The Blood Keeper

  And the binding circle held.

  The cleansing curse hit the edge of my magic and died.

  I’d crumpled to the side, exhausted, and Arthur caught me, dragging me half onto his lap. He kissed my palm and the cut healed. He brushed a thumb over my wrist and I was whole.

  The crows returned one at a time, making hard, tired landings.

  “Well done, little queen,” Arthur said, with one finger lifting my chin so that I looked. The circle of black earth was contained, but at its center the walnut tree slowly crumbled into chunks of charcoal and ash.

  The black candle rune was gone and burned away but had taken everything in a twenty-foot circle with it.

  WILL

  I drove back and forth along the half-mile stretch of county road I estimated was two miles south of Matt’s uncle’s lake. But I couldn’t find the turnoff to Mab’s land.

  On my third pass I yanked the wheel. The tires threw gravel off the shoulder as I stopped. I cut my music.

  Slowly, the oppressive silence melted into individual sounds. Wind, leaves clapping together, birds chirping—a lot of birds chirping—and … nothing else. No highway noise, no distant radio, no conversation or yelling kids or anything.

  No dogs breathing down my neck.

  My chest felt hollow. I wanted Havoc behind me, dripping drool onto my shoulder as she tried to see out the windshield.

  I shut my eyes and imagined flying up into the sky, for that bird’s-eye view of the area. In my head, I was exactly where I was supposed to be. There was the lake, and here the slow rolling hills. Dense tree cover, sudden wide-open field gone all prairie and fallow. This road snaking southeast, back toward the interstate.

  It should be here.

  I jumped out of the car and slammed the door behind me. The bang it made soothed me for a moment, and before the echo died completely I started off. The regular crunch-shuffle of my steps on the gravel was a relief, too.

  The trees pushed against each other in a huge mess. No order, no pattern. Just thick trees and thin ones, tall trees with spreading branches, and short, squat little bush things. Fallen logs. Lots of piles of dead leaves from last year. I could only see about ten feet into the woods, too. The trees were so close together, and the canopy kept out so much sunlight. But there was definitely, certainly, no break in them big enough for a person, much less a car.

  I tromped on. My girls would’ve found the path in no time.

  About fifteen minutes later, I turned back the way I’d come. After only a few feet, I faced the forest and called, “Mab?”

  My voice cracked out like a bullet.

  “Mab?”

  Nothing. Just the wind in the trees and a lessening of the birdsong. But it picked back up quickly.

  “I need your help,” I said, but too softly for anyone to hear even if they’d been standing just inside the line of trees.

  A crow called. I jerked to attention.

  I scanned the trees. It called again, and I saw it. A large black crow perched on a branch about ten feet off the ground. A dozen yards north of my location.

  And right beside its tree, the forest parted to make room for a gravel road. It was impossible I hadn’t seen it. I’d walked right past it. And driven past it three times.

  The crow cawed twice in quick succession. I lifted a hand and jogged toward it, off the gravel and into the knee-high grass. “Thanks,” I said, and saluted it. It flapped its wings and took off. I started to yell after it, but it only flew to the next tree, a few more steps into the woods.

  It was drawing me inside.

  The crow led me for several minutes straight through the dense underbrush. There wasn’t any path, and I had to climb over logs and shove through bushes, using branches sometimes for leverage. But the forest barely noticed me. Branches snapped back into place when I passed, birds sang, squirrels ran overhead, leaping from tree to tree. I began to wish I had on long sleeves and boots. My sneakers did okay, but my forearms were scratched up in no time.

  Eventually, the trees spread out just a bit. I was on a deer path. The crow overhead was joined by a second and then a third. They darted across the space in front of me, egging me on. The deer path was, like, six inches wide, and my pants brushed up against lush green plants with every step. As I walked, I kept an eye out for poison ivy. I was gonna have to do a serious tick check when I got home.

  Sweat dripped down over my eyebrow, and I paused to wipe it away with the hem of my T-shirt. When I raised my head, I saw color flash ahead.

