The Blood Keeper

by Tessa Gratton

  She said, “It is who I am.”

  MAB

  When the tea was ready, I pulled a fleam off the peg hanging on the side of the refrigerator and, with a tiny tap, cut my thumb and let one drip plunk down into Will’s tea. It was willow bark, and hopefully, it would reduce his fever. The bark was part of a batch I’d made up just last week. Fresh and blood-quickened. I whispered a thrice-blessing against the surface of his tea and offered the mug.

  “You put blood in it,” he said, eyeing it suspiciously.

  “To quicken the magic.”

  Wincing, Will said, “Drinking tea with your blood in it … basically goes against everything I’ve ever learned. About diseases. And cannibalism. And … religion.”

  “My blood already marks your chest, and blood is the element that makes my magic work. If you’re squeamish, I don’t know if I can help you.”

  “It isn’t about being squeamish. It’s just this all takes some getting used to.” He didn’t look away from the mug of tea.

  I took a moment and studied the creasing at the outer corners of his eyes, the pinched skin. This was much to take in, to understand. I’d grown up with it, always believed in the power of my blood. Perhaps for Will, this was tantamount to me being given proof that magic was not real, and that my entire outlook on life was skewed false. I wished I could touch his head and transfer the understanding, could help him feel the truth of it.

  Walking around the table, I held my hand out to him again, this time the one with the wounded thumb. “Blood is the conduit of magic. It is the house of power.” He very gently took my hand and ran his thumb over my palm, examined my fingers one by one. I shivered at the touch, and my eyes fluttered closed of their own accord until Will pressed lightly on the tiny cut I’d made with the fleam.

  “That really doesn’t hurt?” He kept ahold of my hand, cradling it in both of his, and looked up at me.

  “Yes, it does.”

  He dropped my hand. “I’m sorry!”

  I drew it back, and then rubbed the cut thumb against my fingers. “It’s just the way things are. Necessary to the magic. You have to sacrifice something to gain something.”

  Revulsion and fascination twisted through his expression, but he kept leaning toward me. “That doesn’t sound very worth it.”

  “Oh, it is. You only have to adjust to it. Like walking out into a bright afternoon. It might hurt your eyes, but you take it and get used to it and then after a moment you can see all the colors of the world.”

  “Still. Sucks.” Will shrugged one shoulder. “It would be nice if you could just … do it.”

  “Well, eventually you can. If you get good enough at it.” I glanced out the window, thinking of Arthur, who never had to bleed for anything.

  Will smiled. “Better.”

  “It’s dangerous. You have to work hard to get to that point, and that’s as it should be. Nothing should be free. Think about guns. If it hurt you to shoot a gun, don’t you think people would think harder about when and where and why they did it?”

  Slowly, he nodded. “That does make sense.”

  I pulled my chair around next to his, and while we sipped our tea, answered all of his questions. I explained to him about the blood kin, about being the Deacon and why I existed. I told him how the blood worked with intention and symbols, but what it really got down to was willpower. About patterns and nature and listening to the whisper of the trees. He wanted to know how I’d learned it all, and so I talked of Arthur more, and of Mother, of the books she’d given me and insisted I read instead of the texts on my homeschooling lists. Not only old journals from other witches but Shakespeare and Milton and Goethe and Malory. Histories of alchemy and witchcraft.

  In turn, I asked about him. He told me about growing up in a military family, about their constant movement and all the shifting and change. About wanting to travel the world, see everything, taste and touch all of it. His rootlessness stirred sympathy in me, but it didn’t seem to bother him—permanence wasn’t something he longed for.

  My mug had been empty for nearly an hour when I finally asked if I could have some more of his blood.

  “Why?” It was only a question, matter-of-fact and simple.

  “To prepare for the cleansing, I need to bless an ointment that’s charged to you—to your blood. So I need a few drops. It will work better.”

  He paused for only a moment before saying, “Yes.”

