by Vicki Keire
He laughed, short and fierce, pushing me away so he could hold me at arm’s length. “Caspia.” He gave me his wonderful crooked big-brother smile that proclaimed my utter stupidity even as it told the world nobody could pick on me but him. A ragged animal sound got caught in my throat. I really had to get the hell out of room 213 before I lost it and cried like a grown man at his daughter’s wedding. “Cas,” he repeated. “Of course I’m dying. Everybody is. Death is a life sentence. Didn’t you know?” He kept his voice light, teasing me, but the warning traveled between us as surely as if we shared synapses.
A temporary reprieve is all any of us ever have. So don’t waste it, dumbass.
“Nap,” I mumbled, and ran like the coward I am.
***
Inside a sterile environment like a hospital, even with occasional forays to gardens and corner markets, things like weather often pass unnoticed. I felt like most of my autumn had been stolen from me. Somehow, the weather had skipped straight to winter. And winter in the Deep South is usually miserable. It rarely snows; instead, we have a kind of dismal gray rain that feels like ice but isn’t. Nope. Ice would at least give us a chance of some school closings, or maybe sledding down a hill. Instead, we have a kind of foggy damp chill that settles across the entire landscape and even manages to sink into the bone.
I was completely unprepared for the weather. The rain poured down in a steady icy stream. My hair clung to my face and neck, sending frozen rivulets down my back, soaking me to the skin. My jeans and tennis shoes were completely waterlogged. I had nothing but my indestructible leather jacket and the largest cup of coffee I could find at my work. I wrapped my frozen fingers around it, Amelie’s effusive greetings still ringing in my ears, wanting desperately to drink it down to drive the chill from my bones as I sprinted from the Coffee Shop to my apartment. I didn’t dare, though. Drinking it would drain precious warmth desperately needed by my frozen fingers. If I couldn’t unfreeze my fingers I wouldn’t be able to unlock my front door and I would freeze to death in my own stairwell.
I sniffed. Hazelnut. A tiny sip wouldn’t rob my fingers of too much warmth.
I ducked into the alley that ran perpendicular to the hardware store and my apartment above it, plastering myself flat against the wall while I drank. Precious caffeinated sunshine made it past my lips, promising life and warmth.
That was when I saw it.
I hated to call it an it, but I couldn’t determine its gender, hunched over as it was in a corner of the alley. It didn’t move. Homeless people in Whitfield were rare. I had never met any. I clutched my hot coffee and wondered what the protocol was. Call the police? Some kind of charity? But which one?
The huddled figure shivered violently and I silently cursed myself. How long had the person been there, in this weather? Maybe I’d better call an ambulance instead. I started towards the person but checked my steps at the last moment as an ugly thought occurred to me.
What if it was some kind of trap?
My apartment was warded. Logan was safe in a warded hospital room. Yet here was a helpless looking person right outside my door. Where I was completely alone. I inched slowly backwards. The huddled figure shivered again, more violently this time. I felt terrible. If this was a trap, it was a really cruel one. “Asheroth,” I whispered. Nothing happened. “Asheroth,” I hissed, a little more loudly. I didn’t know what else to do. My insane Nephilim tormentor hadn’t given me any guidelines for how to reach him in an emergency. Meanwhile, the possible homeless person slumped forward across its knees, shaking. Was it moaning, too?
Bloody hell.
I waited, getting steadily colder, realizing I would have to ditch the coffee completely if I was attacked and had to pull shadows. I waited some more. When nothing happened, I darted down the alley to the huddled figure in the corner. I could just make out a patch of wet dark hair through arms crossed protectively over its head. It wore a large green and black flannel shirt and jeans. I realized, to my mounting horror, that he was barefoot. He was just too angular to be anything but male. I held out my coffee and prepared to run, wondering if Asheroth would come, and if he would help or hinder.
