Black Bird of the Gallows

by Meg Kassel

  “Go, Angie.” Lacey wiggles her brows. “This is exciting.”

  “It’s not. I don’t know what he wants.” I place my guitar on its stand and chew on my bottom lip. I’m not sure I want to know why he’s here.

  “Well, go find out,” Deno says. “And use complete sentences, instead of your usual grunting.”

  “I don’t grunt.” I fiddle with the choppy ends of my hair. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Make eye contact. So he doesn’t think you have social anxiety.”

  “I do have social anxiety.”

  “He doesn’t need to know that.”

  Probably too late for that. I go to the door and look back. “I’ll be right back.”

  Lacey smiles beatifically. “Oh, I hope not, Angie.”

  Reece is in the foyer, alone, pacing. My dad is nowhere in sight, but I guarantee he’s not far. Reece’s hands are stuffed in the front pocket of a hooded sweatshirt. He pulls them out when I come into the room and rubs them on his thighs. “Hey,” he says, looking so very normal in a well-worn baseball cap.

  “Hey yourself.” I cross the foyer on the balls of my feet—a nervous habit I hate—and uncross my arms, at a loss of what to do with them. “What’s up?”

  “I’m sorry to show up like this.” He peeks up at me, his face solemn. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  Disturbing. A fine word choice. “Nope.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “I got the clear impression you wanted to keep your distance.” I don’t feel bad about the frost in my voice. “You’re sending very mixed signals.”

  “I know. It’s messed up.” He looks down at my skull slippers and amusement slides across his expression. “You have no idea how much.”

  “Oh, I have an idea.” I cross my arms again. “What’s this favor?”

  “I was wondering if you’d mind giving me a ride to the ice rink.”

  “The ice rink?” I ask. “Isn’t the hockey season half over?”

  “Yeah.” His shoulders jerk into a shrug. “But Coach Radley saw my last season stats and agreed to let me try out tonight at practice. He lost a center to bad grades and, if I make it, he said he can swing a special circumstance waiver, letting me join the team mid-season. My car arrived, but it’s in the shop, and my mom is out, so I was wondering—hoping—you’d be willing to give me a ride.”

  “None of the puck heads felt like picking you up?”

  His voice and eyebrows lower. “Fine. I wanted to talk to you, okay? Without an audience. I didn’t know how else to do it.”

  He wants to talk. I let out a breath. “We have a terrible hockey team.”

  A grin flickers, quick and bright. “I suspect that’s why Coach is letting me try out mid-season.”

  I glance back toward the basement stairs. “I don’t know. I have friends over.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know.” His eyes widen. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.” A flush brightens his cheekbones.

  “That’s okay,” Lacey pipes up, appearing behind me. “We were just leaving, weren’t we Deno?”

  Of course, they wouldn’t just stay in the basement.

  Deno looks baffled. “We’re leaving? But our equipment—” Lacey cuts him off with an elbow to the ribs. “Ow. Okay, yeah,” he says. “On our way out. See you tomorrow, Angie.”

  “Wait,” I say. “You don’t have to.”

  “Sure we do,” Lacey chirps, eyes darting to Reece. “It’s a school night.”

  The whole scene is ridiculous, with Lacey and Deno exchanging looks and trying—but not succeeding—to make a smooth, non-obvious exit.

  Lacey lets out a peal of laughter as soon as the door is shut behind her. Reece cocks his head, eyebrows raised in bemusement. “What was that about?”

  “On Earth, we call it embarrassing.” I rub circles into my forehead.

  “I am from Earth.”

  “Are you sure?” I roll the ball of my foot over the tile. “So you want me to drive you.”

  “Or we can fly. Whichever is easier.”

  “Funny. Okay, fine, since you’ve run off my friends. Get your stuff.”

  His “stuff” is a small mountain of gear already piled up on the front step. My jaw locks at the sight. Presumptuous of him to assume I’d drop everything and dive for my keys. As if my deepest desire on a Thursday evening is to drive his butt across town to the ice rink, but he’s pretty confident. Probably not used to the word “no.”

