Cat Adams - Blood Song

going to check a few things out. Try to put the pin back in this grenade.”

“And if you can’t?”

“That would be very, very bad.”

I nodded glumly. I was afraid of that. He stood up and I stood with him. We stared at the ocean for a

long time before he said, “I’m sorry about Vicki, Celia.”

Without warning, he pul ed me into his arms and held me. Just held me. I pressed my cheek to his

warm skin and let out a ragged breath. I would not cry again. I wouldn’t. But it was tempting. He stroked

my hair and just let me breathe and get control of myself. It had been a long time since I’d let a man just

hold me. Since Bruno, real y. There were a thousand things I’d always wanted to say to Kevin, and

you’d think this would be the perfect time. But it wasn’t. This was quiet time, the calm before the storm

that would undoubtedly come. And while I realized his body was starting to react, rather strongly, to my

presence, he didn’t let the tension build. There was comfort in the knowledge that we could touch, skin

on skin, without feeling the need to go further.

I was a little afraid of further with Kevin. Too, I wouldn’t want to ruin what he had with Amy. That

wouldn’t be fair to any of us. And then there was the question of whether he wanted me. Maybe,

sometimes. Maybe not. To him I might just be another “little sister” or forever a “good friend.”

But I wouldn’t worry about that tonight . For now I would take his comfort. There was little to be had

elsewhere.

13

I’d had a long cry and a hug from a friend. I’d taken my drive. I’d walked on the beach. Nothing had

helped get rid of the sorrow, the anger, and the sense of impending doom. That left a bath. Not just any

bath, either … a long, hot bubble bath. I mixed a tal , stiff margarita to sip while I soaked. It’s part of the

ritual, lying in the water, sipping that lime-flavored nectar of the gods, careful y licking every single grain

of kosher salt off the rim of my glass. I don’t climb out until either the bubbles are gone or the drink is. A

second drink gets me through a home pedicure and one of those mud pack facials everybody likes to

make fun of.

Tonight I put a gun on the toilet seat and skipped the facial. My skin looked human, but I wasn’t sure

how it would react to magical y imbued salt mud.

I stood in the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and trying real y, real y, hard not to think too much about

anything—which is harder than it sounds, particularly when I could watch the nicks from the razor heal

fast as a thought and see last night’s injuries fade in fast-forward.

After the third margarita I figured I was as relaxed as I was going to get. I slipped into the most comfy

“jammies” I own: a worn T-shirt I’d stolen from Bruno back in col ege and a pair of flannel boxers. I

tucked the gun into the drawer of my nightstand and went to bed. Almost as soon as my head hit the

pil ows, I was asleep.

It was a dream. I knew it. But I couldn’t make myself wake. I knew what was coming. It was always the

same. The dream ended the same way the day had ended in real life. I didn’t want to go there. I just

didn’t have a choice.

It was so clear, as if the sunshine from that long-ago morning were streaming through the

windows warming my skin right now.

We were in the old minivan. My parents were in front. Ivy and I were in the backseat. My

birthday presents were piled in the “way back,” as my father cal ed it. It was my eleventh

birthday. I felt like such a big girl. And I was real y excited because I was sure, almost positive,

that I’d gotten exactly what I wanted.

We were driving past Woodgrove Cemetery. Normal y we went the other way, but there was

construction and the roads were closed and we were running late. So we drove past

Woodgrove, for the first time since Ivy’s talent had started manifesting.

The memory rol ed inexorably forward, like a movie playing in my mind. I could hear my

parents talking about whether or not we could afford for me to continue taking bal et. The

teacher said I had real talent—like I could make a career out of it—so they real y wanted me to

keep going. But it was expensive, and Dad’s company might be having layoffs soon.

Our happy little family drove past the cemetery, with its neatly manicured lawn, pretty brick and

wrought-iron fencing, and row upon row of tombstones.

And the ground shuddered, rol ing visibly beside us so that the pavement cracked. A

maintenance truck rocked on its wheels on the gravel road behind the fence, and I saw the

groundskeeper throw down his tools and sprint for the vehicle at a dead run as tombstones

tipped over and skeletal hands began clawing their way free of the ground, decaying bodies

fol owing suit.

My mother started shrieking at the top of her lungs; my father swore and pressed the gas

pedal to the floor, swerving between slower vehicles as if it were a Formula One race and we

were headed for the checkered flag. Ghosts started whipping through the car and Ivy clapped

her hands and squealed with delight.

But al of that was just so much background noise. Because I couldn’t take my eyes off of the

filthy, decomposing bodies that were shambling to the wal s, climbing the fence, and flinging

themselves at an invisible barrier over and over and over … trying to get at us.

We made it to Gran’s without wrecking the car. Things got better the farther we got from the

cemetery. By the time we stopped the car, even most of the ghosts were gone, with my baby

sister waving bye-bye to them through the back window.

I got out first. Then Ivy. It was a long time before Mom climbed out, and I could see a huge wet

spot on the back of her dress where she’d been sitting. She moved like she was a hundred

years old, climbing out of that car. She closed the door gently, and stepped back with a sad

expression.

My father drove away with a squeal of tires that left black marks on the concrete driveway. I

watched him go, waving from the front step as though he were just going to park the car. But he

never looked back. He kept driving down the road. And final y, my mother burst into tears.

I sat bolt upright in bed, shivering from a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. My skin was

covered in gooseflesh and felt as though it would crawl off of my body. My heart was pounding in my

chest; my breath came in rapid gasps.

It was just a dream. Just a memory. It can’t hurt you. Of course that was a lie. It had hurt me—hel , it

stil hurts me every time I let myself think about it, which is every time I have the dream.

I glanced at the clock on the bedside table: 3:15. I’d slept through the alarm and was overdue for a

feeding. Never mind that I wasn’t hungry—in fact, I was again a little bit nauseous. I wondered if maybe

that was a warning sign. I didn’t want a repeat of the incident with Dr. Scott, so I’d eat … or rather

drink… . Oh, shit. I’d left the pho cooking. I’d gotten distracted, talking to Kevin, and forgot about it

completely—despite the fact that the smel of it was fil ing the house. Wel , it was certainly hot enough

to eat now. Besides, I wasn’t going back to sleep.

When I’m stressed I have nightmares. Three particular nightmares. They’re based on memories, and

no matter what I do, I can’t seem to keep them from playing out completely. The adult me is a helpless