Blood Song

by Lynda Hilburn

  Chapter 3

  Grace woke to a shrill noise.

  She blinked heavy eyelids, and rolled toward the annoying interruption coming from the retro phone on her bedside table.

  “Hello?” she croaked.

  “Grace? Is that you? What’s wrong with your voice?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s me, Roz.” She cleared her throat. “There’s nothing wrong with my voice. I’m just groggy from sleeping.”

  “You’re still sleeping? Are you sick?” her friend asked, the pitch of her voice rising with each word. “I had a feeling something was wrong. The only time I’ve ever seen you sleep until noon is if you’re too exhausted to get out of bed. Or you’ve sung yourself into a trance. Should I skip my yoga class and come over?”

  Roz owned the Boulder Psychic Center, a few doors down from the sound studio. They’d been friends ever since Grace moved to town four years ago.

  Grace forced herself to sit up, which wasn’t as easy as she would have expected. Maybe she was coming down with something. “Don’t be silly, Roz. I’m a grown woman who can take care of herself.” Who am I trying to convince? Roz or myself? She glanced at the clock. “Crap! You’re right, though. I don’t usually stay in bed this late.” She shook her head to clear away the strange mental cobwebs. “I had the most bizarre dream.”

  “A dream? Excellent. Right up my alley. Spill. What did you dream? Have you finally begun to explore your gift of prophecy? You know the Great and Wondrous Roz sees all and knows all.”

  It’s a good thing The Great and Wondrous Roz seems to have a blind spot in her psychic visions where I’m concerned.

  Grace chuckled. “I don’t think so. Unless my future is filled with angels and vampires.”

  “Hot damn! Angels and vampires. My favorites. Maybe the dream represents the basic struggle between good and evil. The quintessential Freudian battle in your psyche. You’ve always tried to take the consciousness high road. Are you finally ready to join me on the low road?” She laughed. “Are you considering doing something wicked, my repressed friend?”

  “Not that I know of.” But then, my life is such a freak show, who knows what I might do next? “Maybe I’m yearning for something unusual.”

  “Something unusual? Hmm. There’s hope for you yet. What do you remember about the dream?”

  “The strongest memory is the face of the angel who saved me from a creature with fangs. My rescuer had long, dark hair, beautiful emerald eyes and pale skin. Hey! I just realized I dreamed in color. That’s weird for me. Even though the dream took place at night, I still saw the red blood dripping from the vampire’s mouth and the green of the angel’s eyes. I could smell the monster’s disgusting breath.” Grace hooted out a laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “The angel wore a Rolling Stones T-Shirt. The one with the big tongue. Not anyone’s idea of standard celestial garb, I’d say.”

  “At least he had good taste. A hip angel. I’m encouraged that you’re dreaming about men, even if neither of them were human. Remember what I told you...”

  Grace snorted. “You mean your margarita-fueled ramblings about my destiny? The man I’m supposed to meet? The one who’ll rock my world?

  “Hey!” Roz pretended to be offended before assuming an obviously fake Gypsy-fortune-teller accent. “You’re trifling with an ancient prediction. Ignoring the prognostication passed down through the women of my family, the outcome of a revelation long-awaited. Disregard at your own peril...”

  “Chill, Madam Roz. Put away the crystal ball.” Grace chuckled. “I believe! I believe!”

  “Okay, then,” Roz said, cheerfully speaking in her normal voice again. “Maybe your dream has deeper implications. I’ll have to meditate on your archetypes and see what I can conjure for you.”

  “Thanks.” Grace sighed. “But I’m sure I can figure it out. I’ll sing about it. Maybe I watched too many horror movies as a kid.” Maybe I lived too many horror movies.

  They both fell silent for a few seconds.

  “Grace? Are you sure you’re okay? You sound very serious this morning. Not yourself. I’m picking up strange vibes. Why don’t I come over? I could cast a little healing spell, cook something chocolate in my cauldron. It’s not a problem. I worry about you being alone so much.”

  Me, too.

  “You’re sweet, Roz. Really, I’m fine. Everybody has an off day once in a while, right? I’d better haul myself out of bed and get busy. I’ve got a full afternoon with lessons and a recording session. Then tonight I have another sound circle. But, really. Thanks so much for calling. I probably would’ve slept all day if you hadn’t.”

