Blessed

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  “Kieren,” Meghan clarified, interrupting my thoughts. “Did you hurt him? Did you make him go away?”

  The memory rushed back. That night at Sanguini’s. The chef’s wager. His dare. Biting deep, gulping thick blood, grasping smooth leather. Kieren’s hips nestled tight between my thighs.

  “Quincie!” Meghan screamed.

  A horn blared. Our car had wandered over the yellow center line, only yards from an oncoming station wagon. As I swerved back into my own lane, the wagon barely missed us. Gripping the wheel, I shouted, “You okay? Meghan? Meghan!”

  She nodded, tears welling in her big brown eyes, and that’s when I fully appreciated that she was anything but okay.

  Baby Meghan. What was it that the Moraleses had told her? That Kieren had gone away to school? That she’d see him again someday? She was only four; another fourteen years without her much-idolized older brother probably sounded like an eternity. If there was anything I understood, it was how much the idea of forever without Kieren could hurt.

  Worse, she’d seen me — red eyes, fangs extended — the one night the blood lust had nearly won. She had the smarts, the instincts to recognize the threat. And now I was her acting chauffeur. Poor kid. That didn’t exactly say “happy puppy day,” did it?

  Around the next bend, I turned in the dog breeder’s gravel drive, punched in a key code to open the gate, and we rolled across the cattle guard.

  At the top of the hill, I spotted a homey log cabin on steroids — probably a three- or four-bedroom, fronted by a long front porch, complete with rocking chairs and hanging baskets of marigolds and geraniums. It looked nice and wholesome and like somewhere that a preschool girl-beast and her undead babysitter could have a pleasant afternoon.

  After putting the car in park, I unbuckled my seat belt and twisted in the driver’s seat to face Meghan. When I reached for her hand, she cowered in the booster seat.

  I wouldn’t tell her that I hadn’t hurt Kieren. I’d never been a good liar.

  At the same time, I couldn’t lay on her the blow-by-blow of the night I nearly sucked her big brother dry — albeit with his permission — and have her skip away thinking that had been a good thing. “Did your mama tell you that I talked to Clyde?”

  Meghan brushed imaginary lint from her Barbie T-shirt. “Clyde?”

  “Yep, Clyde. He drove all the way past Dallas with Kieren, and he told me that your brother’s appetite is bigger than ever. He ate two whole orders of barbecued beef ribs, a pulled pork sandwich, and a whole mess of coleslaw at some joint in Waco.”

  “Waco on the way to Tío Carlos’s house?” she asked, somewhat reassured. Then, just as fast, her hopeful expression fell. “Kieren had coleslaw without me.”

  I might not have known how to prevent the rise of Brad’s undead army, but this was a tragedy I could deal with. “How about we visit the dogs, pick out your puppy, and grab some take-out coleslaw on the way home?”

  Later, we left with both remaining puppies and the mother German shepherd.

  It’s not hard to fake eating solids when you’re offered soup. But that night, Dr. Morales served grilled catfish, the take-out coleslaw, and Cajun-style dirty rice.

  After some small talk about varmints on the roof — probably squirrels, maybe raccoons — and getting the trees trimmed, Miz Morales noticed that I was just moving my food around on my plate. “You’re not hungry, Quincie?”

  I sipped my sweet tea. “Not all of us have shifter metabolisms.”

  “Teenage girls.” Roberto ruffled Meghan’s hair. “I hope you won’t give us any of that nonsense when you’re her age.”

  “Me?” In typical werechild form, Meghan had plowed through three fillets and had just launched into her fourth helping of slaw. Having never seen her exhibit so much enthusiasm for a vegetarian dish, I figured there had to be a story there. Something between her and Kieren. When things were better between us, I’d ask.

  “You’ve hardly touched your fish,” Meara pressed.

  In life, I’d been a proud and notorious foodie, grateful that restaurant work was such terrific cardio. “Actually,” I began, “my stomach’s acting up. I don’t know that I’m catfish-ready at the moment.”

  She sprung to her feet in full-blown mom mode. “You’re not feeling well?”

