by Meg Kassel
I take a long, deep breath. “Are you like a-a vampire?”
He snorts out a laugh. “No. I don’t stay young forever. I can die as easily as you. I have no superpowers and, despite how often I must see it, I do not enjoy the sight of blood.”
“It didn’t look that way the other night.”
Pain slides over his features, making him look older, weary. “It’s survival. And living like this is not pleasant. We have an extra sense that foretells where death is coming and we go there to meet it. We’re always moving to the next disaster or massacre or whatever. And we die a lot. That’s not fun at all.”
My mouth goes dry. “So after whatever terrible thing happens in Cadence is over, you’ll just leave, if you…survive it?”
He nods. “We’ll turn back into crows and seek out the next marked town or street or building.” He pauses, shrugs. “Of course, some of us in human form will possibly die. When our human form dies, we sort of…respawn as a crow, and we stay that way for a while. The time frame varies—sometimes a week, sometimes a year—before we can change back to human form. But when we regain human form, we’re at a younger age. James, Fiona, and Paxton all died in a fire we were at last year. They just regained their human forms a few months ago. James came back unusually young, which is inconvenient for all of us. We have to grow up from childhood over and over again. It’s pretty awful.” He notices my slightly gaping mouth and cocks his head. “What? You’re the one with all the questions. I’m just obliging the lady.”
“Obliging the lady?” I raise my brows. “What century are you from?”
“That term isn’t that old.” He frowns at the floor. “Or maybe it is. It’s not easy, keeping current on everything. The decades sort of, well, blend.”
He sounds impossibly old now, contemplating the passage of time. For the first time, I get a sense of all he’s seen, all he’s experienced, much of it through the eyes of a child. “That toddler, James?” I ask. “Is it typical to come back that young?”
Reece shakes his head. “Nah, we usually don’t come back that young. James has been a harbinger for the longest of us—almost five hundred years. That could have something to do with it.” He looks at me intently, as if searching for something. “Last time I died, I returned as a six-year-old.”
My poor spinning head. The worst part is, the thing that’s sticking pins in my heart is that he’ll be leaving. I should be focused on the dying part. I should be much more interested in the disaster that’s soon to hit Cadence. But no, I’m worried about a broken heart. So selfish.
So much like my mother.
I shiver at the thought. Can’t go there. Not now.
Reece leans forward, reaches for me, then drops his hand. “I’d give anything to be a normal boy. To stay. Go to prom with you. But even one of the reasons why I’m drawn to you is because I’m attracted to death.”
My skin chills. “What do you mean?”
He pauses with a resigned sigh. “Death, tragedy, has a certain vibe to it. It makes people uneasy. It’s why no one wanted to live in the Ortleys’ house, but it’s exactly why we feel so comfortable there. Death has a distinct…aroma to a harbinger of death. To us, death is life. In the same way, you wear the misery and tragedy of your past like a second skin. Suffering has a very strong…scent.”
I jerk back. “I smell?”
“Yes, but in a good way.” His eyes widen. “Don’t worry.”
I don’t see how that’s possible. “What does it smell like?” Good grief, why am I asking this?
He pauses. “I really can’t describe it.”
“You mean it’s so bad you don’t want to.”
“No!” He reaches toward me when I cover my mouth, then drops his hand. “As I said before, it drew me to you. But it’s only one reason.”
The first prick of tears burns my eyes. No! I will not cry! “So, you want to be around me because I’m…miserable?”
“You’re not miserable,” he says quietly, urgently. “There’s a difference between enduring hardship and absorbing it. You’ve endured. You experienced more sadness and pain as a child than most people do in their whole lives. The odds you’ve beaten are astronomical. You have no idea how strong you are.” He smiles, faintly. “Maybe someday you will, and you won’t hide your greatest talent behind a disguise.”
I shrink back, away from him. From this. I don’t want insights into my soul. It’s intrusive, poking dangerously close to wounds that don’t heal, reminding me of aches I’ve lived with for so long, they are my state of normal. I don’t want to remember them. Ever.
