The May Queen Murders (27 page)

My old man has a bad ticker. Even foxglove won’t help, according

to Granny Connel y. I gotta be here for my mama. You understand,

right?”

I bristled and looked away. Understanding was one thing. Liking

it was another.

“You comin’?” he asked Violet.

Violet shook her head. “I want to stay with Ivy.”

“Wel , make sure you leave before sunset. Sheriff might drag you

to the station for not obeying his law.” August rolled his eyes.

“Sheriff’s an idiot. That wine he took from my daddy wasn’t even

tainted. He came to our house with his hat in his hands, trying to

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apologize, but Daddy ain’t having it. Says he hopes Birch Markle

causes Sheriff so much grief he’ll be run right outta the Glen.”

I cringed. Anger was an easy emotion, forgiveness much harder,

and I had to suppose that in her upset, Violet didn’t realize she was

talking about Rook’s father and wishing him gone.

She flopped down beside me and put her arm around my shoul-

der. “We won’t talk anymore of Birch Markle. Talking about him

makes him come after you.”

August waved goodbye and jogged off, all lumbering limbs and

flopping hair. He had a knife in a sheath on his hip. Even Violet

set her rifle against the fence while we picnicked. Everyone armed

themselves against the madman from the woods.

I was next.

Violet’s cheeks blushed. She sat on the edge of the picnic blanket. I

knew that grin, the way her fingers fumbled in her lap as she racked

her mind for words.

“Can I talk to you about somethin’?” she wondered. She scooted

close to me and tucked her knees against her chest. “I gotta tell you.

I want you to be happy for me.”

The cherry-pink in her cheeks bloomed brighter. The air around

her lightened.

“You seein’ someone?” I asked.

“August. I was supposed to meet him last night. I know it ain’t safe

to go off, but . . . you know what it’s like when he looks at you. When

he touches you. All you can think of is bein’ alone with him again.”

I did know.

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“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Violet went on, still smiling.

“With everyone so scared, folks dyin’ and the dogs, but being with

August feels so good. I wasn’t sure when to tell you ’bout it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You’ve had such a curse on you.”

“You didn’t want it to spread.”

She reached forward to pat my leg. “I’d never think being your

friend would hurt me, but you’re a bit of a black cat. I also knew I’d

get in trouble if we were caught sneaking ’round.”

“It ain’t worth it,” I blurted out, and laid my hand over hers on my

leg. “Stay safe, Violet. You and August gotta find a way to be together

that doesn’t get you roamin’ at night.”

Violet gave an understanding nod. It was strange not to be dis-

missed as hysterical with legend. Maybe Violet would listen, not give

in to recklessness.

“You’re shivering,” she remarked.

“Birch is gonna kill me,” I said.

“He won’t.” She pushed my hair behind my ear. “Rook’s hunting

him.”

Rook was a terrible hunter.

The span of woods seemed endless, and the hillmen tried to cov-

er as much of the Glen as possible. Rook could wind up patrolling

alone. He could be pulled into the river or blooded in a field. His

bones could be stripped, his skin worn as leather. I shut my eyes,

but the half dream punched through with a sun-bleached spine and

glasses with cracked lenses.

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My eyelids were heavy as bags of grain. Wednesday curled up near

my feet while Violet’s fingers played with mine before resting in my

hand. She leaned forward, lips dusting across my cheek, hair whisk-

ing against my neck.

“How do you think it happens?” I wondered.

Violet’s forehead crinkled. “How what happens?”

“Birch Markle would’ve been about our age the first time he killed.

I don’t get how someone can cut open a dog and play with what’s in-

side. How does that idea get in someone’s head?”

“His mind wasn’t like anybody else’s, and I guess nobody ’round

here knew what to do with a mind like that.” Violet stretched her legs

and stroked my cheek. “You need more sun, get some color.”

