Mark of the Moon

by Beth Dranoff

  I reached up once more to that same spot, fiddling with the crispy paper to see if any further hidden treasures lurked. Nope. Behind the paper was the wall, and nothing seemed particularly different about that. Paper, wooden slat, grooved seam between slat and wall. A nail. And, oh, ow!

  For the second time in as many hours, I was sucking on a part of me as it bled, nicked by something unexpectedly serrated. At this rate I was going to need a tetanus booster.

  I was feeling a bit lazy at this point what with the tiredness and bad waking dreams and not sleeping. Maybe I didn’t staunch the blood as thoroughly as I could have. Perhaps a bandage would have been advisable.

  Either way, when I reached up to put the shriveled joint back where I’d found it, I left a smear of blood on the paper. I could smell it, and the taste echoed from my tongue to my nose in a bouquet of coppery dust.

  Blood singing to blood. Something calling me. There was light streaking from the tips of my fingers as I waved them in front of my eyes.

  Psychedelic. And I wasn’t even stoned.

  From inside the closet there was a glow—golden, warm, like the sun so ready to rise just beyond the horizon of my window. It was getting stronger and brighter, but with no light source I could see.

  I was cautious. After the last few days, I understood anything could happen. Still better to know, I hoped, than to shut the door and back away, always wondering about the glow monster in the closet.

  I took a step forward. No good—too far away to see anything yet. Another step. Heart thudding in my chest. I raised my hand, held it forward, reaching out to touch or maybe ward off whatever it was in that closet.

  Three drops of my blood pointed the way to the neatly labeled and stacked, glowing abyss.

  I followed the trail, feeling very much like Dorothy on the yellow brick road, hoping I didn’t come across anyone’s heart, head or some other appendage that might pass for courage along the way.

  Another step and I was inside, looking up, where the light outlined the square window-sized, board-covered pathway to the attic. Huh.

  The pink sateen throwback to another life became my ladder yet again. I balanced and then reached up to gently push open the aperture.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The first thing I felt were crumbled bits of what I hoped were non-asbestos-based insulation—as opposed to dried squirrel excrement or some other form of potentially noxious droppings. Whatever it was crumbled to the touch, dry powder with a sticky resin tightening the skin on my fingertips. Reminded me of the glue we used in grade school—the kind that went on white and was all kinds of fun to peel off afterwards.

  I resisted the urge to peel, but just barely.

  Instead, using the boxes to wedge my feet with each wobbling step, I pushed and pulled myself up and through the hold. Nothing fell as I passed. Bonus marks for stealth.

  The space was filled with books. White wisps of clouds drifted lazily across the early morning sky, so blue, passing in and out of view from several skylights placed at seemingly random intervals. The rafters were lined and sealed and lined again between the blue—no wonder I never remembered our roof leaking as I was growing up.

  Light drifted in from a window on the far side, overlooking the front door of the house. Except I’d never noticed a window from the attic. Or an attic of this size. Or, really, any attic at all beyond a slight incline of roof over the top of the bathroom and bedrooms. Not that I spent much time thinking about it when I lived at home, but a whole extra floor was something you’d think I’d have noticed. Right?

  I turned around, slowly, to make sure I was seeing everything I needed to see here. Books. Windows. Okay...

  So where was that glow coming from?

  Although the room was filled with a thin light, blue and yellow on dust, my eye tracked to the call of a different light source: the pulsating heartbeat of gold, there, towards the back. A cardboard box marked simply: “Books and other miscellanea.” Wedged up high, on top of a stack of other boxes on top of a bookcase that couldn’t possibly, logically, exist.

  And yet. My father’s handwriting. There, on the outside.

  I reached for it but couldn’t. My hands touched air. Even though when I took a step back, I could see it.

  After a few abortive attempts, I paused. Sank back onto my haunches in a deep squat—my old yoga teacher would be proud—and looked for clues, neon arrows saying “go here,” anything that might be useful. I even muttered abracadabra with a general waving of my arms in a vaguely (so I thought) Merlinesque sort of way. Nada.

  Frustrated, I started absently flicking the tips of my fingers back and forth as I reviewed the facts. Flick. I was in a place that shouldn’t exist. Flick. Something kept glowing at me, trying to get my attention, but wouldn’t let me near it. Flick. Appearances could be deceiving. Flick. What was the deal with the Ezra skin and—flick—what was the connection between Ezra and my father? Did Ezra have anything to do with his death—flick flick—or, in light of my recently weird conversations with Ezra, should I be saying “disappearance” instead?

  This time my flick pushed something loose in the well-seasoned floorboards as a finely pointed chunklet of said floor was now embedded in my index finger.

  I groaned frustration. Sure, it was a fluke, but it still felt like the room had given me the finger.

  A quick pluck between two surprisingly sharp fingernails and the offending wooden bit was out. I held it between my thumb and forefinger in the unnatural light, strangely fascinated by the drop of blood glistening as it hung, balanced, on the tip. The dust around me chose that moment to go up my nose for a tickle and I sneezed, blood drops scattering.

