Ellis’s gaze drops to his chest where the orb I followed here starts to reform. His body thins, growing more translucent as his soul brightens. That sweet violin rises in tune, a weeping sound that softens the heart.
“You’re with me now,” the man says again, desperation lining his words. The pulsing glow of Ellis’s soul quivers, unsure about staying or leaving.
That’s when I know it’s him, for Rook is a Soul Walker, trying to cross Ellis into the otherworld.
I dare to lean forward an inch, but my weight shifts and my foot presses on a branch with a soft crack.
Ellis sharply turns my way. A swear passes over my tongue. In the vacuum of a second, Ellis appears inches from my face.
I skitter backward at the sight of him. Blood weeps from the death-wound on his neck and dribbles down his chin. That gentle violin a charged voluminous sound that stretches to the stars, begging. His gentle eyes plead as the orb in his chest radiates out.
Liar, he whispers. The word, not spoken, but a violent echo in my head, and I run.
Through the woods and down the path toward our little barn. The dead have never come at me like that before. So fierce, so intense. I make it all the way across the open field to the oak tree in our yard and stop.
Nothing followed me.
Not so much of a hint of anything lingering here in the dark. Only my panting breaths to fill the silence.
Dots of rain drip on my face. Another crack of heat lightning rips through the sky.
Off in the distance, a cloud of black smoke forms above the trees. My first instinct says to keep running, but I pause. Curious. It’s moving fast, expanding, then contracting. Expanding, then contracting.
Not smoke. Crows.
In unison, they drop, barreling my way, starting to meld into one another.
My body tightens, understanding what I’m watching but not sure what the hell to expect.
But I keep my eyes open. I want to see him do it.
The cluster of crows ascends from the sky, spiraling downward. The force at which it comes is enough to make me throw my arms up, cover my face. I peek through the narrow space between my fingers.
A flock of crows converges into a single black mass feet from me until...swoop, Rook appears, stepping onto the ground as if he descended from a set of invisible stairs.
Long and lean. Pale as the moon. And no longer a boy.
He’s as real and alive as the blood racing through me.
And he’s beautiful.
You don’t expect to call a man beautiful. But he is. His dark hair has grown out since I last saw him. Solid black with jagged edges that dust his shoulders, tattered and wavy. Creamy skin like maybe he’s from Seattle or Forks, Washington, or some other place that doesn’t get a lot of sun. His nose is perfect and straight. And those lips, CoverGirl pretty. Cousin Wyatt would slug me if I said that about him.
The silly part, I didn’t expect him to be so grown. So mature. It’s like he’s aged right along with me.
At the creaking of the smokehouse door, I scramble backward under the cover of the fat oak tree.
“Who’s there?” Bone Layer’s deep voice calls out into the dark. The distinct shift-crunch as he cocks his shotgun, audible over the rain. The tiny smokehouse porch creaks as he paces, searching the yard.
Crows erupt from the space where Rook just stood. I duck to the ground and cover my head as hundreds of them swoop down and swirl around me. A cocoon of wings. They break away and flood the sky.
My breathing a heavy huff in the deafening silence left behind. My heart thunders in my chest.
Against the sky—much like that first night all those years ago—the crows swoop into a spiral until they condense into a single black bird that I’m left to watch as it flies off.
SEVEN
A Wish on a Crow Feather
“Shit!”
My whispered curse is sharp against the night as I watch my sneaker tumble through the wet branches to the ground below. You’d think, as many times as I’ve climbed up this tree, I’d have the proper skills to keep my shoes on. One swift kick in the air and I send the other one flying. It bounces on the rain-soaked lawn with slurpy thwaps.
My head is still reeling from the sight of Rook—or maybe it’s the alcohol. But he’s here. Back. I have to tell someone, even if it’s a ghost.
Crusty paint bites my palms as I press against the window frame and sloppily push. The old wood stutters a welcome as I shimmy up it. A far-off storm rumbles as it draws nearer. I straddle the window so as not to knock over Adaire’s bookcase and duck my head—son of a bitch! I press a hand to my throbbing temple where I whacked it against the windowpane.
As kids, Adaire and I would escape to a cave in the woods near the quarry pond to hide from Grandmama and Adaire’s father, a real asshole, God rest his soul. A place only birds could reach, maybe a mouse. Or two curious little girls with a rope and a bagful of courage. We stole a few of the pastor’s albums, records of Loretta Lynn and Johnny Cash, and would play them on an old windup Victrola Adaire found in an abandoned farmhouse.
That cave was a hell of a lot less drab than her room. Gray walls, tan bedding, and bland brown-speckled carpet. Even the furniture was sad, dinky remnants left over from church bazaars and yard sales. Child-sized, so that you have to bend down just to get your clothes out of the top drawer of her dresser. Her room still smells of Dr Pepper and incense. I let the familiar odor envelope me as I lower myself onto the bed.
So many nights, Adaire and I have lain here together. Our bodies always huddled close in the narrow twin bed. Many times after I talked the death out of someone, or at least tried. Sometimes just so I could prattle on about whatever my heart felt full with that week.
For a time, she didn’t believe my wild stories about a boy who was sometimes a crow. We were kids. She thought he was my imagination gone wild. Hell, I thought it, too.
But hadn’t I made a wish on a crow feather once, to save a little boy’s life?
Barely nine at the time, I saw it lying there in the dirt. The setting sun captured its blue-black sheen. The wind tickled it. Grabbed my attention by my collar. I thought it was a sign. I could have sworn I heard that boy asking for my help.
