The Blood Keeper (The Blood Journals) (5 page)

I marched the dogs through the garage to hose them off before herding them to the fenced-in kennel that took up one quarter of our backyard. Tried not to think about Ben coming home. I wanted to see him, sure, but I’d have almost rather been as far away as I could get. High overhead with a bird’s-eye
view for real, watching from where I couldn’t be seen so that if the phone rang and it all went to shit I could fly away.

Val ran for a blue and black rope she kept in her empty food bowl. She batted it against my hand and I grabbed it. We tugged for a moment. The strain pulled at the bruise hardening on my chest. An unfortunate reminder of the impossible thing I’d seen this morning.

Havoc pushed Val aside, and they snapped at each other. I wished I could ask them if they remembered the creature, too. If they could confirm or deny what I thought I’d seen. Now that I was home in the backyard, it wavered in my memory, like my brain was trying to make sense of it and the only way was to pretend it hadn’t happened.

I focused on my girls again. They were sisters, and just over a year old. Aaron and I had picked them out from a litter in Tonganoxie and trained them for weeks.
So you’ll have them to keep you out of trouble when I’m gone
, he’d said. Of course, he’d meant gone away to school. Mom had been horrified at the thought of two giant dogs dragging mud through her living room, and I’d spent all my money from last summer to buy up enough wood for the kennel. Building it had kept me occupied for the first week after the funeral. That and Googling what the restrictions were for moving dogs to Australia.

I dropped to my knees and the girls came immediately. Val whined and Havoc snuffled at my ear. I wrapped an arm around each of their necks and buried my face against Havoc’s smelly ruff. I thought of the mud thing throwing itself at her, of the terror ripping through me as I leapt. Of slamming into it, of its taste in my mouth, choking my throat. Of that girl holding
the heart in her hand, and the salt falling like diamonds, making the monster crumble.

I tasted blood on my tongue and spat into the grass.

It hadn’t been real. It couldn’t have been. I’d been waterlogged from soaking in the lake. This was some weird post-traumatic thing, because of Holly almost dying out there.

But compared to what was coming this afternoon, I almost preferred a monster.

It was warm under all the trees, despite the shade, as I made my way along the unpaved road that wound up the hill to the Pink House. The crows hopped from branch to branch, or glided silently over my head. I kept my feet moving steadily along one of the tire tracks that cut through the thick mud. My boots squelched, and the slow pace and difficulty sucking each foot out of the mud kept me focused. All I wanted to do was strip down, climb into the tub, and fall asleep in a hot, bubbly bath.

I thought of Will’s face, all angles and surprise, as he pinned the runaway doll down. It was such fortune that he’d been there, to catch the curse before it trailed too far, or too near civilization. I hadn’t expected it to be such a risk to summon up that spirit from his prison of roses. He—it—had been stronger than I anticipated, and the hunger to understand why and how and when he’d been planted in the rose roots gnawed more sharply than ever at my ribs. But now I’d never know! The creature was dead, released from the roses by possessing my doll, and torn from that when Will pulled out the antler holding its heart in place.

When I was rested, I’d have to go back and gather as much of the wax and ingredients as I could, to bring them home and experiment with the remains. Perhaps some would be useful in other avenues, or at least for warding lines to scare the rabbits away.

Only a few yards from the crown of our hill, I stepped off the road and closed my eyes.

The forest sang with deep magic, hidden just under the green. So it was because we lived and worked here: blood witches imbuing the earth with our power, and in turn drawing out the natural magic in the world in a constant recycling of energy. For a hundred years the Deacon had used this place to grow strong, to hold a stable space for any who needed our magical aid. And it showed through the magic in the trees.

Holding out my hands, I walked slowly on. Orange sun-spots and cool blue shade flickered in the darkness behind my eyelids, but I could see well enough with my fingers. I reached out, my hands brushing against leaves. Because I was the Deacon, every caress, each glancing touch, drew magic. My skin drank up all the forest offered. It skimmed up my wrists and arms to coil in my chest. Gentle, sucking power, familiar and beloved.

The tiny cuts on my arms and hands knitted back together under this deluge of magic; the bruises blossomed into yellow and faded away. My steps sped up and I opened my eyes, picking my way strongly and carefully through the forest.

