A Murder of Magpies

by Sarah Bromley

  I whipped around to stop the sickness rising in my gullet. My eyes drew skyward to the peaks of the evergreens. The hair on my arms and back of my neck prickled as new static snaked around my body. I rotated in a circle, bouncing from one treetop to the next.

  A clearing marked by seven pine trees.

  Jonah’s spot.

  I checked with Dad who almost imperceptibly nodded. Somehow, he knew Jonah had been here before.

  “Come on, boy,” Rain urged. His hand squeezed Ward’s over the gun.

  “I can’t,” Ward protested and jerked backward, the gun wobbling in his grasp.

  “Sometimes you gotta put an animal outta its misery,” Rain muttered. He shoved Ward and set his finger on the trigger.

  “No!” I howled over the blast of gunfire.

  Ward hit the ground. I dashed toward him through the snowdrifts. Scarlet drops speckled the snow. He grasped his left arm around the bicep, and dark blood seeped through the cracks between his fingers.

  “How bad is it?” I asked.

  He couldn’t answer, whimper-breathing through his teeth. Frantic, I shredded apart his flannel sleeve. A deep gouge traced his muscle’s curve where the bullet carved his skin. Dad broke away from Rain and clasped Ward’s arm in his hands, putting on pressure to stop the blood loss.

  Jonah yelled, spilling out the pain of his fractured ribs. His hand pushed through the snow, sinking to touch the earth. My hands were red with Ward’s blood. Tears stung my eyes, and numbness, burning and frozen, zipped through my fingers and hands, into my wrists and to my elbows. The lines in my palms, my fingerprints, all quivered as a storm brewed. I took a breath and rested my hands on Ward’s shoulders, my back arching as the current moving through him collided with my cold.

  Pulled it inside me.

  “Vayda, what the hell?” he cried as a spasm shook every muscle on my skeleton.

  Hundreds, thousands of static pops crackled from his body to my hands and condensed in my core. A fire kit in my gut.

  Loaded with energy and shuddering, I staggered toward Jonah, falling to my knees. He steeled himself against the ground. His breath heaved as he found clean strokes of heat trapped beneath the earth’s surface. He lifted his face, the black light in his eyes glittering while his body trembled.

  The electricity in my hands nudged my fingertips. One way or another, the energy I’d accumulated, more than I’d ever before drawn into my cells, had to dispel.

  Is this safe? Jonah asked.

  Does it matter?

  God, please don’t let us kill ourselves.

  “Get down!” I yelled to Dad and Ward and laced my fingers with Jonah’s.

  The electrified ball inside me exploded like a star in its millionth year of dying.

  One, two, three strikes of lightning streaked out from our clasped hands.

  Dad knocked over Ward and their bodies were sheltered by the snow. My breath came in heated, stuttered gasps, but the awe streaming off Dad and Ward fed the current, trailing over the ground and absorbed by my knees.

  Four, five, six more lightning strikes rocketed from the union of my brother’s hands with mine.

  Jonah’s heat and fire, my cold and ice—they stumbled over each other, obstructing the path for release before relenting and coming together as a singular blast of silver light. Branches and icicles plunged from the trees and speared the ground.

  Seven, the last bolt of lightning.

  The breaker crashed through Rain. He careened through the air and landed in a crumpled ball. Jonah’s hand slipped from mine, and he slumped forward. My head was so heavy. Torrents of coolness gushed out of me, unstoppable, a river undammed as I collapsed in the snow.

  ***

  Fingers untangled the knots from my scalp to the ends of my hair. My ears rang. I opened my eyes to the dark sky. Craning my head toward the ambulance’s lights wrenched my neck. I sprawled on my back near the barn. Jonah reclined on a blanket beside me. Bandages wrapped his palms, and his cheeks flushed with sunburn as he unwound another knot from my hair.

  “What happened to your hands?” I asked.

  “Burns, like I held my hand on a hot stove. The paramedics need to bandage your hands, too.”

  Crimson splashed my palms. Similar burns marked the top of my hands, though these were the same size and shape as Jonah’s fingers.

