The Blood of Seven

by Claire L. Fishback

  “Kiss me,” she said, meeting his eyes for the first time since his accusations.

  “What?” Confusion replaced the anger on his face.

  “Kiss me.”

  His confusion dissolved into a combination of disgust and disbelief, like she was some kind of monster. She knew her makeup was smeared and runny from her tears, but it couldn’t be that bad.

  “Please.” She stepped toward him until she stood right in front of him. She tilted her face up and closed her eyes.

  Please.

  She waited for what seemed like long minutes, wishing and praying he would just kiss her. His arms wrapped around her. His heart beat in her ear.

  “Listen to me, Teresa.” His voice rumbled under her cheek. He stroked her hair. “Things need to change.”

  They stood in silence for a time.

  “The parents of the kids you assaulted aren’t going to press charges. For that, you’re lucky.” He took a deep breath. “You need to wake up.”

  Make an effort. Wake up.

  She couldn’t do anything right.

  He loosened the embrace and looked into her eyes, then lowered his mouth toward hers. Anticipation tumbled in her stomach. They hadn’t shared a moment like this since Maggie arrived. Derrick had been too preoccupied with getting the girl settled in. The whisper of his breath caressed her lips.

  “Can I come down?” Maggie called from the top of the stairs, her voice timid.

  Derrick released Teresa. “Yeah,” Derrick called. “Come on down.”

  No kiss. The moment gone. Defeat sank into Teresa’s body and pulled her into unfathomable depths. She stared at the basement door, and ragged anger fought to break through the wall despair had built inside her.

  Maggie tiptoed into the kitchen with wide eyes. Derrick asked her something. Maggie responded. Teresa couldn’t understand their muffled voices as she walked past them. They didn’t notice her. She was a ghost.

  She climbed the stairs and, in the master bedroom, picked up the phone on the nightstand. She hesitated over the numbered keypad. It had been years since she dialed this number. She put the phone to her ear.

  Her mother answered on the third ring. Her voice filled Teresa with relief.

  “Hi, Mom.” She sat on the edge of the bed and bit her thumbnail.

  “If it isn’t my long-lost daughter.” Mother didn’t sound angry or sad. Just matter of fact, as usual. “What happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t hear from you for years and now you decide to call. Something dreadful must have happened. Are you ill? Are you dying?” Her mother’s voice broke from its happy-go-lucky-borderline-told-you-so tone that was stereotypical of the 1950s housewife.

  “No. I’m fine. My husband is mad at me. He did something horrible.” She filled her mother in about Ann and taking away the key.

  Mother’s regular tone returned. “It sounds like you’re the reason he’s upset. I told you, Teresa, time and again. Keep your husband happy. I gave you all the lessons you needed to become a good housewife and make a decent life for yourself.”

  “Mom, I—”

  “Cook, clean, keep the children clean and quiet, please him. You’re allowed to enjoy sex, too, don’t forget.”

  Teresa could see her mother counting these things off on her fingers.

  Sex. Indeed. When was the last time?

  “Are you doing these things?” her mother asked.

  “Yes.”

  “All of them?”

  Teresa sighed. “No. Not all of them.”

  “Teresa, dear. A happy husband means a happy home. You know that. Have you forgotten everything I taught you? Have you forgotten what the Bible says?” She cleared her throat. “Ephesians 5:22 to 5:23. Say it with me.”

  “ ‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church.’ ”

  “Very good.” Pride in Mother’s voice. “Now, darling, go make amends. Make that husband of yours happy, and keep him that way. Do everything right and you’re guaranteed marital bliss.”

  Her mother hung up before Teresa could say another word. Teresa looked at the phone. Sadness welled inside her chest.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She put the phone down and thought of Tiffany and her powerful friend. Tiffany said he could help her.

  You need to change.

  Oh, things would definitely change.

  Chapter 17

  Ann pulled her dad’s jacket off the coat hook and tugged it around her body like a hug. She sniffed the collar where remnants of his aftershave still clung to the wooly fibers. She closed her eyes, breathed it in, and wrapped her arms around herself, pretending they were his.