“I really hope he doesn’t show up here. Say his name three times and he might,” said the wet lump of humanity through blue-tinged, shaking lips. His skin looked pasty pale. His feet, when I looked more closely, were bruised and scraped, as were his hands. Several nails were torn and blackened. His clothes didn’t fit at all. The shirt was huge and missing buttons. The jeans were ripped and looked as if they were much too short. His entire body trembled, with the occasional violent quake. He looked worse than terrible, but he lifted his head and tried to smile.
It was a fragile, painful, human smile.
His eyes were the same blue green glow that walked out of my sketch book months and lifetimes ago; that found mine in countless darknesses; that kept me from falling apart more times than I knew. They locked on me now, clear and searing and mine.
“Ethan,” I said, his name temporarily sucking all air from the universe.
“Yes,” he agreed, smiling hugely, as if he were not simultaneously freezing to death right in front of me.
“But you’re… you’re supposed to be dead,” I said stupidly, still staring, as if he were a product of my fevered imagination.
“Yes,” he said again, happily. He nodded towards my coffee. I gave it to him. His fingers refused to close around the cup. He shook so badly hot liquid splashed all over his hands. He winced. “I made a trade. My immortality for your brother’s natural life span. I wasn’t sure they would, at first, but they did it. They made me human. I’m going to die. Isn’t it wonderful?”
It will take Light to bring your brother back, he’d said that night. The words were etched forever inside me. Take mine. And I had.
I stared at him. He looked like hell. Logan’s words echoed in my head: Death is a life sentence. I stared at Ethan until I remembered I had forgotten to breathe again and that an immortal creature had sacrificed forever for someone I loved.
He was also exhibiting signs of insanity and hypothermia.
That jerked me out of my stupor. “Not yet you’re not. Come on.” I stripped off my black leather jacket and slipped it around his shoulders. He tried to protest. “Shut up,” I snapped. “I’ll take it back once we get inside. What the hell happened to you?”
“I was waiting for you. At first it was quite pleasant. Then it became cold and wet. But that only lasted a little while.”
“What do you mean?” I asked suspiciously as I struggled to take all his weight. Ethan trembled against my side.
“I feel quite warm, actually. And sleepy.”
“Oh hell,” I swore. Hypothermia.
“You’re mad,” Ethan said dreamily. His skin was freezing cold and slick, like a catfish fresh from the river’s deepest bottom. I struggled to haul him up the stairs. “I don’t understand why. I’ve solved a number of problems.”
“God you’re heavy,” I panted. I leaned with him against the wall on the second floor landing. He started to slide; I grappled for his arm, slinging it once again across my shoulder. “You have to hang on. Until we get you home.” Ethan didn’t respond. Head against my shoulder, he seemed to be falling asleep. I debated about calling 911 then and there, but my apartment was only one flight of stairs away. If he needed the emergency room, we could wait for the paramedics in warmth and comfort instead of on the cold stairwell.
When he did not respond to gentle shaking, I slapped him.
“I thought being human would help me understand you,” he complained as we began another climb. “You're clearly angry. You hit me. And yet I did everything you wanted.”
I made sure I propped him right up against my front door. If he fell, it would be into a warm apartment. I fumbled for my keys. Cold and shock made my movements wooden. I was having a hard time seeing, too.
I realized why when a trembling wet finger reached for my face. “You’re crying,” Ethan s
aid, horrified. “Why, Caspia?”
“Because you’re dying!” I rammed the key in with a vicious shove.
“You don’t want me because I’m a human,” he said flatly, cold creeping inside his voice and eyes where before, he had always been light and warmth. “Because I’m going to grow older and die one day. That’s why you’re crying, and mad.”
The door gave way as I twisted the handle; I didn’t bother warning him. I didn’t know if the wards would accept him anyway. We tumbled backwards across the threshold, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt both his benign intentions and his utter mortality. I tried to spare his neck and head by wrapping my arms around them. In the end, I jammed one elbow badly enough to bring even more tears to my eyes, but managed to cushion Ethan’s head against the worst of the impact. I lay half sprawled across him, my arms tight around his chest, a leg thrown across his while one hip dug into my inner thigh.
