Blessed

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

Muted blue and purple lights illuminated a trio of cheesy coffins arranged against the backdrop of a decrepit altar and what appeared to be dry-ice vapor.

  The scene resembled something out of a Halloween haunted house.

  “What a joke!” complained a guy in a Spurs shirt. “I want my money back.”

  The girl in front let slip a snorting giggle. “You didn’t pay no money.”

  Then the lids of the coffins rose, and three bewitching female vampires emerged. One cradled a sleeping boy, a toddler, with a swath of dark hair.

  “Run!” I shouted, but they couldn’t hear me. I wasn’t there. Like with the blood rite with the knives, I was seeing what Brad saw.

  The teens jeered and laughed at the approaching fiends. Under other circumstances, some of their comments might’ve been funny. At least one was crude.

  Then the undead woman tossed the little boy like a sack of burlap. He landed at the feet of the blonde in the lead, the one who’d been skipping. I could see the child’s throat, torn open. I watched a blood-drenched beetle crawl out of the seeping wound.

  At about half past 2 A.M., the bedroom door opened a crack.

  Kieren held a finger to his lips, urging me to keep quiet. He set his running shoes on the carpet and slowly shut the door. Then, carrying a black vinyl tote, he cruised over with a note. Get dressed. Going out. Sneaking out sounded more like it.

  Minutes later, we strolled in the moonlight toward the neighborhood park. When I felt the first sprinkles hit my nose, I scanned the clouds.

  “Relax,” Kieren said. “I caught the news earlier. Thirty-eight percent chance of light showers. It’s natural weather. The kind of rain —”

  “That only makes it more humid.” Nothing Brad-Dracula had done, and nowhere near heavy enough to impact the drought.

  As Kieren and I paid our respects at the community shrine — homemade cards and signs (WE LOVE YOU, TRAVIS!!!), burned-out candles and ’dillo plush toys — the rain fell harder, and I knew Kieren had to be thinking of Clyde, too.

  At the open-air shelter, Kieren unzipped his gym tote, took out a carefully rolled, forest-green tablecloth, and unfurled it over the picnic table. Then he plugged an electrical cord into the outlet, making the outdoor room come alive with green holiday lights. So far as I knew, Kieren had no dating history.

  “How did you —?”

  “I may be a manly Wolf man, but I’m also the son of a wedding planner. I spent most of my childhood being bored by women plotting special occasions.”

  I didn’t have much — or really any — experience with guys, but I knew there were a lot who would’ve staged a date like this to angle for a night like the one we’d had in Michigan. Brad, for example. Everything that he had said and done with me had ultimately been about taking advantage. Even the seemingly good times, cooking in the kitchen, shopping for his toasting ensemble — all of those memories were tainted now.

  Kieren gestured at the carefully crafted, hyperromantic backdrop. “Too cheesy?”

  Maybe a tad cheesy. “It’s perfect.”

  I reached into the tote and withdrew a couple of wineglasses, a bottle of porcine blood, and a bottle of sparkling water.

  Then Kieren and I settled cross-legged, facing each other, on top of the picnic table. He filled and raised his glass. “To second chances.”

  I paused. “You’re happy to be home.”

  “Yeah, home with you.”

  I sipped without clinking. “You know, I’m different now.”

  Kieren took my glass from me and set it beside his. Then he slid his hands under my thighs and pulled me closer, until our noses touched. “That night at Sanguini’s, it was the first time you’d fed as a vampire. By all rights, you should’ve sucked me dry.”

  “I almost —”

  “Quince, all neophytes kill their first victims — period. I’m talking every last one. They can’t help themselves. Self-restraint is beyond them. That’s why Bradley made the bet. He agreed to leave town only if you didn’t kill me because he knew he couldn’t lose.”

  Kieren had too much faith in me. “You thought that and still let me bite you?”

  “I knew you.” He brushed my curls from my forehead. “I know you.” He traced a star, then a heart, connecting freckles on my face, outlining patterns only he could see.

  The next morning in the Moraleses’ kitchen, Meara pitched me a blueberry muffin and asked if I could stay out that night. “Can you bunk at Aimee’s? We’re going to try to bring Clyde out of the coma. I’ve already arranged for Meghan to go home after preschool with her little friend Didi.