  I find Dad in the kitchen, pretending to be busy, and let him know what I’m doing, then make Reece haul his load of hockey stuff through the house to the garage, where my dad’s BMW, my car, and my mom’s old Volkswagen Bus are housed.

  Reece drops his hockey gear at the Civic’s bumper and makes a beeline for the VW. “Oh, wow, Angie. That’s cool.” He lets out a low whistle and spreads his hands before the mint-blue paint. It looks good. I don’t know why my dad had it restored. Probably because it was stinking up the garage with the skunky reek of weed. Maybe he just wanted to.

  But Reece is right. The Bus is cool. At least, I can see how someone other than me might think so.

  He leans close, runs a hand over the thick white stripe along the side. “What year?”

  “1962.” I resist the urge to rush over and slap away his hand. “Can we go now?”

  “Does it run?”

  “As far as I know,” I reply. “Aren’t you going to be late?”

  He shrugs. “Can I sit inside?”

  “No.” It comes out sharper than I intended, but not nearly as sharp as I feel. He’s too close to the van, and we’re very much alone in this dark garage. Both things make my nerves jangle like loose change.

  He looks over in surprise and holds out his hands. “Okay. No problem. I love old cars. Is it your dad’s?”

  “Mine, technically.”

  His black eyes find mine and widen. “This amazing beast is yours, and you take the bus to school?”

  I take a breath and chew on my bottom lip. My mother died in this car. It’s been here since the Philadelphia Police Department released it to my dad five years ago. He had it completely restored, but I can’t imagine driving it. I also can’t imagine getting rid of it. So here it sits.

  I tap a finger on the Honda’s doorframe. “Do you want a ride or not?”

  “Yes.” He stands there for a moment, gazing in the Bus’s window with a puzzling fascination. When he turns around, his eyes are bright. He’s really into weird old cars.

  And crashed ones with dead people inside.

  Something cold skitters down my back. He did admit to being attracted to death, but he’s on crack if he thinks I’m ever going to let him drive my mom’s van. He flashes me a wide smile and reaches for his discarded gear. “You’re a puzzle, you know that?”

  I roll my eyes and hit the trunk button on the key. He must be joking. Of the two of us, I am not the puzzle. “I’m sorry, who is the harbinger of death here?”

  Reece grins. “Good point.” He dumps his hockey stuff in the trunk and climbs into the passenger seat. For the second time this week, he fills up the front half of the car with the smell of pine and clean air on a spring day. Smelling nice doesn’t cancel out my nerves, though. I’m wound tight as a coil. My hands keep a death grip on the steering wheel, and I’m not even driving yet.

  “Do you know where the ice rink is?” he asks.

  “I’ve lived here for five years,” I reply. “I know where everything is.”

  He lets out a sigh. “You’re angry with me.”

  “Angry is a strong word,” I say, sounding an awful lot like Lacey. “More like frustrated.”

  He nods. “I understand. I should never have told you those things then taken off like that. I apologize.”

  So formal. So stiff. Fine. Two can play at that. “You can’t basically admit that you’re not human and not expect follow-up questions.”

  “I know it.” He slants me a look. “You shouldn’t have followed me, but after what happ
ened at The Strip Mall, I should’ve expected you’d want answers.”

  “You said you were cursed. That magic was involved. Magic.” I shake my head. “How am I supposed to process that?”

  “I get it. The present world has a specific view of reality, but it wasn’t always like that. Magic used to be as ubiquitous as wifi. It was everywhere, a part of everyday life. These days, people have been well conditioned to disbelieve magic, even when they see it with their own eyes. Tell me, what do you think the Beekeepers are, if not magical creatures?”

  “Well, why isn’t it still around, then?”

  He sighs and takes off his baseball hat. “It is. There are a few remnants of magic remaining from a far earlier time. You happened to come in contact with one. Or two, if you include me.”

  “And the rest of it just…went away?”

  “It was purged, but that’s a long, complicated story for another time. Maybe.”

  I want to hear it, but my logical mind still really doesn’t like the word magic and reality used in the same utterance.

