Blood Awakens

by Jessaca Willis

  When he’d closed his eyes at the tree, he’d hoped to find another moment such as one of those sacred ones. But he was not so lucky.

  Cherry red clouds coalesced overhead, and an elder woman came into focus.

  “Not you again,” Santiago groaned. Without fail, where there had been a dream of the beautiful, mystery woman, there had also been one of the older, cryptic woman. “What do you want this time?”

  The clouds above were too full to hold back, and no sooner had they settled above him, did they start to downpour. Between winces and puffs, Santiago ran to the shelter of an awning. He expected the older woman to follow, but just as last time, the rain seemed to ricochet off some invisible barrier.

  “Show-off!” he hollered through the hammering of raindrops. “Why can’t you ever bring the sun?”

  The old woman gave a soft grin, but otherwise appeared solemn as usual. Not once had she told Santiago why, but she always looked like she pitied his circumstances. He supposed it was because he was an empath and that he didn’t have much time left to live.

  Though she never said much, this was one of the few times he heard her raspy voice. “It’s not me the rain follows.”

  Rolling his eyes, Santiago moaned louder. “And you’re going to tell me I do?”

  She didn’t argue. She didn’t strike him as the arguing type, more like the annoyingly, genuinely pleasant type, just like his sister.

  “Why are you here—” But before he made space for an answer, he realized there was a more burning concern. “Wait, I have a better question. Why am I having these dreams?”

  The old woman shook her head before looking to the sky, and Santiago slouched her the implied dismissal. She was mumbling words too quiet for him to hear, and then returned her gaze to him, one finger outstretched to point at his chest.

  Not having anything better to do, Santiago’s head fell, dropping enough to examine himself. He’d expected to find himself sodden, drenched to the bone even from the few seconds he’d been standing in the rainstorm, and he did. But the storm had not been one of rain.

  Blood. Everything was coated in thick redness.

  Eyes the size of discs, his gaze floated back to the woman. He wanted to ask her what was going on, why the sky was bleeding, or why he was wherever he was—some derelict town indistinguishable from most others.

  But the woman was gone. What made matters worse, in her place, hunched before Santiago was a hideous creature, its beady, dark eyes unwavering. Skin like spines, the purple edges were jagged enough to cut lightning bolts straight through him.

  Santiago’s lungs had never hurt more from the cry of terror that escaped him as the beast lunged.

  The jolt of fear made him blink awake in beat with his pounding heart. Just as he’d remembered, Santiago found himself dry again, leaning against the bare tree where his sister had left him. Like with all the other dreams, once again the locket was cupped tightly in his hand.

  Hurriedly, he shoved the necklace back into the pocket where he kept it and resettled against the tree. Usually, the meaning of his dreams were clearer, but this one left him in a fog. The only thing he knew was that it left him unsettled, terrified.

  A gentle breeze blew, ruffling the only leaf that remained in the branches just above him. He watched as the poor thing struggled against the current and finally broke from the branch. It teetered to the ground in defeat. Santiago strained to retrieve the net-like leaf. It felt frail between his fingers. It had died a long time ago and must’ve been holding on to a small shred of hope that it could be a thriving piece of the tree once more.

  All around them life seemed to be dying. It had been for years. But more so than usual, Santiago found himself drowning in the misery of it.

  Like the leaf, soon he’d lose his grasp and crumble as well.

  Dying would be the price he’d have to pay for something completely out of his hands, something he didn’t even want. All he wished, was that he knew why. What had he done to deserve such a punishment as becoming Awakened?

  Anger rising within him, Santiago cast aside the decaying foliage and resumed the infuriating pastime of waiting for Graciela to return while he sat and withered away. The only benefit of their temporary separation was that it gave him a moment to be fully free from the surge of another’s emotions and thus it was the only time he ever felt practically normal.

