Stolen Away

  “There,” he said finally, pointing to a low branch. “We’ll have to cut one down. It needs to be a Y shape.”

  “Sure.” I doubled back to the previous row and plucked a hand saw out of a large barrel of assorted tools. I was very aware of him watching me as I reached up and sawed the branch off. I patted the trunk. “Sorry,” I whispered. He’d probably think I was barking mad for talking to the trees, but Nanna and Granddad both did too, and I’d picked up the habit. He didn’t say anything, just smiled.

  “You’re handy with a blade,” he finally said.

  I shrugged one shoulder. “I grew up here.” I handed him the branch and he stripped the leaves off. The gray bark shone like silver.

  “It’ll do,” he approved. “In the old stories there’s an island of apple groves called Avalon. It’s the fruit of love.”

  “I thought it was temptation.”

  “That too.”

  We made our way to the barn and I took him around the back where the well was, its round concrete cover hidden in masses of soapwort and yellow trefoil. He circled it three times.

  “Tradition,” he explained. “You’re supposed to circle wells three times.” He put one end of the V in each hand and pointed the straight part of the stick away from him. I grinned. He arched an eyebrow at me. “Are you laughing at me?”

  “Just a little.”

  He nodded. “It’s looks a little silly, but this is how it’s done.” He winked at me. Warmth tickled my belly. “Let’s take a walk.”

  We wandered through the fields, past the shadow of the barn, and among withered stalks of corn. I was in my favorite place with the most beautiful guy I’d ever seen. It felt like we were the only two people in the world with the blinding light and the cicadas. It was strangely romantic. I glanced at him surreptitiously but he was staring at the ground, though I did get a glimpse of a teasing half smile quirking one side of his mouth. I wanted to believe it was for me.

  We walked for at least ten minutes, doubling back toward the barn. We were on the border of the pumpkin patch when the branch twitched in his hands. I stopped so suddenly he chuckled.

  “Did you do that?” I asked.

  “No, that’s what dowsing is. The branch points to the ground where there’s water.” It twitched again. He took another step. The branch dipped down sharply. “There,” he said triumphantly.

  “Really?” It didn’t look like much, just another patch of dusty earth near a small pumpkin struggling to get fat. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” He crouched down and piled a few stones in a mini cairn to mark the spot. He looked up at me through his hair. “You’re supposed to leave an offering to the spirit of the well,” he drawled. “A piece of your clothing is best.”

  I turned my head. “Oh, is that so?”

  “It’s tradition.”

  I was wearing as little clothing as possible. If I took off my tank top I’d be standing there in my bra.

  He sighed dramatically. “I suppose a coin would work as well.” He took one out of his pocket and tossed it to me.

  I caught it and set it on top of the cairn. “Thank you for this.”

  He rose to his feet and held out his hand. I took it, feeling shy. I never felt shy around guys. “Now what?” I whispered.

  “Now we circle three times,” he reminded me. We walked slowly, his fingers woven through mine, the sun hot on our heads. When we finished we just stood there, looking at each other. He looked sad for some reason, and frustrated. Before I could say anything, his gaze moved over my shoulder and a shutter closed over his expression. “Your grandfather?”

  I swallowed, turning to look over my shoulder. Granddad cut across the field toward us, his tractor belching dust. “Yes.”

  “I should go.” His hand slipped from mine.

  “You don’t have to. He’ll want to thank you.”

  He just shook his head. The tractor closed the distance between us.

  “You really shouldn’t be so trusting, little Jo,” he said softly before turning and walking away, the yellowed corn swallowing him.

  “Who’s that?” Granddad asked, shouting over the tractor engine.

  I watched the corn sway as he walked toward the road and realized I still didn’t know his name.

  Chapter 3

  Eloise

  Monday

  Wondering about Lucas and Aunt Antonia and why my mother was being so weird was giving me headaches. And I couldn’t help but feel as if I was missing the big picture, whatever that might be. It was like water trickling in a dry river bed, slowly at first, then with greater momentum until mud pushed its way into every crevice, dislodging rocks that seemed solid and heavy. I was full of dislodged stones.

