Black Bird of the Gallows

  Crows’ preference for carrion and perching in graveyards and near gallows has wrongly associated them with evil, but many ancient peoples saw the crow as a divine creature, existing in two planes of existence—the Earthly plane and the magical one.

  The face-shifting man mentioned gallows and called Reece a harbinger. Not a normal thing to call a teenage boy. Unless the teenage boy is something other than he appears. I’m not comfortable with the idea that magic is involved. It brings to mind rabbits in hats and Halloween, neither of which have ever interested me.

  My fingers curl tight, digging shallow half-moons into my palms. Reece knows what this thing is. It drives me up a wall that he knows.

  The bee guy said the town was marked, whatever that meant. It doesn’t mean anything good, that’s for sure, considering the rest of the conversation. It sounded like something bad was going to happen in our town. If Reece knows what that is, I need to find out, too, for the sake of my dad, my friends—heck, everyone who lives here. But clearly, Reece isn’t going to give up his secrets easily. He can try to distract me with the—admittedly, interesting—attraction that sometimes sparks between us, but his chilling words linger.

  Fear has become a baseline emotion, sitting low in my gut, but I don’t know what, exactly, I should be afraid of. I don’t feel safe. Not at school, not in my own home, with its insane home security system. I need to know if that strange bee-man is going to come for me again. I need to know why my mother’s features were on his face.

  8- the bus stop

  It’s a little jarring to see Reece at the bus stop Monday morning. He looks so normal standing there, leafing through his U.S. history book like he’s perusing a catalog. He’s wearing jeans under his wool coat. The morning sun glints off hair that appears still damp from a shower. He hasn’t been here since his first day, last Tuesday, but I’m surprised yet pleased to see him. Today begins my official surveillance of this boy. Considering the encounters I’ve had with him, it won’t be long before something bizarre or scary happens. I’m prepared for either.

  The lone crow with that one white feather perches on the lamppost across the street. It’s beginning to feel normal, seeing it around all the time. However, if I’m dealing with harbingers of death, like I read about last night, it’s not a good sign that I’m being followed by one. The crow lets out a sharp caw. I startle at the sound, but Reece doesn’t so much as twitch. My palms go cold and damp. I don’t even know how to stalk anyone.

  He finally looks up when I’m standing right in front of him. His face is pinched, his skin pale. Shadows sling under his eyes, as if he didn’t sleep well. That’s only fair. Thoughts of him ruined my sleep all weekend. His brows dip low, just shy of a frown. “Hey, Angie.”

  “Hello, Reece.” I’m determined to keep this casual, light, despite the beady-eyed crow watching me. Despite the nerves crawling up my throat. “Cramming for the history test today? It’ll probably be multiple choice. Mrs. Bryan usually alternates essay and multiple choice, and the last test was essay, so…” I shut my mouth. Shut it, Angie.

  He looks up again with narrowed eyes. “I’m prepared. Are you?”

  No, not at all. “Yes.”

  “Good.” A tight smile pulls at his mouth. “It’s good to be prepared. Quite an interesting mine you have back there. I went exploring a bit after you left. Brought you something.” He digs something out of his pocket and holds up a deep purple amethyst, smoothly faceted and wide as a quarter. Light fractures through the translucent stone as he turns it in the sunlight.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, genuinely charmed by the thing. “You found that in the mine?”

  “Yeah.” He takes my hand and places it in my palm with a wink. “You like purple, don’t you?”

  My fingers close around the crystal. I’ve been receiving a lot of interesting “gifts” lately. I’m not sure I want them. I drop it in my pocket. It’s going straight to my glass bowl with the other goodies I’ve been given. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

  I don’t think I’m imagining the knowledge curling in the set of his lips, the glint in his eyes. Do I like purple? This is ridiculous. He knows exactly who I am. He’s deduced I’m the purple-haired DJ he saved from the man with the shifting face. He saw me close up, without my glasses. He called me Sparo, not Angie, but that just means we’re playing an elaborate game of psychological chicken, and he’s waiting for me to crack. This gift—like everything else about this boy—holds double meaning.