  At the same time he had the thought, a twinge caught him in the rib. It began as a weak pinch, and at first, he assumed it was a sign that Graciela was returning. But the louder it screamed, the more he worried. Soon, the small focused area of pain had swelled over his entire stomach.

  His eyes shot wide. This was more than the mental state of one person.

  Through ragged breaths, Santiago pushed himself up from the desert floor, grunting with the full extension of his belly. Pain stabbed at his abdomen and poured into his spine, his head, his legs. Everything ached and throbbed, the sheer force of it almost bringing him back down. But he couldn’t allow it to conquer him. Not this time. Not before he warned Graciela.

  A large group was coming. Or had come. Or was already there.

  Each foot stumbled over the other, as Santiago shielded his stomach and pushed away from the tree toward the town. He kept his focus on the space between two houses where he’d seen Graciela enter. She couldn’t be far, she’d only been gone…he wasn’t sure how long it had been. It felt like he’d only been out for a blink, but twenty minutes could’ve passed by now.

  A tilt in the land caused Santiago to misstep, the jolt of it jagging through him with magnified intensity. Each step was a challenge, but he winced through them all. The town didn’t seem to be drawing nearer, and time was fleeting.

  Gritting his teeth, fingers digging into his sides, Santiago plowed ahead. Graciela was in there, alone, defenseless. They couldn’t risk her being seen by anyone. There was no telling what they’d do to a solitary young woman, even if she was Unawakened.

  Santiago slammed face-first into a brick wall of emotion. The feelings were so dense, they knocked him to the ground. Dazed, all he could think about was that he had to warn her before it was too late. But the world wavered between blinks.

  On the next, Santiago’s eyes didn’t reopen.

  Chapter Twelve

  Graciela

  Graciela’s tongue scraped against her lips, like shards of glass. She had lost track of how many days it had been since she’d had more to drink than a sip of water from a gutter or a singular bead of condensation lapped from a window.

  They needed this. If this supply run wasn’t fruitful, they might die of thirst. Even if all they found was one scrap of food or a discarded water bottle of backwash, it would be enough to get them through tomorrow.

  The rattling at the base of her lungs sent her into a coughing frenzy. For a second, she lost her balance, her body pitching over a fence. It had been a long time since Graciela had been sick, but her body couldn’t have chosen a more opportune moment, when they were only a day out from a community that would likely have medicine and beds.

  The thought plastered permanent glee on her face, and with renewed optimism, Graciela continued searching. This run would be fruitful. She just had to look harder, think more creatively. But each house she wandered through had long since been ransacked. She had found not so much as even a grain of rice. So far, the only luck she’d had was in finding the pair of scissors Santiago had requested, though if they would cut hair still remained to be seen.

  Emerging from the fifth house she’d searched, Graciela could just spot the tree where she’d left Santiago. In the distance, it was difficult to tell if he was bored or sleeping. She hoped it was the latter. After all, he could use the rest.

  Graciela turned back to the road. There were two more houses left on this block, as well as a convenience store. She inhaled deeply, a silent plea in her mind, flicked the lighter back on, and marched to the first house.

  Before entering, something caught her attentio
n in the street. A police vehicle parked against the curb, the door slightly ajar. Compared to the rest of the neighborhood, it seemed to be in pristine condition, hardly a week’s worth of dirt and dust on the thing. Crouching, Graciela tiptoed to the vehicle and peeked through the window. Everything was in order, like no one had been through it yet. There could be a gun, ammunition, a Taser even inside. Perhaps this was the score they’d been waiting for.

  Hardly able to contain herself, Graciela flung the door ajar and climbed into the driver’s seat. The black leather was glacial beneath her shins and knees, but she breathed through it, searching through every nook and cranny she could reach. There was no gun to be found, no bullets either, not that she knew how to use a weapon like that anyway. But beneath the passenger’s seat, Graciela pulled up a plastic bottle, the label partially torn, filled to the brim with crystal-clear frigid water. Careful not to let her lips infect the bottle and pass on what ailed her to her already sickly—though for other reasons—brother, Graciela splashed a drink into her mouth and soaked in the hydration.

