Page 45 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

Rory makes a noncommittal noise and takes another sip of his drink.

“You smoke?” asks Bill suddenly, clearly relieved to have come up with something to take the edge off the awkward small talk. “I’ve got some cigars.” He looks over at Martha and Calliope who are deep in a discussion. “Let’s leave the women to it.” He waves toward the kitchen, ushering Rory out through the side doorand onto the back porch.

The rocking chairs creak as they sit, and heavy smoke soon clouds the view in front of them as Rory alternates between puffs of cigar and sips of blood. The sun has truly set, and the darkness presses comfortingly in around them. The cicadas are a constant hum in the background, along with the gentle metallic clinks coming from around the side of the house, where Elijah works on his truck. Rory can see the glow of the flood light Elijah is using, but otherwise, the fields are a sea of dark before them.

Bill puffs on his cigar. “I saw Officer Burton the other day,” he says casually, the words tinged with smoke.

Rory’s facial expression doesn’t change, though he does tighten his grip on the glass.

Bill continues. “He had some nice things to say about your Calliope, though he called her something different.” He takes a swig of his beer. “I couldn’t help but notice some scabs on his neck. That from…” Bill motions vaguely toward the window, where the shape of Calliope’s figure can be seen through the lace curtains in the living room.

“She’s…” He takes a sip, searching for the right word. “Learning.”

“You have her under control?” Bill’s voice is soft, but not threatening. Almost fatherly.

Rory nods. The cicadas fill the lull in the conversation. “I like it here,” he adds at length. “I don’t intendto leave anytime soon.” I like it here with Calliope, he thinks.

“Good. We like having you here.”

The screened door creaks open, letting Martha and Calliope out onto the porch. Martha has a shoebox with old photos, including one of her great-grandfather at the local bar in town. Rory can be seen in the background, laughing with someone else just out of frame. Calliope leans over his shoulder to see the photo better, propping herself on the back of the chair.

“Looks like Carla’s old place,” says Bill, glancing over.

“The Grackle’s Nest,” says Rory with a smirk. The smirk fades, however, as he looks closer at the photograph. He can’t see the face of his companion, but he can see the ring on his hand and knows it’s his brother. The handwritten date on the back of the photo is June 1952, half a year before the Second Blood War began. He had forgotten that Aodhán had visited him. It was a brief visit, only a few days, and he spent the whole time rambling about revolution and honor.

“Warren Clayton figured us out early on,” he says. “But he never judged us. I liked him. He was a good man.”

“Do you remember my mother?” Martha hands him a photo of a woman who looks almost exactly like Martha, though her chin is pointier and her nose a little longer. But the cheeks are the same, the smile wide and unencumbered.

Yes, he thinks, but he only remembers when she died. So young. He recalls being sad at the news, though his brother couldn’t understand how or why Rory bothered to maintain friendly relationships with humans. “She was beautiful. Kind to everyone. Always said hello to me.”

He’s handing the photo back to Martha when the soft sounds of the night are interrupted by a loud crash from beside the house, followed by a string of expletives and fast approaching footsteps.

Elijah comes into view, a stained shop rag wrapped haphazardly around his hand.

Martha clicks her tongue. “What have you done now?”

The smell of blood fills the air. Not a lot though—a small quantity that Rory is perfectly capable of ignoring. It doesn’t stop the hair on the back of his neck from standing on end and sharp twinge in his gums.

Calliope stiffens, taking a step out from behind the rocking chair, her eyes narrowed on the rag tied around his hand.

“Sorry, ma’” Elijah says. “Just slipped.”

Out of the corner of Rory’s eye, he sees Calliope lift her foot and take one step closer. Just one, but it’s enough. He leans forward to push himself out of the chair, a hint of magic at the back of his throat, his command reading itself on his tongue, when a grackle comes out of nowhere, chest puffed up, wings flapping.

The bird’s loud juddering cry pierces the night andCalliope stops, frozen in the middle of the porch with her hand on her throat and her teeth clenched.

Martha ushers Elijah into the kitchen and the door closes, cutting off the smell of blood.

Bill swats at the grackle. “The grackles are a menace out here,” he says with a curse.

“Same at the lake,” agrees Rory. “They’ll take the food right out of your mouth.” He shoots an apologetic look at the nearby tree where he’s sure Kane is keeping watch.

Bill chuckles. “Just the other day…”

As they listen to Bill’s story, Rory moves closer to Calliope, placing a hand on her lower back. Her hip bumps against his. He slides his hand to rest lightly on her waist.

He hopes his touch is reassuring.

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