Bad Blood

by Ren Hamilton

  It was a mad house, this place. The Forest Bluffs Home for Wandering Lunatics. To make matters worse, the brothers, who’d spent weeks stalking him from darkened corners of the city, now viewed him as their buddy. It was so strange. Due to the simple fact that Shep said so, Patrick was now a member of the family. They had transformed him from prey into pal overnight because that was what they were instructed to do. Had they no opinions of their own?

  Patrick supposed he should have been relieved that his undercover performance was going so well, but it was a bit of overkill. The brothers smothered him, treating him like an interesting new toy.

  He heard the blender whirring inside and smiled. He’d finally managed to pry the brothers off of him by introducing them to the wonderful world of frozen chocolate mudslides. He’d shown them how to mix the ingredients together, using the blender to whip the creamy concoction. When they tasted the frozen chocolate drink, you’d have thought Patrick invented the wheel.

  On first try, Margol forgot to put the cover on the blender and frozen mudslide sprayed in an explosion all over the room. The brothers thought this was hilarious and tried to repeat the performance, until Patrick convinced them the results were much more practical if they blended the drinks with the cover on. They’d been at it ever since, giving Patrick the golden opportunity to sneak out for a breath of fresh air.

  The music was still too loud inside, but he could hardly complain about that. He was the one who’d turned it up in order to drown out the sounds of Kelinda and Joey having sex one floor up. He’d come to terms with the fact that Kelinda and Joey had a sexual relationship, but hell, he didn’t need to listen to it.

  The blender whirred again, and he heard the raucous giggling of the brothers as they mixed up yet another batch. Strange creatures. He’d taken a chance and asked Shep earlier in the evening why the brothers acted so weird. “Something happened to them,” was all Shep would say.

  The screen door slid open to his left, and Patrick pressed back into the shadow, fearing it was Allisto or Margol coming to retrieve him. It was Kelinda, and she did not see him sitting there. She was radiant in a sheer black dress with a long strand of black pearls around her neck. He watched her step off the deck and walk into the night, the strange dress flowing behind her like a dark ghost. She did a little dance move, then a spin, before she quickened her stride and headed out toward the fields.

  He watched her drift off into the moonlight, this woman he’d once viewed as his dream girl, the sweet, honest type who would always be faithful. He thought about the extent to which he’d been wrong about people and decided this was not the time or the place to be exploring that particular failure.

  A beam of moonlight shone through Kelinda’s dress as she leapt like a dancer into the woods. Patrick was curious as to where the hell she was going at this time of night half-naked and prancing like some hippie wood nymph. He stood up and looked around, then moved off the deck and followed Kelinda into the woods. He stayed a close distance behind, but not so close that she would hear his footfalls. The moon was so full and bright that it almost appeared to be daylight. White birch trees glowed bright amidst their darker cousins. Patrick caught a glimpse of Kelinda’s pink head as she sprinted toward the open fields.

  He found that he was panting, struggling to keep up with her as she leapt gracefully through the thick woods like an exotic deer. Patrick wondered if Kelinda had always had such stamina, or if he was getting out of shape. The woods gave way to the clearing, and she skipped across the grass, waving her hands in the air as she hummed some indecipherable tune.

  As the woods broke into the open field, Patrick saw the dark red heads of the crops swaying gently in the night air. There were no armed guards at watch now. His nose caught the plants’ burned rubber scent and his spirits lifted as he thought about snatching one of them, here in the cover of the night. The followers’ campfires formed orange dots in the distance, and the moon cast a glow on the fields. Kelinda spun and leapt, laughing as she made her way toward the campfires.

  Coming upon the first section of crops, Patrick dropped to his knees and crawled toward them. He reached out, meaning to snap one of the plants off at the stalk, when a pain shot through his arm, sending him reeling back onto the earth. He stifled a cry and rubbed his tingling arm until the pain let go to a numbing throb. He looked back at the crops and saw a series of metallic boxes thrust into the earth every few yards.