  “I haven’t talked to Kieren yet,” Meara added, unusually babbly, clearly nervous about the whole thing, “but we’re taking the shepherds to that new dog hotel on Lamar.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I assured her. “I still have my bedroom at my house.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, clearly feeling motherly guilt over kicking me out of the house after whatever had just happened up north. And still embarrassed about our “misunderstanding,” though I’d promised to go to a gynecologist, just to make sure everything was okay, if my “system” didn’t get back on track.

  “Nora will be there,” I said, and that did the trick. I had no idea what had transpired in my absence between my chef and my guardians, but I wasn’t inclined to argue with the results.

  On the way out, I turned back to Meara, who was leaning against the kitchen counter, blowing on her coffee. She looked less immaculate and more tired than usual. But she still had a predator’s posture and projected strength.

  “You should tell him,” I said.

  She set down her mug. “Tell who what?”

  “Tell Kieren that you’re proud of him.”

  “He knows —”

  “He knows that you love him,” I said. “That’s not enough.”

  At Sanguini’s, Nora welcomed me on the back steps with a sports bottle of porcine blood. The battle-axe that Kieren had used to behead Vice Principal Harding was propped against the brick wall.

  Nora reported that Mitch hadn’t stopped by since we’d left town. That Mr. Wu had broken two wineglasses. That Sergio had hired new “backup” dishwashers, though Clyde’s job “would be waiting for him.” And Mercedes had been a smash hit as the first female Chef Sanguini, though offstage she seemed “out of sorts.”

  “Oh,” Nora added. “I almost forgot. Last night Sergio snapped at Jamal for dropping a tray of javelina chops. I mean, literally snapped his teeth. A couple of hours later, he apologized, saying that he hasn’t been himself lately.”

  I recalled my own mood swings just before my transformation.

  Cruising into my own house, carrying the battle-axe, I noticed that the kitchen had been well stocked for mortal living. Bottles of water and cans of Dr Pepper had been stacked on top of the refrigerator, a package of whole-wheat tortillas topped the bread box, and a set of new clear glass canisters had been filled with white rice, brown rice, linguini, bow-tie pasta, black beans, red beans, lima beans, and jelly beans.

  Ropes of garlic and red chili peppers hung over the sink. Baskets of ferns and a small Ficus tree decorated the breakfast nook. On the shelves, mixed among cookbooks and titles from Daddy’s vast archaeological collection, I spotted a bounty of new additions. Holy texts and nonfiction about Christianity, Protestantism, Catholicism, Mormonism, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, Wicca, Sikhism, Taoism, voodoo, and humanism, among others, as well as volumes on agnosticism, atheism, interfaith relationships, religion and politics . . .

  Moving on, I could smell leftover shrimp lo mien and chicken fried rice from the takeout boxes on the dining-room table. I noticed that Kieren had brought over a dozen old books from his own newly reclaimed Wolf studies library.

  It came as a surprise to find him and Zachary watching TV.

  While Aimee had stayed in the back of the jet with Clyde, the three of us had spent most of the flight from Detroit trying to brainstorm a game plan. Nobody had admitted de
feat — at least not out loud. But time and ideas were in short supply.

  At first, I’d been concerned about how the angel and Wolf would get along. Kieren had been so possessive from the moment Brad had appeared on the scene, and it’s not like I could explain why Zachary and I had become so tight so fast. But from the get-go, the angel had treated him like an equal, treated us like a couple, and Kieren seemed to appreciate that.

  Both guys glanced at me, and Kieren raised the volume with the remote.

  On-screen, a San Antonio police spokeswoman said, “We can’t confirm any connection between the missing local teens and the recent rash of disappearances in central and south Austin; however, we’re pursuing every reasonable line of inquiry.”

  I held the axe out to Kieren. “You may need this.”

  By midafternoon, we still had no leads on Brad-Dracula’s specific location. I’d tried to call Chat Lunatique, where he’d claimed to work before moving to town, but the line was “disconnected or no longer in service.”

  I made a note in Frank. “It would help if we had some idea of how many henchmen Brad has.” I paused. “Henchpeople?”

