A Murder of Magpies by Sarah Bromley

Author:Sarah Bromley [Bromley, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fantasy, paranormal, love and romance, gothic
Publisher: Month9Books
Published: 2014-10-28T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

Vayda

For Mom, Christmas began the moment she fastened the backs on her holly earrings before Mass and culminated in the candlelight singing of “Silent Night” in the Catholic parish where Jonah served as an acolyte. Before I fell asleep, she’d stop in my room with hugs and hopes for blessings on her scarlet lips. Then she’d join Dad in the hall, laugh as he unpinned her black hair, swallowing her metal hair comb in his palm, kissed behind her ear, and close my door with a click. I’d listen to their footfalls, the murmur of their voices as they went off together, and then the whole house would sigh.

My father loved my mother. He loved her to death.

A month after Mom’s murder, our first Christmas in Wisconsin was buried under fourteen inches of snow. Jonah and I took in a marathon of “A Christmas Story” and ate Frosted Flakes because it was the only thing in the house. Rain called every few hours, saying he didn’t like the feeling he was getting, that Dad was squirreling himself away and desperate. Rain swore he’d keep an eye on all of us and help us through the bleak days and night terrors. He gave us the house. He gave us a chance at a life beyond Mom, but sometimes I wondered if Dad would have kept going if it hadn’t been for Jonah and me.

It had taken a while, but Dad eventually came out of his study once, hair unkempt and shirt rumpled. I’d followed him as he raided Rain’s wine collection and headed upstairs. He didn’t know I’d spied him while he unclasped his Archangel Michael medallion strung with a cross, a wedding gift from Mom, and dropped it inside the dresser where it’d since stayed.

This Christmas Eve, I strummed the acoustic guitar Ward loaned me. I felt along the frets and placed my fingers where his had pressed down on the metal strings. I could sense him, pouring himself into his playing, into his art. All Ward wanted was escape. Underneath him, there was someone else, someone so drugged he felt like sliding lower and lower in a warm bath.

Drake.

He was a ghost in the guitar, one that haunted Ward and knew him. His energy lingered in the strings. Seeking the emotion lodged in objects was to find the strongest attachment, and what Drake attached was numbness. I could see his skeletal fingers forming chords on the strings, his other holding a green pick, cigarette in mouth and ratty auburn hair, so tangled like dreadlocks, hanging near his shoulders. He played while Ward begged him to look at a sculpture he’d built, but Drake didn’t move. Nothing moved him. Not even his son.

I put down the guitar and rubbed my temples. Jonah rolled over on the couch.

“You get a hit?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I answered.

He nodded, and I believed, at least this time, he wouldn’t invade my mind.

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