Betrayed by Blood

by Beth Dranoff

  “No,” said Gus. “Nothing fit for either non-human or human consumption. Speaking of,” he said, stretching himself up to seated now, “how’s your new whiskey-drinking norm with everything?”

  “Everything how?” Regretted asking as the words passed my lips.

  “He’s cool with you being all you can be?” Meaningful look, which I purposely misunderstood. “Your variable existence?” I still played dumb. “Girlie, come on, you know what I’m talking about. Does new guy know you go furry? Or is he into that?”

  “You’re such an ass,” I said. “Fine. No, he doesn’t know. And I doubt he’ll be around long enough to find out. He came back to offer me a freelance gig, nothing more. Happy?”

  A long moment as Gus watched my face, the sudden hunch of my shoulders and the clenching of my fists.

  “Are you?” His question was mild, but the emotion squeezing my chest, the surprise of tears shining in my eyes was anything but.

  “I don’t know,” I said. How’s that for spontaneous honesty? “New guy and I have history, and the end was not good. But whatever. Maybe things will be different this time around.” Gus was silent. Couldn’t read his face. “Or they’ll be the same and he’ll flake off again without saying goodbye.”

  “Harsh,” Gus said. “He did that to you and you’re even considering giving him another chance?” Shook his head. “If you want to be treated like shit, get Sandor to let me pick up the next contract that puts a price on your head. We could have a bit of fun together first.”

  I stared at him. Ice of the cold and disgusted kind now.

  “No? Then have enough self-respect to kick this guy curbside before he worms his way in again and stabs you in the back.”

  “Do you know something?”

  “Nah,” Gus said, settling into the couch cushions once more. “But come on. You’re smart.” I opened my mouth to say something, shut it again with a snap. “Be smart.”

  “I need a shower,” I said, getting up—and changing the subject. Getting advice from a demon who wasn’t Sandor? The world was a weird and wacky place.

  Gus wrinkled his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “You do.”

  * * *

  A quiet knock on the door before I was able to make it into the shower. So close. I inhaled deeply at the crack until I recognized the scent, then slid the barrier open.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I came to check on you,” Sam said. His nostrils flared, picking up on the mixture of scents embedded in my dried sweat, still tacky against my skin. Sam licked his lips, the aromas of bacon and sausage and eggs hinting at my recent breakfast; then, hesitating, as he caught a whiff of underlying Kensington Market and Owain.

  “How was your night?” Pretending not to care about the smell of a new man on me, even though the clenching of his jaw suggested otherwise.

  “Worked. Went to a gallery opening. Got jumped by tentacle guys in the Market. Good times.” I kept my voice light as he passed me in the entranceway. Hoping that by not stirring the air currents much I could also avoid any awkward questions.

  “You saw Jon?”

  Even though it was clear I hadn’t; I shook my head.

  “Who then?”

  “Owain. You know, the guy from the Agency.” I hesitated, then barreled forward. “Unfinished business.”

  “Your ex,” Sam said.

  I nodded.

  “Unfinished business?”

  “He’s trying to convince me to come and work with the Agency again, remember?” I left out the part where there was kissing.

  Sam nodded; I got the sense it was a topic he’d circle back to. Then I guess he processed the pertinent details of the rest of my evening. “Wait, you got jumped?”

  “Squid D’Lee and some backup muscle,” I said. “He wanted a status update on my supposed search for the big blue blob crashing on my couch.”

  “I heard that,” Gus grunted from said couch.

  “D’Lee should have called first,” I continued, leaning up against the wall outside my bathroom. “We were startled, and Owain didn’t know I knew them, so he kind of overreacted. Beheaded one of them.”

  Sam started laughing. Oh sure—it was so funny when we pissed off the cadre threatening me with amputation. Why not. I crossed my arms over my chest, accidentally shifting the towel’s coverage; suddenly I was flashing a lot more leg than before. Sam’s hey how are you smile went somewhere deeper, darker.

