Sanguine Moon

by Jennifer Foxcroft

  “No, it’s okay. It’s silly really.”

  Nothing Decker has ever said has come close to silly. In fact, using silly in the same sentence as Decker is laughable. “I doubt that. Spill it.” I lean further out the window and rest my elbow on the roof, facing him. “Tell me.”

  The hint of pink has returned to his cheeks, and he’s studying his hiking boots. Boots that I know were once hanging in a tree. “Rockland showed me the photographs you made on the computer. I thought … ah, I’m going to sound so self-centered. Forget it,” he huffs, crossing his arms again.

  “You’ve flown how many miles tonight to check on your brother’s girlfriend? Hardly the actions of a self-centered man.”

  A little smile plays at Decker’s lips. He looks at me sideways briefly before a full-blown smile appears. “Don’t tell Jeremiah, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  I cross my heart, but my gesture confuses my Camazotz friend. “I promise,” I explain.

  “I’ve never had a photograph of myself. I was wondering if … but the computer is downstairs. Told you it was silly.”

  These bats live so far removed from us that some days I feel as though I’ll never understand them. I try to imagine no photographic evidence of Mini’s short time on this planet. Every single milestone in her life has been photographed and videoed to excess, but at the age of seventeen, Decker has never seen one photo of himself.

  Aiming my phone at him, I try to focus at the odd angle. “Smile.”

  Decker shifts away from the device as though it’s going to stun him. “What are you doing? That’s a phone.”

  “And a camera too.” I turn the screen toward him and watch the wonder set in as he sees the dark trees in the moonlight fill the screen.

  “Does Rocks know about this?” He’s frowning. “Does his have a camera too?”

  “Yeah.” Our technology lesson the day my parents left after Christmas was cut short. It was the first time we were home alone after getting together and spent most of the day cuddled up on my bed making out. I’m grateful my beanie is pulled low over my ears. With all the drama that followed, we never got around to using his camera.

  “I do not think he knows he has his very own camera.”

  “I think you’re right. Smile.” The first one I snap is too dark. Nervous about the flash drawing attention to the boy on our roof, I insist Decker must come inside. I take four pictures of him and then explain the emergence of the selfie. His hesitancy evaporates when he looks at his image on the screen. Slinging an arm around my shoulder, he pulls me in, and since he’s got longer arms, I let him press the button to capture us grinning.

  * * * * *

  Previously, school distracted me from dwelling on my identity crisis in the hunt for my parents. Now, it’s an alarming reminder of what I discovered. Rambo and his buddy have been sitting in some sinister-looking car every day when I leave school. They simply sit and stare and occasionally comment to each other as I exit the parking lot.

  The parking lot at school is short about twenty car spaces. Late students are forced onto the street. By Thursday, I was leaving for school so early that both Dad and Mom commented. There was no way in hell I was parking near the gate or on the street with those two suits lurking.

  Friday, I beg and plead to convince Mom that I don’t feel well enough to attend class. She’s not working and sets me up on the couch wrapped in a quilt with hot tea, freshly baked banana bread, and the remote control. I spend the morning feeling safe from men-in-suits and drug lords. What on earth am I going to do if they ask about the money? I don’t have it, and I certainly won’t be sending them to Blood Mountain.

  Or should I?

  Ash could get a fix of aeronaught blood—

  Sugarplums! What the hell?

  Am I really plotting a bloody end to two men who technically haven’t done anything to me? Good lord, I am Enzo’s daughter!

  The three slices of hot banana bread I scarfed down swirl around in my stomach. I rub my temples and take a deep breath. This is a new low even for me. What would Rocks think of me sending aeronaughts up the mountain for the Camazotz to “take care of?”

  Mom calls from the kitchen, and when I enter, she’s got Mini in her highchair and is rolling out cookie dough. “Want to help Mini make animal cookies?”

  Mini grins. Two more teeth have come down, slowly filling in the gaps in her precious smile. I pinch her rosy cheeks and pull up a stool. Family time will distract me from my fudged up thoughts. I dig through the drawers searching for the animal cookie cutters. Mom and I work well as a team in the kitchen, but it’s been too long since we’ve done this. I know she knows I’m not really sick, and I’m grateful for her not asking why.

