The Blood of Seven

by Claire L. Fishback

  “I wasn’t planning on coming back,” she said. “There’s nothing here for me.” Especially now that her dad was gone. She shrugged. “There’s nothing for me in Salida, either. I had nowhere else to go.” She rambled on.

  Damn you, Sailor Jerry!

  “You’re a hero, though,” he said, as if that made any sense after what she’d just told him. “You saved the children of Salida from a terrible man. You made the town safer.”

  She glared, shook her head, and pointed at him. “Don’t you start that. I’m no hero, Derrick. I’m a failure. I’m here to—I don’t know—figure shit out, I guess. Get my shit together.” She leaned her head against the chair back and closed her eyes. The room spun.

  Derrick was quiet for a minute, looking at her, probably trying to figure her out. No. That’s what she would be doing if the situation were switched. Can’t take the detective out of the detective.

  “I think we better head home,” he said.

  Ann rolled her head back and forth along the back of the chair. Without looking at him she said, “It’s snowing. You’re drunk. I’m drunk. Maggie’s sleeping. I have two spare rooms upstairs.”

  “Are you asking me to spend the night?”

  Ann snapped her head up. “I’m asking you not to risk your life out there.” She got up and snatched the bottle from the table. After two tries to twist the cap back on, she jammed it on and set the bottle on the counter. She went to the master and shut the door a little harder than she meant.

  Derrick had been in her dad’s house before. He knew where her old bedroom was at least. A tear sneaked from her eye and she brushed it away.

  Why are you crying?

  Ann flopped backward onto the mattress. She examined her palm, breathed on it like Maggie had, but nothing happened. How did Maggie do that? What did it mean, Protector of the Knowledge? What knowledge?

  The book, dumbass.

  She already had the answers—sort of.

  The front door shut. Hopefully Derrick had the mind to at least wrap Maggie in a blanket or two. Ann went into the living room, but the mess in there turned her back around. She sat on the edge of the bed.

  Something in her pocket poked her in the hip. She dug out the small key she had found taped in her father’s journal. She’d forgotten about it after yesterday’s talk with Loony Lou, lunch with two-thirds of the Hart family, and today’s chat with Raghib.

  Tomorrow, she would hopefully get some answers.

  Chapter 26

  “Wakey, wakey,” a little voice said. A cold finger trailed across Teresa’s cheek.

  She opened her eyes and smiled at Tiffany in the low light.

  “Hello, baby,” Teresa said.

  “Time to go.”

  The happiness at seeing her baby dissipated. Already? Couldn’t she rest a day or two before taking another person’s . . . Teresa gulped.

  “Yaldabaoth is so pleased with you,” Tiffany said, her voice brimming with excitement. So that was his name. She pranced to the doorway and turned to Teresa. “He has given you a choice!”

  “A choice?” Perhaps she could choose to just spend the night hanging out with Tiffany instead of running through the woods stealing souls.

  “Yes, a choice.” Tiffany beckoned her to follow. Teresa went into the foyer. She pulled on a pair of winter boots, her coat, and a pair of leather gloves lined with sheep skin.

  “Open the door,” Tiffany said.

  Teresa took a deep breath, let it out, and opened the door. The breath sucked back in.

  Draped over the picket fence and winding through the yard, at least fifty zoe lines led off into the distance in different directions.

  “Look at them all!” Tiffany squealed with delight. “You get to pick one!” She jumped up and down and clapped her hands. So pleased. So excited. How could Teresa break her little spirit?

  “How do I know who they lead to?” she asked, dreading the response.

  So much happiness in such a small little face. “You don’t!” Tiffany said. “It’s a surprise!” She grabbed Teresa’s hand. “Isn’t this fun?”

  Teresa ignored the queasiness in her stomach and gave Tiffany a weak smile.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. “So . . . fun.” She stared at the veiny ropes pulsing on the ground. Snowflakes drifted down, landed on them, and immediately melted. Who would be sacrificed tonight?

  “Pick one, Mommy.” Tiffany danced and hopped over them, so careful not to touch them. Teresa wondered what would happen if she did.

