Gifts of the Blood (5 page)

“You said that already.” I tried to push past her again. Her arm shot out. She was smaller than me. I thought about shoving past her anyway, but something in her golden-green eyes stopped me. Logan stepped between us.

“He’s still here,” my brother said.

I froze. “What?” I finally ground out.

“He clearly had medical training,” Logan rationalized. “It seemed like a real blessing, actually. It was him or the paramedics. And please don’t take this the wrong way, but we didn’t want to make any more of a scene than we already had. It just seemed like the easiest thing.” Logan eyed me anxiously, as if waiting for another explosion.

Part of it didn’t matter; half the town had seen or heard me screaming, and the other half would hear about it soon enough. I could look forward to a new life as Crazy Caspia, Whitfield’s newest freak. But then Logan said… “He’s here?” I croaked, hugging myself. “Right now? In this apartment?" I looked wildly at the two doors leading out of my bedroom, and wondered which one he lurked behind.

“Frightening Caspia was the last thing I wanted to do,” said a voice like smoke and honey. It came from the shadows between my wingback reading chair and my sagging, overstuffed bookshelf. I stopped breathing. He must have slipped in through the hallway door. I hadn’t heard a sound. Warmth radiated from the shadows; my brother and my best friend angled their bodies towards it. Even I caught myself straining forwards, and I was terrified. “She was so upset when I first saw her,” he said as his familiar, glowing eyes stepped smoothly closer. “I walked right up to her as if she already knew me. I just wanted to help.” He turned the full force of his glowing eyes on me while I tried to both shrink into the closet and remember to breathe. “But I only made things worse. I pushed her to talk to me. Add that to the shock of her biggest sale ever, on top of all the other strain she has been under, and of course she lashed out at me. Rightly so.” He bowed slightly at the waist, keeping his eyes locked on mine the entire time. “I’m grateful I have the chance to apologize. Again.”

I kept my eyes locked on his, but fought the urge to retreat further into the closet. His explanation sounded good. Too good. I felt my eyes narrow. Probably because, like most lies and evasions, it was grounded in truth; he
had
done all those things. Except he was leaving out one huge, important part: he’d walked out of a drawing knowing too much about me to be a mere stranger. Ooh, I needed Logan to myself for just a minute or two.

“Oh, you’ve done more than enough,” I said through clenched teeth. “No apologies needed.”

“Very well, Caspia,” he exhaled. Ice and green leaves. Effervescence and wind. Logan didn’t move. Why wasn’t anyone else reacting as I was? Couldn’t anyone else sense his strangeness? An automatic, primal protectiveness flared deep within as Logan stood, an unwitting barrier between this stranger and myself. I prowled closer, my stomach against my brother’s back, my injured arm resting on his shoulder. I hid my exposed side against his bulky dark sweatshirt. Eyes the color of a secluded spring-fed pool watched Logan and I steadily. “The burns are superficial,” the interloper said calmly. “The herbalist treated them well. Your wrist is most likely sprained, but you might want to get it x-rayed if it doesn’t improve after a couple of days. Keep it elevated.” I snorted.

“That means a sling,” Logan lectured. I rolled my eyes. A sling. Yeah, right. But then the rest of the conversation penetrated.

“A couple of days?” I repeated. “How am I supposed to make left-handed lattes?” I felt my thoughts skitter sideways, away from the strangeness in front of me, latching on to the mundane reality of things like bills and food. “I have to work,” I murmured, clinging more tightly to Logan. “And what about school? I can’t draw left handed, and something tells me Dr. Christian won’t care.”

“Relax. I called Markov. The twins both said they’d cover for you,” my brother told me. He leaned backwards. He wanted to shield me, and for just a moment, I was tired enough to let him. “Everybody’s been concerned and supportive, Cas. Your job’s not going anywhere. When Amberlyn got the call, we ran across the square. Mrs. Alice had something for your burn, and he was evaluating your wrist. Between the two of them, they got it salved, splinted, and wrapped. He carried you all the way here. I’m not strong enough anymore; believe me, I wish…”

“Shh,” I cut him off softly. His weight against me was slight, so slight. I thought of him running in the cold wind, my brother who had to rest midway up the stairs to our apartment. I imagined him seeing me, motionless on the ground, trying unsuccessfully to lift me, seeing what hell that must have been. Blue-green eyes glowed steadily at me from the dark of my room, seeing into me; forcing me, in turn, to see.
Not strong enough. The winter will take him,
a tiny voice whispered in the back of my mind. “No,” I whispered to the stranger across the room. “No, Logan, you’re fine.” Twin blue-green glowing orbs stared back at me, unblinking and unconvinced.

