The Blood Keeper

by Tessa Gratton

  His face darkened, and he crouched down, ruffling both hands in the dog’s heavy fur. “I think she’s all right.”

  “She will be with you, I’m sure.”

  Something strange flitted across Will’s expression before he offered me a smile.

  “I should go,” I said.

  “Me too.” He glanced at the remains of the doll and spat on the ground. I recalled the taste of its breath, when I’d kissed it into life.

  He opened his mouth as if to ask me again what it was, but instead he tilted his face up to the sky, where the crows spiraled slowly as vultures. He shook his head and laughed softly. “It’s impossible.”

  The crucial moment had swung around again: Would he let this go, believe me that it was nothing? Or would it be caught in his memory like a match, sparking again and again in his dreams? I pulled him to his feet, heaving with the strength I had left. We faced one another, and I touched his shoulder with a hand that was sticky with blood and mud and had already left streaks staining his bare chest. “It is impossible,” I said softly but firmly. Spreading my fingers out, I pressed a nearly perfect handprint into his skin. “And not important. You don’t need to think about it; it won’t hurt you or anyone. It’s gone. Fading like it never existed.”

  The sun was behind him, shining all around his head so that his hair turned into an auburn halo and his face was only shadows. For a split second he seemed exactly like the doll, muddy muscles and formed-wax grin. But then he shook his head, dispelling the illusion, and said, “Right. Impossible.”

  I took the few steps toward where my magic bag lay under the sweeping willow branches. As I tucked the bag over my shoulder, I glanced at Will again. “Thank you, Will. I owe you. Remember this: my home is two miles south off the county road there.”

  “Two miles. Got it.”

  “If you ever need anything.”

  “Yeah.” He was staring at me, tracking my every movement with his eyes.

  All the goodbyes I knew were formal and full of God and blessings and charms, and I wasn’t certain he’d even remember me. People were so good at dismissing anything that didn’t make sense, and I was positive I did not fit into Will’s world. So I merely said, “Go with grace, Will.”

  I turned my back to him, focused on walking in a straight, steady line. Crow shadows scattered across the grass as the birds flew after me.

  FIVE

  The first time I saw you, I was seventeen. I climbed down out of the train, and there you were on the platform, leaning a slim shoulder against the brick station building, your hands tucked into the pockets of your slacks. I thought, Here is your future, Evie, and isn’t he handsome?

  Then Gabriel stepped around the corner and doffed his fedora. The cut of his suit and his polished shoes made you fade, and you didn’t seem to mind. He met me with an outstretched hand and I accepted it, setting my suitcase on the platform. “Little Evie Sonnenschein,” Gabriel said as he tucked my gloved hand into his elbow and pressed it there. “Welcome to Kansas.”

  It had been four years since I’d met him in my father’s parlor, but if I’d had to say, I’d have admitted not a thing about him had aged or changed. Still slinking and smiling as if he’d walked out of an MGM studio, still with his hair waxed and shining, his fingers soft, and the mysterious tattoos peeking up his neck from under the stiff collar of his shirt. He nodded at you. “Here is my cousin Arthur, who is our benefactor, you know. Our landlord.” Gabriel smiled sharply at you, and I was surprised to hear your name. I’d expected Arthur Prowd to be old, not so near my own age with pretty blue eyes and a quiet voice.

  “Miss Sonnenschein,” you murmured, pushing off the building. Instead of offering your hand, you bowed. You had no hat, and your moon-pale hair was tucked behind your ears. You were missing a jacket, as well, despite the sharp chill in the air, and your shirtsleeves were rolled up over tan forearms. I liked your wrists and imagined you twisting them to conjure shapes out of smoke or to cradle a bird in the basket of your hands.

  “Thank you, Mr. Prowd,” I said, “for giving me sanctuary.”

  Together the three of us went to a ten-year-old Pontiac hunched alone in the dirt lot, its grill rusty and one of its round headlights cracked. You went to drive, and Gabriel gallantly offered me the passenger seat, taking my suitcase to the rear with him.

  The sun was setting before us in vivid stripes of pink and red as we drove through empty hills to what would be our home. You steered with your arms loose and eyes ahead. I held myself still, for all I wanted was to press against the window and stare as the brown and silver land scraped past. It was the end of autumn, most trees devoid of leaves but for the desperate brown stragglers, and the few farms we passed clutching near to town had harvested already. Squares of cut wheat glowed like gold in the sunset, and I saw three deer lift their heads at the grind and pop from the car.

  I’d been here for fifteen minutes and never wanted to leave.