  I jogged on, pushing past the crows, and emerged from the trees into a small grove. The grass was as tall as my knees, and totally wild. Little pink and white flowers bloomed in the center where the sun hit, and just past them was a barn.

  It had been hard to see through the trees because it was painted gray, but a thick line of red striped the side horizontally, and over the double doors somebody had painted a huge, multicolored pattern. Some sort of star and circle and triangle thing. Bold and fresh—much newer than the rest of the barn. It looked layered, too, like it was repainted every year or so.

  One of the doors was ajar, and two crows flew inside. The third waited for me on the ground.

  That crow hopped through and vanished into the darkness. I gripped the door and pulled it back another inch or two. “Hello?” I said. No response. “Mab?”

  But the crows clearly wanted me inside. I stopped after a foot to let my eyes adjust. It wasn’t dark, just dim. Scraps of sunlight shone through the hole in the south corner of the barn’s roof. A few little white birds scattered as the crows flew up to the rafters. There was a lightbulb dangling from the center, adding a bit of yellow to the dusty gloom.

  Half the barn was full of old crap. Crates, pieces of a rusted tractor, empty gallon jars, feed sacks, and that sort of thing. The other half was more organized, but barely. A long wooden table dominated it, and rows and rows of shelves held boxes, vials, buckets, and I was pretty sure that was a cast-iron cauldron brimming with seashells. The table itself was almost bare. A block of kitchen knives perched at one end. A trunk was tucked under the table, and it was etched with weird old symbols like you’d see in a horror flick.

  It all just hit me. Mud monster, too-smart crows, all these crazy dreams. Mab. Holding out that heart. Whispering over it.

  Like freaking Gandalf. Or a witch. Only with goggles and a wild smile instead of warts and a pointy hat.

  My sneakers stuck to the floor.

  “Mab?” I managed.

  The crow up in the rafters yelled, dove down to the table. It landed on the edge, scrabbling with its claws. I picked up my feet and made my way around the table. Nearly tripped over Mab. She was lying prone on the hard-packed dirt, hands folded on her stomach, eyes closed. Her hair sprawled all around her like a Disney princess.

  I crouched beside her, a hand hovering over her shin. It didn’t look like she was breathing. “Mab?”

  Her eyes flicked open.

  MAB

  When I heard my name, I firmly expected Arthur to be crouched there. Finding Will staring down instead rocketed me back into my body so fast it rattled my teeth.

  “Mab?” he said, sweat beading on his forehead.

  I didn’t move. “Will,” I whispered. “What are you doing here?” Surprise was tiny snowflakes melting on my bare arms.

  His gaze did not waver from mine as he very simply said, “I need help.”

  I sat, which put me very close to him. He’d brought the forest into the barn: the scent of damp wood, mud, and blossoming trees. I also smelled sweat and soap made with chemicals that wrinkled my nose.

  “Sorry.” He stood up, wincing mightily.

  “Oh no, I don’t mind.” I gripped his hand and used it to heave myself up to my feet in order to prove my point. “But some soaps have chemicals in them that could make you infertile.”

  “What?”

  I faced him, not releasing his wrist. His skin was warm under mine, and his frown, his mouth, was level
with my eyes, and I couldn’t find my voice. In my dream, he’d kissed me, and I’d wrapped myself around him. The memory of it woke something in my belly, a tiny snake that wiggled up toward my tongue and freedom. I parted my lips to allow it out, just a breath, a sigh.

  After a moment he said, “Mab, there’s something wrong with me.” He didn’t say it with complaint, or a whine to his voice; it was merely a statement of fact. “I’m not sure what it is, though, or why, or if it’s even something you can help me with.”

  His whole face moved while he talked, as completely animated and changing as water, and beside him, I was a rock grown up out of the ground. I very much wished to help him, and very much wished he’d keep staring at me. “Tell me.”

  Will opened his mouth again, and I waited, trying to keep my face relaxed instead of displaying the growing delight I felt in my chest.

  Finally, he said, “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “What’s the most important thing?” I asked softly.

