Blood To Blood

by Ifè Oshun

  We met his realtor, Sally, on the corner of Mass Ave. and Commonwealth. She was willowy, and despite her business attire, struck me like she’d be more comfortable in a long, flowered skirt and Birkenstocks. She pumped my hand. “Nice to meet you Angel. It must be nice to help your boyfriend look for his first home.”

  “No,” I responded quickly. “I'm just a friend. Here for moral support.”

  Ha!

  Don't you have anything else to do besides eavesdrop on all my conversations?

  Sally’s knowing nod caused her hastily pulled together bun to bob up and down on the nape of her veiny neck. She proceeded to give us a brief rundown of the properties she was about to show us. There were four in all and she was positive they all met many, if not all, of Sawyer’s requirements. The main need was, of course, finding a good layout to accommodate his home studio.

  The first house had four stories. Sally gave us a tour of the upper levels, which contained most of the five bedrooms. We then stood on the entry-level looking out of the French doors that lead to the back deck. Sawyer turned to me. “What do you think?”

  I took stock of the landscaped backyard and imagined what kind of flowers bloomed there in the spring. “It's light and airy,” I replied.

  “Yes, it is,” Sally agreed. “And the lower level would be perfect for your studio. It gets a good amount of natural light and opens directly to the backyard.

  “Let's take a look,” Sawyer said. He descended a couple steps before extending his hand to me. I refused to take it. After all, why would I need help going down the stairs? Hadn't I assured everyone I was recuperated? He threw me an annoyed look from under his brows before moving on through the space. There was a full bathroom down there and a small kitchen.

  “When they first built these houses, the popular thing was to have the kitchen on the lower level,” Sally said. “Years later, the main kitchen was added to the entry-level floor but the owners decided to keep the original kitchen and rent out this level. You can get rid of it if you like.”

  I thought having a separate kitchen for the studio was awesome and said as much. “That way you can stock it with whatever your people need while working; water, tea, snacks.”

  Blood.

  “See, that's why you're here,” he remarked. “I’d have never thought of that.” He raised his hand and touched the ceiling. “Ceiling's too low, though. I'd feel cramped.”

  You two might as well get married already, Angel.

  Drop dead, Cici.

  Sally flipped through the small mass of paper in her expandable folder. “We have three other properties. We can put this one on our short list, no pun intended, and go look at the next one.”

  She told us the second house was about a ten-minute walk away. Concentrating on walking at mortal speed, I matched my pace to Sawyer's and we ended up trailing behind her. “How long have you been writing music, Angel?” he asked in a casual tone.

  “When I was really young, I’d hear melodies in my head and sing them out loud.” I left out the part about remembering them note for note. “When I was about nine or ten, I started writing them down with lyrics.”

  “So you’ve been singing all your life.”

  We waited at the intersection for the light to turn pedestrian, and I turned to him. “According to Mom, I came out singing.”

  He was staring at me and didn't even try to look away. Or perhaps, like me, he was simply unable to look away. I breathed in, grateful to be surrounded by the myriad smells that ensured his aroma wasn't dominant, and therefore didn't drive me crazy. He guided me by the elbow as we started across the street.

  You must not mate with him.

  I nearly twisted my ankle in the middle of the intersection. Sawyer caught me in mid-trip, making sure I was steady before leading me to the curb and dropping his hand. Mortified, I tried to play it off. “Didn't see the little pothole.” I glanced at him quickly. He had a small smile on his face. Probably because, clearly, there was no pothole. Confused, I took extra time straightening myself and looking down so I wouldn't see his mocking expression.

  Cici, I'm not going to...mate with Sawyer.

  Good. Because you could kill him if you did.

  I gazed up at him, wanting to ignore this insane telepathic conversation. “And you? When did you know you wanted to do music?”