  Gabriel leaned up from the back, creaking the old leather seat, and asked how my ride had been and if any persons in Chicago were familiar with our blood. I assured him that no, all my family was dead and there were none of my school friends who knew enough about me to be trusted with those secrets.

  You nodded gently but did not glance my way. I surprised myself by how much I wanted you to look at me.

  “Damn, but it’s cold,” Gabriel said, slapping the back of my seat in consternation. “Yesterday, Evie, it was hot enough to swim. You’ll get used to the confused state of Mother Nature out here on the prairie.”

  “Chicago isn’t so different, Mr. Desmarais.” But I was chilled, even in Mother’s old tweed coat with the high fur collar.

  “I can offer you my coat,” Gabriel said, seeing my shiver.

  I smiled and slipped a tiny quill out of my pocket. Tugging my glove off one finger at a time, I focused myself, breathed three times deeply, and said, “I can keep myself warm.”

  With a prick of my first finger on the sharp point of the quill, I snapped fire into my palm. The ball of flame hovered there, warming the cab, and as Gabriel gasped and then laughed, I noticed you finally look, and just the corner of your mouth curled into a smile.

  SIX

  WILL

  I grabbed drive-through doughnuts on my way home.

  The plan had been to go out to the lake and get rid of my bad dreams, be back in time for church before Mom had to nag. Maybe even catch a nap before Ben got home.

  Turned out I was covered in mud and blood, about fifteen minutes later than I meant to be, and instead of my nightmares going away I was probably going to be dreaming about strange girls in goggles and monsters who wanted to eat my dogs.

  Total FUBAR.

  I pushed the gas pedal, eyes peeled for cops.

  Hopefully, Dad would be close enough to a good mood because of Ben that the doughnuts would push him over the edge. And Mom liked them enough she might not mind missing church. My truck filled up with the smell of sugar instead of mud, and the alt station I’d been listening to went to commercial. I flipped over to classical, turning it as loud as it could go. I’d left the prairie and river valley mostly behind. Newly built houses popped up in identical cul-de-sacs on both sides of the road.

  Our neighborhood was the color of a wasps’ nest, and just as uniform. Every house was one of five basic designs, with differences that didn’t go beyond certain paint colors and allowable yard art. Clean. Sterilized. Not the kind of place I could even think about a mud monster. Or a very, very weird girl. Who’d put her bloody hand on my chest and said, It’s not important.

  The more I thought about it, the less it seemed to matter. Like they say: out of sight, out of mind.

  I turned the music even louder. Everybody on our block was used to me bringing the bass, but not on a Sunday morning. I didn’t cut the sound down until I rolled into the driveway. The front door opened the second I turned off the car anyway, as if Mom had been stalking at the window.

  She waited f
or me on the small porch, in pressed slacks and a violet blouse.

  All I could smell was mud and sugar, sticking to my sweaty face. I plastered on a smile, hoping to charm her so that I didn’t have to lie.

  “Hey, Mama!” I said as I opened the door, and I charged at her, arms spread as if I’d grab her up in a great big, filthy bear hug.

  Her eyes widened and she held out her hands. “Oh no you don’t! William Sanger, stop!”

  I froze with my hands up and curled into claws. Slowly, I lowered my arms and tilted my chin down so that, from the height of the front steps, all she could see were my big brown eyes.

  Mom rolled hers. “Oh, Will, what have you been doing?” She glanced over me at the truck.

  “Out getting doughnuts?” I offered. “They’re fresh and hot.”

  “Did you have to ford a river?”

  “To the land of King Donutus, where Val and Havoc fought valiantly against the … um … Evil Lord Food Pyramid.”

  Laughter slipped out of her, and I relaxed. If she laughed five times a day, I was winning. Today, my goal would be ten, one for every month Aaron had been gone.

  She said, “Well, Sir William, get yourself cleaned up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I jogged back to the car and dragged out the flimsy pink doughnut box. “I need to take the dogs around back and hose them down.”

  As I gave the doughnuts to Mom, she carefully avoided the mud smears my hands left. Her eyelashes fluttered, and she glanced down at the cartoon doughnut printed on the box before drawing herself up and smiling. “Oh, Will. I suppose we have time for doughnuts, too, if you hurry yourself up with the dogs. Church starts in forty minutes.”

  “I thought it started ten minutes ago?”

  “We’re going across to Reformation instead, since you’re so late.”

  “Why bother?” I glanced at the house like it might tell me what was going on.

  She put a fist on her hip. “To thank God your brother’s home safe.”

  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.

  MAB

  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.