Black Bird of the Gallows(37)

16-a boy in the basement


For the first time I can remember, the basement is not my solace. The fluorescent lights are buzzier, the drop ceiling lower. My music equipment sits there, silent and untouched. The fact that my dad is still up does not soothe my nerves. Of course, tonight would be the night he stays up late.

It’s 10:26 p.m. Reece should be sneaking into the basement in four minutes.

My knee won’t stop jiggling. I press a hand to my stomach, but there’s no calming the jittering mess. I’m nervous. For so many reasons.

Roger always comes down with me when I’m in my studio, so I couldn’t shoo him off. He’s sprawled in his usual spot on the floor, but he’ll react to Reece’s arrival. The question is, how loudly? He does bark.

I lift my acoustic guitar from its stand and pluck out a random melody. I don’t even know what I’m playing. It’s just noise. I can barely hear it over my pounding heartbeat.

10:32 p.m.

He’s going to stand me up. I know it.

I strum my guitar pick over a flat chord. God, this was a bad idea.

Then the doorknob turns. The door opens.

My breath catches as a tousled chestnut head pokes in. He looks at me from beneath raised, inquiring eyebrows. I wave him in and the guitar pick slips from my fingers, clatters through the sound hole and into the hollow body of the guitar. Very smooth.

Roger’s head comes up. He cocks it as Reece gingerly clicks shut the door behind him. The dog gets up, stretches, and comes forward, nose out and tail wagging.

Reece flashes me a quick smile and greets Roger, who flops down and rolls to his back. My dog is clearly infatuated. I may not be far behind.

“It took me six months for him to greet me like that,” I say.

Reece pulls off his gloves and scratches behind the dog’s ears. “Well, he was sad.”

I cock my head. “This again? How did you know the emotional state of my dog?”

“I just do,” he replies. “There’s a certain scent when someone or something is full of grief. Dogs feel it, too. Roger knew something terrible happened to his owners.”

Did I hear that right? “He smells sad?”

“You asked.” Reece releases Roger and stands before me, arms folded, eyes full of question and challenge. “Are you sure you want to hear what I’ve come here to tell you?”

I abandon the pick and put the guitar back on its stand. “Yes. I need to know.”

“You say that now…” He tilts his head toward the ceiling and the faint jingle of the TV. “Your dad is still up?”

“He won’t come down here.” I hope. “I blame your mom for his wakefulness. She left him completely spellbound.”

He offers a crooked smile. “She has that effect.”

“My dad ate butter for her. I’m afraid he’s smitten.” I gnaw on my lip. “I um, had a nice time, too.”

“I hope I didn’t scare you.”

“You scared me long before this morning.”

“That was not ever my intention.”

He shrugs off his coat, and we stand there for a moment in awkward silence. I’m out of smart comments and so is he, it seems. He shifts on his feet. Maybe he’s second-guessing his decision to come here. It’s strange to see him appear unsure of himself. He circles away from me. The distance doesn’t feel like rejection, but rather like protection. For him or me, I can’t be sure.

I lick my suddenly dry lips. “So, what’s with the crows?” Not graceful of me, but it gets the job done.

Reece sits cross-legged across from me on the floor. Roger rests his blocky yellow head on Reece’s leg. “The crows are my family,” he says, running long, idle fingers over the dog’s fur. “Part of it, anyway. You met the ones in human form this morning.”

“So…you’re a crow?”

He flashes a crooked grin. “Not at the moment, obviously.”

I breathe deep and dig deep for patience. “Reece, are you telling me you…transform into a crow?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He spreads his hand. “Angie, I’m a harbinger of death. My family and I travel our territory as a murder of crows. When we scent out a place where disaster is soon to hit, some of us change into human form and…wait.”

“Wait for what?” I prompt. “People to die?”

“We feed on the energy people give off when they die. That’s why we’re here in Cadence. That’s why I was at that car crash you saw and Lucia was at the one yesterday,” he says. “We don’t make anyone die, but we do need death to live. Our bodies absorb death energy like a recharge, but it works best if we’re in human form.” He shakes his head and damp, wavy hair falls into his eyes. “It sounds horrible, I know. I can’t imagine what you…”

Recharge. “So you…put yourself near dying people to sustain yourself?”

He looks up and holds my gaze. “Angie, this is not a lifestyle choice. It’s a biological need. I can’t not do this. You asked me what I was, and I’m telling you.” A blotchy flush creeps up his neck. He splays his hands. The scars on his palm stand out in sharp relief. “These scars appeared the day I awoke with the curse. They are always there. I didn’t choose this.”