  It was the third time I’d bled in as many hours. What next—torture by paper cut? I sighed. But what the hell. One more try and then I was done. Really.

  I reached up towards the glow. This time, I closed my eyes and felt rather than looked for its source. My index finger stung a bit where the dust had gotten into my wound, but the potential success dancing ever closer to my reach kept me going.

  There.

  I grabbed the box with both hands and pulled it down before it had a chance to change its mind.

  Lifting the lid displaced a cloud of dust that had me sneezing seven times in succession. My imagination, or did things get even brighter?

  But it was all worth it when I saw the note—a stack of lined papers actually—with the words “Dear Dana” at the top in the unmistakable penmanship of my father. I sank to the floor and started reading.

  Dear Dana,

  I wish we’d been able to have this conversation in person. Unfortunately, you’re probably reading this because I’m not here to tell you myself.

  You have very special blood. Protect it. There will be people who want to get close to you in order to make use of you for that blood. Trust only with care.

  You are descended on my side from a powerful genetic line. We can take matter—ours or those of others—and mutate it. As a result of that ability, we can strengthen the power of any group.

  Don’t mix blood with anyone. If another supernatural entity’s blood comes into contact with yours, yours could adapt to absorb some of its properties. It won’t kill you—probably—but it could make your life very confusing.

  No kidding, I thought to myself.

  This isn’t my only letter for you. But it’s enough for now.

  If you want to come back to this place, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, you’ll need to spill blood thrice. Seven sneezes pays the price.

  Love always,

  Dad

  I re-read the letter twice, making sure I’d gotten it all, that I hadn’t missed some pertinent detail in the blur of tears I kept swiping at with the back of my hand. I probably looked like a raccoon with all the grit I was smearing on m
y face but I just couldn’t make myself care.

  I tucked the sheaf of papers into the waistband of my drawstring/elastic combo pajama bottoms.

  Focus.

  I stood in front of the ever-expanding bookcase of serendipitous surprises and wondered, knowing that answers to the mystery of why Ezra and Cybele (a.k.a. Alina) and maybe even a handful of vengeful others wanted me was probably there. All I had to do was figure out what I was looking at and what it all meant.

  * * *

  Soon the three of us stood there—Mum, Lynna and myself—and stared at that bookcase in the room which should not exist.

  “I had no idea,” my mother said, her eyes tracing the edges of the room.

  “Don’t look at me,” said Lynna. “I spent lots of time in your closet, but it’s not like I ever saw anything weird.”

  “So Dad never said anything about this? No hints or clues?” I couldn’t help prodding, even as my mother winced at the reminder her long-dead husband was capable of keeping such a huge secret under the roof they’d shared.

  Mum shook her head.

  No words.

  Lynna looked back and forth between us.

  “You’d better tell her,” Lynna said.

  * * *

  I left out the part about what I’d been doing when I got scratched and who I’d been doing it with.

  But my mother isn’t stupid.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Mum glanced at Lynna, who looked down and away.

  “A lot,” I admitted.

  My mother looked around until she found a dust-covered, burnt-yellow crushed velvet easy chair, and sat. She reclined back, pretending this was all normal. As if.

  “Tell me,” she said. “And this time, please fill in those blanks you think the person who gave birth to you wouldn’t want to hear.”

  So I did.

  And in return, my mother told me about my father, what he had shared with her about his research.

  “If Dad had been tampering with his own blood,” I said, “wouldn’t that have passed on through him to me? He was with the Agency before you got married, wasn’t he?”

  “He was a junior scientist back then,” she acknowledged. “But I can’t believe he would have put either of us at risk that way.”

  “We don’t know he did,” Lynna said. “Not on purpose anyway. All we’ve got is that he worked for the same super-secret government group Dana did. We know he prepared this secret room for her.”

  “And we know he didn’t tell me anything about it,” Mum said.

  I reached over to give my mother a hug. Whichever ring of hell she was currently circling, I was pretty sure it sucked.

  “Oh, Danyankele,” she said, kissing the back of my hand.

  The floor shook and the bookcases rattled against the walls. I stared.

  “Ma, say that again.”

  “What? Danyankele?”

  The cases, walls and floor shook again.

  “One more time?”

  “Danyankele.”

  The panes of glass in the windows chattered like teeth. The bookcases rocked from side to side, edging farther and farther apart until I was looking at a large wall filled with notations and drawings. Its dimensions defied the confines of the house, never mind the attic space that should not be.

  There was a series of circles and lines, drawn and joined, in a pattern that reminded me of an air hockey table. Oblong for sure. A circle at the top and a circle at the bottom, with several pairs of circles stacked atop each other. Familiar, but from where?

  I took a picture with my phone. Then did an image search for anything that might match it. Had to stand near the window to get more than a single bar of reception, but the results finally started to load.

  Not that the results made me any less confused.

  There were the etchings of da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man side by side with the garish reds, oranges and more muted blues of a tarot card spread. Maps of constellations, drawings of chakras, and a recurring image of the yogic Kundalini snake. Also hopscotch, although I doubted a children’s game had anything to do with it.

