Keeper of the Bees Page 19

  Ah, that word. It defined much of my life. My father…how often had he called me that? But when I think of him now, I see a man thin as paper, and just as fragile. I may have a condition that causes me to see things that no one else can, but I am loved.

  Loved. Wanted. Needed. Something shifts in my heart and mind like a bone snapping back into its socket. And then, this singular thought: it isn’t selfish to want more than this.

  Anger, unfamiliar and unexpected, courses through me. “It’s never going to happen. Never.” I hold his gaze. “I’m going to report you to the police.”

  “No one will believe you.”

  “You’re wrong. Someone will.” I tilt my head. “You may be the doctor and I may be the patient, but between the two of us, you’re the one who poses a danger to yourself and others.” I flash my teeth at that last bit. He likes that phrase. It helped him get me committed to this place.

  His face goes splotchy and red, and his lips peel back to retort, when the tornado siren rips through the air. It blares loud and clear, even over the roar of the storm.

  Dr. Roberts rears back, looks around wildly, as if he’s afraid someone has just shown up to rescue me. The siren is a signal that a tornado is approaching. We rarely hear it, and as far as I know, a major tornado has never directly hit the town. No one has died from one in the town of Concordia.

  Based on what Dresden told me about the harbingers, this time may be the first.

  The door to Dr. Roberts’s office bursts open. A wide-eyed nurse hangs through the opening, one hand on the knob, the other on the doorframe. “We’re moving them to the basement.”

  “Excellent, Lorraine,” says Dr. Roberts. “I’m sure it will miss us, but get everyone downstairs, just to be safe. I’ll meet you there in a moment.”

  The nurse’s gaze falls to the two of us and lingers for just a moment.

  “That will be all.” There’s a bite to Dr. Roberts’s voice now that has her snapping her mouth closed and scurrying off. Coward. People don’t see what they don’t want to see.

  “Now, where were we?” he asks, all silky voiced, as if there is no blaring tornado siren, no storm threatening to tear the roof off the building.

  My anger catapults to panic. “We need to go—”

  “I say when we go,” he says. “And I say this session isn’t over yet.”

  “We’re getting a tornado,” I holler back.

  “No, we’re not.” He grabs my arm, hauls me toward him. There’s a gleam to his eye that’s just not right. He’s always been creepy, but this is so far over the line, it’s like he’s become a different person. “I’ve been waiting for this, Essie. I won’t be denied now.”

  I don’t think I can overpower him. He’s a full-sized man with some madness burning in his eyes, and I’m a terrified teenage girl. Maybe it’s the storm. Maybe it’s the overall panic in the building. Whatever triggers Dr. Roberts isn’t something I or anyone else is going to talk him down from. But I can try to escape. I twist my arm from his grasp and dart for the door.

  His hand closes on the back of my shirt. I’m jerked back against him, hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. Panic makes my ears ring and my vision blur around the edges. The desk is within reach. I sweep my hand over it, and metal touches my fingers. A stapler. I grab it. It’s not great, but it’s something

  Another bright flash and immediate deafening crash of thunder. The lights blink out, plunging the room into uneven shadows. The brightest light comes from the transformer box on the telephone pole outside the window. It’s burst into flame. The air snaps with the smell of fried electronics.

  I open my mouth and scream, even though I know no one will hear me.

  I fight, beating him with the stapler and kicking, even though I know I cannot win.

  27

  Dresden

  all the rage

  I cluster on a pane of her window, but Essie is not in her room. Her bed is made, untouched. I look in the other bedroom windows. The grandmother’s room is empty as well, as is the aunt’s, the latter of whom I find downstairs in the kitchen. Essie’s aunt looks absolutely horrible—one eye is rimmed with a fading green bruise, and both are puffed up so badly I can’t imagine how she sees through them. She looks like she lost a brawl a week ago and hasn’t slept since.

  Something is terribly wrong here.

  I watch the aunt for a few more minutes as she sits at the kitchen table frowning at the TV and drinking coffee. I don’t know what I’m expecting to see—she’s not going to conjure Essie from midair. Her eyes are glued to the Weather Channel. A red bar at the bottom scrolls a tornado watch. Soon, it will be a warning. Not soon enough, for many of the people here.

