A Murder of Magpies (15 page)

And in a breath, the moment to say something passed, though his words lingered, ghostly
and playing again and again in my mind.

After finding a parking space outside Café du Chat Noir, Ward killed the engine, and
we made our way to the crowd standing on the sidewalk. December had brought more cold,
and I wished I’d brought my coat. Ward wrapped his arms around my shoulders, his comforting
warmth coursing down my arms and through my skin. In the weeks since he’d kissed me
in Fire Sales, we spent a lot of time together, whether at the shop or him teaching
me to play guitar on one he loaned me when he came to the stone house in the woods.
We might slip away and kiss, protected by the quiet I had with him. That night was
different. Expectation hung in the air. So much promise.

The doors to the coffee shop opened, and the crowd pushed inside.

The café smelled of flowery body-splash and espresso. A college student did a decent
job of covering Billie Holiday and Etta James. Ward and I loitered at the edge of
a makeshift dance floor and watched a few couples spin before he stopped hedging.

“I suppose you want to dance,” he said.

“Actually, I thought we’d hold a séance.” I gestured to the tables lit by candles
and wiggled my brows. “How weird are you willing to get with me?”

He laughed until he coughed. Vayda scored again.

I led him into the crowd where his palms grew clammy. “I’m sorry,” he blurted and
clumsily wiped his hands on his trousers. His feet were glued in place as he swayed
with his hands dusting my hips.

“I’ll never make you dance again,
gadjo
,” I promised.

“Not close enough to calling this even.” He lifted his foot off mine and cringed.
“You’ve got me so strung to agree to this.”

I released my barriers, but the static of everyone’s thoughts in the crowd was crushing.
It must have been my rattled nerves, even with Ward there to hush everything. Chaotic
babble, no words in the clutter. Cold and hot patches on my skin hurt as my stomach
swam with too much energy.

Ward stopped dancing. “You don’t look so hot.”

I laid my cheek against his shoulder, our feet still, and his arms curled around me
to hold me close. “Sometimes I feel like I’m going to fall.”

“I won’t let you fall.”

“There are times it hits me so hard that I can’t tell it’s coming. Next thing I know,
I’m going down.”

He pushed my hair behind my ear, and I lifted my face. “Well, in that case, you can
drag my sorry ass down with you.”

Over the course of the next hour, we took to the floor only when the beat was slow
enough that Ward could trot along. The closer he was to me, the less noise rattled
in my head. When the singer’s voice began to croak rather than croon, the stereo came
on. Within a few measures, I recognized the lyrics of a man lamenting how he hurt
his girl. Ward’s expression darkened, and he stalked off the dance floor.

Giving him a minute to himself, I purchased two
coffees con panna
and joined him at a secluded table. I trailed my finger along his arm. I could pry
him open, if I wanted, but that was Jonah’s style. He sipped his coffee and fidgeted
with a leather cord he wore looped around his wrist as a makeshift bracelet.

“Why so blue?” I asked when the song was over and the next song on the album began.

He replied, “This is Drake’s music.”

This band, the Unkindness of Ravens, was his dad’s? My parents owned Drake’s albums.
All of them. Why didn’t Ward tell me his dad was famous? He admitted one time that
his father was a musician, and that was all he gave up. Yet it was obvious once I
knew. Ward’s voice—it twinned his dad’s baritone. He took after Drake, too, more than
I suspected he cared to admit. How did he deal with Drake popping up on the radio
at any given time? I eased my hand inside his, drawing a current both reviled and
sorrowful.

“Tell me about Drake.”

Ward moved his face close to mine. Whatever he intended to say was only for me. “He
was on the cover of
Rolling Stone
, which he was proud of. Had it in a frame on the wall. He spent a lot of time at
his buddy’s studio in Minneapolis. I’d be alone in Rochester for days. When he was
around, he read a lot, liked old movies. During the last year, something changed.
He slurred when he talked after one of his overdoses.” A panicked expression crossed
his face, and he gulped his coffee. “I can’t talk about this, Vayda. Not tonight.”

“When?” I asked.

“Ask me anything as long as it’s not about him.”

For all the time we spent together, he rarely spoke of his past. His life in Minnesota
was a mystery. I wanted to know more. He wanted to pretend it never happened. The
past wasn’t like that. You couldn’t hollow it out and discard it like an unwanted
peach pit. Sometimes memories were so hard and stony they cracked your teeth when
you bit down on them.

