Blood

by Francine Pascal

  Quietly Gaia sat there, her breathing shallow, her eyes wide and unreadable as she scanned the room, not looking at him. Ed felt his fists clench in frustration.

  How freaking typical. In the four months he had known Gaia, he had seen her furious, violent, shy, antisocial, rude, sensitive, generous, forgiving, and reckless. He didn’t think he had ever seen her truly happy, and he knew he had never seen her weak. Why was he expecting something different now, just because her other best friend had been murdered in front of her only three days ago?

  Abruptly Ed pushed his lunch tray away. What was this stuff-to-do-at-home shit? Gaia didn’t consider the Nivens’ house her home. She’d never referred to it that way before. Also, if memory served, and Ed thought it did, then Gaia was usually desperate to get out of the Nivens’, and stay out, for as many hours of the day as possible.

  Light dawned, and Ed suddenly softened. He leaned across the table, his eyes narrowing. “Who are you, and what have you done with the real Gaia?”

  It was an old joke, an ancient joke, but still chuckle worthy, in Ed’s opinion.

  Instead Gaia looked suddenly, inexpressibly sad. It was only for a moment, but sadness washed over Gaia’s face as if she had stepped in front of a tall building that blocked her face from the sun. Then it was gone. Her face twitched back into its beautiful, expressionless mask. “There is no real Gaia,” she said softly.

  It’s Almost Funny

  GAIA STEPPED OFF THE NUMBER-SIX local on Eighty-sixth Street and started walking west. The January cold whistled down the wind tunnels made by buildings on either side of her. It whipped her hair around beneath the sweatshirt hood that stuck up from beneath her ski jacket.

  It hadn’t been easy, ditching Ed. First he’d asked her to come over to his place. Then he had suggested eating together, or catching a movie, or going for coffee. Was he ever going to get off her back?

  Now, reaching Fifth Avenue, Gaia turned left, then crossed the wide street, heading for the huge columns of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Here was the plan: first, an hour of culture, then a bowl of potato-leek soup from the soup Nazi, then a couple of hours downtown in and around Washington Square Park and Tompkins Square Park, enjoying the lovely January weather and looking for her good old pal Skizz under cover of darkness.

  Gaia shivered in anticipation. Never once had she considered using her unique strengths to take another person’s life. Now she could think of nothing else.

  A mental movie had been running through Gaia’s head constantly since the day after Mary’s death. The scenes often changed, but the theme was always the same—Skizz lying at her feet; Skizz, dangling limp and silent as her hands clasped his neck; Skizz dead, done, gone forever.

  Gaia now rubbed her eyes to clear the image as she climbed the steps to the Met. She knew part of her, a huge part of her, didn’t want to kill Skizz at all. Somewhere deep down, a voice raged at the pure wrongness of it. How could she take a life? What would her father think? But then, she reminded herself, what did she care about what he thought?

  But Skizz needed to die. And Gaia was past caring about right or wrong. Was it right that Mary would be lying underground in a matter of days?

  No. It was time that Gaia forgot about her silly ideals. The plan was simple—kill Skizz, get the hell out of here, and begin a new life somewhere. Somewhere where no one would know her.

  When Gaia walked through the huge, heavy bronze doors of the museum, a strong, heated blast of air whooshed down on her. It instantly dried the snowflakes clinging to her hair. Inside, it was stuffy, overheated, and dry. Gaia shrugged out of the puffy ski jacket and tied its floppy arms around her waist. She snagged a map from the info desk and made her way to a bank of elevators.

  An elevator, a couple of long halls, and a wide stairway later, she found herself in a series of rooms devoted to German expressionists. As Gaia wandered over in front of a Nolde painting, she had a flashback of her mother, Katia. Katia had taught Gaia how to look at art, how to love it, how to let it get inside her. She sank down on a bare wooden bench.

