“I’m trying something new,” he said into the camera in this latest video, smiling breezily as he held up a harmonica. “Because I’m drunk and tired and pissed off . . . and when you play a harmonica in a minor key? It can sound like all those things. . . . ”
He took a swig out of a pint glass. “And don’t worry, moms and dads—this is apple juice.” He smiled, big and plastic, then went on to hum a melody and stomp out a beat. Despite the grainy recording, it moved her. When Crow blew into the metal harmonica, the notes seemed to bend and expand. It was bluesy and haunting—but just thirty seconds into the video, the music stopped abruptly.
“This is shit!” Crow yelled suddenly—then threw his harmonica at the camera, which fell to the floor and ended the video. The whole thing was bizarre. Others could write it off as the outburst of a moody rock star, but Em felt it was something else entirely. Knew it, in fact, because she felt the same way—the hopeless frustration, the feeling of being deeply misunderstood . . .
She signed off, realizing that she was borderline stalking him. Plus she’d found out what she needed already: His next gig was tonight at the Armory, a newish, all-ages club in Biddeford, about twenty minutes up the highway from Ascension.
Which is how Em decided where she’d be that night. Who knows if she’d get ahold of him otherwise? He had this irritating pattern of never having his phone on when she called. She remembered he always used to answer for Drea, and wondered if he did this on purpose to torture Em. Maybe after climbing in her window last week and telling her she was becoming a Fury, he’d had second thoughts about wanting to hang out with her. It would be just like him to offer help one minute and then avoid her the next.
Or maybe he regretted their kiss that day in his truck.
Or maybe he just spent a lot of time rehearsing with his band.
But he was one of the only ones who knew anything about the Furies, and she needed to tell him that she was starting to fear that Drea was right. Em was turning, slowly. She was still trying to explain away Drea’s wild ideas. Drea had been obsessed with the Furies, blaming them for the death of her mom and the subsequent collapse of her family—her dad was a drinker, and their house stayed upright only because she was there to make sure it didn’t fall down on top of them. It was very possible that her need to destroy the Furies had just gone a little too far. Em totally got that. Thinking about the Furies for too long would drive anyone insane. You might start to think they were following you. Like predators stalking their prey . . .
But then again, the signs were there, and they were becoming impossible to ignore.
The heat. Her unnatural speed and strength.
Those seeds.
If only she hadn’t swallowed those five seeds, binding her to the Furies forever . . .
But of course, if she hadn’t swallowed the seeds, then JD would still be in danger. Or worse, dead.
She didn’t know who, or what, to believe.
Her first day back at school had been harder—much harder—than she’d anticipated. Now she was feeling ragged and raw, like any little thing could set her off into screaming. She felt like she might snap in two. She was still on somewhat restricted driving rules, and anyway, she wasn’t sure she was up for getting behind the wheel just yet. So she would have to ask her mother for a ride to Crow’ s concert.
As she padded down the carpeted stairs, she reminded herself that Crow had always seemed decent and honest—sometimes too honest—from the first days she’d spent with him.
Either way, based on what she’d promised the Furies, there was practically no one she could talk to about this. He was one of her only potential allies. And he seemed to know more than he let on. Meeting him on his own territory? It had to be worth a try.
Thankfully, her mother was thrilled that Em actually wanted to leave the house after so many days of hiding in her bed, and eagerly agreed to drive her out that night, making Em promise a million times to call if she couldn’t get a ride back home. “I’ll come get you, no matter how late it is, okay, honey?”
Em hugged her mom, assuring her she’d be fine, and got out of the car.
“Em?” Her mom called her back.
She turned and ducked into the open passenger-side window. “Yeah, Mom?”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Her mother looked older then, grasping the steering wheel with thin hands. “I feel like I’m losing you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Em said firmly. “And being here tonight? It’s what I need.”
Her mom offered a tight smile. “I’m trusting you, Em. Call if you need to.”
As she watched her mom’s car disappear around a bend, Em readied herself to talk to Crow. She wasn’t going to let him pull his sleepy-eyed caginess on her, not tonight. She wanted answers. How much did he know? If he’d been lying to her before, she was going to find out the truth now. If this was all head games, it needed to end.
And if it was something more, well . . . she’d find a way to make it stop. Somehow.
The chilly spring air felt great against Em’s always-burning skin and it fueled her forward as she pushed open the heavy wooden door and walked into the Armory. She was on a mission.
The club’s crazy architecture fit right into her mood—dark, gothic, dramatic—and the music from The Slump, who were already midset when she arrived, wrapped around her like a warm cloak. The place was really an old church that had been repurposed into a music venue; pews still served as seating around the downstairs stage (what used to be the altar), and a long mahogany bar ran the length of one entire side wall, lit by ornate iron sconces. A spiral staircase led from the foyer to a velvet-draped balcony level, where dark corners and metal poles clashed with the piety depicted on the stained-glass windows. There were so many places where people could hide. Do things and not be seen.
Em felt a sudden tightness in her throat. How many people had confessed their sins here? How many people had asked, and been granted, forgiveness?