  Something in the lining poked her back. She took it off and prodded around it. Near the bottom cuff, she found some large haphazard stitches.

  Ann grabbed a pair of scissors and cut through them. Inside, still stuck to a safety pin, was a square envelope with her name on it. The envelope contained a writable DVD and a folded piece of paper.

  The paper was a copy of Maggie’s adoption certificate naming Derrick and Teresa Hart as the parents, signed by someone named Gail Park.

  Heart pounding, Ann turned on her dad’s old tube TV and the DVD player. She put the disc inside and sat back on her heels.

  The video was dark at first, the recording grainy, then the strike of a match and the glow of fire. A figure entered the frame and sat down. Ann grabbed the sides of the television.

  Her dad sat before the camera. He wore a scraggly beard and his favorite Indiana Jones-style hat, a little worse for wear. His eyes sparkled in the flickering light.

  “I hope this thing’s working,” he muttered. He focused on the lens and rubbed the corner of his right eye.

  “Hey, Angel.” His pet name for her. “If you’re watching this, I’m probably dead. How cheesy is that?” He smiled and let out a laugh that held no mirth. “But it’s true.” His eyes shifted down. “Where to start . . . There’s too much to tell you. I don’t have a lot of time.” He cleared his throat and blinked his eyes hard.

  “I’m sorry this is going to be so cryptic, but I know you’ll figure everything out. You’re smart. If this gets into the wrong hands . . .” He shook his head.

  Bram Logan sighed on the screen. The sigh was full of weary exhaustion. Ann sighed with him.

  “I’m so tired,” he whispered. “I’ve been running . . .” He cleared his throat again. His eyes twinkled with tears and jumped to the lens. “I am so proud of you and what you have accomplished. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be around for you when you needed me. I listened to every one of your voicemails. Saved them. Every time I heard your voice, your plea for help, my heart broke.”

  Ann’s eyes welled with tears.

  “It was for the plan. It was all for the plan. You needed to come home. I hope you are home.” He looked to the right of the camera then back. “I know you’re home. You have to be . . . the book, the girl . . . the angel in the box.” His brow furrowed. “There are forces at play beyond most people’s understanding. Beyond your belief system.”

  Ann slouched a little. Was he going to go into some strange rant like Louise now?

  His eyes drifted from the camera, and he looked into the middle distance. “God, I hope she’s safe.” He leaned forward in a conspiratorial way, and when he spoke again, his voice was lowered.

  “I took care of both records, and I put something for you in the angel’s hideout.” He nodded one slow dip of his chin. “It might be helpful. If she’s safe, all is well.”

  The video went silent. Her dad stared off again. She touched his face on the screen, wishing she could feel the stubble of his beard.

  “I know you have a lot of questions, and I wish I was there to answer them for you. To fight by your side. I don’t even know if you’ll get this in time, or at all. I have to believe, though.”

  He sighed, and Ann l
et out a long breath at the same time.

  “If you’re watching this, Raghib followed my instructions and contacted you. You can trust him.”

  She paused the video and stared at her dad’s mid-word face. She’d hung up on Raghib without even thinking to get his contact information. With no idea where he was or how to get in touch . . . She’d killed her only lead.

  Way to go, Detective.

  She pressed play.

  “I have to go now, Annie. I . . . Remember . . .” His eyes met the screen, and for a few seconds, Ann felt like they were in the same room. The silence continued as if he were waiting for her to respond that she was listening—the way he always did.

  “I’m listening,” she said, despite herself.

  “You must believe, Ann. Summon your strength. Summon the angel.” His eyes bored into hers. “Summon the angel. It is the key. I hope you get this.”

  He reached forward, and his hand obscured the screen. The television displayed the DVD player’s menu.

  Ann stayed on the floor staring at the menu options but not seeing them. He really was gone. Grief spilled into her body. She got up and grabbed a beer from the fridge, drank it as fast as she could, then another, and another, until her belly filled with gas and she let out a horrendous belch, followed by a giggle. Then she drank the last one.