  This painting was called Three Russians, and it showed two men and a woman all bundled up, as if perhaps they had just strolled down a New York street in the middle of January. The brush strokes were coarse and broad; the paint clung thickly, stickily to the canvas in crusty swaths. Three Russians. All dressed in fur. They had long, thin noses, high cheekbones …

  Katia Moore had been Russian. She had spoken with rolling rs and worn clothes she had brought from Europe. She had often had long conversations with Gaia in her native tongue, and for years Gaia had thought of it as their own secret language. Katia had been so unlike other kids’ mothers. Gaia’s whole family had been so unlike everyone else’s. Which was why she was here now, seventeen years old, a genetic freak made much worse by her father’s intensive, relentless training. Training that had ended as abruptly as her mother’s life, and on the same night. Five years ago.

  Gaia’s breath lightly left her lungs as she felt herself sink onto the hard bench. It was so hot in here, so dry.

  I’m a freak, thought Gaia. Genetically incapable of feeling fear. Why? she screamed silently. Why had she been made like this? As a child, when she realized, she knew that she simply never felt fear, it hadn’t been a big deal. Lots of kids had seemed reckless and fearless—like that day she and four of her friends climbed up to the roof of the Rosenblitts’ shed, jumped from there to the roof of the Stapletons’ garage, then crossed over to the other side and leaped seven feet down into a pile of compost. Paratroopers! Okay, it had been disgusting, landing in all the fruit rinds and eggshells, but it hadn’t been scary. Not for any of them. It had been fun.

  But now, at seventeen, never feeling fear had become a weight around her neck. It had made her friends a target on more than one occasion. It had gotten Mary killed. But it would also make it possible for her to kill Mary’s killer, with nothing to hold her back.

  Standing up, Gaia realized she was hungry. Maybe it was time to hit the soup wagon. She took one last quick look around the German expressionists. Gotta hand it to them—they were masters at depicting all the agonies of the human condition. Thwarted love, psychic torture, the sheer pain of existence all laid out for the viewer in bright, jewel-like colors. All these paintings of anguish. It was almost funny. Gaia hiked up her messenger bag, turned, and left the Three Russians behind.

  Nothing of Katia

  TOM MOORE STOOD IN THE SHADOWS near the door of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. George was right. In the past five years Tom had seen Gaia only a handful of times, and always at a distance. It was simply too dangerous for them to meet face-to-face. It had always seemed like the best thing to do, for Gaia’s safety. Now Tom was wondering if he had inadvertently destroyed Gaia in a way that was more devastating than just a physical death. He was wondering if he had destroyed her soul.

  The night Katia had died, Tom’s only thought was to save his and Katia’s child. So he had left, and used his CIA connections to arrange for Gaia to be sent away, to keep changing addresses, to keep on the move. He’d thought he was protecting her. Now it looked like he was setting her up to become emotionally warped, unable to respond to another human being. Stunted. For all of her many and amazing talents, strengths, and resources, his beautiful daughter seemed unable to honestly grieve over the death of her closest girlfriend. She seemed unable to reach out to others for help. She seemed unable to express any kind of emotion at all.

  It was appalling, what Gaia was becoming. A month ago Tom had been filled with hope. To the best of his knowledge, Gaia had made some friends, was seeing them, talking, laughing. Now one friend was dead, and Gaia was cutting the other friend out as if he were a tumor. She hadn’t shed one tear.

  Something had to be going on inside Gaia—that much was clear. It just didn’t appear to be the right something. In this new, automatonlike Gaia, Tom could see nothing of Katia’s passion, her fire, her will to live. What he could see was coldness, detachment, an
ger. And what else? Mercilessness. Where was Katia’s gentleness, her generosity, her warmth and affection?

  Maybe Tom didn’t know his daughter at all. He certainly didn’t understand her. A chilling determination was written all over her face—in the set of her jaw, in the distance in her eyes. It reminded him of someone—and in a chilling flash Tom realized that that someone was Loki.

  What was Gaia capable of?

  Tom’s head swirled with indecision—he, who was famous for being able to evaluate a complex situation instantly and unerringly make the correct, the only decision, felt at a loss. He had no idea what to do. It was dangerous for him to appear in her life, to intervene in the situation he had created for her. It would be dangerous for both of them and for his country. But at this moment Tom felt he would risk everything just to be able to approach his daughter, give her a hug, offer her a shoulder to lean on. Steer her away from whatever it was she was planning to do. But how could he, when the very act of contacting her might be enough to get a bullet put through her head?

