by Nate Kenyon
“For what?”
“For being there. For what you did for her. For both of us.”
Patrick had arrived at the Wasserman Facility before the first rescue vehicle, and quickly surveyed the scene. They had made a fast decision. Sarah needed immediate medical attention, but it could not be through normal channels. They still didn’t know who else was involved, who might want to get their hands on her, and they didn’t know what she might do to a stranger who tried to touch her. Patrick knew a general practitioner who would treat her carefully and with no questions asked. After that, she had to effectively disappear.
He loaded her into his car, while Jess remained behind to look after the other children. It was one of the hardest decisions she ever had to make. She still did not know if she could trust him completely, but his connection to Charlie was very much in his favor.
“Nobody followed you, then?” he asked, releasing her from the embrace. She was caught up in his eyes again, the unsettling nature of them, the duality. He could not hide his true feelings, even if that was what he wanted to do. Like two sides of one personality, laid bare for all to see.
“I asked the cabbie to be careful,” she said. “I watched too. There was no one.”
“Good.” He smiled down at her, touched her cheek. “Thank God you’re okay.” Then he drew away. “You’ll want to see her. She’s this way.”
He led her through a narrow, darkened hallway to the rear bedroom. Sarah lay among the soft sheets, tethered to an IV and a bandage taped to the wound on her head, her eyes closed and little brow slightly furrowed. As Jess entered, she seemed to relax, the tension easing in her face. She opened her eyes.
Jess Chambers felt a prickle in her skin. She looked down; her hands had come up and forward as if by their own accord. She took two steps to die bed, reached out, and touched the girl’s fingertips. An electrical charge jumped between them like static electricity.
She reached up to caress Sarah’s brow. Sarah smiled at her through the bandages and the shadows, and the pain and sadness was gone, her eyes were lighter now, and free.
A week later, the girl was well enough to get out of bed and move around. They waited another three days, and then packed everything up and said good-bye to the little house in the quiet family neighborhood.
The trip to Jacob’s Field took no more than twenty minutes. The Beechcraft was waiting for them near the gate, fueled up and ready to fly. Sarah sat with Patrick in the back, her eyes growing large and round as they taxied and then lifted off into the air, soaring upward through the low layer of clouds that had settled around the airport in the lazy, blue cold of a November day.
Gilbertsville was the same as she had left it, but something had changed at the Voorsanger household. Jess could sense the difference as soon as they pulled into the dirt drive. Sarah sat forward in the rear seat, her excitement and fear a nearly physical presence in the rental car with them.
Cristina Voorsanger came out of the screen door as Patrick cut the engine. She wore a faded flower-print dress and a knitted cotton shawl, and she looked years older, the lines in her chapped face as deep and raw as if they had been etched with acid.
They all got out of the car. Cristina stopped dead in her tracks as Sarah came out from behind Jess, and her face went white.
“We’re here to see Annie,” Jess said. “Her little girl wants some time with her.”
Cristina did not say a word for over a minute, and they all stood and watched her, waiting. Her breath puffed white before her face as she studied the girl, her eyes devouring her features, searching for something.
Finally she looked up at Jess and Patrick. “Knew you’d be coming,” she said. “I could feel it. Then I read about the fire back in Boston, at a children’s facility? I could guess the rest.” She turned back to Sarah. “You like cookies? Bunch of people dropped them off this week.” She glanced back at Jess. “Ed passed. Heart gave out. Doctors said it just up and ruptured in his chest, just like that. Never given him a whit of trouble before.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Voorsanger.”
“Please, I told you. It’s Cristina. Who’s this handsome man?”
Jess introduced Patrick, who came forward and shook her hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” she said. “Excuse my outfit, I’m not myself today—”
The bang of the screen door made them all turn. Annie Voorsanger had come out onto the front steps. Her black hair was loose now and fell to the base of her neck. She wore a sheer cotton nightgown the color of cream, lace gathered about the wrists and along the hemline. The outline of her naked body showed through the fabric. She was barefoot.