  “Well,” Roz’s voice dripped doubt, “if you’re sure. I’m just a phone call away if you change your mind. Love you.”

  “You, too.”

  Grace hung up.

  With a fuzzy brain, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The last time she’d felt this weird was when she’d gotten carried away with champagne at a friend’s wedding, but she hadn’t consumed any alcohol in days. Unless she’d overindulged in her dream, and had an imaginary hangover. Or maybe being in an angel’s presence was intoxicating. She grinned at the idea.

  When she pushed aside the bed covers, a flash of red caught her attention. She looked down at herself and gasped. Fear coursed through her. What the hell was she wearing? Groggy, she stumbled into the bathroom and stood in front of the full-length mirror. Her mouth slowly sagged open. The person staring back at her seemed vaguely familiar. Blonde hair, brown eyes, a pretty good body. All the basics were in place. But when had she dressed in the gag gift her women friends had given her for her last birthday? The red lingerie came with a video entitled, “Learn to Pole Dance for Your Man.” She’d tucked the scanty item away in a bottom drawer, never expecting to engage in the educational experience. Her breath caught. She had no memory of putting it on.

  Anxiety twisted her stomach. Did I black out? No. Not again.

  Squinting to focus, she looked more closely at her hair and her face. Her eyes were circled in black, evidence of wet mascara gone bad. She reached up and tried to run her fingers through long hair that felt gummy and greasy. Upon closer review, she discovered a thick, dark substance along her scalp.

  The feeling of fear grew. Her heart tripped. Could she have lost time again? Did she forget falling and hitting her head on the way home? Maybe someone had put something in her drink. But what drink, where?

  As far as she knew, her bizarre quirks didn’t include any additional personalities, but she supposed it was possible that her brain could have decided to add a new way to torture her. In fact, she lived in dread about it.

  Finally forced to pay attention to her bladder, she hurried over to the throne and sat. She hadn’t needed to pull down any panties, because she wasn’t wearing any. Another odd thing.

  Memories of the hours after she left the sound studio were nonexistent. Without conscious thought, she began humming a favorite trance-inducing chant. Immediately, her heart rate and breathing slowed. She envisioned her brain waves deepening. As she willed her senses to sharpen, words floated through her mind, spoken in a warm, rich, male voice.

  “Well, Damsel in Distress, I’m ready if you are... hands-off version, it is... Alice Cooper... Shit! I almost forgot... I don’t fucking want to be this thing. I’d rather be really dead ... goodnight, Grace.”

  Images from the dream flashed one after the other, mixed with new picture fragments, both featuring the same green-eyed, dark-haired man. The angel from her dream. She gasped and thrust her hands up to ward off water being sprayed in her face by the celestial messenger before she realized the vision was imaginary. Her breath came fast. Chills crawled along her skin as she touched the straps of the red nightie, remembering the feel of strange hands sliding the fabric into place on her shoulders.

  Am I having a breakdown?

  “No I’m not! I refuse. Get your shit together, Grace. This is just one more weird item on my brain’s deme
nted menu. I will simply deal! Even if something is happening to me, I’ll figure it out. I always do.” She tugged on the toilet paper roll, sending a cascade of white pooling onto the floor. “Breathe, Grace. Breathe.” With a sigh, she reached down, snagged a length of the tissue, and used it.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve had an episode. I was probably sleepwalking. Let’s pretend this is a normal day, and I didn’t have some kind of psychic crash.” She stood. “Maybe I should talk to Roz about this. It would be so great to be able to vent. To tell the truth. But she’s not exactly firing on all cylinders, either. Hmm. Tell the truth. Yeah, right. That’s all I need. Another reason for people to think I’m more creepy.” She stepped over to the tub and reached to turn on the water. “Hey!” The showerhead, usually attached to the hook hanging at the top of the circular curtain rod, now sat dripping water in the center of the tub. The memory of water being sprayed on her face, along with the sound of the unidentified male’s laughter, gave her that same, surreal feeling again. As if she’d missed something important.

  “No! I’m not hallucinating! The damn thing fell, that’s all. Maybe we had an earthquake.” But she didn’t sound convincing, even to herself, since she knew the holding clamp on the shower head actually took some effort to dislodge. More often than not, she couldn’t pry the hand-held sprayer loose quickly even when she wanted to. And while the Rocky Mountain region definitely could have earthquakes, none had occurred in recent memory.