  On the upside, she whisked away my plate, covered it in aluminum foil, and stashed it in the fridge for when I felt better. On the down, my physical condition had become the focal point of the household.

  No, I wasn’t dizzy. Kind of nauseated. The smell of the fish and Cajun spices was getting to me.

  No, my forehead wasn’t warm.

  Yes, I had the chills, hence my low body temperature.

  “You look awfully pale,” she mused, and something in her tone made me wonder if she’d guessed the real problem. Miz Morales was making all the right noises, but we both knew my “symptoms” might be medical or mystical.

  She suggested that Meghan go help her daddy feed the dogs outside.

  (After much debate, we’d decided to name the mother German shepherd Angelina and her pups Concho and Pecos — like Brazos, all after Texas rivers.)

  Once they’d left, she presented me with a glass of 7-Up. “Is it cramps?”

  “Um . . .” If I hadn’t died, my period would’ve started earlier this week. But according to Kieren’s books, vampires — being creatures outside the cycle of life — didn’t menstruate. Mostly as a distraction, I reached to clear Miz Morales’s plate.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she scolded, stacking the dishes. “You just sit there and relax. This won’t take a minute. Would you like some soda crackers?”

  “Maybe later,” I said, and then, as she loaded plates and silverware into the dishwasher, I decided to change the subject. “About my uncle’s body . . .”

  Meara stopped what she’d been doing. “Yes?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said, about how he became . . .”

  “A different being,” she supplied. Her tone grew gentler, and I could tell she felt guilty about her suspicions, especially in light of my recent loss. “At the end, love, that was not your uncle. It was a corrupted, damned thing that had gradually taken his place.”

  A damned thing. “How gradually?” I asked, thinking back to the way my anger had spiked when I found out Clyde had told Aimee what I was.

  I was still too ignorant of the full ramifications of what Brad had done to me. To me and so many others at Sanguini’s.

  Miz Morales returned to the kitchen table. “It varies, if I’m remembering right — about a year, sometimes less, sometimes more. Then the soul is gone. It’s been, well, some time since my own Wolf studies, and I focused on healing, not the demonic.”

  I glanced at my hand, resting on the table, crisscrossed in scars. Back in middle school — because of a partial shift gone wrong — Kieren’s claws had nearly ripped it in two. An accident on a railroad bridge that had involved an oncoming train and that had haunted him far more than me, especially since he’d saved my life in the process.

  Yet, despite the extensive damage, I had no trouble snapping my fingers, typing on a keyboard, holding a pen. Evidence of Miz Morales’s formidable healing skills.

  “When Ruby staked him . . . do you think any of my uncle’s soul was left?”

  “It’s possible,” Miz Morales confirmed. “In which case God could still forgive him if —”

  “We stake his heart, cut off his head, and stuff his mouth with garlic?”

  She covered my hand with hers. “We don’t have to have an open casket.”

  I thought about it, about what my parents would’ve wanted. “Uncle D was Daddy’s little brother.”

  She patted my hand, the smooth one. “I’ll call Detective Zaleski and see when the body will be released. The police may want to keep it longer than usual, for study.”

  Dissection, she meant.

  “Okay,” I agreed. “Closed casket.”

  From Kieren�
��s bedroom window, by the full moon’s light, I spied Miz Morales, still in human form, playing with the mama shepherd and her puppies in the backyard.

  Meara hadn’t even begun her shift yet. I had plenty of time.

  I ran downstairs to the kitchen, barefoot in my oversize Longhorns nightshirt.

  Roberto had picked up a twelve-pack of chicken legs at the grocery store this week. I could defrost a couple in the microwave and suck the juices dry.

  I’d hardly reached for a plate, though, when Miz Morales came back inside, buck naked. Damn. Her shift had been a quick one. I could hear the dogs barking outside.

  “Quincie?” she asked.

  “Just grabbing a snack. You’re in early.”

  Meara rolled her shoulders. “I’m afraid I panicked Angelina and had to reverse the shift. I’m not sure if it’s the change in my scent or the sound of the bones cracking, but they’ll get used to it. Dogs always do. Brazos . . .” She shook her head. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Better,” I said, hoping she’d assume I’d eaten while she was out, trying desperately to decide what to say next to Kieren’s very naked mother. Talk about awkward. “Is it hard,” I began again, “always staying in control?”