My shoulders jerk in an awkward shrug. “I have to admit, it’s a lot to take in.” My voice is forced air, higher and lighter than this conversation deserves.
I tuck my hands under my legs. They’re shaking, and I don’t want him to see. If not for my experiences in the past few weeks, I would be suggesting he find a psychotherapist with a thick prescription pad.
But the things I saw were real. And Reece is deadly serious about them.
“How did you become this way?” I ask in a whisper.
Reece’s eyes darken and turn unreadable. “I don’t want to say, considering your feelings regarding magic.”
“Sorry. Mystical stuff was my mom’s thing. She made money reading palms and tarot cards and auras. She used to say we were always safe because she could see the people who were truly dangerous and avoid them.” I let out a breath. “Honestly, I don’t know what I believe anymore.”
“Was she right?” he asks urgently. “Were her readings accurate?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I never paid attention. Her clients seemed happy enough. They paid her.” Not that she spent the money well.
He shrugs. “True psychics are rare. They’re the descendants of magicians. Maybe your mom had a touch of magic as well.”
“Then she may have been better at predicting her own death.”
Reece rolls his shoulders in a leisurely shrug. “Death doesn’t require a prediction. It’s an inevitability.”
“Not for you,” I say.
“Not so. I’ve died many times.” He lets out a resigned sigh. “It just doesn’t stick.”
“How long have you been a harbinger of death?” This question sounds surreal coming out of my mouth, like I’m reading lines from a movie script. “You weren’t born this way.”
He pulls in a breath and drags a hand through his hair. “No, I was born a normal person, just like you. I’ve been a harbinger of death for almost two hundred years.”
Two hundred years! I must remember that he hasn’t always been eighteen, otherwise this would feel weird. Well, weirder than it already is. Having the hots for a harbinger of death does not qualify as normal. But Reece grew up, lost baby teeth, learned to read and write, went through adolescence, just like I did. Only, he did it a bunch of times, and I’ve done it once. It’s like he was reincarnated but remembers all his past lives. That does not sound appealing. “So can you ever really die?”
“Eventually, most of us unravel from experiencing so much tragedy, pain. When one of us gets to the point when their mental state threatens the whole group, everyone gets together and-and…” He swallows with a grimace. “Look, we congregate in crow form and peck them to death, okay? It’s called the mortouri, and it’s the only way for one of us to actually die. It’s not pretty, everyone hates doing it, and all it does is release the magic so it can possess some other poor person. The curse doesn’t go away. So you’ve got to be pretty far gone in order for that to happen,” he says defensively. “We do it, though. Comes a day when you just can’t live like this anymore. You just can’t stand to look at one more dead body. Your mind breaks.”
I stare at him, fully aware that my mouth is hanging open. Nothing I can do about that. “I’m sorry, I just can’t imagine you pecking someone to death.”
“Trust me, it’s a blessing to the peck-ee,” he says. “I’ve participated in only one execution, and I didn’t contribut
e much.” He rubs his palms over his face with a light groan. “Not that it matters. Ugh. I don’t want to know what you think of me right now.”
“All this makes me think of fourteen-sided dice and magical dragons.”
“You mean twenty-sided. There are no fourteen-sided dice.” He raises his brows. “Don’t give me that look. I’ve gone through puberty nine times. Maybe ten. I can’t remember.”
Nine times? I wince. Once is enough, thank you. “Okay, Mister Know-it-all.” I give him a look anyway. “So can’t someone undo this…what, curse? Can’t it be broken?” It’s getting easier to say the words “magic” and “curse” without cringing.
He shakes his head. “The way to dispel the harbinger magic was lost when magic was systematically obliterated prior to this age. Long before the harbinger curse found me. However, traces of that magic escaped the extermination. Us. The Beekeepers. Other beings that are very good at staying hidden. Dark, terrible creatures that can create evil and corruption with a single touch. These things exist but go unnoticed by most modern people.” He cocks his head at me. “You noticed, though. Most don’t see the Beekeepers for what they are. Yet you did.”
