Keeper of the Bees

by Meg Kassel

  The tall man glides close to us, sending a waft of straw and rot into my nostrils.

  I cannot.

  “Why?”

  My power grows weak with each turn of the sun. The centuries’ toll, I suppose.

  “He found a way to break his curse, but you’re going to let him die anyway?”

  For others, death would be the greatest reward, but not for him. A grimace stretches the threads in his lips. I steal light and spend darkness. I don’t bring life, as mine is lost.

  He sounds almost regretful about this, and I can actually believe he would do something if he could. But he’s just too tired to do it. Too empty of hope and belief in himself as capable of bringing anything but pain.

  He spreads his hands.

  I was not always like this.

  His words bump through me. They mirror the ones Dresden told me, weeks ago in my bedroom. There’d been a desperation to him, too—for me to see beyond the shifting face to the young man inside. I remember this one thing Dresden told me, once: You are light and grace and all the things I thought I had forgotten.

  You are light. It was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to me.

  I turn to Stitches. Desolation hangs in every line in his face. He’s not that different from Dresden, when I first met him. “I forgive him.” I nod toward Dresden. “And you. Can you forgive yourself?”

  He shifts to the side, clearly unsettled, or surprised. For a moment, the flames around us begin to move, as his control over them slips. But just as quick, they’re stilled again.

  My power wanes. Unsurprisingly, he ignores my question. I have nothing left, Essie.

  “I just survived an attack by my doctor, a mega-tornado—for God’s sake—being shot in the leg and nearly killed by my own cousin. And that’s just today. So don’t tell me you have nothing left. There’s always something left.” I reach my hand toward him, palm up. “Take my hand. Let’s do something that’s never been done before.”

  Are you a sorceress?

  “I’m a Wickerton.”

  He hesitates, motionless, then slowly extends a bony, desiccated hand. It slides into mine. A chill skitters down my arm, making me gasp. The cold is unreal, like ice through my veins. I grit my teeth and push back against it. How many times have I done this—fought against delusions and illusions and hallucinations? Enough times to make this mental muscle I’m using powerful.

  If magic is created by people with intentions, then people have the ability to mold it, change it. With one hand on Dresden’s sallow cheek and the other in the Strawman’s shuddering grasp, I push all of my intention into the power roiling through me.

  Magic pounds through me, scratching through my bones and electrifying my skin. Breathing becomes difficult, like my lungs are filling with something heavy and churning. Bubbles explode from my mouth, but I’m not laughing. It’s more like a purge. Something dark explodes from me, from every pore. Something unwinds. Something else lies down and slumbers.

  I don’t know what I was expecting. This isn’t the kind of thing anyone can prepare for.

  This will destroy you. The Strawman’s voice threads through the chaos of my mind.

  I’ve been destroyed many times, I think in return. My hand stays tight around Dresden’s. Magic made him a beekeeper. Magic will unmake him. I always rebuild.

  33

  Dresden

  one last death

  Like a switch, I’m aware again. I’m alive, as much as I can be, for as long as I can be. Flames have resumed licking the walls. Detective Berk, or whatever the Strawman had turned her into, lies on the floor, motionless. She’s dead, as she gives off no energy at all. My gaze scans the room for Essie, but I don’t see her. Suddenly, an arm twines under my armpits, tugs me backward. Breath puffs at my ear.

  “Get up!” a girl shouts into the back of my head.

  Essie!

  I dig deep, unearth a spoonful of energy, and pedal my feet backward, grabbing traction and gaining a semi-standing position. Essie’s arm tightens over my chest. She pulls me toward the open door. The Strawman stands in the middle of the room, unmoving, as the flames lick closer to him. Closer, until they ignite the cuffs of his sleeves. Still, he doesn’t move.

  Essie and I tumble from the farmhouse. We manage to get to the edge of the field and collapse between rows of corn. It’s as far as we can go, both of us with our broken bodies. I brace myself above the dirt, then vomit, repeatedly, uncontrollably. Chunks of honeycomb and a stream of honey spill from my mouth. Never have I known pain like this. I feel like I’m being turned inside out, but then, I am dying. Death is not supposed to be easy.

