He rolls his eyes. “Please. Speculate all you want about how the curse may be interfering with her feelings. The truth is, you’re over here watching her house like some vigilante because you’re afraid of going over there and telling her that you’re falling in love with her.”
His words hit me in a very uncomfortable spot. There’s some truth to them. But if I tell her the truth about that, I’ll also have to admit that I am the ultimate cause of her condition. It may be cowardly of me, but I never claimed to be particularly valiant. “Will you please go?” I grip the armrests of my folding chair so tight the plastic warps. “Surely there’s someone nearby who needs the death energy siphoned from their failing body.”
“No, I’m good,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I get why you’re worried about the murderer—four deaths, at last count. And we didn’t sense any of them, which is weird. No question the Strawman had some hand in it. So you can do one of three things.” He holds up three fingers. “You can go try to find the killer, go talk to Essie, or continue sitting here and stare at her house.”
“I am going to continue doing the third, and hope the police do the first. I would like to do the second one day, but not until she is cleared of the venom’s influence.” I don’t allow my thoughts to linger there. The possibility of that is an unlikely sliver of hope.
“Fine.” He laces his fingers behind his head. “Nothing to do but watch the clouds come in, then.”
Coming in they are, like great, deep purple carpets unrolling across the sky. Stars blink out, one by one. “Is it going to be a storm?” I nod toward the sky. “The disaster that’s coming—does Lish still think it’ll come from up there?”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time a bad storm hit these parts, would it?”
I swallow, my throat thick with coagulated honey. There were always bad storms. Sometimes they had nothing to do with the weather, but the people themselves. It was another town in another time, or maybe Concordia was built on the rubble of a previous town, but I suddenly remember. I groan against the memory shuttering to life behind my eyes, of an earlier time, more than a century ago, when I came across a young woman. I didn’t know her name, then, but I know it now: Opal Wickerton.
The scene is incomplete, more like a scattering of snapshots than the reel of a movie. Beekeepers do not have flawless memories. I’ve lost many things over the years. I don’t want most the memories I do have. But this one comes to focus, vivid and crisp, as if it had been just waiting to surface. The woman hangs out laundry in the whipping wind. Her green skirts conform to the shape of her legs. Long, blond strands pull free of her hat. I remember thinking, in a detached sort of way, that the men here would find her appealing. They would fight for her attention. One of them won her affection, apparently, as she wears a simple silver band around her finger.
The woman in my memory is Essie’s great-great-grandmother, but where Essie is fine-boned and delicate, Opal is Artemis. Detective Berk, it would seem, inherited Opal’s sturdy build. She is strong and powerful and looks as though she would be equally at ease bearing a crown or a broadsword. Her only real resemblance to Essie is her hair, and something in the shape of her mouth. All her other features were sifted out with generations, resulting in the girl I love—slender and delicate, but no less magnificent. Essie would wield magic rather than a sword.
I remember when I looked at the woman—Essie’s ancestor—I felt ravaged and weak. Shaken by something raw, achy, desperate. The woman sets off my bees. I don’t know why. I could have been depleted and tired, like I was when I met Essie. I honestly don’t remember.
I push the memory, try to recall if I felt any dark, violent energy from her, but I can’t recall if I did. All I know is they wanted to sting her. I suppose you could say I took the bees at their word and frankly, I lacked the strength of will to deny them. One bee left my mouth.
One bee. Little did I know then that it would change the course of this entire family for generations to come. It stung her, and that was it. I didn’t think about it—or her—again. They wouldn’t have stung her unless she was a valid target, right? They don’t make those types of mistakes. Neither, I thought, did I. But they were wrong with Essie. I suspect they were wrong about her.
Yet here I sit, more than a century later, freshly sliced by the recent memory of Opal’s great-great-granddaughter’s arms around me. I’m forever altered because of her affection for me.
“Do you remember when we were here last?” I ask Michael quietly.
“Not very well,” he replies. “What do you remember?”