  The one drink was all she allowed herself. The rest would be for Santiago. He needed it more than she did.

  After taking another second to explore inside the police car and finding nothing else of use, Graciela backed out the door, feeling victorious.

  The feeling faded. It was the piercing quiet that caused her to gulp. A constant, but barely detectable vibration rippled around her.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Part of her believed that if she didn’t turn around, it wouldn’t be real. No one would be there, and she’d still be alone, in this random, unknown town, feeling triumphant for finding a bottle of water. The other, more practical, side of her was afraid she’d die if she didn’t though. Briskly, like taking off a bandage, Graciela spun around to find herself surrounded.

  Person after person after person came into view until she lost count. Graciela’s mouth went dry again, her knees weak. It took everything to keep her lips from quivering at the sight of the thirty or more people before her.

  And at the center of the crowd, two beady, arctic eyes engulfed her in terror. Zane.

  “Hello again, dolly.” The voice of a thousand snakes, Zane stepped closer, ready to coil around her, and sneered. “We’ve been looking for you. It appears that one of my men accidentally let you get away. You see, we all thought you’d died because he brought back your blood-soaked clothes. Imagine my surprise when we came across your scent again and found your fresh blood at the border.”

  For a split second, Graciela remained dumbfounded by how they’d found her, until she felt the faint throbbing of her leg and remembered that she’d cut herself on the downed fence. How could she have been so stupid? After they’d nearly escaped with their lives from the Sanguinatores the first time, the people whom they knew could smell blood, it hadn’t crossed their minds for a second to check to see if her leg had left a mess. All she had wanted at the time was to keep moving, to find some place safe, free of Sanguinatores.

  Her lighter and the flame quaked in her hand.

  The snake of a man signaled with a flick of his fingers, and a disheveled young man came forth. Bram. Not even the long black hair in his eyes could hide the bruises.

  “But thankfully,” Zane said boastfully, “through our resilient trackers, we were able to locate you, and now we can correct the mistake of our idiot companion.”

  Graciela’s thoughts swirled. Bram had warned her the last time they’d met that if Zane found her, he’d murder her. It was becoming so painfully obvious that her life was on the line, but there was no way out. She couldn’t outrun thirty people, let alone thirty Sanguinatores. All it took was one whistle from Bram and he’d brought Graciela to her knees. And he wasn’t even trying to hurt her.

  More than her own life, she worried about Santiago’s. Without her, Graciela didn’t know how he’d make it to the Texas community, or if he’d even still go. It wasn’t like he wanted to be surrounded by other Awakened people.

  And what would he do if he found Graciela dead in the street? What would the Sanguinatores do to Santiago if they found him? Her cheeks wetted at the horrific images coming to life in her mind’s eye.

  “Please,” she heard the word before noticing that it came from her own lips. “Please, don’t kill me.”

  Grin widening, Zane replied, “Oh, I’m not going to kill you.” Turning his back to her, he walked toward the group, stopping beside Bram, whose head hung again. Zane turned around and gave him a shove. “He is. Like he was supposed to have done months ago.”

  Bram caught himself with unsteady footing. It was like he was avoiding eye contact with Graciela at all costs, but all she wanted was to search his eyes for any semblance of reason. But that was foolish, and she knew it. He had told her, were their paths to cross again, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her in order to save himself.

  His lips parted, and Graciela knew there were words he wanted to say, but they closed tightly before they came out. He gave one great inhale and exhale before meeting her gaze. Staring her boldly in the eyes, stone-faced, Bram pressed his lips into a circle.

  Graciela braced herself as best she could for the ripping pain that tune would bring. The ghost of their previous encounter tingled in her gut, a trick of her imagination. She could practically taste the blood on her tongue.

  No sound escaped him though. When Graciela opened her eyes, Bram hadn’t moved, but he’d lost the resolve in his expression. His head fell again.