  While Mom patiently assists Mini with cutting out the cookies and laying them on the three trays, I start the frosting. By the time the oven dings, we have pink, yellow, green and blue icing, and half the counter is covered in bowls of decorations—mini marshmallows, sugar stars, chocolate chips, crushed candy—it’s a feast. Mini’s jigging up and down in her chair in anticipation. She’s going to be covered in more frosting than the cookies shortly and can’t wait to get started.

  The next hour, I’m lost in decorating heaven. Three distinct cookie styles cover the counter. My mom’s cookies resemble their real life animal counterparts so well they could be photographed and used as characters in a children’s book. My cookies—while pretty—contain copious amounts of my favorite toppings—lots of ‘spotted’ marshmallow farm critters. And Mini’s are decorated with the kind of enthusiasm that only two-year-olds possess when given free access to frosting and candy.

  “This is fun,” Mom comments, smiling. She reaches over and wipes something off my face.

  “It’s been a while.” I want to return to the old days before the letter when Mom and I hung out all the time.

  “I missed us.”

  “Me too. I’m sorry I’ve been such a pain lately.”

  “I’ve been worried. I don’t know what’s been going on, but I’m glad whatever it was is over.” She’s not upset; she’s just being honest.

  “Got time for a movie?” I ask, trying to select which cookies to devour.

  “I’d love to. By the way, I chipped two nails.” She holds up the evidence, and I can tell she’s hoping I’ll offer to fix them. The look on her face says she doesn’t want to push the mother/daughter time quota.

  “Let me get my polish.”

  * * * * *

  The Martin Luther King Jr. holiday gives me four men-in-suits free days in a row. By Tuesday, I’ve slept well and am ready to confront them. Well, maybe not them, but I’m telling a teacher. I want to know why they lurk by the school, and I’m sick of being afraid. What sort of men intimidate teenage girls? Then I think about the sort of men that kidnap teenage girls. My bravado deflates quite a bit, but not enough to stop me. I want answers to the questions that are slowly driving me insane. After spending an awesome weekend with Mom, Dad, and Mini, I will not risk anything happening to the family that I’m desperate to keep.

  My plan should not endanger my girlfriends either. I say goodbye to them at the lockers, explaining I’ve got books that need returning to the library. When I’m sure they’ll be well on their way home, I march to the front gate.

  I’m slightly disappointed to find my stalkers waiting in their usual spot. Part of me had hoped that my absence would have solved the problem, but they’re staring at me like usual. So much for vigilant teachers monitoring student safety! These thugs could be extras in The Godfather. Placing my hands on my hips, I summon my most defiant glare, and then yell at the top of my lungs. “Principal Skenner!”

  The school entrance isn’t overly busy. A few kids are still chatting by their cars. All eyes are on me—particularly two blood-chilling glares. The men advance before I have a chance to call out a second time. Since the principal’s office is in the corner of the building closest to the gate, I know he’ll have heard me. The Rambo-wanna-be g
rabs my arm while the other dude covers my mouth and shoves me behind a parked car.

  “Shut it now, Contessa.”

  Oh, fudge me.

  The remaining students can’t see what’s going on, and I can’t see anything but a wall of giant man in front and behind me. I struggle and bite down hard on the sweaty hand over my mouth. I will not be dragged into another car. Not now. Not ever. I dig around in my bag for the pepper spray that I pray is still in there. Daddy gave it to me years ago, but I’ve never had a need for it.

  My fingers curl around a canister and in a flash I’m pressing the pump repeatedly at head height. Both men take a step back letting me go, and one laughs.

  “Feisty like her father,” he mutters, looking at Rambo.

  Father?

  I can’t breath, and my head starts to spin. They aren’t after the money. My fingers press down again as my brain slowly processes the fact that mace doesn’t smell—at all. What? Then I realize that I’ve just sprayed them with my inhaler. Awesome. Apparently, Ventolin to the face is quite the deterrent … who knew? I rub my arm where that monster grabbed me.