  I feel Essie’s hand on my face. She speaks soothing words I can’t make out over the roaring in my ears. I catch snippets: Hold on, Dresden… Stay with me… I’m here.

  You’re going to be fine.

  I love you.

  Blackness takes over slowly, with darkness stealing my peripheral vision, then closing in on my mind like a warm blanket. It’s impossible to fight. I’m dying, as I should.

  I’m dying, and my only regret is not telling Essie that I loved her back.

  34

  Essie

  the dead bees

  The boy bleeds honey from his mouth. He doesn’t move.

  Crows let out loud caws and alight from their perches. They surround us, staring with bright, red-black eyes. I wave a hand at them. “Go!” I yell, although it’s more of a croak. “Get help!”

  A few take flight, but most stay where they are, watching the boy with the face that doesn’t change anymore leak gold from his mouth. They watch me cry over him. They throw back their sleek black heads and scream at the sky.

  I touch Dresden’s face. It’s smooth and still. Young and beautiful. Utterly at peace. Only his eyes are familiar. I’ve seen them once before, in my bedroom. A few weeks or a lifetime ago. There’s no difference.

  Dresden.

  He isn’t breathing. I don’t feel a heartbeat. Panic ices my spine. I was sure that whatever magic I did with Stitches would save Dresden’s life. The power channeling through me had overwhelmed all of my senses, but the Strawman worked with me. I could feel his will pouring into the darkness he wielded, trying to turn destruction into something life-giving. He’d given everything to not destroy me, and in turn, I’d transferred what he had to Dresden. I’d felt the life surge in him. I’m certainly not giving up on him now.

  A few years ago, I took a CPR course at the hospital, at Aunt Bel’s insistence. It’s important, she’d said. You never know when you may get to save someone’s life. Little did I know. I do it exactly as I remember: Clear his mouth. Tilt his head. Pinch nostrils and breathe. My palms go to his chest. I pump to a count. Repeat breath. Repeat pumps.

  My lips come away from his tasting of tear-salted honey. The tears are mine. I pump and breathe, pump and breathe. Over and over. Until my knees are numb from kneeling, my arms are trembling, and my head is dizzy from filling his lungs as well as mine.

  My back is warm. The air is thick with smoke, which doesn’t help. The farmhouse burns behind me.

  I vaguely hear the ambulance arrive. Hands pull me off him and place him on a stretcher. Voices call for paddles and tubes and milligrams.

  A blanket over my shoulders. A clear oxygen mask over my face. And questions:

  What is your name, miss? We’re from the Marshall County fire and rescue—was this your home? Who can we call? Good heavens—is that a gunshot wound?

  I don’t know. Help him. Save him. Don’t let him die.

  My mind does not feel like mine. I am alone—vacant in my own head—and the world is a stark, stripped-down place that is familiar and alien at the same time.

  People, buildings, trees. Things are as they are. The sky doesn’t bleed, although my leg does. A gurgle of laughter escapes my mouth, but bubbles do not. The world is unchanged.

  But everything is different.

  Someone picks me up and puts me on a stretcher. What for?
My leg doesn’t even hurt anymore. Nothing hurts, aside from this crushing press in my chest, like my heart is being squeezed out of my ribs. And the residual cold—a chill under my ribs I wonder if I’ll ever fully be rid of.

  My gaze is locked on the boy being whisked into the ambulance. Doors shut, and the ambulance tears off. Tires spit gravel.

  “Will he be okay?” I ask.

  “We don’t know yet.”

  Oh Dresden. You better live. After all we went through, you’d better damn well live.

  35

  Dresden

  one last life

  “Son, are you awake?”

  The voice is male and unfamiliar. The other sounds are foreign, too. Beeping, whooshing, shoes slapping on a hard floor. It’s hard to move. My body weighs a thousand pounds, and it’s oddly quiet. The bees are being so still…

  “Young man, my name is Doctor Beecham.” He enunciates each word, pausing between each one. “Can you hear me?”

