Matters of the Blood Page 3

  He frowned, but continued. “Out at the Wild Moon—its outskirts, really. Got the call before dawn. A couple of kids took a walk down on the Point after an all-night party out at the Bar-K dance hall. Probably went to make-out by the lake. You know how dark it is out there."

  Another smile zipped across his face, a flash of the old twinkling eyes peeked out at me, before the seriousness returned.

  I smiled back out of reflex. Oh yeah, I knew how dark it was out there. Nights out at the Point, by the lake. Nights spent with Carlton, doing things that might get a person arrested for trespassing and more—except his daddy had been the law back then and we'd had the arrogance of youth.

  He kept talking, his big hands folding and re-folding a paper napkin.

  "They literally stumbled across the carcasses. Two Sitka deer bodies."

  "Do you know who did it?"

  I wanted to see what he'd say. There was no way he could know that the hunters weren't human, but someone else had mutilated those deer ... and my bets were on the mundane.

  "Not a clue. Anyone can sneak out to the Point. I don't know if you've seen the ranch since the renovation. Most of it's fenced now, some even game-fenced, but not all the way out to the lake. I think it has something to do with an easement or something. Right now, my guess is poachers. Some out-of-town fools with more money than sense trying to get out of buying a license or getting a jump on the season. Even so, I can't put my finger on why these deer."

  "Why not?"

  "Sitka aren't much good for trophies in any event, and these particular ones were young. Not much meat, not much in the way of a rack."

  Young deer. Not a bad choice for hunters chasing prey on foot. Hunters not interested in meat or trophies, just blood, the exhilaration, the bliss of the chase followed by the capture and the kill. Small animals, almost too easy to find, to follow under a hunter's moon, full and bright.

  I never saw the predators’ faces in my dream, didn't see their real forms. That part of my memory was hazy, wrapped in shadows. Clear as dirty ice. Deliberately? Something else I didn't know.

  Carlton spoke again, eyes almost closed as if telling the story tired him out.

  "Keira, there is something else that really freaks me out—something that makes me sick to my stomach."

  I turned my attention to him, reinforced my mental barriers, and placed my hand on top of his. The energy that radiated from his body flowed over and around me, as I tried not to notice the distraction. Most humans emitted some kind of “noise,” but Carlton's anxiety increased the sensation, so that it felt like the hum of a high-tension wire sizzling against my skin.

  He looked around, as if to see who was nearby. Most of the tables had emptied by now. It was getting late. No one sat within earshot. Even so, he dropped his voice to a pitch so low that even I almost had to strain to hear it.

  "When I said trophies, I meant it. They weren't field dressed and pieces left behind—the heads are missing."

  He paused a moment, then continued. “Gone, hacked off, brutal. I can't help but think this is something more than just poachers.” He dropped his head and wouldn't look at me as he whispered. “What if we have some sort of satanic cult around here?"

  I pulled away.

  "Shit, Carlton, you're not serious?"

  Shielding my emotions was one thing, but my control would be harder if I were touching him. What was he doing talking about cults instead of poachers? I tried to control my breathing, the irrational panic I felt building. Crap, crap, crap. Not good. Too many childhood stories racing through my mind. Persecution, being hunted down, treated as Enemy. We weren't, but it was too easy to call us “cult,” or worse.

  "Carlton, you can't possibly believe that."

  As far as the general public was concerned, my people were nothing but rumor and superstition. Fine by me. I'm not so ready to wave that particular pride banner, thank you very much.

  Unfortunately, stupid imitators and wannabes kept enough rumors alive to leave just a tiny bit of doubt in people's minds. Just enough to make me worried in this kind of situation. I was not in the mood for another Inquisition. Torquemada may have been right about one thing, we were pretty much all heretics, but I wasn't going to burn at anyone's stake. Not even a symbolic one.

  "I can't really believe in any of that stuff, Keira,” Carlton admitted. “But what if some group's gotten into voodoo or Santeria or something like that? We may be a small town, but you know how many new people are moving out to the Hill Country. Maybe somebody's into animal sacrifice or something. You wouldn't believe some of the weird-ass cult shit I saw in San Antonio."