  Of the shift, I’d meant. Kieren had told me how difficult it had been to regain his wits once he’d begun that partial transformation on the railroad bridge. And on our last night at Sanguini’s, for a second there, I’d thought his Wolf might tear me apart.

  “You can’t be too afraid of making a mistake to be yourself,” Miz Morales said, splashing off her face at the bar sink, “to do what comes naturally. But you also have to consider the consequences of completely giving in to the moment.” Reaching for a towel, she added, “You know, love, if you ever have any questions or find yourself in a difficult situation . . .”

  “About shape-shifting?” I asked.

  “About sex,” Miz Morales clarified in a matter-of-fact voice. “I remember Sophie saying that the two of you had had the Talk when you were twelve, but now that you’re a young woman —”

  “Oh! Oh, no, not right now, thanks. I don’t need that kind of talking.” I almost admitted that, despite my and Kieren’s feelings for each other, we’d never really gone there. But I didn’t want Miz Morales feeling sorry for me or —

  Wait. Why was she thinking that I was thinking about sex, anyway? How mortifying. Not that I never thought about it. I was sleeping in Kieren’s bed, after all, but it’s not like he was there with me.

  Whatever. I had no interest in discussing the issue with his mother.

  “We’re both tired,” Miz Morales said, drying her hands. “But that’s a standing offer. Me, Roberto, Meghan, we’re your family now. I know that Kieren’s leaving is an adjustment, for all of us, and you’re also dealing with the loss of your uncle and the horror of what he became. But please know that you can come to me with anything.”

  Miz Morales was a first-rate mom, a champ among moms. But I had a feeling that “anything” didn’t include my craving for chicken blood. Let alone human blood. Or that I was trying to prevent the deaths of hundreds of innocents, not to mention their subsequent rise as fiends who might not settle for fowl.

  I mumbled “Thanks” and took a step toward the door.

  “Quincie . . .” Her predator eyes shone in the darkness. She gestured toward my chest. “That’s Kieren’s.”

  The crucifix. It had escaped from under my nightshirt when I ran downstairs. Hadn’t it been his grandfather’s? What would she and Dr. Morales think if I told them I’d fetched it, discarded, from an empty lot?

  Before I could explain, Miz Morales grinned wide. “Looks good on you.”

  Uncle D had managed to doze through Sunday services without flaming into a human torch, so I suspected I could safely return to my home church or hit Mass with the Moraleses. But instead, because of my “mild flu,” both morning services and my afternoon “study date” with Clyde and Aimee had been nixed, and I’d spent most of the day alone in Kieren’s bedroom, researching.

  I’d settled on the white Berber carpet — beneath the window against the far wall — so the back of my open laptop faced the door, just in case someone with Wolf vision strolled in.

  I’d wasted quality time online reading up on anemia, catalepsy, porphyria, HIV, hepatitis, Ebola, bubonic plague, and the effects of smoking on blood pressure. Then there was the folklore about bites to various body parts, burial practices, and the dangers of the dead being leaped over by a black hen. Searching buy blood, I found a handful of posts on fish bait and a few more by “living vampires” (human wannabes), most of which suggested making friends with the local butcher.

  So far, the only thing all my reading had accomplished was to heighten my appetite. I hadn’t had a blood fix since Friday, and a YouTube video of chumming for sharks actually made me salivate.

  Checking my phone, I found a text from Dr. Morales, saying the family would be home after brunch with Sergio and Raúl on Lake Travis and asking if I wanted them to bring me home a snack. I passed, but replied that I was feeling better.

  Mindful of the dogs barking outside, I resolved to thaw something juicy from the freezer well before the Moraleses got back and then returned my attention to research.

  Just ten more minutes. Surely, I could concentrate for that long.

  “Bradley Sanguini” had been a stage name. My former chef had gone by Henry Johnson when we’d first met. I keyed that in, trying to replicate a search Kieren had done.