  “You were releasing energy before you took my hands.” His voice was hoarse. “I gave you a boost and waited for what you could do.”

  “Dati and Ward?” I asked.

  “They’re fine. The paramedics want to take Ward to the hospital for his arm, but he refused to go until you were awake. Dati’s bruised but okay.”

  I leaned against my twin as I sat up. A fire truck, two ambulances, and several police cars parked between the barn and the house. Rain was belted onto a stretcher, unconscious and wearing an oxygen mask as he was loaded into the hull of an ambulance. A paramedic smacked the door, signaling the driver to take the patient to the hospital.

  “Is he gonna make it?” I asked.

  “Not sure. They think he had a hell of a fall and a coronary.” Jonah gave me a one-armed hug then cringed. “The energy release messed him up. We did that to him.”

  I wasn’t sure how to react: corrupted and relieved.

  “He would’ve killed us,” I said.

  “I don’t like knowing we could end someone’s life doing what we do. We need to be more careful.”

  This, coming from Jonah of all people.

  “Sis, I…We…” My brother was lost for words. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  I stood and needed a moment to adapt to the tilt my headache gave the earth. Ward waited on the steps as a paramedic finished taping his arm. He limped down the stairs to join me.

  “Hey.” He coughed and embraced me. “You’re up.”

  “Why are you limping?” I asked.

  “My knee got messed up when I hit the ground.” He pointed at the sky. “If you wanted a light show, why didn’t you come onto the roof with me? The northern lights are beautiful tonight.”

  Sure enough, magenta and chartreuse trailed across the black sky. Breathtaking even with the lights of the emergency vehicles blinking at the corner of my sight.

  Dad edged away from speaking with an officer. He clapped his hand on Ward’s shoulder and then took my hand. “You okay?”

  “I think so.”

  “Magpie, maybe it’s time you and Jonah live openly with what you can do. With more eyes on you, you’ll be more aware of the consequences. Something to think about.”

  “Maybe.” My head was like a basin full of warm, sudsy water. Relaxed, drowsy. I wasn’t ready to think about what tomorrow would bring, let alone beyond.

  Ward gestured to the police cruisers. “Do you have to go back to jail?”

  Dad shrugged. “I haven’t officially been charged with a crime. That could happen Monday. Don’t know, don’t care tonight. For now, I’m gonna ride with Jonah to the hospital ’cause he needs those ribs checked out. Afterward, I’m bringing home some Thai food, taking a shower, and going to bed. Emory Murdock’s a real lively bastard, isn’t he?”

  I grinned as he called to my brother who waited by the barn, examining his bandaged hands. Frowning, Jonah lowered his hands to his sides. He dragged his feet toward the Chevy, his arm brushing mine as he passed. Nothing. No sparks from our tinder rubbing together. Just a brother clumsily bumping into his sister.

  Ward drew me into another hug. He put his hands on my shoulders and moved to kiss me but stopped when a spark flared between us, stinging our lips.

  “Ouch!” He touched his mouth. “There you go, shocking me again. What am I gonna do with you?”

  My lips hovered over his.

  “Get used to me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Vayda

  Three weeks later

 
“I always wondered if Lorna’s kin was gonna turn up someday. Guess someday’s come.”

  I ran my finger along the top of Mom’s gravestone. Underneath a bower of Spanish moss and cypress trees, an elderly woman sat on a marker shaped like a bench and stuck her hand into a bag of birdseed as a flock of pigeons pecked near her shoes. The southern sun caught her eyes, a glossy, piercing blue, and her drawl was kindly.

  “You’re the Murdock girl, ain’t you? You got enough of Lorna’s face, but you ain’t quite the same.” She scattered some more seed for the pigeons. “Plus, I reckoned you’re her daughter since it was all over the papers that your daddy has come back to answer some questions about running off like he did. What charges did they get him on?”

  None of your damn business, I wanted to say, but instead murmured, “None yet. He’ll get in trouble if he leaves the area.”

  The woman gave a dove-like coo and snickered at two birds squawking. “Some would say the man’s already been in prison, all things considered.”