  Teresa swept her gaze across the lines. Which one? Did it even matter? One life was just as valuable as the next. Wasn’t it? She crouched and examined them for a sign that one might be weaker than another, or different somehow. If she could figure out which one might lead to an elderly person, someone who had lived their life, that might make it easier.

  But they all held the same vibrant, pulsing red color.

  “Try this one,” Tiffany whispered in her ear, pointing. “Or that one.” She pointed at another. “Come on, we don’t have all night!”

  Teresa closed her eyes and reached her hand forward, flinching back when she grazed the smooth rope. She wrapped her hand around it. Her stomach lurched at the warm pulsing. She opened her eyes. Long furrows in the snow where the rest had lain were the only sign they had been there at all.

  “Very good,” Tiffany said. “Let’s see where it leads.”

  Teresa held onto the zoe and used it to guide herself, gathering the rope in her arms. Its warmth pulsed against her body.

  The moment she stepped outside of the yard, someone screamed an unearthly sound, half mountain lion, half human.

  “Uh-oh,” Tiffany paused in her back and forth leap over the zoe. “Ruthie knows.”

  Teresa halted. “What do you mean?” she asked, unable to hide the terror in her voice.

  “She can sense you are going to take another,” Tiffany said. “We have to hurry!” She took off running along the glowing strand. Teresa followed, jogging and coiling until she slipped, fumbled, and dropped the whole yarn. She gave up and ran, following it, down Forrest Parkway right on Ponderosa Boulevard, deeper into the older residential area full of rustic homes hidden within the trees.

  Each shriek from Ruthie came closer and closer. Teresa glanced over her shoulder. Ruthie—her shriveled, stick-like form—lurched after them. Teresa gasped and stumbled over a coil of the zoe, caught herself, and kept running. Tiffany darted ahead and turned onto the front porch of the house where the zoe led.

  “Quick. Once we’re inside, she can’t get us!” Tiffany reached her hands toward Teresa. Teresa dashed up the steps and, despite her desire to burst through the front door, opened it slowly and stepped inside. She held her breath and clicked the door shut just as Ruthie clambered up the porch steps, claw-like fingers reaching. Teresa threw the deadbolt and leaned against the door.

  Once she caught her breath, she peered through the darkness. Blue light flickered from a room down the hall. Teresa tiptoed to the doorway and peeked inside.

  Sheriff McMichael lay in a recliner in the corner wearing only boxers and an undershirt. A snore escaped his parted lips. The zoe led straight into his chest.

  Teresa ducked back into the hallway and pressed herself against the wall.

  He was old. In his seventies at least. Aside from the fact that he never believed her story about what happened to the baby, she really didn’t know him very well. Did he have a wife sleeping in the next room?

  It wouldn’t do to have someone wake up and catch her stabbing a giant needle into the man’s chest.

  “Should I search the house for others?” she asked Tiffany.

  “You can only take one, Mommy.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Teresa crept down the hall and checked the other rooms. She went back to where the sheriff was still fast asleep.

  Ruthie scratched at the front door.

  Tiffany handed Teresa tonight’s oversized hypo. Her hand
shook when she took it.

  “Just like last night.” Tiffany made a stab and pull motion.

  Teresa nodded and tried not to throw up. She positioned herself next to him, raised her arms, and was about to plunge the needle into his chest when an orange cat jumped into his lap with a trilling meow.

  Teresa jumped back with a loud gasp. The cat held her gaze.

  “What in the hell are you doing in my house?” the Sheriff’s voice hollered. He struggled to sit up, bucking the recliner in his flailing. The cat launched to the floor.

  The sheriff’s left hand reached toward the side table. His gun, still holstered, sat on top of a Hunting & Fishing magazine.

  Teresa leaped on top of him and pushed against his chest. Their combined weight tilted the recliner back as far as it would go. It knocked over a floor lamp, fell to the side, and spilled them onto the floor.

  McMichael landed on top of Teresa, crushing the wind from her lungs. They locked eyes.