  "Come on, Carlton, are you listening to yourself?” I fought to keep my voice from rising. “Nothing's changed around here. We're still in the middle of White People Central."

  No shit. We were Texas’ answer to Wonder Bread, mayo, and Baptist church Sundays. This part of the Hill Country had been settled by conservative German immigrants. The closest thing to a cult was a little charismatic Christian church across the lake. No practitioners of Voudoun there, just a bunch of folks who like to sing loud hymns and testify about Jesus to unsuspecting campers.

  "Next you'll be blaming the deer mutilations on the Chupacabra.” I smiled weakly, and poked him in the arm. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Take the hint, Carlton.

  Just because last night's hunters fed on blood didn't mean they were unnatural—just some kind of preternatural creatures whose identity was best left hidden from the mundane world. There had to be a run-of-the-mill explanation for the missing heads. Something explainable by normal human means. Some local boys maybe, running across a couple of dead deer and thinking it was funny to steal the heads. Had to be something like that.

  "I know. I know,” Carlton laughed, a little of his usual humor coming back into his soft brown eyes as he visibly relaxed. “I'm just grasping at straws. I don't believe in all that junk anyway. Too much like tabloid TV."

  I had to stop myself before I said something I regretted. The part of me that wanted validation wanted to speak up. Not a good idea. I settled for changing the subject.

  "I heard the ranch is open for business. Have you talked to the guests out there?” I asked. “Maybe someone saw something."

  "Come on, Keira, cut me a little slack. I did try.” Carlton sighed. “Those folks out there keep your kind of hours. Seems there was an all-night party or something—most of them are still sleeping it off. Hell, even the owner isn't available to talk to me."

  "Who is the owner? All I heard was that it was someone who was not from around here."

  He shrugged. “Don't know much. I talked to Kevin Hilton a couple of hours ago. His brother-in-law, Alan Richards, brokered the sale. Alan's out of town, but Kevin remembers the guy who bought it was from England, looking for an investment. Bought the place a couple of years ago, then sank a ton of money into it for renovations. Hired a bunch of outsiders to do the work. Hell, they're not even hiring locals now that they're open."

  "So what's their deal, some sort of dude ranch or something?"

  "Looks like. A bunch of spoiled European snobs, I'm thinking. The place looks expensive. But there wasn't a soul around. The only person I saw was the day manager. Nice enough, but no damned help to me. I haven't met the main guy yet, but the manager said he just moved on site."

  The strains of a digital rendition of Toccata and Fugue interrupted. Crap. That setting wasn't any better than “vibrate” mode.

  I pulled my mobile out of my backpack, glanced at the ID on the screen, then put the still-chiming phone back into the bag.

  "You going to answer that?” Carlton asked.

  "Nope,” I answered. “It's Marty. I'm already going over there, so he can just wait."

  "I take it he's still as much of a pain in the ass as he always was."

  "That's putting it mildly. It's always something with him—usually money."

  "He asks you for money?” Carlton sounded surprised. “I thought the funeral industry was pre
tty recession proof."

  I shrugged. “I imagine so, but you know Marty with the spending."

  "You still bailing him out?"

  "I still do,” I admitted. “Someone's got to watch out for him."

  That someone being me. Clan by birth, but not by genetics, Marty was a biological anomaly. I may be half-blood, but neither of my halves were human—couldn't be. Biologies weren't compatible.

  Somehow, something in Marty's chromosomes was defective, at least to our way of thinking. Some mutation caused by who-knew-what made him powerless and fully human, a reverse X-Man. In less enlightened times, he would have been dumped at birth and left to die. Instead, he'd been allowed to live, but as an outsider. His own parents abandoned him. He was raised by an uncle and taught the funeral business. Uncle Damon was a necromancer who'd translated his natural talent into an acceptable mundane career. Marty took over the business when the family left. The clan decided that Marty could run the place, even without talent or powers. I'd always figured they'd thrown the human dog a bone.