  I took the fleam out again and tapped one of the blades into his wrist. His whole face peeled back and he groaned, more from surprise than pain, I think. As his blood spilled into the empty mug, he couldn’t take his eyes off of it.

  Unable to resist, I scooted the mug aside when it was full enough and healed his wound. It only took a drop of the blessed water we kept in the refrigerator and a small word breathed over his skin. He shivered as the flesh knitted back together and the blood stopped. Only a tiny pink line remained. I smiled up at him, our faces close.

  My breath caught as I saw the crescents of red in his eyes. It wasn’t natural, but for one moment it seemed as though it should have been.

  He watched me with those acorn eyes, and I was suddenly more nervous than I’d been about anything. His hands were so warm around mine, it felt like the energy might burn up to my elbows. All I thought about for a moment was breathing his breath.

  A crow cawed outside and I jumped, squeezing Will’s wrist too tightly. “Sorry,” I said, and glanced off at the stairs.

  Will asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “I should check on Lukas. It’s getting late.”

  “What time is …” His eyes shot past me to the grandfather clock and widened. “It’s after seven. I have got to go.”

  “Oh.” I paused, half twisted toward the stairway, and fought disappointment. “All right. The ointment should be ready tomorrow, but call me if anything changes.”

  He ran a hand up the back of his neck and into his hair. “I don’t have my phone to add your number.”

  Rushing to the junk drawer, I fished out a dark blue marker and held it up triumphantly. Will offered his arm and, with an air of ceremony, I wrote the Pink House number along the back of his hand. I gave him my hand in the same way, and when he’d written out his number onto my skin, the digits next to each other looked like secret codes in the fading light.

  “Wait,” I said, and dashed into the pantry for one of our tied bags of tea. “It’s willow tea, like you had today. Should keep your fever down.” I offered it.

  He smiled. “Thanks.”

  Though I led him to the front door, I was reluctant to let go of his hand once we reached the porch. “You can find your way from here?”

  “If I can’t I don’t deserve to,” he joked. Will didn’t move, or let go of me. I watched his eyes flicker between mine, tiny little back-and-forth motions. His lips parted just a bit, and I heard the crunch of tires on the pebble drive.

  Donna.

  Will turned away, releasing my hand. “Thanks for this.” He held up the tea with the hand covered in my phone number.

  I waved as he moved across the front yard, paused to lean into the station wagon to greet Donna. Evening shadows stretched from the oak trees and across Will’s back. He laughed at something, straightened, and did a little spin in place as he waved back to me. He jogged backward for a moment, then turned again to vanish down the road.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Gabriel had taken himself off within an hour of Josephine arriving and hadn’t come home yet, so that whole afternoon it was you and me and her. To my surprise, you both stayed in the house. You showed Josephine our little blood marks at the windows that could be powered with a whispered breath and made to draw cross breezes through the entire house. She clapped with delight, and began spinning ideas for how it might be improved, how it could be made permanent with additional sacrifice, or perhaps even tuned in to the sunlight or rhythms of air so that it was self-regulating. It was only a conversation about wind and practical
magic, and yet both of you lit up like children.

  I began to understand. She was obsessed with the blood, with the power it held, in a way I was not and might never be. For her it was the world, it was the purpose. For me it has always been a tool, even when it shows me beauty. She tried a few times to pull me into the conversation, but I shrugged and said a good ceiling fan would do the same trick, out of a perverse thought to differentiate myself from her, even if it wasn’t what you wanted.

  All day the two of you argued and laughed and drew vast plans up on a roll of paper you had dragged up from the barn. I went about my chores, in and out to the garden and icebox, rolling dough and boiling down lavender. When I made tea for myself, I brought you a pitcher and was shocked to see Josephine crouched on the floor beside a sketch of some complex magical circle, with tears streaking makeup down her cheeks and you softly saying, “He will return, when he’s found his peace again.”

