Blood Day (23 page)

“You've got her in that Japanese language school, don't you?” said Sia. “The one you wanted me to go to.”

“Public school was always your father's wish,” she said.

“Aren't you afraid she's going to feel out of place? She was born in Manhattan.”

“Ana has many school friends,” said her mother. “It's best if things stay the way they are.”

“She's my daughter!” Sia said, knocking her glass of wine to the floor. The glass shattered and wine the color of blood splashed all over the pale wood floor, splattering the wall and dripping down the refrigerator.

“As far as Ana is concerned, she is your sister,” her mother said and Sia could see her gnashing her teeth. “She is going to grow up in my house, and she is never going to know your shame, Setsuko. Do you understand?”

“There was nothing shameful about it,” Sia said, her voice a whisper.
 

“Then you and I have different ideas of shame,” she said.

Sia squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself not to cry.
 

“If you want her, if you really want her, not just one of your ideas,” she said, saying the word
ideas
as if it were something disgusting, “then you will build a real house. A real family. Husband who works, wife with a tidy house, and no chaos, Setsuko. Chaos is no place to raise a child.”

“It’s Sia,” she said. “And that will never be my life.”
 

“Then Ana will never be your daughter.”

When Sia realized her mother had hung up on her, she screamed, throwing the cordless phone onto the glass and puddle of red wine. She stood there panting, grinding her teeth. She was almost calm when she realized her foot hurt. She looked down and saw the blood pooling around her, the arch of her foot pulsing and throbbing. She sat down on the clean floor behind her and watched the blood, trickling thickly from a large shard of glass stuck deep inside her foot. Her stomach turned. She gripped the glass between two fingers.
 

“I wouldn't do that,” said a voice that made Sia jump and the glass in her foot moved, scraping against something hard. Bone maybe.
 

He was standing in front of her. He had swapped his shiny patent leather shoes for regular black ones, and though he wore no cape or hat, he looked just as out of place in an outdated suit and tie. His skin was pale, though there was a pinkness in his cheeks. His lips were red, always red.
 

“How long have you been here?” Sia said, her voice like a growl.
 

“There's a vein there,” he said.
 

“Will you help me?” Sia said.

“I don't know if that's a good idea,” he said. “All that blood...”

“You don't like blood?” she said. “Do you faint?”

He smiled. “Worse,” he said. “Much worse. Perhaps I can get you a doctor.”

“No,” said Sia. “I want you.”

The smile faded from his face. There was something about his eyes. He looked almost exotic with eyes that dark. It reminded Sia of paintings she'd seen in Paris of long-dead middle-eastern princes, of the Shahs of old who had withstood the Crusades...but not for long. He was pale, but he was not ordinary. He didn't belong in her kitchen. Maybe he didn't belong in this world.

“At least help me to the couch,” Sia said.

He hesitated, then stepped through the wine, the broken glass crunching under his feet. He picked her up like she weighed nothing and carried her the few steps to her living room. He gently placed her on the couch and stepped away, watching her.

“Get me a towel from that cupboard in the hall, would you please?” Sia said. “And there should be some hydrogen peroxide in the cupboard to the left of the towels.”

He moved awkwardly, as though not sure he should be there. He came back with a towel, but not the peroxide.

“You're not going to need it,” he said, kneeling at her feet. He took her ankle between two fingers, as though he were afraid to break it. “You've gotten blood all over your couch.”

“Doesn't matter,” said Sia. “It was his. I always hated this couch.”

“Still,” he said, examining her foot, which was barely bleeding now. “It's quite a mess.”

“How did you get in here?” she said.
 

He looked at her with an eyebrow raised. “I go where I please,” he said. “You might say I'm not from around here.”

“You're breaking the law by coming in here like that,” she said. “I could call the police.”

“And tell them what? The man who got rid of your husband's body was in your house?”

“I didn't say I was going to. I just said I could.”

He looked straight at her then. “Sia, I need to do something strange to help you. I don't want you to look, do you understand? Close your eyes until I tell you to open them.”

