Bloodstone

by Gwen Hunter

  “We do. And we really don’t like being pushed around.” She walked to her bag beside the wing chair and tucked the gun in. It was a floral patchwork bag with big puffy poppies on the front and a hummingbird in one corner. A granny bag, with a gun it. No. A small cannon.

  “Tomorrow. I’ll be wearing loose clothes so I can wear a waist holster and an ankle holster. Looks like I finally get to make use of the ‘permit to carry’ I got last year. And I’ll get my brother to keep an eye on our cars so they can’t get clever with pipe bombs. You two be sure to lock up and set the alarm system.” She pulled on her coat and slung a knit scarf around her neck. She looked at us and her brows went up. Then she laughed. “What? Never seen a survivalist get ticked off?”

  “If I weren’t gay, I think I’d be turned on,” Jubal said.

  “If I were gay I’d be turned on,” I said.

  Noe walked through the shop to the workroom trailing laughter. As a dramatic exit, it beat Wylie’s all to heck.

  Jubal and I looked at each other from across the shop. “She left us with the close-up duties again,” he said. “You mind?”

  “Not me. I’ll never be upset about that again. Did you know she carried a gun that big in her granny bag?”

  “I didn’t even know they made guns that big.”

  Noe’s tinkling laughter trickled from the back of the shop, followed by the sound of the door closing firmly. Evan Bartlock emerged from the back. “You people are just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  I started. I had forgotten he was still here.

  Evan didn’t stay for supper. I figured it was because Aunt Matilda was upstairs, the coward. But I’d have avoided her, too, if I could, so I didn’t say anything. I saw him out the door and set the alarm system. Jubal had gone up the stairs to his loft, leaving me alone in the shop. Lights off, the room illuminated by the glow of outside lights, I wandered, touching a ceramic display, letting my fingers trail across the wood of our antique cases, avoiding the glass fronts and sides so I wouldn’t have to reclean before we opened in the morning.

  Orson Wylie had threatened the shop. Threatened my friends, threatened everything I loved. Yet, he had been truly surprised when I accused him of holding Davie. So, if it wasn’t Hornsburn and Wylie, who had my brother? I hadn’t felt his presence in so long. Was he even still alive? Did I have the guts to try another scan for him? I shivered. It would take more guts not to try. What if Davie was dead?

  I roamed to the back of the shop, checking the back door, and stared into the alley. The stairs leading to the small private porch off my loft were blocked with snow that Jane and the guys had tossed off the rooftop garden. The rest of the alley, protected from the sun by the enclosing walls, was still white with the recent snowfall. It might be June before the last of it melted.

  Icicles hung from the porch and from the garden, one almost four feet long. Mounds of snow that had been pristine had begun to shrink, revealing bikes, wooden skids, a pile of painter’s supplies, the fender off an old car that had been there as long I could remember. The red fender was surrounded by paw prints, a clear sign that a feral cat or several had taken up residence. Someone had placed a bowl of food there, likely hoping if the cat stayed through the snowfall, it would keep the rat and possum population down.

  I checked the windows, made sure all the flames were turned off on the torches and braziers, and that the kilns were cool, all the electrical cords curled and out of the way. I stacked some bottles and cans below each window and the back door to act as an additional alarm should anyone manage to bypass the security system or enter by unconventional means. Finally I opened the storeroom and stared through the darkness at the four boxes Davie had sent. Gold. Land. Protecting the environment and habitats. Money. Lots of money in offshore accounts. Money Davie had surely not been able to earn. And Orson had no idea who had taken my brother. Tucking my despondency deep down inside, I squared my shoulders and climbed the stairs to the loft and Jane and Aunt Matilda.

  The smell of chicken soup permeated the apartment, a CD played softly in the background, some new-age stuff of bells and a wood xylophone and wood flute. Jane and Aunt Matilda were sitting at the kitchen table when I entered, a lit candle between them. They had their eyes closed. Aunt Matilda was praying.

  I stood at the doorway, caught Dyno when she made a run for freedom and watched them, the unhappy cat in my arms. She would have scratched me if she could, her declawed paws making swipes on my T-shirt. Dyno was being ignored and it made her mad. I knew just how she felt. Closing the door, I listened to the prayer.