  “This. My eyes. There’s something wrong with them.” Will leaned his face into my face, one eye shut and the other wide. He even pulled down the bottom of his eyelid with one finger.

  I let myself put a hand on his cheek. The shadow from the lightbulb overhead darkened his face, though, and I couldn’t see anything, so I tugged him around to the other side of the table, where I hopped up to sit. It put me a few inches taller than him. “Show me again?”

  He leaned close and tilted his head up. I drew him all the way in to the edge of the table, and his jeans were rough as his hips brushed against my inner knees, pushing up my dress. My breath caught in my throat. Concentrating, with every ounce of resolve I could muster, I took his face between my hands to direct the angle of his head toward the light.

  Will looked at everything but my face, blinking rather quickly.

  “Will,” I said.

  He stopped moving and whispered, “Sorry.”

  I splayed my fingers across his cheeks, reminded myself this was my job, and peered into his left eye.

  It was the color of a perfect acorn, with gray around it, and flecks of a paler brown. And there, just at the edge of color, a thin crescent of red, as if his iris were a moon eclipsing a bloody sun.

  “It isn’t supposed to be there,” he said quietly, holding himself perfectly still except for his shaky in-and-out breaths.

  “I don’t know what it is.” I slid my hands down to his neck, and he straightened his head. His mouth pulled into a frown, dragging the corners of his eyes with it.

  And then Will sighed in frustration, his whole body melting closer to mine so that he could press his hands against the edge of the table on either side of my hips. I didn’t move, or take my hands off his collar.

  I could feel the flicker of his pulse under my fingertips.

  Will’s face was inches from mine, shifting emotions faster than the beat of a sparrow’s wings.

  I leaned in and felt his breath against my lips. I could so easily kiss him, let myself press closer.

  He didn’t move at all.

  And I was the Deacon. He’d come to me for help, not romance, not this sudden, ridiculous infatuation tearing through me. I shifted away, covering my mouth with one hand as if I could hold inside the air I’d stolen.

  “Mab.” Will kept his hands on the table beside me, studying me as though I was this amazing, strange thing.

  “Will,” I whispered back, the exchange of names connecting us.

  But.

  But the pattern was coming together again. He’d found me in the middle of my land, through the hidden gates, and exactly where I’d been searching for answers. Where I lay under the blood family tree carved into the western wall of the barn.

  Arthur once told me that when we worked with magic we were making connections. Between a flower and rheumatism, between water and earth, between breath and thunder. Finding connections and using our blood to make them strong and whole. We didn’t make the carrot garden poisonous to deer and rabbits so much as change the animals’ association with that patch, by shifting the connection between plant and instinct. Laying ointment on a burn didn’t heal it, but reminded the flesh what it wanted to be by reconnecting it to memories. Your blood, and your willpower, had to be stronger than the damage.

  It was the difference between nature and magic. Nature found connections, while magic created them.

  Now the magic whispered in my ears, Will is connected to us, and it sent a thrill through my blood.

  WILL

  I was barely holding it together.

  She’d nearly kissed me. I hadn’t been able to move. The thought of it had scorched my skin. All over, making the headache burn behind my eyeballs.

  Her hands were cold on my chest and her knees a constant pressure on my hips. I felt dizzy. And soaring. I shut my eyes tight, and then Mab’s cool fingers touched my eyelids, soothing away the pain. “Tell me what else is wrong,” she said.

  “God, I don’t know. It’s a headache, a tingly, hot headache right behind my eyes.” I looked at her, and her fingers fell away from my face. But she stayed so close. Her face was all pieces this close, instead of a whole.

  Mab frowned. Her thin eyebrows drew together. “You’re sweating,” she noted.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s cool in here. And the entire day has been cooler than usual.” Mab put the back of her hand against my forehead. Her skin was like ice. I leaned in, it felt so good. “You have a fever.”

  “Not again.” I moved away from her. But I missed her legs around me, and her arms, too. Like she’d been shielding me from something.