“You idiot,” I said at last as warm air streamed over us both and my trembling increased to rival his. “I’m crying because I’m afraid you’re dying right now, and I’m mad because you don’t have enough sense to come in out of the rain.”
He didn’t say anything. He just pulled me closer and nudged the door shut with his toe.
***
What they say is true: the best way to share body heat is skin to skin. With one of us shaking violently, suffering from hypothermia and countless other small injuries, and the other one of us completely terrified, getting warm as fast as possible was truly the only thing on my mind. Unable to stand up on his own, Ethan looked as lost as I felt.
I thought it would be easy with him, to strip off the cold clammy things that made us shake and tremble, and cling to each other for warmth. This was Ethan, after all. My Ethan. We'd faced death and madness and despair side by side. We belonged together. I’d stand on the square and declare it to the world. I’d steal all his best t-shirts and refuse to give them back. I’d fight demons and pull shadows for him.
And if any other girl so much as looked at him, I would end her.
We trembled. Our hands shook, reaching for each other, clumsy as things newly made. I burned with shyness, hardly able to look at him. Why this? Why now? Why so strangely shy when there was nothing motivating me beyond the desperate need to warm him? I tried for a button on my shirt, shaking like a junkie in withdrawal. He was hardly doing better; he looked as if putting clothes on had been a struggle, let alone taking them off when his strange new body fought him.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I finally admitted. “How to be human with you.” I had managed the whole row of buttons down my shirt and one boot. The air felt icy on my stomach.
He looked worse than pained. He looked as if I’d taken his stars away and left him with the compass instead. And he was still shivering. As I was. “Then let’s not,” he said at last.
“Let’s not what?” I asked darkly. Was this the part where he excused himself, decided he was in over his head, wanted to slow things down?
“Let’s not be human together,” Ethan sighed. His frozen fingers grappled uselessly with the edges of his flannel shirt. I had managed most of my buttons and the other boot. I moved to help him. “We’ll just be us.” His tent-like green and black sodden shirt landed at my feet with a dull thud.
Oh.
Skin. Smooth and chilled, warming slightly under my touch, his skin felt nothing like a statue’s anymore. My face felt warm, and I knew I was blushing. “Just Ethan and Caspia,” I agreed in a whisper. Shyness, like buttons, became easier to navigate, now that there were two of us. “Tell me something.”
“Mmm?” We were easier with each other now, relearning. There is a kind of magic in touching. Mothers know, swaddling newborns or holding them close. Anyone who works with animals knows it, too; the best trainers communicate with their hands. Blankets replaced icy wet clothes around us, creating a nest where our frozen skin could kindle slowly to warmth.
“My eyes,” I murmured. There was nothing graceful about the way we held each other. We were awkward and frozen and feeling our way; Ethan’s elbow dug into my ribs and his head trapped my hair. I thought about complaining but his shaking hadn't stopped. I'm not sure he knew how to control all his movements yet.
“They’ve been silver since you found me,” he told me through chattering teeth. “Like mercury.”
I tugged the blankets tighter around him and wondered whether I should have called 911 after all. “My eyes have been flat gray since I saw you last,” I said quietly. “Like steel.” I ran my fingers through his wet hair and down the curve of his neck. Breath, shallow and rapid, warmed my hand. Ethan’s breathing. “I’m so sorry.” A choking sob I couldn’t hold back anymore escaped. “It’s my fault. I know it is. You have to tell me what happened. Asheroth told me…”
“Shh,” Ethan said, his chilled lips directly against my ear. Cold, but soft. I reached for him, greedy and desperate. But how fragile was my new Ethan? I forced myself to pull back. He laughed at me. “Not so fragile as that,” he promised. “And I will tell you what happened. Just not now.” He trembled against me, through our blanket wrappings. “Not here. Only the two of us, here.”