  “You,” he said. His cheeks were flushed. He struggled to his knees and lunged sideways for his gun. Teresa, still wheezing, sat up and shoved the needle into his chest.

  His torso swung back toward her. His limp hand caught her in the chin, rocking her head back and to the side. The sheriff grabbed at the syringe while his mouth opened and closed, his lungs pleading for air.

  Teresa yanked the plunger. The barrel filled with glowing red zoe.

  He didn’t shrivel like Ruthie had. Instead, his skin turned a putrid green. The vessels in his eyes burst, changing the white to a blotchy red. His tongue swelled up and flopped out of his parted lips. Bloat tightened his skin. He stopped moving.

  The smell of death and decay seeped from his overstretched pores. Teresa gagged and withdrew the needle. The zoe swirled like a mini hurricane inside the barrel.

  They couldn’t leave the way they came in. Ruthie would get them. She clawed the door as if sensing Teresa’s conundrum.

  Teresa ran down the hall, Tiffany close behind. In a bedroom at the back of the house, she opened the window, pushed the screen out, and went through feet first. Something gouged the back of her left leg.

  Teresa cried out and landed on her side, jarring her shoulder and rattling her teeth.

  Ruthie shrieked from the other end of the house. Panic pushed Teresa to move. She ran toward town, slipping on the accumulated snow.

  At the town square, Teresa doubled over and gasped for breath. The cold air pierced her throat and lungs. Her whole left side ached.

  “Come on, we’re almost there!” Tiffany said. She took off into the darkness.

  Ruthie shrieked again before letting out a low, rumbling moan. Teresa looked over her shoulder. The sheriff hobbled after them on bloody bloated feet.

  “Go,” Teresa whispered, gritting her teeth. “Go, dammit!” Her legs listened, but sharp cramps riddled her quads and calves.

  She ran down the dirt road, now sloppy with snow, and dodged to leap over the creek. Her push-off foot slipped, and in her attempt to stop herself from falling, she twisted her ankle and tumbled to the ground.

  “Oh God,” she cried. She reached for her ankle, but something cold and hard gripped it first.

  Ruthie had hold of her foot. Teresa screamed.

  Chapter 27

  An intrusive sound in the wakeful world alerted her, and Ann fought the stranglehold of sleep, slipping in and out of consciousness. A vibrating boom brought her upright.

  Ann groped the night stand for her gun. It was missing. She wracked her brain for where she left it. Hanging on the door with her belt and holster? At the station in her locker?

  A deep grogginess shrouded her vision and mind. She tried to get her bearings, but the room was unfamiliar. Then she remembered.

  Harmony, not Salida. Dad’s house, not your shitty apartment.

  Of course her gun wasn’t on this nightstand.

  The clock showed wee-hours-of-the-morning early. Three thirty. The TV flickered from the other room. She hadn’t even turned it on earlier. She cocked an ear and listened. The page of a book turned.

  She sidled to the door and peeked into the living room. Her vantage point revealed the dark TV screen. The light came from somewhere else.

  Ann dropped to her knees and peered under the bed.

  Bingo.

  She gripped the handle on her dad’s Louisville Slugger. Baseball bat in hand, she grabbed the knob, jerked the door open, and lunged into the living room with a still-drunk war cry.

  No one was there.

  Maggie’s book lay open on the coffee table, a blue-white light radiating from the pages. The same color her veins had glowed when Maggie breathed on her palm. The light wasn’t like a halo or a beam or anything. The pages themselves seemed to be made of it. A low hum, more felt than heard, emanated from the book. Or maybe from the light. Or maybe in her head.

  A page turned of its own volition.

  Ann backed into the bedroom and shut the door. When she released the knob, her hand shook.

  “You didn’t see that. It could be light from the window and a breeze from . . . the furnace vent.” She swallowed and nearly choked on the dryness of her throat. “You’re tired. You’re stressed. Still a little drunk. You. Did. Not. See. That.”

