The May Queen Murders

by Sarah Jude

  “Can you at least be careful?”

  “I’m with someone who makes me feel safe.”

  A lump formed in my throat. Who always kept an eye on us? Who was always the protective boy-next-door? And if Rook knew she’d gone back to Milo for more weed, he’d be hurt.

  I was hurt.

  “I’ll be fine, Ivy,” she promised.

  She stepped out from the bleachers and into the grass, the jingling of her necklace of found things loud against the stillness of the parking lot.

  I prayed what I saw was nothing. Because I couldn’t save her.

  After school, I’d been at the clinic only a few minutes when Papa finished checking a coydog named Ratter for ear mites. Papa waited until Ratter’s owner left before he placed his palm against my forehead, then untucked his stethoscope from his collar, pressing it to my back while I breathed for him.

  “You feel okay? You’re pale,” he said.

  I didn’t get pale. Not with my mother’s Mexican blood in me. “I’m fine.”

  I reached for the jar of dog treats on the counter and knocked off a pair of scissors. Papa eyed the metal blades, open with one pointing toward the entrance and the other pointing at me. Neither of us could retrieve them. It had to wait until a guest arrived. Otherwise, bad luck would come.

  “I’ll have my next appointment get them,” Papa said. “You go home. Get some rest. I can walk you there.”

  “I’ll go by myself,” I said.

  Papa frowned, but I brushed past him. I sensed him still frowning as I exited, walking past the weathered LOST DOG signs. There was no escape, not at the clinic, at school, not anywhere. It didn’t matter where I went, dread followed, wraithlike.

  Death’s a-comin’, Ivy. Watch the signs.

  I shook Mamie’s voice from my head. Superstitions weren’t worth a dime if the person they meant to warn didn’t heed them.

  I started on the path and looked back once to see Papa waiting by the door. He’d built his practice close to the road to attract farmers and the occasional townie who liked the idea of the country vet. The distance wasn’t long to the heart of the Glen, where the homesteads lay, and the dirt road was well-beaten by hillfolks’ boots, their carts and horses. But I didn’t stop once I reached my house; I went deeper into the fields, until the road crumbled away, overtaken by patchy grass. Above me, the sky held its breath, turning dark blues and grays, spring storm colors that made the trees’ new buds seem all that much greener, the red of the barns that much more vivid.

  I arrived at the horse paddock and peeled away a pernicious vine rooting near the rusted gate, and then I nickered at the horses. Between a sorrel and bay, Whimsy lifted her dark head, ears forward. She plodded forth and met me. My hands stroked the sides of her muscular neck and the silken coat as she warmed me.

  “I’m gonna ride you today,” I told her. “I’m gonna forget everything. We’ll trample the ground. I’ll take you down to the river, and we can go as deep as you want.”

  Her big nostrils puffed, her whiskery lips loose. I had reached for her when she reared three steps. Whipping around, I glimpsed brown trousers and dark hair disappearing behind a cart loaded with hay. I left Whimsy’s side and rounded the cart, covering my mouth in surprise.

  Rook didn’t look right. Stubble scruffed his cheeks. Some curious part of me wanted to run my hand over him, his roughness. By the gray light, his skin was pasty, the natural flush of his lips even redder. He was handsome and spooked.

  “I haven’t seen you in days,” he said.

  Which was true. Rook hadn’t been in class. August claimed what we’d found in the field had left him bone-sick. Looking at the sad hollows of Rook’s face, I saw August hadn’t lied.

  “What’s goin’ on, Rook?” I asked.

  He gestured to the horses. “Wanna ride?”

  I had reasons not to go: the danger of being outside at dusk, fearing what he might tell me—and what I might say, hurting Heather.

  But it was Rook asking me.

  I slipped inside the stable with him. Dust danced in the sunbeams where light poured through the barred windows. His boots scattered hay on the concrete floor while barn swallows nested. Rook lifted two bridles from the tack room, and it was all I could do not to picture him sitting with his legs apart as Heather spun topless before him. Bile stung my throat.

  He slung the bridles over his shoulder. “I wanted to see you sooner, but my pops said you needed space after . . .”

