Gifts of the Blood (Gifted Blood Trilogy)

by Vicki Keire

  I loved our little apartment. It was just big enough for Logan, Abigail, and me. What it lacked in modern conveniences it made up for in outdated charm, like the oversized claw-footed bathtub, the hand painted kitchen wall tiles, towering ceilings, and ivy-covered patio. It overlooked Whitfield’s Old Town Square, with its gorgeous fountain and trees draped with lights year round. I could walk almost anywhere I wanted or needed to be in minutes. Most importantly, it made me feel like I was a part of the city’s vibrant beating heart. Whitfield wasn’t a big and exciting city. It was definitely Southern and I had lived there all my life, so by rights I should have hated it and been desperate to escape. But I didn’t. Instead, I felt an intense connection I couldn’t exactly put into words. I tried to paint it instead, with varying degrees of success.

  “Logan!" I yelled, dropping my knapsack next to the door while I kicked my Chuck Taylors off in two quick, sure movements. “Amberlyn’s coming over.” My hoodie crumpled onto the gold-varnished wooden floor, missing its hook by inches. I just shrugged and slammed my keys down on top of the bookshelf by the door, knocking several pieces of mail off in the process. “She’s bringing delicious beverages,” I continued, walking away from the mess I’d made without a second glance. We were both used to my slovenly ways. Logan had given up trying to break me of them long ago. He picked up after my messes, and I did his laundry. “I’ve got just enough time to grab a shower before work, so if she…”

  Logan wasn’t listening. He was curled up in a little ball on one side of the sofa, his shoulders rising and falling slowly. Very slowly. A knit navy toboggan covered the tops of his ears and most of his eyes. His bare neck looked pale and graceful in its fragility; I resisted the urge to stroke it. Abigail lay sprawled against as much of him as she could reach, every orange and fluffy inch of her radiating watchful protectiveness. She head-butted me as I leaned over my brother, touching his face, reassuring myself that yes, he was breathing, he was alive.

  But he was icy cold to the touch, and the skin under his eyes, even in sleep, looked sunken and hollow. The bones of his face were so sharp, so prominent; it struck me how much weight he’d lost over the last few months. He covered himself in the baggiest clothes these days, so I hadn’t really noticed. Or maybe I was just that unobservant. I was failing at this, at taking care of him…

  A blurry orange vibration nudged at my hand. I blinked away tears yet again as I petted the purring cat that meowed quietly for my attention. “You’re right, Abby,” I whispered, pulling an old fleece throw over my sleeping brother. “We’d better not wake him. I’ll put a note on the door for Amberlyn, warning her.” Abigail flicked her tail in agreement before resuming her position as guardian of Logan’s fleece-covered back.

  I lingered a moment longer. I knew I had to hurry, that work was waiting, that Amberlyn would come trooping in at any moment like a pack of wild wolves. In the slanted half-light pouring in through our front window blinds, my brother looked like something newborn and delicate, something so vulnerable that the very act of observation might be enough to take him away. I thought of baby rabbits trembling in my hands, of snowflakes melting on coat sleeves, of lightning bugs in mason jars living only until morning. I watched him, hardly daring to breathe, willing myself to memorize this moment when my brother’s shoulders brushed too slowly against the fuzzy orange of Abigail the cat.

  You’re going to lose him soon, a voice whispered deep within my mind. He’s too fragile for this world now. Winter will take him. I clenched my fists against the truth of it.

  “No,” I whispered through locked teeth. “I will fight for him. He’s all I have left.” I let myself feel the fear, give in to it completely, for the space of several deep, long breaths. Then, because I had no other choice, I let it go.

  Under the bay window overlooking Old Town Square stood an antique mahogany roll top desk that used to belong to my father. We kept our parent’s wedding bands, important papers like birth certificates and insurance mumbo jumbo, keepsakes, art, and photographs in it. On the top of its dark surface stood the last picture of the four of us together, surrounded by candles, dried flowers, and whatever odds and ends happened to catch our eye. It was a shrine of sorts, I suppose, although both Logan and I would deny it, if pressed. I went to this picture and lit a half-melted candle.