“Of course I’m fine,” Logan agreed, turning to pull me close in a tight hug. He was more sweatshirt than muscle, but he put his entire body into the hug. I leaned into him gratefully. “Everything’s fine, Caspia,” he murmured, petting my hair like he’d done since we were kids. “You should get some rest.”

“I have to talk to you," I murmured into his chest. “Alone,” I added sharply.

“I have to talk to Amberlyn, and help her get her stuff together,” Logan promised, easing back with a smile. “But I’m not going anywhere. I live here, remember?”

“I would like to speak with you as well, Caspia Chastain,” said the voice like smoke and honey. “Alone.”

Inwardly, I groaned. Of course he would. “I don’t even know your name,” I said, flinging up the first protest I could think of.

Amberlyn laughed, a quick and light melodious trill. “Ethan told you his name four or five times already, Caspia. You really must have hit your head hard.”

“Perhaps I’d better look at it again,” the unsettling man allegedly named Ethan said with a frown. Was there anything he hadn’t thought of? I stepped backward in alarm, looking wildly at my brother. Logan sighed.

“I’d appreciate that, Ethan. If she’ll let you. And thanks again.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob and pinned me with a half-accusing, half-exasperated frown. “I’ll be just on the other side of the wall if he tries to bandage you to death, Cas.” With a shake of his head, he shuffled after my best friend.

Leaving me with
him
.

Chapter Four:

Involved

The stranger sighed, running his fingers through his hair in the darkness while he stared at me. I eyed both exits, calculated his proximity to both of them, and judged my chances of getting past him to be zero. I was acutely conscious of the huge rip in the side of my t-shirt, baring my side to the open air, and to him. I tried to tug the edges of the rip together with my bandaged wrist and winced when it twisted unexpectedly.

He winced when I did. “Don’t do that! You’ll hurt yourself more.”

“I figured that out,” I snapped. “Why are you still here? I don’t care what you have to say to me.” I frowned and bit my lower lip, because that wasn’t exactly true. I was almost as curious as I was alarmed by my drawing come to life. “You pretty much lied to them, letting them think you were just some helpful bystander, and now they think I’m crazy. I don’t need that. My brother doesn’t need that.” I formed each word with careful, angry precision, pacing sideways until I stood in the middle of my room.

He considered my words. “I’m still here because I’m sorry. I want to make sure you’re ok. I insist on it, actually. And because I want to know why you’re so afraid of me.” He raised his hands slightly and spread them open, as if to show he wasn’t hiding anything. The shadows of my darkened room rippled at his back.

I took tiny, careful steps backwards until I bumped against my refinished thrift store dresser. I felt gingerly along its sanded, whitewashed surface until I found my tiny beaded lamp among piles of jewelry, books, candles, and art supplies. He didn’t move as I flipped the switch and suffused the room with low light. I tilted my head and looked at him, slowly, trying not to be afraid this time, rationalizing that both Logan and Mr. Mason would come running if I screamed hard enough. I narrowed my eyes and tried to see him as if I might draw him with care and attention, instead of conjuring him wildly from some unknown place in my head. He stood motionless, receptive to my gaze but not relaxed.

My little lamp illuminated only one side of him, casting the other half in shadow. The effect was startling. One half of him practically shone with life and color, while the other seemed stark and cold. Light fighting shadow, darkness threatening order; he was a creature at war with himself. His blue-green eyes were the color of oceans; streaks of gold flecked his brown hair. Even his skin looked faintly golden. The lines of his features demanded pencil rather than coarse graphite or charcoal. His lips called for a series of soft, feathery curves to capture the lines properly. His cheekbones and jaw needed firm straight lines to convey their angular strength. A bit of shading over the cheeks and chin would soften the features and show the hint of vulnerability, of confusion I saw. In the shadowy half-light of my bedroom, I saw that my earlier sketch had gotten everything wrong, given only a hint of his appearance.
No wonder Amberlyn didn’t recognize him
.