  “…bring her the light. Protect her from the darkness. Show her the well-lit path that, though narrow, brings the greatest contentment and everlasting peace. Keep her feet firmly on the shining way. Let her take up the weapon with which you have gifted her. Let her wield the sword with wisdom and might. Protect her steed with the armor of the angelic host. And let her know we love her.” They both opened their eyes and turned to me. And I realized they had been praying for me. Me…

  I shook my head. “I don’t own a sword, a horse, or armor and I have never kept to a path in my life.”

  “But you thought the prayer was cool. I can tell.” Jane jumped from the chair and ran to me, hugging me. “You’re Daddy’s Knight of Swords.”

  I stroked her hair, so soft it could be silk. A fierce, protective craving unfolded within me, blooming like an orchid. I would protect this child. No matter what. I hugged her, transferring the cat to Jane’s arms as I met my aunt’s placid gaze. “Actually, I think you or Aunt Matilda have to be the Knight, pumpkin. When I was born, Aunt Matilda said the Fire card of the Minchiate Tarot was my symbol. You can’t change significator cards in midlife. Right, Aunt Matilda?”

  The older woman smiled and steepled her fingers before her mouth. “Jane, bring me the print that hangs on Tyler’s bathroom wall. The one on the lower left that shows flames the color of her hair.”

  The cat jumped and ran from her grasp, standing in the center of the room tail twitching. Jane ran to the bathroom, stepped in the tub and stretched up to the print. She returned with the print and handed it to me at Aunt Matilda’s gesture.

  “On the back are two clips, if I remember rightly when I prepared them for Giselle. Open the clasps and remove the backing.” I took the print to the table and laid it facedown. It was dusty from where it had rested against the wall and not been removed since I painted last, two years ago. When I turned the clasps, I left clean places with each fingerprint. I pulled off the backing, pseudo-velvet glued to pasteboard.

  “The prints were gifts,” Aunt Matilda said, “one given at each turning point in Giselle’s life. Take them out.”

  I flipped the frame and the print slid out. Except that there were two prints, not just one. I turned them both faceup. The Fire card. And the Knight of Swords from the Renaissance Tarot.

  I had never opened the framed prints before. No one had opened them recently. Aunt Matilda hadn’t placed them here just today. The hidden Knight had been there all along.

  The Knight of Swords from the Renaissance Tarot was a powerful, bearded warrior, gilded sword held high in his right hand, reins in his left. He wore white armor with black lines to show where the armor came together, a helmet with a golden plume, metal boots in silver stirrups. His mount was heavily muscled, pale gold, and was depicted rearing against a hilly background and open sky. The card caught the candlelight and shadow and the destrier seemed to prance in commanding motion.

  “I take a reading at the birth of each St. Claire child, to see what I might learn of their talent long before that gift is born. And then I do a one-card reading of the Major Arcana, and the Court cards, which I repeat several times, to solidify what I see of that child’s personality and purpose. Usually, it becomes clear who and what they are and will be, and eventually a single card stands out as their significator card. But for you, there were two cards that kept coming up over and over. And until now, I never understood why.” M
y aunt blew out the candle and stood.

  “Jane? Get the bowls down and set the table. Tyler, while I dish up the soup, pour us drinks. I’d like a glass of red wine, if you please. I brought a bottle. And then let’s all turn in. It has been a long and intensely tiring day.”

  I fingered the print of the Knight on its heavy stock paper. It was old, the paper brittle, the ink faded, the gilding loose. Careful of the print, which was valuable in its own right, I set them both back in the frame, this time with the Knight in the forefront. Sealing up the backing, I took it to the bathroom wall where I replaced it, straightening the frame so it hung evenly. Thoughtful, unsettled, I went to pour the drinks.

  After the meal, Aunt Matilda placed an ugly green bundle on the living-room rug and pushed a button. A steady sucking sound filled the air mattress with air, and as it bloated up, she shoved it into place with her foot and tossed sheets over it, followed by blankets. From a suitcase, she pulled a pillow, shaking out the down and placing it at the head, in the center of the queen-size mattress.