  “He’s forgotten all the pleasure in life, Arthur,” she hissed, and I took a step back out of the room. But not before she saw me, her blue eyes wild. She stared at me, then at you, then back at me, and smiled.

  There was no way I could have guessed what she intended to do.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  MAB

  The door to Arthur’s bedroom was open as I’d left it, and Lukas was on the bed with his eyes shut. He’d kicked off all the blankets and, instead of curling up in a ball, had sprawled across the bed with one arm flopped over the side.

  I sat carefully on the edge, smoothing hair away from his face. “Lukas?” I said softly.

  His eyelids twitched, and he moved his bandaged hand. I took it, holding it between my hands. I drew circles on the back of his wrist until he slowly looked up at me. “Hey,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better,” he whispered. He smacked his lips. “Thirsty.” His small voice was dry and broken.

  From the bathroom, I brought a tall glass of water, then helped prop him up so that he could sip. His skin felt warm, but only from sleeping, not from fever. As he drank, I told him what I’d done to the black candle rune. “He can’t hurt you with it now, and I will find another way to break his connection.”

  Lukas fumbled with the glass because of his bandages, and I gently set it on the bedside table.

  “Time?” he said.

  “It’s evening. Donna’s bringing some stew and medicine. But I think you’re doing just fine. You only need to sleep it off, recover your inner stores of magic. Because of the binding, I can’t feed you energy, or pass it from the trees.”

  As he nodded, his eyes drooped. He touched my skirt and I sat again just beside his pillow. Clanking sounds and the light thump of opening and closing cabinets floated up the stairs and through the open bedroom door, from where Donna was putting away groceries and starting dinner. Lukas draped an arm across my lap, holding me very loosely. I put a hand on his head and rubbed circles into his temple, humming Mother’s favorite song about the sea.

  When he was asleep again, I carefully stood up and went to the window. Through the windowpane I could see the snarl of roses down in the garden. Here I was, Deacon for less than two months and full up with people to aid. It was exhilarating but frightening. What happened to Will was my fault, because I’d chosen not to raze the roses but instead to listen to them. To open the world up to their poison.

  How was that different from what Lukas’s father had done to him? Intention only. My will to undo it, to change the path I’d wrought.

  I pushed open the window, letting in the warm evening breeze. It shouldn’t be too hot now that Lukas’s fire-fever had broken. I leaned outside, twisting my neck until I saw one of the crows perched at the edge of the roof. “Reese,” I said, beckoning with my hand.

  The crow swooped down and landed on the sill.

  He bobbed his head, and I moved aside so that he could hop over to the roughly carved wooden bedpost. There he clutched, angling his beak down toward Lukas. “Thank you,” I whispered.

  As I made my way back downstairs, I smoothed my finger over the dark blue marks of Will’s phone number. They were both my responsibility now, and I went to ready Will’s ointment for setting out under the moon.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I left you both early that night, taking myself to bed, where I read and then slept and dreamed of wandering the house as if suddenly a ghost, with no memory of dying but only knowing I did not belong.

  TWENTY-NINE

  WILL

  With Mab’s last smile on my mind, the rush of wind through my open windows was enough to fill the silence in my head. I felt dizzy, as if I’d left my inner ear back in the forest. But about a quarter mile away, my cell buzzed angrily on the passenger seat with a half dozen texts and voice messages. Worried, I slowed down and listened to the first one. It was Dad. “William, where are you? You need to call us ay-sap, boy. Your mother is worried sick.” The second was him again, saying the same, only with a tighter grip on his voice that meant he was pissed.

  The clock radio said it was 7:52 p.m. I’d texted Mom and Ben that I was running out, and then I’d forgotten the cell in the car. If I was honest with myself, I hadn’t even thought about the time or calling to check in.

  Instead of returning the calls, I sped up and focused on getting home. The speed blurred all my peace away, and I rolled up the window and punched the radio louder.