And would Em ever get that chance?
She was surprised to feel tears burning the back of her eyes, and she blinked quickly. She was dying to talk to Crow, but he had just begun a set, so she leaned against the back wall, fiddling with her UNDER 21 wristband and listening to Crow strum the opening notes of a new song. False start. He leaned his lanky body over the strings to tune them. When he did, a piece of his long black hair fell into his eyes. She felt a bizarre itch in her fingers—like she wanted to reach up there and brush the hair out of his face herself.
He started up again. This time the notes were good, strong, powerful. Crow’s voice was powerful too: liquid and dark, like something you wanted to drink. Crow owned the stage. Once he got going, it was impossible for Em to take her eyes off of him. All thoughts of the Furies were temporarily defused, as though they were floating up to the Armory rafters along with the ringing notes of Crow’s chords.
The last song was one he’d just written, he announced before he started playing—it was called “Vision.” He took a swig from his beer. “I think it’s going to be part of a series,” he said cryptically before playing the first chord. He grimaced; it hadn’t come out just right. For a second he looked up with a mad glint in his eye and Em flinched, reminded of his YouTube breakdown that had gotten more than two hundred views. He didn’t even feel a need to hide it. . . .
But then he leaned over and tried again. Once he started singing, his lyrics were poetic and somewhat mournful; Em found herself leaning forward to catch every word.
“Haunted by my dreams
Like startled birds so fast
With visions of the future
And memories of the past.”
In the church chamber, the wailing of the guitars soared overhead, while the pounding of the drums coursed through the floor. The highest notes, like those of a choir, seemed to linger long after the next chord was strummed. And Crow’s voice cut through it all—forceful and passionate, like a preacher giving a sermon.
She’d been spending time with Crow for a month or so, and she’d always known he was a good musician—his videos only proved that over and over again. But here, in the old church, Em was blown away by his talent. She grew warm thinking of the afternoon she’d gotten into his car to escape a harsh winter rain storm . . . the song he’d played for her . . . the way he’d slipped off his shirt for her to wear . . . the way his lips had brushed against her jaw . . .
It was crazy—she almost felt like Crow was singing right to her, stirring up emotions that she’d tried to ignore. And his words, they were so real. Like he could somehow see inside her head, like he knew her secrets. Like he knew what she’d come here to tell him. Like this was her confessional, her moment to ask for forgiveness.
Somehow, Crow’s song made her feel less alone. She wasn’t the only one caught up in this mess. She had the uncanny sense that Crow was part of it too.
With a burst of feedback from the monitors, The Slump’s set came to a close. There was loud applause, and as the crowd broke apart, with most people making a rush for the bar, Em watched as Crow jumped easily down from the stage and walked straight in her direction. So. He had seen her in the crowd. She’d wondered. There had been a moment when their eyes had met, and it was as though an electric current had run straight through her. . . .
She shook out her shoulders, slung on her black blazer, and reminded herself why she’d come here: for answers.
Then he was standing next to her—very close. She resumed her pose against the wall, feeling her shoulder blades against the brick behind her.
“You know this isn’t a real church, right, angel?” He put his hand on the wall above her head and looked down into Em’s eyes. There was a sheen of sweat along his hairline and he smelled like fire.
She felt her knees buckle ever so slightly but managed to swoop sideways and out from under his arm. “I had to leave my halo at the door,” she said. “Beautiful set.”
For a second, she saw a real flash of pleasure in his face, lighting up his greenish eyes, turning them temporarily golden. Then he shrugged. “Just a few things we’re playing around with,” he said nonchalantly. There was whiskey on his breath.
“Well, it was good,” Em said firmly. Crow smirked and she added, “But I didn’t just come to hear you play. We need to talk.” She looked around at all the people still milling around the club, waiting for the next band. There it was again—the feeling of being watched.
“I’m gonna need another drink if we’re going to get all serious,” he said, turning and striding toward the bar without waiting for her to respond.
She trailed after him, watching girls lower their eyelids flirtatiously as he passed by. He was oblivious.
“I’ll have a another,” Crow said just a little too loudly when he got to the bar. “And a PBR chaser. And whatever she’s having.” He tossed a thumb over his shoulder in Em’s direction.
“Just a seltzer, please,” she said. “Are you using one of your fake IDs?” she added under her breath.
“Like I need it,” Crow shrugged. “I’m a regular.” When his drink arrived, two inches of brown liquid with one lonely ice cube, he slammed half of it in one sip and followed that with a swig of beer. So much for asking him for a ride home. He stared at her, daring her to pass judgment.
“Can we find somewhere to talk?” she asked, looking around the bar to avoid his gaze. His eyes were so intense—as though he could see directly into her.
And maybe he could. She trusted him. She really did, despite what everyone said. She realized she knew virtually nothing about him except that he’d dropped out of high school . . . or been kicked out, depending on who you asked. But when she heard his music there was an understanding there, an honesty that just felt right. Plus he just couldn’t have made up what Drea said out of spite or sketchiness. She couldn’t make herself believe that.
