Betrayed by Blood

by Beth Dranoff

  “So you’re the lady our Owain has been keeping secret from us all these months.” He grabbed my hand and started pumping. “Jasper. Jasper Dimenjian. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Dana,” I said in reply. “But I don’t think I’m her, whoever she is.” I glanced at Owain, who shrugged. “We just ran into each other again recently. It’s been, what, years, hasn’t it?”

  “Ah!” Jasper beamed. I wondered how much he’d had to drink already. “A toast to old friends then!”

  “I don’t know that we’re—”

  Owain interrupted by sliding his arm around my waist and kissing the side of my head. I shut my mouth again. That old familiar feeling. Him and me, together.

  “To old friends,” Owain said, tapping what was left in his glass with Jasper’s and then mine.

  Friends. Sure. We could be friends.

  Jasper, the sweaty butterfly, spotted another pretty flower across the room and flitted that way to pollinate artistic potential and scatter his seeds of lucre-based suggestion elsewhere.

  I could feel where Owain’s hand pressed the thin fabric of my tank against my skin, held in place by the slickness coating every surface of my body now. Sexy.

  And yet...and yet...

  Was I feeling the past or the now?

  Owain angled his head as though whispering something in my ear. At the last moment, as I braced for the assault of sound to drown out all other noise, he shifted. Not quite touching. Did he say something? I had no idea; all I could hear was the rushing of blood in my ears and his closeness speeding the patterned beat of my heart.

  My fists clenched and breathing was suddenly too hard. Solid bands of sweat and run! and ice that shivered its way along my spine to the tailbone below, trickling into the crack of my ass from behind. Everywhere a threat, everyone in this room of chattering laughing drinking debauching holding the potential for worse. I knew no one.

  I forced one hand open to drag the strands of dripping hair from my eyes; saw blood streaking the inside of my wrist. My own: I’d punctured my flesh with my nails.

  Self-conscious, I rubbed my palms against the black fabric covering my legs. Hiding it. Blood was such a good look for me, especially out and about amongst the norms. Not that I cared what they thought. What Owain thought. Right?

  I pointed to the door and Owain nodded, motioning me to go first. Such a gentleman.

  The air cleared as I ascended back to street level. Relief. It was still hot, but after the underground steam bath beneath us I’d have been happy with a few minutes in a meat locker.

  “What happened back there?” At least he’d waited until we were outside to ask.

  “I need something slushy and alcoholic,” I said.

  We wandered, the sidewalks lit by blue and red and yellow plastic lanterns casting lines and jagged patterns that muted the dirt and the garbage. Nothing could dull the smell though: alleyway urine, garbage cans stuffed early with compostable recycling. An all-you-can-eat cornucopia of culinary opportunity for the raccoons who eyed us from the shadows. Then brighter lights and wide boulevards of Spadina Avenue, with its late-night neon in Mandarin and Vietnamese and Korean, drawing us away from the quiet and winding dark of the Market.

  We paused outside the rough wood-paneled façade of The Bubble Tree, its muted lights filtering onto the sidewalk as spray from the overhead air conditioner dusted us with the promise of cool relief. I glanced over at Owain.

  “Fine with me,” he said.

  Twenty bucks in the palm of the hostess, delivered with a flirt and a smile, got us a seat at the quieter back area away from the other patrons. Not quite privacy, but not exactly public either.

  “So,” Owain said, when the silence stretched and got restless. “Seeing anyone these days?”

  “What do you think?” After so long, some questions didn’t deserve a straight answer.

  “Right,” he said, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Not my business.” Watching me in a way that said I know how you sound when you sleep. And yet here we were, sipping at bubble tea and chewing on our tapioca pearls, the chatter from the kitchen behind and the tables in front weaving around us as sweat dried against the backs of our necks.

  “Make your pitch,” I said. Leaving the past where it was meant to be. “I’ll try to keep an open mind.” Owain smiled, triumph in the creases of his cheeks. “Just remember—I had good reasons to leave.”

