Black Bird of the Gallows(68)

“See wh—” But black, oily mist is coiling out of his mouth before the words finish. I stand, transfixed, as Reece closes his eyes, and the black vapor envelops his body. His transformation is smoother, faster than Hank’s was, but no less dramatic. Reece’s arms stretch smoothly into sleek, jointed wings. His fingers splay into long black feathers and for a moment, he looks every inch the dark tortured angel. His face is a pained grimace, then it’s gone, engulfed in that black stuff. In a sudden rush, his body collapses, folds into itself. Compressing down, smaller, smaller. Then, the mist is gone, and standing in the circle of Reece’s ill-fitting jeans is a sleek black crow. He studies me with dark red eyes, and I get now why those jeans didn’t fit and why he didn’t bother with a shirt. Every time he changes back into a human, he has to find new clothes. Sometimes, other people’s clothes.

The crow—Reece—hops to the windowsill. No mystery now why it was kept open. He gives me a long, last look, spreads his wings, and glides from the apartment.

I tug the blanket around my shoulders and rush to the window. The lone crow glides low over a figure in the parking lot below. That other Beekeeper, I’m assuming. I can’t see his faces from this distance, but his head turns as Reece flies on without looking back, banking sharply to the west. To the center of town. The figure turns away from the Mountain View Apartments and follows him.

But shortly afterward, a man walks into the parking lot. He tugs his wooly hat low over his forehead and looks up, slowly.

Rafette.

I shift away from the windows and slam against the wall, breathing hard. A million bucks says there aren’t too many open windows in the building, making it pretty obvious which apartment I’m in. And he does know I’m in here. Trapped.

Footsteps crackle over the broken pavement. The door squeaks as it turns on its hinges. Rafette is inside. Coming for me—the one he believes can persuade Reece to take on a curse worse than the one he already has.





30-part two


I’ve never dressed so quickly. My aching body complains about the haste, but my bruises haven’t gotten the memo that this hellish adventure isn’t over yet. I dash to the window and haul myself onto the fire escape—my only way out, with Rafette inside somewhere. I step over a dead houseplant with a few dozen cigarette butts stuck in the soil and hurry down the zigzagging steps and landings. It’s not quiet business. The rickety setup rattles under my feet like a metal skeleton. But slowing down isn’t an option.

Keep to high ground…

My feet hit pavement. The ankle hurts, but I run on it anyway. The alternative will hurt more. I would give anything to trade these miserable boots for something practical.

The only advantage here is that the rain has finally stopped. I run-limp across the parking lot, feeling absurd anger toward the handful of parked cars I don’t have keys to. I run straight over the spot where I watched that drunk guy crash his car—suddenly a lifetime ago—and scramble over the flattened chain link fence. It hadn’t been repaired, thankfully. The bloodstains are long since washed away, but as I race across the empty highway, the doomed driver’s skid marks are still visible on the pavement. That would have completely freaked me out a week ago. Now, I pass with barely a glance. The memory of that night is nothing in comparison to the past twenty-four hours, or what I’m likely to see in the next twenty-four.

I dart across the four deserted lanes. The whip-whip-whip of helicopters is constant, but they are too far away to see me. They come and go, circling the epicenter of the landslide. The only thought in my head is to get away and get to higher ground, but my options are pitiful. If I had headed toward town, I’d run into the other Beekeepers, and this way, it’s just the southern foothills of Mt. Franklin. I look back at the Mountain View Apartments and choke back a cry.

Rafette stands in the open window of the apartment I just came from. I throw myself behind a shrub and try to be still. It’s a good distance, but I can’t be sure he didn’t see me. Probably watched me the whole way. My stomach drops like a stone, and the thought invades: he’s stronger, faster than you. You stand no chance.

Rafette spreads his arms and tilts his head back. He looks like he’s worshipping a god, but then, all of a sudden, his body bursts apart in what looks like a cloud. I stare, mouth gaping, and wondering what the hell just happened, when that little dark cloud writhes in a weird way and begins moving toward me.

Wait. This isn’t a cloud. It’s a swarm of bees. Rafette just turned into a swarm of bees, and he’s coming for me. Just when I thought I’d seen it all. I cover my head with a whimper and hope the pain isn’t too bad. There’s no escaping this.

Suddenly, a chorus of caws fills the air. I look up to see several dark shapes diving toward the bees. The swarm breaks up as the crows swoop at them. They’re creating confusion.

They’re giving me a chance.

I look up at Franklin and steel myself. People hike this mountain. The view’s amazing, from what I hear, but they do it from the other side—where there’s a managed trail, a gentler slope, and pretty trees to walk through. Here, it’s just loose rock layered on a slippery incline. No one hikes this, but I don’t have time to trek a couple miles around to find the trailhead. I need to go up. Now.

I scrabble over a section of mud and stones and attack the steep slope. Behind me, the crows still battle the bees. The crows’ calls have grown desperate. I can see a ledge trail cut into the bank above me—maybe one used years ago by miners or currently by animals. It’s only about ten feet away. If I can get to it, I’d make up some ground and possibly find someplace to hide. It’s a long shot at best, but the crows are back there fighting for me, so I can’t give up. I shed my disguise and played my music for a crowd. I can climb a damn hill.