"He's coming!" Giselle whispered, and looked down at her lap.

etienne continued his walk around the cart until he was facing Frans, who was reaching into his purse. He flipped two coins to etienne. "Was the beast a trouble? I saw her talking."

"She muttered the sounds of an animal. Nothing I could understand."

Giselle looked up at the voices and for the briefest moment wondered who these two were who imprisoned her in a cage. In the next instant etienne's name came to her lips, and it made her gasp. It was happening already-she was forgetting. She moaned, unable to bear for him to see her that way, only a shell of who she once was.

She spat at the ground. "This one, he torments me. Send him away!" She glared at etienne, trying to convince him she wanted nothing to do with him. She saw the wounded squint of his eyes. She forced another sneer. "Leave!"

"You heard the beast," Frans said. "Be on your way now. You've been paid. We have a long journey ahead, and I don't want to listen to her howls the whole way."

etienne stared for a long while at Giselle, waiting for something, any hint of tenderness, but she only returned his gaze with a steady glare. He finally nodded and walked away.

Giselle followed him with her eyes as Frans readied the horse. She watched etienne's back as he walked down the road, his figure growing fainter with each step. etienne, Giselle said over and over again in her head. etienne. etienne. "I won't forget you," she whispered. But by the time he reached the forest, she already had.

The journey took another two days. When they reached the duke's chateau, Giselle was weak, her lips cracked with thirst and the wound on her leg festering with ooze. She curled in the corner of the cart, too listless to care anymore about the cruel man who imprisoned her, too frail to wonder why she could remember her name and nothing more.

Frans only got a pittance for the wings.

"Imbecile!" the duke shouted at him for believing such tales. "They're probably nothing more than the plucked wings of water fowl! Only good for soup stock!"

Frans sputtered. "I cut them from her myself-"

The duke drew up close. "I'll give you a fair price for the girl. If she lives, she may make a decent servant."

Frans began to argue but then saw the servants of the duke's estate closing in. Two field-workers gripped their hoes and stepped closer. Frans unlocked the padlock on the cart, and the duke's servants lifted Giselle out and whisked her away. The duke counted out payment into Frans's greasy palm. "Never pass this way again."

Frans clutched his money in his fist and looked into the icy gray eyes of the duke. "She's only a beast. You'll find out."

The duke's shoulders lurched forward as if he might strike Frans, but then he carefully pulled them back. It was all that was needed, though, to send Frans scrambling onto his cart and whipping his mare into a frenzy down the road.

By the next day Pauline, the housemaid who helped bathe Giselle and tended the wound on her leg, reported there was no sign on the girl's back of where wings had been cut away. "Her back is completely healed," she told the duke.

"Of course it is," the duke said, rising from his chair. "There never were any wings. She was only the victim of a greedy peddler. Do you understand, Pauline? That will be the story if there is to be one."

Pauline nodded and curtsied. "Of course, sir."

Under Pauline's care, Giselle recovered quickly. When she was well enough, the duke gave her duties in the vegetable garden since there was no life that Giselle could remember to go back to. She settled into life at the chateau, thankful for the kindness of the many servants who watched over her, and grateful to the duke, who gave her a warm, comfortable room off the kitchen. But every day as she worked, she searched for memories, something from her past life, a trigger that would bring it all back. I'll find a way, but even that thought seemed to have no root within her, just words rattling in her head like they belonged to someone else. An overwhelming longing grew inside her, and she tried to will a familiar face into her mind's eye. But there was none. The garden became her solace.

She found that she loved her work, the sweet peas and the soil, the squash and the sun, and wished for the days to last longer than they did. At the end of the day she would stare out at the horizon long after the sun was gone, searching for something that never materialized, searching for something that had no name even in her own mind, but she watched with a bewildering anticipation until the last ray of light had vanished. She dreaded the nights the most because of the dreams that accompanied them. When she closed her eyes she saw twinkling stars, felt the rush of crisp air across her cheeks, felt the exhilaration of speed as she glided over the world, the tickle of forest tops on her fingertips, a soaring freedom that filled every breath with indescribable joy, but with the joy of the dreams came the inconsolable loss she felt on waking. Too many times she woke to tears already on her cheeks. And sometimes mixed with the tears was a name on the edge of her lips, and she would suck in a breath, trying to take hold of it again, but it always evaded her no matter how hard she tried to get it back.

