CELESTE
The Bad Man has many faces, and I remember them all. So how is it that I share my own name with the heavens, my clan's name with this winter breeze, but I can't always recall what they are? Tonight, I know I am Celeste, though I am not yet celestial.
   Wisps of memory taunt me. I can't be sure, might never be sure, if The Bad Man seeks to kill or if he simply relishes frightening young women--​frightening girls really--​or if he intends something awful in between.
   So far, I've managed to hold him at bay. But so far doesn't equal forever.
   Moon is my trusted lookout. She nudges me awake.
   His latest prey, yet another girl with dark hair that ripples like ribbons, exits through the front door of the . . . pub, yes, that's it . . . and walks toward the two-lane country road.
   This latest girl, she knows to look both ways. Someone who loves her taught her that. Someone who loves her will miss her, mourn her, if I fail.
   The thought of love uncoils a memory.
   I left home--​home--​after high school graduation for a love of books, a love of poetry, for the promise of education, with every intention of returning.
   Is she seventeen, nineteen? Younger or older than I was then?
   The girl waits, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, stalled by a passing motorcycle, a passing sedan, a passing pickup truck. She's stalled long enough that the lurching, desperate shadow of The Bad Man will catch up with her soon.
   In the gutter atop the empty building on my side of the road, the mourning doves sense my dread and shudder in their cozy nests. Their kin have flown to warmer, brighter skies, but they remain my steadfast companions.
   I'm grateful, though I long to fly, too. But as long as The Bad Man lurks, another girl may need me. As long as The Bad Man lurks, I will stay.
   Red dye streaks the girl's flowing hair. It's bold. Formidable. She doesn't know I recognize her, almost recognize her, that I almost recognize myself in her. She doesn't know I'm her sentry, soldier, sister, salvation. I protect girls like Mother Mourning Dove protects her chicks.
   Skittish, this girl hesitates at more oncoming headlights. Can she hear him scraping forward? Can she sense the danger that she's in? I silently urge her, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, please. I wish it was autumn, when I can see better, hear better, sometimes speak.
   Local folks used to tell stories about me. Maybe they still do.
   Yes, I'm the reason the now-abandoned restaurant closed so abruptly. All that's left is this boarded-up building, this shell of a structure where birds huddle.
   Finally, here she comes! Brisk, focused. White shirt, black jeans, black shoes--​the employee uniform remains unchanged after all these years. But only a handful of girls fit the description--​dark brown hair, deep brown eyes, lovely brown skin--​brown and beautiful.
   I know The Bad Man's type.
   She's shivering. She should cover her head with that red winter scarf, zip up that red winter coat against the dangers of the cold. Ice glistens. Hurry, but watch your step!
   The streetlight points away from me, toward the road and the pub, for the benefit of passing vehicles and cautious pedestrians.
   Clouds pass over Moon. Night wraps the girl in its dark blanket.
   No doubt she helped close the pub. Swept the floors, refilled the salt and pepper shakers, married the barbecue and ketchup and mayo and mustard bottles, wiped down the worn wooden tables and sprawling leather booths. Maybe she got caught up in conversation with the last few customers, made sure no one was driving home drunk. She looks like someone who cares.
   What did we call the diners--​the lovebirds and lost souls and heavy drinkers--​who lingered past closing time? Stragglers, campers, lonely hearts?
   I recall loud laughter and louder music . . . greasy smiles and grabby hands. The revving roar of motorcycles. Faint metallic thuds as car and truck doors shut.
   No witnesses left tonight except me and the mourning doves. No reason to fret, I thought, she thinks. At this sleepy crossroads between the old town and the new suburb I didn't live to see, it appears as if nothing much happens--​the display of a handmade quilt at the antiques store, a friendly game of pool, the occasional illicit meetup--​highlighted by NCAA basketball on mounted
TVs. It's a tidy intersection of rural commerce and cama-raderie on the vanishing prairie.
   "Less . . . less," The Bad Man whispers. He's on my side of the road now. The last thing I said to him was "Hvtvm cehecares." I warned him--​him wearing a rounder face and thinner form, but still and always him--​that he wasn't rid of me, that I would remain vigilant.
   The girl with red streaks in her hair glances over her shoulder. Does she hear him approaching? She reaches to open the driver's door of a compact yellow car, rusty around the fenders. A fresh bumper sticker reads CUSTER DIED FOR YOUR SINS.
   Mother Mourning Dove welcomes my presence, trusts that I won't stay too long.
   She doesn't want to lose her life like I did.
   "Less . . . less," The Bad Man hisses. "Less . . ." The voice comes from behind a minivan parked next to the girl. His faded bumper sticker reads SUPER BOWL CHAMPS. I remember place names better than people names. Maybe because people come and go but land endures. This is currently called Kansas, named for the Kaw or the Kanza. The Bad Man is a fan of the Kansas City football team. "Less . . ."
   The girl's spine goes stiff, her chin lifts. One hand is on her boxy, beaded leather purse. The fingers of her other hand are threaded with keys like claws. "Who's there?"
   He's gaining on her, his eyes full of blood and stars. "Less . . ."
   My wings--​our wings--​rise, dive, our talons strain for his face. Our flock follows, and the girl gasps at the sudden presence of whistling feathers. A word rushes back to me, the memory of my great-grandmother's voice. Wind recognizes my language, fuels my scream. "Letkv!"
   The girl's car door slams shut, its engine fires. Wheels spin, slide across black ice, rush her to safety. She is safe. We have won.
   The Bad Man will try again.

---

Excerpted from Harvest House by Cynthia Leitich Smith
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.