“What
do
you want to talk about?” I asked.

“You.”

I cleared my throat and threw him a crumb. “My mom read tarot cards in
Dati
’s shop.”

He drummed his thumb on the table. “So I suppose you’ve got psychic powers, too?”

My heart hitched. “No! Of course not.”

“Why’d she do it?” he asked. “For fun? ’Cause she actually predicted the future?”

“Because she was my mother. That’s what her
vitsa
raised her to be. That’s all she knew how to do.”

I reached over and took his left hand. My mother said the left hand was the one men
were born with, while their right was all the life experience they’d gathered into
them.

“
Melalo
, you have working hands,
gadjo
,” I murmured. Such hardened skin, so many scars. He half-smiled as I ran my fingers
up and down the length of his palm. Then I pointed to the creases in his hand. “The
love line, life line, and head line. You also have a fate line. Not everyone does.”

“What’s that mean?” he asked.

“It’s a line, Ward. Hands change, but they can tell you a lot about someone.”

Drake’s album continued playing, and a girl giggled close to our table. I glanced
up from Ward’s hand and spotted the girl with blond ringlets and a sky-blue dress
tipping back her head as she drank from a Coke glass.

Chloe’s hand was nearly attached to Marty’s. She alternated leaning in close to talk
to him and sipping from her glass, her pitch getting louder each time she pulled away.
Her aura was hazy, but then she rubbed against Marty, not letting go of her drink.

A hot ember glimmered in my skull. Jonah. My fists clenched, and I snuffed him out
with as much force as I could rally.
Stay out of my head
.
If you want to spy on Chloe, do it without my help.

Enough of the “important” kids from school were here to play with Chloe, to praise
her hair, her dancing, whatever compliments she could accept. They’d talk, and she’d
ascend her throne again by Monday—without Jonah. His spell on her was broken. She
was Chloe Halvorsen and had a reputation to uphold.

Marty parted from Chloe and moseyed over to where I sat with Ward. An overpowering
smell of Coke mixed with liquor—some cheap, rat-piss excuse for bourbon—wafted from
him. Ward put his foot on Marty’s chair and scooted him back from the table. “Go get
some coffee. Better yet, water. Your head’s gonna be killing you come morning.”

“I ain’t worried. Danny’s around somewhere, and he’s driving. So bottoms up.” He reached
into his trousers and withdrew a small flask. He swiveled around and gave me a sloppy
grin. “I was talking with Chloe. She said you read palms and shit. Here, let me try
reading yours.”

Before I could stop him, he snatched my hand, and grimy energy whooshed from his touch
like opening the lid on a pot of stewed quail. I breathed deeply, trying to freeze
out Marty, but the alcohol in his blood meant he wasn’t thinking or feeling normally.

“So”—he swayed in his chair—“where’s your love line? You can tell how many guys have
been on your ride by the number of notches in it, right?”

“Marty, let go,” I growled.

He elbowed Ward. “You know I had a crack at her first.”

Ward’s jaw flexed, and his nostrils flared. He reached for my other hand. The angry
current inside me shifted, eased, though not much. All the anger I felt toward Marty
streamed out of me in concentric circles, each ring more blustery than the previous.
Ward squeezed my hand and motioned that we were leaving when he began coughing. After
a solid minute of Ward struggling to get the kick from his throat, Marty rolled his
eyes.

“That guy’s a gutter rat,” Marty declared. “I know who your dad was, and if you think
you’re something special, you’re not. I wouldn’t be surprised if you caught something
from living with your old man. Whatever it is, you probably gave it to Vayda.”

Ward quirked his lips. It wasn’t the easy expression that let me slip through him
unfettered. This was something harsh and bitter. His hand pumped in a fist at his
side.

I didn’t want a fistfight and angled myself between him and Marty. “Ward, stop,” I
said. “He’s not worth it.”

“Yeah, but you are.” He glared at Marty. Didn’t yell. Didn’t lay a hand on him. His
voice was low and steady. “You ever say shit about my girl or me again, and I’ll break
each of your fingers and won’t give a damn. Don’t test me.”

Marty shrugged, and then he reached for me.

“Stop!” I shoved his chest.