“How about over there,” he said, pointing to a small wooden love seat in a corner dimly lit by a glowing tea light.
Once they sat down and Em had arranged it so her knees weren’t touching his, she forced herself to ask the question that had been burning inside of her all day. “Do you think it’s true? What Drea said?” Was it her, or did every candle in the place flicker at the exact same time, like a gust of wind was passing through?
There was silence as Crow studied his beer can. Em could feel the ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom of bass drums through her feet.
“Honestly? I have no idea,” Crow said, shaking his head.
That makes two of us, she thought. The condensation from her glass made her hands cold and wet.
“Something happened today,” she said finally. “In gym class. It was like . . . it was like I had turned into someone else.”
He didn’t say anything. She couldn’t even tell if he was really listening to her, the way he was looking off into the distance. He took another deep draw from his drink.
“I . . . hurt someone,” she said.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
She bent her head, embarrassed. “I became, like, Superwoman for a few minutes. I threw a ball and it—it hit someone . . . ” Then, at the exact same time, they finished the sentence: “Right in the face.”
She whipped toward him. “How did you know?”
He laughed humorlessly. “Listen, angel, you’re not the only one stuck in this shit show. I have a feeling I’m tangled up in it too.” The words “upinit” smashed together like a traffic jam.
“You mean, because Drea told you about the Furies?” She still wasn’t sure how much Crow knew.
Fortified by another sip of beer, Crow leaned forward and spoke to the floor. “Worse than that,” he said. “See, I knew you were going to do that, what you did today in gym. I saw the whole thing—I saw you running like a track star on speed. I saw you break that girl’s cheekbone. I’d already seen it all.”
It was like a valve had opened within Crow; the words were spilling out of him.
“Where?” she asked. “What do you mean, you saw it?”
“What do I mean . . . ? Just what I said. I’ve been having these . . . visions, I guess you’d call them,” he said. His knee was jangling up and down to its own rhythm. “I’ve been seeing things—like movies in my mind. Not memories, exactly. But things that have happened. Or will happen. Or . . . I don’t know.” When he looked at her again, his eyes were reddish. Tired.
She nodded, but couldn’t speak. Was this Crow’s drunken idea of a practical joke? Or was he just drunker than she’d even realized?
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said defiantly, “but I’m not just wasted. I mean, not that wasted. I saw you, Em . . . in my mind. There was so much blackness around you. Spilling out from inside of you. I knew you were going to hurt someone. And I don’t think it’s over. I think you’re going to keep hurting people. The damage isn’t done.” The last words came out in a slurred rush. He drained what was left in the beer can.
No. I don’t want to hurt anyone. His words tapped into her worst fears. “I didn’t mean to hurt Casey,” she said weakly. “I’m not . . . like them.” Not yet, at least.
He barely heard her. “But here’s the really bad thing,” Crow continued. “That darkness that I saw in you, in my vision? It follows me around. I’ll have another vision. Guarantee it,” he said, holding up his empty glass. “Refill?”
She glanced at the key chain dangling from his belt loop. “I’m worried about you driving home.”
“Don’t you worry about me, babe,” he said, leaning in close. “I can take care of myself. It’s you we should be worried about.” And with that he made his way back to the bar.
As she waited for him to return, her eyes were drawn to the church balcony. To the high stained-glass window that depicted a scraggly tree being split in two by a bolt of lightning. She stared at the oddly shaped cuts of glass, pieced together to form a whole image. An image of destruction. The window swam, a kaleidoscope of colors. Then there wa
s a flash of white-blond hair.
She did a double take. There was someone up there.
Ali.
Ali was here. Spying.
She was being watched. Her stomach seized up and she considered running. Leaving this place, leaving Crow.
But when she narrowed her eyes and kept them trained to the spot where she’d seen movement, there was nothing. Nothing but dark corners and fleeting shadows.
“So here’s what I know,” Crow said, breaking her concentration. He’d come back with another glass of whiskey in his hand. “You and Drea were playing ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer,’ except not vampires but Furies. The goddesses of revenge. Evil.” His voice was rising; his tone was suddenly performative. It was as if he were trying to make a scene.
“Shhhhh,” she hissed. “They’ll hear you.”
“Who will?” He was mocking her, but she thought she saw a spark of fear in his eyes.
“Crow, how much do you know? What else have you seen in your . . . visions?”
“I know too much,” he said, sitting down heavily. “I knew about—I knew about Drea.”
Em felt the familiar wave of panic and hopelessness rush through her. “You knew that she was trying to get rid of them?”
“More than that,” he said dully. “I knew what was going to happen to her.”
“You knew about . . . the fire?” She shook her head. “But that’s impossible.”
“It’s not impossible,” he said. His jarring tone made several nearby patrons turn their heads. “It’s not impossible just because you don’t understand it.”
“This is serious, Crow.” She tried to pull him back into their conversation, but his focus had shifted. He was looking at her through narrowed eyes, as if he were examining a specimen under a microscope.
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