  “Where were you off to before I got here?” Like it wasn’t obvious.

  “Just the shower.” I tossed him a grin, arching my back for full effect. “Feeling helpful?”

  Sam’s grin widened, all thoughts of Owain gone for the moment, as he leaned his forearms on the wall beside my head and angled in for a kiss. Oh.

  “I can be very helpful,” he whispered in my ear. And then, his tongue along my neck, trailing lower along the exposed skin of my shoulder.

  Clearly Sam had forgotten the big blue elephant in the room.

  “Don’t mind me,” said Gus, who apparently did want to be minded. Sam stiffened. “I’m always happy for a good show.”

  Sam growled and swiveled his head to stare at Gus, a cross between back off and I’d like to see you try it.

  The demon smirked and raised his hands. “OK OK,” Gus said. “I’ll just head out for a bit, see if I can find a hot dog cart to eat.” He edged towards the door, keeping all three of his eyes on Sam, before he ducked through the still-open entranceway and closed the door behind him.

  I got the water going as Sam made sure the front door was locked.

  Turned around again to see he had peeled off his shirt and was working on unbuttoning his pants. He didn’t join me in the shower though. Maybe he was waiting for a direct invitation?

  “I’m dirty,” I said, dropping my towel and waggling my eyebrows. “I’ve got a lot of last night to wash off.” I turned to step into the shower and then, oh whoops, my washcloth fell. I’d better bend over to pick that up.

  Behind me, Sam chuckled.

  “You go ahead,” he said. But when I went to pull the curtain closed, he said: “No, leave it open. I want to make sure you don’t miss any spots.”

  This was new. I tried not to feel awkward as I sprayed water on myself. Gliding the soap over my skin, lathering up my hair, before turning my back into the spray again to rinse off. Sam hadn’t said a word, and I couldn’t open my eyes at this point until I was sure there was no residue left to sting.

  I turned off the water and reached for my towel.

  “Wait,” Sam said. So close that his heat along my spine made me shiver. Naked himself now. “You missed a spot.” He turned the water on again, tugging at the towel in my hand until I released it.

  Sam lifted the nozzle and ran the droplets across my back until I was slick with liquid before placing it back in its cradle. And then he was behind me in the shower, pressing me against the steamy tiles. His hands snaking up to cup my breasts before sliding lower. Those fingers. That mouth on my neck, my shoulder.

  I spun around, reclaiming myself; my own fingers making use of the running water to create a little friction of my own. Sinking to a crouch as Sam moaned above me. Yes. I thought maybe he couldn’t last, his eyes closed and his breathing shallow, until he pulled me up again.

  More.

  Sam reached back and turned off the water, stepping out of the tub and extending his hand to pull me out with him. I watched as he moved, tracking him, until our hands touched and I was out of the tub and against him. Precarious balance. The rug beneath my foot slid and I slid with it, towards Sam, his back against the door and my chest pressed against his.

  I wanted...

  “Sit,” I said, my palms on his shoulders and pushing down. Kissing his ankles, the inside
of his knees, moving higher. I paused to reach into the cabinet under my sink for the box of emergency condoms I was pretty sure I’d left there. My hand touching air. No! Come on.

  “Wait.” Sam leaned to the side, finding his pants and reaching in for his wallet. The ultimate in-case-of-emergency-break-glass supplies. He must have been a Boy Scout because he came prepared.

  He got distracted on his way back. There may have been bite marks. On my stomach now, as Sam kissed his way along my spine. Yes. There. I could feel where he touched but didn’t know what he was going to do next before he did it. Until I heard the telltale crinkle of the condom wrapper.

  “I like it when it’s just us,” he whispered in my ear. And then the weight of him was against me, pressing down, pinning me with his body as he kissed the back of my neck and wrapped his arms around me.

  And then I knew exactly where he was.

