Kendare Blake - Anna Dressed in Blood

“But that’s an improvement, right?”

She crinkles her nose. “You’re … what was it Carmel said earlier?” She looks down, then back at me. “An ass.”

I laugh. “You’re catching on.”

We walk out onto the porch. I pull my jacket closed. I never took it off; the house hasn’t seen heat in half a century.

“I like Carmel,” says Anna. “I didn’t at first.”

“Why not?”

She shrugs. “I thought she was your girlfriend.” She smiles. “But that’s a silly reason to dislike someone.”

“Yeah, well. I think Carmel and Thomas are on a collision course.” We lean against the house, and I feel the rot in the boards behind me. They don’t feel secure; the minute I lean back it’s like I’m the one holding them up instead of the other way around.

The pain in my head is more insistent. I’m getting what feels like the start of a runner’s side ache. I should see if anybody has any Advil. But that’s dumb. If this is mystical, what the heck is Advil going to do about it?

“It’s starting to hurt, isn’t it?”

She’s looking at me with concern. I guess I didn’t realize I was rubbing my eyes.

“I’m okay.”

“We have to get him here, and soon.” She paces to the railing and comes back. “How are you going to get him here? Tell me.”

“I’m going to do what you’ve always wanted,” I say.

It takes her a moment. If it’s possible for a person to look hurt and grateful at once, that’s the face she makes.

“Don’t get so excited. I’m only going to kill you a little bit. It’ll be more like a ritual bloodletting.”

She frowns. “Will that work?”

“With all of the extra summoning spells going on in that kitchen, I think so. He should be like a cartoon dog floating after the scent of a hot-dog truck.”

“It will weaken me.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know.”

Dammit. The truth is, I don’t know either. I don’t want to hurt her. But the blood is the key. The flow of energy moving through my blade to where-the-heck-ever should draw him like an alpha wolf’s howl. I close my eyes. A million things could go wrong, but it’s too late to think of anything else.

The pain between my eyes is making me blink a lot. It’s sapping my focus. I don’t even know if I’ll be well enough to make the cuts if the preparation takes much longer.

“Cassio. I’m afraid for you.”

I chuckle. “That’s probably wise.” I squeeze my eyes shut. It isn’t even a stabbing pain. That would be better, something with ebbs and flows so I could recover in between. This is constant and maddening. There’s no relief.

Something cool touches my cheek. Soft fingers slide into the hair at my temples, pushing it back. Then I feel her brush against my mouth, so carefully, and when I open my eyes I’m staring into her eyes. I close them again and kiss her.

When it’s over — and it isn’t over for a while — we rest against the house with our foreheads together. My hands are on the small of her back. She’s still stroking my temples.

“I never thought I’d get to do that,” she whispers.

“Me neither. I thought I was going to kill you.”

Anna smirks. She thinks that nothing’s changed. She’s wrong. Everything’s changed. Everything, since I came to this town. And I know now that I was supposed to come here. That the moment I heard her story — that connection I felt, that interest — it had a purpose.

I’m not afraid. Despite the searing between my eyes and the knowledge that something is coming for me, something that could easily rip out my spleen and pop it like a water balloon, I am not afraid. She’s with me. She’s my purpose and we’re going to save each other. We’re going to save everyone. And then I’m going to convince her that she’s supposed to stay here. With me.

Inside, there’s a small clatter. I think my mom must’ve dropped something in the kitchen. No big deal, but it makes Anna jump and pull back. I flex my side and wince. I think the Obeahman might have started work tenderizing that spleen early. Just where is your spleen, anyway?

“Cas,” Anna exclaims. She comes back to let me lean on her.

“Don’t go,” I say.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t go, ever,” I tease, and she makes a face like she thinks I need a throttling. She kisses me again, and I don’t let go of her mouth; I make her squirm and start to laugh and try to stay serious.

“Let’s just focus on tonight,” she says.

Focus on tonight. But the fact that she kissed me again speaks much more loudly.

Preparations have been made. I’m lying on my back on the dust-sheeted sofa, pressing a lukewarm bottle of Dasani against my forehead. My eyes are shut. The world feels a whole lot nicer in the dark.

Morfran tried to do another clearing or counteracting or whatever, but it didn’t work nearly as well as the first. He muttered chants and struck flint, sending up nice little pyrotechnics, then smudged my face and chest with something black and ashy that smelled like sulfur. The pain in my side lessened and stopped trying to reach up into my ribcage. The pain in my head was reduced to a moderate throb, but it still sucks. Morfran seemed worried, and disappointed with the results. He said it would’ve worked better if he’d had fresh chicken’s blood. Even though I hurt, I’m still glad he didn’t have access to a live chicken. What a spectacle that would have been.

I’m remembering the words of the Obeahman: that my mind would bleed out my ears or something. I hope that wasn’t literal.

My mom sits on the couch near my feet. Her hand is on my shin and she’s rubbing it absently. She still wants to run. Every one of her mom-instincts says to swaddle me up and take off. But she’s not just any mom. She’s my mom. So she sits, and gets ready to fight alongside.

“I’m sorry about your cat,” I say.

“He was our cat,” she replies. “I’m sorry too.”

“He tried to warn us,” I say. “I should have listened to the little hairball.” I put down the water bottle. “I really am sorry, Mom. I’m going to miss him.”

She nods.

“I want you to go upstairs before anything starts,” I say. She nods again. She knows I can’t focus if I’m worried about her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks. “That you were searching him out all these years? That you were planning to go after him?”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” I say. I feel sort of stupid. “See how well it all turned out?”

She brushes my hair out of my eyes. She hates it that I let it hang in my face all the time. A concerned tension comes into her face and she looks at me closer.

“What?” I ask.

“Your eyes are yellow.” I think she’s going to cry again. From another room, I hear Morfran swear. “It’s your liver,” my mom says softly. “And maybe your kidneys. They’re failing.”

Well, that explains the liquefying feeling in my side.

We’re alone in the living room. Everyone else has sort of scattered off to their respective corners. I suppose everyone’s doing some thinking, maybe saying some prayers. Hopefully Thomas and Carmel are making out in a closet. Outside, a flash of electricity catches my eye.

“Isn’t it a little late in the season for lightning?” I ask.

Morfran answers from where he’s hovering in the door of the kitchen. “It isn’t just lightning. I think our boy is working up some energy.”

“We should do the summoning spell,” my mom says.

“I’ll go find Thomas.” I heave myself off the sofa and make my way upstairs quietly. At the top, Carmel’s voice is coming from inside one of the old guest rooms.