Matters of the Blood (2 page)

"I'll be there as soon as I can, Marty. Don't get your tighties in a wad. Let me eat or I'll be more than useless."

I took a breath. If this
was
serious family business, he wouldn't want to wait.

After a short pause, he spoke again. “I'll wait. And, Keira..."

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

The odd flat silence finally penetrated as my brain processed the fact that Marty hung up. He'd said both “please” and “thanks"—two words that I'd rarely heard from him over the past two years. Hmm.

I tried to ignore the distant alarm bells clamoring in my head as I pulled back onto the road. Damn it. It really wasn't Marty's fault that for the past several weeks, I'd woken up either just before or just after dawn with shrieks still echoing in my ears. It also wasn't his fault that until this last one, most of the previous nightmares involved his screams, his blood ... and that somehow, for some bizarre reason, I felt guilty about it.

Okay, maybe not so bizarre considering what was happening. To me, not Marty. I had no idea what he was going on about. After two weeks, I'd finally figured out at least part of what was going on with me. The nightmares were just a small part of it. The paranormal floodgates had most definitely opened, the psychic horses had gotten out and my personal Elvis had finally left the fucking building.

I should have known, especially after the past few visits from the nightmare fairy, but ignoring the signs was far too easy. Ignoring wasn't going to help now.

I saw it in the mirror this morning. It was most definitely there, slipsliding behind my eyes: a hint of darkness, of
other
.

It really wasn't all that noticeable. I don't suppose it wouldn't stop any presses or even a casual passerby. At first glance, I looked normal, human. But I'd always known better. I was Changing—twenty years too early and with no one to guide me—coming into my full powers as a family member. Well, I always was GDI (god-damned independent) and (according to my instructors) advanced for my age group. Guess I'd have to live up to that reputation now.

Meet Keira Kelly: not-such-a-child prodigy. Height: Five feet, ten inches. Eyes: Gray. Hair: Black. Likes: Old movies, good books, and great wine. Trained as: “Escort,” temporarily on leave. Talents: Clairvoyance, farseeing, necromancy—a lovely smorgasbord of supernatural powers and things that go bump in the night.

I left off shapeshifting, since it would be overkill to state the obvious.

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Despite my distractions, I made it to my destination without having an accident. Not hard to do in Rio Seco. Our idea of heavy traffic was more than one vehicle approaching the four-way stop at the same time. Yeah, “the,” as in “there's only one.” One main intersection marking the center of what we called “town.” We were so small, we not only didn't have a Dairy Queen, we didn't even have a football team. In Texas, that's tantamount to heresy. No worries on our end, though, it helped keep us out of the limelight.

Places like ours still exist in parts of the Hill Country. Some towns, like Luckenbach or Fredericksburg, hang on due to tourism. Others are supported by some local product, usually limestone or cattle. Then there's most good ol’ boys’ favorite “product"—hunting. Rio Seco had only a few small ranches, our quarry closed more than twenty years ago and—despite the occasional SUV-load of family out wandering the Hill Country for lack of anything better to do who stopped here because they were lost or needed to pee—we didn't do tourists. We existed for the seasons: dove, quail, javelina, turkey and the most popular: deer.

Whitetail season opened in a couple of weeks for general hunting. Bow hunting season was already in progress, but we don't get much of that around here. The town itself didn't do much direct business with the hunters, but the residents of the county, mostly ranchers with lucrative leases, did.

I crossed the parking lot of the small strip center that was pretty much all there was of beautiful downtown Rio Seco. A small silver-haired woman holding a couple of cups of coffee stood just outside Bea's Place, our only retail food establishment. I was there for fuel: caffeine, food and a quick gabfest with my best friend (and the caf?'s owner), Beatriz Ruiz.

"Hey, Greta,” I called to the woman, smiling as I approached and trying to keep a neutral tone. Hard enough to keep my regular secrets from the locals without anyone noticing this Change business, too. Would she see anything different about me? Marty hadn't noticed, but then we'd only spoken on the phone. Besides, he was preoccupied with whatever it was he was caught up in.