  “Try minions,” Kieren suggested from across the table. “It’s gender neutral.”

  He looked so adorably studious.

  “Anyway, we’ve got the three of us,” I said, “Aimee, who’s been injured —”

  “My ribs are better now,” Kieren insisted a little too forcefully. “I’m fine.”

  Zachary stood to stretch. “The twins will get in later tonight.”

  “Do you think Harrison will fight on our side?” I asked.

  “Don’t know,” the angel answered. “Sabine trusts Harrison — as much as she trusts any underling — because he’s a neophyte. There’s a fair amount of soul still left in him, and he’s with us.

  “But unlike you, Quincie, he chose to become a vampire. He’s spent his whole existence seeking unholy power, and this is the enchilada grande of unholy power.”

  “What about other shifters?” I wanted to know. “Forget the Wolves. What about the Bears, the Cats; hell, even the Opossums, Armadillos, and Deer . . .”

  Kieren turned yet another yellowed page in yet another leather-bound book. “They’d be just as likely to behead you, Quince. We can’t risk it.”

  After school got out, Aimee arrived with Stoker’s novel. “What about hypnosis? I’m not through the whole book yet, but it worked for Mina and Van Helsing, right?”

  “Right,” I said, catching on. It was something that Zachary, Freddy, and I had talked about in passing. The trip north had basically been a race against Brad, first to the castle for Harker’s knife, then to the Wolf pack to give warning and get information. But now that he’d beaten us twice, we mostly just wanted to annihilate him.

  At least that way, Brad wouldn’t be able to command the infected, before or after undeath. Aimee and the others had maybe three days, maybe fewer.

  “If they could find Dracula that way,” she argued, “why can’t we?”

  “You want us to hypnotize Quincie?” Zachary asked, reaching for the novel.

  “At sunset.” Aimee wrinkled her nose at the leftover Chinese food. “Quincie and me both. I haven’t gotten any mind messages myself yet, but I —”

  “Mitch has,” I said, surer with each word. “Bradley has been using him to spy on us and God-only-knows-what-else.”

  Zachary nodded. “How did Van Helsing’s heroes defeat the count last time?”

  “They spent a lot of time chasing after him,” I replied. “Like we are. Reacting to his late-night visits, fighting to catch up, trying to head off his escape . . . Once they finally cornered him, though, Dracula didn’t put up much of a fight. It was the gypsies who —”

  “But it’s not all about him,” Aimee said, clearing empty cartons from the table.

  “Dracula is patient, but Brad isn’t,” I said, remembering the conversation with Ivo in the biergarten. “Dracula doesn’t know the modern world, but Brad does.”

  Kieren set aside another weighty tome. “Whoever the hell he is, if we manage to find him again, I somehow doubt he’ll give up easily.”

  I stretched out on my calico-print bedspread, underneath the canopy.

  Seated in the rattan chair to my left, Zachary said, “Try to imagine somewhere calm. Soothing. Where you feel happy.”

  “But only if you want to,” Kieren interrupted from my other side.

  “We’ve been over this,” I countered. He’d argued that I might be hurt, and I’d insisted that locating Brad-Dracula was worth taking the chance.

  “It’s still risky,” the Wolf insisted.

  “And it’s still my decision.”

  After a cautious pause, Zachary began again. “Let’s start over. Quincie, try to imagine —”

  “Somewhere I feel happy.” I used to feel happy at Sanguini’s, but now I couldn’t help worrying about the infected. I used to feel happy at the Moraleses’, but now I had to hide who I was. Kieren — wherever he was, that was my happy place. And he was here.

  “Breathe deeply . . .”

  I didn’t have to breathe, but I could. I imagined myself with Kieren under the picnic shelter at the park, the twinkling green lights, the whisper-soft rain . . .

  “Relax your toes,” Zachary continued, “the balls of your feet . . . the heels . . . feel your calves loosening up . . . your thighs . . .”

  Kieren cleared his throat, and Zachary stopped listing body parts.

  “With every breath, you’re letting go. Giving up control. Letting in —”

  “Sorry, guys,” I said, sitting up. “You might have better luck with Aimee.” It was ridiculously indulgent to be so self-conscious, but I couldn’t help it.