  “I always knew.” In response to a gust of wind, he hunched his shoulders and pulled his baseball cap further down on his head. “Music was my way of coping with reality. I grew up in…a less than ideal environment. If it weren't for music, I'd be a totally different person.” I didn't realize I was hanging on his words until we caught up with Sally. She came to a stop.

  “This area's had its share of foreclosures,” she said. “In fact the next property’s one of ‘em.”

  “So we can probably get a good deal,” I said. Sawyer glanced at me with an amused look.

  “Yes. It's quite possible,” Sally said. “As quiet as it's kept, it's still a buyer's market, even in this fancy neighborhood.”

  I became excited about the prospect of saving a few thousand on a house, even if it was someone else's money. During the Great Depression, Dad bought the brownstone next to our family's original house and knocked down the walls to create one large home. Seemed like his love for real estate had rubbed off on me.

  Maybe you can buy your own soon. Fun, isn't it? She was right. It was fun.

  Cici, what are you actually doing right now? I imagined her lounging in a cafe, sipping a lidded coffee cup full of warm blood and tuned into my escapades.

  I'm in L.A. Sitting in Satchel’s lap.

  Alrighty then...that explained the turn of the conversation. My stomach growled.

  Angel!

  I know!

  I glanced at Sawyer out of the corner of my eye, wondering how it would look if I broke out a thermos right there.

  Sally led us into the next property. “How simply beautiful,” I exclaimed loudly, as I slid a thermos into position within the secret compartment of my bag. “Wow, look at this sitting room,” I bellowed while continuing on further into the house. I quickly took the thermos out, downed it, and put it back inside the bag before they made it into the room behind me.

  As they walked in, I suctioned my teeth with my tongue to make sure all residue of blood was gone before turning to Sawyer. “Interesting wallpaper,” I said. He grimaced at the pink rose-pattern on the walls.

  Cici's laugh rang in my head. You should go into acting.

  I feel like a fraud.

  Welcome to immortal life in mortal territory. Just be glad you're too quick for them to see what you just did.

  “You seem excited about this one,” Sawyer said with a frown. “What is it you like?”

  I felt like a fool for having underestimated him. I looked around the room. “The ceilings. If they're this tall on the entry level, they might be high enough downstairs. Higher than the last place, at least.”

  “Well, let's go see, shall we?” he said.

  Downstairs, he reached up to touch the ceiling and couldn't. Sally pointed out the small kitchen and French doors opening out to the garden. “And we have a similar layout to the last property,” she said. Sawyer seemed pleased as he prowled around the space.

  And then I heard it. The sound of two human heartbeats up on the second floor. Deciding to investigate, I used the excuse of having to go to the bathroom.

  “Need tissue?” Sally asked. “There may not be any in there.”

  “I have some in my bag thanks,” I lied as I closed the door behind me.

  When I heard Sawyer and Sally open the French doors and head into the backyard, I moved up the stairs in overdrive. I stood still in the hallway outside what must have been the master bedroom.

  “Sounds like they're going in the backyard. I say we make a run for it,” one voice said. It was female, and sounded almost elderly.

  “But what if they see us, Ellie?” That was a male with a voice that sounded lik
e he was around the same age as his friend.

  I peeked around the corner. They were standing in the walk-in closet, and both wore large, hiker backpacks. The man closed up her backpack and secured it onto her back before pulling a handgun out of the outer pocket.

  “Bill, we don't need that here. It's broad daylight and it's probably just another agent showing the place again.”

  “I'll keep it handy, just in case.”

  “Bill, we have to leave. It's not our home anymore.”

  “Like hell it ain't,” he grumbled.

  I stepped into the room. “What are you doing here?”

  My intention was to scare them into leaving before Sawyer and Sally found out. But it didn't quite work out that way. I didn't count on Bill freaking out and shooting me. I watched the bullet enter my heart. Good shot, I thought as I felt the hot metal searing through the muscle. There were two possibilities before me. I could fall to the floor and play dead. Or I could give into the red rage threatening to grow in the wake of Bill's impulsive stupidity.