  I fly to the empty house across the street and take human form in the privacy of their backyard oak tree so I can think. Changing in daylight, in a populated place like this, is a risk, but my capacity for complex thought greatly diminishes when I’m in bee form. I crouch on a branch deep in the tree and stare through the leaves at Essie’s house.

  Panic scratches up my spine. Where is she? What happened here? If only I could ask the aunt, but the poor woman looks upset enough without me showing up at her doorstep asking about her niece. If anything happened to her…

  No. I can’t think like that. I can’t even consider it.

  Michael will know. He said he’d look out for her.

  I change back into bees and fly to the motel they’re staying at. The town is oddly quiet. Only a few cars ease up and down the street. They move with great care, as if trying to tiptoe around the storm. I arrive at the motel to see the cleaning cart sticking out of the open door and the back end of a woman dragging out a bag full of trash. They’ve checked out. Gone. They could be anywhere in town right now. They know where the worst of the chaos will be, and that’s where they likely are, but I lack that particular talent. I also lack the time to go scouring the streets for them, but that’s what I’m going to have to do.

  A black cloud moves in the trees behind the motel. It’s a swarm of bees. Another beekeeper. He’s trying to get my attention.

  Fresh nerves unsettle me. What is this about? The beekeeper’s swarm moves erratically. The wind is picking up, flipping leaves over to reveal their pale backs. Sleet hits like cold needles on my skin.

  I fly into the trees and change back to human, and the other beekeeper does the same. I feel a modicum of relief to see Henrik perched in the tree with me. But I don’t like the way he’s holding himself. Like he’s preparing for a blow.

  “What is it?” I ask over the wind.

  “I have a message for you,” he says. “From the harbingers. They regret they could not wait here for your return, but the event is imminent.” He glances to the sky. “There is very little time.”

  “What is it?” And when did everyone suddenly become chummy?

  “The girl was put into a home for the mentally ill.”

  Fury wells up. My jaw unhinges, and bees pour from my mouth, swarm my neck like a ferocious scarf. “They put her in an institution?” I snarl. “She was fine with her aunt. She’s not a danger to anyone.”

  Henrik cocks his head at me. He’s so terribly interested in my reaction. “She witnessed her grandmother’s passing, had a mental breakdown. Apparently, she became violent.”

  The aunt’s black eye. “Oh, Essie,” I whisper. She must loathe herself right now, for putting a mark on her beloved aunt. “She didn’t mean it.”

  “No one does, when they are not in control of their actions.”

  I look up suddenly, unsure of Henrik’s meaning. If he means to reprimand me for caring for a human girl, he can go straight to hell. He can—

  “Come. I’ll take you to her.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

  This could be a trick. Some punishment for what he and others surely see as my behaving far outside accepted behavior. For drawing the attention of the Strawman.

  He looks at the sky again. “Because I made a mistake, too, D
resden.”

  “What did you do?” I snarl, fists bunching. So help me, if he stung her—

  “One of my bees stung her doctor,” he replies. “The one who treats her. I didn’t realize until—”

  I grab Henrik by the front of his shirt and jerk him forward. His eyes widen, and he nearly tumbles from the tree.

  Sirens rip through the air. Our gazes snap to the horizon.

  “Sweet gods, look at that monster,” Henrik murmurs.

  The tornado is indeed a monster—wide and black, lacking the capricious funnel that is often seen curving from the sky. It looks like a massive churning column. It’s in the distance, to the southwest, moving slowly.

  “Where is she?” I demand.

  “One-fifteen Chestnut Street,” he replies. “It’s called Stanton House.”

  I know where it is. It’s the in-patient residence connected to Essie’s doctor’s office. I burst into bees and fly toward town. We sail over the tops of cars to avoid the worst gusts of wind, but it’s still difficult flying. It’s a good thing I’m in bee form right now, because I can’t form any complex thoughts anyway. Panic and dread and an unspeakable fury are unhinging my mind.