  Some kind of invisible electric fence. Based on the jolt he got it was probably strong enough to put a damn cow down. Sure, Patrick thought, just growing a few extra fields of grain for charity’s sake. No big deal, they just needed armed guards and electric fences to protect it. He’d need to come up with a new plan to get a sample. Lifting himself off the ground, he took off after Kelinda.

  Kelinda’s pink head led him closer to the camps, and he heard the first tinklings of music. It was rhythmic, insistent, tribal sounding. He saw the followers gathered in the center of the open field alongside the rows of crops, where they mingled around a large fire. The music came from a band of six set up before a cluster of tents. The crowd danced to the hypnotic beat, moving like phantoms around the glow of the bonfire. They were having a party of their own. Full carafes of red wine sat out on picnic tables and benches.

  Patrick crouched behind a tractor where he could watch the scene undetected. Kelinda glided into the crowd, turning and swaying seductively in the firelight, her lithe, naked form clearly apparent under the flimsy black dress. The followers became aware of Kelinda’s presence gradually, and hands reached out to touch her as she passed. They did not cling, but simply brushed her arm or stroked her hair, then went back to their dancing.

  It seemed they were accustomed to Kelinda joining their parties. A man took her by the waist and they danced, moving rhythmically, their bodies almost touching, but not quite. Kelinda threw her arms over her head and the man twirled her off to the waiting arms of another man, who danced with her briefly, then passed her along to a woman, who in turn passed her to another man. This went on for a time, Kelinda taking turns dancing with the different followers, until finally she broke off and made her way to the perimeter, where a dozen or so people were chatting in a group. They seemed in awe of Kelinda as she approached.

  Patrick crawled across the ground like a soldier and settled in behind another tractor, five feet from where Kelinda and the others stood. One of the women she was talking to was Brin-Marie, Shep’s little foot soldier with the boyish haircut. Gone was the dutiful soldier routine. She seemed relaxed, and smiled openly, smoking a cigarette.

  “Is he really better, Kelinda?” a young man asked.

  Kelinda smiled. “Oh, he’s better all right,” she said. Two women crowded around her, giggling.

  “You’re killing us,” Brin-Marie said, running a finger along Kelinda’s cheek. “Your face is hot. Did you get it or not?”

  “You tell me.” Kelinda pulled Brin-Marie’s face to hers, kissing her long and deep on the mouth. Patrick was surprised to discover he could still be shocked by something. Kelinda let her loose and Brin-Marie reeled back as though she’d faint. One of the young men caught her. She opened her eyes and smiled at the man, who looked at her expectantly.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “She got it.”

  Brin-Marie’s statement seemed to make the little company happy, as they cheered and hooted. Kelinda skipped over to an empty bench, climbing up onto it. The wind whipped her sheer black dress, and her pink hair glowed in the firelight as she raised her arms and looked down over the crowd. The music stopped and the followers shuffled over, forming a crowd around her. Patrick felt his heart rate escalate.

  “Come!” she shouted. “And let me share his essence!”

  The statement caused a series of tasks to be performed. A portion of the crowd went back to the tables and picked up carafes of wine. They formed a line in front of Kelinda. Another woman stayed behind at one of the tables and
set out dozens of tiny plastic cups.

  A red-haired boy who looked no older than sixteen walked up and handed Kelinda a blade. She took it and made a cut along the tip of her thumb, then held the thumb up for all of them to see. “A drop for each bottle!” she yelled, and the crowd broke into cheers. The wine carriers came forward one at a time, as Kelinda squeezed a drop of her blood into each carafe. Once the blood had been added, they systematically brought each bottle of wine over to the table. The woman who stood behind it stirred each carafe with a straw, then poured a shot sized amount of the red liquid into the little white cups.

  This went on until all cups were filled. Kelinda licked her thumb, then jumped down off the bench to join the crowd. They all pushed forward and took a cup of the wine, immediately tossing it back into their mouths. Patrick watched in amazement as they ran their tongues along the inside of the cups to sop up every last drop. The woman who’d set up the cups finished her shot, then sucked the remaining wine eagerly out of the stirring straw.