  “Where did you get this?” I asked, toeing the mattress, unconsciously mimicking her gesture. Realizing my action, I withdrew my foot, feeling my face flame, embarrassed and unsure why.

  Ignoring my foot and my reaction, Aunt Matilda pulled pins from her steel-gray bun and let the tresses down. “From the delightful boys across the way. I didn’t stop to think where I might sleep when I got here.” She finger-combed and began braiding the mass of hair. “I like your friends. They are honest and honorable. Pure of heart.”

  “I thought, as a Catholic, you would hate them for being gay,” I said, watching her nimble fingers as she twisted and turned the three tresses into one.

  “I find it easier to hate lies and murder and betrayal, the abuse of children and the helpless, than to hate two people who care for each other and for you. I have never been a very good papist.

  “I put my dirty towels from my shower in the corner of the bathroom. The kitchen is clean, and I’ll wash clothes in the morning.” She pulled off her dress and crawled into the sheets wearing a shift. “We’ll have to talk while I lie down. I’ve spent the last several nights sleeping upright in a Greyhound bus seat. One night more than expected. The first bus broke down at the base of the foothills and left us stranded. Then the snow piled up and stranded us again. My legs hurt, my back hurts, and getting horizontal is a luxury I can’t pass up. You may ask your question.”

  I didn’t pretend confusion. “Will you tell me about my parents’ gifts?”

  She yawned and stretched beneath the covers, her legs flailing at the sheets. “Giselle was a strong talent, with a gift for the cards, for seeing the truth about others in the spread. Her interpretations were concise and clear and touched with compassion. But she wasn’t very strong emotionally or mentally, was easily agitated, anxious and fretful, even before her gift came to her. I think that, left to her own devices, she would never have married, and not Niles St. Claire. But she was a biddable girl and her own mother was persistent. She wanted a granddaughter out of two St. Claires.” Aunt Matilda looked up at me in the dim light. “She wanted you.”

  I had never heard this story before, and I sat slowly on the sofa. My grandmother had died not long after we had left the Low Country and Mama had never spoken of her.

  “So she married Niles and their love seemed to grow. They seemed happy, happier than most, or maybe that was just what we all wanted to believe.” She looked down at her hands for a long moment, a taste of failure and despair in her mind. “I never intruded on them, never forced a reading, of course. How could any of us do such a thing? And they never asked.”

  “And my father?”

  Aunt Matilda’s face seemed to attract the shadows that drowsed in the corners of the room, darkening the lines and creases in her skin, obscuring her eyes. “Niles was the strongest St. Claire in a generation. But he was a cruel man in many ways. Cold, unkind even, to everyone but your mother. To her he was always unfailingly gentle, as if he recognized her fragility. I never understood their relationship. Perhaps if I had…” She let the words and the thought trail off and almost visibly changed the subject. “Your father had a gift for prescience. And he was never wrong.”

  “If he could see the future, why did he disappear? How did he die?”

  “Now that is a question I have asked myself often, and have never been able to answer. But he did indeed disappear. I never told your mother this, but two days after Niles left the Low Country, I felt a disturbance.”

  Part of me wanted to chortle at her choice of words. I felt a disturbance in the Force, Luke Skywalker. The rest of me shriveled at what she was saying.

  “Violence. Bloodshed. Great pain. I have never caught even a trace of his presence in all the years since.”

  Aunt Matilda let the silence build after her words, deep and weighted. Finally she shook herself. Yawning delicately behind her hand, she rolled over, her back to me, her down pillow beneath her head. “Good night, Tyler.”

  I looked longingly at the tub and sighed. I wouldn’t get my long, hot bath tonight. And I really needed a hot, restorative soak. “Good night, Aunt Matilda.”

  13

  Saturday, before dawn

  I woke to an unknown sound, something foreign, but heard only the ticking of the rooster clock on the kitchen wall. By the ambient light, I could see its black legs wagging back and forth, a funky pendulum. I had bought it on my honeymoon after seeing an old dance called the funky chicken on the TV at the bed-and-breakfast. Stan and I had laughed like teenagers at the goofy dance and laughed just as hard when we hung the clock on the kitchen wall. Stan was a mistake, but I still liked the clock. Funny what goes through your mind in the middle of the night.

