Bad Blood

by Demitria Lunetta

  They have come to see me burn.

  One girl pushes her way to the front of the crowd. The sight of her makes my heart soar. She will save me. I know she will. Hope floods my body, and I trick myself into believing that the flames have been extinguished. A new bout of pain pushes that thought from my head.

  When I focus once again on the girl, my faith is dashed; my heart plummets back to the earth, shattering against the cold, unloving stone. I realize that she isnae here to save me.

  The last thing I see is her look of pure, triumphant joy.

  Hate fills my body as I, at last, pass into darkness.

  There is no more pain, and with the lack of physical feeling, emotion rushes in to fill the void. My whole being abhors her. I am hatred.

  I shall get my revenge.

  I DREAM OF fire.

  I wake in an unfamiliar bed in an empty hospital room. Bandages are wrapped tightly around one wrist, an IV in the other. I clumsily pull out the needle, ignoring the small trail of blood that flows down my arm. My stuff is in a bag on a chair, and I stand to reach it. Woozy, I lean against the bed. Each movement takes a lot out of me. I slowly slip out of my hospital gown and into clothes.

  I step out into the hall and find Asha sitting in a chair, her head in her hands.

  “Asha?”

  Her head snaps up. “Heather! You shouldn’t be up!”

  “Where’s Fiona?”

  Her eyes drift to another room and I see her lying in bed, her mother and sister standing over her.

  “She was worse off than you,” Asha says. “She needed a blood transfusion and…” Her face collapses into tears. “She’s in a coma. What the hell were you thinking?” she asks. “I should never have let you two go through with it.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I tell her.

  “No, Heather, it’s yours.” She stands. “I didn’t know what to tell them, so I said I was in the other room and I came in and saw what was going on and I called an ambulance.” She looks at her feet, ashamed.

  “I’ll—I’ll think of something to say to them.”

  “You’d better think fast,” she tells me frostily. “Your aunt is downstairs getting coffee. She called your parents. They’re coming.”

  My parents are going to have me committed. And poor Fiona. I look in the window. Mary is crying softly, while her mother looks like she’s aged a decade overnight. It’s all my fault.

  “I am in so much trouble.”

  “So am I!” Asha yells. “My parents are really angry. They only let me stay because I thought you both were going to die….” She closes her eyes, squeezing out tears that drop down her cheek.

  “Asha, I’m so sorry.”

  She sniffles and wipes her face. “I’m not the one you should apologize to.” She grabs her bag and heads down the hall to the elevator bank.

  I eye Fiona’s room, taking a moment before gathering the strength to open the door and step in. I don’t think I’m supposed to be here, but I have to explain. Mary, Fiona’s stepsister, spots me first, her eyes wide. She’s scared of me.

  “Mrs. Darrow,” I whisper. Her eyes focus on me, and the look on her face turns to one of pure anger. In three strides she stands in front of me, lifts her hand, and slaps me hard across the face.

  My eyes water and my cheek burns. “I’m so sorry,” I whimper.

  “You are playing with powers you do not understand,” she tells me. “You had no right to drag Fiona into this.”

  My mouth hangs open, and I don’t know what to say, when strong hands grab my shoulders and pull me back into my room. It’s Robby’s mom, Sheena Brodie.

  “It’s all right, love,” Sheena tells me. “We’ll figure this all out.”

  Sheena lets me cry softly on her shoulder. When I’m done, she wipes my face. “That’s enough of that, now,” she says.

  My hand goes to my neck. “I lost the necklace you gave me,” I tell her. “I’m sorry.” It’s such a small thing, something stupid for me to focus on instead of everything else.

  “Oh, love, that’s all right. The necklace was just a prop. The Trinity knot is supposed to help you focus your energies, you know. Not that you need any help with that, do you?” She sighs. “I was going to watch you, see if you showed any talent. I had no idea how powerful you already are.”

  I sniffle and look at the floor, but she holds my chin and makes me look into her eyes.

  “I need you to tell me everything.”