  Don't kill them Angel! I fell to the floor and tried to figure out what to do next.

  That's right, just lay there, bleed a little. And calm down.

  Sawyer ran into the room. Bill dropped the gun to the floor and Sawyer kicked it away before catching sight of me. He exclaimed and staggered to his knees beside me while visibly trying to pull himself together. “Angel, you’ve been shot.” He took my hand and the red haze cleared up. “Oh, my god,” he said looking at the pool of blood I could feel expanding around me. Sally was calling 911, Ellie was apologizing and weeping, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of Sawyer. For some reason, as I lay there looking up at his beautiful face, I wanted to cry, too.

  He leaned over me and my eyes fluttered. The bullet began to move its way out as my body rejected it. Fascinating. It hurt like a bee sting more than anything else, but the loss of blood weakened me.

  Dad’s sending an ambulance. You'll have to work your way through this one until they get there.

  Sawyer gave me water from his bottle. I coughed and spluttered as it went down my throat. “Easy,” he said gently. There were tears in his eyes. “It looks like the bullet went right into your chest.”

  When the ambulance came, I recognized the drivers from the night of Heist's death. Dad has a special arm of staff that deals with what they call immortal mishaps. Sure enough, they took over, and covered up the bullet, now on the floor underneath me. One of the workers winked down at me. “You just take it easy, miss. You’re lucky to be alive.” They placed me on a stretcher.

  The police arrived and took Bill into custody. “It was self defense,” he cried as they led him away. “She just showed up in our bedroom.”

  “My blood’s all over the floor,” I told Sawyer before they wheeled me away. “Guess that means you’ll have to buy this house.”

  17. THE TRUTH

  “As far as everyone knows,” Dad said in his matter-of-fact, doctor voice, “the bullet only grazed your chest and you are on track to a quick recovery.”

  I looked up at him from my hospital bed.

  “The mortal who shot you is being handled by our police,” Mom seethed. She was a livid shade of red, but thanks to Dad's glamour, no mortal could see it. “You will have to press charges, of course,” she continued. “But all the details will be cleaned up.”

  “You have a visitor,” Dad said.

  The nurse entered. “There's a Sawyer Creed here to see Ms. Brown,” she said.

  Dad raised an eyebrow. “Are you up to it, Angel?” he asked. Ignoring the irony in his tone, I nodded to the nurse and soon Sawyer came in carrying a large bouquet of flowers that smelled almost as delectable as he did. Cici and Mom appreciatively inhaled both.

  After greetings, Dad said, “Cleo, this is Sawyer Creed. He works with Angel. Sawyer, my wife Cleo.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Brown.” Sawyer extended his hand to Mom.

  I found myself holding my breath. Whenever Mom touched a person, especially for the first time, she was able to read them on the molecular level, as if she were running a person through an X-ray. Physically, there was very little you could hide from her. She clasped his hand. “Please call me Cleo, Sawyer.” I could tell from her tone that something caught her attention. Cici and I exchanged a quick glance.

  “How are you?” he asked me.

  “Alive,” I said. “The bullet just grazed my chest. Might even be out by the morning.” He looked relieved and offered me the flowers.

  Mom and Dad did their secret communication thing again.

  They think he's your boyfriend, Cici thought. So do I.

  Whatever.

  “Thanks.” I took the flowers. “They're nice.”

  Hmmm, he's kind of sweet. In a hostile, mortal way.

  “Mom, Dad,” Cici said, “I think we should leave these two alone for a while.” My face burned with embarrassment. What had gotten into my family? Sawyer must have thought they were insane.

  Why did I even care what he thought?

  “We'll see you later, dear,” Mom said with a disapproving look. I sighed as they walked out the door.

  “You’re in pain.” Sawyer said turning to me. “This is all my fault.”

  “How’s that? How could you know there were gun-crazed squatters in there?”