  Determined to cling to her denial, she tugged the red, pole-dancing costume over her head and tossed it onto the floor, giving it an extra kick to remove it from view. She stepped into the tub, slashed the curtain closed, then clicked the detachable sprayer back onto its perch. After she fussed with the angle and was satisfied that everything had been restored to normal, she twisted the handles until water burst from the nozzle.

  As the warm liquid caressed her skin, her focus returned to the dream. An air of mystery accompanied the beautiful, phantom man with the green eyes. It was unusual for her to remember a face in such detail, after only a glimpse. She imagined running her fingers through his long, silky hair and skimming her lips along the strong bones of his jaw. His features were almost too perfect, his body too buff.

  Whoa! Get ahold of yourself, Grace! It was just a dream. A great dream, but all in your head. Pitiful that she let herself get so caught up in an imaginary situation. Was she recreating her childhood imaginary friend in an enticing adult form? How pathetic was she?

  Reminding herself to relax, she breathed the steam into her lungs. The hot water felt wonderful against her bruises.

  Wait a minute. Bruises? Why am I bruised? When did that happen?

  Her heart tripped and she quickly finished washing her body and hair, daydream forgotten. She pushed the plastic curtain aside and trudged over to the full-length mirror. Investigating all the tender spots, she discovered bruises and scrapes on both elbows and hips, with an especially spectacular extravaganza near her tailbone.

  What the hell?

  As she pressed on the blue-purple patch on her hip, she had a sudden memory flash of hitting the ground, hard.

  I fell? But when?

  Suddenly, the pale face of the dream angel with the Rolling Stones T-shirt floated into her mind again. She was definitely experiencing some kind of altered reality today.

  “Okay, Grace. At least you know what to do to fix the damage. Whip out your killer voice and do your stuff.” She stood in front of the mirror, willed herself to relax and closed her eyes. As she visualized the discolorations on her body, she sang open vowels on ascending pitches, imagining the sound wrapping and penetrating her skin. The usual realigning sensations rippled through her, tingling up her spine, across her scalp and along her limbs. She waited for the warmth that signaled the completion of the healing, and opened her eyes.

  Turning slowly to display every inch of her now-bruise-free frame, she nodded.

  Maybe I fell out of bed. Yeah. That’s it. Wait, I had night terrors and slammed myself against the wall. That explains everything. Perfect. Just ignore what you don’t want to deal with. No mental disintegration here!

  She glanced at the wall clock, frowned and hurried into the bedroom to get ready for her day. Even if it turned out she’d been in a long-term remission that was now over, she’d still do everything she could to maintain some semblance of a normal life.

  She raked through the clothes in her closet. Fall in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains could be schizophrenic. One minute the relentless sun baked the temperature into the nineties, and the next, several inches of snow surprised sandaled feet. Dressing in layers was always the best plan, so she topped her long, silky, purple skirt and white satin shirt with a multi-colored embroidered shawl. Her freshly cleaned hair was pulled back into a long tail. She applied just enough make-up to disguise the morning-after paleness of her face.

  After collecting the sheet music she needed for her recording session, she hurried to the dresser to fetch her purse. It wasn’t there. Her heart raced. She always kept her bag next to the jewelry box. She turned, thinking she might have dropped the large black purse somewhere, and there it was. Tipped over on the floor.

  Chills radiated up her arms as she collected the items that had scattered along the throw rug and pushed them back into their compartments. Whether she wanted to believe it or not, the evidence was mounting that she’d lost consciousness at some point last night. And if things got worse, who knew how much longer she could control herself?

  She sat on the edge of the bed and rummaged through her purse for her cell phone. Maybe it was time to call Dr. Alden again, the paranormal psychiatrist who’d helped before—the only one she’d ever confided in about her strange situation. She’d told him she wouldn’t be back in touch unless something serious happened. Did this fit that description? She stared at the phone a moment longer, then tucked it back into the side pocket of her purse. “No,” she said, standing. “I don’t want to alarm him. Last night was a fluke.”

  Careful not to think about what had or hadn’t happened last night, she gathered what she needed for the day, and then headed down the stairs and out the front door.