  “So.” I take a deep breath, frantically groping for the rules of this game. This is beyond my skill set. “What did you think of The Strip Mall?”

  “You were there?”

  I roll my shoulders. Keep it casual. “Everyone goes there.”

  “If you had been there, I would have noticed.”

  What does that mean? That I stick out or that he finds me noticeable?

  Maybe he really didn’t recognize me. It’s possible, I guess; maybe he has bad eyesight. “My friend Deno works there. You may have seen him. He was assisting the DJ. I stopped in to say hi.” My words crackle like plastic to my ears. I can only imagine how fake they sound to him.

  “Oh yeah. Deno.” He shrugs. “The show was okay, I guess.”

  “Okay?” My pride thins like an overinflated balloon. “People say Sparo is the best DJ around.”

  “She was okay.” He enunciates into his history book. “But compared to some other clubs I’ve gone to, her set was missing something.”

  My throat closes up tight—a clear signal to stop right there. But, no. “Missing what?”

  “I don’t know. Originality? Authenticity? It doesn’t take a genius to spit out other people’s music. When I go to a show, I like to hear something new, be surprised. That didn’t happen.” He snaps the book shut and glances over my shoulder. “The bus.”

  I turn to see Mrs. Pierce’s yellow monster turn the corner and begin lumbering up the hill.

  Warning bells clang in my head, but my mouth still opens. Words come out. “You know, I know Sparo, and I can tell you she works hard on her sets.” My voice is full of sharp, personal affront. The opposite of casual. The opposite of normal. “Her original music is good, too. She’s just waiting for a better venue to debut it.”

  “Oh, you know her, do you?” He laughs and shakes his head. “Look, your friend’s problem isn’t the venue.” Reece’s lips tilt into a crooked grin. “Or her talent, I’m sure. And she’s hot up there on stage—seriously. The stuff she played was just…limited, you know? She plays it safe.”

  The crow caws again. It sounds annoyingly like laughter. But honestly, I ceased coherent thought after—She’s hot.

  Okay. He actually said that. And “hot” has a very clear meaning in that context, unlike the “adorable” I got on Saturday morning. My mouth feels stuffed full of cotton. My heart pounds like a kick drum. I grasp the handrail and get on the bus.

  What do I do next? Oh yeah, find a seat.

  I must look off, because Mrs. Pierce’s eyes narrow on me. She flicks a suspicious look at Reece’s retreating back and leans toward me. “That boy bothering you, honey?”

  I blink at her, surprised and—oh hell, embarrassed. “Uh, no.”

  She raises a brow and shuts the door behind me. “Must’ve been running, then. You’re mighty flushed.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Reece swing into a seat. He looks up at me. His mouth isn’t smiling, but his eyes are.

  Fantastic. If my face was red before, it’s in flames now. I duck my head and practically dive for the first empty seat. It’s a three-seater, diagonally in front of his.

  Reece Fernandez thinks I’m hot. I heard him say it.

  Just then, the boy in question leans forward and taps my seat. “Hey. Angie.”

  My stomach flips over. What now? “Yeah?”

  “Tell your friend Sparo to watch it outside that club at night. I saw a sketchy-looking dude hanging around.”

  Is he serious? I open my mouth,
but some last remaining shred of sense closes it. “Sure.”

  He gives me a wide grin. “Thanks. Hey, maybe one of these days, you can introduce me. She kind of blew me off on Friday.”

  And…that’s all I can take. I turn away and clamp my hand over my mouth before hysterical laughter bursts from me like a geyser. Reece retreats to the safety of his own seat with raised eyebrows.

  Despite my aborted laughter, nothing about this is funny. There’s an inherent problem here. Unless he’s pretending to not know I’m Sparo—very, very possible—Reece would like me to set up an introduction for him with myself.

  Maybe he really does have bad eyesight. He does squint a lot. Or he’s not as smart as I thought.

  Either way, I had not anticipated this little wrinkle.

  And it’s not even the worst part.

  I don’t even know for certain if the boy I’m trying to stalk is a human being.