  Like a bulldozer, Zane came forth. “You’re a disgrace. Out of the way. Someone restrain him. If he can’t be the one to finish the job, that’s his choice, but he’ll witness it all the same.”

  A guy with an auburn beard and another stout man pinned Bram’s arms between theirs and dragged him back to the sidelines of the group. He didn’t resist, but he didn’t seem defeated either.

  “This could’ve been a whole lot easier on you, dolly. I was gonna let Bram do this quick, but now he’s gotta be taught another lesson.” Out of the corner of her eyes, Graciela noticed the twitching of Bram’s muscles. Zane made a point of directing his attention at the men holding him when he said, “Make sure his eyes stay open. I want him to see the torture he’s caused her. He needs to learn that mercy is murky.”

  The whistle started it all. Like a warm hand-length nail being shoved in and out of her nasal cavity, the stabbing pressure was nauseating and unending. When the ribbon of red flowed before her eyes, she saw it wasn’t a nail at all, but rather a coagulated string of her own blood being pulled from her. It felt like the end of it was wrapped around her brain, and each centimeter that came out left another section of her skull throbbing.

  This time, she dropped the lighter, though they remained lit by the glow of their own torches.

  The ribbon of blood bobbed and jerked at eye level. She even swore at one point it waved to her. Goodbye life, it seemed to say.

  A new sensation pulled what little attention she had left to her wrists. Slashes without cuts. Blood poured from vertical lines along both of her forearms. Her fingers were coated in red warmth. As blood dripped from each fingertip, Zane called it forth too, forming a levitating puddle beside the mocking red string still sliding out her nose.

  This was unlike the pain Bram had caused her. This was slow, meticulous.

  Graciela screamed as the pressure condensed in her skull, arms, and the rest of her body. Without isolation, the pain expanding throughout her entire being, it was too much to endure. All she wanted was for it to end.

  But unlike when Bram had stolen her blood, it didn’t seem to be Zane’s intention to make her agony end anytime soon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sean

  “Stop,” Carson said in a hushed voice.

  The rest of the team responded with the same level of urgency, heads snapped to him for further instruction or information. They’d only just left the massacre that had been Surviving & Thriving, all of them on edge.


  But when Sean listened to his own devices, finding no call of blood but that of his own people, it raised alarms all the more. “What is it?”

  Carson’s eyes were closed. “People, and lots of them.”

  “We are passing a small town,” Mara offered. “It’s possible it’s inhabited.”

  Normally, he’d agree and try to move around the place undetected. But rarely was Carson serious. Not to mention, Sean couldn’t sense anyone, and that alone was enough to bother him. Only three kinds of people could evade his power: people who were long dead, the untouched, and blood guides. Given the proximity to Surviving & Thriving, the likeliness of it being any but the latter was disturbing.

  For safe measure, Sean wrapped his power through the lifeline of everyone in his presence. Yet another trick of the blood guide, to be able to, in a sense, shield the blood of others. It was the same thing he’d done at the scene of his brother’s murder, only this time, it was done to protect the people with him. It was merely a safety precaution. If he was the master of their blood, then no other blood guides could control them.

  “Master.”

  “Long have we—”

  Sean shunned the voices of bloodlust to keep his focus on Carson.

  “No,” Carson answered, query in his voice. “I mean, maybe they live there, but this feels hostile. There’s a lot of hunger in there, and…” He resumed his thinking stance, neck outstretched, eyes shut tight. Absentmindedly, his fingers fiddled at his sides as if he were petting each individual strain of emotion like a house cat. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, and he looked at Sean. “I sense someone…they…she’s in pain.”

  Heat consumed him. Not again. He wouldn’t let them murder anyone else.

  “We need a vantage point to see what we’re up against,” Sean commanded and lead the group up a neighboring mound. It wasn’t much higher than the nestled town, but it could provide something, at the very least a view of the neighborhood.