Black Bird of the Gallows(64)

My gaze flicks back to the porch. It’s empty. The Beekeeper could be anywhere.

Run, damn it!

My thoughts devolve to the primal. Fear is the only thing.

There’s a commotion behind me, and the sound of a stampede, and something hits me over the back of the head. Hard.

I hit the ground again. My head spins. My vision darkens at the edges, slowly swallowing my sight. Dismay is a lead blanket.

I could have gotten away. I was warned. But no…

People are yelling: Put it down… I don’t want to hurt you… You don’t want to hurt anyone.

Hysterical laughter peals through the sounds. Devils are among us… I do, very much, want to hurt you.

I shudder, carefully pull myself up to hands and knees. My head pulses with a dizzying headache. I close my eyes as tears slide out, mixing with this hateful, never-ending rain. I must have hurt my ankle, because it feels like it’s dangling from a tendon. My hands are numb, but throbbing. Whatever’s wrong with them will hurt later.

The pavement swings like a pendulum under my face before fading out completely. I can’t think of a single reason to haul myself upright. I’m so tired of upright.

Several pairs of feet pound toward me. I recognize Deno’s green Converses, but not the black army-type boots next to him. There’s a brief, heated debate above me that sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher, mla-mah-mah-mla, then powerful arms slide under my legs and around my back. They gather me against an alarmingly hot chest. “Go on,” says a garbled voice to Deno. “I’ve got her.”

No! I can’t go with Rafette. I twist and buck, but he’s strong, and I’m so freaking done.

“Please, don’t.” But my words are little more than air.

“Shut up,” he growls in my ear. “This will be easier if you don’t fight me.”





29-mountain view gardens


Soft. Warm. Dry. Oh yes—dry.

Hmm…nice.

I awake in a bed that is not mine.

It is a bed, though. Not the sidewalk, or someone’s lawn, or under a fresh pile of rubble. That’s a comforting thing. I drag my mind back in time to the last thing I remember.

Rafette.

Oh hell.

I crack open one eye. Pale light seeps through a dirty window, illuminating what appears to be a small studio apartment. It’s a real classy place. Strips of duct tape hold a broken windowpane together, and a thin yellow sheet is tacked up halfway over it. My gaze moves to the recliner next to the bed, which looks as if it was acquired from a curb. Only the massive, wall-mounted TV looks like it was purchased in the last decade.

And then there’s Reece.

Wait. Reece?

I lift my head off the pillow, then think better of it and ease back down. This could be a trick. A magic Beekeeper trick. Or Reece might not be Reece anymore.

He’s hunched over on a kitchen chair with his back to me. Shirtless. I swear, the boy forgoes shirts just to gain the advantage. My eyes follow the muscled curve of spine from his bowed head to the waistband of baggy jeans that hang too low on his hips to be his. He sighs and shifts the hand propping up his head, holding his cell phone in the other.

I spy my sodden clothes, draped over kitchen chairs. My clothes. I close a hand over a nearby body part—my hip—and flip both eyes open. I’m in a big T-shirt. Someone else’s T-shirt.

Clutching the covers, I sit bolt upright, then sway forward with a groan. Pain shoots through my eyes, down through my teeth.

He gets up, startled, then immediately backs into the shadowed kitchenette. His head stays down. His hair is a curtain of dark tendrils over a face he’s clearly trying to hide.

“Hey, easy there.” His voice is a quiet rumble. “You were hit in the head.”

Right. Forgot about that. “How long was I out?”

“About six hours.”

My eyes are gritty and sore. I rub them with a groan. Six hours. My dad must be stroking out. “Where’s my phone?”

“Gone,” he says. “You must have dropped it.”

“Can I borrow yours? To let my dad know I’m still alive?”

He flicks it on the table. “Happy to, if it was working.”

Fantastic. I run my fingers over my head and find a small bump. “You changed my clothes.” My voice is accusatory. I don’t even know why. Tears burn my eyes, because I don’t have words for how glad I am to see him alive.

He leans back, arms crossed. “You were unable to change yourself.”

Why is he staying so far away? What is wrong with his face?

Teeth flash in his shadowed features. “Don’t tell me that’s your big concern right now,” he says.

“It’s not. I mean… Forget it.” I don’t know what I mean. Him seeing me naked is, by far, the easiest thing to worry about.

“I didn’t do anything to you while you were unconscious.” He turns away, bracing his hands on the counter. “Do you think that little of me?”

“Of course not. Sorry, this is all really…alarming.”

“You were freezing and in shock. I had to get you warm and dry.” His voice is rough. “I’m not sorry.”

There’s an open window in the living room area, letting in a sharp breeze. I don’t see how that is part of getting me warm, but that is a question so far down the list, it’s not worth the air. I pull the covers tighter around me. “So where are we?”