  The soft grating that woke me sounded again. Not Aunt Matilda snoring. Not the sound of someone moving about the apartment. Rolling my head, I found the soft breath sounds of Jane and Aunt Matilda.

  The grating sounded again, metallic and furtive, quiet. Heat lanced through me, a sudden hot sweat of shock. I lay in the pile of silken covers, trying to place the soft noise. It wasn’t coming from the bathroom or kitchen. Not from the door at the loft stairs. Rolling slowly, I focused on the back door used so seldom in winter, but the grating came from over my head, to the right.

  Ashes and spit. The rooftop garden. The alarm system didn’t cover the doors there. Why should it? There was no way from the ground to the garden unless you were a superman. Or unless you came through Jubal and Isaac’s. Fear chilled the sweat that lay on my skin, freezing my heart. Had someone gotten in there, killed them, and come here? I could see their kitchen in my imagination, blood splattered. Terror rose in me, an icy mist.

  Where did I put the gun? The gun with which I could shoot the wrong person…. Spit and decay. I eased my head to the right and up. The night was dark, the moon hidden behind the banks of clouds rolling in. As I often did, I had forgotten to pull the drapes. A darker shape shifted slightly against the black of the sky, barely visible through the windows of the door.

  The gun… I couldn’t remember where I put it. My mind was blanked by fear. I didn’t remember putting it in the trunk—I didn’t remember bringing it back upstairs from the shooting range. I reached a stealthy hand to the bedside table and found the little gold cell phone, pulled it under the covers with me and dialed 911. The phone rang. Twice. Again.

  “Emergency services. What is the nature of your emergency?” Prim voice. Precise.

  “Someone is breaking into my loft apartment,” I said, giving my address. “And the alarm is set on every window and door except the one he’s using.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “No, I—”

  The door lock clicked.

  “He’s inside. Get someone here fast. I’ll leave the connection open.” I set the phone down, ignoring the tinny voice calling to me, and rolled off the far side of the bed, hitting the floor with sock-covered feet.

  He entered, a dark form silhoue
tted by the night sky, a shadow against shadows. He was medium height, beefy. And he was alone. I could feel the solitary mind.

  I ducked, walking low so as not to attract his eye. In the dark, I found the bowl of polished stones, recognizing them by touch and size alone. I wrapped my left hand around the bloodstone sphere, my right hand around a slightly larger oval that glowed in the dark. White quartz. I slowly stood, positioned my feet and pulled back my arm.

  I heard a faint click, an almost familiar sound, to my right. Aunt Matilda murmured and rose up on her mattress. Voice thick with sleep, she called, “Who’s there?”

  The man turned toward the sound and the movement and lifted his hand. I threw the quartz, grunting with the effort. Transferring the bloodstone to the right in a fast shift, I threw it, too, slightly higher. Two smacks sounded. He staggered, groaned. His hand dropped.

  There was a brilliant white-red flash. Blinding. An explosion of sound. A shot. Two. Three. Close together. Overlapping blasts of sound that ripped out the night.

  Pain whispered through me and was gone.

  I grabbed two much-larger spheres and hefted the first like a shot-putter. It struck him as he turned. He saw me. Across the blackness of the loft, our eyes met. The brown man. Slender, made beefy by a down jacket.

  Overhand, I threw the last stone sphere. It went wide. Landed with a soft thump in dark.

  He came at me, moving fast, and raised his hand at me. I froze.

  Sirens sounded, swift in the night.

  He stopped, then raced out of the apartment and ran across the snow-free porch. Without pausing, he vaulted over the railing to the alley below. The harsh stink of cordite filled the air. My ears were ringing. Jane. I raced to the trundle bed and lost my balance as my foot struck something hard. I fell onto the mattress and gathered my niece in my arms. She was shaking.

  “Aunt Tyler?” Her voice sounded frail, tinny through the concussive damage to my ears. Without asking or searching for blood, I knew she hadn’t been hit by the rounds, though my hands felt feverishly across her.