A Murder of Magpies

by Sarah Bromley

  It’s too dangerous for you to stay in Black Orchard. Someone breached my files, and I’ve had threats left at my home. Someone here knows about you. They will use the information from my files as proof. Last night, I received a phone call from the Hemlock police. They’re getting close, Emory. Now that you know they’re coming, I expect you to do as you always have. Run.

  An Art Deco lamp sizzled, and the light bulb shattered, throwing the lamp to the floor in a mosaic of rainbow glass and oiled bronze. Ward searched for a broom. I wound my hands together, pulse rising. Ward had her files, but she was right—someone had gone through them before.

  Marty. He’d read about Jonah and me. He’d told me about it the night he took me to the park. Could he have now decided to turn in Dad to the police?

  Jonah rushed into the storeroom. Breathless, cheeks flushed, his skin glistened with sweat. Heat swelled off him and spit like drops of water in a fire.

  “Where have you been?” Dad demanded.

  Jonah stammered, “I was gonna talk some sense into her or wipe her mind—”

  “You didn’t!” I shouted.

  “No! I couldn’t. I didn’t.” He went pale. “Sister Tremblay wasn’t in her quarters at the church. I can’t find her, can’t even track her energy.”

  My father receded into a shaded corner and stared into a smoked-glass mirror. His reflection sagged—an overtired, underprepared ghost of a man. He pulled his hand into a fist and smashed the two-century-old mirror.

  “Dati!” My body froze with a cascading cold. Static. Cool. Static. Cool.

  “Get your coats,” Dad ordered.

  Ward bit his lip and tucked Bernadette under his arm, and then he followed me into the showroom where I shut off the lights and set the alarm. “It’s the last time you’ll lock up Fire Sales, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “Trouble finds us and we run. It’s our way.”

  His hand was in mine, then his arm around me, and a breathy whine escaped my mouth. Bernadette licked the tears winding down toward my chin before I wiped them away. There would be a painful talk with Dad tonight, something along the lines of how fast we can pack our suitcases. I didn’t want to go.

  I entered the storeroom where Jonah’s heat spread like blood seeping under glass. “I could’ve stopped this. I could’ve fixed her memory.”

  “You wouldn’t know what you’re doing,” Dad argued. “Now I need to tell you some things about that nun, but you leave people’s minds alone. Got it? I don’t want you being like your mama. She interfered with the natural order, and you’re that woman all over again. Stop meddling.”

  Jonah stormed outside. That Dad adored Mom had always been obvious. It was clear now how disturbed he was by her abilities. All he ever asked was that we learned from her mistakes.

  We hadn’t.

  During the drive, Dad hummed to a song that Ward’s fingers tapped along with on his knee. No one attempted to talk, the air stifled by the unknown. We parked outside St. Anthony’s of Padua, near the entrance. The steeple stretched high, the bell in the tower hushed but for a flutter of black wings that roosted within its archway. Jonah led us down a path that curved behind the columbarium through a courtyard of skeletal rosebushes. An apartment-like building was the convent where all the sisters lived. Dad already knew which unit was hers, but as we approached, a police sticker marked evidence sealed the door.

  “That wasn’t here earlier,” Jonah declared. “I swear, Dati. I didn’t do anything.”

  Dad withdrew a Swiss army knife from his pocket and cut the tape.

  I grabbed his wrist. “What are you doing? You can’t go in there.”

  “What’s anyone going to do? Breaking and entering charges are the least of what I have to worry about right now,” he muttered. He tilted his head at Jonah. “Do your thing. Open the door.”

  “Are you sure?” Jonah asked.

  Dad nudged him forward. My brother laid his hand near the lock. I sensed his fingers burning, and the lock clicked, undone. Swinging the door open, we let ourselves into Sister Tremblay’s cloister.

  A cyclone spinning through her apartment would’ve done less damage. Barebones furniture lay turned over, busted. As a nun, she didn’t have many possessions, but everything she owned was broken. Glass from a picture frame and a torn photo of the mountains in northern Georgia rested on the floor. The cross on the wall hung askew. Dried red blots splattered across the white paint on the walls and neutral carpet.