At the end of one day, only a fortnight after she arrived, she paused to look down the road that had brought her here, longing to know what came before, when the duke walked up behind her, catching her by surprise.

"Waiting for someone?" he asked.

Giselle whirled around. "Of course not," she answered quickly, wiping her hands on her apron. "I'm not waiting for anyone. I'm just on my way to help Pauline with dinner."

It was only the next day, standing in the same spot, that Giselle spotted a cart coming down the road. Children ran to meet it, shouting their excitement. Giselle hurried to the shadows of the stable to watch as it approached, fearful of the cart, which resembled the one she had arrived in. She could already hear the peddler boasting about his catch. "This one was easy. It practically fell right into my hands. The gargouilles may fly like the wind, but they are as dull as lead. I didn't even have to unfurl my net. It only took two easy slashes to part this one from its wings."

The creature thrashed in the cart. Like a beast, Giselle thought. Pauline came and stood beside Giselle, shaking her head. "What poor soul has been stolen away now?"

"But there are wings strapped to the cart," Giselle replied.

"As there were when you came. Who knows where he really got them? The duke will not be pleased. He'll send that poor excuse of a peddler on his way with the back of his hand."

"No!" Giselle cried. "What would become of the one he's imprisoned?"

Giselle's tender heart endeared her to Pauline. "I'll speak with the duke before he comes out to deal with the peddler. I don't think you need to worry," she told Giselle, and walked back to the house to find the duke.

It was as Pauline said. The duke was angry and sent the peddler on his way, but not before he forced him to unlock the cart and leave his victim behind. The peddler warily unlocked the cart and fled as soon as his prisoner jumped from it. The boy was stained with blood, as Giselle had been, but was stronger and had no arrow wound. He thrashed wildly at those who encircled him. The duke's gardeners raised their hoes, ready to strike, but Giselle could see the fear and anger on the boy's face. "Stop!" she yelled, and ran from the shadows to within feet of where he stood, in spite of Pauline and the duke shouting for her to stay back. The boy saw her and froze.

"No one's going to harm you," Giselle told him. "You're safe now." His gaze locked on to hers and his breathing calmed while Giselle's heart raced faster. "My name is Giselle," she said, and held her hand out to him. "Come with me. Please."

His shoulders relaxed from their hunched position and he hesitantly took her hand. She walked him to the fountain, while all the servants and the duke followed, holding their breath at her boldness, but not wanting to break the spell she had cast over the boy. She held a pitcher under one of the streams of water and gave it to him. He greedily drank from it and then handed it back to her.

"Why am I here?" the boy asked.

It was the same question that had passed through her own mind in her first days at the chateau. She still had no answer. "I'm not sure why," Giselle answered, "but you don't have to fear anyone here. You're among friends. Where are you from?"

The boy thought for a moment. "I-" He touched his hand to his temple, and his brows pulled together in worry. He looked back into Giselle's eyes. "I'm not sure. I can't-" His head shook in distress.

Giselle felt her heart aching for the boy. She couldn't recall where she was from either and wondered at the dark magic the peddlers must have cast over them both. She heard a murmur flutter through the servants surrounding them and knew they noticed the similarity too. "Don't worry about it now. Maybe after you've rested and eaten something-"

The duke stepped forward and the boy jumped at the sudden movement, ready to defend himself. Giselle noticed how agile and fit the boy was and, from the look of him, quite strong, and wondered how a bow-kneed peddler had managed to overpower him in the first place.

"It's all right, boy," the duke assured him, stepping back to give him more space. "It's as Giselle told you. No one here means you harm. This is my estate. My valet can show you where to bathe and tend to your wounds. He'll bring you food too. And then you may stay on if you like. I can use some help in the stables."