  I was the dog sitter left holding that particular leash.

  My one and only job now was to make sure Marty didn't get into any trouble—interpret that to mean “embarrass the family.” Not that any of them were actually concerned with his welfare, just with the possibility that he might do something stupid and drag them into it. Unfortunately for me, Marty's lack of power seemed to translate into a distinct lack of sense, common or otherwise. My dear cousin appeared to enjoy getting into messes. I hoped that wasn't the case now. I did not want to get on the wrong side of my double-great-grandmother.

  "Well, enjoy,” Carlton said, still chuckling. “Thanks for the company. I'm heading back over to the ranch. Maybe I can convince that manager to roust the owner so I can get some questions answered."

  He paused as he slid out of the booth, his gaze catching mine. “It was good to see you again, Keira. It's always nice to see old friends. Check you later?"

  Old friends. I suppose you could call us that. Had a nice ring, false as it might be. Former lovers never really translated into friends. Too much muddied water under that particular bridge.

  I smiled back anyway, willing to keep playing this role for now. Made things a lot easier.

  "Sure, later,” I said and watched him leave the restaurant.

  I was glad he was happy. He deserved it. I was equally as glad that the attraction was over. No anxiety, no thump of jealous heart. Maybe Carlton and I wouldn't be the best of buddies, but we could exist in the same small town without emotional angst. Things were looking up. Sort of.

  I sighed and looked at the clock above the cash register. It was nearing four-thirty, but I could definitely use another cup of coffee before facing Marty. My version of “soon” wasn't going to be the same as his. Tough. He'd live and all his clients were already dead.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Sheriff-man making googly eyes at you again, m'hija?"

  Bea slid her petite curvaceous figure into the seat Carlton had just vacated, cradling a large coffee mug in one small hand and carrying a full pot of coffee in the other.

  "That's so not even close,” I said as she topped off my mug. “You know that's long over. He was telling me about—Shit, Bea, are those two working here?"

  The two stupidest criminals in the county had just walked through the kitchen door, out into the main caf?. The brothers stood behind the counter, side by side, sleeves rolled up past their elbows baring overly pumped armloads of tattoos. I watched as they served themselves coffee.

  Dusty Albright, the elder of the two by ten months, glanced in my direction. He'd probably heard me. The place wasn't all that big and I hadn't exactly been quiet.

  His dark bushy eyebrows contrasted with his neatly shaven head. He turned to face me, and I saw he held a chef's cleaver in his left hand, caressing it with his right as if it were his favorite toy, or worse, an intimate body part. His near-twin, Derek, stood silently beside him, no expression on his face.

  Wonderful, the two town idiots wanted to play the “whose dick is bigger” game. Any other day, I'd have been happy to just avoid them and concede the match, since I didn't have any manhood to wither, but Carlton's information had already put me into a mood.

  I stared straight at Dusty's muddy-colored eyes, keeping the lines of my body loose and relaxed, even though I did cross my arms in a sort of warning to back off. In my opinion, people like the Albright brothers should be treated as if they were unfamiliar animals, with caution and a little aggression—just enough to assert yourself, without appearing to be a direct threat.

  I had no idea what set them off, as far as I knew I'd never done anything to them. Considering the fact they'd both just gotten out of jail, it was probably just the fact that I had the balls to look at them without permission. In high school, Dusty had beaten a kid nearly to death for standing in front of his locker. My cousin had often been their unwilling victim.

  The silent pissing contest continued, neither Dusty nor I allowing ourselves to look away. What he didn't know was that I was perfectly capable of staring like this indefinitely—for hours without getting tired. Predator genes.

  Bea broke the edgy silence. “Go back to the kitchen, boys. Dusty, you need to finish chopping the vegetables. And Derek, weren't you finished with your shift?"

  Dusty licked his lips and gave me a smirk, punctuated by him mimicking a kiss. Without a word, but with widening grins, the two turned and passed through the swinging doors out of my sight.