  9- the visitation experiment

  Surely this isn’t healthy behavior. I am at my kitchen table, partly doing homework, mostly peering out the window at the house next door. Reece and I got home about fifteen minutes ago, and the only thing he’s done is collect the mail and go inside. I turn my attention to my physics homework and eat an apple slice. The only two living things who can see what I’m doing are Roger, who is snoring on the floor next to me, and the white-feathered crow cleaning itself on the other side of the window.

  I’ve started thinking of this one as “my” crow, and there’s no getting around it—all the crows at the Fernandez house are more than just crows. That’s not a pleasant truth to acknowledge. It makes it even more imperative to learn Reece’s secret.

  Movement draws my attention up from my notebook. Reece has come outside as two little kids run up the driveway, backpacks swinging behind them. I snatch up the binoculars from the counter next to me and focus on the little group. Reece kneels down for hugs. My chest tightens to see them throw arms around him and hug with such force, he tips over backward. I can hear their shrieks of laughter from here. He’s so cute like this, being a good big brother, that some of my annoyance with him and his secrets thaws. The kids toss their backpacks on the lawn, and one of them digs a soccer ball out from behind a bush. A three-way passing game ensues, with lots of wayward kicks and more laughing. Seeing this, it’s hard to imagine this family is anything other than what they appear. But I know better.

  It’s a perfect time to take Roger for a walk. I scoop up the leash. The sound of the clasp jingling propels the dog from sound sleep to prancing at the door in under three seconds. I throw on a hat and an old coat—what I always wear for walks with Roger—and pop earbuds in my ears for good measure. We start down the driveway. Roger’s good on the leash, but today he hears the noise of children from his old home, and his nose is raised, feverishly smelling the air. I slow down only a little as we pass Reece’s house. It’s enough to give Roger encouragement to pull toward the children and for them to notice him. Which is what I want.

  “Look!” A little girl with warm brown skin points at us. “A dog! Hi doggie!” She runs toward us, waving, followed by the boy. Trailing behind them both is Reece.

  “Easy, Fiona,” he calls out. “Remember what to do around dogs you don’t know.”

  If Fiona hears him, she’s pretending she can’t. She does, however, approach the wiggling Roger with caution. She looks up at me with a sweet little smile. “Hello, I’m Fiona. May I pet your doggie?”

  I can’t help but smile. “Of course,” I say, half smitten with her already. I crouch down, get a good grip on Roger’s collar in case he decides to show his affection too enthusiastically. “He’s very friendly. Sometimes, too much so. You may get kisses.”

  “That’s okay.” She pulls off a glove and extends one small hand for Roger’s inspection. He complies as respectfully as he can, but he can’t resist licking, which sends her into a peal of giggles. “That tickles! What’s his name?”

  “Roger.”

  She peers up at me from beneath thick lashes. “Are you Angie?”

  “Um, yes. That’s me.” I’m a little surprised but manage not to show it. This kid knows my name?

  She leans forward, cupping a hand over her mouth. “My brother talks about you,” she whispers conspiratorially.

  “Oh.” Well. That answers that. “Really?”

  She giggles again. “Yup.” Just then the little boy joins us. “Look! That’s my other brother, Paxton.”

  Paxton is a pale, blond, serious-looking boy who appears to be about the same age as Fiona. He greets Roger without smiling, presenting his hand to be sniffed, but he lets out a laugh when his fingers also get a lick.

  “Very nice to meet you, Angie,” says Paxton in a formal, important voice.

  I can’t help but grin at him. “Likewise, young sir.”

  “This is Roger,” Fiona informs him. “Angie said we could pet him.”

  Reece jogs over then, as I expected. White teeth flash in a quick smile. “Hi, Angie. I’m sorry about these two. Are they behaving?” He uses a serious voice, but his lips twitch in amusement. “Using manners?”

  I’m still eye level with the children, and it’s them I address. “You two are the most well-mannered kids I’ve ever met. Roger here thinks you’re great, too. He loves new noses to kiss.”

  Fiona wrinkles her nose and brings it close to Roger, then rears back when he tries to lay one on her.

