Blood Song

by Cat Adams

  wheel.

  I pul ed onto the nearest side street and up to the curb, my breath fogging the air inside the car,

  despite the open windows. One of the first manifestations of a spirit is a rapid, drastic temperature

  drop.

  “I know you’re here. It’s al right. Just don’t mess with the Miata, Ivy. You know how much I love this

  car.” I kept my voice low, using soothing tones. Getting agitated creates a kind of energy that makes

  the ghost more likely to act out.

  The dome light flashed on and off. If it was Ivy, we’d worked out a code over the years. Once was a

  yes. Twice was no.

  “Ivy, is it you?”

  Two flashes. No?

  Well, shit. Not Ivy, but whoever it was knew the code? Did ghosts talk? I mean, if they cared enough

  to stay and latch onto someone, there was general y a reason, and they almost always tried to talk to

  the living, but do they communicate with each other ? That I didn’t know. Damn it. I wracked my brain.

  Ghosts attach to a person or thing that was important to them in their life, someone or something that

  they consider unfinished business. Until that business gets settled or the body gets cremated, they

  don’t move on to the afterlife. Trouble was, I never have found out what Ivy wants from me.

  True believers almost never ghost, so this was someone I knew who wasn’t a churchgoer. Not many

  of those in my life, are there?

  Um, just about everyone but my gran. But considering the level of violence in my life, there have

  actual y been very few fatalities. Could it be Bob Johnson? The timing was right and he’d been with me

  once when Ivy had manifested. I couldn’t think why he’d latch onto me, but stranger things had

  happened. The car was practical y a meat locker at this point, and I shivered, my skin crawling with

  goose bumps.

  “Bob, is it you?”

  Two flashes. Wrong again. The spirit, whoever it was, was starting to get frustrated. I could feel an

  electric tension building in the air, enough to make my hair start to frizz.

  “Easy. Take it easy. I know you’re trying to communicate. We can work this out.” A thought crossed

  my mind. It might work—or not, depending on how focused and powerful the ghost was. “See if you can

  focus the cold to use frost to write on the window.” If it was an older ghost, they should be able to. I

  pointed to the rounded surface of the windshield. In response, the temperature dropped even further.

  My teeth started chattering as an arctic blast ruffled my hair to hit the glass with pinpoint precision. I

  watched in fascinated horror as familiar handwriting took shape and a name appeared.

  Vicki.

  My heart stopped for a moment and I felt dizzy. No. NO! Dammit, she wasn’t … she couldn’t be …

  “Vicki?” My voice was a raw whisper. I stared at the frost on the window, tears freezing on my

  cheeks, a knot as hard as a rock in my throat. I could barely breathe.

  The ghost reacted to my emotions. They always do. The Miata began to rock back and forth, the

  radio blasting to noisy life, static whining and crackling from the speakers, loud enough to make me

  cringe. The dome light and headlights were flashing.

  I shuddered from the cold. Every breath I took burned going into my lungs. Every exhale was a visible

  mist in the air inside the car. “Stop. Vicki, you’ve got to stop. Please, you’re hurting me.”

  It was as if I hit a switch. Al the poltergeist-style activity just stopped. But the cold didn’t diminish. She

  was stil there.

  “God, what happened? How? I mean, you were fine!” I picked up the pictures as though she could

  see them. “See? You were happy.” Hot tears flowed down cheeks that felt chapped with cold. I couldn’t

  believe it. It didn’t make any sense.

  Ever so slowly, I saw writing form in the frost on the window. Letter by letter, until I could read her ful

  message.

  Love you.

  And then she was gone.

  10

  It was a long time before I could pul myself together enough to drive. My best friend was dead. The

  shock was horrible. On top of everything else, it was just too much. She wasn’t dead. I didn’t want to

  believe … couldn’t believe—

  I cried. I screamed. I cried some more. Eventual y, I got myself under control enough to restart the

  car. Now I was definitely speeding, but I needed to get to Birchwoods, find out what the hel was going

  on. Yeah, I could’ve cal ed. But I wanted to hear this in person. Discretion was beyond the grave there,

  so I was going to have to fight to get answers. I’d just get stonewal ed on the phone and they’d have

  time to prepare a response … or a security team.

  I pul ed the car up to the outside gate and ran my card. I went through without problems and stopped

  before the second gate, rol ing down my window. Gerry was on the gate again. He flinched when he

  saw me, and this time when he ran through the security protocol he did it like he meant it. I passed with

  flying colors, but that didn’t seem to reassure him much. “Dr. Scott has asked that you go to his office

  in the main administration building. He needs to speak with you urgently.” Gerry’s voice was its empty,

  professional best, giving nothing away. I shivered. His attitude wasn’t helping my denial.

  My stomach tightened into a knot, making the nausea worse. But I didn’t ask any more questions, just

  handed back the clipboard along with my driver’s license.

  Gerry passed back my license. “Take the left fork of the road; the administration building is in the

  back.”

  “I know.” Duh, I’ve been here how many times?