  Breaking the eerie silence, the music kicked up again and the insistent drumbeat echoed out into the night, vibrating through Patrick’s body with each rhythmic pulse. The crowd began to dance again, spinning and leaping around the fire as though they were made of air. They thrashed about in seeming ecstasy, turning and flickering, like part of the fire themselves. Patrick risked one last glance at Kelinda, who danced alone under the moon, her arms raised to the sky. Then he crawled like a frightened spider across the ground until he reached the edge of the woods.

  In the shield of the forest, he broke into a sprint, desperate to get as far away from the fields as he could. He tripped over a root once and smacked his head hard on the ground. He did not stop. The pain could wait. He kept running until the woods gave way to Joey’s back yard, then he slowed, making his way carefully back up to the deck.

  He found the house pretty much the way he’d left it. No one seemed to have missed him. Shep was tapping away on his laptop upstairs, and Joey slept like the dead. The brothers, having discovered the agony of an ice-cream headache, had given up their mudslides and were now warming themselves in the Jacuzzi.

  Patrick crept off to his assigned bedroom and locked the door. He lay staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep as he tried to make sense of what he’d just witnessed. Why was Kelinda feeding the followers her blood? What was it with these people and blood? Between Joey, Shep, and now Kelinda, Patrick would never look at a damned papercut the same again.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Hello Aunt Betsy.”

  Betsy peered through the door at Robin, alarm settling on her face. “Oh no. Who’s dead? Is it your mother? It can’t be your mother. I spoke with her this morning.”

  Robin laughed. “Nobody’s dead this time. I just want to talk to you.”

  Betsy’s shoulders dropped. “Oh, thank God. I don’t think I could do another funeral. No offense to your mom.”

  “None taken.”

  Betsy held the door open. “Come on in, honey. Can I get you something? I was about to have some tea.”

  Robin almost gagged after all of the tea she’d had at Father Carbone’s over the past week. “No thanks. I’m fine.” She followed Betsy into her spacious kitchen and took one of the stools that surrounded the island, watching her young aunt as she prepared her tea by the stove. Her crewcut was growing in, and now her yellow hair had become a short pixie.

  Betsy carried her tea to the island and smiled at Robin. She put her tea down, then reached out and touched Robin’s temple. “Well, someone’s life has been eventful lately. Your aura is all lit up like a Christmas tree.”

  Robin shrugged away. “Come on, Betsy. You know I hate it when you do that creepy psychic shit.”

  “Tell me why you’re here then.”

  “I need your help with some of that creepy psychic shit.”

  Betsy laughed. “Hypocrite!”

  “Yes, that I am. I want to show you something.” Robin reached into her bag and pulled out the tattered journal, Shep’s hand-written supplement, ‘The Book of Zirub’. She slid it across the counter. Betsy ran her finger slowly across the cover.

  “My word. This looks interesting. Where did you get it?”

  “I stole it from a priest. He’s going to kill me if I don’t get it back before he notices it missing.”

  “You stole it from a priest?” Betsy looked shocked.

  “Relax, Aunt Betsy. He’s a friend of mine.”

  Betsy raised an eyebrow. “Well, as long as you only steal from your friends. What is this?” She opened the book and scanned a few pages. “These drawings. Very strange.”

  “I think this book might have something to do with Joey,” Robin said. “Oh, and, um, Shepherd.”

  Betsy flinched at the mention of Shep’s name. She looked down at the book like it was a filthy thing, then back up at Robin.

  “I need your help, Betsy. I think Joey is in trouble.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m certain he is.”

  “You knew?”

  “I don’t know all the details, but I know Joey isn’t Joey anymore.”

  “Then you have to help. I want you to look at this book. I think Shep did something to Joey, something involving his blood. You know about this stuff.”

  Betsy pointed a finger in Robin’s face. “What is he? Shepherd. What the hell is he?”