  If not prison, at the very least the holding cell at the Hemlock police station where he stayed between interrogations. Dad wasn’t under arrest, only came down to Hemlock for a voluntary interview with the police. We shouldn’t have been here more than a day or two, long enough for Jonah and me to take in what we’d left behind. The days stretched to too many, and I had no idea how much longer it would be before Dad would leave Hemlock.

  Again, I reached over the short wrought-iron fence surrounding only Mom’s grave and wiped away a clump of clay from the granite etched with her name. The location at the back of the Hemlock cemetery deterred vandals—not well. Her marker was dirty with what appeared to be crusted egg yolk. The rose Dad laid on the stone only two days ago wilted and lost much of its brilliant red.

  Something glinted in the sparse sunlight filtering through the cypresses, and I dug through the moss to find a silver coin. And then another.

  All around Mom’s grave were dozens of coins.

  “If people hated my mother so much, why’s all this money by her grave?” I wondered aloud.

  Though my question wasn’t directed at her, the bird woman replied, “’Cause for as much trouble as your mama was, she helped enough folks, and they’re still hoping she can do some work on their behalf from the other side.”

  I reached into my pocket, found four quarters, and laid them out in a row before her headstone. A little string-pulling from Heaven would be nice about now.

  The woman nodded toward the footpath in the graveyard. “My guess is that boy ain’t here to pay his respects, not with the way he’s eyeballing you.”

  In spite of the sorrow in standing over my mother’s grave, I warmed at the sight of Ward ambling down the walkway, Bernadette trotting a few paces ahead of him. My body shuttered back a cry, my arms winding around him. We hadn’t talked in days, not until yesterday when I woke up and found myself alone in a motel in Georgia. I shouldn’t have been alone. Jonah was eerily quiet since the night Rain would’ve killed us all, not sleeping, not reading. Staring off blankly with so many barriers blocking my feelers. I’d gone to bed while he stayed awake in a dark motel room with only the lights from the parking lot casting rays through the blackness. He was gone by dawn and so was the Chevy.

  Ward hadn’t hesitated when I asked if he’d drive down from Wisconsin.

  “You were supposed to wait for me at the motel,” he reminded me. “But I stopped by the police station and talked to your dad for a bit. He says you need to go home and Hemlock isn’t home anymore.”

  “It’s not,” I agreed.

  “Your dad’ll get released soon. Jonah will show up. Promise.”

  Such a bad liar, Ward couldn’t even convince himself. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe the mess of the last two years could be wiped away with a few days of answering questions for the police, but no matter where we went—Hemlock or Black Orchard—there were consequences.

  “How’d you know where to find me?” I asked.

  “Your dad told me where the cemetery is. He figured that’s where you’d be. Are you ready to go?”

  I held up a finger. “One second.”

  He watched from the footpath, his hands deep in the pockets of his leather coat protecting him from the breeze. Bernadette lay on the ground, face between her front legs as if bowing her head while I stood over my mother’s gravesite. Currents of longing swelled within my hand, and I pressed my fingertips to her headstone. A crackle, a flare of cold fire.

  Energy wasn’t created or destroyed, only transformed.

  ***

  A few days after coming home from Georgia, I still wasn’t ready to go back to school, but I was restless. Sister Tremblay had gotten my suspension lifted and grades restored, but I didn’t care. I spent time in the kitchen, kneading dough for bread. Bernadette wagged her tail while I stirred an egg yolk to improve her coat’s shine. How Ward didn’t succumb to that dog’s big eyes was a mystery. Hopefully he’d forgive me for sneaking her a bit of cheese. The kitchen was one of the few rooms not boxed up for the move Dad planned. A Victorian renovation in downtown Black Orchard had come up for sale before we went to Hemlock.

  The red light on the answering machine flashed, but I hadn’t checked the messages. The only numbers that called were from news stations that had gotten wind of Dad’s story. Some producer wanted to film a special for an investigative report show, put it on the air in time for Rain’s murder trial right around Halloween. I was all but sure they’d bring up Mom’s abilities and her tarot business. At least Ward’s family and Sister Tremblay already vowed they wouldn’t speak to the media.