  He nodded. “Understood.”

  “OK then,” I said, leaning back and crossing my arms. “Give it to me. Let’s hear your case.”

  “Money.” Owain held up a thumb to mark off his count. “Can’t buy you happiness, but it sure makes life easier.”

  “Uh huh.” Couldn’t argue with that. “What else you got?”

  “You went into the Agency to make a difference, defend that line between us and them.” Owain’s index finger joined his thumb in the air. “Now you can get back to doing that.”

  “There’s no us and them, Owain.” I couldn’t help myself. “Different doesn’t mean evil. Or even necessarily dangerous. They’re just... Other.”

  “The Agency has changed,” he said. I raised my eyebrows. “Fine, it’s evolving. There’s more room for the kind of thinking you’re talking about. Don’t you want to be part of that?”

  “Maybe,” I admitted. “Anything else?”

  “Backup. Safety.” Up went his middle finger to join the other two. “We watch out for our own.”

  I snorted.

  “Well, there’s me,” Owain said, bending his thumb in and holding up four fingers instead. “We make a great team, don’t we?”

  He was serious. Almost. I shook my head at him and smiled to soften my words. “You’re not enough.”

  “Ouch, you pain me.” But he was smiling. The wound wasn’t fatal. “Then how about this,” Owain said, suddenly serious, all five fingers splayed in the air. “You could finally find out what happened to your father.”

  I stared at him. Yeah, there was that.

  * * *

  Owain paid. We walked.

  “The Agency keeps records,” he said. Casual. “Classified doesn’t mean gone. Someone knows what happened to your father.”

  I stopped, touching Owain’s shoulder so he paused as well, turning to look at me.

  “Do you know something?” My voice rising in pitch if not volume. “Did you find something out?”

  Owain shook his head and glanced around, making sure we were still alone. So far so good. “Let’s keep walking,” he said. “We’re not having this conversation. And no. Not exactly. But rebuilding your clearance levels might give you access to enough for a clue.”

  “So it wasn’t an accident.”

  “I didn’t say that,” he replied. “Maybe it was. But wouldn’t you like to know for sure?”

  I nodded.

  We turned a corner and it was the Market again, only quieter than before, with the streetcar clatter and traffic at our backs. Owain glanced over at me, then away, then back again.

  “What?” Impatient with myself. Like we hadn’t learned from experience.

  “Nothing,” he muttered. Then: “No, not nothing.” Owain touched my hand and it was like it had been before everything happened; we were us again. Only not as young and not so innocent. And then he was pulling me towards him, his grip firm but relenting—I could have extricated myself at any time.

  I should have told him where to go and how to get there in excruciating detail.

  I didn’t.

  Because I wanted to taste what I’d been missing. Because sometimes I’m an idiot.

  Our lips met halfway and there was nothing left to say. Tasting the salt and sweet of each other’s sweat. There, by the steps of the old synagogue that now doubled as a Korean community center, in the s
hadow cast by its towering walls of stone. Where some of my ancestors had prayed, their names even now engraved in marble plaques on the other side of those locked doors.

  I opened my eyes, saw Owain’s gaze flick from me to somewhere over my shoulder. He gave a faint nod as his lips tracked from my lips to my ear.

  “Duck duck goose,” he whispered. Our old signal.

  I nodded and counted out my response. Blink three...blink two...blink...

  I dropped and spun, my back to Owain, as a blade I hadn’t realized he was carrying arced across the space where I’d just been. A bald head, with its sunken eyes wrapped in pinkish/purple loose skin, rolled away from us as its torso, tentacles still flapping, fell limp to the ground.

  At which point I realized what he’d likely just decapitated: a representative of that eight-limbed group I was supposed to be working with. This was so not good.

  “Owain, hold up.” Voice low. “Do you see any more of them?”

  “Yeah.”

  I started to straighten up, my hands out where everyone could see them.

  “Dana,” he said. “What are you doing?”