"Good day, Keira.” Greta Nagy returned my smile with one of her own. Good. She sounded like she usually did. I guess that meant I didn't sound any different, even though my brain was still buzzing.

"How you doing?” I asked. “That a new outfit?"

"Yes.” She preened a little, showing off the snazzy silver-gray track suit, the uniform of choice around here for women of a certain age. “Thank you for noticing."

A bit over seventy, Greta and her slightly more senior brother owned and operated the deli/convenience store that made up most of the right-hand side of the L-shaped center. The caf? anchored the far left of the strip. A laundromat, video store and a real estate office made up the rest. Not much town here, but I loved every square rolling foot of it, despite my apathy of the last couple of years.

"Since it is the middle of the afternoon, you must be having breakfast,” Greta asked.

"Nothing like Bea's breakfast tacos and coffee to wake a person up.” I smiled. My stomach made the appropriate accompanying noises.

A glimpse of movement at the corner of my eye caught my attention. Greta's brother was in front of the deli, loading the store van with what looked like cases of wine. He carried them almost effortlessly, with the smooth moves of a much younger man.

I turned back to Greta. “So, how's Boris doing?"

She grimaced a little, but kept her polite tone. “He is better."

I heard the uncertainty behind the words, not completely masked by her matter-of-fact delivery.

"No more problems, then?"

"A few nightmares, but he is better. I will let him know you asked, thank you."

With that, she smiled and walked away.

I watched as she handed him his coffee. They were too far away for me to hear anything, but as he took a sip, he wiped his forehead with a red bandanna and looked over at me, a strange expression on his face.

I waved a “hello” and walked into the caf?.

Poor man. I wasn't the only one having nightmares. Boris had mentioned he had horrible nightmares, sometimes so terrible they affected his health. Were they as bad as mine? Maybe, except his were based on reality; mine only seemed like they were.

Last time I'd talked to Boris, a few days ago, his usual tan was faded and his eyes were sunk into his wrinkled face, making him look much older than his seventy-odd years. Normally he was as fit and as physically able as his sister or more so. Perhaps he was better, as Greta said but, knowing Boris, he probably figured lying to his sister, pretending the drugs helped, was better than continuing to go to doctors who could never really cure what was wrong. Doctors cannot make the past go away.

I'd only seen the numbers tattooed on his forearm once, but I knew what they were. Greta had her own set. Neither of them ever discussed it, but I knew enough to recognize the symptoms of trying to forget. I could relate to having memories that needed to stay hidden.

I crossed the floor of the caf?. Before I could order, Bea's nephew, Noe, handed me a giant mug. Coffee: hot as hell, sweet as love and white with real cream. I took a deep gulp of the hot liquid and silently blessed the boy for anticipating my order.

"Thanks, Noe,” I said. “Can I get my usual?"

He nodded and rang up my order.

I was putting my wallet back into my backpack when a deep voice behind me muttered, “Strange doings at the Wild Moon."

I turned to see Boris standing just inside the door of the restaurant. He wiped his hands on his bandanna, then placed it carefully in his left back pocket as he approached. He walked up to the counter and I watched him pull two packets of sweetener from a small bowl and place them into his shirt pocket, then pat the pocket as if to make sure they were carefully tucked in.

Boris wore a male version of my own outfit: jeans, hiking boots and a plaid cotton flannel shirt, worn open over a T-shirt. His was crew necked with short sleeves; mine was a tank top, but both were standard Hill Country gear. Most local guys wore their shirt sleeves rolled up, even in winter, but Boris's sleeves stayed tightly buttoned over the telltale numbers on his arm.

"Hey, Boris."

He did look a little better, less faded than the last time I'd seen him, but I could still see the strain in his eyes.

He nodded, a grim expression on his face. “I was there this morning,” he said.

"There where?” I asked.

"At the Wild Moon."

Once a local hunting ranch, the Wild Moon had closed about thirty years ago when its absentee Houston owners abandoned it after their oil stocks tanked. The bank that held the note couldn't unload the place, so it had been left to decay, becoming the playground for the county's adventurous teenagers who liked to trespass. Its nearly two thousand acres also provided a great happy hunting ground for members of my family who preferred to hunt the old-fashioned way—chasing down their prey before they killed and ate it.