  “Oh, move over,” a gruff female voice takes over. “Look you, my girl is worried out of her mind over you, so open your eyes or I’ll put something nice in your IV to pep you up.”

  “Belvedere, you can’t just—” Dr. Beecham is cut off with some muted muttering and a rustling of clothing.

  “Go on now, Aaron,” she huffs at him. “This one’s mine.”

  I blink my eyes open. The round face of Essie’s Aunt Bel slowly comes into focus. She peers down at me, frowning, then perks into a bright smile. “There’s my boy. About time you woke up.”

  “What—” I can’t say another word. My throat throbs. I press a hand to my neck. It feels intact.

  “You’re in a hospital, kiddo. You can thank Essie for that, and me, for making her take those CPR classes.” She pats my cheek. “But thank-yous can wait. It’ll be a while before your insides are healed up, so don’t try to talk.” Aunt Bel’s smile widens as she shakes her head. “You’re a lucky young man.”

  It finally occurs to me what she said: You’re in a hospital. My eyes fly wide open. I look around. How did I get here? I must be terrifying everyone. My face…

  She leans close on the pretense of checking my IV, but whispers in my ear. “Calm down, Brando. Your looks have improved considerably since last we met. No one’s going to run in terror from this face you’ve got.”

  Brando? I bring my trembling hands up, tracing features so long missing they’re new to me. My fingers stay there, waiting for the inevitable shift, but the face remains. I try to remember this nose, this mouth. I haven’t felt them for so long, I can’t believe they’re mine.

  Aunt Bel watches me with a bemused smirk. I can’t hide my astonishment, the strange mix of confusion and relief and fear, too. The curse is…broken? I wasn’t supposed to break the curse and live. My memories are fuzzy. I recall the Strawman telling me I righted my wrong, and that I was free. I recall tens of thousands of dying bees, carpeting the floor. And Essie, like a superhero, pulling me out of that burning building. What happened in between those two events?

  My head aches at all the implications, possibilities. I’ll think about them later. Right now, one of Aunt Bel’s carefully drawn-on eyebrows rises. “You must have a hell of a story, kid. I can’t wait to hear it, when you’re healed up.”

  I point to my wrist, like a watch, and give her a questioning look.

  “You’ve been under for week and a day,” she replies. “Doctors had fun sewing up your trachea, bronchioles—you name it. Three surgeries. They are curious to know what happened to you.” She pauses, drops her voice again. “Essie filled me in some, but it may be wise to claim a memory lapse on how your insides got torn up and honey poured down your throat.”

  “Ess…sie…”

  “She’s fine. Better than fine. You two are the luckiest people alive to escape a psychopath. Anne Marie Berk’s body was found in the ashes of that house, which was her mother’s old place. Journals found in her apartment in town detailed everything she did. Plus, I already had that security footage.” She pushes hair off my forehead, pats my cheek. “We’ll take care of you, Essie and I, until you’re healed up. Then, we can talk about whatever comes next.”

  My gaze goes to the sound of a breathless gasp at the door.

  It’s her. She’s on one crutch to support her injured leg, but she’s smiling. At me. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in the whole of my life.

  I automatically try to sit up, but Aunt Bel presses me back into the mattress with one capable hand. “Lie still, champ. Dr. Beecham won’t forgive me if you bust your stitches.”

  Essie hobbles over to me. She sets her crutch against the wall and sits on the side of the mattress, carefully moving tubes and wires. She’s done this before. She must have sat here while I slept. The thought makes my eyes burn with tears.

  “Dresden.” Her voice is soft. Her eyes bright.

  Aunt Bel moves toward the door. “Essie, remember he needs rest.”

  Essie doesn’t seem to hear. She touches my cheek, my nose. Her fingers dance along my jaw. It’s the sweetest agony.

  “You took so long to wake up, we were worried,” she says, then wrinkles her nose. “It’s weird to see you with just one face. I keep expecting it to change.”

  So do I. I can’t drag my gaze from her. She’s still Essie, but she’s different than she was. Her gaze stays on me. It doesn’t drift off to look at all the other things her mind would show her. The curse is gone from her, but there’s still a hint of something about the edges of her that will always make her a little bit different. Thank goodness. The girl I fell in love with is still there—here. Looking down at me so tenderly. I’ve never wanted to speak so badly.