  “Watch my back,” I said. Fully upright now. I knew where all my hardware was hidden, even if nobody else did. Yet.

  “Always.”

  “Let’s not over-promise. I’d settle for you being here for me right now.” I scanned the street. Almost deserted, except for the leather-wrapped skinhead junkie slumped in the doorway of the nearest vintage clothing place. But I felt it. Heard the slithering, a squishing skitter displacing pebbles and dirt.

  So I called out, gambling.

  “My friend didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Silence. “He was defending me. Your compatriot,” I started, then realized I had no idea what these squidly creatures called each other. Tried again. “They came upon us unannounced, in the dark. My friend’s reaction can be understood, yes? He didn’t realize you were here to talk to me.”

  “Dana?” Owain managed to make my name a multi-syllabic question.

  I shook my head and didn’t answer. Hoped he understood that it was best to let me handle this, if I could. Didn’t really want to find out what would happen if I couldn’t.

  “You surprise me, luv,” Squid D’Lee said, stepping out of the shadows. I’d never realized before how dark these streets were at night. As though the City had a dimmer switch on the overhead lights, and the timer went off at 2:01 AM. “And here I thought we’d become friends.”

  “What do you need, D’Lee?” He really had the worst timing. And what was with him and fedoras? This one was stormy grey. An indigo and azure feather, tucked into the side of the black bandeau, glittered as the squid rotated his head.

  “Frank wants a status update.”

  “Really.” My fingers threading through my sweat-dampened curls. “You couldn’t have, you know, called or something?” I wasn’t big on some of the social niceties required for participation in polite society—too much effort and tight pants for too little payoff. Even so, a bit of advance warning and maybe Mr./Ms. Headless-and-Amorphous over there would still be alive and flapping.

  I made a point of staring at the head, then back at the live cephalopod again.

  “Well,” D’Lee said, inclining his head as though acknowledging my point. “We are where we find ourselves now. So let us confer a piece and then we can all be on our way.” He glanced from Owain back to me, his grin all pointy teeth and stretched lips.

  “Fine,” I said. “What do you want to know? No, I don’t have Gus and no, I haven’t figured out where he is yet either. Feel better now?”

  Squid D’Lee evaluated my words via long stare. I glared back, emptying my head of anything but the thoughts I would be having if I wasn’t currently lying: annoyance, shopping lists, Owain naked, Jon with Claude on his knees in front of him, Sam looking down at me and me looking up at him from below...

  It must have been enough. Squid beckoned over three heretofore-unseen minions to gather up the remains of their fallen comrade. How a gaggle of squidlets could do that was a mystery but at least it freed up my evening, so yay there.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Squid D’Lee said, melting into the darkness.

  Owain let out a low whistle and tucked away his sword.

  “Now that’s a story I’d be wanting to hear,” he said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  You up?

  I was blocks from my bed when Lynna’s text buzzed from the passenger seat where I’d tossed both phone and messenger bag. Saw the message but wasn’t about to risk a ticket by texting while driving so I waited until the first red light to respond.

  Ya. Still out. You?

  Just got off work, Lynna texted back. Hungry?

  I could eat

  5 mins @ the place on Dupont?

  The light was changing.

  See you there

  * * *

  You don’t order salad at the Valiant. Sure, you could—the place has been there since the mid-1950s, and something raw and vegetable-based was probably on the menu—but healthy eating wasn’t the point. If you were at the Valiant, you were there to harden your arteries as much as possible in a single sitting.

  Lynna and I did our part. Three eggs over medium for me, with sides of strip bacon extra crispy, hash browns and toast with both butter and jam. A quarter-inch-thick slice of grapefruit and a sprig of parsley for appearances. Lynna ordered a deluxe cheeseburger with fries and gravy. We split a side order of sausages, and bottomless refill coffees all around.

  The key to any greasy spoon counter experience is to commit.

  “Where were you coming from so late? Did you work to closing?” Lynna could cross-examine even with half an oversized potato wedge shoved into her mouth.