  Blood.

  More than the upheaval of the furniture and the stains, an echo of something far worse buried itself in my gut. Sheer rage.

  Jonah covered his mouth as he gaped at the blood smeared on the wall and a vaguely woman-shaped break in the plaster. “I didn’t do this. You have to believe me.”

  Dad steered him back to the front door. “I believe you.”

  Had this been Marty? I couldn’t tell from the energy leaking out of the apartment’s walls into my hands, the hate was too great and my own fear was too loud to make sense of what I felt.

  “Hello?” a man called from the entrance. Monsignor. Waves of suspicion rode off him. It was strange to see him out of his cassock, his pants hitched up to his chest as he approached us. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Monsignor, I’m friends with Polly, Sister Tremblay,” Dad corrected himself. “What happened?”

  “Get out or I call the police, Mr. Silver,” Monsignor growled. “If you were her friend, you’d know she’s in the hospital. Someone beat her this afternoon.”

  “My God,” Dad whispered.

  “Who did this?” Ward asked.

  Monsignor stuck out his lower lip. “Can you account for your whereabouts today, Emory?”

  Dad’s spine stiffened. “I was at work. There are cameras at my shop that’ll show I was there all day.”

  “All of you? Even your delinquents?” Monsignor asked, his attention falling on Jonah. “Whoever hurt her must’ve had the devil’s rage to leave her in such a state.”

  I pushed past Monsignor, my legs wobbly as I hurried down the path through the courtyard and came to rest against the hood of the Chevy. People were hurt because of Jonah and me. Ward and his dog. Now Sister Tremblay. We hadn’t touched her, but someone had because of us. How was I supposed to live with that on my conscience? I twisted my wrists, and one of the Chevy’s headlights cracked.

  Freak.

  As I scooted into the backseat, Bernadette lifted her head from where she lounged on the seat. I stroked her head, running my hands down her bristly fur when Ward slid in beside me and took my hand. “Guess you’ve had a lousy birthday.”

  I snorted. Talking about birthdays was trite.

  Dad and Jonah came back to the car, Dad’s hands shaking so badly he dropped his keys. As my brother handed them over, he asked, “Now what?”

  “Monsignor’s blowing smoke. I hope. Either way, we go home and pack,” Dad replied.

  Ward’s hand squeezed mine. “Do I have time to get my stuff?”

  “You’re not coming, son. Maybe over summer, you’ll get in touch with us, but…”

  My throat closed on itself, and I leaned against Ward. He asked, “How will I know where to find you? Will you even let Vayda call me?”

  Dad opened his pack of nicotine gum and clenched a piece between his teeth. “Are you sure you want this life? Even if I wasn’t under investigation, the Mind Games cause enough problems that we leave wherever we settle. That’s the reality.”

  Ward’s hands pushed against his forehead. My feelers sank into my mind to avoid any of his thoughts. He nodded and sighed. “I’ve only been to Minnesota and Wisconsin. I wouldn’t mind traveling more of the country.”

  Dad chuckled, a surprising sound amid the sadness as we rode through the streets of Black Orchard. Past the business district and neighborhoods, we traveled outside of town to the woods. As Dad turned onto our dri
veway, a vile trail of energy plugged my mouth with bitterness. Jonah dug his fingers into his armrest. That energy…evil. So similar to what was in Sister Tremblay’s apartment.

  Fresh tire tracks swerved from the driveway, ending with a Toyota parked by the barn.

  “That’s Chloe’s car,” Jonah said.

  He didn’t wait for the car’s engine to sputter out before throwing open his door. Ward jumped out after him and rushed toward the barn, leaving Bernadette behind in the Chevy. As Dad and I climbed out of the car, an odor like rubbing alcohol but more incendiary clung to my nostrils and mixed with the evergreens.

  “What’s that smell?” I covered my nose.

  “Gasoline.” Dad pushed me toward the house. “Go call for help!”

  “Are you crazy?” Help meant firemen and police would swarm our property. We’d have no chance to get away.

  “Vayda, do as I say!”

