Black Bird of the Gallows

by Meg Kassel

  I open the door to find Reece on the front porch. His hands are jammed deep in his jeans pockets, his shoulders hunched. He looks up, gives me a lopsided grin. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself.” The porch light glints off his wet hair. He looks so darn cute standing there. A little nervous. A little eager.

  His brows go up. “What?”

  I shrug one shoulder and grin at him. “We’re eating ice cream.”

  “About time.” He shakes out his rain-soaked hair, reminding me a little of Roger when he does it.

  He tucks his arms against his torso and shifts his feet. “Can I come in? It’s cold out here.”

  I lean outside and press my mouth to his. He draws in a sharp breath, then eases into the kiss, slanting his lips against mine. He tastes like cold rain and mint gum—two things that in this moment, I’m sure I could subsist on indefinitely. When I pull away, reluctantly, there’s hunger in his eyes that makes my stomach tighten. I drop my gaze, unsure of myself, of these feelings that are intense and unfamiliar. It’s a real problem. The more I feel for Reece, the deeper the claws of dread dig into my chest. It’s harder and harder to remind myself…he can’t stay.

  Reece’s dark eyes hold mine. “Did I do something wrong?” he asks.

  “No, I—” I think I’m falling for you. “You’re a good kisser.”

  “My gift. My curse.” He gives me a shrug and another lopsided smile. “So may I come in?”

  “Oh. Sorry.” I dance backward as he steps inside.

  He crouches to scratch behind Roger’s floppy ears. “Is your dad going to be mad I’m here?”

  I beam a smile. “Not at all. Come. We’ll have a pint.”

  “Mint chip?”

  “I can share.”

  He hangs behind but follows me to the den. My dad is still sitting there, spoon in hand and a scowl on his face.

  Reece stops in the entrance to the den. “Hello, Mr. Dovage.”

  “Mr. Fernandez,” Dad says coolly.

  The two eye each other for a long, uncomfortable moment. My dad must have a point to make. I plop next to him on the couch and stick an elbow in his side.

  Dad shoots me a stern look. “Don’t poke me with your elbow.”

  Reece sighs. “I can go.”

  My dad huffs out a breath and waves Reece in. “Damn it, come and sit down.”

  Reece hesitates. It’s so obvious that he’d rather not deal with my glowering father, but he comes in and sits down next to me. My dad leans forward and fixes Reece with a hard gaze. “Angie likes you, so you must be an okay kid. But so help me, if I catch you sneaking in the basement with my daughter again, you will leave on a stretcher. Got it?”

  Wow. Even as my cheeks heat up, I am a little in awe of this previously unknown side of my dad. It’s as fascinating as it is embarrassing.

  Reece swallows. “Yes, sir. No basements.”

  “That’s right.” My dad settles into the couch. “Have a daughter one day and you’ll see. Forget the water,” he mutters. “Kids are what’s making people lose their minds.”

  I can’t tell if Reece is intimidated, or if he’s pretending for my dad’s benefit. I pass Reece a speculative look, which he returns with a quick smile and amused eyes. Only pretending, then. Not surprising. Nothing my dad could do to him would be worse than going through puberty nine times.

  “Here.” I pass him the mint chip. “You know. Life’s too short.”

  He drops his gaze. “Indeed it is.”

  “Hey.” My dad points at the TV. He looks confused. “I know that guy.”

  I scan the screen. It’s a scene of the crowd outside the college, backed up behind the crime scene tape.

  “Who?”

  Dad grabs the remote and hits the pause button. “That skinny guy right there, with the wool hat. I know him.” He rubs his chin. “Trying to remember where.”

  My heart clutches. I send Reece a look of panic, because we both know that guy, too. His curse may have gifted him one bland set of features for the TV, but that’s Rafette my father’s pointing to.