  “Yes and no.”

  Lynna waved her fry at me to continue.

  “Got off late, went to a gallery launch in the Market afterwards.” I paused, knowing that if I shared the rest, there would be more questions. Maybe some I couldn’t answer. “With Owain.”

  The partially chewed potato bit shot out of her mouth and past my ear to land, plop, on the green-grey Formica table behind us.

  “The Owain?”

  I nodded.

  “The one who broke your heart? The reason you’ve resisted making any real commitment since then?”

  “Resisted may be overstating things.” I didn’t disagree, not really, but I hated being pop-psyched.

  Lynna nodded, letting that one go.

  “So how was it? I’ll bet it was super weird seeing him.” She paused her stream-of-consciousness flow to dip another fry in the cup of gravy. “Did he explain anything? Give an excuse?”

  “For what?” I wasn’t bitter. Really. OK, maybe it was the post-endorphin-proximal-rush glow talking. “Leaving? Or coming back?”

  “Both,” Lynna said. “Either. Did he at least try?”

  “So-so,” I replied. Pushing my plate away; congealed, recently scalded grease curdling in my stomach with anticipatory gusto. “He came with a job offer, and an apology. I’m not sure I trust either.”

  “Don’t blame you,” said Lynna, switching to her burger. Thinking as she chewed. “How did he look?”

  Trust Lynna to go there. Hell, who am I kidding? I’d already been there, and back, and holding a cup of Sangria. People on shaky milk crates shouldn’t get too stompy.

  “Good,” I said. “He looked good.”

  “And?” With her free hand, Lynna did the go on wave. “How was he?”

  “I just admitted he looked good. Nothing happened.”

  “Uh huh,” she said. Grinning this time. Oh Great Lynna, all-knowing Sphinx of the multi-varietal hookup. I don’t know why I even bothered trying to hide anything.

  “Fine, we kissed. But that�
�s it.” My coffee cup plunked down for emphasis, clink; a bit spilled over the edge onto the saucer below. I grabbed a couple of aluminum-dispenser-boxed napkins to soak things up. That tiny bit of coffee splash required my full attention. Really. “And it was good.”

  Lynna snickered. “Is Owain sticking around this time? Undead with the boyfriend might not care much, but I’ll bet tall, hot and feline hunky fine will.”

  “Total double-standard,” I muttered. “I don’t ask Sam about who he’s with when it’s not me. Why should it matter who I see?”

  “It shouldn’t,” Lynna agreed. “And yet.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “And no, I have no idea if Owain is going to stay. Guess we’ll find out, eh?”

  * * *

  Gus was snoring on the couch when I got in. The only evidence I had that he’d moved at all in the last sixteen hours or so was that his head was where his toes had been, and instead of having to look at his ugly-ass feet, I was staring at poinsettia-red and holly-green wool footie slippers. 26°C in the shade and now he gets cold?

  Gus cracked open his left eye with a groggy snort. Then the top eye, maybe to validate what the first visual suggested.

  “Hey,” he said, voice more croak than creamy smooth. “You usually get home this late from work? Didn’t my brother let you off early because of me?”

  I shrugged. What, I owed my dangerous loft guest a detailed itinerary and check-in on my life? I was thinking a hard nuh-uh. “Things to do. Old friends to see.”

  Gus’s nose, almost identical in shape to Sandor’s tusky snout, did a nostril flare/flap/flare/flap sequence as he angled his head towards unwashed me.

  “You have been a busy busy girl,” Gus said. Chortled. Another nasal sequence. “Bacon and eggs and sausage and coffee—and you didn’t think to bring anything back for your house guest? Some considerate host you are. I do need to eat sometimes.” Was demon big and blue whining? Seriously? “And what were you doing in Kensington Market?” I stared at him and he started laughing. “Oh...”

  “Shut up,” I said, sinking into a chair. “Wasn’t there anything to eat here?”