I was unable to stop the smile from curling across my face. My forest, my magic—it poured through my blood, and the
pure, heady bliss washed away my disappointment. Instead my spirit flew.

As I broke through the trees and into the clearing where the garden and house waited, the crows sprang up and flew for the porch. Half landed on the eaves, and the other half dropped down toward the garden around the west side. Donna lifted her head from beside the sweet-pea stakes—on the opposite side of the garden from the roses. Her wide-brimmed hat flopped back, and she smiled at first, but it faded quickly as I trudged nearer.

“Are you all right?” she asked, pushing off her knees and coming at me, concern stretching to the corners of her face. She couldn’t tell that under all the mud and streaks of blood, I’d already healed myself.

“I’m all right. Just tired.”

Donna’s garden-green eyes scanned the runes I’d painted up and down my arms. “I’d assumed you were only out for your seven-day binding and got sidetracked by something shiny.”

“I was—was experimenting. With ways to get rid of the roses.” I pulled my shoulders back and tried to affect the same airy confidence Arthur was so good at. I’m sure it sat on me like feathers on a cat. “It didn’t go as planned, but I’m fine.”

She brushed a thumb under my eye and studied me with a calm nonexpression. She had her hair in braided pigtails that hung straight along her neck, making the thin wrinkles pulling at her eyes look like smiling lines instead of age. When she’d arrived here seven years ago, I’d only been ten, and her hair had been shaved away. I remembered sitting beside her on the
garden bench and running my fingers over the soft fuzz. “Why is it gone?” I’d whispered. She said, “I have to use the razor for something.” She always wore long sleeves, even in the sticking August weeks, so I’d only seen the rows of jagged scars striping up her forearms one morning when she’d washed her hands in the well.

I was twelve when her hair was long enough that she could pin bits of it back from her face. Then she, Arthur, Granny Lyn, and I had done a small ritual at the blood ground, burying and binding the razor forever. It had been her very last spell. Donna still wore long sleeves and rarely smiled, but her flowers and vegetables grew full and sweet.

“You’ll figure it out, little queen—they’re already looking pretty devastated,” she said, glancing toward the center of the garden, at the mess of mud and petals where I’d knelt that morning. “Why don’t you go take a bath? I’ll make breakfast, since I assume you skipped, and tea.”

“Thank you.” I hefted my bag higher on my shoulder and headed for the house. I wished I could tell her everything, about the doll and Will. But I would never confess to Donna that I’d trapped and killed a deer, that I’d used bone dust and my own hair to create a living doll. She wouldn’t understand, because although Donna was a blood witch, just like me, she refused to use her power. Arthur had taught me it was a gift, that it was who I was. Donna believed it was more of a curse we had to control.

We walked up the porch together, and a couple of the crows darted in through the open kitchen window. Donna ignored them but to brush one off the counter, and reached for
the kettle. I watched her a moment. Her motions were always so certain and gentle, as if the world around her was a delicate thing.

“Mab?”

I blinked. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

She watched me from the stove. “You looked like Arthur for a moment.”

Hearing her say it helped me free myself from the sudden stupor. Mother used to tell me that Arthur could rule the world if he wanted to. I believed her because of the way he whispered to trees so that they would weave their branches together and shelter us from sudden rain, how he carried me on his back to check the wards every day, found broken birds and gave them life again, put a hand on Mother’s wrist and all her anger drained away. Anyone who could take Mother’s shaking and transform it into peace could surely tame the whole world. So I walked like him and practiced his gestures, frowned when he frowned and memorized everything he said. I listened to my blood and the secrets it told my heart, and I promised myself I would someday be as inseparable from nature as Arthur was. That I could hold the keep as strongly and peaceably as he did.

I hadn’t expected to have to prove it so soon.

But as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, I smiled. Donna had seen him in me, and for once I hadn’t even been trying.

No matter how much gum I chewed, seconds after spitting it out the taste was back. Mud monster. I might as well have been sucking dirty pennies all morning.

As soon as we got home from church, Mom began ordering us around as if she was the drill sergeant instead of Dad. I didn’t see any clutter or dirt, but Mom pointed at shelves to be dusted, stairs to be vacuumed, ceiling fans with tiny cobwebs between their blades. I said Ben wouldn’t notice a spotless house if it bit him on the ass.