  I was remembering things. Little things that didn’t seem important at first glance, but felt important nonetheless. It was disorienting. And usually I’d talk to Mom about it, but she was the one trying to keep all the stones in place with the sheer force of her stubborn will. I didn’t know what was going on; I just knew there were secrets shaking loose.

  Like why my aunt lived in her van, why she didn’t show up to my grandmother’s funeral three summers ago, why pretty much the only photos we had of her were taken in our apartment. Why she insisted on washing all the windows with lavender water and always, always wore her shirts inside out. That one always made me curious, but she just laughed and said she was the scatterbrain in the family.

  I was so focused on my thoughts, which felt like a dog chasing its tail inside my head, that I didn’t hear the door squeak open. A hand grabbed me suddenly and yanked me into a narrow supply closet.

  “What the—Devin?” The bare bulb above us swung on a metal chain. He was holding a book and eating a bag of chips. Light barely seeped under the door. All I could see were broom handles near my head and his white teeth when he smiled.

  “You’re welcome,” he said smugly, barely glancing up.

  “Um . . . thank you?” When he didn’t move his hand off the doorknob to let me out, I tilted my head. “What’s going on?”

  “Bianca’s coming this way.”

  “I didn’t know I was relegated to hiding in closets now,” I grumbled. “She’s starting to get on my nerves.”

  “It’s about to get worse.”

  I hadn’t told him about the night of the party. “Why?”

  “Graham told her he thought girls with rockabilly hair and tattoos were hot. Ditto for bad reps.”

  “Is he trying to get me killed?” I blinked. “Wait, does that mean my rep suddenly got worse?”

  “Bianca said you shoved her and then made a giant bird fly at her head.” He snorted. “Drunk girls are so cute,” he said sarcastically.

  My mouth dropped open. “She shoved me!”

  “Her lemmings are backing her up. Now that Graham’s involved, she wants to prove she’s tough. Well, tougher than you anyway.”

  “That’s just great. Is it pistols at dawn, or what?”

  “Fistfight under the bridge.”

  “Get out,” I squawked. “I’m not doing that. That’s just stupid.”

  “I know.” He motioned to our cramped and dirty surroundings as if they were a palace. “Why do you think I booked the best room for you?”

  I sighed when her sulky voice drifted under the door. “Guess we’re stuck here for a while.”

  “If she was a guy, I’d go out there and stuff her in her own locker. But I can’t punch a girl.” He offered me the bag. “So have a chip.”

  I crunched gloomily on a handful of salty chips. “I can’t punch a girl either, despite my reputation.” And despite my family history. My father, before he’d left us when I was a baby, had been violent and angry. Mom had a small scar on her chin that she wouldn’t talk about. She assured me that kind of behavior wasn’t inherited. But I didn’t want to risk it. Bianca had no idea how lucky she was that I was shy and obsessed with self-control. And that Devin was such a great friend.

  We were stuck in the suppl
y closet with the brooms for another ten minutes. More memories trickled in, without anything to distract me: the haunted sadness in my aunt’s face when she thought I wasn’t looking. The small, strange gifts she gave me whenever she saw me: ivy plants, red thread wrapped around a rowan twig, bags of hydrangea-petal potpourri that made me sneeze.

  But the harder I tried to remember details, the more my head ached.

  When the bell rang and the hall cleared, Devin went to his last class. I was glad I was working a shift for Uncle Art at the tattoo parlor after school. I didn’t want to go home, where Mom was both avoiding me and watching me with a worried expression.