  I wish you could make him better, I thought at the picture, reaching out to touch my parent’s smiling faces with two fingers. I wish… I wish you could help us. There’s only me, and I’m not enough. It was the closest I had come to praying since they died.

  I saved my tears for the shower, where they finally took me in great heaving waves, muffled by music and pounding hot water that washed them down the drain.

  Chapter Two:

  A Visitor

  I rinsed off vanilla and brown sugar body scrub just as the last bars of “Your Heart to Haunt" faded away. Perfect. I had given myself exactly two songs to shower. No time to soak; I gave the claw-footed tub an apologetic backward glance as I stepped gingerly, dripping wet and naked, into my room. Lost in pensive thoughts, I’d forgotten my towel. I started the playlist over as I pawed through my basket of clean but unfolded laundry, relying on the music to keep me moving even if my thoughts wandered. My dark hair was still wet; droplets gathered on the tips below my shoulder blades. Wispy and fine, it would dry on its own before work.

  The unimaginatively named Whitfield Coffee Shop had no set uniform. Brown and beige aprons with the company logo emblazoned right across the chest distinguished us from customers. As long as we were clean and relatively covered, we could wear what we wanted. I dug out my second-best pair of jeans and my Feral Fire t-shirt. The weather was turning. Short sleeves wouldn't be an option for much longer.

  Amberlyn half-sat, half perched in one of the squashy chairs that flanked the sofa when I crept from my bedroom. Thin bright sheets of metal paper rested carefully across one thigh. Eyes narrowed, pink tongue held tightly in place with her teeth, she concentrated on the last folds of a silver origami crane as if the fate of the world depended on its completion. Her school bag and purse sat stacked in a neat pile on the floor, and her black ballet flats flanked them with almost military precision. Logan hadn’t moved since I covered him with the blanket. Crane completed, Amberlyn gestured to a plastic-topped cardboard cup on the coffee table without a word. Eyeing Logan, she offered the delicate silver crane to Abigail, who looked at it with interest, but did not surrender her post.

  “Has he moved at all?” I asked as I took a quick gulp. Oh. My. God. Delicious and still so hot it burned my tongue. The extra-caramel latte was one of my own inventions. I invented almost all the drinks at the coffee shop. My boss, Mr. Markov, was Russian and old and had the imagination of a turnip. The extra caramel cinnamon spice latte was our flavor of the week, in honor of the changing seasons. It did taste better because I hadn’t made it, though. I closed my eyes as I took another sip and tried to guess which one of my twin coworkers, Amelie or Nicolas, had made it. My guess was Nicolas. Amelie always used too much cinnamon. I crossed to Logan’s prone form and debated whether to wake him.

  Amberlyn shook her head no. She took in my second-best jeans and my freshly scrubbed face with one swift sideways glance. “I’m going to stay with him.” She gestured to a lone cup sitting amongst stacks of papers and dishes on the kitchen table. Her gesture managed to convey elegant disapproval of my slovenliness. “So I guess there’s an extra. Take it with you, in case you run into someone who needs a pick-me-up.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I protested as vehemently as I could manage without waking my brother. “Besides, what if he wakes up and wants one then?”

  She rolled her golden-green eyes at me. “Then I’ll just run two doors down and get you to make me another one.” She grinned. “Or two.” Amberlyn settled more fully into the chair and made shooing motions at me. “Look, Caspia. I want to stay. The cable’s out at my house, and your maid seems to have quit or something.” I made a face at
her. She ignored me. Her eyes held a hint of desperation I didn’t quite understand until she practically growled, “I’m going to cook something and make him eat it if I have to tie him up and force him.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” I said, reaching for her. Amberlyn didn’t have the most stable home life. Her mother was long since happily divorced and even happier when she could come and go as she pleased. My best friend had never lacked for anything material, but hadn't seen her father in over a decade and her mother only when it suited her social calendar. Logan was important to her, too. Over the years, I watched as she navigated the lines among secret crush, hero worship, mature friendship and sometimes, some combination of the three. “I’ve tried, I swear. I’ve tried all his favorites. One day we ate nothing but ice cream and peanut butter cookies. It’s just a part of it, the weight loss. The doctors say he’ll gain it back, afterwards.”

