Cleaner of Bones Page 7
“Hey.” I jerk my head up in a reverse nod. “You lost?”
Surfer grins. “I’m never lost.”
I cross my arms over my bag straps. He’s either here to try to join our group—which is already uncomfortably large—or to attempt a grab at part of our territory. We occupy a coveted swath of the northeast, from Pennsylvania up into Canada. If we were always in human form, other harbinger groups would be fine, but in crow form—a state we spend a good deal of time in—it doesn’t work at all. We wind up fighting for territory like the animals we are and expending tremendous amounts of energy. It’s all very depleting and aggravating, so over the years each group has settled in different areas of the world, with great migrations only for things like large-scale wars. “Who are you?” I demand. “What are you doing here?”
“Smooth your feathers, brother.” He tugs on the neck of a tight, still-damp T-shirt that smells strongly of fabric softener. He probably just pinched his clothes from the coin-op laundromat two doors down. “I’m just passing through.”
I stifle the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. Harbingers of death don’t pop in for social calls. This guy wants something from me. Seems to be the trend these days. “Okay,” I say. “So what’s up?”
He pushes away from the wall and walks past me, toward the rear of the building. “Walk with me for a minute.”
I sigh but go with him, lugging my gear. Truthfully, this guy bugs me out. I’d bet my wings this is an old harbinger. Not one of the originals—no, they’re long dead, having passed their curses on. But the energy is different in those who have lasted a very long time and whose curse hasn’t been passed through lots of people. Maybe the balance between bird and human is more stable when it stays longer in one body. Either way, meeting these types is a rarity. There’s no argument that they exude a calm authority over the rest of us, who are still at odds—to one degree or another—with the curse. They tend to keep lower profiles, too, cling less to semblances of civilized life. Surfer guy looks like he doesn’t own a thing except for the skin on his bones. Probably has never sent a text in his life.
“My murder is on its way south.” He stops at the scraggly line of trees bordering the parking lot. “I’ll be rejoining them after I leave here.”
Some of my worry eases. He’s trying to assure me his purpose is not to oust our group from our territory. And he is an old one. They’re the only ones who regularly call their groups “murders” when they travel as crows. So he won’t be angling to join our group, either. He’d likely scoff at how hard we work to fit into the communities we land in. How we buy and sell the houses we settle in to build our group’s wealth. I doubt money has much meaning for a guy like him. In a few hundred years, maybe it won’t have much meaning for me, either.
“Okay,” I say again, trying to get a read on him. I glance around, expecting to see Rafette lurking in some tree. I still smell honey.
“Look, I took a detour here because the vibe felt off.” He squints up at the sky. “So is anything going on? Anything out of the ordinary?”
I have no reason to evade or lie. He can’t do anything to me, but it’s possible an old one like him could have some insight on Rafette’s behavior. “You could say our resident beekeeper is acting weird.” Hopefully, Rafette heard that. I hope it annoys him.
He raises a brow. “How so?”
“He’s got it in his head that his curse can be cured. Says he talked to a Strawman about it.”
“Really?” The harbinger asks calmly, but his gaze sharpens. “What did he say?”
I shrug, starting to feel twitchy. I wasn’t expecting this intense reaction from him. “I don’t know. He’s trying to get us worked up, for his entertainment.” And it’s working! “He’s been on a stinging spree since we arrived, infecting more people than usual.” I close my eyes briefly. “He’s taken too great an interest in the girl I’m, ah, sort of seeing.”
“Sort of seeing,” he says. “Is she a harbinger as well?”
“No.”
“Are you in love with her?”
I swallow hard and consider how to reply. I don’t care how wise this guy is; I’m not bringing Angie any further into this conversation. “That’s personal,” I say gruffly, which is the same as saying yes but also includes an all-important none of your business, which I sincerely mean.
“Yeah, it is.” He opens his mouth to say something else but closes it, thankfully. I’m done explaining my feelings for Angie tonight. Done. I haven’t even explained them to her yet. Time to change the subject. “You could tell something weird was going on down here as you were flying?”
He nods, brow furrowed. “Been around a while, you know? You get a sense for these things.”
I hitch my bags higher on my shoulders as a chill crawls up my spine. If a harbinger of death can pick up on the upheaval Rafette is causing, a Strawman could, too.
He seems to sense the directions of my thoughts. “They don’t blend in well,” he says in a low voice, and I know he’s referring to the Strawmen by the edge of fear in his voice. “You’ll know it if one is here.”