  Bluebird Ink Tattoos was as much a second home to me as Jo’s family farm. And at the parlor, no one blinked at my makeup or my clothes. There were girls dressed like me in the waiting room, in the magazines on the tables, sending e-mails on the business website. They had short, curled Bettie Page bangs and wore 1940s and 1950s–style dresses and red high heels with tight capris. Uncle Art was at the drafting table when I came in, the short sleeves of his bowling shirt displaying his heavily tattooed arms as he worked on a sketch. His black hair fell in a curl over his forehead, like a young Elvis Presley’s. The only other artist, Lee, was in one of the rooms with a customer. The soft drone of a tattoo needle buzzed under the ever-present music from the speakers and the burble of the aquarium in the window.

  “Hey, kiddo,” Uncle Art, whose real name was Felipe, said. “Just in time.” The phone rang. He looked at it like it was a bomb he couldn’t figure out how to diffuse. “Help. It won’t stop doing that.”

  “There’s a way to fix that, you know,” I said, tossing my knapsack under the desk. I picked up the receiver. “Bluebird Ink, how can I help you?”

  I booked an appointment for the man on the other end of the line. People wandered in to look at the framed flash art on the walls and ask questions. I tidied up the desk and sorted through messages and updated the appointment book. I decided coffee was a good idea, and by the time it was finished brewing, Uncle Art was putting away his sketchbook and sniffing the air.

  “Coffee. I’m giving you a raise.”

  I grinned and handed him a cup. It was just before dinnertime, so there was always a lull in the shop. I usually did my homework or took advantage of the Internet. Mom really was going to have to find a way to pay that bill. Only one café in town had free wireless, and it was usually too crowded to hang out for longer than half an hour, and the library closed early most days.

  “Cool necklace,” Uncle Art said, looking at the iron stag that I was still wearing around my neck. For some reason, I didn’t want to take it off. He frowned. “I’ve seen that design before.”

  I went still. “You have?” I asked, trying not to give away how eager I was for him to elaborate. If he was anything like my mom, it would spook him.

  He nodded. “Yeah, let me see.” He took a closer look. “I definitely tattooed this on someone. I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “Who?”

  He shrugged, grinned. “You know me, kid. I remember art, not people.”

  He’d always been like that. He wouldn’t answer the phone and didn’t remember people’s names, but he kept very precise documentation of all the tattoos he’d done. He rarely forgot. “Was it this year?” I asked.

  “Might have been this summer. A guy, I think.” He shrugged and took his cup back to the drafting table.

  I opened the large hardcover sketchbook he used for his tattoo record and skimmed through the summer months. There were sketches of dragons and skulls and pinup girls, tigers and butterflies and lilies, but no stags. I flipped past portraits of babies and rock stars and cartoon characters. Nothing. I went farther back, and nearly missed it.

  May 1.

  It was a very rough outline of a stag with ivy wound around its antlers. It stood out because the other drawings were so detailed, with notes on placement and how long they took. This one didn’t have a single word written in the margin, just the picture of the deer. It might not mean anything.

  But I didn’t believe that for a second.

  I photocopied the page and folded the paper in one of my binders before my shift was over. The regular receptionist, Julie, rushed in with a tray of paper cups full of coffee and a box of muffins. “Thanks for covering for me,” she said, handing me a cup of hot chocolate. She was adamant that I was too young to drink coffee—but not too young to get tattooed.

  “Thanks, Julie.”

  “Go home and watch bad television.” She waved me out. “You earned it.”

  “Bye, Uncle Art,” I called into the back rooms before leaving. The waiting room was starting to fill up with customers. The bells on the door rang cheerfully as I traded the air-conditioned chill of the shop for humid air choked with car exhaust. I crossed the street to walk home along the park so I didn’t have to smell the garbage cooking in the bins lining the sidewalk.

  The sun was setting slowly in the burning sky, washing the thin clouds with lilac and orange. Cardinals pecked at the ground and chirped from the branches. I wondered if they were the same ones from the weekend. When I was sure there were no crows among them, I edged farther into the park. Grass crunched under my feet.

  I went through my favorite grove of maple trees. It hardly seemed large enough to be so quiet and private, but for some reason no one ever came here. The first star of the night twinkled above me through the leaves. A swan flew past, honking indelicately on his way to the pond.