Lucky me. “Why? Are there more of them out there besides Rafette?”
“There are. They don’t work together like harbingers. Each Beekeeper is its own swarm. I think there’re two more in the area, but they likely won’t interfere with Rafette.” He studies me. “As for the ‘why,’ maybe there’s a remnant of magic flowing through you—like your mother—that allows you to see what most can’t.” He shrugs. “Like I said, there is still magic out there, hidden. Waiting.”
I suppress a chill. “So you aren’t friends with the Beekeepers?”
“We don’t exactly socialize with them, no,” he says with a grimace. “They just follow us.”
“Can you talk to them?”
He sighs. “We do, but we have no authority over them. They’re stronger, faster than us. They aren’t fans of harbingers, even though we are the ones who lead them to each marked place. Plus, to make it worse—” He shakes his head. It’s a weary gesture, but I lean forward and touch his knee.
“No, go on,” I say. “Finish your thought.”
“There’s word going around that if a Beekeeper could convince—or manipulate—a harbinger into accepting the Beekeeper’s curse into himself, the Beekeeper would be released from his curse. As in, allowed to die.”
I tap my fingertips to my lips. “So Rafette’s increased stinging is his way of putting pressure on you, to get harbingers to take their curse? So they can be free? That doesn’t make sense.”
“No, he stings to generate chaos and fear, because Beekeepers consume that. We need death energy, but they need negative energy from the living,” he says. “As for freeing himself from his curse, there’s no proof of any curse being broken. It’s a false rumor.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. All this is hard to explain. It must be nearly impossible to understand.”
“It is a lot to take in.” I look up. “Am I ever going to see you turn into a crow?”
His eyes go wide. “No.”
“Why not?”
He looks slightly ill. “It’s not a pleasant thing to view or experience.”
“But it must feel good to fly.”
That gets a small, but brief, smile. “Oh, it does. But it’s at such a cost.”
My first thought is, I can’t imagine how awful it must be to live in such conflict, but that’s not true. “It’s not exactly the same, but I know what it’s like to need the thing you hate.”
He looks up in surprise.
“My mom.” I look down, pick at a ragged fingernail. “My childhood with her was pure misery. School was sporadic and we moved a lot. I was made fun of for reeking of smoke and wearing the same clothes every day. I hated the drugs, the constant moving, the weird men. You were right when you said I experienced sadness and pain. And death.” A shudder trembles through me. I clench my teeth to keep them from chattering. This is so much emotion—so much stuff just tumbling out like an overpacked suitcase. Feelings crammed in boxes and stacked in the attic of my mind, falling over, spilling their contents. I’ve never known what to do with it all.
But this boy can’t judge me. He’s got boxes, too. Bigger, heavier, weirder ones. “My mom’s one real boyfriend was nice to me—without, you know, being creepy about it. He probably saved my life by telling the police about me.” I continue. “They came for me and were pulling me away from her. She was screaming and crying, and I clung to her like she was the best mother in the world. When they finally separated us, it hurt like my skin had been ripped away. She overdosed only a few weeks later.” My breath comes in short, ragged breaths. I look up, meet his dark, liquid gaze. “Am I defective because I didn’t want to leave her? That I hated the police who took me away from her?” I choke back a sob. “That sometimes, I miss her still?”
He’s quiet for a moment, then a gentle smile softens his face. “You are the opposite of defective.”
I screw up my face in disbelief. “Don’t even think of telling me I’m perfect.”
“Oh, you’re totally not,” he says with a grin. “But you see the good in people, even your mom. You forgave her, and you clearly love your dad. I just told you I consume the energy of dead people, and you haven’t kicked me out. That makes you pretty amazing.”
I have a snappy retort all queued up, but it fades away. “Thank you,” I say, surprising both of us.
He tells me about his life—hurricanes, tornados, terrorist attacks. Mass shootings, ravaging fires. And then there were the wars… His harbinger family made the trip across the ocean to experience World War II. There was so much horror, the largest harbinger groups converged on either Japan or Europe and stayed there for about a decade.