  “Get away. Leave me alone.” I focus and stand tall, not wanting to act the victim. “Stop following me,” I command. I ready my lungs for a scream.

  “You that keen to be snatched by the Vipers again, little girl?” The fair-haired one asks.

  “Maybe she wants to give ‘the Finger’ back his money.”

  “What? How do you— Who the hell are you?”

  They know about the money the boys stole from the Vipers. That’s not possible.

  “We’re all that’s keeping you out of a shallow grave.” Rambo frowns and indicates toward something behind me. “You need us. Be smart and tell your teacher all’s cool.”

  Over my shoulder, I see Principal Skenner and two juniors talking to him, pointing my way. The alarm has been raised, but now what …

  * * * * *

  The words “shallow grave” haunt me day after day. I don’t think I’ll ever be calm enough to eat anything again. The week is a blur. My first instinct is to text Rocks, but I decide against it before hitting send. He can’t check his phone, and if by some miracle someone checked it for him, he’d freak if I told him the Vipers want their money back, and two of Enzo’s meatheads are keeping me safe from having to return it. He’d flip to be by my side, and since his wing has only been in a cast for just short of a month, that would be an epic disaster. What’s the probability that members of the two biggest rival drug gangs in Atlanta know who I am?

  Enzo knows about me.

  And, he’s protecting me.

  Where’s my inhaler when I really need it? I thought I’d closed the lid on the emotional pit when I discovered my parents’ identities. I was dead wrong. It’s a whirling cesspool of confusion that’s bigger than ever. Since finding out about Enzo Ascari, I’ve felt nothing but loathing and revulsion to think we share the same genes, but now he’s keeping me alive. Why? The idea of banging my head against a wall until I suffer from amnesia is looking more and more appealing. These questions are piling up and pissing me off to no end.

  Since my confrontation with his men, I get a slight head nod when I leave school. I’ve noticed black Town Cars everywhere, but have no idea if I’m merely being extra paranoid or whether I’ve got a constant tail.

  Screams and squeals from the gaggle of two-year-olds drift in from the backyard. We’re celebrating Mini’s second birthday with a dozen of her closest daycare buddies and their parents. The feast is spread across two folding tables on our back patio, and I’m officially off duty and hanging with the girls in front of the TV. I don’t give a sugarplum who the quarterback is dating this week, or if Parker is ever going to talk to me again. I tune out the girls’ voices and retreat into my gloomy question corner.

  A handful of Swedish fish hit me in the face. “Hey!”

  The girls laugh and eye each other. “Are you even listening?” Tiff asks, shaking her head. Brandy is on the floor sitting crossed-legged behind Mary Lou with a curling iron. They’re all staring.

  “What’s the Rocks update?” Mary Lou repeats, twirling one of the soft curls.

  “I told you he broke his arm. Haven’t seen him.”

  “But you’re still texting, right?” Brandy asks. “Broken arm doesn’t mean he can’t call you. He’s into you. I thought for sure you’d hook up over Christmas.”

  Maybe I should tell them? Why haven’t I? Us hooking up was brand spanking new and then BAM! I get mixed up with the Vipers, and Rocks gets hurt. I guess I just wanted more time to adjust to the thought of having a Camazotz boyfriend and exactly what that entails.

  “Call him.” Brandy dumps the curling iron and lunges for my phone. “See if he and the boys can come over. Tiff would looooove to see Jeremiah again, wouldn’t you, girl?”

  That gets my attention. Tiff blushes and it’s such a rare look on her. Her confidence with guys used to drive me crazy. “You like Jeremiah?” I ask. “Since when?”

  “Honestly, Connie, do you ever listen,” she asks.

  Later that night at the hotdog stand, I focus all of my attention on my best friend. Tiffany is right; I’m totally clueless about what’s been happening with my friends. My head has been so crammed with my problems that I’ve completely ignored everything else. It feels good to stop the internal chatter and listen.

  “Has Rocks ever said if Jeremiah’s got a girlfriend?” she asks. Her anime blue eyes are hopeful.