“I don’t know what you are, other than a sign I don’t understand yet,” I finally admitted. “But what’s more important, I don’t know what you
mean
.” He merely raised an eyebrow at me. I raised a finger to silence him before he could interrupt me. “Look, I’m really bad at articulating this, so just bear with me.” I took a deep breath. “Sometimes, I draw the future.”

I waited for the explosion, for the laughter, but he merely stood there, nodding, waiting for me to finish. Like I’d just announced the time, or that I wanted waffles for breakfast. I waited another minute, just to see if the explosion was going to be delayed, but he just stood there, watching me serenely with those blue-green eyes of his.

“Ok, then,” I continued doubtfully. “So, earlier today, instead of drawing my art assignment, I drew you.”

Still no explosion, only expectant waiting.

“In a storm of darkness and these huge planes of light and some really creepy symbols like bloody talons and a broken knife and a smashed heart.” I thought back, trying to remember. “Oh, and you were angry. Thermo-nuclear angry. You looked ready to fight. Or maybe defend. Or both.”

That
got a reaction, but not the one I was expecting. I blinked, and suddenly he was in my face. I mean, one second he was over by my door, and the next, he was right in front of me. I didn’t see him move. His warm hands gripped me around the waist, their heat and texture against my bare skin enough to chase away any thoughts not of
him
and
us
and
now
. My injured side, scraped against concrete when I struggled against him, flared with pulsing heat where my raw skin met his. His touch was surface-soft but I could sense the bruising strength underneath, like granite wrapped in velvet. I was breakable, and in that instant we both knew it. His hold on me was so precise and careful the rest of him seemed a mere extension of the contact between us. Taut with the effort of holding me without hurting, his eyes locked on mine as the universe narrowed to his voice alone.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Soft and layered like whispered echoes through mist, his words wrapped around me like a warm cocoon. “I wasn’t supposed to get involved.” His entire face twisted in confusion, and I saw, again, a being cast half in shadow, half in light. “When I touched you… it was without thought, or preparation. I hurt you through my carelessness. There will be… repercussions.” I saw the desperation of an unreleased apology in his eyes; it lurked there like an unfamiliar and unwelcome weight. He studied me, warmth pulsing from his hands at my sides. Then he let me go. The warmth, the welcome quiet in my mind- all of it vanished when he released his careful hold. A single soft brush of fingertips up my exposed side ended with my bandaged hand cradled between his cupped palms.

Everyday reality came crashing back in: Logan speaking in a low voice in the other room over medium-loud music, traffic on the street, Abigail twining herself through my legs and Ethan’s, purring and butting her head against us. I stumbled backwards at the change in atmosphere. My head spun more from the abrupt lack of contact with him rather than the sudden swarm of a normal evening at home. My sides still felt warm where his hands held me; the rest of me was cold. I stumbled, felt myself falling0, heard Abigail meowing in dismay. I twisted, trying not to land on my bandaged arm or my brother’s cat.

Fingers like fired clay slid over my forearm while a heavy warm palm settled, briefly, against the small of my back, steadying me. By the time I finished blinking, I found myself several feet away on the edge of my bed. Ethan sat next to me, leaving half a foot between us. He stared steadily at me in the soft glow of my tiny beaded lamp, still the only light in the room besides moonlight. The dizzying speed with which I’d been moved hit me suddenly and I doubled over, my good arm wrapped tightly across my churning stomach. Abigail jumped up between us, nudging Ethan impatiently and purring. I groaned.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized again. “I didn’t want you to fall. You’re wobbly, for a human.” Abigail purred her agreement as he rubbed under her chin. I spared her a sharp glare. Traitor.

“You’re inhumanly fast,” I snapped back without thinking. My head spun; Abigail purred louder and louder, twining herself around Ethan as if he had catnip stashed somewhere on his person. Two phrases replayed themselves in my head as my brother’s usually reserved orange cat crouched down in Ethan’s lap and rolled right onto her back.