  On Sanguini’s opening night, he’d confronted me with a printed list of Web links — some leading to articles that dated back to the 1920s — all attributed to Henry Johnson. I hadn’t taken my Wolf man seriously. Forty-eight hours later, I was undead.

  Today a handful of sites pulled up, but The Gothic Gourmet listed “Beyond Sashimi and Tartare: Culinary Expressions of Neovampirism” as “no longer available,” and both Eternal Elegance magazine and Underworld Business Monthly required registration. Demonic Digest offered only a preview of Brad’s article.

  Hearts at Stake: Gender Politics Arising Post Vampyric Infection

  by Henry Johnson

  Though an unholy union, the relationship between an established eternal and his neophyte consort mirrors that of traditional human marriages in matters of dominance, fiscal responsibility, and daily management as well as the setting of sexual expectations.

  “Miss me?” a masculine voice whispered over the air-conditioning.

  I stiffened, certain I was alone in the room.

  The dogs! From outside in the backyard, the mama shepherd sounded wild, barking and snarling. What had set her off?

  Moving the laptop aside, I turned, rising on my knees to peer out the window at the sprawling live oak and surrounding historic neighborhood.

  Nothing. God, my whole ordeal with Bradley had made me crazy, paranoid.

  Then a fist popped up to knock on the window, and I screamed.

  Clyde raised his head into view and screamed, too. Then he glared at me and yanked Aimee up beside him on the massive tree branch.

  Glad I didn’t have enough blood in my system to blush, I raised the window.

  “Little jumpy?” Aimee asked, falling forward onto the carpet.

  Climbing in after her, Clyde looked like hell. His lower lip was split and swollen, his cheek and jaw bruised.

  “What happened?” I whispered, though the Moraleses weren’t home yet.

  Staring at the largely emptied room, the Possum waved me off. “I heal fast.”

  “A werewolf slugged him,” Aimee explained, sitting up.

  Clyde limped to the desk chair, and with his injuries, I wondered how he’d made it up the tree. “Kieren wasn’t the only trained Wolf scholar in Austin,” he said.

  I should’ve thought of that. The city had a loose-knit shifter community made up of runaways and the banished, plus a few werepeople who’d decided to, say, study architecture or business at the University of Texas.

  Sink
ing to perch on the denim comforter, I prompted, “And?”

  Clyde’s claws sprouted, retracted. “Let’s just say you shouldn’t quiz a lone Wolf about vampirism if you haven’t made up a really outstanding lie to explain why you need that information.” He blew out a breath. “Mr. Accommodating wasn’t impressed with ‘uh’ for an answer.”

  “You didn’t find out anything?” I pressed.

  “Nah,” Clyde said. “I think I was barking up the wrong Wolf. I’d bet my tail that when it comes to decoding supernatural crap, Kieren’s the alpha puppy in the Lone Star State. Or at least, he used to be.”

  “Yeah.” I didn’t know what else to say. But I couldn’t help wondering, had Kieren left Texas altogether? Had he confided that much about his destination to Clyde?

  God, I needed Kieren so much. Not only did I love him, but I needed him on a practical level. I was failing at the very thing he’d spent his whole life preparing to do.

  I slipped a hand over my rumbling stomach, hoping the sophomores hadn’t noticed. Hoping they didn’t realize their arrival had further piqued my thirst.

  I mentioned that the Moraleses weren’t home yet.

  “We didn’t have to climb the tree?” Aimee exclaimed.

  “Nice,” Clyde said. “I’m going to grab some ice from the freezer for my lip.”

  “Any leads at the library?” I asked Aimee as he ambled out.

  “Yes and no,” she replied. “There was the usual victim blaming. Apparently, sinners, alcoholics, suicides, witches, sorcerers, seventh children, highwaymen, plague victims, and the unpopular are more likely to rise undead.” She shrugged. “I did fill out a form for an interlibrary loan on an interesting-looking book published in the 1860s by some Hungarian professor. But it’ll take at least six weeks for it to come in. Then we’d have to find a translator.”

  We didn’t have six weeks. We had, damn, less than three. It wouldn’t help to whine about it, though. Nope, I was the one in charge. I had to maintain the morale of the home team. Speaking of which . . . “What’s wrong?”