Sia closed her eyes without hesitation. A thought passed through her head about how peculiar it was that she didn't argue. How peculiar that she trusted this stranger.
 

“How do you know me?” she said through closed eyelids. “I saw you in the theater. Is that how you know who I am?”

“I saw you play in a park in Philadelphia once,” he said. She felt a pressure on her foot and a dull ache. “The cello, as I recall. You were very good, even back then.”

“Philadelphia?” she said, her voice strained through the pain. “That must have been years ago.”

“Your mother lives there, doesn't she?” he said.
 

Sia arched her back at a searing pain as she felt him pull the glass out. The pain was almost satisfying. The feeling of something that shouldn't be there being released. It was excruciating, but also, somehow, deeply pleasurable. She heard Joshua Flynn give a wounded moan, but she didn't even think about opening her eyes. She could feel the hot blood gushing from her foot, warm as it ran down her heel. Then there was a deeper warmth, something soft and wet, and then nothing but air.
 

“My mother? Yes. She lives in Philadelphia. I grew up there. Have you been following me?” She realized the thought should alarm her. This beautiful, strange man following her for years, just to hear her play. But it didn't surprise her, for some reason.

“Did we we meet before the other night?” she said. He was pouring something warm and thick and wet onto her foot and the blood stopped pulsing. Her foot stopped throbbing. There was an odd, deep itch that she could feel in her bones, and then a hot ache and a feeling of heaviness on the sole of her foot. She felt a thrill go through her. It reminded her of when she was in college and her roommate convinced her to take ecstasy. Her limbs felt light and she could feel the dust particles float through the air and land on her skin, she could hear someone humming quietly in the apartment below her. She could feel the very molecules in the air, bouncing off of and into each other. And then she exhaled and the feeling passed. It had only lasted for seconds.
 

“Open your eyes,” Joshua Flynn said, and his voice was close, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. But when she opened her eyes, he was across the room with his back to her. He had gotten another towel and seemed to be cleaning himself off.
 

Sia looked at her foot. There was dried and drying blood all over, but as she rubbed it away with a wetted finger, she could see that there was no cut. Not even a scar. It was like it had never happened.

“What did you do?” she said.
 

“I fixed you,” he said, without turning.
 

“Why are you following me?” she said. Her voice wasn't accusing, just curious.

He turned then. He had blood on his shirt and his tie. He had taken his jacket off and draped it over the back of the couch.

“Your music,” he said. “It makes me feel something.”

“Feel what?” said Sia.

“Human.”

She frowned and he looked away from her.
 

“Will you play for me?” he said not meeting her eyes. “Now?”

“What, right this minute?” she said.
 

“Yes.”
 

“Why? You just heard me play in the theater.”

“That was for them,” he said. He finally looked at her, taking slow steps toward her, stopping before he stepped in the blood pooled over the floor. His voice was soft when he spoke again. “This is for me. Play for me, Sia. Just for me.”

She felt a warmth pass through her as she looked at him. He had killed for her. She was afraid to look away from him in case he disappeared again. She didn't want him to disappear, she realized.

“I'll play all night if you like,” she said.

His red lips raised into a wicked smile.
 

“I could listen to you forever.”

Sia didn't remember stopping, but the next moment she was waking up in her bed with the sun shining on her cheek. Her fingers were sore and when she walked into the living room, her violin was carelessly sitting on the couch, nestled between wadded-up bloody towels. The glass had been cleaned from the kitchen.
 

Joshua Flynn was gone. He had left a note in old-fashioned cursive on the kitchen counter. Sia picked it up.

“
Danger is coming. But if you want your daughter back, I will help you.

~J.F.
”

Sia awoke to a knock at the door. It took her a moment to gather her bearings. She breathed in as deeply as she could, until it was almost painful. When she breathed out again she was composed. She was who she needed to be. For now.

“Come in,” she said.

Mathilde entered, sizing Sia up.

“There is to be a party,” Mathilde said.

“How lovely for you,” said Sia. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’m not feeling well.”

“It is in your honor,” said Mathilde. “My superiors insist that you come.”