“Annie,” Cristina said sharply, “what on earth—” Jess could feel the energy gathering, the familiar buzz lighting up every nerve in her body and overwhelming everything else. This time it seemed to be coming from two directions at once, or three. Annie stumbled down to the cracked front walk, took two shambling steps forward, then fell to her knees. A high, keening noise wrenched itself from her throat.
Sarah tore past them all, into her mother’s arms. They clutched at each other. The keening noise grew louder as the electrical charge crackled and released itself all at once, as a sharp breeze lifted the dust from the ground around them and swirled a tornado of debris, the mother and her daughter cocooned as they sat among the broken flagstones.
Cristina told them they could stay as long as they wanted, and Jess had the feeling she was pleased about the arrangement, if still apprehensive at what the future might bring. But Annie was clearly different now, her eyes showing more life in them, though she still did not speak. She and Sarah formed an immediate and permanent bond, or perhaps one had been there all along; they sat for hours together, neither one of them saying a word, all conversation going on at some other level where voices were no longer necessary.
When Sarah was not with Annie, she and Jess spent the time together, their own bond permanently forged as well. Jess read aloud to her, or played board games like Parcheesi and Candyland, which Cristina had dug up from the shelves in the cellar, or they took walks down the long dirt drive and admired the crunch of brown leaves underfoot.
Jess knew this life could not last forever, but right now it was a good one. She felt herself healing inside, regaining the confidence in herself she had lost. Soon she would have a better idea of where she wanted to go from here, but for now, this was enough. Patrick remained the perfect gentleman, though she knew he wanted more from her.
Perhaps in time, she would be able to give it.
One crisp fall afternoon, less than two weeks after they had arrived at the Voorsanger farm, Sarah took Jess by the hand and led her outside. Patrick was in the kitchen helping Cristina clean up after lunch, and Annie was napping in the bedroom upstairs.
Sarah pulled her eagerly down the path and to the rear of the barn. “I want to show you something,” she said, her eyes shining. “You know how I’ve been feeling better lately? My chest is almost healed. The scab came off today, and it’s only a little pink and puckered there now. Before, I couldn’t do…you know. Maybe a little, but not much. But now…”
She turned and faced a small drift of leaves that had piled up against the side of the barn. Her little face screwed itself up into a look of deep concentration.
It was a particularly calm day, not a cloud in the sky. But suddenly a touch of wind wafted over them, the temperature plunged, and the pile of leaves swirled and lifted up, bits and pieces drifting and darting around their faces.
“You see?” Sarah said, turning back to her as the debris settled around their feet. Her little face was shining with pride. “I can control it just fine, nothing happens now. I can do whatever I want, and nothing bad happens!”
Jess touched the girl’s face. “Good for you,” she said. “Good for you, Sarah.”
But the girl had something else in mind today. “Now you do it,” she said.
“I can’t, honey. I’m not like you.”
“Sure you can,” she said, insistent. “You just close your eyes, and reach out, and you…push. Just push. Try it. Please?”
Jess felt a fluttering in her chest, and frowned. In the weeks since the accident she had sensed something different about herself, something foreign that had settled down to live deep inside her breast. But it had been so long since she had taken any of the drug, surely whatever effect it might have had on her was long gone now.
She turned back to the remains of the leaf pile. The wind had died down, and the sun felt warm on the back of her neck. “Go on,” Sarah said eagerly. “Try it.”
Jess closed her eyes. She imagined herself reaching out with long fingers like wind, pictured the leaves lifting themselves up and scattering before her touch.
Inside her mind, something twitched; she opened her eyes to see the slightest breath go whispering through the pile. A single cracked and brown leaf trembled at the edge of the ground, whirled and lifted up as if suspended in the air, and then drifted down again and was still.
“There,” Sarah said, into the silence, into the cold and still loneliness of the bright fall afternoon. “I told you, didn’t I? I told you so.”
Jess nodded. She wrapped her arms around her chest and shivered.