  Everything in her wanted to go back to bed, to curl beneath the covers and sleep off the residual effects of Sailor Jerry, but one little piece of her wanted to prove to herself it wasn’t real. The part of her that needed to see something to believe it. Her rational, detective mind. She tore the door open.

  The book still spilled forth angelic light. The feeling of the hum increased, vibrating inside her body.

  “Dammit.”

  She leaned toward the coffee table and used the bat to flip the book shut. The light turned off. She went back into her room. Behind her, the pages fluttered. The light pulsed twice then stayed steady.

  Ann froze. She turned around an inch at a time, eyes wide. That didn’t happen, and yet, her rational mind couldn’t come up with an explanation. She didn’t believe in this stuff.

  Keep telling yourself that.

  Seared mark, glowing veins, Maggie in the vision. All things she couldn’t explain, but believed anyway.

  Ann let out a sigh, propped the bat against the couch, and sat. The light sucked into the center of the book, leaving the room in darkness. She picked it up and turned on the nearest lamp.

  The leather cover was warm, and for a sickening second, it almost felt like human skin. The open page was about a third of the way in.

  Just as before, when Maggie showed her the book, she could read it. The pages spoke of Sophia and the Protectorate.

  Ann skimmed the text. Sophia meant knowledge and wisdom, and this Sophia and Louise’s Pistis Sophia were the same person—a person who might actually exist.

  The day Sophia is born into being, manifesting in physical form, returning to the material world to protect us from darkness, our duty as Protectors increases tenfold, for Yaldabaoth shall rise again and destroy the material world, for it was not only his creation, but also his demise. Should Yaldabaoth come to full power, he shall seek vengeance upon Sophia. Should Sophia expire before her time, the End of Days shall be upon us and all of humanity shall be smote from the earth.

  Ann snorted. The End of Days. And Yaldabaoth again. What did Raghib say? He would be vengeful toward Sophia for defeating him. Assuming she believed any of this, if Sophia manifested while Ann was Protector, Ann’s job was to save the world. She let loose a bark of a laugh.

  “I’m still drunk.” She had to be if she considered believing any of this.

  She flipped to the back of the book to the list of names and dates. The page her dad left her was the last one.

  Bram Logan’s offspring.

  She flipped back several pages to where the list began.

  The title heading read: A Genealogical Study of the Protectors of Sophia.

  The first date was so long ago, Ann thought Jesus probably walked the earth at that
time. Assuming Jesus had actually walked the earth or even existed to begin with. The name with that date was—oh, surprise—Yeshua.

  Bull. Shit.

  The second name was John. Ann thought back to her brief time dating a churchy guy and thought she remembered John was an apostle.

  “This can’t be real.” She needed to say the words out loud to the silent room. Maggie said her grandpa did the study. Ann wondered if the Protectorate had given him that task during his rehab. Seemed like a good method to get someone’s mind involved in a new way of thinking.

  Lines drawn in the margin connected names to other names. For some Protectors the line connected to the word offspring instead of a name. Some of the offspring entries had dates listed next to them.

  Protectors’ children whose names had not been recorded?

  For other offspring no date was listed.

  Maybe Protectors who never had kids.

  Or maybe they were killed before they could pass the torch to their offspring.

  Like Dad.

  All of the names had “deceased” written next to them, except Bram Logan. For a second, Ann thought maybe he really was still alive somewhere, living under an alias. After all, she only had a dismembered finger and a video message.

  While the video message sort of confirmed his death, it wasn’t an official document stating as such. She’d accepted he was dead, though, because if he was alive somewhere and had been ignoring her calls for help this whole time—well, that would hurt even more than him being dead and gone.

  Then a thought occurred to her. What if he couldn’t call? Raghib said they’d all gone into hiding to protect their families, but how could he do that to her?

  The safety deposit box, if there was one, had to have answers. Something to discount the message in the DVD, an explanation of where he was and why he couldn’t be there for her. An explanation of the finger. Anything. Something.

  She flipped back to the page about Sophia and reread the passage. Ann didn’t want to believe it, but the truth was as clear as the light that had shone from the book.