  Robin was shocked. The very question indicated that Betsy knew somehow that Shep might not be human. Betsy had always been mistrusting of Shep, but until now, Robin assumed it was a vague impression she got from him. She stared back at Betsy and lied. “I don’t know.”

  Betsy narrowed her eyes. “You’re lying. You know what he is, don’t you? Tell me. I’ve been waiting a long time to have confirmation of this. Tell me what he is, Robin.”

  “I’m not sure exactly. That’s the truth.” Robin’s lip quivered. “I just know I can’t give up on Joey.”

  Betsy reached out and stroked Robin’s hair, shaking her head. “Joey’s gone, honey.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because it’s true! And if you have eyes in your head, you see it too. Joey is gone. Shep took him from us. He’s been gone for a long time.”

  Betsy walked into the next room. Robin yelled after her. “Damn it Betsy! I know you know about stuff like this! If it’s a spell then it can probably be reversed.” She trailed Betsy into the living room.

  “A spell?” Betsy turned to face her.

  “Yeah. Or…whatever. Shep bespelled Joey with his blood, somehow.”

  “Robin, I give psychic readings. I’m not a witch, or a fucking magician for that matter. Even if whatever Shep did could be broken, what makes you think I could even begin to know how to do that?”

  Robin walked past her on to the large oak bookshelf that ran along the wall. She pulled books from the shelf, reading their titles as she tossed them to the floor. “Ancient Rituals, Blood Rites, The Power Within…”

  “Those are books I read out of personal interest, and for entertainment. I don’t ride around on a broom or boil bat wings and eyeballs in a cauldron when you’re not around.”

  “Okay, fine.” Robin frowned. “So you haven’t ever heard of something called the calming of the soul.”

  Betsy shook her head and turned away. “I don’t know…the calming of the…what did you say?”

  “The calming of the soul,” Robin repeated. “I have reason to believe Shep used this ritual on Joey. That weird book the priest showed me references it. And the priest said it’s not an unknown thing. He said different tribes practiced it like forever and modern people use it for meditation and such. Albeit without Shep’s blood involved.”

  A flicker of recognition passed across Betsy’s face, and she went to sit on the couch, opening her laptop. “I know I’ve seen that somewhere,” she said as she typed.

  Robin felt a flicker of hope. “You know it?”

  Betsy scowled at the screen. “I do remember reading about th
is. The calming of the soul.” She looked up at Robin. “Son of a bitch! Is that what Shep did to Joey?”

  “You found it?”

  “Like you said, it’s not an unknown theory. Plenty of information about historical practices. All this time I figured it was some sophisticated, otherworldly thing beyond my understanding. Because I knew Shep wasn’t…normal. I knew he fucked with Joey, and I knew it involved blood. But I had no idea what he’d done.”

  “Well, it still could be beyond our understanding considering Shep’s involved,” Robin said. “But do you think maybe you can find a way to reverse it?”

  Betsy looked at her seriously. “I’ll make you a deal, Robin, and this is not up for debate. You tell me everything you know about Shep, and I do mean everything, and I’ll try to find a way to get Joey back.”

  “But I don’t know where to start,” she said.

  “Sit down.” Betsy patted the cushion beside her. “And start at the beginning.”

  Robin joined her on the couch. She wasn’t sure what the beginning was as far as Shep was concerned. She thought back to the words spoken by Father Bello, shortly before she left Carbone’s kitchen. She leaned in close to Betsy and whispered, “He’s not supposed to be here!”

  Betsy nodded. “Yeah. That much I figured out on my own.”

  ****

  Hours later, Robin was in her car heading back home. She wondered what would happen if she were to be pulled over by the police and searched. She could only imagine their reaction to finding the small glass bottle in her purse. No officer, no booze or drugs, just a bottle of ceremonial blood. It’s a family thing. She felt better about things, but still had her doubts. It didn’t help her faith when Betsy kept saying, ‘this probably won’t work’ as they were concocting the potion. Betsy kept insisting that she didn’t know what she was doing. She eventually came up with something, however. Now they’d just have to wait and see how things panned out.