  Numb. Just the way she liked to feel, but her woozy brain kept cycling through key points of the video.

  The book, the girl. Angel’s hideout. What the hell was the angel’s hideout?

  Then the patch of healing skin over her heart started to burn again. The blue-white glow spread from her heart down her arms to her hands. Ann doubled over, prepared for the onslaught of pain, but it didn’t come. The feeling subsided and the glow dimmed until it disappeared altogether.

  Chapter 18

  Teresa woke when the temperature dropped. The clock read 3:12. She climbed out of bed, careful not to disturb Derrick, and slid her feet into a pair of plush slippers. She pulled on a micro-fleece robe and shuffled into the hallway to check the thermostat.

  Before she could touch the screen, Tiffany’s giggle came from downstairs. Teresa followed the disembodied voice to the front room.

  “Hello, Mommy,” Tiffany said in the caramelly sweet voice she always used. “Are you ready to begin our journey?”

  “Journey?” Teresa pulled her robe tighter around her. Tiffany gave her an exasperated expression.

  “The one that will bring us together again.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Teresa shivered and wondered if the thermostat was malfunctioning. She’d have Derrick check it in the morning. “What do we need to do?”

  Tiffany grinned and presented an oversized hypodermic needle from behind her back. The barrel lay across both of her hands like an offering. Teresa took the syringe. The needle was as big around as a pencil and longer than one used to administer an epidural by about five centimeters. She’d never seen a needle this big in her entire medical career. The barrel, cold and heavy in her hands, was made of crystal-clear glass, the plunger stainless steel.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” She winced at the thought of finding a vein with the thick point. She looked at Tiffany.

  Tiffany grinned. “We’re going to play a game.”

  “What kind of game?”

  “A doctor game.”

  Teresa gulped. “What are we going to use this for?”

  “We are going to collect souls.”

  The hypo dropped from Teresa’s hand and landed with a heavy thud on the rug. “Souls? You didn’t say anything about collecting . . .” She couldn’t even fathom what Tiffany meant. What the task entailed, how this massive hypo would factor in.

  “You said you’d do anything to have me back.” Tiffany stomped her foot. “You made a deal.”

  Teresa thought back to the abandoned funeral home. It felt like so long ago. Was it only yesterday? Did she make a deal?

  “What are they for?” she asked. “The souls, I mean.”

  “Payment to bring me back.”

  Teresa picked up the syringe. “What do I do with this?”

  “You’ll see,” Tiffany said. “Let’s go. I can’t be gone for too long, remember?”

  Teresa followed Tiffany to the front door, flipped the deadbolt, and opened it. On the front porch lay the end of a glowing milky-red rope the size of the lines they used to tether cruise ships to docks.

  “What is that?” Teresa crouched and poked it with the syringe’s plunger before picking it up. It pulsed like a carotid artery. The glow brightened and dimmed with each throb. She dropped it and wiped her hand on her robe, though the rope wasn’t slimy like she thought it might be. It was so smooth, like healing skin after a bad burn.

  “Follow it,” Tiffany said.

  Teresa followed the line out of the neighborhood to the diner and then behind to a small house. Her chest tightened when the line disappeared through the front door. The stainless-steel plunger rattled in her shaking hand.

  “Doctor Mommy,” Tiffany said in a PA system voice. “Paging Doctor Mommy.” She laughed.

  “What do I do?” Teresa asked.

  Tiffany pointed to the oversized vein and used a sing-song voice. “Follow the glowing red zoe.”

  Nausea swirled in Teresa’s stomach. She lurched to the bushes and dry-heaved. Tiffany’s cold essence touched her shoulder.

  “I know you can do this. I know how badly you want to be with me.”

  Teresa nodded and wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her robe. She stood and went to the front door, took a deep breath, and tried the knob. Unlocked. Of course. No one locked their doors in Harmony. Everyone was family. Except her. That’s why she did lock her doors. Even when she was home by herself.