  His words trailed off as he handed me Whimsy’s bridle and I eased it over her head. If he saw how my hands shook, he didn’t let on. He followed with his blue roan gelding, Journey. We rode bareback down the Glen’s far northwestern edge, wandering near the riverbed. I listened to the horses’ hooves against the earth, their tails whisking in tandem.

  “My folks say if you dream of someone, they’re awake and pacing,” Rook said as he negotiated Journey around a swath of belladonna. “Do you have trouble sleeping, Ivy?”

  I slowed Whimsy’s gait. He dreamed of me?

  Heather, Heather, Heather . . .

  Yet I didn’t want to break the spell by saying her name.

  Rook steered Journey in a half circle to peer at me. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Why’d you come out here with me instead of Heather?” I asked.

  “Why would I be with Heather?” He seemed puzzled. “You’re the one I want to talk to.”

  He dug his heels into Journey’s sides. He wore new boots, not the ones with the scuffed toes. The horse sauntered onward. I kicked Whimsy forward and launched into a posting trot, my hips moving up and down with her rhythm.

  The wind blew my skirt even higher above my knees. I listened to the rush of the river and groan of Denial Mill turning. Behind us were more fields and barns succumbing to decay. A scarecrow leaned on a post, his overalls stuffed with hay and a tattered leather hat hiding his sack face.

  Alone with me, Rook watched the dark river water sloshing over the rocky shore. His fists wound in Journey’s reins until the knuckles protruded white. “I’m tired, Ivy. Too damn many nightmares.”

  “T-tell me what you dream,” I said.

  I motioned to a sizable chunk of limestone half submerged in the water. It was big enough for the both of us to sit. We weren’t prepared, no blanket to protect against the rock’s scrape, no lantern to light the way once it grew dark. We’d made a stupid move coming out alone when death roamed the Glen. Yet my blood tingled. Alive. So alive. Scared. So scared. Of what I’d hear. Of being with him.

  I dismounted Whimsy and took her to the water’s edge, where she drank. Rook brought down Journey, and we unclipped the horses’ reins and climbed onto the limestone. Rook’s legs dangled over the rock’s edge, his body deflated like his insides were no longer ripe with blood. The wind was cool, but his heat radiated against my arm. Questions rolled around my mind, and I couldn’t ruin the hush by speaking. Because I liked that moment. I couldn’t bear to think about its price.

  Rook cracked his knuckles, blurting out, “I’m thinkin’ ’bout leaving the Glen.”

  “What? No!” I felt as if kicked from behind and teetering on the rock’s edge. “Y-you can’t!”

  Before I could stop myself, I reached for him, as if by latching our fingers, I could stop him from running. Heather had already pulled away. I couldn’t lose both of them. I squeezed his hand, tight and tighter.

  “You’re Sheriff’s son,” I persisted. “That’s gonna be your job someday.”

  He looked at our hands, blinking behind his glasses. “I dream the goat’s blood turns into a puddle beneath our feet that gets so big it sucks you down. I look but can’t find you. Then we both drown in blood. I sound like I’ve lost my mind.”

  A whimper peeped through my lips.

  “No,” I said, “you sound like someone who’s seen something awful. But you can’t run away, Rook. I don’t want you to go.”

  He stiffened. Every inch of him tensed. I unwound my
fingers from his before placing my hands on his shoulders, broad shoulders he had yet to grow into and yet seemed like they could withstand the chaos inside me. His neck bowed forward. A wisp of his black hair fell and twisted into mine.

  Stay, Rook.

  “The Glen can be safe again,” I promised. “Our families built this place to keep the outside world away. What’s happening now? It’s that monster in the woods.”

  “Birch Markle?” Rook scoffed.

  “They said the Devil got him,” I said. “He could’ve come back.”

  “More reason to get away from here.”

  I fought the lump in my throat. “You can’t go, ’cause I can’t stand the idea of you leavin’, of you bein’ with someone else!”