  It was full dark except for a strip of orange and silver in the west when I pulled up to the house, and every window was lit. I saw a curtain in the front room flick closed. Half of me was irritated they’d been watching so carefully. It made my head pound. I was seventeen. I had my own car. I would have called if I’d been in trouble. As I slammed the car door, clomped up the porch, and pushed into the house, I couldn’t even dredge up my usual smile.

  The front hall light glared, and I squinted as I shut the front door behind me.

  “William.”

  Dad’s voice was firm from the den. I didn’t bother dragging my feet. This would be short and to the point.

  I rounded the corner. Kept my eyes down. I wasn’t sure how easy it would be to see the red in them and didn’t want to find out. “Sir.”

  He stood up from his recliner, hands clasped behind his back. The khakis and polo shirt did nothing to dispel the illusion that this was a military hearing. “You’ve been gone for hours. And were very sick yesterday. We expected you for dinner.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dad didn’t budge an inch.

  “I went for a drive. I’ve been cooped up and wanted some air.”

  “You didn’t call.”

  “I didn’t have reception.”

  “Not an excuse.”

  “Dad—”

  “You are not to be out for hours without checking in. That’s SOP, and you know it. You deliberately ignored a rule you’ve always known.”

  There was no side of the truth I could tell him. I was screwed. “Yes, sir,” I said.

  Dad relaxed only enough to sigh. “Will. Go see your mother. You’re grounded through the weekend. Home by three-thirty every day.”

  “Dad!”

  “William?” His jaw tightened just enough to warn me.

  I fell silent, knew my frustration was all over my face, and wished that I could control it better, like all the rest of the men in my family. “Nothing, sir.”

  “Good.”

  With a tiny nod, I spun around and left in a hurry. I took the stairs three at a time. Mom would be reading a book in bed.

  But Ben stopped me by coming out of his room and putting a hand on my shoulder. “Get off,” I said, jerking away. I didn’t need him to bitch me out, too.

  “Hey.” His fingers squeezed.

  “Ow.” I punched his shoulder, not too lightly.

  He caught my fist. “Hold it. I just want to say one thing.”

  The hall was dark, only dimly lit by the yellow light that had followed Ben out of his room. It made him into this looming shadow, but I could
just hear something off in his tone: it wasn’t condemning enough. “What?” I demanded, quietly.

  “Mom was afraid you were dead.”

  “What?” I nearly squeaked, and cleared my throat. “I was only a few hours late.”

  Ben let go of me and crossed his arms over his chest. I could see the perfect V of his shoulders since he was only wearing sweatpants. His muscles annoyed me. Dad was always saying, If you picked up some weights at school or came to the Y with me, you could be just as strong as your brother. But I wasn’t a cart horse, I’d reply. I was built for speed. For flying.

  As Ben continued to not say anything, I rewound through the past five minutes, and it dawned on me what he and Dad were so steamed about. Aaron.

  I was a jackass. I winced, hissing in through my teeth.

  “Yeah,” Ben said. “Go apologize.” He shoved me on my way and retreated to his bedroom.

  Feeling like I deserved to have tiny bugs chomp on my eyeballs, I knocked quietly on Mom’s door.

  “Come in,” she said.

  I pushed it open and stepped in. She set the hardcover book in her lap and removed her rectangular reading glasses. A half-empty glass of water sat beside her on the bedside. She kept sleeping pills in the drawer, and I wondered if she’d taken them yet. “Hey, Mama.” I crossed the carpet and sat at her knees on the mattress.

  “Hi, Will. You made it home safely.”

  I fiddled with the blanket. “I’m sorry.”

  Her hands twitched a little, and she pushed the book off her lap. “Come here and tell me what you were doing.” She patted Dad’s side of the bed.

  After untying my shoes and tossing them toward the door, I sat next to her on top of the covers. She leaned her head on my shoulder. “I met a girl,” I said very quietly.

  “Tell me about her.”

  I laughed once. “She’s incredibly weird.”