“I’m not worried about my damn color.” The tremble began in my

lower lip and squiggled down my chin. I had to take my time, or I’d

trip all over my words. “Birch Markle took away Heather. We were

havin’ the worst fight of our lives, and I never got to say I was sorry.

I never got to forgive her. I never got forgiven. I don’t know how to

live with that.”

Violet angled her head, her voice soft. “You’re doing right it now.”

She pulled a few pieces of my hair loose and twisted them around in

knots. “I know I ain’t the same, but we’ve always been friends.”

We had. The only thing stopping us from being closer had been

Heather.

“I feel like what happened to Heather’s my fault,” she said. “You

were with me when . . . Maybe it’s like people say. She should’ve been

more careful.”

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Down the road, a girl walked toward us. The wind blew her light

hair and ruffled the scarf around her neck. Unlike many hillfolk,

Dahlia didn’t arm herself against a sudden attack.

“Time for you to come home, Vi,” she said upon reaching the

field.

Violet brushed off her skirt and packed the crates and picnic bas-

ket. Dahlia’s arms were folded across her chest, and her expression

was stern, though it was impossible to tell what shape her mouth

made. Her scars were savage things. Only at rare times did she ven-

ture from the Crenshaw grape fields. There were stories she went

with the granny-women when there were farming accidents, that she

tended wounds with herbs and tonics. These were the women on

the Glen’s fringe. They dabbled in plants, poisons, and prayers, and

welcomed Dahlia in their shroud.

Violet finished returning the crates to my yard. She and Dahlia

met each other, face to face, similar in their sisterhood but for the

twisting roots scarring the older girl’s neck and cheek, and then they

walked away, taking identical steps, hair blowing out in moon-white

tangles.

I missed having someone walk beside me.

I missed my Heather.

"

My parents split a bottle of peach wine after dinner. Papa read aloud

to us from a book he’d found at a thrift store. Mama curled in close

to him, her head on his shoulder. I noticed his hand moving up her

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back before unpinning her hair to loose the dark waves. I was glad

to see my parents at peace again, but I couldn’t concentrate on the

story; I kept thinking of Rook out there, patrolling in the dark.

Wednesday tiptoed along the mopboards and leaped onto the

mantel, green eyes catching the oil lamps’ light. Most cats we’d kept

stayed outside, but Wednesday had reason to come indoors. She’d

already brought Mama a dead mouse, which Papa reminded her

meant the kitten liked her. But now the kitten stared at the window,

back arched and tail straight.

I interrupted my father’s reading and pointed to the kitten. “Papa?”

He followed the cat’s gaze and shut the book. The warning bel s

outside chimed. My parents and I held stil . The bel s on our back

door jingled.

Papa stood. Wednesday paced along the door and hissed. I peered

through the filmy curtain over the window. All seemed asleep in

Rowan’s Glen. The floor creaked. The cat clawed at the door. The

bel s swinging and ringing against so much quiet inched trepidation

up my spine. Papa removed his rifle from a closet, felt around the

shelf, and pulled down a pair of bullets, which he sank into the rifle’s

chamber. Suddenly, a blast of gunfire resounded across the Glen. We

waited with breath held.

Bang!

A second shot echoed in the night. Papa’s finger eased back the

curtain. He opened the door, motioning for Mama and me to stay

back.

A rumble caught my ear. It started muffled, rhythmic, but it was a

sound I recognized.

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Hoofbeats.

Louder and louder, faster and faster, a horse sped at full gallop.

I angled closer to the door to peer over my father’s shoulder. The

torches’ light revealed a charcoal-maned white stallion jumping

fences, reins loose. Riderless.

I shoved Papa aside and bolted down the steps.

“Ivy, no!” he shouted.

“That’s Veil!” I yelled. Where was Rook?

I tracked back from where Veil fled, where the shots came from,

and my stomach pushed past my heart and lodged in my throat. My

legs couldn’t carry me fast enough, but I forged ahead with my feet

stomping the hard earth. He had to be close. He had to be alive. He

had to —

Rook was sprawled on the ground. I ran to him and slid aside his

rifle. The gun’s barrel was warm and wispy with smoke.