  “Ah!” Dad claps his hands and points to the screen. “Son of a bitch. That’s the same piece of sh— Oh, sorry for the cursing.” He clears his throat, but his eyes are glued to the screen. “That guy used to hang around your mom at the apartment we shared in Pittsburgh, after you came along, Angie, but, well, we were apart for a bit. Something happened and she came home, but when she saw that guy, she really freaked out. I finally confronted him and told him to get lost, which he did, I think. Man, your mom was scared of nothing, but that guy… The guy made an impression on me. I could never forget him.” He squints at the TV and circles a hand over his face. “He had a weird kind of face, too, like it wasn’t quite… Whatever. I can’t explain it.”

  “That was a long time ago,” I choke out. “Are you sure it’s the same guy?”

  “I know. It can’t be, right?” Dad shakes his head, eats a spoonful of butter pecan. “Nah, you’re right. Couldn’t be. That guy’s a spitting image, though. How bizarre is that?”

  All three of us stare at the blurred, paused image of the man at the crime scene. I doubt my dad perceives the pleased, satisfied look on the Beekeeper’s face. No one else would, either. It’s just another face in the crowd.

  Reece’s lips are so compressed, they’re almost colorless. His fingers compulsively rub the scars on his palm. “I should get going.” He’s trying for lightness, but he sounds as serious as he looks.

  Dad looks over and blinks up at him. “That was a short visit.”

  “I know.” Reece gets to his feet. “I just remembered I told my mom I’d be home tonight. To watch the kids. She has a date or something.”

  My dad sits up straight. “Oh, sure. Is it…um. Is she seeing someone seriously?”

  Reece struggles to keep a straight face. “I don’t think so. I mean, we just moved here, so…”

  “Of course.” My dad waves a hand. “None of my business anyway.”

  Reece covers his mouth with a hand. “Well, okay. I’m gonna go. Good night, Mr. Dovage, Angie.”

  I get up. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Out of earshot, I grab his arm. “What the hell was that?”

  He looks away. “Yeah, I don’t know. That was weird.”

  “That was more than weird.” My chest swells with anger. “I told you there was a connection between my mother and Rafette. I saw her features in Rafette’s face that night in the parking lot behind The Strip Mall, and now we learn he was stalking my mom.” I jab a finger at his chest. “Which means you lied to me when I asked you about it. Why? What do you know?”

  “I didn’t lie,” he protests. “Remember when I told you how all the Beekeeper’s faces once belonged to people who died with their venom in them?”

  “Yeah?”

  “No one survives that. They just don’t. The venom is powerful and shifts reality in a specific way to its victims.” He steps close, speaks quietly in my ear. “If your dad saw Rafette stalking your mother back in Pittsburgh, it means she would have been stung just after you were born. Your mother lived for more than a decade after that. The average life-span after a Beekeeper sting is a few weeks, max.”

  “She did take her own life.”

  “Not violently. She overdosed. Maybe it was intentional, but it was also many years later,” he counters. “No one lives that long. They just don’t. Look what’s happening with Corey Anderson, and he was stung only two days ago.”

  My vision blurs. Officially, no one has heard from Corey Anderson since he was hauled out of PE, but the rumors about him are bad. It’s said that he flipped out on his parents, and he went to Pittsburgh for specialized psychiatric treatment.

  I cross my arms. “Explain it, then. Explain the connection.”

  “I can’t.” He grips my shoulders and leans close. “Angie, we have only a little time left. My family and I are watching you, Rafette, and trying to keep tabs on the people we know he stung. Forget him. Don’t dig
for answers here,” he says quietly, turning the door handle. “Don’t forget that you’re living in a marked town. There are bigger forces at work here than a Beekeeper playing mind games. Soon, you’re going to have to add survival to your list of priorities.”

  22- from the past

  I spend Sunday morning in my studio, trying to finish a half-written song, with varying degrees of success.

  Very little success. The violence outside my school made all this Beekeeper, impending disaster business unbearably real. Working on songs feels like a frivolous activity with all the chaos going on around me.

  Reece calls me midday to ask if I’d like to come over to watch a movie with him and his family. My dad says okay and although I’m feeling unsettled about Reece, I say I’ll go. Six o’clock, Reece tells me. Brooke is cooking.

  “Leave your phone on,” my dad says at ten to six. “Fair warning. If I call and you don’t answer, I’m coming over.”