  * * *

  “So tell me more about this ex.”

  We’d showered again, dried off, and were leaning over the kitchen counter drinking coffee. Sam had done the honors while I got dressed.

  “What about him?” My eyes narrowed at the unspoken undercurrent. Guess Sam had decided now was a good time to revisit the topic from earlier. “Is there something specific you want to ask me?”

  “Why’d you split up?”

  Great. The can of worms I wanted to re-open and maybe spread on toast with some Marmite. Because why not.

  “We split up. He left.” Hoping Sam would leave it at that. The silence stretched, longer, until I finally caved and filled it. “He left the country. Chose an assignment back home in Ireland over staying with me.”

  “Was it serious between you guys?”

  I nodded, swallowing down the lump in my throat. “Yeah,” I said. “We lived together, worked together. Met each other’s families. The subject of marriage and kids and a picket fence in white came up. So yeah, it was serious.” I took a long gulp of coffee, the taste of bitterness and tears on my tongue. “And then it was done.”

  “Do you trust him now? Would he have your back?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not. He did last night when we got attacked. Why?”

  “OK,” Sam said. “Hear me out on this. Ezra Gerbrecht has close ties with the Agency, right?” I nodded. “And so did your father.” I nodded again. “Wouldn’t it be easier to find out what’s going on over there from the inside?”

  “Unless they figure out I’m not what I used to be and they decide to turn me into a pin cushion, or pump me full of poison, or find some other way to make the rest of my life a living hell.” You know, like those nightmares I still had. Sweat beading on my upper lip as I clenched my fingers into fists that drove nails into claws into the soft and fleshy part of my palm.

  I jumped up and started pacing. Big cat, small cage. Sam watched as I stalked from one end of the room to the other, then back again. Waiting for me to wind myself down. Finally pulling me down into his lap and wrapping his arms around me when I didn’t. Kissing the side of my head and stroking my hair, soothing, before he continued.

  “How closely would you have to work with this guy?”

  “Who? Ezra?” I twitched in his arms. “Hopefully as little as possible.”

  “No,” Sam said. “Your ex. Owain.”

  “Um,” I said. “Closely maybe? With him bringing me the offer, he might be positioning himself as my handler.”

  Sam tensed beneath me and I pushed myself back to look at his face. Waited for him to meet my eyes.

  “Is that going to be a problem?”

  “Depends,” Sam said. “Does he still have feelings for you?”

  I laughed, short and sharp in the octave of hurt major. “No idea,” I said. “Does it matter?”

  Sam didn’t answer, not directly. Instead: “Do you have feelings for him?”

  Right. Sam didn’t like to share, and Jon was already pushing the upper limit of his willingness. Even though I didn’t ask Sam who else he was sleeping with. Even though there were no numeric limits on our arrangement.

  Yup. And the view from where my head was lodged firmly in my ass was great too.

  But I couldn’t lie. I respected Sam too much for that.

  “Maybe,” I said. Even though I knew it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Even as the muscle that jumped in his cheek as he clenched his jaw against my words said plenty.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Anyone home?”

  I knew there was—I’d seen my mother’s car in the driveway—but I figured it was only polite to call out when entering someone else’s home using a key. Maybe she was busy. Or had a friend over. Or had been abducted by creatures with tentacles who walked on dry land. Or...

  “Dana!” Mum was fully dressed and holding garden shears. She put them down on the kitchen counter before wrapping me in a solid squeeze.

  “Hungry?” Once she let me go, I motioned to the bag of food waiting for inspection.

  A dozen Gryfe’s bagels, a tub of Western Creamery cream cheese, and a package of Kristapson’s smoked salmon (the good stuff). Oh and did I mention those cheese blintzes from Harbord Bakery? With the sour cream?

  “I could eat,” she said, her smile almost as wide as it had been when she saw me. “That’s a lot of food. Are we expecting anyone else?”