“Rook!” I shouted. “W-wake up!”

His eyes remained closed, blood seeping from a gash in his fore-

head.

I placed my hands on his shoulders and shook him. “Wake up!

C’mon, you gotta get up!”

No matter how I yelled for him to open his eyes, he wouldn’t.

"

Water splashed, then the tart odor of apple cider vinegar and witch

hazel skimmed my nose. Amber glass bottles set upon the counter

clinked together as Mama’s hand reached for one to pull a cork. More

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trickling liquid. More splashing. A rag soaked in a bowl of the heal-

ing solution.

Then Mama poured steaming water from a kettle into three mugs.

The perfume of the tea, of comfort and old stories, chased away wor-

ry and fear. I stirred honey in my cup, the chime of the spoon hitting

the side too loud in the wordless kitchen.

Mama prepared a fourth cup and squeezed Briar Meriweather’s

shoulder, Briar’s hand reaching up to cover my mother’s. After, she

carried the tea and healing cloth down the hall to Rook’s room.

“Did he say what happened?” I asked.

“Birch Markle,” Briar replied. She wrapped her hands around her

cup. “I begged Jay not to send him out.”

The anger as she spoke was tempered by fear, by relief her boy had

made it home. “I sent Raven to my sister’s house when Jay said Rook

was hurt, should think about pickin’ her up soon.”

The door down the hall clicked. Papa and Sheriff entered the

kitchen. Sheriff rubbed his face, drawing his hands down from the

bags under his eyes.

“He could’ve been hurt worse,” Papa said. “The horse bucked him

after he got off a couple of shots.”

“But he’s okay?” I asked anxiously.

Sheriff nodded. “Luckily. He’s restin’ now, said he might’ve hit

Markle with a bullet, that he went running off holding his arm. Tim-

othy, I need you to help me round up some men for a search.”

Papa and Sheriff headed outside. Briar stood and drew a shawl

around her shoulders, picking up a rifle from beside the kitchen door.

“Luz, come along while I pick up Raven? I don’t wanna go alone.”

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Mama nodded, and she and Briar walked out the door, the lock

loud behind them. I sat alone in the kitchen with my tea. In its sur-

face, my eyes disappeared in the tannin-dark color and left my mir-

ror image skeletal.

Go see that boy, lay your hands on him. Get the fret outta your

head. Fret only gets you dead.

The chair scraped against the floor. My fingers reached out to

touch the cool wal s of the hal way, and I walked deeper into the

shadows. I wasn’t afraid in darkness, not here. Not when a shaft of

a cinnamon-colored light leached out through the cracked door of

Rook’s room. I nudged the door open enough to step inside, shut it

behind me, lock clicking.

Rook lay on his bed, shirtless with his eyes closed and only a pair

of drawers to cover the middle of him. The rag of vinegar and witch

hazel covered a comfrey poultice on the left side of his forehead. A

red tendril from the gash poked out from the edge. His glasses rested

on his nightstand at a precarious angle, and my steps were muted as

I crossed the floor to fix his glasses so he wouldn’t knock them off by

accident. As I folded the frames, I watched his chest rise and fal . His

breath. His life.

He could’ve died.

One miscalculated move, and Birch could have slit him from ear

to ear.

One more burial in the Glen’s cemetery. How would anyone tell

Raven what had happened to the older brother who adored her so?

How old would she be before she forgot the sound of his voice?

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When Gramps died, I was older than she was now. I couldn’t remem-

ber how he sounded.

Not enough memories, too much death.

Too damn much death in our land by the woods.

A sob struggled up my throat, and I clamped down best I could,

didn’t want to disturb Rook, but a murmur sneaked between my lips.

I pressed my fingers to my mouth to stop the next one, except I hic-

cupped, and then my eyes went wet and my knees jellied. My skirt

puddled around me as I dropped by his bedside and bit the heel of