On the long walk back to the house, Sarah reached out and took her hand. Her grip was warm, and Jess’s hand remained so long after she had let go.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As with everything I do, this one couldn’t have happened without the support of my family. I love them more than I can say, and I’m very glad they continue to put up with me. Thanks to my late grandfather Morris “Papa” Brown, who showed me what flying is all about, and answered my questions about small-engine planes and flying clubs. To Don D’Auria and the crew at Dorchester Books, many thanks for all your hard work on this book and your faith in me.
Finally, thanks to the “real” Cristina Voorsanger, who won an earlier contest and received the dubious distinction of appearing in this book. For the record, she is nothing like the character in The Reach, but she let me borrow her name anyway, and then waited patiently for longer than I would have to see her name in print. Here’s to you, Cristina.
HIGH PRAISE FOR NATE KENYON’S BLOODSTONE
“Stephen King’s influence is apparent in Kenyon’s debut spook-er…an impressive panoramic sweep that shows the horrors manifesting subtly and insidiously through the experiences of a large cast of characters.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Crisp prose and straightforward storytelling make Bloodstone a must-read!”
—Brian Keene, Bram Stoker award—winning author of Dark Hollow
“A dark, disturbing, white-knuckler of a page-turner!”
—Douglas Clegg, Bram Stoker and Horror Guild award—winning author of The Priest of Blood
“[Bloodstone] delivers…there are chills and suspense and gripping action with characters you come to know and care about. A fully satisfying read that will hook you from page one.”
—Rick Hautala, bestselling author of The White Room
“Bloodstone is a stunning debut. The writing is smooth and refined, the imagery striking and vivid, and Kenyon proves adept at involving the reader and dragging him or her along for a very dark, very disturbing ride.”
—Tim Lebbon, Bram Stoker and British Fantasy award—winning author of Face
“Reminiscent of Salem’s Lot, Bloodstone is a terrifying horror novel that is action oriented yet doesn’t neglect the development of the characters that come across as believable to the audience This is the kind of horror novel that will make readers want to sleep with all the lights…shining brightly.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Tense and entertaining, this is one of the strongest debut novels to come along in years. Highly recommended.”
—Cemetery Dance
MORE PRAISE FOR BLOODSTONE
“Bloodstone by Nate Kenyon gives the state of Maine another reason to fear the dark. Atmospheric, creepy and fun, Bloodstone delivers the spooky goods!”
—Jonathan Maberry, award—winning author of Ghost Road Blues
“Kenyon’s debut evokes an atmosphere of small-town claustrophobia…[a] tale of classic horror.”
—Library Journal
“An enviable first novel Vivid references to guilt, penance, and redemption, duty, and familial obligations, all grant the narrative an additional moral layer of meaning Just perfect for those who prefer their horror cerebral rather than graphic.”
—Chizine
“[The] writing style is so clean, his confidence in his story so strong, and his overall narrative arc so compelling Your time will most definitely not be wasted with [his] excellent debut!”
—Gary A. Braunbeck, Bram Stoker Award—winning author of Mr. Hands
“While it certainly reads as a horror novel, complete with a satisfyingly unexpected plot twist, Bloodstone is ultimately a story of love and redemption, giving the reader more to chew on than the average exercise in fright.”
—Fangoria
“The characters are strange in this dark and disturbing book, and the voices guiding them are even stranger, but it fits together into a horrific tale…”
—RT BOOKreviews
“Bloodstone is a very impressive first novel. [It] is a very well written, detailed story that will really keep you thinking all the way to the end. It’s a book for horror fans who like to get really deep in the history of characters and the mystery that surrounds them.”
—The Horror Review
Other Leisure books by Nate Kenyon:
BLOODSTONE
Copyright
A LEISURE BOOK®
December 2008
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2008 by Nathaniel Kenyon
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
E-ISBN: 978-1-4285-0579-7
The name “Leisure Books” and the stylized “L” with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Visit us on the web at www.dorchesterpub.com.