  I clamped my hands over my mouth. I’d said too much. He was with Heather, not me. Guilt flooded my blood, dizzying me. Rook’s eyes widened. That hint of movement was the only indication he’d heard me. His face was like a full moon, haunted and stripped of all its shadows. But me? My skin burned from my chest all the way up to my ears.

  Then Rook took my hands. “What d’you mean? You don’t want me with anyone else?”

  “Just ignore me. It don’t matter.” My face was so hot, and I wished I could fan myself, but he didn’t let go.

  The tip of my nose grazed his cheek as his forehead pressed to mine. His breath drew in. I ached to feel his mouth, to fold my lips between his. I didn’t want to hold back, but going forward would be wrong.

  He tucked my hair behind my ear and balanced his mouth over mine. I turned my face. “I can’t.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I know you’re with Heather.”

  “No, I ain’t. I wanna be with you, Ivy.”

  I sniffed. What? “Wait. Heather was with someone in the stable. Wasn’t it you?”

  He furrowed his brow. “No. Of course not.”

  My heart pounded in my ears, and I stared at him in disbelief. What I’d thought was true, how I’d been hurt so badly, it was all a mistake. His fingers stroked down my neck, twisting the cord of August’s necklace between them, and right before he found the acorn, I tucked it inside my shirt collar. I should’ve never taken it from August, but it was nice at the time.

  Rook’s mouth skimmed mine. “I like you, Ivy. I’ve always liked you.”

  His lips were gentle as they touched mine. It took several passes of our mouths before we warmed to each other. His hands cuffed my arms and then slipped around to my back. He eased me onto his lap and kissed me again. And again. Everything I ever wondered about how his lips felt—the truth was softer, wetter than I imagined. His hands wandered down from the middle of my back to my hips, to my thighs. My chest rose from holding my breath, but his lips didn’t leave mine. This time, I didn’t hold back and allowed the kiss to widen. The relief of knowing I’d been wrong kept me floating. The way he touched me grounded me, held me still.

  We sat with Rook’s arms draped around me, my body tucked against his. I reached up to stroke the back of his head, pull him in for another kiss, threading his dark hair through my hands. Being next to him felt good. Better than good—as if my body smiled.

  Rook’s head rested on my shoulder. “About two years ago, you left your sketchbook in the art room at school. You draw really well.”

  “No . . .” I swallowed back an embarrassed groan. He’d seen my drawings, not just the ones I’d drawn in front of him that he knew about, but now the others from when I was alone, daydreaming, wishing. So many of him. The only person I allowed to see them was Heather. If Rook had seen all of them, there was no denying how I felt about him.

  “Don’t get like that,” he said. “I have drawings of you, too.”

  “You do?” I asked.

  “They ain’t good, not like yours.”

  Who knew how long we could’ve gone on, too afraid to grab the other’s attention? When all that time I hoped Rook noticed me, he had. Now that he pressed kisses along my jaw, I didn’t want him to stop.

  “Please don’t go,” I whispered. “Promise me you won’t leave the Glen. Heather’s already leaving me behind.”

  Rook pulled back. “What do you mean? She’s always with you.”

  “Not anymore. She’s running off all hours of the night. I lie to cover for her. She’s hiding things.”

  “Like what?”

  I told Rook everything. How she’d been in the stable with somebody she wouldn’t identify. How she quit walking to school with me. How I’d seen her smoking weed with Milo. Rook listened as I confessed everything I knew, everything that frightened me.

  Heather had grown tired of me.

  Heather wouldn’t heed the warnings.

  “I’m scared,” I said, and I realized I was shaking. The wind wasn’t so cold that I should’ve been trembling. “If I don’t do something, she—”

  “You can’t do anything,” Rook interrupted. “Heather has her own life.”

  “And if she gets herself hurt? Or worse?”

  “I . . .” His attention went to the steep embankment.

  I twisted around to see a flicker of red. A few rocks clicked together while rolling to the river. I jerked away from Rook and scrambled to my feet, cursing under my breath.

  She’d been here. She’d seen me with him, heard everything I’d said, her secrets. I charged up to the fields in time to see her running.

  A dash of curls.

  A ruffle of a skirt.

  A drop disappearing into the bloody hand of sunset.