  I surveyed the pile of ingestible comfort in front of me. She wasn’t wrong. “Leftovers?”

  “My freezer thanks you,” Mum said.

  * * *

  “Are you OK?”

  We’d done the small talk, caught up on family gossip, and now Mum was watching me absently shred what was left of my second bagel into a series of tiny crumb piles.

  “Owain,” I said. “He’s back. And he brought an offer from the Agency with him.”

  * * *

  I couldn’t tell Mum about the offer details because I didn’t know what they were. I hadn’t read it yet. The decision wasn’t whether or not I agreed with the terms, not really; it was about me, and the Agency, and was I ready to go there. Could I live with myself if I did.

  Owain had suggested working my way back up to classified-information-accessing levels. He didn’t explicitly say he’d help me find out what happened to my father, but there was the definite suggestion he might be able to nudge me in a useful direction.

  What was the value of knowledge? Was the potential to up-end buried history worth the risks? Could he be trusted, especially after all this time?

  Mum remembered Owain. The parts I’d told her; her curiosity about the bits I’d left out. Owain was the kind of grand passion that spawns emo poetry and maudlin drinking songs. I still remembered the way he’d watch me across the flickering candlelight at the pub where we’d share a pint, one of our traditions after a run well done. A little something to ease the adrenaline hangovers.

  Owain and Mum had met. We’d been together long enough for that; days and nights and plans made and futures discussed. But then he got an offer he wanted more than me.

  I probably should have gone with Owain when he asked, but that was then and I’d had reasons not to go. Ezra. He’d given me a big promotion and put me in charge of a project I couldn’t turn down. Kind of like the overseas offer he made Owain.

  Owain’s new job would take him back to Dublin, where his family was, then to Germany and Switzerland and beyond. It was danger and adventure and everything I knew Owain had been craving. Maybe if I’d been a different person, I would have been willing to put his career ahead of mine. Maybe if he’d been a different person, he would have prioritized my career over his. In either revisionist history scenario, there was a chance we’d still be together. I might still be normal. Maybe...

  “Playing the what if game is pointless,” Mum said, reading the expressions on my face. “Coulda woulda shoulda�
��you’ll drive yourself crazy.”

  “I know,” I replied. “But what if I chose wrong?”

  “What if he did? What if there were things at play that made those so-called decisions inevitable?

  I stared at my mother. Could she be right?

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I don’t know anything,” Mum said. “But think about it. The Agency. So many fingers and pies. Look at what your father did. Ezra Gerbrecht. Two men among many who were supposed to protect you.”

  I leaned back in my chair, appetite gone, staring at my wisdom-spouting mother.

  “You have no way of knowing whether the decisions you made back then were your own or whether you were manipulated into believing they were. Once you accept that as a possibility, then you have to extend that same benefit of the doubt to Owain. You both served the same masters.”

  “Holy shit,” I said.

  “Indeed,” Mum replied. “Of course, Owain stayed with the Agency all these years. You didn’t. It changes a person. I’ve seen it.”

  My father. Who’d lied to the woman he was supposed to love. The man who’d altered my blood in an Agency lab, and inked a target on my back.

  Well. Can’t say my father never gave me anything.

  * * *

  He’d also given me a secret room. Yes, my father had somehow created an area above my old bedroom that defied the dimensions of time, space and square footage.

  I’d stumbled on it a few months ago, and I’d been trying to follow the breadcrumb clues he’d left me ever since.

  Blood—my blood—was the way to get there. Didn’t want to think too closely how he’d managed to do that. Instead I climbed onto the ballerina-pink sateen chair in the middle of my childhood closet, pricked my thumb with my earring—ow! —and tried to think of England while scattering three drops of blood onto the wooden frame above me.

  “Good luck,” Mum said from below. I’d forgotten she was there. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  Me too.

  * * *

  I wanted to spend some time exploring the maps in the flat file drawers but my mind kept wandering.