

  As the lights of Boulder faded into the distance, my imagination kicked up a notch and I considered the possibility that the government was actually trying to save me from an enemy attack because my father had blown his cover or pissed off someone important. In that case, there might be a handsome young nerdy agent operating the drone who would fall in love with me regardless of the fact that as soon as I opened my mouth I'd say something excruciatingly awkward. As you can probably tell by now, most of the books I read have absurdly happy endings.

  But I didn't want to seem like I hadn't been paying attention just in case I did run into a cute nerdy agent, so I focused on my surroundings and tried to keep track of the landmarks I passed down below. There wasn't much starlight to help with the job, but the white backdrop of snow definitely made things easier.