  Just like Katia.

  LOKI

  How can I express my feelings toward my only brother, my identical twin? I can tell you that I hate him, but the word hate doesn’t really begin to cover the depth of the feeling I have for him. He is light; I am darkness. He is a plodding government worker—I am exquisitely subtle in my work. I have raised what I do to the level of an art. He cannot approach my greatness. Every day that he lives, he taints my own existence. It is clear that he must be destroyed. Only by standing alone can I attain my final destiny.

  I have tried to take his life. It proved to be a mistake that put parts of my life beyond repair. For now, trying again is not an option. But there are other ways to destroy a man besides death.

  Gaia. Katia’s child. She is the perfect revenge. She is the child that should have been mine, would have been mine—will someday be mine. Gaia is poised on the brink of greatness. I can see that now. Before, I thought she had potential. Now, seeing her reactions to this latest test, the death of the girl Mary, I am convinced Gaia is almost ready to break free from her father’s influence. She is showing strength beyond measure. She is unclouded by emotion. She is free of sentimentality. She is ready to be a killer. Gaia will belong to me.

  And when she does, I will twist the knowledge of her betrayal in Tom Moore’s heart like a knife.

  GAIA

  Skizz is lying low. I froze my ass off last night going back and forth between Tompkins Square Park and Washington Square Park, looking for him, but after five hours he still hadn’t shown his ugly face. But I’ll get him. For Mary’s sake.

  Okay, I know it wasn’t actually Skizz who physically killed Mary. The guy I fought in the park that night was someone completely different: someone strong, trained, and lethal. Skizz is a fat, sloppy joke. But I know Skizz hired the guy. I’m not stupid. That guy was probably one of Skizz’s clients who owed him, big time. Mary was his way of repaying his debt. The way I figure, Skizz now owes me his life. God knows the police aren’t going to do anything to make him pay. To them Mary is just another drug addict who got what she deserved.

  After I got back to George’s last night, I couldn’t sleep. I thought about all the ways I could take Skizz apart. Facing him, sideways, from the back. In my mind I heard his shoulder snap as I bent it. I heard the choked scream of pain rip from his throat as I broke his fingers.

  I also thought about Ed. I thought about how I never want to see him again once this thing is over. I don’t want to see the look in his eyes when he realizes that I’ve killed someone. As for me, I’ll probably never look in the mirror again after it’s done and Skizz is dead. But I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how else to make it up to Mary.

  resolutions

  He was a man. A man had balls. He would find the balls to break up with Heather.

  The Nonexcited State

  NOW, WHY DOESN’T STARBUCKS HAVE a concession right here? Sam Moon wondered. He stretched and yawned, his heavyweight rugby shirt riding up to expose smooth skin. The life of the premed student. All work and no play. Actually, last semester Sam’s life had consisted of too much play, too much obsessing about Gaia, and not enough work. Which his grades had demonstrated. Which had prompted a heartfelt man-to-man with Dad. Which had prompted Sam’s starting this semester by working his butt off.

  He looked around the study room he was in. A wide wall of glass closed the room off from the central lobby. The NYU library was ten stories tall, with a huge open vertical space in the middle and floor after floor of books encircling it like a vise. It always made him feel nauseated just looking at it.

  Sam shifted again. How long had he been sitting here, wading through the text and class notes for his human sexuality class? At least three hours. He needed coffee. He needed a Danish. At the beginning of the year someone had turned him on to onion bagels with scallion cream cheese. He’d thought they were incredible. Until the night he’d thrown one up after doing seven tequila shots in Josh Seidman’s dorm room.

  Once you throw something up after seven tequila shots, you never want to eat it again. Fact of life.

  Human sexuality. What a laugh. The course was required for premeds, and he and his pals thought it would be a hoot. Instead it somehow managed to suck every last bit of humor from the subject and turn it into something so dry that sometimes Sam wondered if the team who wrote the textbook had ever, ever gotten it on once in their whole dreary academic lives.