Suddenly my heart was beating very fast. And so, of course, I had to know.
“Wait!” I practically yelled, startling him into stillness. I pushed him flat on his back. “I want to hear your heartbeat.” I seized his hand as I laid my ear against his chest. I felt a slow smile spread across my face, and saw an answering one on his. “Here,” I said, lacing our hands together over his strong human heart. “Didn’t you think to check?”
He shook his head, eyes wide with shock and wonder. “Apparently I have a lot to learn,” he said at last.
“No, you were doing just fine,” I protested, cocooning him in blankets again, pulling his slick skin next to mine. “A whole lot of people never learn to come in out of the rain.”
We learned three things together, that first day of Ethan’s humanity: skin warms skin, silver eyes light darkness, and our heartbeats measured time together, so that we knew we were no longer alone.
To be continued
Keep reading for a preview of Darkness in the Blood,
Book II of The Gifted Blood Trilogy,
Coming Spring 2011
If you enjoyed Gifts of the Blood,
you’ll love the award winning
Jenny Pox by J.L. Bryan.
Keep reading for an excerpt!
Acknowledgements:
I’d like to send a massive thanks to:
My students, especially Derrin, Will, Siobhan, and Jordan. You all kept me motivated and (mostly) in touch.
My writer friends and critique partners-in-crime: Mandy, Alina, Gigi, Warren, and other members of the DC ‘09 and ‘10 workshops; to Ann for her straight talk and encouragement; to Eugie for sheer inspiration; to Mertz, my very first fan and now friend; to the Indies, for kicking butt and taking names; and most importantly to Melissa Marr, who, quite without knowing it, gave me The Sign I was looking for when I needed it most.
Music made my battle with the blank page a little less cataclysmic. To name a few (many of whom look dashing in a bunny hat): Joe Carver of Horse to Water, Glossary, Duquette Johnston/The Gum Creek Killers, The Only Sons, Lucinda Williams, The National, The Moondoggies, Fleet Foxes, Jason Isbell, Magnolia Mountain, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Calexico... did I mention Glossary? I did? Imagine that.
To Grace and Max, who take their unconventional childhood in stride most of the time; to Tony for being the sane one (so far); and to Mom for, well, everything. You’re the smartest, bravest, most kick-ass woman I know.
Lastly:
You have the best smile and the coolest hats. Before you I’d never heard The Beatles. You get it about the ocean. You suspect that I actually do believe in magic. You’re my best friend, you always believe in me, you still make me laugh, and the desire to smite women who look at you has not faded one bit. Fifteen years later you’re still Listen
ing. Daniel, thank you for everything.
About the Author:
Vicki Keire grew up in a 19th Century haunted house in the Deep South full of books, secret rooms, abandoned coal chutes, and plenty of places to get into trouble with her siblings. She holds Bachelor's and Master's degrees in English Literature, and is A.B.D. with specializations in Eighteenth Century British Literature, Romanticism, and Race and Gender Theory. She spent the last decade teaching writing and literature at the university level while slipping paranormal fiction in between the pages of her textbooks. She is a fierce proponent of the Indie movement in writing, art, and music.
When not reading and writing about ghosts, faeries, fallen angels, magic, and things that go bump in the night, she indulges her eclectic musical tastes, keeps vampire hours, and adds to her massive stockpile of quirky t-shirts and designer notebooks. She hates to cook and would rather burn the laundry than fold it. She believes that when an author wins the Newberry, he or she gets a secret lifetime pass to Neverland. She still lives in the Deep South with her husband, children, and attendant menagerie, but is pretty sure her house isn't haunted. A person can't be so lucky twice.
Gifts of the Blood is the first in a trilogy set in the small town of Whitfield, where she has several other paranormal series planned. You can learn more about it and her other projects at:
Website: http://www.vickikeire.com/
Blog: http://vickikeire.blogspot.com/
Darkness in the Blood:
Gifted Blood Book II
Copyright 2011 Vicki Keire