I let out a shaky breath. “So what’s the earliest thing you remember? You said you’ve been like this for two hundred years.”
He shakes his head. “My first memory as a harbinger is the Civil War. You have to be dying at the same time a harbinger crow is executed or dies. The curse finds only the dying, and my memories before that are fuzzy. No one clearly remembers their real life after the change, but I looked myself up after the fact. I totally shouldn’t have.”
“Why?”
He grimaces. “Because I was hanged for stealing a horse.”
“Oh.” I let out a giggle, not that this is funny. At all. “You were a criminal.”
“Apparently.” A grin creeps around his mouth. “Are you going to judge me now?”
“I’d say you’ve served more than a fair sentence.” I scoot a little closer. “So, are there any records of you in history? Could I look you up?”
“Not likely,” he says with one eyebrow raised. “We change our names regularly. Lucia isn’t really our ‘mom.’ Whoever happens to be of parental age gets to play that role, and we make sure we stick to our roles when outside people are around. It’s very important that we can pass as a typical family. Sometimes, however, the family structure gets unconventional, when more than one of us are grown. Lucia is up as the parent this round so we’ve taken her last name. A few times we’ve taken my last name.” His lips pull into a wide, devilish grin. “I’m not ready to tell you what that is.”
“I thought we were done with secrets,” I reply with a grin of my own.
“I have to maintain my air of mystery.” He reaches out, tweaks a lock of my hair, before letting his fingers slide through the strands. My breath catches. “I wouldn’t want to bore you,” he murmurs.
“Sure,” I say with an eye roll. “That’s a valid concern. So can you tell me what’s going to happen in Cadence? A raging wildfire? Nuclear war? Or is that another secret?”
He shakes his head. “Not a secret, just an unknown. We’re drawn to a place where death is coming, but we never know how death will come.”
“Maybe it was for a different reason,” I say hopefully. “Maybe it has nothing to do with…with—”
<
br /> “It always has to do with death.”
“Oh.” I swallow thickly. My words feel sluggish, as reluctant to come as I am to hear the answers. My whole life is here—everyone I care about. Just the thought of losing them makes my breath stop, my stomach knot. I wrap my arms around my middle and lean forward. “Do you know…when?”
His expression goes sympathetic, edged with frustration. He gets it, but he’s as helpless to change anything as I am. Knowing can be a curse in itself when you can’t stop something terrible from happening. “Can’t be sure. My guess is, we have a few more weeks.” He rolls his shoulders up and back, but the movement does not appear to relax him. “The scent will intensify and change. You need to be out of here before then.”
“Ha. Yeah. I can see that conversation: ‘Hey, Dad, the people next door are harbingers of death, and they say we’re going to die if we stay in Cadence, so can we move out for a while?’” The thought is so ludicrous, I laugh. “Guess how that chat will end.”
“That may not be the best approach,” he says seriously. “But we’ll have to think of something. You need to be out of here.”
“And what will you do after the…bad thing happens?”
“The same thing we always do—we’ll put our things in storage and leave. Start scenting out the next impending disaster.” He looks up, eyes turbulent, anguished. A muscle flexes in his jaw. “I’m sorry, Angie. We have so little time.”
His words squeeze my heart. I have so many more questions—loads of them, but they’re suddenly not as important as this charged beat of quiet. Time holds still. Neither of us moves. Neither of us breathes. The air between us snaps, compresses, pulls us toward each other.
He moves forward on hands and knees at the same time I do. His hand slips around the back of my head, into my hair. He pulls me close as I reach for him. My hands land on his warm chest, curl against the rapid beat beneath.
Unlike our last kiss, I know this one’s coming. I have a sudden, unbidden worry if I’m any good at this—kissing, that is—then his mouth is on mine and coherent thought blasts into a billion tiny pieces. Blood roars in my ears. A soft sound comes from one of us. It could be me. Right now, there is only this kiss. And, oh man, what a kiss it—