The condensed anger shot into him. He tumbled backward in an oafish lurch, lolling
on the floor before dusting off his pants. “You skank! You don’t push me away when
I’m talking to you!”

I had to get away before he made an even bigger scene. I snatched my purse off the
table and bolted. Ward could handle Marty, even a drunk Marty ranting God-only-knew-what
about me. I needed silence, and while I could have gone outside, I needed some place
Ward wouldn’t follow me. The girls’ restroom was safe enough.

Damn Marty Pifkin. Nobody would listen to him because he was so clearly drunk. That
was my hope. That was my prayer.

What if they did?

People already talked about us, and if Marty felt what I’d done in shoving him, that’d
give people a reason to talk louder. I could have dodged or screamed or any of another
dozen scenarios running through my mind that didn’t involve my hands, fingers teeming
with too much emotion. I didn’t want to be like Jonah and use my hands. I didn’t want
to be like Mom.

The lights flickered and stall doors swung wild as I took some meditative breaths.
Every word spoken, every touch from Marty spilled out of me. I had to let go of it.
Throwing some cold water on my cheeks, I felt the currents of electricity spiraling
through my fingers and rumbling out of my feet to course over the floor. The light
switch by the door sparked.
Please, stop. I don’t want this.

The bathroom door opened. I bunched my fingers into fists, and the stall doors all
slammed shut. Chloe entered the bathroom, pausing when she saw me. She looked me over
from head to foot and positioned herself by the mirror where she checked her teeth.
“Having fun?”

“Ward and I are heading out soon. I’m exhausted.” I played nice and ran a brush through
my hair. “What about you? Jonah told me he would visit you later.”

She slid her hands down her sides, admiring her silhouette. “I’m having a good time
right now.”

“What are you doing with Marty?” I asked. “You can’t stand him.”

“No, Vayda, you and Jonah can’t stand him. He’s actually a lot of fun to party with.”

Fire bore through my veins, Jonah’s rage stoked to life.
You know her running around with Marty’s wrong.

Stop it. I’ll handle her,
I said from the base of my skull.

I didn’t want to have this conversation with her, not when I knew my brother was lurking
in my mind. “Chloe, you know why Jonah doesn’t get along with Marty.”

“Because of you. It’s always you, Vayda.” Her pupils darkened, and she zipped her
purse closed with enough force I thought for sure she’d pull out the stitching. “I
broke up with him before because I didn’t want to compete with you for his attention.”

“He cares about you, Chloe. He’s not popular enough for you, is he?”

She wrinkled her nose, void of any of her sugary energy, replaced by something that
burned. “I’m done talking about him. Right now, I’m on my own. End of story.”

My throat constricted. Jonah’s voice pushed down on me. I cleared my throat as if
dislodging something, but Jonah wouldn’t go. I sucked in a staggered breath, but he
exhaled through my mouth and put his words on my tongue.

I couldn’t stop him. Somehow he’d become that powerful and I hadn’t even known it.

“So are you gonna get on your knees for Marty tonight?”

I clamped my hands over my mouth. Shit, that wasn’t me!
Jonah, get out!

Chloe’s mouth dropped into an indignant O. “Excuse me?”

“I-I—” My apology failed as Chloe’s slap scalded my face.

“Bitch!” she spat. “Oh, your life’s gonna be hell! Everyone will know about this!
You wait!”

She barged out of the restroom and left me alone by the mirrors where my reflection
held haunted eyes. A crimson welt formed on my cheekbone. What had Jonah done?

***

Ward waited in the hall, twirling his car keys around his finger. He frowned at the
red badge on my cheek. “That looks sore.”

“I deserved it,” I mumbled. “I said something horrible to Chloe.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Well, why’d you do that?”

Shaking my head—I couldn’t explain what happened, I held up my purse to veil the siren-red
handprint. I didn’t want him to see me messy and vicious. I wasn’t that kind of person.
Unless pushed. He lowered my purse, stroked the mark with his thumb. “My girlfriend
the wallflower, traveler, and pugilist. Got any more secret identities?”

Neither one of us had to ask the other if it was time to go. A misty rain fell as
Ward maneuvered the Jaguar away from downtown Black Orchard to the outskirts where
the conifers grew steep. By the time we reached his house, the raindrops bounced off
the windshield as chips of ice. He guided me up the porch steps and inside, which
was empty but for Bernadette’s toenails clicking on the floor.