“I remember stinging Essie’s ancestor. It’s my fault that Essie’s family has been plagued with madness.”
He makes a noise of frustration and smacks the back of my head, hard.
“Hey,” I say. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with you?” he replies. “Don’t you get it? You’re trying to find a way to break your curse. Don’t you see that what is going on with you and Essie is an omen?”
“No.”
“Dres, I’m a harbinger of death. I can sniff out an omen.”
“You can sniff out death.” I say it gently, because I feel some pity for him. Michael is so hopeful for his curse to be broken, he’s finding cracks where there aren’t any. “It’s very much the opposite of what you’re looking for.”
“Dresden, you fell in love, after…how many centuries?”
It’s as if my jaw has been wired shut. I can’t open my mouth to deny it or affirm it or tell him to go piss off. “Too many.”
Love. It’s a word meant to be uttered on a sigh, proclaimed from a rooftop, whispered through weeping. I would do anything to ensure Essie’s well-being. I’m attracted to her, although I’m well aware of how fruitless that line of thinking is. Knowing her has changed me. My feelings for Essie feel so much larger than one simple word.
“And here you are, watching her house, rather than being inside it with her.”
“Unfortunately, I am this,” I say, waving a hand over myself. “I’m not capable of a relationship with her in this state, Michael.”
“You were a man once, with all the usual emotions.” He tosses his head back, flipping his floppy mess of hair out of his eyes. “Maybe you call him up and have him tell her how you feel.”
“Maybe I should have let you die in that motel room.”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey—” His laughter fades as he points to a spot across the street from Essie’s house. “Look at that.”
A figure leans against one of the oak trees lining the road.
Bees drop from my nose, buzz around my head at the sudden shift of my mood. The person is in shadow. I can’t see what they look like. “Is it the Strawman?” I ask. He has sharper eyesight than me.
“No,” Michael says. “Guy’s tall but dressed in black pants and top. No hat. Shall I do a stroll-by?”
“No. People don’t ‘stroll’ at one in the morning.” I sink into observation, fixing my gaze on the still figure against the tree. It could be her father, sick bastard, or that twisted psychiatrist she’s forced to have appointments with. It could be anyone.
Michael fidgets in his chair next to me. He’s not good at waiting, watching. He’s much more action oriented. It makes him a good scavenger, but a terrible observer.
For a long time, the mystery person remains right where he is, unmoving.
“He’s on the move,” Michael growls. “I can go.”
“No.” I rise to my feet. “I’m going.”
“I’ll come with you.”
I don’t argue. Two supernatural creatures are better than one in a possible confrontation, and I admit, I haven’t confronted anyone in longer than I can remember. We start forward, easing down the porch steps and cutting across the neighbor’s lawn. I’m a quiet walker, but my companion is not, and it only takes a poorly placed step on a crispy patch of grass for the guy to swing around.
Michael grunts out a curse. No more than ten
feet separate us from Essie’s possible stalker, who is still in shadow. He wears black from head to toe, like a ninja. Even his face is covered in black. My hands form tense fists. Bees buzz my head like flies. “Who are you?” I demand.
In a quick move, he grabs for his belt and takes out a gun, points it at me.
Oh, bloody everlasting hell. I wasn’t expecting guns to be involved, and this person clearly knows what they’re doing. A bullet wouldn’t hurt me, but Michael is still recovering from a grave wound.
I slowly raise my hands, trying to keep my face in the shadows. It’s very likely I’m dealing with the person who slew Essie’s relatives. I mustn’t sting him. “Relax. Just taking a walk.”
“The hell you are,” says a low, warning voice. “On the ground.”
“We haven’t done anything wrong—” Michael begins.
The guy jerks the gun toward the ground. “Now.”
I hear him sigh and get to his knees. I do the same, but slower. Something about the way this person moves or their body shape is familiar, but I can’t place it. It’s definitely not a voice I’ve heard before, but if I was near this person in bee form, I’d have no idea what their voice sounds like.