The boy nodded slowly, as if he was still wary. He looked down at his filthy, bloodstained clothes. "Maybe I'll stay for one day." He glanced back to Giselle. "Or maybe two would be better."

"As you wish," the duke answered.

The duke's valet led him away to bathe and to take care of the cuts on his hands and a gash on his head where the peddler had beaten him. She watched as he walked away and wondered at his past and who was waiting for him to return. Who was missing him already? What had he left behind? What made him wander from home in the first place?

That evening at supper she discovered that, just like her, the only thing he could remember from his past was his name. As soon as she heard the name, she repeated it quietly to herself. It was odd how easily it rolled off her tongue. After supper she went to the garden to gather some lemon balm and then took it to him in the stable.

"It will help your wounds heal more quickly," she explained. He took the leaves from her hand and she didn't realize she was staring into his eyes until she blushed and looked away, but even as she rattled on about the lemon balm, she couldn't get his eyes out of her mind. There was something unusual about them. Their light gray was the color of a pale moon, surrounded by a circle of black sky. The kind of sky you could get lost in, and she already had. She dared not look into his eyes again.

She turned abruptly and left, but when she was about halfway to the chateau, he ran out of the barn. "You're an angel of the night, Giselle," he called to her.

She turned and stared at him, the moonlight sprinkling silver on his dark hair. It was an odd way for him to say thank you for her kindness, but she liked the sound of it anyway. An angel of the night. She smiled.

"Tomorrow then?" he called.

Did she say they would meet tomorrow? He waited for an answer.

"Yes, tomorrow, etienne."

The Third Kind

by Jennifer Lynn Barnes

e have to go to San Antonio."

My sister Kissy said those words with all the aplomb of someone announcing that they were fixing to drive down to the Sonic for a cherry limeade. Like she hadn't just woken me up at four o'clock in the morning to deliver the statement in question. Like going to San Antonio was no big deal. Like I'd already passed my driver's test and she hadn't been forbidden to climb behind the wheel of a truck ever again, or at least until she turned thirty.

Forget the fact that San Antonio was a nine-hour drive from our slice of just-outside-of Grove, Oklahoma-big sis wanted to pick up and go, just like that.

"Kissy," I said sternly. "We're not going to San Antonio."

I was the reasonable sister. That was my job. I figured I owed it to Kissy to keep us out of trouble, since it was my two-year-old self 's creative pronunciation of her name that had kept her from being a run-of-the-mill Kristy for all these years.

I deeply suspected that Kristy Carlton wouldn't have needed nearly so much looking after.

"No, Jess. We have to go."

I froze, suddenly aware of the fact that despite the aura of calm about her, my sister's eyes were a pale sea-foam green, colored like stained glass with a light shining straight through.

"Well, crap," I said.

Kissy and I both had mud-brown eyes-depressingly average-except when Kissy got the 'pulse, and then her eyes went stained-glass green, eerie and pale and borderline incandescent, depending on how long she'd been feeling it and how urgent the directive was.

"Do we have to go to San Antonio now?" I asked.

Kissy gave me a look that resembled the expression on a dog's face when it proudly dumps a dead bird onto your feet. "Yup."

This was highly unfortunate.

It'd been years since Kissy's last 'pulse, when I was twelve and she was fourteen. Three whole years since she'd woken me up in this very bed and told me, eyes shining, that we had to get out. Three years since someone had broken into our old farmhouse and killed our parents in their sleep.

"It's not like last time," Kissy said, following my thoughts with the ease of someone who'd shared my secrets and my room for fifteen years. "Nobody's going to hurt us or Nana or Grandpa Jake. We just have to borrow the truck and drive to San Antonio, is all."

Somehow, I didn't think our grandparents, who'd moved in with us after Mom and Dad died, would consider this venture the teensy little thing that Kissy was trying to pass it off as. Which meant, of course, that we couldn't tell them. And wasn't that just fine and dandy?

"Don't be mad."

If I'd been the big sister, Kissy might have sounded vulnerable right then, but since she was older, the words came out bossy by habit.