He reaches his arms up overhead and stretches, releasing a pop in his back. The smell of honey wafts from him, clashing with the fabric softener. “Whoa,” I say. Rafette isn’t here at all. The honey smell is coming from the older harbinger. “Why do you smell like a beekeeper?”
“I do?” He looks at his hand. “Probably because my best friend is one. We shook hands before we left our last location. He must have gotten some honey on me.” He nods, seemingly impressed. “You have amazing senses to detect that.”
“Your best friend is a beekeeper?” I shake my head and think of Rafette. I can’t imagine spending time with him for enjoyment purposes.
“Yeah. Dresden is my friend, and he’s a beekeeper. Although he’d hate to hear me say that—the friend part. He insists he has no friends.” His eyes light with amusement. “Don’t worry. He’s not here right now.”
“I wasn’t worried,” I say. “I’ve never heard of a friendship between a harbinger and a beekeeper. That’s unusual.”
He smirks. “No more unusual than a harbinger of death falling for a human girl, dude.”
I grunt in reply. So true.
He huffs out a noisy sigh. “Well, I’m off. Thanks for filling me in.”
“That’s it?” I ask, surprised by the sudden trill of panic in my gut. “You’re an old one, aren’t you? Aren’t you going to warn me? Remind me about all the rules and consequences for breaking them?” I sound ridiculous. My face burns at my outburst, but what I really need is reassurance. A single indicator that maybe all this mess won’t end in disaster, even though I don’t know what a “good” outcome would even look like in this scenario.
He cocks his head toward the sky, then to me. “Relax, will you?” he says with a crooked grin. Black fog leaks from between his teeth. “Seriously. What’s the worst that could happen?” The dark, smelly cloud of his curse flows from his mouth and envelops his body. The hefty crow that results from the transformation regards me for a moment with bright eyes. He hops from the pool of mismatched clothes and takes to the air with a dry flap of wings.
With a clenched jaw, I shift my hockey gear higher and start the walk home. No flying tonight. I need my human mind. I need all the complexities and complications. And I need my gear for practice tomorrow.
What’s the worst that could happen? Easy for him to ask that when it’s not him in the middle of an existential crisis.
Hank is the worst that could happen. Being permanently turned into something that isn’t human and isn’t crow would be worse than any of the awful deaths I’ve endured. Although Hank could end his tortured existence with one word: mortouri. We’d kill him as a real murder of crows, as per the custom. It would be a true mercy. Why he hangs on is anyone’s guess. So really, my final death would be the worst thing that could happen, and would that be so bad? I ponder that as my muscles start up a pleasant burn under the weight o
f my bags.
Death seems to be the one thing everyone who can’t die wants more than anything. A drizzly rain starts up. Water seeps through my hoodie, up through my shoes. Footsteps sound behind me, rasping through the splattering raindrops. My nostrils flare, picking up the scent of fresh straw and rotting meat. I stop on the sidewalk and turn. Nothing’s there, but my heart pounds. What do Strawmen smell like? I’ve never been in one’s presence, so I don’t know. I don’t want to know.
I’m being paranoid. Overreacting. The harbinger I just spoke to said they don’t blend in. You’ll know it if one is here, he’d said, and that old harbinger would know. He’s probably seen Strawmen dozens of times. I pull out my phone and call Brooke for a ride home. I ask her to pick me up at a corner a few blocks up from where I am, and she agrees without a wisecrack. The night folds in around me, pierced by the occasional pair of watery headlights and the blinking off of shop lights, one by one. I stand still, not entirely sure if I’m standing here alone. That rancid smell lingers in my senses.
I look back one more time. The sidewalk is still empty. I focus on breathing deep and even. Gentle laughter echoes through my mind. The laugher isn’t mine. I start to walk.
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About the Author
Meg Kassel is an author of fantasy and speculative books for young adults. A graduate of Parson’s School of Design, she’s been creating stories, whether with visuals or words, since childhood. Meg is a New Jersey native who lives in a log house in the Maine woods with her husband and daughter. As a fan of ’80s cartoons, Netflix series, and ancient mythology, she has always been fascinated and inspired by the fantastic, the creepy, and the futuristic. She is the 2016 RWA Golden Heart® winner in YA and a double 2018 RITA® finalist for her debut novel, Black Bird of the Gallows.
Also by Meg Kassel
Black Bird of the Gallows
Keeper of the Bees
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