There is a ripple to this person’s energy that sets my bees on edge. Something unsettling and dark. Interestingly, he’s radiating fear. Waves of it. It gives me a bit of energy, but it’s mixed with that rancid, sharp-edged hatred that sets my neck hairs on end.
“Why are you watching this house?” I ask, hoping to throw him off balance. His body tenses in the dark. Who is this person? It’s infuriating that I can’t tell more about them. I commit as many details to memory as I can, but there’s little to see. The streetlamps are not on us.
Headlights turn the corner, illuminating the three of us. The gunman closes the distance between us and in two quick, efficient moves, slams the gun into my cheek and rams a booted foot into my gut. I double over from surprise and the sudden expulsion of bees. They burst out of me, furiously buzzing.
“What the—?” My attacker’s voice goes high-pitched as he wheels away from the bees. Inexplicably, they make no move to sting. One shaking, gloved finger points at me. “You stay away from Essie,” he snarls, but the police patrol has spotted us. White and blue lights flash.
“Stop where you are,” a loudspeaker calls out.
I roll to the tree and flatten against it. Michael moves with effort. He’s in no condition for this. “Get out of here,” I tell him. “Go!”
He gives me a stricken look but lets the black fog flow from his mouth and turn him into a crow. One loud caw rips from his beak before he takes to the sky.
There’s a moment when the big oak tree sits between me and the police as they clamber from their car. I take it, change into bees, and follow the person who had been watching Essie’s house. He ducks into a driveway to hide from the policemen’s view, but there’s not many places to hide here, with each house surrounded by fences.
But then I see a figure I do know, standing in the front yard of the next house over. The Strawman is still, blending into the shadows, in his long, dark coat and wide-brimmed hat. The man who hit me bolts directly for the Strawman.
I can only watch as the Strawman draws Essie’s stalker into his embrace. The second before the police spotlight lands on them, the two of them vanish in the air. The sight is momentarily dumbfounding. I stifle a shiver.
This is a complication I hadn’t anticipated. Never in all my years have I seen a Strawman take a human like that. But it makes sense. Whoever that was has been touched by the Strawman and now belongs to him. Which makes finding and stopping this killer much more difficult.
I watch from high in the peaked eave of a house as the patrol officers get out of their car and aim flashlights down the driveway and into the bushes. They know they saw something. Their mouths talk furiously as they poke at Michael’s discarded clothes with their toes and peer into dark windows. Eventually, they get back in their car and drive off.
21
Dresden
the calling
“You have a bruise.”
“Impossible.” I don’t know why I came here, to Essie’s room. To check on her, I told myself. Once the idea took root, it was as if ropes were fastened around my limbs and pulled me straight here. When she heard my bees pinging against her window screen, she opened it and I went inside willingly, eagerly, with no interest in whether it was right, or responsible, or even ethical to do so. To be near her was to breathe again.
“You do.” She touches just below her eye and points to me. “Just there. On your cheek.”
I bring my fingers to my face and jerk back in surprise. My right cheekbone is hot and swollen. Surprise sparks a current from my gut to my head. Either I’m turning a little bit human, or the Strawman’s minion has powers that make him stronger than a normal human. I don’t know which is more unsettling. “It’s nothing.”
Essie frowns. “It’s something.”
I take her hand and hold it in both of mine. “Don’t worry about me,” I say with a quick grin. “I’m pretty tough.”
“Whatever.” She squeezes my hands. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”
“I wasn’t sure I’d come here again,” I say honestly. “I just…I couldn’t stay away. I wanted to see you.” The words choke out of me. I hate how vulnerable they make me sound.
A smile spreads across her face. “Good. I wanted to see you, too. You made it sound like you weren’t coming back.”
I allow my fingertips to slide down a blond lock of hair. “I tried.”