  There’s so much I want to say, to ask. How did we get rescued? Is your mind fully free of the venom I infected it with all those years ago? Is this really my face you’re looking at? And—unreasonably, but overwhelmingly, important—do you like it?

  Perhaps the last was readable on my face, because she raises one brow. “You are absurdly handsome. My aunt thinks you look like Marlon Brando.”

  A flush heats my neck. Well that explains that.

  I raise a hand, bring it to her cheek. “You oh…kay?” I breathe-whisper the words.

  “I’m good.” She leans into my touch. “As good as I can be. You can’t live so long with a condition like I had, then suddenly be fine, you know? My new doctor says it’s like living your whole life on a boat, then trying to adapt to solid ground. So, it’s…not easy.

  “But I haven’t had any hallucinations or difficulties with reality since the tornado.” She brushes back her bangs and shows me a fading greenish bruise on her forehead. “Nothing a nice concussion can’t cure, right? They’re saying head trauma re-scrambled my eggs, even though that has never happened before. They just don’t have an explanation. Not that they ever did. No doctor ever figured out what the Wickerton curse was, either. I know it was you who lifted it.” Her brows lower into a fierce frown. “Shame on you, Dresden. I’m not worth trying to kill yourself over.”

  “You…are…” I slide my fingers into her hair, letting thick strands slide between my fingers. “Worth a…thousand…deaths.”

  Essie’s hand covers mine. “And you’re worth a lifetime of delusions.” She pulls a folded letter out of her pocket. “A certain guy who can turn into a crow wanted me to give you this.”

  I take it from her, but don’t open it yet. There’s a ripple of guilt in my belly. I’m not going with Michael and his group this time. The four harbingers will be without a beekeeper trailing them around for the first time.

  “You were in surgery when your friend, Michael, came by. He said that they couldn’t stay any longer, but that you can keep in touch through email. It’s in the letter.” Essie tilts her head. “He also said that he’s happy for you, but annoyed that you’re better looking than him, now.”

  I smirk. He would be annoyed about that.

  It will take a while to get used to being around her without worryin
g about scaring her or containing bees. My chest feels filled up and empty at the same time. It’s just me now. No hive, no queen. It’s so quiet inside me.

  There is only the sound of my beating heart, and it beats for this girl. The only worry left is that she’ll send me away. It’s hard to say what she’ll want now. The future is open to her. She has so many choices. So many options that don’t include me. But no matter what she ultimately chooses, she’ll know one thing: “I…love you,” I say it clearly, although it hurts. “Loved you…since met you… Promise...won’t leave unless…”

  “Shut up, Dresden.” She dips her head. Her lips touch mine hesitantly.

  My first instinct is to pull away, but this is my mouth. My lips.

  I have one last lifetime to live. Just one.

  I gently lean up and kiss her, giving her plenty of time and space to pull back. Instead, her hand fists in the front of my hospital gown and her mouth parts over mine. My fingers thread into her hair, and I breathe into this first kiss, for both of us. I close my eyes and melt into a euphoria I’d completely underestimated.

  Her lips curve against mine. “You still taste like honey.”

  “And you…peppercorns.”

  She laughs, but it fades quickly. “I’ll always be a little different, you know. If you’re looking for a typical girl, I’m not it.”

  “Don’t want…typical,” I rasp out. “Want…you.”

  If I could fully speak, I would remind her that I spent the previous untold years as an immortal monster with a hive of bees in his chest. I’m not exactly typical, myself.

  “After you get out of the hospital and are well again, Aunt Bel is taking the insurance money we’re getting from the house and we’re starting over fresh. We’re moving away from here.”

  My heart beats faster. “To where?”

  “Don’t know yet. Somewhere where no one has heard of the Wickertons.” She picks the edge of her finger, where the skin is red and peeling. Some habits are hard to break. “Maybe Rhode Island, near the art school I was accepted to. I think I’d like to go.”