  Essie in the custody of Dr. Roberts is bad, and there is a depth of that word I’m grateful I can’t fully explore right now. I don’t know when Henrik stung him, how long the venom has been percolating in the doctor’s brain. The man should not be alone with her. Probably should never have been, but a beekeeper sting could turn an inappropriate attraction into an attack.

  Henrik, in bee form, zooms his swarm up beside me, then pulls ahead. If I had teeth right now, I’d gnash them. I have a bad moment deciding whether to let him pass, or to run his swarm into the side of a building.

  Lightning spears through the sky. A hard gust of wind momentarily scatters my swarm. Hail pelts cars, roofs with ominous thuds. I put Henrik from my mind. He can follow, if he likes. He can’t do more damage than he already has. The only thing that matters is getting to Essie.

  Finally, I arrive in front of a large, white house with multiple additions tacked on over the years. It’s stark and old and made of wood. It bears a small sign beside the door: The Stanton House for Women. It was not built to withstand a tornado.

  I reform right there on the front lawn of the place, in full view of anyone who might be looking. Henrik appears next to me. The siren still screams over the roaring wind. The telephone pole in front of Stanton House is burning steadily, and a long black scar runs up the length of a towering pine tree in the front lawn. Lights are off everywhere.

  Henrik turns his face up to the ice-chunked rain. “I did not know he was her doctor,” he says again. “My bees chose him.”

  It’s an apology, beekeeper style, and also a warning that this man is dangerous. It’s something I already knew, but I suspect that the warning is for me to be prepared at what I may find inside this place.

  “This isn’t your concern.” After all, I only asked him to leave Essie alone, which he did. Perhaps what is happening to Essie and me is so unprecedented, it’s giving hope to other beekeepers. “You should go.”

  I run up the steps. The queen crawls around the area above my heart. I’m extra aware of her location, now that I know I have to capture and kill her somehow. She is agitated, adding to my discomfort because she goes around stinging my insides when she’s truly upset. I feel the first pinch as my feet hit the steps. The second as my hand closes around the handle.

  The door is locked, of course. I turn back into bees to find a way inside this infernal building. Henrik is gone.

  I spot a rip in a screen in an upper-story window and head for it. It’s not ideal. I have a lot of bees to funnel through, then navigate a cluttered storage space and get to the main level. It takes time and tests my thin patience. Furthermore, all the patients and staff have been herded to the basement. I arrive down there to find patients and staff congregated under one of the main support beams of the house. I scan the faces. No Essie. And no Dr. Roberts.

  I debate, briefly, whether to stay in bee form or change to human—which would cause the least amount of panic?—then decide I don’t care. The quickest way to get to Essie is as a man, so I transform behind the washer/dryers and step out into the room. Most of them don’t even notice me, but one nurse does. Her mouth falls open, and her hand claps to her chest. I walk up to her, ignoring the choking noise she’s making. She can freak out later. Right now, she’d better answer me.

  “Where is Essie Roane?” I ask.

  “She-she’s not here?” the nurse stutters out.

  I lean in, and now one other nurse and a few of the patients have noticed me. It’s dark down here. There are a few battery-powered lanterns, and a generator is cranking out some very low lights by the stairs, but I think most of them don’t actually see me, thanks to a trick of the magic. “Where,” I grit out, “is she?”

  “She was in therapy session with Dr. Roberts,” the nurse gasps out. “They should be down any minute. Who are you? Why are you—?”

  I turn and race up the stairs, leaving the nurse blubbering at me to stop. A window is broken out. The floor glitters with glass shards. Great gusts blow inside. Stanton House groans like a falling tree.

  “Essie!” I call out, running down the hall, poking my head into rooms. It’s so loud, I wouldn’t hear her if she was screaming. There is an increasing roar, a sound unlike wind or rain or thunder: the tornado. It’s the sound of pure terror for humans. Waves of fear pulse through the ground, the air, injecting me with strength, speed, energy. The bees buzz gleefully around and inside me.