  He stepped closer to the bed, hesitated, and then sat down in the nearby chair. He peered up at me from under his ridiculously long eyelashes. His eyes watched my teeth as they bit down on my lip in an effort to hold back the rush of words his presence evoked. I felt compelled to spill every secret, share every sensation, every new thing that had happened to me in the journey from fetus to adult, mortal to immortal. There was something about him that made me comfortable enough to be myself. With all the other mortals in my life I'd erected a friendly guard, but with him being guarded was difficult, as if he extracted the truth of me simply by being around.

  “If I...hadn't asked you to come looking at houses,” he said, “you wouldn't be here in the hospital.”

  “Well, maybe we should all just stay home and hide from all the messed-up random crap that can happen to us every day.”

  He looked at me like I was insane. And then he laughed. I nearly dropped my jaw. Who knew he was capable of laughing? Were his teeth always that straight? The corners of his eyes crinkled up and a dimple that wasn't there before popped up in his chin. I didn't realize how hard I was staring until he stopped. His smile faded and was replaced by the familiar frown.

  “That's kind of what I do.” His eyes locked with mine. “The studio’s the safest place I know.”

  My temperature rose.

  Angel, be cool. Literally. We don't want you to burn up your mortal boyfriend.

  He's not my boyfriend! Burn him up…?

  Yes, you can do it if you're not careful. You're still nowhere near being able to control yourself.

  “It's kind of warm in here. Don't you think?” I said. “Would you crack the window?”

  “Angel, it's freezing out there, and you're recuperating from what most would say’s a shocking experience. Besides, a little heat doesn't bother me. I am from the South.”

  His eyes caressed me. My stomach flipped.

  “But the question is,” he continued in a serious tone, “will you be able to do the Garden gig like this?”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. The idea of a bullet stopping me from doing anything, much less the gig of my life, was hysterical. “I'll tell you a little secret,” I said when I was finally able to stop laughing. “Not even a bullet can stop me from getting on that stage. I'd have to drop dead before missing that gig, okay?”

  And that really was the truth.

  18. GLAMOUR

  I tossed and turned all night in the hospital bed, but it wasn’t due to pain. I just couldn’t stop thinking about Sawyer Creed. I tried thinking about something, anything, else. That worked for a few seconds, until I was thinking about him again. Then I’d try again to th
ink of something else, and the cycle continued around and around like a carousel. Eventually, I gave up trying to not think of him, and touched down in the bed after unknowingly hovering over it.

  There were a number of reasons why Sawyer kept popping into my brain.

  First: Mom gave me some information after she scanned him. Years ago, I’d asked her to not give me readings of my friends unless I asked for it. It was too creepy to know so much about a person while pretending you didn’t. But with Sawyer, she gave her input whether I wanted it or not. I saw it coming as soon as she turned to me with the this-is-for-your-own-good glint in her eye.

  “Honey, you should know I don't approve of your relationship with the producer. Both your father and I recommend sticking with our own kind for moral reasons.” She looked at her fingernails while searching for the right words. “However. With some mortals the playing field is a little leveled. In these cases, the mortal is not an average mortal. There are many reasons for this, but usually it is genetic.”

  I had no idea what she meant. But it led me to the second reason I had Sawyer on my mind: I’d instinctively known there was something different about him, had felt it the first time I saw him and every subsequent time we were together. It was more than a North vs. South, Yankee vs. non-Yankee thing. There was something constantly working in his head. At first I’d written it off as the tendency music people have of always thinking of melody lines or being preoccupied with lyrics and arrangements. But it was more than that. There was something extra underneath that frown of concentration, and I wanted to know what that extra was.

  Third reason: his vast musical knowledge exceeded my expectations. His passion for music matched mine, and when we worked together, it felt like we were the only people in the world. And the fourth reason I kept thinking about Sawyer was that I found him undeniably, immensely attractive. Watching him do anything—play the keyboard, talk, think, whatever—was fascinating. He’d mesmerized me before The Change, and now the fascination was even more intense.