  She shooed me away again, her tiny fingertips darting, quick as hummingbirds, to catch the tears before they collected on her thick dark lashes. “I know, I know. It’s entirely a selfish thing. I just want to make him something myself, and try, you know?” I nodded slowly. I did know. God knows I tried it often enough myself. The results were a lot of leftovers and a very fat Abigail. “And don’t you think I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart,” she half-whispered, half-hissed.

  “Heaven forbid.”

  “I need your help in Ceramics. I’ve gotten really behind.”

  “How far behind?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Far. I could really use a second pair of hands at the studio over the weekend.”

  I groaned. “We’re not supposed to ‘help’ with each other’s models.” I utterly loathed ceramics, hated using the slimy dirty water and sloppy clay, and could never scrub the gray stuff out of my nails entirely. I thought fast. “But if we go over the weekend, maybe at night, we should be ok,” I assented.

  She let out a pent-up sigh. “Thank God. You know I hate that class as much as you do. Maybe, after we get my stuff caught up, we can get some of our other pieces done together, too. Now go! Shoo!”

  “Ok, ok,” I grouched, giving my apartment one last longing glance before scooting out the door.

  ***

  The antique iron clock on the corner gave me another twenty minutes before my shift started. I was not known for being early, and I had an extra caramel latte literally burning a hole in my hand. Living right on the square meant I could visit a dozen people in ten minutes or so. The bakery would be open for another few hours. They’d probably already reduced the price of some of the morning’s stock, if there was anything left. I licked my lips speculatively. Mr. Peppers might even be willing to trade some of the morning’s goodies for my extra beverage.

  Or there was J. Roth, Bookseller. The stuffy, half-crazy old man might have some rare new book, fresh from his travels to a place I’d never heard of. If I smiled sweetly enough, he might even let me leaf through it. If he was traveling, there was always his pink-haired punk rock princess of a niece, Calla, who kept the store stocked with magazines and the latest thrillers. Various restaurants and bars dotted Old Town Square; most stayed open late, some until dawn. Life on the square was eclectic and continuous. I sighed happily and sipped. Whom to grace with my brief presence before work?

  Twilight was fading into full dark when I hit the sidewalk in front of Moore’s Hardware. I stopped, as I always did, to watch the miracle that was Old Town Square at night. The fountain turned from an impressive, three tiered stone monument to a brightly shining beacon shooting colored streams of water. Graceful Live Oaks spotted the park at the center of the square. Smaller oaks and pines came to life as darkness brought hundreds of tiny white lights to life in their branches. Fairy lights, my mother called them. I never got tired of watching the daily ritual. Only in darkness could the light be so completely, brightly beautiful.

  As much as I loved it, I’d spent precious minutes gawking on the sidewalk, so in the end I decided just to run across the street to Mrs. Alice’s store to see if any of my hand-painted tarot card sets had sold. Mrs. Alice had been doing business in Whitfield longer than anyone could remember, and adamantly objected to the term “new age” in conjunction with her store. But that was exactly what she ran: her store sold crystals, herbs, books about all kinds of rituals and religions, candles, incense… the works. But Mrs. Alice insisted she ran an apothecary shop, even though she supplied every self-styled Wiccan and pagan in Whitfield. Ironically, her business partner and great-granddaughter, Cassandra, was a veritable poster child of nouveau hippie chic. Her rippling blond hair hung down past her waist; she wore a different hand-dyed caftan or billowy skirt every day. If the wind was right, I could smell her patchouli cloud from across the square.

  My cards were a specialty item and unaccountably popular in a town the size of Whitfield. I usually managed to sell a deck or two a month. They were pricey because I put so much detail into the painting. Selling just two was more than enough to pay the electric and cable bills.

  A chill wind hit me as I ran. I’d forgotten to grab my hoodie from its spot by the door. I had no one but myself to blame. If I’d spent thirty seconds putting it back on its hook, I might not have forgotten it now. My t-shirt was thin, short-sleeved, with a deep v-neck; the wind sliced straight through it. Oh well, I reassured myself as I crossed my arms protectively. I’ll be inside a warm coffee shop for most of the evening anyway.