  Dad raced after Ward and Jonah into the barn, and I hurried behind, ignoring his order. Jonah was on the ground with Marty. Dust and hay stuck to their backs. Dad grabbed my brother under his arms, but Jonah flung him off, intent on keeping Marty down. A splash like water dumped onto the stone floor. Above in the hayloft, Chloe edged along the railing in her blue winter coat. The fumes burned my eyes as she poured out a red gas can.

  “Get down from there!” I screamed, choking on the vapors.

  Ward scrambled up the ladder to the loft and charged at Chloe. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “They have to burn!” She swung the gas can, spraying Ward’s feet with fuel before grabbing a second one. He jumped, and she doused the old wood and hay with gas that dripped from the loft to the ground below, close to where Jonah and Marty threw their knuckles into each other’s bloodied mouths. As she balanced against the railing, the weak wood shifted from her weight.

  “Come down! It’s dangerous!” I climbed halfway up the ladder, but the rungs were brittle, one swinging loosely. The others wouldn’t hold my weight. “Chloe, stop! This is insane!”

  Ward closed in, beckoning her to hand over the gas can. “You can’t be this stupid. If you set this place on fire, it’ll explode.”

  He took another step, and her eyes widened as she brought the gas can to her chest. Chloe tossed the gas can at him and stumbled only to slam against the railing. The rotted wood splintered behind her. She struggled to keep her balance. Ward grabbed her wrist, but gravity already had her. They plunged from the loft, falling twelve feet, thumping against the ground.

  “Ward!” I yelped, scuttling over to their jumbled bodies

  Chloe took the brunt of the fall as Ward landed on top of her. She angled her neck and groaned. He pushed himself up to sitting and held his head.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked.

  “Dizzy. Chloe broke my fall.”

  She rolled to her side, tried to sit, and slumped as she gasped for breath. “Don’t think for a second that I’m done with you!”

  She attempted to stand, but her ankle rolled, refusing to support her weight. She stretched a hand with broken fingernails to me. “You’re dead, Vayda.”

  Her ankle gave, and she landed on her chest in the gasoline-wet dirt. It was almost sad to see her so far from the girl who’d invited me to scrapbook at her house.

  “Take her outside,” I said.

  Ward scooped Chloe into his arms and carried her into the winter night.

  God help her if she came near us again.

  She wanted us to burn. Like my mother. She’d murder us if she could.

  My attention was on Ward settling Chloe on the driveway when something hard and tall slammed into me. I hit the ground, my palms sinking into dirt wet with fuel. Adrenaline saturated my blood, energy bristling in my fingertips for an outlet. Marty recovered from plowing into me and moved to stampede Dad who doubled over and held his side.

  “You sure you want to do that?” Jonah shouted, positioning himself between Marty and my dad. His fingers outstretched. Gleaming amber light shimmered around his hands.

  Shit!

  Hot energy and gasoline was everywhere!

  “Dati, get out of here!” I seized Marty with both my hands. A rush of coolness flowed into him, pushing him down the same way he shoved me into the snow in the park. He smacked the ground, stunned.

  I’d blown nearly all the energy my body could handle. My head throbbed from the gasoline and currents coursing through me. Jonah reached to me with his burning hands, but I crawled back. “I can’t touch you. This place will go up like a firetrap if we set off any sparks.”

  Panting, he gave an understanding nod and nudged Marty, muttering, “Get up, asshole.”

  Jonah and I escorted Marty out of the barn. As we walked out under the night sky, Dad shut off his cell phone. Sirens grew louder as they approached the house. I stared at my father, but he kicked a rock on the ground.

  Everything moved too fast. Police cars and a fire truck barreled through the forest and parked wherever they pleased, and the air was thick with the odor of fuel.

  At the sight of the lights, Chloe screamed. “You’re done, Jonah! You’ll never hurt anyone ever again! You’ll never touch me again! All you’ll do is burn!”

  She struggled away from Ward’s hold on her, limped past Marty and me, and shoved her hand into her pocket, producing a lighter.

  A flick.

  A plume of yellow and red flame burst in the dark.

  Fire coursed up and down her legs. No one moved, too shocked perhaps, to understand what happened. So much fuel for the fire devouring Chloe’s jeans. Even she stood spellbound, lips twisted, as she burned.

