Wolf of Cinders

My first moments of freedom begin with a crash and end in the back of a warehouse, my neck dripping with sweat and my limp, throbbing wrist lashed to a pillar. I stifle a groan, letting the heat seep through my bones and the ache through my muscles. If the picture were any prettier, I'd have it framed.

A throaty voice drifts to my ears, words elusive as mist in the dizzying heat. "And who are you?"

"Uh." The airship's steam and smoke mingle in the back of my head, stinging my nose though I'm far, far from the wreckage. I lift my shoulders in a meek shrug and let out a breath, the taste of sour and acid tingling on my tongue. "Who am I?" The words come in fragments. "Uh… I can't… I'm not sure…" I try to think back far enough to remember a name, but it's all a blurry haze, like of what I can remember I dreamt in a fitful nightmare. From the snippets of memory left still intact, I hope that's the case.

"Yes?"

MN-9 buzzes in my vest pocket, rolling anxious circles against my ribs as if to say, Luciel, please don't go into another bout of existential crisis. I've known you for years and years and I needn't see it again. Luciel. My heart throbs. My name is Luciel.

"L-Luciel, sir." I move to pat my droid, but my fingers hang stiff at my sides, too heavy and shaky to lift. I raise my head instead. Memories swirl like circus colors behind my eyes, hints of tastes and textures, faraway laughter and pains in my chest. They come back slowly, settling into my conscience like paint through cotton canvas. Traces of a ship's bow flit before my eyes when I blink, seared there from the crash, the darkness so heavy it encases the room like a lid of smoke. My eyes can't even adjust; I only see black.

"Speak up." The voice is harsh, the type that snaps words into barks. A militia man, no doubt. I feel a chill crawl through my skin despite the temperature. As time passes, I remember a few things. I remember how the moon shone through the hole in my box, the vertigo of the fall, the footsteps of scrambling ladies as they raced through the cargo hold and left me to die. I tip my head back.

"Luciel." A blush rises to my cheeks. My voice has a way of falling into a whisper when I speak.

MN-9 hums, driving a thorn through the silence. I don't know where I am. I don't know who I'm speaking to. Maybe pirates, maybe scavengers. All I can figure is that when the airship crashed and the blackness slunk into my conscience, they took me. Whatever happened, I don't want trouble. "Luciel Cheng. Nineteen. I mean no harm." I blink hard. Images move like ghosts at the edges of my vision, taking form if I tilt my head just the right way and squint just the right amount.

A man, portly and squat, looms over me, his belt buckle glistening in a faint glow as a slouchy creature prowls around me in tight circles, almost like a zoo cat. A strip of light flickers across the floor paces away. Even straining on tiptoes, that's the most I can see. I grip the edges of my jacket and hold my breath.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. The steps feel all jumbled in my head. It happens sometimes, forgetting how to breathe. It happens when you're part alive, part not.

It's thinking that, me being only part alive, that snaps me to my senses.

The creature straightens. "Cheng, " the light, lilting voice of a young woman says, rolling the name over her tongue as if trying it for taste. A little shiver creeps through me. The room drips with shadows, the air stale and pitch-black, the type that suffocates. Cheng. My head throbs like a mallet's striking away at it from the inside. "As in Clara and Arabella Cheng?"

My stomach drops to my toes. It's been years since I've heard anyone utter those names, but everyday I've cursed them. Questioned them. Missed them. MN-9's wheels spin though he has nowhere to go. My chest stings, and I nod, a throat too full of cotton balls to choke out words.

The woman sighs. "Speak up, boy."

"Yes, ma'am." I try not to squeak, bouncing from one foot to another. Pressure replaces the throb in my skull, like my thoughts have substance and if they keep filling up my head my skull will burst. I need to know the time and I need to get home, before the strike of midnight, before my transformation takes place. My chest heaves, if only a little, as I tug harder on the strap. No give. It only hurts my wrist. My body, sturdy and well-designed as it is, has little strength left in it. That's what happens when you spend a years of your short and somewhat miserable life in a cage.

"And you expect us to believe that?"

I stare bleakly ahead and will myself not to fidget. "I'm their stepbrother." My fingers wriggle weakly, my free arm dangling limp and my opposite elbow twisted at an odd crook. An earthy, pungent odor taints the air, like wilted herb. I stiffen. Shouts echo in the distance, the scraping sounds of heels dragging on an uneven floor. I did nothing wrong. You have no right to lay a hand on me!

"Is that so?"

I gather the last of my breath and finish. "I've been sent away. We've been estranged for five years." The words hurt to speak, so curt, so dry, such bones of the story they can't seed a sprig of the betrayal or loss that have dogged my entire little life. It's all still there, wound up deep inside. I can tell you the taste of spice candy, the jerk of frayed ropes around my wrists, the sticky heat of late summer. Some memories just don't fade. The edges never blur, crisp and clear as they were when they came.

Which is okay. These people don't need a sprig, not even a taste of what happened, but the thoughts still cuts deep to my marrow.

"Proof, " the man says.

"I-I have identification papers." I lift my hand to my pocket. MN-9 nests in my papers, his round mechanical skeleton snug against my body. Glass shatters across the room and a man yelps. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. "Who are you, anyway, may I ask?"

The militia man snorts. "Doesn't know who we are, he says. A Cheng, he says. A Cheng."

The woman whistles, long and low. When she does it sounds more like a canary song than a catcall. A red jewel sparkles on her pinkie finger, her slim hands propped on her hips. "Beautiful women, aren't they? They will make great royals."

"Aye."

Gasps. Splashes. I swear, I know nothing! Sparks rush to my chest. Part of me itches to fight back, to save the person being hurt. The other part is so wrapped in thoughts of my stepsisters I can hardly move. Beautiful women. They were pretty girls when I left, though I only remember them in fragments. Black eyes, thick lashes, glossy brown hair hanging in perfect ringlets down their necks. They matched in every way, but you could always tell who was who. Clara had a certain pride to her gait, chin up and back straight, her nose pointed in the air while Arabella clung to her petticoats, a shadow. I lower my head toward my bound wrist. They must still be pretty women now. A pretty family I can never be a part of. Someone snaps, yanking me from my stupor. "Identification papers?"

"Right. The papers." I force my voice louder as I wrestle the crumpled pages away from MN-9. He whistles his disappointment and I mutter an apology to him. I shove them into the woman's hand, fingers clammy and breathing labored. She doesn't even look at me. The man leans over them, so close I can feel his body heat. The smell of his spicy soap makes the room spin. Another sound of struggling, water splashing, gasps and hissed curses spill to my ears. "Can I go now?" I ask as she reads through my papers. I can't stand here. I have to do something and I have to go home.