  He rubs his chin and gives me a considering look. “Maybe it will help to put a name to the Beekeeper’s face, or rather, faces.” He grins, but my mouth stays flat. I do not see the humor. “So, the Beekeeper who approached you at The Strip Mall is named Rafette. He follows my family around. Most harbinger groups have a Beekeeper attached to them to one extent or another. Rafette’s been around a long time. He…has weird ideas about things sometimes. He likes to spy on people—good at it, too. He may have noticed how often I look at you and got curious.”

  Um. I don’t like the idea of anyone spying on me at all, but the idea of that guy watching me without my knowledge twists my stomach in a knot. Also, I look at Reece plenty. This Rafette creature surely would have noticed that. I clear my throat. “Curious about what?”

  He blinks a few times, as if the answer is so plain, he can’t fathom why I’m asking. “About whether or not I’m interested in you.”

  “Hmm.” Okay. Don’t ask, Angie. Do. Not. Ask. “So, are you…?”

  He looks straight out the windshield. “I really can’t make it more obvious.”

  Yeah, he could. “You avoided me all week.”

  “This is confusing for me, too.” Reece waves his phone with the time displayed. “I don’t mean to rush, but practice starts at six, and I can’t be late tonight.” A flush rides his high cheekbones. He looks at me and away, as if he’s unsettled. Or possibly nervous. Meanwhile, my nerves are riding so high, they’re making me want to laugh. The boy likes me. This boy. This harbinger of death who has already told me that my town is going to be hit by some sort of disaster and he’ll be leaving in a month or so after this happens. The giddy rush slipping around under my skin is so unbelievably irrational, it is funny, in the most screwed-up way possible. I clamp my teeth on my bottom lip until it hurts and back out of the garage wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Reece is one big walking complication. I still don’t really know what his feelings are. He may think he’s “obvious,” but the boy is about as clear as a wood door.

  He fiddles with his phone. “I won’t let Rafette near you again. One of my family members, Hank, keeps an eye out for him when I can’t. I just…thought you should know.”

  Hank. My mom dated a guy named Hank once. He was nice, something I can’t say for any of my mom’s other boyfriends. He’d left, of course. Or we had. It was an on again, off again type of thing. Either way, the end result was the same.

  I force my shoulders down and back and steal a glance at Reece. He’s got a killer profile. Angular and strong, like it belongs on a coin. Or leading an army to battle. What has he been through? Remembering Hank brings the past surging into the present, and suddenly something about Reece feels achingly familiar. A memory just out of reach, or perhaps I’ve thought about him so much this past week, I think I know him better than I do.

  He looks down and there it is again—profound sadness. Deep hurt, hiding just beneath the veneer. I know it’s there. It answers an ache within me like a haunting echo.

  The illuminated blue-on-white sign for the ice rink comes into view. I pull into the parking lot and find a spot. Practice doesn’t start for a few more minutes, and a handful of guys are waiting in the covered vestibule. I don’t turn off the engine, expecting him to grab his stuff and go. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, looking at his hands.

  My own hands drop away from the steering wheel. “Hey, Reece—”

  He glances up suddenly, with alarming intensity. He wants to say something. Badly.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  His mouth opens but closes with a sigh. He rubs his thumb over the opposite palm.

  That’s when I see them—three deep, ragged scars running the length of his palm. They start at the web of his fingers, trace between the bones of his hands, and converge at the wrist.

  I reach for him without thinking, pulling his hand into the dim light of the parking lot lamp. “What happened to your hand?”

  His fingers curl into a fist, but he doesn’t pull away. “Nothing. Just an old scar.”

  “It’s not nothing. These look deliberate.” My eyes snap to his. “What happened to you?”

  He lets out a laugh with a sharp twist in it. “What hasn’t happened to me?” He tips his head back and closes his eyes. Long, dark lashes on golden cheeks. “Oh Angie, I can never tell you it all. And this isn’t the time or the place to tell even a little of it.”

  “Then why did you want to talk to me?”

  “To apologize. To—” He rolls his head toward me, gives me a vague smile that doesn’t match the hunger in his eyes. “Angie, I will answer your questions. There isn’t enough time right now, but soon. I have one request.”