  “Chloe!” Jonah ripped off his coat and plowed into her, forcing her to the ground.

  “Get away from me!” Her voice was a ragged shriek and tears forged trails down the dirt on her cheeks. “I don’t need you! I don’t want what you made me become!”

  Struggling against Chloe’s flailing arms, Jonah wrapped his coat around her and eased her to the ground, patting down the flames. A paramedic pulled Jonah off Chloe. I overheard my brother tell them she did it to herself, but they shoved him away. No one listened. No one would believe we hadn’t hurt other people.

  Quickly, policemen sequestered each of us for statements. They placed Marty in a cruiser and paramedics strapped Chloe onto a stretcher in an ambulance. I didn’t find Dad again until I noticed him standing before the stone house passing Bernadette over to Ward and studying the copper awnings and slate roof, the crumbling walls and creaking weathervane atop the barn.

  “For a while, I forgot this isn’t ours,” he admitted.

  “It might not be ours, but it’s home,” I told him. “I found some happiness here.”

  Dad nodded at the red and blue police lights. His hands, rough from all the work he’d done, cupped my face.

  “Magpie, you and Jonah deserve better than always fearing that we’ll be found.” His voice broke as kissed my forehead. “You need to call Rain.”

  “Dati, don’t.” I slumped against the Chevy that brought us here from Georgia. The night burned with raw, cold wind.

  “Officer,” Dad said to a policeman, “my name is Emory Murdock. I’m wanted by the police in Hemlock, Georgia.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Vayda

  I couldn’t sleep.

  When I eventually drifted off, the dream in my mind was hot.

  Full of fire.

  ***

  A glowing ember wanders through the darkness and spirals skyward, a solitary spark that snuffs out.

  The shriek sears my mind, yanking me up from bed.

  “Mom?” I call and clutch my blanket to my chest.

  Silence.

  A stirring at my neck freezes the baby-fine wisps at my hairline. My heart drums in my ears, and I hold my breath while my sight digs through the darkness for light.

  “A nightmare,” I whisper a
nd sink back into the comfort of my pillow and burrow under my blanket.

  “Vayda!”

  Go away, Jonah! I cast the thought like a fishing lure toward his mind.

  Reaching over to switch on my clock radio, the screen for the digital numbers is black. In the blue-black of night, my fingers track the cord still plugged into the wall. No power? Had a fuse blown? Happened all the time in such an old house.

  “Sis, come on!” The oak door rattles on its hinges as Jonah’s fists batter the wood. “Wake up!”

  I kick off the blanket and climb out of bed, feet on the cool pine floor. You’d best have a good reason—

  Under the doorway, a curious red glow leaches into my room. I stop short. The knob on my door, normally smooth and cool, gives off a molten-iron heat. I wind my hand in my nightgown, pull open the door, and fall back.

  The walls are swathed in amber, gold, and soot as flames whirl in my parents’ room down the hall. I scream into a plume of smoke, “Jonah!”

  I can’t track him through the blaze. My fingers stretch in search of his energy. Heat and fire everywhere and none of it Jonah’s natural warmth.

  “Where are you?”

  Through the smoke, Dad’s shadow towers above a second bowed body—Jonah, thank God—and hoists him onto his shoulder, a hunter claiming the limp carcass of a stag.

  “Vayda, come on!” he yells.

  Flames snake along the floorboards. I’m numb and can’t move, my mind stupid with one question. How can the house be on fire?

  Fingers clutching hard onto my wrist jolt me from my trance.

  “Stay low! Get down! Below the smoke!” Dad orders and I drop to my knees. Harsh coughs scrape my throat as I finger along the plaster wall. My eyes ache, nose stings, and I cover my mouth with the collar of my nightgown.

  “We’re near the door!” Dad’s voice cuts through the crackle of burning wood.

  Cool wind strips the sweat from my skin as the backdoor opens wide to the November night. Air! I can breathe! As I stumble to the side yard, my hands knead my eyelids to clear away the charred grit of sleep. Panting, I catch up with Dad and Jonah, spin toward the house, and scream from behind my smoky hands.