  And I do. I tell her about the dreams, about the visions, about the cutting, about my grandma, about the book. I tell her everything, and it feels so good to get it all off my chest.

  “Don’t you think if I could have cured Abbie, I would have?” she asks. “She is beyond our help. The only thing that would have worked is a life for a life. That’s why you were so knackered after your first attempt.”

  “But this time…I’m tired, but not nearly as bad as before,” I tell her.

  She nods. “And Fiona’s in that hospital bed, unconscious.”

  I tell her how I felt during, how I could feel the health draining from me and Fiona, how I could focus it. I took more from Fiona than I did from myself.

  “To save my aunt would have killed Fiona,” I say horrified at the revelation.

  “Aye.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t know. I didn’t understand.”

  “And that’s why playing with Blood Magic is dangerous. Now tell me more about these sisters, the ones who haunt you.”

  I tell her everything I know. About the thoughts that are not my own. “I want to be free of them,” I say.

  “Go back to your aunt and have her take you home. Burn that book.”

  “That’s what Gram said to do. Will that work?”

  “I dinnae know for sure, but a grimoire is a very powerful object. Destroying it might stop them.”

  “Gram said there was another way. That her old coven could help me.”

  “Did she tell you how?” she asks quietly.

  “No, she just said it was dangerous. That I could die.”

  Sheena nods. “Burn the grimoire. Perhaps that will be enough.”

  “Will burning the book help Fiona?”

  Sheena shakes her head. “It is not that easy to undo Blood Magic gone wrong. She’s beyond your help now. There’s nothing you can do for her. She needs to rest, and hopefully she will recover.”

  “Tell her family…” I don’t know what to say. “I’m just so sorry.”

  “They know,” she says before slipping out. “But perhaps you should let them be for now. Go home. Burn the book. Try to rest.”

  When my aunt walks in with coffee, she hugs me. Her eyes are red and puffy. “Why would you want to kill yourself?” she asks.

  “I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” I tell her. I don’t know how to explain in a way that will make sense to her. “It was an accident.”

  “The cuts were self-inflicted. The doctors said—”

  I look at my aunt. I want to tell her the truth. I told Sheena Brodie everything, but my aunt has no idea about Blood Magic. If I try to explain now, I’ll sound absolutely insane.

  “We were playing around, trying to make a movie, a horror film,” I interrupt. “It got out of hand. It was stupid.”

  She looks me up and down. “You werenae trying to kill yourself?”

  “No! Please, let’s go home.”

  “I’ll go get a nurse and see if we can get out of here.”

  “And my parents?” I ask.

  “You scared them half to death. They’ll be here tomorrow.”

  After an hour I’m released from the hospital. I have to talk to a psychiatrist and convince him I’m not insane or suicidal. He ends up believing that Fiona and I were attempting to make a film. I told them we’d watched a movie about witches and it inspired me. I wanted a scene in which we would hold a ritual. I wanted it to be realistic, so I suggested we cut ourselves for real, just a little, not understanding the risk. I lied that I had
n’t known how sharp the knives were, how dangerous. When he asks to see the video, I say we never even got to that part, it went so wrong so fast. Better that he thinks I’m stupid than insane.

  They agree to release me into my aunt’s care. At the flat she refuses to let me out of her sight. I don’t blame her. I show her the book and tell her it’s partially what gave Fiona and me the idea to cut ourselves.

  “We thought it looked like something a witch would use, and after we saw that movie, I thought we could use it to make an awesome prop in our scene.” I tell her I want to burn it as a therapeutic release. I feel bad about lying, but I’m in so deep, what’s a few more lies?

  Aunt Abbie grabs the book out of my hands and throws it in the sink. She rummages through some drawers, finds a bottle of lighter fluid and pours the liquid on the ancient grimoire. She hands me the matches.

  “Go ahead, if this will make you feel better. Get rid of the bloody thing, if it’s why you thought you should cut yourself and nearly kill your friend.” Her voice is hard, but her face is soft—defeated, almost.

