Blood Song

offered to me.”

She let out an irritated little huff of air, her eyes narrowing. She glanced at the elegant gold watch on

her wrist and shook her head. “We don’t have much time left.”

“Where do you want to start?” I asked.

“I suppose that would be up to you. Where do you think we should begin?”

I leaned back, thinking about it. There were so many possibilities. But the one that was top of my list

at the moment had to do with the scene in the lobby.

“Let’s stick with tradition and start with my mother.” I’d intended it to sound more humorous than it

came out.

“Your mother?”

“Have you talked to Dr. Talbert about my past?”

“I like to start fresh.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “What do you want to tel me about your

mother?”

Wow. Where to start? I mean, there was just so much and none of it particularly good. I didn’t even

know if I loved her anymore. But I sure as hel didn’t like her.

I was stil trying to come up with the right words when the bel rang, indicating the end of the session.

Typical.

Dr. Greene picked up her BlackBerry with a sigh. “Why don’t we set you up for Monday at eleven

fifteen? That wil give you the weekend to decide how to begin.” She looked up, meeting my eyes

directly, “Although I real y feel I must try one more time to convince you that it would be in your best

interest at this point to pursue inpatient treatment… .” She let the end of the sentence drag on

hopeful y. She needn’t have bothered. I shook my head no.

She let out a little sniff of displeasure but didn’t raise any further objection. “Fine. Monday at eleven

fifteen.” She entered the appointment into her BlackBerry.

I was stil thinking about my mother as I drove the Miata down the main highway back to the city.

Traffic wasn’t good, which meant I wasn’t going to have time to stop and buy decent clothes. Not if I

wanted to get some nourishment into me and arrive at the church before sundown.

Part of me wanted to throttle my mother for what she’d done. Oh, I didn’t have proof. But I knew. It

was just so … her. Damn it anyway.

I knew I shouldn’t let it bother me. I mean, God knew it wasn’t the first time she’d betrayed me. I

should be used to it and not expect any better from her. And yet there was that little part of me that just

wouldn’t give up hope: hope that she’d change, dry out, become the mother I remembered from before.

Hurt and anger formed a hard knot in my throat that made it hard to swal ow. “Grow up, Graves,” I told

myself sternly as I took the Thirty-eighth Avenue exit that was the quickest route to Old Town. “She is

what she is. She isn’t going to change.” And maybe she’d always been that way and I was just

remembering her through rose-colored glasses. Maybe it had only been my father who kept her in any

sort of check.

I went through a drive-through pharmacy and bought some more nutritient drinks and the liquid

version of a popular multi-vitamin. I chugged two of the former and took a dose of the latter before I

even left the parking lot. I was going to a church, my gran’s church, for sanctuary. I needed to make

damned sure I wasn’t going to lose it when the sun went down.

I forced myself to pay close attention to where I was going. I didn’t want to get lost, not in this

neighborhood. When my gramps had been alive, Old Town had been a working area. Very blue-col ar.

Back then, there were no gangs to speak of and the bats and monsters weren’t nearly the problem they

were now. Things change.

Christ Our Savior Chapel is a little white clapboard and brick building in one of the more run- down

sections of the Town. The parking lot is bare dirt, but there isn’t a spot of trash on it. The windows are

clean and the wooden doors gleam with polish. The last time anyone tried to graffiti the place,

Reverend Al caught him at it. With the approval of the kid’s mother, the good reverend set the kid to

scrubbing the sanctuary floor—with a toothbrush—while Al read to him from the scriptures. My gran

swears the kid stil comes to services every Sunday and alternate Wednesday nights.

I pul ed my little sports car into the empty parking spot between Reverend Al’s ancient Chevy and my

gran’s Oldsmobile, fresh back from impound, just as the sun’s last rays were sinking below the western

horizon. I hoped the Miata would be al right. The last thing I needed was for something to happen to the

car. But the sun was sinking fast, and I needed to be on holy ground.

Just as soon as I was safe I was going to take it for a nice long drive along the coast. It’d have to be

at night if I wanted the top down, but I like moonlight.

It was a goal to shoot for.

But for tonight, I was going to take Uncle Sal’s advice and lay low. And just in case the uberbat got

any ideas, about coming after my nearest and dearest, Gran was going to be right there with me.

I hurried up the cracked concrete sidewalk that led to the glass front doors just as the orange glow of

halogen lights came on up and down the streets. Pul ing on the handle, I stepped over the threshold into

safe haven and wound up standing less than six inches away from my mother.

I felt a rush of emotions the minute I set eyes on her. Anger, lots of anger, but frustration and pity

were in there, too, and a deep, aching sadness that I didn’t like to think about.

She was arguing with Gran, her voice raised, her words just a little bit slurred. If she wasn’t completely

drunk yet, she was certainly wel on her way. Nothing unusual about that. She was dressed for a night

on the town, in a nylon leopard-print top that was cut low enough to display ample cleavage and a pair

of black jeans that clung like a second skin. Four-inch stiletto heels with a matching bag completed the

outfit. She didn’t look quite like a hooker, but with her figure and peroxide hair she had definitely gone

over the line into the realm of white trash.

I mean, four-inch heels? Damn, I wouldn’t attempt those sober. But then, that was my mother, al over.

“I can’t shtay, Mama. Celiash comin’ and you know how she’l be.”

“Too late. She’s already here.”

My mother turned on a dime, her eyes wide with honest-to-God panic. If I’d had any doubt as to

whether she was the culprit behind the photos and the story, that look took care of it.

My grandmother spoke up. “You can’t leave, Lana. There’s a vampire out there hunting Celia and the

people she cares about. You need to stay here tonight.” Her voice was unyielding. She stood solid as a

rock, al of four foot eleven in her sensible shoes and hand-knitted cardigan, refusing to budge.

“Then I should be jusht fine. Because we al know my little girl doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about me. ”

Crocodile tears fil ed her eyes.

Oh, for the love of — “Cut the crap, Mom,” I snarled. Anger