  Heather.

  Chapter Seven

  The Markle girl, the sister, it’s hard to think of what she must’ve gone through. No one set about courtin’ her, even though she was the right age. No one wanted that devil she had for a brother as their kin.

  Whimsy ran at a full gallop, matching my frenzy. I had to explain what Heather had heard, why I was with Rook, and I prayed she’d believe me, because the threads holding us were already so tenuous. How simple would it be for one to snap? Then others would break, and we’d no longer be tied together.

  It wasn’t that I wanted everything to stay the same.

  I wanted a change too. A life where I was noticed.

  She’d jumped ahead without me. I’d never meant to hold her back, even if she was tethered to me.

  Find the red. Find Heather.

  Whimsy clomped across the earth. I had left Rook behind, telling him to go home, that I’d find him later. I gripped the leather reins and crossed the despairing lands. Spring in the Ozarks should’ve been vibrant, but there was no life in the fields. The trees greened while the fields remained the bare dirt of freshly dug graves, scarecrows standing by as mourners.

  I was leading Whimsy along the winding curve of the river close to Promise Bridge when I saw a splash of color bolting through Potter’s Field. Since I couldn’t take the horse across the bridge, I dismounted, trusting my mare to graze.

  “Stay, Whimsy,” I murmured as I unclipped her reins. “Please stay.”

  Her ears pricked, dark eyes wide. Maybe she understood. As hard as it was to leave her when other animals had been killed, I had to believe she would be safe.

  I made my way across the bridge’s splintering boards and down the cove. My thumb snagged a blackberry vine’s pricker, and I licked the wound, a smear of metal and salt spreading across my teeth. Even after drawing my thumb from my mouth, the blood rinsed across my skin, spiraling through the rings of my thumbprint.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  Heather came out from behind the blackberries and stared at the red glisten, fists clenched.

  “I-I’ll be fine. Look, Heather, I can explain—”

  “You had no right to tell him those things.”

  Her eyes went to the acorn necklace lying below my throat, and she wrapped her fingers around it, squeezing as if she meant to crush it. I squirmed and pried the necklace away, tucking it inside my shirt. Heather’s lips curled back as she watched me, and then she tipped her head and laughed
. The sound wasn’t wind chimes tinkling. It was glass shattering. She shook her head, jiggling the bells and beads braided through her hair. My eyes met hers, and her teeth were sharp and set hard.

  “I t-told him ’cause we’re both worried about you,” I said. “You’ve always known how I feel about Rook, so, yeah, I talked to him. Sorry if it makes you angry that I care.”

  “You care, huh?” she growled. “So that’s why you’re suddenly all over Rook’s lap? You just have to be like me. Stop it. Stop it now!”

  “H-Heather.” My throat was tight, my tongue dumb.

  “You gotta get your own life!” she shouted. “It’s like you want to be me. You always have. You spy on me. It’s obsessed. It’s sick.”

  “I—I—” My fish mouth opened and shut, opened and shut. The graveyard blurred. The quarried stone markers tilted sideways, and I wasn’t sure if I leaned forward, falling to the ground, or if the earth somehow rolled up to meet me. “It ain’t like that! You’re never around anymore, and I’m scared you’re runnin’ away! I talked to Rook ’cause I needed to tell someone.”

  She crossed her arms. “No, you told him ’cause you put him over me. I see how you look at Rook. You gotta have what I have, do what I do. God, Ivy, love isn’t only romance and secrets. It’s blood. It’s gory. It gets ugly. You want that? Are you ready to get gross with someone?”

  She started through the graveyard, and I followed her past the etched stones, yelling, “Y-you know what’s gross? Runnin’ around the st-stable with someone at night, slutting off to the trailer p-p-park. You ain’t in love. You’re just lookin’ to get laid and get high—”

  Heather wheeled around, her hand colliding with my face, and my neck twisted hard. My knees hit the ground first, then my palms, bits of rock biting my flesh. The burn in my eyes turned watery, but Heather radiated fury as she glared at me. “S-s-stop s-s-stuttering, Ivy.” She snorted. “And stop following me everywhere.”