  My hands tremble as I light a match, letting it burn nearly down to my fingers before it goes out. Aunt Abbie just watches me. I shakily light another, and I only let it burn for a moment before I throw it onto the book. The grimoire lights up in a spectacular pyre.

  My family history, my magical inheritance, all gone in a puff of smoke. Generations of women have recorded their knowledge, and in an instant, I’ve destroyed their legacy. I let out a sob and my aunt hugs me.

  “Do you feel any better, love?”

  I shake my head. If anything, I feel worse. I reach in to pick up the blackened tatters.

  “Heather, careful, that’s still hot,” my aunt tells me.

  I remove my hand, but I’m not burned. “I didn’t actually touch the fire,” I tell her, though I did. I look at my hand. No burns. The skin isn’t even red from the heat.

  We watch the blaze die down. And then, just before we go to bed, my aunt turns on the tap and drowns the last licks of flame.

  I AM AT the top of Arthur’s Seat. The cloudy sky is starless, and all I have is the moon’s reflection to show me how high I am, how far I have to fall.

  I have no recollection of how I got here. The wind and rain have plastered my nightdress to my belly, the bulge clear for all to see. It was she who brought me here. I thought I’d be rid of her, but she haunts me even now.

  As if in answer to my suspicions, a voice inside my head tells me:

  Jump.

  Four little letters, but so powerful. I listen.

  I cry out against it. It would be so easy to end my life, to be reunited with Primrose, but I cannae. Even with all the wickedness that I have done, I dinnae want to leave this world. I want to live.

  My hand goes to my belly. What chance does this child have, begot of hate and jealousy? What chance do I have when I am discovered?

  The wind whispers again.

  Jump.

  It takes everything I have to back away from the ledge, to make my way home, one heavy footstep at a time. She will not have me, or my child. Primrose willnae win.

  I have taken her life, and I shall live it as best I can.

  WHEN I WAKE, I’m on top of Arthur’s Seat, in my pajamas. The cold air flows around me, and I can barely feel my feet. I look down at the drop.

  Jump. And then an echo: Jump.

  I lean forward on my numb toes. What is there to live for? My family thinks I’m insane. My aunt is dying. My gram is no longer herself. And Asha hates me for what happened with Fiona. What if Fiona doesn’t wake up? And if she does, how will she ever forgive me?

  Tears fall down my face. I no longer even have my sister.

  The thought breaks me out of my trance. I never had a sister.

  I scuttle back from the edge, scraping my heels and leaving a streak of blood on the craggy rocks. I crouch and hug my knees. Burning the book did nothing. These thoughts are still here, whispering, haunting me.

  They are not my own.

  When I can’t take the cold any longer, I make my way down the hill, slowly and carefully. My feet are a wreck, the skin scraped and raw, but they’re so numb, I can barely feel the pain.

  I limp down the final steps and out through the park, hugging my arms to my sides. A cab pulls up beside me.

  “All right, love?” the cabbie calls. “Had a rough night?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Need the coppers?” he asks, glancing down at my bare feet.

  “No…I just need to get home.”

  “Hop in, I’ll take you.”

  Relief floods through me, a chance to sit in a warm car. But then I frown. “I don’t have any money,” I say.

  “It’s slow anyway….I’ll get you where you need to go.”

  “Thank you,” I breathe, getting into the cab. I hope karma is real, because this man should get a buttload of good karma.

  “Where to?” he asks.

  I glance at the clock. Four in the morning. My aunt may still be sleeping. I could sneak in; she’d never know I was gone. But what would that solve? I’d be with my parents on the next flight home, stuck in an institution with two ghosts fighting in my head.

  “New Town,” I tell him. I give him the address. A short ride later, I’m standing on the doorstep of Sheena Brodie’s house. I need her help. I need answers.

  I ring the doorbell, then knock loudly on the door, then ring the doorbell again.

  “All right, all right,” a familiar voice calls. The door opens, and Robby looks me up and down. “Heather, what the bloody hell…” He eyes my dirt-stained pajamas and ruined feet. “Heather, what happened?”

