Alex Bledsoe - The Hum and the Shiver

Aiden nodded. Then his lower lip began to tremble.

Craig managed a wry, sad smile. “I don’t blame you, I’d cry, too.”

Aiden burst out with a sob, splattering saliva and mucus in Craig’s face. He ignored it, dropped to his knees, and wrapped the boy in a big hug.

Terry-Joe, still shaken by the gunshot, suddenly had a thought. He ran into Bronwyn’s bedroom and grabbed her mandolin from under the bed.

Craig picked Aiden up and carried him outside. The boy cried all the way to the hospital.

At the hospital, Bronwyn was back in her bed, her parents seated in chairs beside her. Kell’s body was now in the morgue, evidence of a capital crime. The police had been notified, and the search for Dwayne Gitterman went from casual to much more serious.

None of the Hyatts spoke. They knew that, in the lobby, members of the Tufa community had begun to gather, but none of them felt like making an appearance.

The wrapping around Bronwyn’s chest had begun to pinch and itch, and the artificial weariness of the pain medication kept her mind fuzzy. She fought the drowsiness, though; she couldn’t imagine sleeping through a time like this.

Kell. Was. Dead. The certainty of that encircled her and cinched far worse than the bandages. The older brother who’d taught her to shoot and drive, who’d helped her hide from her parents the first time she came in drunk, who’d advised her repeatedly not to hang out with that no-account Dwayne Gitterman, was now gone.

Dwayne. The bad boy with the good heart. Except he didn’t have a good heart, or it had gone bad while she was away in Iraq. Whatever the cause, he couldn’t be allowed to roam free anymore.

Suddenly her mind cleared. The dream returned, its meaning suddenly obvious.

Dwayne hadn’t turned to petty crime out of a desire for wealth or power, but from simple laziness; it was easier to steal something than work for the money to buy it. Now that he’d killed someone, he’d apply the same logic. From this point on, it would be easier to just eliminate someone than try to deal with them. That meant others would, sooner or later, die. Like an animal that had tasted human blood, Dwayne now knew what he’d been missing.

The police would arrest him. He would stand trial, probably be convicted, probably sent away for life. He had enough Tufa in him to understand how torturous that would be, separated from the night wind. So he would fight.

He would run.

He was running now.

And only she could catch him. Only she should catch him.

She started to throw back the sheet when a hand gently touched her wrist, startling her. She winced at the jolts of pain through her side, and glared at Bliss Overbay. “A little warning next time.”

“Sorry. But you’re in no shape to be leaving.”

Chloe, who had spent an hour simply staring into space, blinked back to the moment. “You’re leaving?”

“She’s not leaving,” Deacon said simply. It was the voice he used when he wanted no discussion from his children.

Bronwyn glared at all of them now. “First off, none of y’all can tell me what I’m going to do anymore. Second, you’re all assuming I don’t have sense enough to make a good decision. Granted that’s been true in the past, and might even be true now, but it’s nobody’s business or trouble but mine.”

Deacon stood, his face dark with rage. She knew its source; the urge to hunt down Dwayne must be eating him up, too, yet he had the control to sit quietly with the surviving members of his family, those who needed him most right now. “I said, you’re not leaving. For once in your whiny little spit of a life, think of something besides yourself.”

No one spoke for a long moment. Deacon’s eyes burned with suppressed fury; then he looked away and sat again, staring at the space between his feet.

Bronwyn swallowed hard. Her face simmered in the cold hospital air, bright red with emotions she couldn’t sort. She was about to speak when Bliss began to sing, so softly, her voice was a whisper that broke on the higher notes:

Bronwyn began to tremble. Without conscious intent, she came in on the chorus, singing harmony, her voice shaky and thin:

Chloe stood and came to the bed. She put one hand on Bliss’s shoulder, and the other stroked her daughter’s hair. She sang the next verse alone:

Deacon continued to stare at the floor between his shoes, his arms tightly folded. This was a woman’s song; his own, the song of a man seeking justice, would come later.

The three women harmonized on the final chorus. It was something Bronwyn hadn’t fully experienced since childhood: the Tufa bonding over song. All three of them were purebloods, their connection strongest to the night wind that brought them here and still guided their lives. And in music, they connected even more, their emotions surging into the other and finding balance as they were smoothed out and redistributed.

When they finished, Chloe wiped her eyes and said calmly, “Thank you, Bliss.”

“Yeah, thank you,” Bronwyn agreed. Then she pushed the sheet aside and swung her legs over the edge. “But I’m still going.”

She turned to her father, and her rage matched his own. “And right now I don’t give a fuck what you think, old man. Something has to be done, and I’m the one who has to do it. And if you try to stop me, you’ll learn what other songs I know.”

That was the greatest single threat one Tufa could make to another, the promise to sing their personal dirge and hasten—or even cause—their death. As a pureblood, Bronwyn could certainly carry it out. And the steady gaze in her eyes told Deacon she was close to doing so.

Yet he was a pureblood, too, and her father. After a long moment he said with chilling calm, “You left home as my daughter. You came back as a stranger. Now I know you, though. You’re nothing but the killer the army made you. You’re worse than Dwayne, because you enjoy it.” He paused. “Now get out of my sight, Bronwyn,” he added, then resumed staring at the floor.

Bliss said nothing. Chloe seemed not to have noticed.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Bronwyn said softly. Then she added, “Now, where are my goddamned pants?”

Bronwyn strode into the waiting room, arm curled protectively around her side, and stopped as nearly two dozen people stood to greet her. They were frighteningly, ridiculously similar: black hair, dark skin, perfect white teeth, all gazing at her with the kind of sympathy that normally would’ve made her roll her eyes. Yet there was no pity to them, just genuine shared grief. Kell had been a pureblood, too, one of their elite. They felt his loss as well.

She found she could not move. There was no way to get to the exit without pushing through the crowd, yet how could she do that? They needed her now, her guidance and her strength. They needed, in a different way, the Bronwynator.