  “What is it?”

  “That you’ll hear me out.” He draws in a breath through his teeth. “That after you hear what I have to say, you’ll try not to be afraid of me.”

  I wrap my arms around myself on a chill. “I already am a little afraid of you, Reece. In more ways than one.” The words tumble out, more breath than voice.

  He swallows hard. “A harbinger of death isn’t the same thing as a Beekeeper, but not altogether different, either.”

  Reassuring words stick in my throat. “I want to know.”

  He lowers his head in a resigned nod. Wavy chestnut hair falls over his furrowed brow.

  I squeeze his fist, still clasped between my hands. There’s a hum, almost a vibration, between us that gets stronger the longer this goes on. It may be my freak-out meter busting out of the red zone. Slowly, I release his hand, and just as slowly, he retracts it. I drag my gaze up to his.

  “Hey, maybe you can come inside, hang out until practice is over?” His voice is rough-edged. “It’s not long. We have only forty minutes of ice time.”

  I feel like I just swallowed a rock. Sitting in the stands during a guy’s sports practice is a galaxy away from my comfort zone. And not something I think I’m ready for. Plus, watching any sports practice sounds awfully boring, even with Reece playing the sport. “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “Damn it,” he hisses through his teeth. His gaze narrows on something outside, in the darkness.

  I scan the parking lot but see nothing. “What is it?”

  Slowly, he raises a finger and I see him—Rafette, the Beekeeper who grabbed me outside The Strip Mall—standing at the edge of the parking lot, nearly in the trees. I was just looking there. It’s as if he materialized.

  Fear unrolls through me like a ribbon of ice. “What do we do?”

  “Nothing. I go play hockey and you go home.” Reece unbuckles his seat belt and pulls his baseball cap back on. “Pop the trunk, okay?”

  “I’m not leaving you here with…him.”

  He smiles faintly. “Oh, Rafette can’t hurt me.” He nods to the boys hanging out in front of the rink. “But he can hurt them.”

  My stomach dips. “You’re staying?”

  “If Rafette releases bees
on those boys, they’re dead. I won’t let that happen.” He leans close. So close, I should be able to see the line where his iris ends and his pupil begins. But it’s solid black. “I want you to go straight home, okay? I will make sure he doesn’t follow you, although I don’t believe that’s his intention tonight.”

  “What is his intention?”

  Reece sighs. “I have to go, Angie.” He reaches over and hits the trunk button on my key fob. “I’ll see you tomorrow at school.”

  He gets out of the car, hauls his hockey equipment out of the trunk, and strides straight into the pack of boys. I watch him meld into their sea of mismatched gear and backward caps. Their teeth flash, but not in warning. He’s welcomed into their tribe with backslaps and fist bumps. He doesn’t glance back. Not once.

  I look back to the edge of the parking lot.

  The Beekeeper is gone.

  13- the dead beat

  There is no groove tonight. Nothing that works. No matter how high I push the volume, how deep I drive the beat, I’m separate from the music. It’s not in me, but around, over. I can’t flow with it, and that is the mark of an unsuccessful DJ.

  People are still moving. The floor is active, but if I can feel the forced vibe, others can. Deno has worn a frown all night. He monitors the sound output on his laptop, displeased by how loud I’m making things tonight. I usually play a mix of strong beats with spaced-out remixes, but tonight is all in angry techno. Tonight, I am not comfortable in Sparo’s clothes. The makeup itches my eyes. The shoes pinch and make me clumsy. I undo the buckles of my platform boots and step out of them. My breath goes shaky and my head goes giddy from the act of releasing those six inches of height and easing my sore feet to the carpeted booth floor. I feel incredibly naked, curling and uncurling my stockinged toes. My hands move over my tablet, monitoring the music I’m playing. Other people’s music. Other people’s talent and work. And here I am, hiding behind a disguise that, at this moment, feels ridiculous. I have made music. Dozens and dozens of songs, locked away on my hard drive at home. I never play them. If I do, I may have to admit they’re mine. I’d have to do more than play them—I’d have to own them. And myself.