Blood Song

He blinked slowly. Twice.

“You kil ed … Luther ?” The lilt in his voice made it a question.

I shrugged, stil not sure what it meant. “I kil ed a couple of bats in the al ey. One with a gun, at least

one other with my knives. One of them might have been Luther. I wouldn’t know. It’s not like they

introduced themselves. Why is it important?”

Kevin gave a snort of combined aggravation and amusement, then shook his head and muttered

something under his breath that I didn’t quite catch. A day or so ago I might have been insulted by the

reaction. I mean, I am a professional. But that was before I met Edgar and company. If they were

impressed, wel — Now I not only wasn’t insulted, I was almost as surprised as Kevin. Of course I didn’t

say that. Instead, I tried to look aloof as I stared out at the incoming waves.

“Luther was very old and very smart. He was also ruthless as hel . I wouldn’t have wanted to hunt him

alone. I’m real y surprised you were able to take him down.” Kevin was staring at me as if he was real y

seeing me as a person for the first time instead of as one of his father’s students or his sister’s

sometime friend. It was a little unnerving.

“What was Edgar’s message?” Kevin asked.

I repeated what the vampire had told me, verbatim. Kevin sat as if frozen. He didn’t answer. Didn’t act

as if he’d even heard. But I knew he had.

It was a long time before I broke the silence. “Can I ask you a question?”

He gave a curt nod.

“Who are these people?”

He shook his head. “I can’t tel you. I wish I could, though, because you’re in so far over your head

that you may never see daylight again.”

“What should I do?”

He rose to his feet in a single fluid movement. “Eat, then get some rest. But don’t sleep too sound. I’m

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.