  “We could contact a pro hypnotist,” Kieren suggested, “and try again at dawn.”

  “Hang on,” I said, crossing my legs in a meditative pose. “Let me see if I can connect on my own.” I’d never been the tranquil type. This time I didn’t bother breathing. I didn’t go to a calm, soothing, happy place.

  I went to a dangerous one instead. A kaleidoscope of images flooded my memory — Brad in his ’kicker duds, cooking at the restaurant, modeling red satin and black leather, pouring my blood wine. My undeath in his basement, the dining-room wager, and then, at Sabine’s gala, the way I lapped blood from his pale, hairless chest.

  “Bradley. It’s me. Back in Michigan, you asked for my help. You said you didn’t understand what was happening. I can help you understand. I can help.

  He’s your enemy and mine. Brad . . .”

  An invisible force slammed my body into the headboard. I coughed, choked, as a mouthful of blood sprayed from my lips.

  Wiping my face, I glanced first at Zachary, then Kieren, who were holding on to me, aghast, from either side. “I feel pretty,” I said.

  The guys insisted that Aimee wait for me in the bathroom while I took a shower, in case I started spewing blood again or my head spun all the way around.

  She’d seemed disappointed when Zachary declared that hypnotizing her next was out of the question. At least until she got a look at me. “Why would Bradley do that?”

  “I don’t think it was him.” I lathered up the lemongrass bodywash I’d found on the edge of the tub. “In life, the count would abandon his soldiers, and in undeath his . . .”

  “Spawn?”

  I peeked out from behind the shower curtain. “Can we please not call me that?”

  Seated cross-legged on the toilet-seat lid, she replied, “Hey, I’m spawn, too.”

  “Anyway,” I replied, “he’d do it to protect himself. Cut his losses. Cut me off.”

  “Sure, but from what Travis told me, Bradley was way more into you than the count was into Lucy or Mina. Do you think Brad’s still in there, or that it’s all about the Carpathian now?”

  We couldn’t know for sure.

  In Sanguini’s private dining room, an hour into the second wave of seatings, Kieren had his nose buried in yet anot
her leather-bound book.

  Earlier, he’d assured me that Detective Zaleski had arranged for a couple of on-site shifter EMTs in case something went wrong at his house tonight. But otherwise, my Wolf man had said nada all day about Clyde’s coma and his parents and the spell.

  Then again, we had our own battle to fight.

  I’d brought him a carnivore taster. “How goes it?”

  “We’ve got a lot of pieces of the puzzle,” Kieren replied. “I just don’t know to put them together yet. We need a break, a sign. And now.”

  Harrison, who’d apparently just pulled into town, strolled in through the crimson velvet curtains. “Perhaps I can help.” He gestured at my laptop. “May I?”

  At my nod, Kieren moved to the next chair and took a bite of the prosciutto.

  “How was your road trip with Freddy?” I asked Harrison, proud of myself for not instead asking whether his twin had made it down alive.

  “Wretched traffic on I-35,” he replied. “But we did manage to stop at a honky-tonk featuring a framed guitar that had been autographed by Willie Nelson. Freddy’s in the kitchen right now, telling Nora and Zachary all about it.”

  I almost warned Harrison to watch his tone, talking snide about Willie in this town, but then I remembered that I didn’t like the neophyte that much.

  He logged on to a website called Eternal News Network or ENN.

  Standing behind him, I skimmed headlines about Sabine (“Hail to the Queen”) and her fashion decrees (mermaid skirts were out) and spotted a photo of a castle like the one in Whitby Estates that was under construction in San Miguel.

  “There!” Harrison clicked a flashing ad for custom soil from around the world. It proclaimed: We ship anywhere!

  “What?” Kieren asked, downing a piece of venison blood sausage.

  Harrison clicked to a contact page and glanced back at me. “You’ll recall that Sabine carries soil from Paris in a velvet pouch tied at her waist?”

  “You mean the dirt she kept tossing around her throne?”

  “A nervous habit,” he explained. “A handful of Old Bloods carry such pouches as fashion accessories, nods to the history. It’s rumored that Sabine flings a handful of soil onto her silk sheets at night. A mere affectation. But for the count, Carpathian earth —”