Matters of the Blood (6 page)

It didn't take long for me to realize that the subtle lighting of the room might be fine for comforting a grieving family, but lacked the right number of lumens for comfortable reading—or snooping. I leaned over to reach the switch of the floor lamp that stood next to the desk. Nothing happened when I pressed it, even though there was a bulb under the shade and it looked new.

It didn't take long to discover the problem. The lamp was plugged into a power strip to the left of the desk. A couple of other cords led to a calculator and to an electric pencil sharpener. The strip wasn't plugged into the wall socket. Easily remedied.

A few seconds and a couple of sparks later, all the lights in my cousin's office went out. The hall lights were still on, so I must have just tripped a breaker.

Double damnation and hell. The breaker box was located in the one room in this building I really hated. I could ignore the problem and pretend I didn't know what happened—which would result in my totally non-handy cousin calling an electrician and paying outrageous rates—or I could swallow my distaste for the room and take care of it myself. Guilt won out over aversion. Besides, an electrician might cost
me
money.

I unplugged the offending strip and headed to the prep room and the breaker box.

The prep room was located at the far back of the building, just past the rear service entrance where I'd originally come in. Access to the room was through the infamous security door.

My cousin shared the key code with me when he'd shown off his purchase, making me try it for myself, preening at the overwhelming coolness factor of having this high-tech door, never once thanking me for paying for it. Typical.

I punched in the code, half-hoping Marty had changed the combination in his quest for better security. It would have given me an excuse to just leave and not worry about the breaker, but I wasn't that lucky. The lock clicked and I pushed the lever down to open the door. I checked to make sure there were no occupants before I stepped through. I didn't think there would be. Unless Marty was working on someone, any bodies would be in the mortuary refrigerator.

The door slammed shut behind me as a massive boom of thunder shook the building, catching me by surprise. I could have sworn the storm hadn't been that close. The overhead lights flickered once, twice. I held my breath. Another crash sounded and all the lights blinked out, plunging me into a darkness so complete, it was almost solid. There were no windows to let in even the weak light of the rainy evening. With no light at all, even my better-than-human night vision couldn't help.

Shit. Now what?

The room suddenly felt oppressively small, even though I knew it was more than thirty feet to the opposite wall and at least twenty across. It wasn't the complete blackness that bothered me, but the aura of profound sadness permeating the entire building was stronger in this room. Its patina coated every wall, every fixture, pressed against me, seeped inside—shadows of sorrows past and present, reminding me of the fragile mortality of humans. The funeral home had been operating for nearly a hundred years. That's a lot of bodies, a lot of grief. Right now, I felt every single bit of it. Just another side-effect of being who I was. My special bond with the Reaper enhanced any emotions associated with death.

I really was locked in. My futile pushing against the crash bar did absolutely nothing. Sure, an electronic lock with no electricity would shut down and keep people
out,
but shouldn't it still open to let someone trapped
inside
out? Damn my stupid cousin anyway. I'd lay any bets he took the money I gave him for the reinstallation and spent it on something else. I'd never seen that particular invoice, just given Marty a check.

I stood still, trying to decide what to do, when suddenly the scent of life came to me, faint behind the scent of old death—a gentle whiff, quiet on the still air. My nostrils gathered it, my brain processed it, and the knowledge stunned my awareness.

Holy hell. There was something else in here with me ... something or someone. I couldn't identify it. A scent of blood, but not of spilled blood. This blood was still circulating, nourishing someone's body, making a heart beat. Doing what it was meant to do.

"Hello?” I called out into the silence, my words vanishing as if swallowed by the absence of light.

Living energy stroked my skin, dancing along it as if I were touching one of those lightning balls sold in novelty stores, creating crazy patterns in the back of my eyes. I still couldn't see in the pitch blackness. I cautiously lowered my shields and reached out, trying to feel whatever else was there. A flash of brilliance and then there was nothing.

Another clap of thunder, just short of a sonic boom, coupled with a bright flash of lights, wrenched me back to consciousness, my eyes blinking away the brightness. The power was back on.

