Black Bird of the Gallows(39)

“Sorry. Mystical stuff was my mom’s thing. She made money reading palms and tarot cards and auras. She used to say we were always safe because she could see the people who were truly dangerous and avoid them.” I let out a breath. “Honestly, I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

“Was she right?” he asks urgently. “Were her readings accurate?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I never paid attention. Her clients seemed happy enough. They paid her.” Not that she spent the money well.

He shrugs. “True psychics are rare. They’re the descendants of magicians. Maybe your mom had a touch of magic as well.”

“Then she may have been better at predicting her own death.”

Reece rolls his shoulders in a leisurely shrug. “Death doesn’t require a prediction. It’s an inevitability.”

“Not for you,” I say.

“Not so. I’ve died many times.” He lets out a resigned sigh. “It just doesn’t stick.”

“How long have you been a harbinger of death?” This question sounds surreal coming out of my mouth, like I’m reading lines from a movie script. “You weren’t born this way.”

He pulls in a breath and drags a hand through his hair. “No, I was born a normal person, just like you. I’ve been a harbinger of death for almost two hundred years.”

Two hundred years! I must remember that he hasn’t always been eighteen, otherwise this would feel weird. Well, weirder than it already is. Having the hots for a harbinger of death does not qualify as normal. But Reece grew up, lost baby teeth, learned to read and write, went through adolescence, just like I did. Only, he did it a bunch of times, and I’ve done it once. It’s like he was reincarnated but remembers all his past lives. That does not sound appealing. “So can you ever really die?”

“Eventually, most of us unravel from experiencing so much tragedy, pain. When one of us gets to the point when their mental state threatens the whole group, everyone gets together and-and…” He swallows with a grimace. “Look, we congregate in crow form and peck them to death, okay? It’s called the mortouri, and it’s the only way for one of us to actually die. It’s not pretty, everyone hates doing it, and all it does is release the magic so it can possess some other poor person. The curse doesn’t go away. So you’ve got to be pretty far gone in order for that to happen,” he says defensively. “We do it, though. Comes a day when you just can’t live like this anymore. You just can’t stand to look at one more dead body. Your mind breaks.”

I stare at him, fully aware that my mouth is hanging open. Nothing I can do about that. “I’m sorry, I just can’t imagine you pecking someone to death.”

“Trust me, it’s a blessing to the peck-ee,” he says. “I’ve participated in only one execution, and I didn’t contribute much.” He rubs his palms over his face with a light groan. “Not that it matters. Ugh. I don’t want to know what you think of me right now.”

“All this makes me think of fourteen-sided dice and magical dragons.”

“You mean twenty-sided. There are no fourteen-sided dice.” He raises his brows. “Don’t give me that look. I’ve gone through puberty nine times. Maybe ten. I can’t remember.”

Nine times? I wince. Once is enough, thank you. “Okay, Mister Know-it-all.” I give him a look anyway. “So can’t someone undo this…what, curse? Can’t it be broken?” It’s getting easier to say the words “magic” and “curse” without cringing.

He shakes his head. “The way to dispel the harbinger magic was lost when magic was systematically obliterated prior to this age. Long before the harbinger curse found me. However, traces of that magic escaped the extermination. Us. The Beekeepers. Other beings that are very good at staying hidden. Dark, terrible creatures that can create evil and corruption with a single touch. These things exist but go unnoticed by most modern people.” He cocks his head at me. “You noticed, though. Most don’t see the Beekeepers for what they are. Yet you did.”

Lucky me. “Why? Are there more of them out there besides Rafette?”

“There are. They don’t work together like harbingers. Each Beekeeper is its own swarm. I think there’re two more in the area, but they likely won’t interfere with Rafette.” He studies me. “As for the ‘why,’ maybe there’s a remnant of magic flowing through you—like your mother—that allows you to see what most can’t.” He shrugs. “Like I said, there is still magic out there, hidden. Waiting.”

I suppress a chill. “So you aren’t friends with the Beekeepers?”

“We don’t exactly socialize with them, no,” he says with a grimace. “They just follow us.”

“Can you talk to them?”

He sighs. “We do, but we have no authority over them. They’re stronger, faster than us. They aren’t fans of harbingers, even though we are the ones who lead them to each marked place. Plus, to make it worse—” He shakes his head. It’s a weary gesture, but I lean forward and touch his knee.

“No, go on,” I say. “Finish your thought.”

“There’s word going around that if a Beekeeper could convince—or manipulate—a harbinger into accepting the Beekeeper’s curse into himself, the Beekeeper would be released from his curse. As in, allowed to die.”