Blood Song

and more than a little afraid.

I said, “I have a bag you can use in the car. Although how we’re supposed to tel the head from the

heart I have no clue. And you did great—as wel as any of the priests from the order.”

“I didn’t kil her. Didn’t even wound her, real y.” He shuddered, his whole body shaking in reaction.

“Saints preserve me, but she was powerful. I’ve never felt anything like that.”

“She had to be over a thousand years old. There aren’t many vamps who live that long, and the ones

who do are powerful as hel . And if you hadn’t wounded her with the cross, I would never have been

able to get her. You saved us al .”

He ran a hand over his thinning hair. “I think you can claim as much credit for that as I can,” he said

shakily. “If you hadn’t stepped between them, I would never have made it out here in time.” He stared at

me for a long moment. “That was the bravest thing I’ve seen in my life. I know you don’t get along with

your mother, Celia. Your grandmother has us pray about it al the time. But you do stil love her. Of that

there is no doubt.”

“Yeah. I do.” I didn’t sound happy about it, even to me.

“Then when we’re done with cleanup I want you to come in. Talk to her. Sort out your differences.”

Oh fucking goodie.

24

The reverend ordered pizza and pop to celebrate. It took longer than it was supposed to to arrive. I

would’ve complained to the driver, but Gran intercepted me before I could get to the door.

Stil , we reheated the pies in the church oven and the reverend even went to the trouble to dig through

the cabinets until he found a blender.

It was my first attempt at “real” food. Yeah, we watered it down and ground it up, but it was pizza. It

should have tasted just the same as when it was eaten normal y.

It didn’t. It tasted real y weird. Maybe it was because everything was al mushed together, so I didn’t

taste the individual parts—the crust, the tomato sauce, the cheese, and the toppings. There was this

weird twang to it that I couldn’t quite place. Stil , I was grateful enough that I wasn’t going to complain. I

did manage to get some of it down, and it was certainly better than some of what I’d been “eating.” And

it gave me hope. Real food might be possible. Maybe.

I was sitting in the reverend’s study, drinking my watered-down pizza shake and a glass of milk as I

wiped down my knife with an oiled cloth. I’d been using considerable elbow grease with no luck at al

thus far. It was as if the metal itself had blackened. The wooden handle was fine, but the metal of the

blade, while stil hard and sharp, was absolutely black. Weird. Very, very weird.

As soon as I got the shake down and the knife cleaned I was going over to Karl Gibson’s. I’d cal ed to

tel him about the visit from the king and offer Karl the chance to be there. He’d jumped at it. Turned out

he was an avid basebal fan as wel as a detective on a mission.

My grandmother stepped into the room. She gave Reverend Al a meaningful look before asking,

“Would you mind giving Celia and me a few minutes alone? We need to talk.”

I closed my eyes but didn’t say a word. My mind, however, was racing. No. Oh, please, no. Not a

“talk.” I don’t deserve this. I’m tired, damn it. Don’t make me talk to my gran.

“Of course, Emily.” The look he cast over his shoulder as he left had a hint of sympathy directed my

way. Gran waited until the door was firmly closed behind him before lowering herself primly onto the

chair opposite mine, setting her coffee cup onto the little cork coaster on the table in front of her.

“I was very proud of you tonight. That was a courageous thing you did, standing up for your mother

like that.”

“Thanks, Gran.” I fought not to yawn. I was real y sleepy. Probably just everything catching up with me.

She gave me a long look. “I’ve always been proud of you, Celia. You know that.” Her eyes met mine

and for just a moment she looked old. I mean, she’s my gran, and over eighty. Of course she’s old. But

she never looks it. She’s got this energy about her, like a miniature whirlwind. Always on the go, always

doing something. But tonight she looked old and sad and more than a little bit worried.

“Gran, what’s wrong? The bat’s dead. She didn’t get Mom.”

“No”—Gran gave me a tired smile—“she didn’t.”

“Look, you’re exhausted, why don’t you get some rest?”

“No, Celia. There’s something I need to tel you, and after what happened tonight I know it can’t wait. I

should have told you when you hit puberty. But you were in therapy because of what happened to you

and Ivy, and I didn’t think you were ready to cope with it. Besides, it didn’t affect your mother—or not

much anyway. I didn’t real y believe it would bother you.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her

gaze suddenly absorbed by the contents of her coffee cup. She sounded both suspiciously guilty and

simultaneously as if she’d been trying very hard to rationalize something away.

“What are you talking about?” The words came out more harshly than I’d intended, and she flinched. I

apologized immediately. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just tired.”

“No, no. It’s al right.” She reached over and patted my hand. Her hand was gnarled and age spotted,

the veins and sinews standing out harshly beneath the tissue-paper skin. “You’ve always referred to

yourself as an ‘ordinary vanil a human.’”

“Yeah.”

“Wel … you’re not.”

“Wel , no, not since the vampire—”

She squeezed my hand hard, and I looked up, meeting eyes that had gone solemn. “You weren’t

completely human before the vampire bite, Celia. My husband, your grandfather, was only half human.”

I blinked. I hadn’t known that. He’d looked human. And real y, there aren’t many magical creatures that

can interbreed with us. Werewolves, of course, but that’s because they general y start out human in

the first place. And Gramps hadn’t been a wolf. No way.

“What … what was he?”

“His father was a human sailor. His mother was a siren. Which means you are part siren.”

A siren? No way. Not me. I mean, she was talking to the woman who got kicked out of eighth-grade

choir, whose dorm mates threatened to cal the cops when she sang in the shower. And sirens were

beautiful—I mean drop-dead gorgeous creatures who have men panting after them.

“Um, Gran …” I struggled for words, but al I could come up with was, “I can’t sing. I mean, I really

can’t sing.”

She laughed, hard, her head flung back, eyes dancing. Part of it was the stress, but part was pure