My stiff muscles ached with the effort to sit up. For some bizarre reason, I was lying on the floor. Last I remembered, I'd been standing up, thinking that someone else was in the room with me. I turned to look around and groaned, the sound loud in the silent room. My head pounded with pain, my pulse beat in time with each throb.

Struggling to my feet, fighting the nausea that swirled through me, I leaned against the sink, using it as a support to help me up. My hand slid along its porcelain edge, leaving a wet trace of ... was that
blood?
Every muscle in my body tensed. Both my hands were coated with red.

Slowly, I raised them to my face and took a careful sniff. I knew instantly the blood wasn't mine. At first, that was a relief, but then I realized it had to belong to someone else.

Wait. A sink?

I froze in place as I recognized my surroundings. Instead of being near the entry door, I was on the other side of the room in the embalming area. I couldn't remember having walked there.

A chill skittered down my spine; invisible frozen fingers brushed my skin, as if in warning. Oh, no. This wasn't happening. I've been here before. Several times before. In my nightmares. Before the hunting, before the deer, I'd had nightmares of the mortuary. The smell of blood, of death, of—

Suddenly, I didn't want to turn around. My hands gripped the sink. I knew there was something behind me and it wasn't a vacant embalming table. I could smell it. Fresh, still warm, its tang filled my awareness, calling something deep inside me. The pull of the blood threatened to take me somewhere I wasn't ready to go. It's always about the blood, the red pulsing liquid flowing through my veins. My aunt's voice slid through my memory, remembrances of lessons learned, lectures committed to the subconscious. Blood and flesh nourished many of my family, my branch is mostly hunters, predators. The need, the urge to see what made the smell begged me to turn, to track down the source.

I held my breath, needing to shut it out, to stop breathing in the scent. I didn't want to go there, but it didn't matter. I didn't need to breathe to sense it. Closing my eyes, I turned, my movements deliberate, my hands clutched into fists, the drying blood tacky against my skin. I didn't want to see, but I had to. I let myself open my eyes.

No. This could not be real.

My brain refused to process the scene. The once-empty table now held an occupant. It was definitely male. It was definitely Marty. And he was most definitely dead. A drainage tube jutted out of his jugular. His life's blood dripped to the bed of the table, snaking a bright red line across his nude body, across the stainless steel and into the drain below, as if he were no more than another client, another corpse to be embalmed. This was exactly like my dream. Only this time—

A pounding on the hall door tore my gaze from the scene. The lights flashed again, seconds of darkness followed by the brightness of their sudden glare. I blinked and shook my head to clear the cobwebs, darting a glance across the room.

Everything was the way it had been. The embalming area remained in shadow; no body lay on the empty table. I was still at the entrance. My hands were clean. Nothing had changed. What in all the levels of all the known and unknown dimensions of hell had just happened?

"Keira, open the door!” Carlton's voice boomed from the other side. “Keira, are you okay in there?"

I wasted no time pushing the crash bar. This time, the door opened, right into Carlton, whose hand was lifted, as if ready to knock again.

"Whoa, buddy,” I said, putting my hand up in front of my face. “Watch out.” I stepped through and let the door close behind me, shutting away the vivid scene that didn't exist.

"Are you all right? I saw your car out back. I knew the power had gone out around here.” He looked a little sheepish. “I came in to check on you."

Without answering, I walked away, down the hall to the reception area. I needed to put a little distance between myself and that room. Carlton followed me.

I dropped into one of the new chairs lining the wall and stroked the softness of the fabric, trying to ground myself with the tactile sensation.

"I'm fine, Carlton. What brings you out this way?"

I tried to sound normal, to keep the sounds and thoughts gibbering at the edges of my brain from coming out of my mouth. Whatever had just happened back there, whether waking nightmare, vision, or whatever, I wasn't ready to share. Never with Carlton, maybe not even with Bea. It may seem silly, or bizarre, but in my reality, words were power. If I talked about what I'd just seen, it might give it substance, make it come true.