  Neither Mum nor Lynna were any help either, although the pattern felt familiar to them too.

  Too bad Dad hadn’t included a cryptic-to-real-life translator.

  * * *

  “Keep me posted.” Mum kissed my cheek once I’d gathered up my stuff to go and gave me a hug that seemed to go on for ages but didn’t last long enough.

  “I’ll meet up with you in a few hours,” Lynna said. “At the house.”

  Anshell’s, of course.

  I nodded to them both and left with a mystery for another day. One I’d hopefully live long enough to see.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  On my way, I stopped by the supe hospital to check on Sandor.

  He looked so frail, if that was possible, his normal shade of vibrant green paling out into an unhealthy blue sheen. Even his snout had lost the edges of its definition, softened and flaccid, almost blurry.

  I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Still a bit smudged.

  Another blink and everything came into focus.

  My boss was lying on his back, looking more blue than green. His IV drip had a bluish tinge to it as well, and tiny multi-faceted crystals seemed to twinkle as they shifted around in the bag.

  Sandor was talking in his sleep. I couldn’t bring myself to wake him.

  “Gustav, no,” Sandor mumbled. “No! Don’t go. It doesn’t have to be like that.” He muttered a few words I couldn’t make out. Something about tomato sauce, popcorn and breaded eyeballs.

  “Dana!”

  “I’m right here,” I said.

  The sound of my voice nudged Sandor’s somnolence. He opened his eyes, all of them, and blinked rapidly before realizing I was there beside the bed and not part of an argument in his head with someone named Gustav.

  “Dana,” he repeated, but this time he knew he was talking to me.

  “Hey,” I said, smiling my relief at seeing Sandor alive and awake. Reached over to squeeze his hand, then let go, remembering with a belated whoops that maybe our relationship wasn’t the touchy feely kind.

  “Hey yourself,” Sandor replied, ignoring the awkward moment. He didn’t seem unhappy to see me, not exactly, but he was doing this nervous scratching at something behind his ear that flicked flecks of skin and several bright and shiny somethings onto the bed as though he couldn’t stop himself.

  “Sand? Everything okay?” The hell with status quo PDA. I touched his forearm to focus his attention, make him stop.

  Sandor stared at my hand, then at his own. Realizing what he was doing. I pulled mine back and he slid his under the top sheet; whether for protection or distance I couldn’t tell.

  “Sand, who was that guy you met with before you got frozen? Janey said she saw you.”

  “My brother,” he replied.

  “You’ve never mentioned a brother,” I said. “What’s his name?”

  “Gustav.” Sandor met my eyes this time, a brief glance, before looking away again. As though he didn’t want to see what my reciprocal gaze might say. “Gus.”

  “Gus.” Okay, so Sandor had a brother and his name was Gus. And? Sandor raised his eyebrows and waited for me to make the connection. Ahhh crap. “Gus? As in Lazzuri? The blue fucker who tried to end me?” I stared at my boss, my friend, the one I’d trusted as a norm in the midst of other.

  Sandor nodded and started picking at some invisible thread, under his claws this time. Or maybe the plan was to pull one out. Either way, his silence was just as well given that I was now sitting there with my mouth hanging down to my knees.

  I forced myself to breathe and looked, actually looked, around the room and at Sandor. The bluish ting
e to his skin. The crystals in his IV drip.

  Psycho nurse Gwen swept into the room as I was rearranging the scattered blocks of my previously held worldview. The one in which life made sense, Sandor was my friend, and nobody ever tried to kill me. Yeah. That one.

  “So, how is our patient today?” Her hair was tied back so tight it seemed to yank her chipper smile into a rictus grin.

  “Fine,” he said, watching me. What was the correct response when asked such a rhetorical question by a mentally unstable nurse with access to hypodermic needles filled with liquid that could take down a large, human-sized cat?

  “Fine,” I echoed automatically. Because I was, or would be, and either way this woman freaked me the hell out.

  Gwen shook her head at me indulgently, as though she could read my thoughts and found me to be an amusing child.

  The way the last week or two had been going, maybe Gwen could read my mind. She raised an eyebrow at me then and smiled a wide, toothy, very un-nurse-like grin and winked.

  I blinked.

  When I reopened my eyes, all was as it had been moments before, with Gwen hovering over Sandor and checking on his various attachments.

  Huh.

  “Explain it to me,” I said, after Gwen left again.

  “I tried to talk him out taking the contract,” said Sandor. “I told him about you. How you were under my protection. That we were friends.”

  “And yet...?”

  “He’s family,” Sandor said. “Blood. I can’t make him do anything. But I thought I’d convinced him to take a pass.”

  “It never occurred to you to, oh I don’t know, warn me there was a contract out on me?”

  “Didn’t get the chance,” he pointed out. “Frost attack. Then you were snatched.”

  Maybe he was being reasonable. But I didn’t care. Sandor had found out his brother the assassin was planning to kill me—and hadn’t given me the heads up I needed to avoid the whole thing.

  I could tell Sandor wanted things to be okay between us. Like before. I nodded and smiled but my thoughts were anything but okay.