  “Fine.”

  “And stay out of their basement.”

  “God. No basements, Dad. We’re going to watch a movie.” My teeth grit. “That’s it.”

  My dad’s brows raise. “Do I sense trouble in paradise?”

  “No.” I say, then sag into a chair. “I mean, I like him. He’s just very…different from me.” To put it mildly, and it doesn’t really matter how different or how similar we are, or if he’s holding on to secrets, because that whole “murder of crows” is turning into birds and flying away in a short while. My thoughts turn bitter. He wants to focus on us until he disappears forever, but he expects me to live with these questions about my mother and Rafette for the rest of my life.

  “He’s not pressuring you about anything, is he?” Dad asks gruffly. “If he is, I’ll—”

  “No!” I grab my coat and yank it on. “It’s nothing like that. I think his family moves around a lot, that’s all. I’m trying not to get too attached.”

  “Oh,” Dad says. “Well, that’s sensible.”

  “Yeah. Hooray for sensible.”

  My dad smiles gently. Knowingly. “If only the heart knew the meaning of that word.”

  “If only a lot of things.” I force a smile, scratch Roger’s ears. The Lab’s brown eyes are wide and worried. He lets out an anxious whine. “What’s with you, boy? Sorry, you can’t come, although Fiona won’t be happy with me for not bringing you.” I tuck my phone in my pocket and wave to my dad. “I won’t be home late.”

  It’s a warm evening. Spring replaced winter so suddenly, the ground is soggy. Tonight, the rain has eased to a balmy mist. My eyes adjust to the dark when I reach the wooded divider between the two properties. I put my hands on the rough pines to keep my balance on the uneven ground.

  Halfway there, a shadowy shape moves in the dark trees. I gasp, but it’s only my crow. He’s alone. None of the others are taking up their perches in the naked branches. The bird lowers its head and caws gently, hopping to a branch in front of me before gliding to the ground. It hops toward me, head bobbing. Something pink is pressed between its beak.

  I crouch down, surprised. It doesn’t usually get close to me. “What have you got there?”

  The crow carefully drops a faded, water-stained bow at my feet, then hops back, as if to ensure I won’t touch him. I pick up the bow. It’s small. A soft clasp is attached to the back. I smile at this latest gift, a little girl’s hair bow that somehow escaped the locks it had been fastened to.

  Suddenly, the crow distorts, bloats grotesquely. I back up with a gasp. Fear crawls into my throat, squeezes it shut, as the crow spreads its ever-enlarging wings. A thick, dark mist swirls around the thing’s legs and body, enveloping it entirely. The black vapor grows heavier. The acrid smell reminds me of the time I visited a blacksmith’s shop at a historic village with my dad. My legs are too rubbery to stand up. I scramble backward until my back bumps up against a tree.

  My crow is not a crow anymore. It moves with purpose, seething, growing bigger. Much bigger. I don’t know what it is—maybe a harbinger. But if that’s the case, it isn’t transforming correctly. Something is wrong with this creature. My hand covers a whimper as the bird begins to take the shape of a half-human man with a feather-covered torso.

  Two legs form, but with claws for feet. Wings spread six feet in diameter from the man’s shoulders, just for a second, before one of them shrinks into an arm—just one. The other remains a wing. Black feathers cover much of his body. One human eye where it should be, one jet black crow eye, set on the side of his head. His hair is a shock of white in an otherwise middle-aged face.

  He looks like something that just crawled up from hell. My back presses against the tree, and I freeze there, too afraid to turn my back on him and run. Tiny tornados of black twist and whirl around his limbs. They migrate upward, toward the man’s mouth. The man tilts his head back and hinges his mouth open as wide as he can. He looks to be in horrible agony as the black vapor, or whatever it is, sucks inside his mouth like a vortex. Finally, the last bit of black disappears through his lips. He closes his mouth, looks at me.

  I see his face, and my heart stops. Despite the distorted features, I know this man.

  “I beg your pardon, Angie.” His voice is the same low, gentle rumble. It’s an easy voice to trust. An easy voice to love. “I hope I haven’t frightened you too much.”

