Lili St Crow - Strange Angels

I didnt tell Dad about Granmamas white owl. I know I should have.

Theres that space between sleep and dreaming where thingsnot quite dreams, not fully fledged precognition, but weird little blends of bothsometimes get in. Your eyes open, slow and dreamy, when the sense of someone looking rises through the cotton-wool fog of being warm and tired.

Thats when I saw it.

The owl ruffled itself up on my windowsill drenched in moonglow, each pale feather sharp and clear under icy light. I hadnt bothered to pull the cheap blinds down or hang up the curtains. Why bother, when weDad and meonly spend a few months in any town?

I blinked at the yellow-eyed bird. Instead of the comfort that means Gran is thinking about meand dont ask how I know the dead think of the living; Ive seen too much not to knowI felt a sharp annoyance, like a glass splinter under the surface of my brain.

The owls beak was black, and its feathers had ghostly spots like cobwebs, shadows against snowy down. It stared into my sleepy eyes for what seemed like eternity, ruffling just a bit, puffing up the way Gran always used to when she thought anyone was messing with me.

Not again. Go away.

It usually only showed up when something interesting or really foul was about to happen. Dad had never seen it, or at least I didnt think so. But he could tell when I had, and it would make him reach for a weapon until I managed to open my mouth and say whether we were going to meet an old friendor find ourselves in deep shit.

The night Gran died the owl had sat inside the window while she took her last few shallow, sipping breaths, but I dont think the nurses or the doctor saw it. They would have said something. By that point I knew enough to keep my mouth shut, at least. I just sat there and held Grans hand until she drained away; then I sat in the hall while they did things to her empty body and wheeled it off. I curled up inside myself when the doctor or the social worker tried to talk to me, and just kept repeating that my dad would know, that he was on his wayeven though I had no clue where he was, really. Hed been gone a good three months, off ridding the world of nasty things while I watched Gran slide downhill.

Of course, that morning Dad showed up, haggard and unshaven, his shoulder bandaged and his face bruised. He had all the ID, signed all the papers, and answered all the questions. Everything turned out okay, but sometimes I dream about that night, wondering if Im going to get left behind again in some fluorescent-lit corridor smelling of Lysol and cold pain.

I dont like thinking about that. I settled further into the pillow, watching the owls fluffing, each feather edged with cold moonlight.

My eyes drifted closed. Warm darkness swallowed me, and when the alarm clock went off it was morning, weak winter sunshine spilling through the window and making a square on the brown carpet. Id thrashed out of the covers and was about to freeze my ass off. Dad hadnt turned the heater up.

It took a good twenty minutes in the shower before I felt anything close to awake. Or human. By the time I stamped down the stairs, I was already pissed off and getting worse. My favorite jeans werent clean and I had a zit the size of Mount Pinatubo on my temple under a hank of dishwater brown hair. I opted for a gray T-shirt and a red hoodie, a pair of combat boots and no makeup.

Why bother, right? I wasnt going to be here long enough for anyone to care.

My bag smacked the floor. Last nights dishes still crouched in the sink. Dad was at the kitchen table, his shoulders hunched over the tray as he loaded clips, each bullet making a little clicking sound. Hi, sweetheart.

I snorted, snagging the orange juice and opening the carton, taking a long cold draft. I wiped my mouth and belched musically.

Ladylike. His bloodshot blue eyes didnt rise from the clip, and I knew what that meant.

Going out tonight? Thats what I said. What I meant was, without me?

Click. Click. He set the full clip aside and started on the next. The bullets glinted, silver-coated. He must have been up all night with that, making them and loading them. I wont be in for dinner. Order a pizza or something.

Which meant he was going somewhere more-dangerous, not just kinda-dangerous. And that he didnt need me to zero the target. So he mustve gotten some kind of intel. Hed been gone every night this week, always reappearing in time for dinner smelling of cigarette smoke and danger. In other towns hed mostly take me with him; people either didnt care about a teenage girl drinking a Coke in a bar, or we went places where Dad was reasonably sure he could stop any trouble with an ice-cold military stare or a drawled word.

But in this town he hadnt taken me anywhere. So if hed gotten intel, it was on his own.

How? Probably the old-fashioned way. He likes that better, I guess. I could come along.

Dru. Just the one word, a warning in his tone. Moms silver locket glittered at his throat, winking in the morning light.

You might need me. I can carry the ammo. And tell you when something invisibles in the corner, looking at you. I heard the stubborn whine in my voice and belched again to cover it, a nice sonorous one that all but rattled the window looking out onto the scrubby backyard with its dilapidated swing set. There was a box of dishes sitting in front of the cabinets next to the stove; I suppressed the urge to kick at it. Moms cookie jarthe one shaped like a fat grinning black-and-white cowwas next to the sink, the first thing unpacked in every new house. I always put it in the bathroom box with the toilet paper and shampoo; thats always the last in and first one out.

Ive gotten kind of used to packing and unpacking, you could say. And trying to find toilet paper after a thirty-six-hour drive is no fun.

Not this time, Dru. He looked up at me, though, the bristles of his cropped hair glittering blond under fluorescent light. Ill be home late. Dont wait up.

I was about to protest, but his mouth had turned into a thin, hard line and the bottle sitting on the table warned me. Jim Beam. It had been almost full last night when I went to bed, and the dregs of amber liquid in it glowed warmer than his hair. Dad was pale blond, almost a towhead, even if his stubble was brown and gold.

Ive got a washed-out version of Moms curls and a better copy of Dads blue eyes. The rest of me, I guess, is up for grabs. Except maybe Grans nose, but she could have just been trying to make me feel better. Im no prize. Most girls go through a gawky stage, but Im beginning to think mine will be a lifelong thing.

It doesnt bother me too much. Better to be strong than pretty and useless. Ill take a plain girl with her head screwed on right over a cheerleader any day.

So I just leaned down and scooped up my messenger bag, the strap scraping against my fingerless wool gloves. Theyre scratchy but theyre warm, and if you slip small stuff under the cuff, its damn near invisible. Okay.

You should have some breakfast. Click. Another bullet slid into the clip. His eyes dropped back down to it, like it was the most important thing in the world.

Eat something? When he was about to go out and deal with bad news alone? Was he kidding?

My stomach turned over hard. Ill miss the bus. Do you want some eggs?

I dont know why I offered. He liked them sunny-side up, but neither Mom or me could ever get them done right. Ive been breaking yolks all my life, even when he tried to teach me the right way to gently jiggle with a spatula to get them out of the pan. Mom would just laugh on Sunday mornings and tell him scrambled or over-hard was what he was going to get, and hed come up behind her and put his arms around her waist and nuzzle her long, curling chestnut hair. I would always yell,