Blood Song

humor. When she final y calmed down enough to catch her breath she said, “No, baby, you real y can’t

sing.” She wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “But while some sirens focus their cal through

music, the cal itself is psychic. A female siren cal s males to her to fulfil her needs, even to their doom.

”

“But—”

She continued as if I hadn’t spoken. It was as if the words and emotions had been building up inside

her and, now that they’d been loosed, there was no stopping them. “The vampire that bit you tried to

change you instead of kil ing you because he was male. The werewolf who found you in that al ey, out

of al the al eys in the city, did it because you cal ed him to you.” She gave a sad smile. “And you don’t

get along with other women because you’ve come into your power.”

“That’s not true. I get along with women,” I protested. Actual y, it was a lie. I’ve never gotten along with

most women. I have a few good friends, Dawna, Vicki… .

Gran didn’t say a word, just raised an eloquent eyebrow.

“Vicki was my best friend.”

“Vicki was a lesbian, Celia.”

“Wel , yeah, but she was a woman.”

Gran nodded once, then raised those formidable silver brows again. “Fine. Anyone else?”

“Dawna. I get along real y wel with Dawna. Real y, real y wel , and she doesn’t like women in … that

way.”

Gran smiled, but there was a tinge of pity along with the humor. “Is she, by any chance,

postmenopausal?”

“Wel , she had some plumbing problems and had a hysterectomy a while back, but what’s that got to

do with anything?”

Gran gave me a level look. “Name one close female friend you have who is both heterosexual and

fertile. Just one.”

I thought about it. Hard.

Silence stretched between us for probably two minutes. Two of the longest minutes of my life.

“You can’t, can you?” She smiled gently. “In fact, most women you interact with get almost completely

neurotic, almost to the point of insanity, around you, particularly if men or other women they love are

around.”

I thought about it. There had been incidents in col ege, at parties. Men always rush forward to open

doors for me, or hold out my chair, and tick off their girls. Hel , not two weeks ago there’d been a scene

at El Jefe’s between me and Kevin’s live-in girlfriend, Amy, when he brought me a drink before he

delivered hers. There were other things, too. I didn’t like to think about them. It’s always just confused

me. Yet if I was a siren, it al made sense. But was I? Was I really? “How could I know for sure? Is

there a test kit in the pharmacy or something?”

“Whenever you’re in real need, you cal men to you, and they do whatever it takes, at whatever cost,

to help you.”

Now that I had an answer for.

“Then why didn’t I cal someone to help me when Ivy and I were kidnapped? God knows we needed

help.”

Tears fil ed her eyes, her grip on my hand tightening until it was actual y painful. “Oh, honey. If only you

had come into your power. But you hadn’t hit puberty. If you had—”

If I had, my sister might stil be alive. I might not have been tortured. Everything … my entire life …

would have been completely and total y different. If only I’d been a few years older?

I sat there, stunned. My mind was racing, but it refused to pul anything into any semblance of

coherent thought. It was as if my whole world had turned upside down. Nothing made sense and at the

same time everything suddenly did.

“It’s one of the reasons your mother had such a hard time adjusting to your father’s abandonment.

Men simply do not leave sirens. She knew about her father’s side of the family. Had met them,

integrated somewhat. Losing your father didn’t just hurt her, it damaged her. I think she would’ve kil ed

herself if it hadn’t been for you girls. And then, when Ivy …” She let her voice trail off, her gaze shifting

to the door as if she could see through it to where my mother slept on the other side. She sighed.

“I know it’l take some time to get used to the idea.” Gran’s reassuring voice came to me as if from a

distance. “And eventual y you’l need to get in touch with your great-grandmother or one of her sisters.

But not now. Right now you need to rest.”

As if I could.

25

I hadn’t expected to be able to sleep. After al , Gran’s news had been quite a shock, and a sleeping

bag on a concrete floor isn’t exactly my idea of comfort. But I must have been more tired than I

expected, because I was out the minute I zipped myself into the bag.

I knew I was dreaming, recognized the dream, but couldn’t drag myself out of it.

I was twelve years old again. It was noon on a bright midsummer day, and hot. I wore cutoff

jeans that were a little too short and tight to be comfortable, not to show off my legs, but

because I’d outgrown them and there wasn’t any money to buy more.

There was never enough money. Mom was working as a bartender, but most of what she

made went up in smoke—cigarette smoke, pot smoke, and liquor. She always came home late,

seldom sober or alone. Ivy slept through most of it. She never heard the sound of the

headboard hitting the wal , or the moans that accompanied it. I did.

There were no more bal et lessons. The only reason Ivy was getting lessons training her “gift”

was because Gran insisted, paid for them, and drove her. That’s why I was alone now. Gran

had taken Ivy to lessons and Mom was off “working.”

Finding him had been easy. I’d gotten on the computer at the library. It was right there in the

telephone listings. The address was less than four blocks from our house.

Four blocks. It might as wel have been a thousand miles. But I didn’t know that. Not then.

I rounded the corner on foot, my thongs slapping against the cracked concrete. Sweat slid

between my shoulder blades beneath the cheap pink tank top I’d taken from my mother’s

closet.

The part of me that knew I was dreaming tried to stop right here, to pul out or change the dream

before it went any further. I knew what came next. I’d lived it once, dreamed of it often, and had no

desire to see it again. But I was sleeping too deeply, so the images moved inexorably forward, my

younger self pausing beneath the corner street lamp, looking for the right house number.

It was the fourth on the right. A tidy little one-story white wood frame building with red trim and a

picket fence in front. I saw him. He was playing catch in the front yard with a boy a year or so

younger than me. A girl of five or so with blond curls and a pink jumper was playing dol s on the