  Paxton scratches Roger in the rolls of his neck, exactly where he likes it. “May we please play with him?”

  I hesitate, look up at Reece. This is exactly what I want—a reason to loiter around this house. To observe and see if anything seems off. Roger, who is a good judge of people, is clearly telling me everything is fine, but I’m determined to find answers. “I can let him off the leash, but it’s up to you. We were headed for a walk in the woods, so he might leave a present on your lawn.”

  Reece shrugs. “That’s okay. If you’re sure he won’t run away.”

  Perfect. “He won’t.” I unclip Roger’s leash, and he bounds across the frosty lawn in unbridled joy. Paxton runs to the garage and returns with an old tennis ball—which was probably originally Roger’s—and hurls it as far as he can. My dog leaps after it, gloriously happy.

  “They’re your siblings?” I ask.

  “Yeah. We’re adopted.” He says it in an automatic sort of way, probably used to curiosity about the differences in skin color between the children. He watches the children fondly. “There’re five of us including our older sister, Brooke, and our little brother, James.”

  My brows go up. “That’s quite an age range.”

  “It is,” he replies. “It’s been hard since our dad passed away.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “A few months ago.”

  His words—the remote coolness of them—scratch through me like flat notes in a song. As someone who has lost a parent, I know there’s no way to not have feelings about it. If his father died a few months ago—even if the man was a monster—discussing his death would evoke something. But Reece’s voice is hollow. His words sound rehearsed. No emotion, but I’ve seen Reece with emotion and he’s quite expressive. I’ve seen him frightened and sad and angry and surprised. I’ve seen him confront a creature with a mouthful of bees and a face that transforms every thirty seconds or so. So I’m not sure I believe him, and that’s an uncomfortable thought, considering my own history.

  I eye him closely, searching for a physical tell to reveal sadness, hidden grief, something, but there’s nothing. No slight pinch of the mouth, no tightening of the hands. Not a glimmer of the grief he revealed the first time we met at the bus stop. His voice sounds painfully empty. Painful only to me, apparently, as he seems perfectly at ease. I swallow heavily, searching for the right response. I won’t call him a liar—that’s just unthinkable.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say quietly.

  “Thank you. Everyday life is the hardest part. Just…going
through the motions of it all.”

  Now that was the only part that felt like the truth. The rest of his words sounded like poorly delivered lines, read from a script. The implication that he’s not telling the truth about the death of his father makes me a little light-headed. Why would someone do that?

  “Is it?” I’m seriously questioning the wisdom of coming here. Who is this boy? Who are these people? I may not want these answers. Whatever illusion I had been weaving about this being a normal family can’t be true. This is a family, yes, but one putting on an elaborate show to appear to be something they are not. “Everyday life can’t be so bad,” I say lightly, eager to change the subject before I start luring myself down a hole. “You have a beautiful home, a nice family. You’re popular at school. Kiera Shaw certainly likes you.”

  He turns his gaze to me, slowly. “Kiera Shaw? You think I like her?”

  “I don’t know what you like.” I don’t blink. I don’t look away. “I know only what I’ve seen.”

  Reece leans close, gently entering my personal space. Close enough to put me on edge, but not close enough to intimidate. His voice is silk on gravel. His narrowed eyes glitter down at me. “And what, exactly, have you seen, Angie?”

  Shivers race up my skin. I want to defuse this so badly, but I feel like this is a challenge I can’t lose. “I’ve seen and heard things that don’t make sense. Things I can’t understand.” I shift my gaze to my crow sitting on a branch above my head. It watches me with an intensity that would scare me if I wasn’t accustomed to it. “Tell me about the crows.”

  He shakes his head. “Sorry. Either you know about them or you don’t.”

  My jaw tightens, even as I step toward him. I can feel his body heat. His clean, guy scent fills my senses with a unique magnetism that draws me close. Closer still. “I will find out.”

  His gaze sweeps my face, lingering on my lips. “I hope not.” His breath warms my temple, sending a shiver under my skin. “There are worse things out there than a few watchful birds.”