She doesn’t look the same. Her skin is pale, and dark circles hang under her eyes. There’s a fatigue to her that concerns me, and a rumpled look to her that I hadn’t seen before. The energy she gives off is dull and almost nonexistent.
“You’re different. What’s happened?” I ask her. “Aside from your father’s unpleasant visit?”
“New medication. Slows everything down.” She smiles faintly. “Thank you for scaring him, by the way. He’s so horrible. I don’t like being related to him. Makes me worry how much of him is in me.”
“You are nothing like him.” I would know. I can feel the energy of a person. Essie and her father have completely different vibrations.
She shakes her head sadly. “You say nice things, but I can’t tell if they’re really real.”
I tilt her chin up. “Try a peppercorn.”
“If only that worked.” She breaks away, walks to her desk. “Will you promise not to leave again?”
I push my hands into my pockets. My heart feels like it’s twisting and sinking at the same time. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” Her eyes flash, hot and sharp. It’s a relief to see the emotion on her. The pills haven’t snuffed out all her essence.
“I’m a beekeeper.” As if to emphasize that point, my bees surge in my chest, buzzing loudly. “As I am, I cannot promise anything.” I sweep a hand over myself. “I’m ruled by the curse that made me thus.” As are you.
Essie lowers her head. Delicate shoulders sag. “I can’t take this, Dresden.” She scrapes her fingers through her hair. “I care about you, and that’s not a delusion. It’s real and true and has nothing to do with my mental condition. But coming and going; making me say goodbye, then showing up again—it’s bad for me. I don’t deserve this half-in, half-out thing.” She straightens her spine. “It hurts. And I’m hurting enough.”
She doesn’t deserve it. Not long ago, I would have said that I didn’t deserve her, but when I play that through my mind, a surge of fury ignites, rather than sad resignation. Before I arrived in Concordia, the idea of caring for someone was foreign—a distant scrap from my long-gone human years. But now, I burn with purpose. Yes, I am responsible for her condition, but I will do everything I can to free her of the venom. Whatever it takes.
Then, possibly, I can make promises. I can stay.
I’m searching for a way to help you. I want to be with you more than
anything I have ever wanted. I want to be worthy of your love. But I don’t say those things. Instead, I edge toward the window, belly in a knot. “I’m sorry, Essie.”
Three words that I wish to rip from my throat. Did I think myself immune to pain? I was wrong.
“Me too,” she says very softly, to the floor.
Just then, a crow swoops up and lands in her open window frame, startling both of us. Essie slaps a hand to her chest, mirroring the gesture I’ve seen by her Aunt Bel. The crow angles its dark red eyes to Essie, then to me. It tips its head up and releases a gravelly caw.
In the past, I would have assumed this was Michael, but now I’m not sure. It could be any of the four harbingers of death. It could be the Strawman, borrowing one of the harbingers. How irritating. My once-predictable life has become as uncertain as a human’s. One thing that is certain is that the crow wants me to follow it. If it’s the Strawman, I want to get it away from Essie as quickly as possible.
That won’t be difficult. She’s not even looking at me. Turned partly away, she watched the crow from the corners of her eyes. “Just go, Dresden,” she says. “And—if you can’t be someone who sticks around, don’t come back, okay?” Her voice hitches. “Don’t do that.”
Oh gods, it was a mistake to come here. My heart is a chaotic mess, full of feelings I can’t begin to process. My heart twists at the hurt in Essie’s voice, even as it soars for the possible reason the crow is here. The harbingers wouldn’t interrupt me at Essie’s unless they had important news for me. The words are there—I will stick around. But I can’t say that, yet. I have to be human first. She has to be free of the Wickerton curse first.
Without another word, because I don’t trust anything my mouth would utter, I move to the window and change into bees. The crow flies in the direction of the harbingers’ motel. Good. It’s probably one of them, then, and not the Strawman.
It lands in front of the room they’re renting. I cluster my bees in between two cars and do my best to transform to human shape as discreetly as possible. The crow pecks once on the door, and Lish opens it.