  I can’t drag my gaze away from his face. I did love this man once—my mother’s favorite and longest lasting ex-boyfriend. “Hank…”

  He was my now-and-then father whenever the wind blew him our way. He had been kind to me, taken me to the arcade and took me shopping for clothes. He’d shown me some stuff on the guitar. He’d been so kind. I had learned from my father that it had been Hank who reached out to the private investigator Dad had hired to find me.

  He’s a harbinger. Tears itch along my jaw and neck. My body shakes with a legion of emotions. Too much of the past intruding on the present. Too much stuff tumbling from boxes. My fingers clench around the bow. “You’re the crow that’s been…leaving things for me?”

  Hank inclines his head. “I had no other way to show you that I meant you no harm. I found these little things and I hoped you would not feel threatened by me.”

  An earring, a quarter, a flower, a bow. All things he gave me when I was a child. I can’t come up with a quick response, not even a thank-you. I just stare at him.

  He shifts on his awkward, clawed feet. His knees bend backward, like a bird’s. It must be terribly uncomfortable to stand like this.

  “I would have brought better things,” he says in a rough voice, “but I am limited by what I can find and carry in a bird’s beak.”

  “No, they’re amazing,” I choke out. “Thank you. I love them. But you…” I swallow. “What happened to you?”

  He turns so the crow eye is angled away. “Just a small taste of what I deserve. Punishment for not saving her.”

  We both know he’s referring to my mother. “No one could. She was an addict.”

  His dark eye seems to sink deeper into his head. From this angle, his face is the same. As a kid, I considered his face the gauge of true handsomeness. I adored his southern drawl and his easy smile. No one compared. Now, I see the sad, downturned edges of his mouth. The white hair that had once been dark brown. The ridges of grief etched into his face. The patches of black feathers covering most of his misshapen body.

  He shakes his head wretchedly. “No. I was given a choice. I chose wrong and was punished for it.”

  “Back up,” I say. “What choice? What could you have possibly done?”

  “Your mom was staying in a marked town. That’s when I met her. That’s how a harbinger of death meets anyone, you know. Your parents were split up for a while when you were around a year old. I fell for her instantly. It didn’t matter to me that she had you and was still in love with your daddy. I was happy to be her rebound guy. I couldn’t stick around anyway…”

  Hank’s human eye tightens with the memories. This remini
scing is costing him, opening old, painful wounds. He swallows with effort. “Your mom was making noises about going back to your dad, settling down. That you needed a stable home. I was all for it. I had a sense that the mark on the town we were in was about to expire, and I wanted her out of there when disaster struck.”

  “Where was I?” I ask.

  “Your dad’s parents had taken you for a week, while she was getting her head straight and figuring out what to do. And it was around that time when Rafette noticed how smitten I was and offered to keep her safe—no rules against a Beekeeper saving someone, you know. Only harbingers. Anyhow, in return, he said I had to take the Beekeeper’s curse. Thought that would free him. I didn’t believe a word of it. Also didn’t think he’d keep his word.”

  He rubs his hand over his face, grief etched into every line. “The mark on that town turned out to be a fire in the motel your mom was staying at, as she was supposed to die in it. There’re rules—ancient ones—that forbid us from directly interfering with the dying, but I lost my fool head and pulled her out, thinking no one was watching. No one would care about the fate of one woman. I couldn’t stand to let her die like that, to make her baby girl an orphan. But someone was watching. Someone who knew the rules and had the power to punish.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Angie. I should have gotten her to leave sooner. I should’ve—”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Hank,” I said, emotion thickening my voice. “You saved her life. But who…‘punished’ you?” I ask. “Was it Rafette?”

  “Something far worse.” He smiles bitterly. “Angie, there’re more than just harbingers and Beekeepers at work in this world. Quieter, darker entities with far more power than us. One of these beings—one as ancient as Rafette, but more deeply cursed and with darker intentions—twisted my curse, condemning me to this half-life.” He spreads his one arm and one wing. “This is what Reece may be doomed to, should he try to interfere with the course of events to come here.”