  Any other time I’d be basking in this, soaking in the energy, letting myself feel the immense gratification that comes with being fully charged. It’s so fleeting, after all. It wears off so quickly. But now, the intense pleasure of it is distracting.

  The bedrooms are all identical—tiny boxes with a bed and a dresser. Very little in the way of personal items. Impossible to tell which is Essie’s, not that it matters. She’s not hiding in one of them—there’s no place to hide in them. I race down the longest hall to a metal door at the end, calling her name, panic riding me hard. I’m more afraid than I can remember being. More desperate than I’ve ever been.

  I burst through the door at the end, swinging the thing off its hinges. Then, finally, I hear her. It’s a muffled cry, not even a scream. It’s a pleading sort of cry. The cry of one who thinks they are going to die.

  I smash open the office door, and my vision goes red tinged.

  Essie. Grappling with that shameful excuse for a doctor. She’s on the floor, fighting, kicking, as he pulls at her pant legs. Her face is red and terrified and utterly furious. Tears shine on her cheeks, but she grips something and pummels him in the head with it. She’s contorted, trying to escape him, and despite his good hold on her, she’s not losing. Her blows are adrenaline fueled, and therefore brutal. Blood flows down his face so thick, he probably can’t see. His energy is the sickest, most violent form of need. It feels like needles all over the skin.

  Bees flood from my chest, enclosing me in a buzzing cloud.

  His nose is bleeding. Good for you, Essie. Soon, all of him will be bleeding.

  I reach down and pluck him off of her in one movement. Essie scrambles to safety. This is an advantage of being fully charged right now—my strength is greater than a normal man’s. Surprised, the doctor clamors for release. He’s without his glasses and smearing blood out of his eyes, so whether or not he can see me is a mystery. “What the hell?” Terror drains the color that had been flushing his cheeks. “Oh my God—what are you?”

  My voice is ice as I fling him backward. “Your death.”

  Fear rims his eyes, but he doesn’t completely back down. “This is not what it seems,” he insists, voice pitching to a moan. “I love her. I’ve loved her for so long.”

  “This is something, but it isn’t love.” I send a look to Essie, who is hiding behind a wing-back chair. I can only see a sliver
of her in the dark room, but she is safe.

  “She and I—this is consensual.” His fingers knot on either side of his head. “She’s of legal age. I wasn’t doing anything wrong!”

  My control snaps. My plan to dispatch the man—incapacitate him quickly and get Essie out of there—gets complicated when I charge him, grabbing him by the throat and smashing him back against the wall. His hands are out. His voice begs for something—mercy, maybe. But I want him to suffer.

  I call back my bees, watch with unholy glee as the man’s fear turns to stark terror at the sight of a swarm of bees funneling into my throat. He looks as frightened as Essie had been, trying to break his grasp. I don’t care that he’s been influenced by Henrik’s sting. My hand squeezes, tightening the tender airways and arteries there. This is effortless for me at my strongest. I look in his eyes, giving him enough time to really see what I am, to get a good look at my horrible face, without the tricks magic plays to make me look normal to the passing eye. The stink of released urine permeates the air.

  “Now you know how she felt,” I say, and I don’t know if the howling between my ears is from the tornado or from the rage pounding through my skull. All I know is, I’m going to kill this man. He touched her, and I’m going to kill him.

  As if from a far distance, I can hear Essie’s voice. She’s calling something, but it’s so faint, I can’t hold on to it. My hand squeezes. The doctor’s eyes roll in their sockets.

  Then arms band around my chest, pulling me off the doctor. I’m yanked backward. A voice sounds at my ear, speaking in a language long, long dead.

  “Be still, Dresden.” Michael.

  I’m not done punishing. I let a fist fly, clipping the gasping doctor in the jaw and knocking him out cold. I draw my arm back again, but Michael catches my fist neatly in one ready hand and lowers it with slow deliberation. He’s in control. I’m not. I’m as wild as my bees. A creature.

  “Look at her,” he says through his teeth.

  “Dresden—don’t!” A bloody stapler flies across the room and hits the wall, cutting through my fog of rage. “You’re not a murderer.”