The sheriff moved closer to me, squatting down in front of the chair, moving with a grace that belied his size. He rested a hand on either arm of the chair. The cloth of his uniform slacks stretched tight across his thighs, reminding me of my long ago attraction. He moved so quietly and softly for such a square and solidly built man, comfortable with his size, his knowledge of self. I'd run across few men who were so self-assured, so aware of who they were and their place in the world, never clumsy or awkward—only one other had been human.

"I actually came out this way to talk to your cousin,” he said. “I take it he's not here?"

"He's not,” I replied. “He was gone when I got here. About...” I grabbed Carlton's wrist to better read his watch. “Shit, about three hours ago,” I said, letting go of his arm. I'd lost time in there. That wasn't a good sign.

"You've been waiting for him for three hours?"

"Yeah, I promised I'd come talk to him.” He may not believe me, but what the hell else was I supposed to say?

Carlton's face was level with mine. He nodded, as if distracted, and slid his hands across the arm of the chair, leaning in toward me. For a split second, I flashed on a vision of him leaning in for a kiss. Weird. I must be channeling memories of the past.

He rubbed a spot on my cheek. “You've got dirt on your face."

I didn't like the tone of his voice—soft, like the velvet plush of the chair. His incessant human buzz reverberated in the back of my skull like the whine of a drill, giving me a headache.

I pushed his hand away and rubbed at the spot myself.

He rocked back on his heels and smiled. The smile had been another reason. It lit up his entire face. Made him almost pretty.

"Why were you locked in the prep room?"

"I went to fix a fuse. The lights went out as soon as I got in there. Then the damned door jammed."

Carlton laughed and stood up in one swift movement. “Are you sticking around?"

"No. I'm not waiting for Marty any longer. He can just talk to me tomorrow."

I pushed myself up out of the chair, and couldn't move anywhere. Carlton was standing too close to me. His body was less than a foot away. The buzz intensified, vibrating against my skin.

Automatically, I tried to step back, but the chair was in my way.

"Good.” He spoke almost in a whisper.

"What do you mean by ‘good'?"

Carlton stepped even closer, not quite touching me, but close enough that I could feel the vibration of his energy all over my body. Suddenly, I could scent him—a heavy musk smell clogging my throat with its thick sweetness. I swayed a little, nearly falling back into the chair. Holy Mother of all Holy Things. He wanted me. No doubt about it.

This was
not
going to happen. I forced myself back, pushed the chair aside, its legs screeching across the polished hardwood floor and stepped around Carlton. I tried to ignore the sensations radiating from him. His lust didn't awaken an answer in me, more a panic response. Fight or flight.

I chose flight.

Even as a changeling—for that matter, even before—I was much stronger than he could ever be. But I didn't want to take the chance that he'd actually try something stupid. It was easier to just leave.

He stepped toward me again. “Keira, do you think—"

I held up my hand, stopping him.

"No, Carlton. I don't think.” I couldn't let myself meet his eyes.

"You know I still care, don't you?"

His voice held a plea I didn't want to hear.

I couldn't do this. Not on top of everything else. I'd just spent hours locked in the Dead Zone with some sort of horrendous waking vision, and now my recently-returned former boyfriend was making a pass at me.

"No, Carlton, stop it.” I'd had enough and my voice was harsh. “This is not going to happen. What we had was a long time ago and it's long since over. You need to concentrate on the here and now. Like your wife, your family."

"Keira, please..."

"No. Go home, forget this happened. You'll be thankful for it later."

I turned away from him and hurried to the front door, pulling it open. It was still raining.

"Keira, please."

His plaintive words turned into an unattractive whine as I let the door slam shut behind me in the wind. I'd had more than enough of Carlton, and of Marty's bedamned funeral home. I just wanted to get home. Maybe I could salvage what was left of the night.

As another clap of thunder drowned out the thud of the door, I realized my mistake. The only car out here was Carlton's truck. I'd parked behind the building. Damn. Now I'd either have to go back inside and deal with Carlton, or walk all the way around and get soaked.