Black Bird of the Gallows(14)

Reece releases a breath. His face clears of anger, but his features are still pinched. The crow flaps its wings, but remains silent, watchful. It starts preening its feathers.

Reece rubs his eyes, a weary gesture, or maybe a resigned one, and turns to me. “Are you okay?” He squats down, places a light hand on my shoulder. “Were you hurt?”

I pull my shoulder away from his touch. “I’m fine.”

Reece withdraws his hand, tucks it against his ribs. “Can you stand?”

I feel liquefied and shaky. Drained of everything that made me solid. I use the van’s bumper to push myself to standing. Still, my shaky knees buckle the instant I get upright.

He slips his hands under my armpits and catches me before I crumple to the pavement. “I’m sorry,” he says gruffly. “I don’t want you to fall.”

One hand slides to my waist—no, Sparo’s waist. We stand there, his hand a warm pressure on my waist, steady and chaotic at the same time. I don’t like him touching me, but I like the way his touch makes me feel—like listening to good music. Our mouths are close.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he says. “It’s dangerous.”

“What was that thing?” I ask. “Don’t say you don’t know.”

“Okay, I won’t say it.” His hand falls away, and I sag against the van. “What did he want from you? Drugs?”

Is he on drugs? He’s so obviously evading, it’s insulting. If he said he couldn’t talk about it, for whatever mystical, made-up reason, I might have respected that. For a while. Maybe. But drugs?

“No! You…that-that thing—” I stick my finger right at his chest, making contact with firm muscle. “What is he? He’s not human.” My voice heats, along with the rest of me as I replay my conversation—if you want to call it that—with the creature. Even my own freshly made memory looks false. My mind stretches for an explanation, aches when a rational one doesn’t surface. “And the bees… My God, those bees.” I press my hand to my mouth to stifle a sob. I hadn’t imagined this. It was as real as the bruises I’d wake up with and the ache in my shoulder where it was wrenched. That was… I can’t even comprehend what I just experienced. I want to go home so badly.

Reece bends down. So calm. He picks up Deno’s keys and my green sunglasses. I tense up with a new sort of panic. Oh crap, I’m exposed. Even with the wig and the makeup and the extra six inches in height, he could recognize me now. I hold my breath as he studies the keys, then hands them back to me without a flicker of recognition. I nearly gasp in relief.

“I’m glad you weren’t hurt.” His eyes are tight, restless, and they don’t meet my gaze. His words are final.

“Hey! What was that thing?” I rasp, but he’s already heading back the way he came.

“Be careful, Sparo,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Stay away from the bees.”





6-the dark of the mine


Saturday morning. I climb out of bed slowly, feeling like gravity has more pull than usual. A headache gnaws at my temples, and my shoulder seizes when I sit up. I gasp from both the wrench of pain and the memories of the previous night. I could write them off as dreams, maybe, if not for the physical proof that it happened. A glance at my upper arm reveals bruises made by the grip of a strong hand. I look away with a shudder and pull on leggings and the old, frayed U2 sweatshirt that I’d rescued from my dad’s Salvation Army box.

I open the drapes, letting watery morning light pour in my room. There, on my windowsill, is a coin. It’s just a quarter, but its presence makes me hug myself with apprehension. My gaze sweeps the deck below, the trees beyond. Crows are tucked in the branches. None on the deck. None on the railing looking up at me with red, far-too intelligent eyes. I crack open the window and take the quarter. It goes in the glass dish with the earring.

My hands move to the jewelry case beside it. I open it and remove a white envelope, which I stuff in the large pocket of my sweatshirt. It contains photos of my mother. The only ones I have.

Downstairs, my dad sits at the kitchen table in his fancy bathrobe (and matching slippers) and eating a bowl of cereal. He glances up from the game he’s playing on his iPad. “Morning. How was the show last night?”

“Strange.”

“Strange good or strange bad?”

Strange very bad. But I can’t say that unless I want to tell him what happened or make up a lie. Neither is a wise option. “Just strange. I’m going for a walk.” Roger prances around me, all simple hope and longing.

Dad just nods, watching me in a thoughtful way. He can tell I’m upset about something.

“Put on a hat,” is all he says, and because I’m in such a precarious place with my emotions, and because I’m grateful he didn’t pry, I kiss his cheek and tell him I love him. He looks surprised—maybe a little alarmed—but I smile and ask him to not use up all the almond milk, that I want cereal when I get back. I clip Roger’s retractable leash to his collar, and he surges toward the back door. The envelope rustles noisily in my pocket. Dad doesn’t ask me about it. I grab a wool hat from the basket on the counter and pull it on my head.

“Be safe,” he says.

“I will.”

One of the selling points of this development—according to the brochure—is the hiking trails behind the houses that weave around Mt. Franklin and down the side of it into land bordering the shuttered coal mining operations. The mines are long dead, but some of the roads still exist and are kept as trails. They’re rarely used. I can count on one hand how many times I encountered another hiker back here. Roger angles an eye at me. He knows where we’re going. We turn up our street and head for the dead end where the forest begins.