  Gerry stepped back from the car and waved a signal to the gate operator. With the flick of a switch

  the heavy metal framework barring my way moved smoothly aside. I felt, rather than saw, magical

  protections I’d never known existed ease in response to the opening of the gate. I drove through and

  down the long, curving drive that led to the administrative part of the complex. The white brick buildings

  were gleaming and pristine, like pearls scattered decoratively across the vivid green of the manicured

  lawns.

  I drove slowly. I hated this. Hated it so much. God, it was only yesterday that I’d had the bel hop haul

  stuff up that hil . What in the hel had happened?

  She couldn’t be gone. How many times had I driven up here in the past few years, bringing her news

  of the outside world? How many afternoons had we walked the path around the little freshwater pond

  behind the main complex, or fed stale bread to the ducks that congregated there?

  I’ve had losses before. My father’s abandonment, my sister’s death, even, in a way, my mother’s

  retreat into the bottle. You’d think I’d be used to it, that by now I’d have developed a hard shel that

  would protect me. I suppose that’s exactly how it looks to people who don’t know me. But it’s a lie.

  I pul ed into one of half a dozen or so parking spaces with neatly printed signs proclaiming VISITOR PARKING

  and climbed out. The sun was low enough in the sky that the umbrel a might not have been necessary,

  but I used it anyway.

  I slammed the car door shut with more force than was real y necessary and heard an ominous sound

  of metal fatigue that normal human muscles couldn’t make happen. Another thing broken. I was broken,

  Vicki was broken … why not everything else? I hurried up the gentl
e slope of the handicapped-friendly

  entrance feeling both like an idiot and like a child who’s been beaten one too many times. When I

  reached the shade of the smal ivy-bedecked porch that protected the entrance, I col apsed the

  umbrel a. The automatic doors whooshed open and I walked in.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Graves.” The receptionist stood as I walked through the door. She had to

  notice the pal or and fangs but managed to hide her reaction admirably. I could not hide the fact that I

  was about to burst into tears. She was wearing one of those fitted suits that are tailored to emphasize

  every curve. It was tomato red and had been hemmed to a length that would show enough leg to be

  attractive without being improper. Her dark hair had been swept up in a twist. That, coupled with a

  sweetheart neckline, showed a lot of creamy neck and just a hint of cleavage, the effect emphasized

  discreetly by a pearl necklace and earrings. “If you’l have a seat, I’l let Dr. Scott know you’ve arrived.”

  She gestured in the general direction of the expensive leather couches that graced the tasteful y

  appointed waiting room.

  “Thank you.” My feet sank into the deep golden pile of the carpet as I crossed over to the cushy

  waiting chairs. There were magazines, of course. The latest copy of People sat on the polished

  mahogany coffee table. Vicki’s parents were on the cover, under the headline “Hol ywood’s Top Power

  Couples.” I shook my head sadly and reached for US Weekly instead. I’d probably have to see them at

  the funeral. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Jerks. It made me wonder how they were going to deal with

  their daughter’s death in a way that didn’t reveal the embarrassing truth about Vicki to the world.

  That was cynical of me, and I knew it. But it had been Vicki’s greatest heartbreak—that her parents

  couldn’t handle who and what she was.

  I didn’t read the magazine, not real y. If you asked me what was on the page I was staring at, I

  wouldn’t be able to tel you. But I was in a reception area. Reading magazines is what you do. So I

  pretended, flipping the pages while my mind was a mil ion miles away. I could feel the stares of the

  other people in the waiting room but pretended not to notice.

  The receptionist reappeared after only a minute or two. That she came to me instead of others who’d

  been waiting longer raised a few brows. I didn’t care. I was too raw, the pain too fresh for me to bear

  being in public for too much longer.

  “Dr. Scott wil see you now.”

  I fol owed her down a long wood-paneled hal way lined with impressionist paintings in gilt frames until

  we reached a heavy set of mahogany doors. Despite their apparent weight, the receptionist pul ed one

  of them open and held it for me with silent ease.

  I stepped over the threshold and took a long look around.

  To say Dr. Scott’s office was spacious was an understatement. The house I grew up in probably

  would’ve fit inside. Although the house had a bathroom. Come to think of it, there probably was one

  behind one of the pair of doors on the north wal .

  The entire west wal was windows, so that even through the thin film of cream-colored drapes I could

  see a wide expanse of ocean, a spectacular sunset coloring the clouds and water with shades of

  mauve, orange, crimson, and purple. It was just the sort of sunset that Vicki and I had watched only a

  few weeks before in her room, sipping on chil ed iced tea with a hint of peach while breathing in the

  tangy ocean air.

  The sunset expanded into this room, decorated to incorporate the view—the golden tans of sand with

  the blues and greens of the sea and sky. Dr. Scott sat behind a table made from glass and weathered

  driftwood. Instead of the traditional suit, he wore khakis and a melon-colored polo shirt that showed off

  his dark skin and the shining silver of his hair and beard. Loafers with no socks completed the outfit.

