Bloodstone

nodded, blinking some more. “Pink and blue. The colors we used for the nursery when you were born.” She cleared her throat. “But Vicky’s right. They’re the base colors, and they’ll take on your specific shades as you . . . as you grow.”

“Are those good colors?”

“They’re yours,” I said. “Colors aren’t good or bad, just like a fingerprint isn’t good or bad. But they’re part of what makes you, you.” I touched the tip of her nose. “So, yeah, I’d say they’re pretty terrific.”

A bread knife lay on the table. Maria picked it up and peered into its shiny surface, tilting the blade this way and that, trying to glimpse her colors for herself.

Gwen closed her hand around Maria’s and lowered it to the table. “Okay, we need to lay down some ground rules. First, you can use the dream phone only on the weekends. No calls on school nights. I remember how tired I used to get when Vicky and I stayed up talking for half the night.”

“But you were asleep,” Maria objected.

“It’s a different kind of sleep. The kind you can wake up tired from.”

“Oh.” Maria seemed puzzled, but she shrugged. “Okay.”

“Second—and this is important—you may answer a dream-phone call only if it’s from Vicky or me. Green and silver or rose and gold. No other colors. Understand?”

“But what about the blue-and-silver lady? Vicky said she was my aunt.”

Gwen looked so angry, for a moment I thought she would hit me. But she took a visibly deep breath, then another, and shook her head. “Just Vicky or me. If I find out you’ve been talking to anyone else, you’ll be grounded.”

“But why can’t I talk to her?”

Gwen picked up the bread knife and toyed with it, her knuckles white. “Because many years ago, when I was a little older than you, I saw that woman do a terrible thing.”

“What?”

“Gwen, it’s been almost twenty years. Surely after all this time you can let go of whatever Mab did to upset you.”

Gwen slapped the bread knife on the table, making Maria jump. “Let go of it? That woman should be in prison, not swanning around her fancy house in Wales. Not pushing her way into my little girl’s dreams.” Gwen shoved her chair back and went to the sink. She poured herself a glass of water and drank it in three gulps. She slammed the empty glass on the counter, fury seething in her eyes. “But I never could get anyone to believe what I saw. Not Dad, not the police—no one.”

She pointed to the side door. “Maria, go outside. Go to the Henleys’ house, ride your bike, do something. I need to talk to Vicky alone.”

“But, Mom, you said I could stay. You said this conversation concerned me.”

“You’re right, it does. But you’re still too young to hear what I have to say. Maybe later, when you’re older, I’ll explain.”

“But—”

“No!”

Maria knew when she was beat. She slid from her chair and trudged across the kitchen. At the door, she turned around and said reproachfully, “I’m growing up, you know. You can’t treat me like a little kid forever.” She tossed her head and went out into the garage.

Gwen’s laugh had an hysterical edge to it. “She sounds exactly like I did at that age—do you remember? If only I’d known then how good ‘little kids’ have it. I had to grow up way too fast, and I wasn’t ready for it. Thanks to your precious aunt Mab.”

“Gwen, what happened?”

“That’s why I never told you, you know,” she said, ignoring my question. “Christ, you were younger than Maria when it happened. I wanted to protect you, protect your innocence. And then later, you were so crazy about Mab and demon fighting and Wales that you wouldn’t have believed me.” She glared at me accusingly. “You won’t believe me now, either.”

“Try me. I promise I’ll listen, at least.”

Gwen didn’t sit down. She didn’t look at me as she spoke. She stood by the kitchen sink, staring at a spot on the far wall, seeing into the distant past.

“Thirteen. I was only thirteen years old. A child. That summer in Wales, I was so terrified of Mab I felt more like her prisoner than her apprentice. I used to imagine that I was Gretel and she was the witch, getting ready to eat me alive. I was so unhappy. I’d take long walks whenever I could escape from the house, and on one of those walks I met a boy from the village. Eric.” Her eyes softened. “I thought he was the handsomest boy I’d ever seen —black hair, dark eyes, and black eyelashes so long and thick I wished mine were like that.

“Eric was fifteen, and I knew Mab would never approve of him. So I’d sneak out at night and we’d meet. I thought I was being careful, but one night Mab must have followed me. I met Eric at our usual place, a stone wall where we’d sit and talk. It was all so harmless, so innocent. That night, he put his arm around me and said he wanted to kiss me.

“My heart was thumping like mad. I closed my eyes and waited for the feel of his lips against mine. Instead, something warm splashed onto my face. I opened my eyes. Eric clutched his neck, blood spurting from between his fingers. His throat had been slashed wide open. Mab stood behind him, holding a bloody dagger.”

Here eyes locked onto mine like laser beams. “She killed him in cold blood, Vicky. A fifteen-year-old boy. And all because he tried to kiss me.”

21

THERE HAD TO BE ANOTHER SIDE TO THE STORY. GWEN wasn’t interested in speculating about what it might be. As far as she was concerned, our aunt was a brutal killer who’d murdered a young girl’s first love. The set of Gwen’s jaw, the absolute certainty in her voice—her mind held zero doubt about that night.

No, I thought, sitting on the train back to Boston, there must be more to it. I knew my aunt. Gwen’s picture of her as a cruel butcher killing for spite simply wasn’t her. Mab had once reminded me that I didn’t know everything about her. But one thing I did know: She’d never do what Gwen accused her of. Mab was loved and respected by the villagers of Rhydgoch. She didn’t go around slaughtering them.

She killed him in cold blood, Vicky. A fifteen-year-old boy. And all because he tried to kiss me.

Yet Gwen’s words haunted me all the way home.

WHEN I WALKED IN MY FRONT DOOR, MAB LOOKED UP from the book she was reading. Kane came over and sniffed at my fingers, wagging his tail.

“You had a telephone message—” Mab began.

“I need to talk to you. Right now.” My voice sounded harsh as I gestured toward the bedroom.

“The caller did say it was important.”

“So is this.”

Mab didn’t argue. She stood slowly, her brow creased as she peered at me. She balanced her book on the arm of the chair and walked around the sofa to the bedroom.

Kane tilted his head, curious.

“I’m not trying to shut you out, but I need to talk to my aunt in private. It’s a family matter.”

He pressed against my leg, like he wanted to show his support, then went into the kitchen.

Mab sat straight-backed on the edge of my bed, hands folded in her lap. She kept her face blank, waiting.

I closed the door and leaned back against it. “Mab . . .” On the ride back from Needham, I’d imagined a dozen different scenarios of how I’d handle this conversation: a confrontation, a gentle question, a matter-of-fact request for her explanation. Now, it was hard just to get the words out. Gwen’s story, so vivid when she told it, dimmed, and suddenly I wanted to say never mind, it was a mistake, forget the whole thing. The idea of Mab as a murderer was preposterous. But I needed to know the truth. I blurted, “Gwen told me you killed someone in front of her. A village boy named Eric.”