  “How long has this been happening? You didn’t have the blood in your eyes on Saturday.”

  “I just noticed.”

  “And the fever, too?”

  “No, that’s …” I thought back to last Monday, when the Internet had told me I was maybe schizophrenic.

  Mab hopped off the table and pulled me by the wrist again. She led me over the dusty dirt floor to a crate. Basically pushed me down onto it. It creaked, but it didn’t feel rickety. Mab stood in front of me, all that hair tumbling everywhere in big, fat curls. The light from the open barn doors lit her from behind. Turned that hair into solid gold. “Tell me everything, Will,” she said. “I want to help you.”

  I took a long breath and blew it out through my mouth. I wished for a drink of Water. Or Havoc’s head pushing into my knee. But that wasn’t happening, so I sucked it up and told Mab about the headache, about the bloody nose, even though I wasn’t sure it mattered. Though I’d been really hot that afternoon, too. I told her about yesterday’s fever and the tight band around my chest. But even though I’d already thought about this being some messed-up magic, it was too nuts. I didn’t mention the nightmares.

  When I brought up the taste coating my mouth for twenty-four hours after the mud monster, she touched her bottom lip with one finger.

  It distracted me.

  “Did you swallow some of it?” she asked.

  “Uh.” I thought back. To slamming down into the mud monster, my fingers sinking into its shoulders. Spitting gritty saliva onto it. The rose petal that had fallen out of my mouth. “Maybe.”

  “That might be bad,” she murmured, her head tilting slowly until she regarded me just like one of those crows. Which, I realized, had left the barn.

  “Bad like bad? What’s going to happen?”

  “Is there anything else?”

  I hesitated. This was all too weird. But who else was I gonna tell? “I’ve had more nightmares. Different ones—not about Holly, you know?”

  “I know,” she said, nodding as if she did.

  “I’m drowning in mud, or being strangled by roses, which is the craziest thing ever. Evil roses.” I attempted a laugh. Even I knew it was feeble.

  Mab’s expression darkened. “Roses. I see.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense.” My voice sounded desperate even to me.

  “It might.” She t
ilted her head and her hair fell sideways in a giant mass. “I need all the details.”

  I assumed she meant about the dreams, but my hand involuntarily went to my chest, where the bruise was.

  Mab noticed and looked at my hand, then back up to my face. The question clear in her eyes.

  Trying hard not to remember my brief fantasy of her kissing my chest all better, I raised my T-shirt up under my arms. And stared up at the ceiling rafters. The birds the crows had startled earlier had come back to roost up there again, two of them huddled together. I felt Mab move close to me. Then her fingers skimmed down the bruise. I shivered. Clenched my jaw.

  “Will, what happened?”

  “The, uh, antler? It hit me there, hard.” I swallowed, which was tough given how my neck was stretched.

  “What does it feel like?” She put her hand on my chest. The cold sent a shock straight to my heart.

  I glanced back down. With her so close and me sitting on the crate, she was taller. Her chin tucked down, and she spread her hand out as wide as it would go. As if she could hold the bruise. “It feels like … heavy. A weight there.”

  “In your heart?”

  “I guess so.” My voice was quiet and rough. Caught shivering because she had her palm over my heart.

  “Will.” Mab said my name loud and strong. My gaze snapped up to hers. “Will, do you trust me?”

  My mouth fell open.

  She only waited, eyebrows up. Frozen like everything about her next move depended on my answer.

  I thought of Ben sprawled next to me out at Clinton Lake. Trust it, he’d said. And I didn’t think there was really a choice anymore. Some part of me had decided on Saturday to believe in her.

  “Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Yes. I trust you.”

  A smile splashed over her face, and she whirled around. She dashed to the worktable and slid a thin knife out of the wooden block. As she returned, she cut the side of her pointer finger. I started to stand, but Mab’s hand on my shoulder pressed me back onto the crate. “It’s all right,” she said, leaning in and touching her bloody finger to my forehead. Then she dropped to the ground and lay down, eyes open and focused on me.