  I didn’t see the stag until he turned his head to look at me. In the fading light, he was as brown as the trees, and his antlers looked like bare branches. His eyes were dark and wide, hypnotizing. I held my breath. I’d never seen anything so primal in its beauty, so wise. I lifted my hand to touch it. I just couldn’t resist finding out if his fur was as soft as it looked. It was the color of caramel. The moment I moved the spell was broken, and he bounded away between the trees into the park. I exhaled wobbily.

  “It’s good luck to see a stag.”

  I yelped and whirled around. Lucas stood under a crown of red maple leaves. His leaf-green eyes were serious, alert.

  I glared at him accusingly. “You have got to stop sneaking up on me!”

  He bowed. “Your pardon, my lady.”

  “And stop that as well.”

  He smiled quizzically. “Again, your pardon.”

  “Are you still following me, Lucas?” I reached for my cell phone, just in case.

  “Yes,” he replied simply.

  I blinked, deflated. Weren’t stalkers supposed to deny or come up with elaborate excuses? He just watched me patiently. “I would never hurt you,” he said. “I’m here to protect you.”

  “I don’t need protection, except maybe from you.” Now that the incident with the crows was passed, it seemed silly to have been so frightened. They were just birds. There was no menace to their flocking on my roof. It was just Lucas’s fear that had been contagious. “But you can answer a question for me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you get a tattoo like this?” I held up the pendant.

  He shook his head.

  “Are you sure? Because some guy got this done on the first of May at the shop where I work.”

  His friendly expression changed so quickly, my pulse tripped. He closed the distance between us in two quick, angry steps. The dying light glinted off his sword. I noticed a hawk made out of amber trapped inside the hilt. “Who?” he demanded. “Who took this symbol as their own? Who dared on the feast of Beltane?”

  “I don’t know,” I reminded him, easing back. “I’m asking you, remember?” I held up the phone. “And I’ll dial 911 if you come at me again.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Then we’re even because I don’t know what Beltane means either.”

  “You don’t need to be scared of me,” he insisted softly. “Be scared of the crow-brothers. Be scared of the swan and the turning of the wheel.” H
e touched my cheek so gently, it was like a snowflake landing, brushing my skin and melting away. “Not me.” He bent his head, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Never me.”

  We stared at each other for a long, hot moment before I jerked back and let the maples draw a curtain of red and orange leaves between us. I shot across the lawn and the street and onto the crowded sidewalk. I ran all the way home. Mom was working, so I pushed out onto the balcony. I paced the roof, to convince myself there was no danger, no secret, no crow-brothers.

  Big mistake.

  I didn’t even see them appear.

  One minute I was alone, and the next . . . not so much. I yelped, my heart leaping into my throat like a disoriented frog. I counted nine of them—five women and four men—all still as glass with black eyes and crow feathers for hair. They wore armor and carried swords of sharpened jet. I swallowed thickly. “Who are you?”

  No one answered me; they all just took a step forward, circling me in a sharp silence that made my palms sweat. I turned on my heel, trying to keep them all in sight. I opened my mouth to yell.

  “Hel—” I wasn’t sure if I was shouting for my mom or for Lucas. It didn’t matter, I didn’t have the chance. One of them rushed forward, moving so quickly I felt dizzy. The air shifted all around me, and his hand closed over my mouth. I struggled but he only laughed.

  “Someone wants to see you.”

  His hold tightened and he dragged me forward, his crow-brethren laughing in a scratchy, inhuman way that lifted all the hair on my body. Their feathers ruffled. It might have been beautiful if I hadn’t been so scared.

  He stepped onto the railing, hauling me up next to him. The pavement far below was littered with old gum and candy-bar wrappers. A flock of sparrows lifted from the trees in the park, chirping frantically.

  “Let’s see if you can fly as well as the whelp boy,” he said, as if he was offering me poetry and roses. I thought I saw Lucas, suddenly there behind him, shouting.

  And then he pushed me.