  “I need to see your mother, now,” I tell him. He reaches out to me and I collapse into his arms with a sob.

  “It didn’t work,” I tell Sheena desperately as she cleans my feet. “I burned the book, but they’re still here. They won’t be happy until I’m dead or insane.”

  “What is she on about?” Robby asks, but Sheena just shushes him.

  “Robby, I need you to go to the hospital and fetch Janet Darrow. Send her here and tell her you’ll stay with Fiona. Make sure she knows I said it’s important.”

  “She’s not going to leave Fiona’s side…,” Robby tells her.

  “She’ll come if I ask her to,” Sheena tells him. Robby doesn’t move.

  “I’m not leaving Heather.” He puts his arm around me. “I’m sorry for what I said….”

  “Me too,” I whisper.

  Sheena puts her hands on her hips. “Robby, if you want to help Heather, go. Now.”

  Robby kisses my forehead and leaves.

  “What now?” I ask.

  “Rest,” Sheena tells me, offering me a hot drink that knocks me right out.

  THIS TIME, WHEN I visit him, I bring no potions. Only myself.

  He has been drinking heavily; I can smell the whisky on his breath as he answers the door. The look he gives me is full of hatred, but he allows me in. That is all I want, to speak with him.

  He sits heavily on a chair and pours himself another drink, swallowing it in one gulp. He rests his bleary eyes on me. “What do you want?”

  “I have come to make an offer.”

  “I do not deal with the devil,” he tells me. “And if the devil is real, you are he.”

  “I…” I pause, unsure of how to convince him. “I had your child,” I blurt out. “From that night we lay together…”

  His hand stops halfway to the bottle. “You are a liar.”

  “I am no’ lying. I had a child…a girl. My father has taken her, has disowned me. But if I were to return with a husband, he would accept me again. We need not tell him…what you are.”

  Jonas laughs hollowly. “Primrose cared not that I was born a Jew. My parents fled Spain and thought to have a life here, only to find more harassment and persecution. She would have been my wife, to hell with religion.”

  “And now I can be your wife.” I reach fo
r his hand and it trembles in my grasp. “I look like her. You can pretend I am her. I wouldnae mind.”

  He whips his hand away from me. “You come to me in her guise and whisper temptations. But who would marry the devil’s whore?”

  “You. We have a child together. Primrose would want—”

  “Dinnae say her name!” he yells, standing. He throws the near-empty bottle at me. I duck and it smashes against the wall. “You are not her. You are nothing like her.”

  He rushes me and I am not quick enough to run from him, nor am I strong enough to break his grasp. His fingers clutch my arms. His hands are so strong, they could crush my bones.

  It was very stupid to come here.

  “I will leave at once,” I tell him, my voice squeaking.

  “You will, will you?” he asks, and I can see the malice in his eyes. “You’ll come here, ruin my life, and leave? Just like that?”

  His hands crawl up my arms to my shoulders, and his long fingers encircle my neck.

  “Please,” I beg.

  “I know it was you,” he tells me, his face dark, spittle flying from his lips. “You named her a witch.”

  He squeezes, and I gasp for breath. I claw at his hands, at his face, but he doesnae let go. Lights flash before my eyes; his face, red and angry, takes up my entire range of vision. Before I pass out I hear a crunch, and still he doesnae loosen his hold. He doesnae release his grasp until the landlord finds us days later and pries my cold, dead body from him.

  WHEN I WAKE, I have no idea where I am. I sit up and spot Sheena speaking with an older woman with long, frizzy gray hair. It all comes back to me: Fiona. Primrose and Prudence.

  Sheena brings the older woman over and introduces her. “This is Ruth.” Ruth’s pale blue eyes study me.

  Fiona’s mother is there too. I try to avoid her gaze.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Sheena.

  “This is my coven,” she explains.

  “You’re all witches?”

  “Wiccan, healers, witches…names are irrelevant,” Ruth says.

  “Do you know how to help me?”

  “We havenae seen this before, a person haunted by two spirits who wish to do her harm,” Sheena tells me.