  “Come in, come in.” He gestured toward a conversation grouping in an area far from any stray

  patches of sunlight. “Pardon my appearance. I’d scheduled the day off—”

  He gave me a penetrating glance, taking in the red eyes, the chapped nose that was already healing.

  “I don’t need to tel you, do I?”

  I shook my head, tears threatening again while my stomach wanted to relieve itself of contents, and

  mumbled, “No.”

  He moved behind the desk, settling into the enveloping leather of a high-end executive chair. “Has

  word leaked to the press?”

  “Not from me.” My voice sounded tight, not surprising. It was al I could do to force words past the

  lump in my throat. “I was on my way here for a visit when her ghost manifested in my car.”

  “Considering how close you were and the strength of her force of wil , I’m not surprised.” He shook

  his head sadly and modulated his voice. “I’m so very sorry for your loss. Please be assured we did

  everything we could. Unfortunately, based on her medical records, we always knew it was a

  possibility—”

  I lowered myself into the enveloping chair without answering. I hadn’t known it was a possibility. I’d

  never asked anything about Vicki’s medical history. He could be tel ing the truth or lying through his

  teeth. I had no way of knowing.

  “Which was why we had procedures in place to care for her in an emergency.” He continued

  speaking without hesitation. If he sensed my mood, he ignored it. Leaning forward across the desk, he

  addressed me respectful y, his expression earnest. “As is the case with any death of one of our

  patients, we’ve reported the incident to the authorities, and they wil launch their usual investigations. I

  don’t expect them to find any negligence.”

  Neither did I. Even if there was a problem, there was enough money floating around this place that I

  was betting it would be handled discreetly. But I wasn’t going to say that. It would be rude. And while I

  am more than capable of being rude when the occasion cal s for it, I wanted information.

  “I appreciate your concern. I know that Vicki chose Birchwoods because of its stel ar reputation.”

  “Thank you.” He gave me a gentle smile. “Can I get you a drink? I’d offer food, but the only guest

  we’ve ever had with your condition wasn’t able to process solids, so I’m not sure it would be

  appropriate.”

  So, the closed drapes were no coincidence. Gerry must have cal ed ahead, which also explained the

  receptionist’s lack of reaction. I found it very interesting that they’d dealt with someone with my

  condition … especial y since my condition was supposed to be pretty damned rare. I was curious, but

  he wanted me to ask, so I perversely avoided the question and got to the point of my visit.

  “Can you tel me what happened?”

  It was a deliberate question, because I’m not part of Vicki’s family. He nodded, just the tiniest drop of

  his chin, and folded his hands on the tinted glass. “Ms. Cooper left the appropriate written permissions

  for us to speak with you frankly. You’re probably aware that, as is the case with many high-level

  psychics, Vicki frequently suffered from both migraines and severe insomnia.”

  Okay, that I did know. Vicki was always trying the latest homeopathic treatments for headaches

  —from weird herbs to gadgets that would change the lighting in the room and even magic charms to

  change her “energy patterns.” And s
he was forever cal ing me on the phone at weird hours. But I never

  real y related those things to her psychic ability. Lots of people get migraines and can’t sleep.

  I got caught up in memories and nearly missed what he said next. “It was the late-shift nurse’s duty to

  check on her when she came on duty at eleven and again at two. If Ms. Cooper was having trouble

  sleeping, at two A.M. she would be given the option of taking sleeping medication.”

  I nodded. This wasn’t news.

  “The file shows that when the nurse checked at eleven, Ms. Cooper was fine. She was using the

  mirror you gave her to channel her visions and seemed quite happy and pleased with the results.

  Nurse”—he flipped to a page in the file to check the name—“Phil ips states that Vicki indicated it was

  her best birthday ever, and said that she would be going to bed after a bit.” That made me smile. I’d

  worked hard to have that mirror made so it would respond perfectly.

  He read from the notes on his desk, “‘When she saw the light stil on at one forty-five, Nurse Phil ips

  knocked on the door. When there was no response, she entered and found Ms. Cooper unconscious

  and unresponsive on the floor. She cal ed in a code blue and immediately began CPR.’”

  I was trying to listen to what he was saying. I heard the words. But I couldn’t seem to concentrate on

  their meaning. It seemed wrong, and I couldn’t figure out why until it hit me between the eyes.

  “Wait. She died last night?” At nearly the same time as I did—? “Then why did she only manifest in

  my car a few minutes ago? And why hasn’t anyone contacted me until now?”

  His brows rose just the slightest bit. “But we did try to contact you. Repeatedly. I presumed you were

  coming now because of my messages.”

  Crap. So I’d been dealing with my own piddly problems while my best friend had been lying here,

  dead? For long enough that she had to come get me to make me notice. Another pain hit me in the

  chest and I felt my hands clutching the chair arms so hard the cloth began ripping under my grasp.

  Dr. Scott kept talking. “Natural y, she’s only now able to manifest because it takes time for the soul to

  leave the body, reject the natural transition to the afterlife, and return to Earth. Actual y, the process

  normal y takes longer, but Vicki was an extraordinarily gifted person. She was already on a higher