A couple of years ago, not too long after I'd come back home, all that changed. Some unknown outsider bought the place and started renovations.

I hadn't heard the Wild Moon was open for business, but it was possible. Although the ranch was located only a dozen miles outside of town, none of the locals ever went out there. Residents here had grown used to the fact that guests at exclusive ranches for the rich and shameless rarely left their pampered lives to shop at the Video Hut or lunch at a small town deli. No matter—for the most part, we didn't bother them and they didn't bother us. I figured this incarnation of the Wild Moon was just another way for outsiders to not spend money in town.

Boris took out his bandanna again, his hands restless. “You haven't heard then?"

"Heard what?"

"Two children, young people. They found two dead deer. By the picnic grounds at the lake. Bled. Mutilated."

Oh, that was just freakin’ dandy. Unless Boris had a direct line to my twisted psyche—which he couldn't—evidently what I'd experienced were more than just nightmares; they had some connection with reality. Nightmare Visions Are Us. Welcome to the Clairvoyance Club—another byproduct of my wonderful weird heritage.

But, wait—something didn't quite match my bloody dreams.

"What do you mean, ‘mutilated'?” I asked. “Like the cattle in those horrible UFO stories?” Maybe I was wrong, maybe it was just—no. I wasn't wrong. I knew I wasn't wrong. The memory was too real, too fresh in my mind. This could
not
be a coincidence. Or could it?

Boris shook his head as if to dislodge the memory. “Someone took the heads.” He sounded tired, raw.

Now that was an interesting twist. When I'd—

Okay, I'm not wanting to remember that part right now, but I do know the deer were intact in my vision. Dead, yes. Bled—well, yeah, as part of the feeding. But they had not been headless.

Boris continued his story. “I was just making morning deliveries to the Inn. Then there was the shouting."

"Deliveries?"

"Yes. They are stocking up, I think. Open for guests now. Been taking supplies out there every day before breakfast. Most afternoons just before dark. I order wine and other things for them. Deliver it. Business is good."

The last word came out as “goot.” Neither he nor Greta had much of an accent but, every once in a while, traces in their speech were reminders they hadn't always been Texans.

Boris glanced past me. I looked over my shoulder to see what he was looking at. No one was near. A few customers sat in booths to our right, nobody I recognized offhand. Probably daytrippers. Boris wiped his face with his bandanna, as if just the telling of his tale upset him. “Those poor children. It was terrible. The blood was gone, the heads ... terrible."

"Did
you
actually see the deer?"

He nodded, and leaned toward me, whispering faster, as if the faster he spoke, the easier the words would be to say.

"When the manager went to look, I followed. I saw the bodies. The death.” He shuddered a little and stuffed his bandanna back into his pocket. “There is evil. It is not safe, Keira. He doesn't know. Tell him—"

The brass Indian elephant bells attached to the caf? door tinkled behind me, announcing a new arrival.

Boris could see whoever had just entered. His eyes widened and a look of horror spread across his face. He shut his mouth, pressing his lips together.

I whirled at his reaction, nearly dropping to a defensive crouch before I saw it was just Greta coming through the door. She had a peculiar look on her own face. Her mouth smiled, yet something else swam behind her dark eyes, something that could almost be anger. I'd never seen any strong emotion from her—at most a gentle lift of the corners of her mouth as if slightly amused.

"Boris, did you get what you needed?"

Greta's words were flat, juiceless, completely without inflection, as if each word were printed on a piece of paper from which she read.

I tightened my grip on my coffee cup, my adrenaline surging just a little as I sensed her tension. I reinforced my mental shields. I did this naturally, without thinking. My barriers were a part of me; the first thing I learned during my early years—how to hide in plain sight. The emotions of others couldn't get in; mine couldn't get out. Survival training at its finest.

But Greta's silent agitation wasn't directed at me. She approached her brother and took his arm. He grimaced as her fingers dug into the cloth of his shirt, but didn't remove her hand. There was more than tension there. Fear maybe? I couldn't tell by just watching them and I wasn't prepared to do more than look with my eyes.