"I'm not mad," I replied, and I wasn't, truly. Kissy couldn't help getting 'pulses any more than I could help having twice as much hair and half as much chest as the other girls my age. I was flat as a board and had an unruly mass of gargantuan curls, and my sister occasionally woke up knowing that something had to be done, without having the least little clue as to why. I could hardly complain (about my sister's quirk, not about the hair or boobs, which I complained about just fine), given that whoever or whatever sent my sister these strange compulsions-be it a misfiring in her brain or God Almighty-had already saved my life at least once.

"Fine," I said, looking out the window and gauging how little time we had until Grandpa Jake rose with the sun. "I'll get dressed, you throw us each a change of clothes into a bag. There should be some cash in my sock drawer."

Just enough for gas, if we were lucky.

But as I stripped off my pajama top and eyed my sister and the irises I hadn't seen looking back from her face in three long years, I couldn't help but wonder if our luck had run out before we'd even hit the road.

San Antonio, here we come.

The two of us made it as far as Muskogee before the truck broke down, which wasn't bad, considering Grandpa Jake's Chevy was older than Kissy and me combined-and temperamental to boot.

"Think she just needs to cool off?" Kissy asked me.

I considered the question. "Did you go over forty miles an hour?"

My sister smiled serenely. "I think I hit eighty back on sixty-nine."

"Then the truck needs to cool off."

I leaned forward to get a glimpse of Kissy's eyes, but she popped on a pair of plastic sunglasses before I could assess just how intense the situation had gotten.

I didn't want to think about what would happen if the two of us weren't quick enough-if the truck wouldn't start back up, or we got lost, or the cops pulled us over for playing hooky.

I didn't want to think about it, but I did.

I imagined Kissy seizing, her limbs twitching, the light in her eyes blinding her to anything else. Up until that night three years ago, Kissy's 'pulses had been a regular thing, and I'd seen her with shining green eyes often enough to know that the more she resisted, the worse it got. Impulse didn't even begin to cover the strength of this thing that took over my sister, telling her that she had to do this, that, or the other. Sometimes the this in question was a little something-walking to school instead of taking the bus, leaving a bottle of water at the end of a long dirt road, whispering nonsense words to a man she'd never met-and sometimes, it was big.

By the time Kissy was five, my parents had learned not to ask, let alone argue, because if Kissy couldn't or wouldn't do what the 'pulse wanted her to, things got ugly. In the three years she'd been 'pulse-free, I'd almost forgotten what it was like to know that my sister's body might turn on her at any second. Fever, seizures, hallucinations- We have to go to San Antonio.

Good Lord Almighty, I hoped we'd get there in time.

"You think you'd be okay grabbing breakfast while the truck cools down?" I asked Kissy, trying not to make her sound like some kind of invalid, because I was no fool when it came to my sister's temper.

She took a deep breath and then nodded. "We can't go anywhere until the truck cools down anyway."

I got the feeling that it wasn't me she was talking to.

"If we grab something to eat now," Kissy continued, "we won't have to stop later." Having pled her case to the universe, she opened the driver's side door, and I waited to see if she'd be able to do it.

First one foot out of the truck, then another.

"I'm good," she called back.

I opened my door and joined her on the pavement. We'd broken down in full view of a McDonald's, which was either lucky or not, depending on just how fond (or not) you were of Egg McMuffins. I came down on the not side, but Kissy had a long-standing love affair with grease, and far be it from me to stand in their way.

After giving the truck an encouraging pat on the hood, the two of us hightailed it across the highway, Kissy in the front and me on her heels, same as always. A few minutes later, I was drinking orange juice out of a little plastic container that felt about a million different kinds of wrong, and Kissy was chatting up the boy behind the counter, who had probably never seen something like her in his whole entire life.

Kissy was the kind of girl who could make sweatpants, mismatched flip-flops, and gaudy red sunglasses look fashionable. The shades hid her glowing eyes, but there was no masking the giddy energy vibrating through her entire body. Kissy always said the 'pulse felt like someone had hooked her up to jumper cables and given her a real good charge, and even just standing there, watching the boy watching her, I knew he could feel it too.