  Strange when you walked past a phone and it rang.

  “Vayda, I wanted to check in,” Sister Tremblay’s voice came over the answering machine. “If there’s anything you need from the food market, let me know.”

  Another call from Sister Tremblay, Polly, as I still needed to adapt to calling her. She’d been checking on me, even helped pack some boxes since Ward and I returned from Georgia. She kept her distance enough, but Dad was right—she wanted to help. I should’ve called her back. Maybe I would later. Ward tensed around her. Months of her creeping around had done nothing to help in the trust department, but perhaps both Ward and I needed to work on accepting help. If Dad didn’t come back from Georgia soon, I’d need more than help from Polly and Ward’s family. The police in Hemlock were taking their time interviewing Dad, but he’d come home again before long. He had to come home.

  Ward stood behind me at the counter, sliding his hands up the front of my body, and crossed his arms over my chest. I swiveled my head over my shoulder to kiss him, but he stopped me with his cheek.

  “You’ll be okay, Vayda,” he said in my ear. “I swear.”

  He coughed hard, and I poured him a glass of water. “What about you? That cough of yours isn’t getting any better. Did you ever find out what’s causing it?”

  With a sip of water, he shook his head. “No idea. Don’t really care either. Whatever it is, it’s not going away.”

  I saw something flicker in his eyes, some doubt.

  “Gadjo, is something wrong?” I asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  Now I had my own doubt, fed by the strange way he regarded me. I opened my mouth to speak, but he laid his finger over my lip. “Shh.”

  His fingertip slipped beneath my mouth and raised my chin. I held on to him as he kissed me. A kiss so deep it took away his breath.

  Afterward, I paged through the mail. More than ever, we had mail addressed to the Silvers. Vayda Silver wasn’t me. Neither was Vayda Murdock.

  Stuffed between advertisements and interview requests, I held an envelope from Jonah addressed in a script I could mimic as well as he could mine. I sought him out. I wasn’t angry with him for leaving me in Georgia. He’d been so quiet since the night Rain tried to kill us, and if Jonah needed to work out something, he’d do it
on his own. But, damn it, we’d never gone so long without speaking. He had to be in this world somewhere, and I couldn’t believe that I wouldn’t be able to find him. My muscles grew warm, and a heavy, iron door forged from a hammer and fire blocked me.

  Not yet, Sis.

  Where are you?

  The unrepentant fire of Jonah’s mind dimmed to cold ash.

  He needed more time. There was nothing I could do but wait, keep trying, and pray he’d open up to me again.

  I opened Jonah’s envelope to find a photograph of Mom. The picture was one I saw hundreds of times. Dad kept a framed copy on his desk at our old house in Hemlock. A black-and-white portrait showed Mom’s cat-like smile as she peeked out of the corner of her eye. The edges of the picture were soot-stained and charred. Something else was in the envelope. My mother’s metal hair clip with red flowers and green stones. I didn’t dare touch it, but I did take out my brother’s note, which simply read: They survived the fire.

  By the middle of the night, the house was too quiet, my bed too cold, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. Ward was lying in bed with me when I drifted off, but he was gone. A quick check in Dad and Jonah’s rooms, more habit than anything else, proved they were gone as well.

  I wasn’t ready for this. I didn’t want to be alone.

  The living room was amber with the light from a single lamp. Ward slept on the couch, a blanket over his legs and a book of crossword puzzles open on his chest. As if sensing me, he stirred.

  “What are you doing awake?” he asked.

  “Can’t sleep, gadjo,” I said.

  He patted Bernadette sleeping at his feet. “God, do I know what that’s like.”

  He climbed off the couch, taking the blanket with him, and together we curled up on the floor in front of the wood stove. Too many shadowed corners and empty rooms. I hung onto him, and his lips grazed my neck before he gathered some kindling. The winters in Black Orchard were long and bleak. The dark months would end, but I was still cold. Terribly cold. Ward and I took turns striking the flint and steel together until the sparks ignited and became a steady fire we couldn’t afford to let die out.