  The line, the zoe as Tiffany called it, trailed inside. Teresa stepped into the house. Warmth washed over her, and her skin prickled with the blood rushing to its surface. A small table near the door held a stack of mail. Most of it was addressed to the diner, but one had a name on it.

  “Ruth Gill,” Teresa whispered. “Ruthie. Oh God, not her.” Ruthie was always kind to Teresa. She was the only one in town who still welcomed her after the baby died.

  Ruthie is nice to everyone, not just you.

  It was true. She had to be, otherwise her diner wouldn’t do such great business. Or maybe since it was the only restaurant in town, it would still do well, but still. There was some measure of niceness Ruthie showed all her customers, even Mr. Proast, the most despicable man in town.

  “I can’t do this,” Teresa said. “I can’t take Ruthie’s . . .” She couldn’t say soul.

  “Follow the zoe. It’s easy.” Tiffany pranced into the house. She leaped back and forth over the line, almost like she couldn’t touch it herself. She came back to Teresa and took her hand. “She won’t die,” Tiffany said. Her eyes sparkled in the dim light. “I promise.” Her voice dripped with saccharine sincerity.

  Teresa nodded and followed the line down the hallway into the single bedroom. Moonlight spilled in, casting everything in an eerie blue light. Ruthie lay on the bed on her back, the covers thrown off of her. The milky-red line led straight into her chest. Teresa gasped and gripped the door frame. She closed her eyes.

  “Stick the needle in her heart,” Tiffany said. “That’s where the soul lives.”

  “She won’t die?” Teresa asked incredulous.

  Ruthie stirred. Teresa sucked in a breath and froze. Ruthie rolled onto her side, then onto her back again. Teresa let out her breath.

  “She won’t die,” Tiffany said.

  Teresa didn’t understand how someone could live without their soul, but she trusted her baby wouldn’t lead her astray. She crossed the room to the bed and stood over Ruthie, so quiet and calm in her slumber. Teresa glanced at Tiffany, her expectant face, her glittering eyes and porcelain skin.

  My little dolly.

  Teresa raised the needle over her head. Her arms shook. She dropped them back down.
<
br />   “Do it,” Tiffany urged.

  Teresa closed her eyes, raised her arms again, and plunged the needle into Ruthie’s chest up to the luer.

  Ruthie’s body convulsed. Her arms and legs jackknifed together, and a gurgling gasp escaped her throat. Teresa jumped back. The arms and legs relaxed, but Ruthie’s back arched, her chest rising high off the mattress.

  “Pull the thingy,” Tiffany yelled, motioning with her hands. “Quick!”

  Teresa rushed forward, gripped the plunger, and pulled. A milky-red glowing substance oozed into the barrel, thick and sloggy like cold maple syrup. The farther she pulled the plunger, the more shriveled and shrunken Ruthie’s face became.

  Plunger fully retracted, Teresa withdrew the needle. Ruthie’s body lay rigid on the mattress. Her papery skin hugged the bones of her face.

  Teresa backed away. Something crunched under her slipper. The milky rope that had led her to Ruthie was crispy, shriveled, and black in the moonlight.

  Ruthie lay still as stone. Teresa leaned over her to listen for breath. She turned her head to Tiffany.

  “You said she wouldn’t die.”

  “She’s not dead—look.” Tiffany pointed. Teresa turned her head back.

  Ruthie’s eyes popped open. They were black and bottomless. Teresa jumped back. A tortured keening issued from Ruthie’s dry, cracked lips. Teresa stumbled backward toward the door. She stopped to look at the shell of a person that remained. Ruthie sat up.

  “Mommy,” Tiffany said in a calm voice. “Time to run.”

  Chapter 19

  “Run, Mommy! Now!”

  Teresa barely heard her baby’s voice over Ruthie’s hollow scream. Ruthie’s mouth stretched impossibly wide, tearing the papery skin and creating a cavernous hole in the woman’s face.

  Tiffany tugged Teresa’s hand. Teresa’s body stiffened. Her heart palpitated. She regarded the hypo, its contents glowing and pulsing inside. Tiffany ran away.