  I practically sprinted through the door, racing the October chill. Wind chimes caught against the edge of the door and announced my arrival in a smashing crescendo of copper and glass. The faint, papery smell of dried herbs mingled with the stronger aroma of scented candles as I practically skidded across the threshold. Cinnamon. Pumpkin. Apple. Clove. The store smelled like autumn. Dried flowers, braided lengths of grasses and herbs, and strings of crystals hung from the front window. Votive candles flickered in neat little lines on glass shelves in the front window, twinkling and welcoming against the deepening darkness. One soft, butter-colored sofa and two sage green love seats faced the counter in a u-formation. Afghans and quilts lay folded across their backs in sharp triangles. Magazines and workbooks lay scattered about the coffee table. Soft, recessed lighting gave the store a drowsy glow, as if it was one giant candle shining steadily in its western corner of Old Town Square, where it had been since before I was born. Other than the noise of my arrival, the store was silent except for the occasional pop of wax. That meant Mrs. Alice herself was minding the store. Cassandra always played some nauseating new age track, complete with whales or dolphins or rainforests.

  Mrs. Alice popped up from behind her counter with more speed than any sixty-year-old woman had any business possessing and glared at me. She adjusted her purple glasses and looked with disapproval at my heaving chest, wild hair, and wind-blown cheeks. “Caspia Chastain! What’s the matter now? Being chased by wolves? Because you almost blew the glass off my door, running in here like that!”

  “Sorry… Mrs. Alice.” The fact that I had to catch my breath to speak wasn’t helping my case. I smiled as angelically as I could and held up my extra caramel latte, which had cooled slightly but was still on the scalding side of warm. The Coffee Shop insulated their beverages like some banks did their vaults. “I forgot my jacket, so I was running to keep warm.” She relaxed just a little, so I held up my peace offering. “Besides, I have to get to work in a few minutes and I had an extra coffee, so I wanted to offer it to you before it got cold.” Mrs. Alice, being sixty years old, didn’t speak barista, so I kept it simple.

  “Well, that was thoughtful, child,” she smiled, reaching for the cup. “Mmm. Caramel.” She sniffed again. “Cinnamon too, I think.” Decades of working with herbs gave her a killer sense of smell. Nicolas used only the faintest hint of cinnamon. Mrs. Alice reached under a side cupboard and pulled out a real china cup. “Your fancy coffees deserve a proper cup, dear.” She took a delicate sip, her pinky finger popping out like an aristocratic flag. “Ah, yes. Jus
t as I thought. Perfect thing to knock off the chill. Would you like a cup, dear?”

  “No thank you,” I said as politely as I could. “I have to work soon, unfortunately.”

  She nodded in understanding. “Of course, dear. If that boss of yours didn’t have you to invent such delicious creations, he’d be serving plain old black coffee in a sterile white room.” It was no secret that Mrs. Alice and Mr. Markov didn’t exactly get along. Neither one would breathe a word as to why, though. “Well, he might get as inventive as beige. Oh, before you go.” She reached under the counter and produced a fat white envelope. “All five of your decks sold today. My entire stock.” My jaw dropped. I took a step towards the counter to steady myself. She reached over and gave me a reassuring pat. “To the same person. I didn’t know him. From out of town, I suppose. He says he’s a collector, and would be interested in a private commission.” She slid the heavy envelope towards me, her clear hazel eyes sharp on mine. “He left his number. I wrote it on the envelope. He paid cash.”

  I fingered the envelope and swallowed hard. It was a very thick envelope. “Cash?” I squeaked out. “All five decks?” Five decks would pay the rent. With plenty left over. Mrs. Alice nodded solemnly. “But who would buy all five of my decks? And what did he mean, private commission?” I mused out loud.

  The questions were partly rhetorical. My mind was already racing ahead, trying to juggle my schedule so that I would have time to paint another deck for Mrs. Alice to stock. She liked to keep one or two, and it took so long to paint them. The idea of a private commission sounded out of my league and slightly scary, so I let that idea simmer. Another part of my mind was dividing up the money in the fat white envelope, paying bills and buying groceries, especially the ridiculous things I hadn’t bought in months and months. I imagined imported chocolate bars and spicy Red Rock ginger ales and fancy canned cat food with spoiled purebred Persians on the labels. I’d get a real down comforter for Logan. I wouldn’t even complain when Abigail got orange fur on it.