In the Shadow of Blackbirds(86)

“What about the ropes? Dying flu patients aren’t tied to beds.”

“Damn it. I didn’t think of that. Get those off him.”

The creatures surrounded me again, studying me as I writhed and hacked out the stinging poison.

“He looks like he’ll still fight. He’s strong when he’s delirious.”

“I thought you were sticking him with morphine.”

“Why the hell did I let you talk me into this?”

“Think of the huge impact on the world of psychical research if we capture his soul as it’s leaving!”

“You only think that because you’re more of a doper than I am, and he’s not your brother.”

“He’s hardly a human being anymore. He’s as good as dead, right?”

“Why did he say we were going to peck out his eyes?”

“Because he’s a lunatic.”

“I’m getting my gun.”

“No! His spirit will leave too quickly. We won’t have time to photograph it.”

“I can’t stand this. He’s looking at me. I’m getting my gun and putting him out of his misery.”

“No!” I cried in a voice that didn’t sound human anymore. “Don’t shoot me. Get me out of here. Don’t kill me.”

A flurry of action surrounded me—the rush of feathers, the scuttling of feet, voices arguing whether or not they should speed up the process. One of the creatures released my wrists from the ropes, but the deep-voiced one wrestled him to the ground and cussed him out. The room spun as if I were on a carnival ride. My throat and belly raged with fire. I turned on my side to curl up in pain and saw the silver metal of a gun shining on the bedside table.

My salvation.

I reached out, desperate to kill the squabbling birds with the bullets before they could finish with me. My clumsy fingers grasped the weapon. A brutal force knocked me in the head. The world slowed to a crawl, and a gunshot echoed in the black and heavy atmosphere. A white, bloodstained sky beckoned from overhead, tugging my soul toward it, while someone shouted from below, “Quick! Take a picture. We’re going to miss it! We’re going to miss it!”

And the scene started over again. I opened my eyes and found the world dark and my wrists bound to a bed by coarse ropes that burned through the layers of my skin. I was on my back, and there was whispering near the door.

This time someone grabbed my arms and shook me. I heard the name “Mary Shelley” and got confused. Mary Shelley? Why is she here?

“Leave us alone,” I shouted. “Don’t poison me. You’re killing me.”

A hand smacked me across the face. “Stop saying that. Why are you saying that?”

“Don’t kill me. Please don’t poison me.”

“Stop it. I’m not poisoning you. Why are you talking like you’re him?” My attacker shook me until a bare, sunlit room came into view. Julius’s face—not a bird’s—stared down at me. I didn’t see a single bird anywhere.

Beyond Julius’s head, dark stains marred the ceiling’s white plaster—the shadows of blood. Stephen’s own blood was the red and white sky that haunted him.

“Oh, God. Oh, my God.” I regained my bearings and tried to sit up, surprised to find my wrists weren’t tied with ropes. “Stephen? Can you hear me? Those weren’t monsters poisoning you.”

“Don’t you dare say I was the one poisoning him.” Julius shook my shoulders. “Do you hear me? It wasn’t me.”

“What do you think you saw, Miss Black?”

I jumped at the sound of the other male voice as if I’d heard another gunshot. Mr. Darning stood by the camera and calmly sprinkled a box of powder across the flashlamp’s tray as if preparing for a normal studio portrait. “You looked like you were in a trance,” he continued. “I took a photograph of your intriguing state and can’t wait to see if we’ve captured a record of your communication with the other side.”

My stomach lurched.

Our conversations about spirits and science ran through my mind: A physician named MacDougall conducted experiments involving the measurement of weight loss at the moment of death … at a home for incurable tuberculosis patients … He would push a cot holding a dying man onto an industrial-sized silk-weighing scale, and he kept his eyes on the numbers while his assistants watched for the final breath … I’m compelled to find tangible proof that we all go somewhere when we die. It hurts more than anything to think of a sweet soul like Viv’s as being gone forever.

“What did you see?” asked Mr. Darning again, his voice eager, his eyebrows raised. He positioned the loaded flashlamp into a holding stand next to the camera. “His spirit?”

“No.” I steadied my breathing, even though the truth was falling into place with sickening clarity. “I witnessed two blackbirds experimenting on a delirious war veteran in the confusion of the dark.”

Julius squeezed my arms. “Why are you talking about blackbirds, too? There were never any birds in this house.”

“His attackers looked like birdmen with their dark clothing and beak-like flu masks. He wanted to shoot them, but he grabbed the gun wrong and must have pulled the trigger. It wasn’t a suicide—he was disoriented and fighting for his life. He died struggling to live. He wasn’t as good as dead.”