  A girlfriend? As in singular? Nope. A dozen of them? Probably, if he’s half as popular as Rocks. I think the universe is trying to drown me in my emotional pit. I finally manage to claw my way out of the Enzo-Vipers-being-stalked-over-money-I-didn’t-technically-steal hole, only to be shoved into the Rocks-Camazotz-girls-mating-bats-what-does-our-future-hold abyss instead.

  “No, but, um. I don’t know if you two—”

  “What?” She puts her hands on her hips and faces me.

  Crabapples. A good friend would tell the truth, but the truth involves secrets that aren’t mine to share, and I’m pretty certain letting another aeronaught into the fold—so to speak—would be all it would take for Strickland to send his bat squad my way.

  “I don’t know. He’s, um, sort of intense.” What I don’t say is he drinks blood and kinda hates our kind. She frowns. “Calm down. I’m not saying you wouldn’t be good together, but …” Sometimes telling the truth sucks balls. Fudge this. “He did ask about you one night when we were hanging out.” Her frown melts away and that dreamy eyed state she gets when reading replaces it.

  “Really? Tell me exactly what he said?”

  A customer at the window saves me from more white lies. Jeremiah did ask, but that’s all I’ve got, and she wants minute details. The fact that his face was smeared with my blood at the time probably isn’t what she’s after. Looking out the serving window, I wish I hadn’t.

  “Fuc—” My hand flies to my mouth.

  I’m looking into the dark-rimmed glasses of Enzo—freaking—Ascari.

  8. Harem

  All I can hear is the pounding of my heart. I’m positive it’s relocated to somewhere between my ears because the thumping beat is deafening.

  A quick glance at Tiff tells me she has no clue about the identity of my customer as she moves to check our wiener numbers. Thank God, she doesn’t watch the news much either.

  My eyes flick back to Enzo—my father. He’s middle-aged and kinda pleasant-looking. Talk about never judge a book by its cover. Enzo could pass for a regular businessman, but he’s anything but regular. His shoulder-length, blond hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. My fingers grab the end of mine, before I realize what I’m doing. His green eyes roam over me with the same scrutiny that I’m sure he can see in mine. I’m curious which of my features strike a chord with him.

  “One dog, please.”

  On autopilot, I prepare his order. He knows where I freaking work. Why this surprises me I have no clue. The mute, teenage g
irl that has difficulty talking to boys other than Camazotz also has nothing to say to scary, biological fathers. My hand shakes a little as I pass him the hotdog.

  The note he hands over is a fifty. “Keep the change.” His eyes flick to the money briefly.

  When I look, there’s a slip of paper inside the folded bill.

  Tell Miss Tiffany Jenkins you won’t need a ride home tonight.

  I close my eyes. I want to be sick. What did I ever do to the universe to deserve this? He knows her last name, and I’m guessing that’s not all he knows. I nod once to confirm I understand his message and watch as he walks away, handing the hotdog to a dark silhouette in the shadows.

  I tell Tiff that my father is taking me home—not a lie. But comparing Dad V2.0 to that man makes me understand how Judas felt at the last supper.

  Two sinister-looking vehicles wait across the road near the dance club. My feet have the sudden urge to run, but then I think of Tiff. Are they watching her head to her car? If I make a run for it, will she pay for my cowardice?

  “You wanted to know who he was,” I mutter, crossing the road. “Now’s your big chance.”

  The back door of the first car opens and Enzo emerges. His smile sends a shiver up my spine.

  He buttons his navy blue suit jacket and runs a hand over his hair, before gesturing to the open car. “Get in.”

  “No.”

  The smile fades. “I said get in!” His voice is as effective as liquid nitrogen. My spine stiffens instantly, but I don’t care. I’m not getting in that car. I know what happens when girls get shoved into cars.

  “And I said, NO!” I yell. If he wants a scene, I’ll give him one. He knocks on the hood twice. A large gentleman exits the driver’s side. He straightens his tie and casually places a hand on his hip, pushing his suit jacket open to reveal a holstered gun.

  Fear envelops my entire body as the memory of Mullins and his revolver rush to the surface. My eyes dart to the clubbers across the lot. Enzo can’t shoot me with this many witnesses—surely. If he wanted me dead, he would have left me to his rivals—the Vipers.