Sia nodded after a moment. “Well if I must, I must. It seems I don’t have a choice.”

“No, you do not,” smiled Mathilde. “I hope you are able to recover from your illness before tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night then,” said Sia.

Mathilde stopped as she opened the door to leave. “One more thing.”

“Yes?” said Sia.

“It is to be a masquerade.”

Twenty

“I killed her,” Mike whispered. “I really did. I killed her. It was the same, the same as letting her die. I killed my wife.”
 

No way out of the pit, no way past Flynn. No way out of the world except to die, and the Revs wouldn’t even let them do that anymore. Mike thought of pitching himself headfirst into the hole in the floor, to break his own neck. But when he thought of dying he thought of Kyra: Kyra giving up, Kyra wasting away before his eyes, Kyra being weak. He hadn’t realized it bothered him until that very moment, with a blood soaked vampire looming in front of him, a branch made from a foot in his belt, and a coward retching behind him. He’d let Kyra die because she was weak. And he couldn’t stand it any more.

“Mikey,” Dez croaked. Mike fell to his knees. Kyra was in front of him now. Bleeding, but not dead. Mike reached out and tried to touch her.
 

“I should have helped you,” he said in a voice so unlike his own. But when he blinked he wasn’t touching Kyra nearly-dead. He was touching Matthew Blake, really dead. Warm but growing cold, the blood not even seeping any longer. Joshua Flynn was wiping his face with a white handkerchief, even though the whole front of his shirt was soaked. The moon was shining down on him like a flashlight, as if he attracted everything to himself, and even the moon couldn’t help but be intoxicated by his presence. He tucked his handkerchief away and looked at Mike.

“Get a hold of yourself,” he said. He pulled Mike up by the arm.

“Why did you do that?” said Mike.
 

Flynn looked down at the body of the college professor who only wanted to be left alone with his books and his own blood in his veins.
 

“He was in my way,” said Flynn.
 

“He was going to help me,” Mike said.

“I’m helping you,” said Flynn. “You don’t need him.”

“You just...killed him.”

Flynn smiled his ghastly smile, his teeth shining in the moonlight. “Don’t forget what I am,” he said. “I’m not a friend to any of you. I am a monster, a killer, a devil. Don’t confuse me with someone who will coddle you. I am what you fear. And I always will be.”

“What the hell do you want from me?” Mike said, gritting his teeth so hard it made his jaw ache.
 

Flynn looked down at Mike, still on his knees.
 

“I thought I wanted the Movers to take you away. I thought that would be best. I had a task for you to complete. Someone I wanted you to help.” He looked away from Mike and looked toward the moon. “But they love you now.”

“Who does?”

“The people. The humans. You’ve become the martyr they needed.” Joshua blinked at the sky as snow began floating down. Tiny, icy flakes that hit the ground sharply. Mike pulled his collar up as a few melted on his neck.

“You were going to let them take me?” Mike said, a complete lack of surprise in his voice. He looked at Dez, who was no longer huddling, but stood stiff against the wall, staring at the door like it was a glass of water and he was a dying man in the desert. “Just like that. Let me rot. Let them drain me. Some protector you are.”

“You misunderstand me,” Flynn said, and his voice was oddly soft. “I made a promise, and I do not break my promise.”

“What does that have to do with the Movers?” said Mike, pushing himself off the ground, standing shakily on his feet.
 

Flynn blinked again, his face moist with melted snow. Mike stared at him in the moonlight. He thought all this time that Flynn was perfectly ordinary, that he was nothing special to look at. But in the moonlight now, he could see he was utterly wrong. The shabby coat, the ordinary tie, told a story that wasn’t true. Joshua Flynn’s skin was radiant under the moon, his cheekbones high and his nose aquiline. The man — or monster as Mike was beginning to understand — was beautiful. Mike had never thought another man was beautiful before, but he saw it now. That was a trick too, as Mike knew only too well. Flynn’s face would change, become flat and formless, a slash of a mouth and teeth and sharp piercing eyes. No more. Nothing but teeth.