Cat Adams - Blood Song

don’t move on to the afterlife. Trouble was, I never have found out what Ivy wants from me.

True believers almost never ghost, so this was someone I knew who wasn’t a churchgoer. Not many

of those in my life, are there?

Um, just about everyone but my gran. But considering the level of violence in my life, there have

actual y been very few fatalities. Could it be Bob Johnson? The timing was right and he’d been with me

once when Ivy had manifested. I couldn’t think why he’d latch onto me, but stranger things had

happened. The car was practical y a meat locker at this point, and I shivered, my skin crawling with

goose bumps.

“Bob, is it you?”

Two flashes. Wrong again. The spirit, whoever it was, was starting to get frustrated. I could feel an

electric tension building in the air, enough to make my hair start to frizz.

“Easy. Take it easy. I know you’re trying to communicate. We can work this out.” A thought crossed

my mind. It might work—or not, depending on how focused and powerful the ghost was. “See if you can

focus the cold to use frost to write on the window.” If it was an older ghost, they should be able to. I

pointed to the rounded surface of the windshield. In response, the temperature dropped even further.

My teeth started chattering as an arctic blast ruffled my hair to hit the glass with pinpoint precision. I

watched in fascinated horror as familiar handwriting took shape and a name appeared.

Vicki .

My heart stopped for a moment and I felt dizzy. No. NO! Dammit, she wasn’t … she couldn’t be …

“Vicki?” My voice was a raw whisper. I stared at the frost on the window, tears freezing on my

cheeks, a knot as hard as a rock in my throat. I could barely breathe.

The ghost reacted to my emotions. They always do. The Miata began to rock back and forth, the

radio blasting to noisy life, static whining and crackling from the speakers, loud enough to make me

cringe. The dome light and headlights were flashing.

I shuddered from the cold. Every breath I took burned going into my lungs. Every exhale was a visible

mist in the air inside the car. “Stop. Vicki, you’ve got to stop. Please, you’re hurting me.”

It was as if I hit a switch. Al the poltergeist-style activity just stopped. But the cold didn’t diminish. She

was stil there.

“God, what happened? How? I mean, you were fine !” I picked up the pictures as though she could

see them. “See? You were happy.” Hot tears flowed down cheeks that felt chapped with cold. I couldn’t

believe it. It didn’t make any sense.

Ever so slowly, I saw writing form in the frost on the window. Letter by letter, until I could read her ful

message.

Love you.

And then she was gone.

10

It was a long time before I could pul myself together enough to drive. My best friend was dead. The

shock was horrible. On top of everything else, it was just too much. She wasn’t dead. I didn’t want to

believe … couldn’t believe—

I cried. I screamed. I cried some more. Eventual y, I got myself under control enough to restart the

car. Now I was definitely speeding, but I needed to get to Birchwoods, find out what the hel was going

on. Yeah, I could’ve cal ed. But I wanted to hear this in person. Discretion was beyond the grave there,

so I was going to have to fight to get answers. I’d just get stonewal ed on the phone and they’d have

time to prepare a response … or a security team.

I pul ed the car up to the outside gate and ran my card. I went through without problems and stopped

before the second gate, rol ing down my window. Gerry was on the gate again. He flinched when he

saw me, and this time when he ran through the security protocol he did it like he meant it. I passed with

flying colors, but that didn’t seem to reassure him much. “Dr. Scott has asked that you go to his office

in the main administration building. He needs to speak with you urgently.” Gerry’s voice was its empty,

professional best, giving nothing away. I shivered. His attitude wasn’t helping my denial.

My stomach tightened into a knot, making the nausea worse. But I didn’t ask any more questions, just

handed back the clipboard along with my driver’s license.

Gerry passed back my license. “Take the left fork of the road; the administration building is in the

back.”

“I know.” Duh, I’ve been here how many times?

Gerry stepped back from the car and waved a signal to the gate operator. With the flick of a switch

the heavy metal framework barring my way moved smoothly aside. I felt, rather than saw, magical

protections I’d never known existed ease in response to the opening of the gate. I drove through and

down the long, curving drive that led to the administrative part of the complex. The white brick buildings

were gleaming and pristine, like pearls scattered decoratively across the vivid green of the manicured

lawns.

I drove slowly. I hated this. Hated it so much. God, it was only yesterday that I’d had the bel hop haul

stuff up that hil . What in the hel had happened?

She couldn’t be gone. How many times had I driven up here in the past few years, bringing her news

of the outside world? How many afternoons had we walked the path around the little freshwater pond

behind the main complex, or fed stale bread to the ducks that congregated there?

I’ve had losses before. My father’s abandonment, my sister’s death, even, in a way, my mother’s

retreat into the bottle. You’d think I’d be used to it, that by now I’d have developed a hard shel that

would protect me. I suppose that’s exactly how it looks to people who don’t know me. But it’s a lie.

I pul ed into one of half a dozen or so parking spaces with neatly printed signs proclaiming VISITOR PARKING

and climbed out. The sun was low enough in the sky that the umbrel a might not have been necessary,

but I used it anyway.

I slammed the car door shut with more force than was real y necessary and heard an ominous sound

of metal fatigue that normal human muscles couldn’t make happen. Another thing broken. I was broken,

Vicki was broken … why not everything else? I hurried up the gentle slope of the handicapped-friendly

entrance feeling both like an idiot and like a child who’s been beaten one too many times. When I

reached the shade of the smal ivy-bedecked porch that protected the entrance, I col apsed the

umbrel a. The automatic doors whooshed open and I walked in.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Graves.” The receptionist stood as I walked through the door. She had to

notice the pal or and fangs but managed to hide her reaction admirably. I could not hide the fact that I

was about to burst into tears. She was wearing one of those fitted suits that are tailored to emphasize

every curve. It was tomato red and had been hemmed to a length that would show enough leg to be

attractive without being improper. Her dark hair had been swept up in a twist. That, coupled with a

sweetheart neckline, showed a lot of creamy neck and just a hint of cleavage, the effect emphasized

discreetly by a pearl necklace and earrings. “If you’l have a seat, I’l let Dr. Scott know you’ve arrived.”

She gestured in the general direction of the expensive leather couches that graced the tasteful y

appointed waiting room.