For all of my sixteen years, my life had been dislocated. I understood that now.

Outside my cocoon, my surroundings were transforming as well. Heat seared the backs of my wings. I smelled flames and soot. I sensed fires, chaos, and destruction. Once I finally got free, would anything still be standing?

Would Febe still be alive . . . ?

Molting must have depleted me; even though I felt gripping fear for my sister, I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

Sleep took me. Dreams arose. I saw myself spitting acid at foes and soaring through the sky with my new wings. I’d be able to defend myself with them; large hook-shaped claws tipped the ends of the largest flares. They would be razor sharp—

My eyes flashed open, and I was instantly awake. How long had I been asleep? Must’ve been hours. Movement nearby.

I sensed it as a predator would. Moaning sounded directly outside my cocoon. I could perceive wetness against my wings.

Moaning and . . . slime. Enemy, my new instinct told me. Destroy.

I needed to annihilate anything that came so close to me when I was vulnerable. I pictured using my wings to kill. I would corral my enemies with my large left wing, keeping them trapped as I struck with my right one.

This made perfect sense to me. Rightness.

At last the tight folds around me eased. My wings began to vibrate, the weighty hook claws tapping each other to make a rattling sound.

Like a snake, I was signaling that a predator prepared to strike. The sound pleased me, my own purr. I’d never killed before, but already I could tell I would enjoy it.

All was rightness in the world.

I leapt up, wings flashing out, knocking away people as I positioned myself. Wait—not people. Not anymore. They’d been turned into monstrous-looking creatures with filmy white eyes. Some more than others, all of them getting worse. They wore regular clothes, but their skin had the texture of a battered paper bag, as if they’d spent a thousand straight years in a tanning bed.

I readied to exterminate these bag-skinned creatures with my claws, and a sense of satisfaction hit me. This was what I was meant to do. No wonder I’d always felt like an outsider. I’d always been one.

I beheaded the first, then another. And another.

I recognized two things: I was as much a monster as these creatures. And I didn’t enjoy killing; I adored it.

Behind them, the neighborhood was mostly gone. Only brick houses here or there still stood. The rest was ash. I sucked in a breath. Including my family’s house.

Febe had been in the basement; she might have survived! Must get to her.

These things kept blocking me. As I downed more of them, I heard Febe’s scream.

She did live! I used my wings to shove creatures aside as I rushed toward the remains of our home. I spotted her in the dark, could detect the warmth of her little body—as if I had infrared vision.

She was running from one of those bag creatures, wending between flaming trees. Her eyes were blank with terror. The red glow of her heart was racing; I could see it.

We met gazes. She was just as terrified of me. Must explain. . . .

Leaping upward, I clumsily flapped my wings until they scooped smoky air—like sails catching a breeze—holding me aloft.

Getting accustomed. Easier now. I was flying! Ah, the rightness!

Where was Febe? There!

I landed a few feet in front of her, holding up my palms. She skidded to a stop, horrified, clearly not recognizing me.

I parted my lips. A clear liquid streamed out of my mouth; it spattered her face.

Acid? As in my dreams. Her flesh sizzled, her eyes and features disintegrating. Her shriek pierced the night.

Wrongness.

The Hanged Man (XII)

[Inactivated card]*

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