Starling by Lesley Livingston Read Free Book Online

Fennrys picked his way through the wreckage of oak tree roots and torn earth and headed across the otherwise manicured lawn of a courtyard toward the stone arch that led out onto the street. The pale, anemic gloom of predawn told him that sunrise was still a good hour or two away as he left the grounds of the Gosforth Academy—that was what the sign out front told him the place was called—but he hoped it was enough to give him a margin of safety. Fennrys headed south for several dark, silent blocks until, eventually, he looked up at the street signs to get his bearings. Broadway and West 110th, Cathedral Parkway.
    So … Upper West Side, then?
    Yeah. He knew what that was. Where it was. And he also knew that a large expanse of Broadway played host to a famous theater district, although that was much farther south than he was now. He was, it seemed, very familiar with New York City. He knew streets and neighborhoods, directions, destinations … the only blank on the map of his mind was himself. It was as if he was an empty space drifting around the city, untethered. Detached from his surroundings instead of defined by them, by what could have been a life’s worth of experience accumulated on these streets. The harder he tried to relate to the landmarks around him, the slipperier everything seemed. Anything that might have pertained directly to him just twisted away and was lost to a vacuum in his mind.
    “That’s great,” Fenn muttered to himself. “I know where to go to catch a musical, but I have no idea where I live. Not an ideal situation.” He twitched up the hood of his borrowed sweatshirt. “Especially considering that I have a sneaking suspicion I’m the kind of guy who hates musicals.”
    Even in his present state of what seemed like some kind of amnesia, Fennrys knew that the broad-bladed sword he’d been carrying when he’d found himself naked in a tree in a rainstorm wasn’t something a normal person would carry around on the streets of … New York .
    Why did he have a sword? Why was he in New York? Did he, in fact, live there?
    If so, where was his place? His clothes?
    Why did he bear those marks on his ankles and wrists?
    Who was he?
    Who am I …?
    The question pounded in his brain in time with his footsteps, and he turned east and broke into a loping jog, the sword slung on his back bouncing gently against his spine with each step. A fine mist now hung in the dim air, thickening at ground level to a rolling fog. The buildings on either side of him were dark, the streetlights were out, and no one—absolutely no one else—was around. That struck Fenn as … strange. A blackout in the middle of a city like New York, and nobody was taking advantage of it? No mayhem, no mischief … it was as if even the unsavory elements of society knew better than to venture out on a night like the one that had just passed.
    He headed farther east, skirting the southern edge of Harlem. As he ran, the lights in the buildings and on the streets began to slowly, one by one, blink and flicker back to life. Silhouettes in doorways, eyes in shadowed faces peeked out at Fennrys as he passed. On his right, a long stone wall ran alongside him for blocks. Behind it, through the curtain of rain that fell gently now, softly, he could see trees. A lot of trees … a park.
    Central Park.
    A violent shiver ran up Fenn’s spine. He knew, instinctively, exactly where he was now. And he knew that, unless his life depended on it, the park was the one place he wouldn’t—shouldn’t—go. What he didn’t know was why , but the feeling in his gut was enough to make him just keep running.
    Finally, far in the distance, he could hear the sound of wailing sirens. Fennrys kept running. It was the only thing that felt right at the moment—the pounding of his feet on the pavement in the fencing master’s stolen boots, the feel of the rain-wet air stinging his face, and the sound of his breath and heart, loud in his ears.
    But