  I stared at my friend across the table, not sure what I wanted to say.

  She looked down, delicate fingers stroking the sides of her coffee cup. With a sigh, she looked back up at me and crossed her arms.

  "I know ... bad idea, but I needed help and they needed a job to satisfy their parole,” she explained. “I'm running out of options, Keira. I hate the fact I had to hire those bozos because no one else applies for work. I can't compete with all those resorts opening up."

  More proof that progress wasn't necessarily always good. Until a few years ago, Rio Seco had enjoyed the anonymity of a small town buried in the depths of the Hill Country. But the sprawl of the cities kept inching its way in our direction as more and more people discovered the great location. Besides the Wild Moon, two other resort ranches had opened for business over the last couple of years. The Wild Moon might not hire locally, but the others did.

  Rio Seco was still pretty much the back of beyond, but “beyond” was becoming a much smaller place, which was the main reason my family packed up and left. Too hard to keep ourselves hidden.

  "Hell, even my own relatives won't work for me any more. The only reason Noe's still around is because the other places don't hire minors. The minute he turns eighteen, he's out of here."

  "Don't worry,” I said, trying to cheer her up. “I'm sure that after the excitement of working for a new place wears off, some of them will come back."

  "I hope you're right,” she said. “I'd hate to think I was stuck with those two idiots forever. Not that I think they'll be here longer than a few months. I just hope they don't clean me out before they go."

  I laughed. “Maybe they'll leave you alone anyway. After all, you don't sell candy bars or T-shirts."

  The last time either of the Albright brothers had spent more than a couple of months in any one place had been their recent jail stint, and even that had been cut short when they'd been released under a new statewide leniency program. Of course, their crime had been pretty minor. They'd tried to hold up the band concession booth at a nearby high school football game. Truly brilliant, considering that county deputies always attended the games.

  Bea grinned back at me. “You may be right, girlfriend. But I'm not holding my breath that they'll stay long enough for me to find more help."

  She shrugged and pulled the pencil out of her hair, sending it tumbling to her waist, black, thick and shiny. Miss Clairol was not making any money o
ff Beatriz Ruiz. Of course, I wasn't contributing to their profits, either, but that was different. By my family's reckoning, at thirty-seven, I was barely out of adolescence.

  "All done. Your turn."

  "My turn what?"

  "I've known you too damn long, Keira Kelly,” Bea said. “I can see something's up other than you seeing Carlton again and the two idiot brothers working for me. You look tired. Are you okay?” She frowned at me, worry lines creasing her forehead.

  I let out a sigh, a little relieved. Bea noticed something off kilter. Now I could talk about it. This wasn't as good as sharing with family, but it would work ... for the short run.

  "Yeah, I guess you could call it ‘okay',” I said. “Notice anything different about me? Something not quite usual ... something that's changed?” I emphasized the last word.

  She narrowed her eyes and stared at me silently. Her eyes flicked up and down as she searched my face. As realization dawned, she leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper.

  "Change? No shit, already? I thought you said none of that happened until you were in your fifties."

  "Lucky me, I guess. I suppose I get the early-bird prize ... so to speak. You heard about the animal mutilations out at the Wild Moon?"

  She nodded. “We all heard. Pretty damn sick. Oh, hell, was that what Carlton was talking to you about?"

  "Well, yeah, except that's not really the problem, Bea. I already knew."

  I drank down the last of my coffee. “I had the great good fortune to dream the whole thing before it actually happened ... or maybe even during."

  Bea didn't even blink. “A vision?"

  "Maybe, I don't know what to call it. These last few weeks have been hell. I've had death dreams, blood dreams. I even dreamed that Marty was dead. But this dream ... the whole thing was way too real, just like I was there watching the deer get hunted and die."

  I pushed the empty mug away from me. “Bea, I not only saw it. I was a part of it. I even tasted the blood ... and I wanted to.” I didn't want to tell her the last part ... about the deer body turning into Marty. That wasn't prophecy or a vision; just my own sick subconscious playing tricks ... wasn't it?