  Thinking about sex made Sam think about Heather. Heather was gorgeous. Heather was willing. Heather was sexy. All his friends envied him. But Sam couldn’t help it: He wanted Gaia. Tall, beautiful Gaia, who didn’t have as much fashion sense in her whole body as Heather had in her pinky. But it didn’t matter. His entire being cried out for Gaia.

  “Moon Man.” One of his suitemates, Mike Suarez, whacked him on the shoulder with a dog-eared copy of Time magazine.

  Sam jumped. “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

  Mike sank down into the chair across from Sam’s. He kept his voice down. “You gonna use your meal card tonight?”

  The question was so random that Sam couldn’t even wrap his mind around it. “Uh …”

  “I’m broke, lost my card, thought if you had other plans for dinner, I could use your meal card tonight.”

  Sam fished out his wallet and threw the meal card to Mike. “Take it.”

  “Whoa, thanks, man. I’m gettin’ a new card soon.” Mike shuffled to his feet, huge, battered sneakers flapping as he left. He needed to replace the duct tape holding them together. All the snow was making it unravel.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Sam said. He stood up, stretched again. God, what day was it? Wednesday? Thursday? Had it been only Sunday night, New Year’s Eve, that he’d finally had a chance with the object of his obsession? And he had run out on her. He had taken one look at her stepmother and realized she was the same woman he’d slept with the night before.

  New Year’s Eve. The new year. Resolutions. He had resolved to get better grades this semester. Had resolved never to eat onion bagels with scallion cream cheese. For that matter, he had resolved never to drink tequila shots with Josh again. Maybe he needed to make some resolutions about his warped love life.

  For one thing, he should break it off with Heather once and for all. They had little fights, they both cooled down, they drifted back together and back into bed again. Then it would start over.

  If he didn’t get the balls to really break up with her soon, she probably never would, either. He wasn’t blind. He knew it was a big prestige thing for her to have a college boyfriend. And she probably cared for him. If he didn’t break up with her, they would just drift along in this lame-ass way, neither of them happy, until finally boom. They’d be standing at the altar, pledging to go through with this sitcom for life. He couldn’t let that happen. He was a man. A man had balls. He would find the balls to break up with Heather.

  Then maybe he could pursue Gaia the wa
y he wanted to: urgently, relentlessly, determinedly. He could wear her down. He knew it. He would overwhelm her with his love. She would soften toward him. Forget his past mistakes. Fall in love with him. And they would be together and stay together. Sam smiled at this image.

  Mindlessly his gaze drifted down to the text page before him. It was almost a full-page, head-on photo titled “A Male’s Reproductive Organs (the Nonexcited State).” Sam stared at it blankly. Oh, right, he thought. Balls.

  Ed Bangs His Head Against the Wall

  “I’LL GO WITH YOU.”

  Gaia’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Ed. She leaned back enough to shut her locker door, then dropped her bag to the floor so she could put on her ski jacket. A few limp, grayish feathers leaked out through its hole and fluttered to the ground.

  “No, thanks,” she said, trying not to sound like a complete bitch and not quite succeeding. “I think I’ll just go do it. Mr. MacGregor’s on my back about this paper, and I need to knock it out. I can’t study on Perry Street—that woman is always on my case about something. A couple of hours at the NYU library ought to do it.” Picking up her bag, she slung it over one shoulder and jerked her hair out from beneath the strap.

  Ed’s wheelchair blocked her way. “What is with you?”

  Forcing her face to remain calm, Gaia said, “What?” She could see the frustration and uncertainty on his face, and she wished it weren’t there. But what could she say to him? I’m sorry, Ed, but I don’t want you to come with me because I will probably get you killed and because I’m going to swing by the park first and if I see Skizz, I plan to kill him, and I don’t want you to know that about me?

  “The way you’re acting.” Ed’s arms made choppy movements in the air as he struggled to express himself. “I mean, I need to talk to you, you know? We lost a good friend. I feel like I need some help here, and I want to help you, too. Last night I reached for the phone twice to call Mary to see what was up, then I realized … Look, this is a hard time for you—for me, too. But you just keep acting like I should go screw myself.”