Dad clapped me on both shoulders and told me to man up. To stop aggravating my mother. That Ben had been in arid mountains for a year and yes, by God, he would definitely appreciate some clean floors. Then Dad disappeared into the kitchen and returned with an apron. He threw it at my chest, ruffles and all. I tied it around my neck and watched the flowery folds spill down. Mom tied it around my waist. A tiny smile brought out the dimple in her cheek. She brushed her hands down the material and arched her eyebrows at me.

A sweaty hour later, we’d done everything we could. I discovered that dusting the ceiling was a great way to ignore unbelievably weird memories.

Mom still stood in the center of the living room with a pinched forehead. I took her hand and sat her down in the breakfast nook. Dad made her a mimosa. He didn’t make one for himself, and I half wished he would. He hadn’t had a drink in over a year. Mom offered me a sip to calm my nerves, but a quick glance at Dad had me grinning and promising I wasn’t nervous at all.

Dad’s phone rang just then.

Mom and I paused as he slid it from his pocket.

His tight mouth stretched into a smile as he answered. “Afternoon, Marine.”

Mom came to clutch my hand. We’d stood right here in the middle of the kitchen almost a year ago. While Dad talked on the phone to the police about Aaron.

But now Dad laughed. The sound rolled through Mom, tightening her fingers. “I’ll get in the car in about forty-five minutes, son. How’s spaghetti sound?” He nodded, still smiling, and when he hung up he turned to us. “Ben sounds great. He’s boarding his connecting flight in Cincinnati, and”—Dad stepped forward and took Mom’s other hand—“spaghetti sounds great.”

We’d all known it would. Ben had emailed from Kabul two months ago saying he was craving it.

“Maybe we should all go, greet him the moment he gets off the plane,” Mom said.

I groaned.

Dad snapped a glare at me but only said, “Let’s have our reunion here in our home.” He walked into the living room, and we heard him fiddling with the CD player. A moment later, the low-key Sinatra that Mom loved followed him back into the kitchen. He bowed formally to her, shoulders sharp and hands folded like he was wearing his dress blues. Mom laughed and put out her hands. He swept her into a gentle dance.

It was nice to watch. Really nice.

I started pulling out spaghetti ingredients and stationed myself at the chopping board. And used every chance to pop small chunks of onion into my mouth. Raw onion was pretty nasty, but it got rid of the mud monster longer than gum.

The sauce was simmering when Dad left for the airport. Mom took off my apron. She hummed along with Sinatra and
pulled me into a dance with her. She’d taught all of us to dance a little bit, so it was no chore keeping up. I took over the lead, swung her out. Mom laughed and said, “You’re not nervous, are you?”

I spun her. In the tight kitchen, it wasn’t easy. The spaghetti sauce needed stirring, smelling up the room with tomatoes and fennel. When she turned back, Mom put her hands on the sides of my face. “Will. You don’t need to be.”

“He’s my brother. I’m not nervous.” I removed her hands. “But I should stir the sauce.”

Her smile tilted a little. Enough to make it sad and proud at the same time. “Everybody’s hero,” she murmured as I backed away and turned to the stove.

I fell asleep in the bath and dreamed of the doll. It squished its clammy wax fingers around my throat and squeezed. I bit my lip, but no blood spilled out. I scratched at my arm, and when the skin peeled back under my nails, it was dull and yellow and bloodless. The doll’s jagged mouth pulled into a smile.

I jerked awake, sloshing water out of the claw-foot tub. It was tepid, and my skin was wrinkled and waterlogged. There was a strange scraping sound, and I turned to find a crow crouched on the tank of the toilet. He hopped down onto the pale green tiles and walked stiffly over them, his head bobbing as his claws slid gracelessly over the slick floor. When he reached the wall below the window, he flung himself up to the sill. Warm, humid air blew in, ruffling his feathers and tangling
the thin curtains. He squawked at me, flipped his tail, and jumped into the sky.

I heard him yelling at his brothers, and then the slam of a car door. We had visitors, and the crows had come to wake me.