Gifts of the Blood (Gifted Blood Trilogy) Page 7

  “Um,” I said brilliantly. “Sure?”

  She stepped smoothly back from me. She looked me up and down, her snow-blond hair rippling like silver tinsel under the light, before shaking her head slowly. “Forget it, Caspia. Tonight I will wash the dishes.”

  “But,” I sputtered. “You guessed. You won. I wash. It’s what we do,” I protested. Amelie merely arched one perfect silver eyebrow at me and threw me a damp towel. To her credit, she knew me well enough not to mention or even look at my bandaged hand. She knew how stubborn I could be when my pride was damaged, and she also knew I was smarting from the sympathetic glances and not-so-subtle comments so many of our customers had flung my way tonight. Early into our shift, she elbowed me away from the front counter, where I stepped back and forth between the dessert displays, steaming lines of ceramic mugs, and the cash register after yet another customer sweetly inquired how I was feeling after my “nasty fall.” I spent the rest of the night frothing milk and lining up espresso shots, or bringing Mr. Markov and Erik the guitar player a plain black cup of coffee when things were slow.

  “You have to take the deposit anyway,” she reasoned. “If you wipe down the tables, we’ll be even.” When I opened my mouth to protest further, she stomped one black-booted foot and fisted her hands on her hips. “Mon Dieu! I will wash the damn dishes, you stubborn creature, and that is all I have to say!” She spun on one heel and flounced away in her designer jeans and perfect silver hair. I stared after her, my mouth drooping open in shock. Amelie, sweet Amelie, never shouted and stormed off. She was more the glaring coldly and gliding away type; quiet anger suited her pale beauty more than passionate outbursts. I shook my head and slipped the daily deposit into my messenger bag. It was heavy. We must have had a good night. Behind the tall steel espresso machines, where I had spent the majority of my evening hiding from gossipy neighbors, it had been hard to tell. I wondered darkly how many customers had come to gawk at Crazy Caspia, Whitfield’s newest mental case, and then shrugged. If they had, at least Mr. Markov had made some money off me.

  I looked around the store as I methodically wiped the tables down. Erik’s tall stool was empty next to the rough gray stone fireplace. He’d taken the mic and amp with him; he probably had another gig tomorrow somewhere. Usually, he just left his equipment neatly in the corner. I put down my towel and stacked the board games together on the large glass-topped table, which was hemmed in by four mismatched sofas. I straightened their cushions and collected stray books and magazines, depositing them on the shelves that dotted the room in random order. By the time I got back to my tables, the fire had almost completely died, and Mr. Markov was awake again. But instead of staring at his chessboard, as usual, he stared straight at me.

  Since Mr. Markov was blind, I found his direct gaze especially unnerving.

  His heavily lined face looked almost cruel in the banked glow of the dying fire. My boss was heavily scarred and wrinkled. His fingers rested in permanent curves, perfect, he told me, for holding a cane or a chess piece. I knew that his hands had been broken decades ago before he escaped to Whitfield from his native Russia, from what he called only his “life before.” He wouldn’t elaborate further, but my overactive imagination could fill in the blanks. His bent, scarred body bore witness to the secrets he would not speak, and his sightless eyes were eerily observant. They raked over me now, seeing through me, reminding me to count my blessings and take nothing for granted. No one would ever call him gentle, but he would do anything for those he trusted. He had a soft spot for orphans and immigrants, like the twins and I. I think we reminded him of some parts of himself: alone in a strange country.

  Wind shivered against the windows, rattling the door and snuffing out a few tea lights. The winter will take him, it seemed to echo. I shivered, too.

  I had to talk to Mr. Markov. I’d promised Logan. We were going to spend more time together. We were going to pick apples and drink cider, then watch horror movies all night long. We were going to have a normal autumn together, and that could only happen if I didn’t work myself into oblivion and exhaustion. The dying fire cast a flickering perimeter of dark scarlet light, enveloping Markov and his eternal chessboard. I stood just outside the bright arc of dying light, unsure of how to ask for something I needed but didn’t want.

  He kicked out the chair opposite him with his boot and nodded at it sharply. I sighed and went to him, taking my towel with me. I ignored the chair, hoping that maybe I could go back to my toweling and be on my way, avoiding the whole subject for another day. “Yes, Mr. Markov?” I asked, my voice wavering a little. I couldn’t meet his dark, hooded eyes even though logic told me he couldn’t see me. “Do you want more coffee? I can see if there’s any left.”

  “Sit down, Caspia,” he said, in the grim intonations of a man who was about to foretell an accident or predict a storm. My stomach twisted. I sat.

  He held a clear glass knight in his hands, passing it back and forth between his fingers. Mr. Markov wore a heavy gold ring with a carved red stone on his left hand. The red stone gleamed in the firelight and refracted off the glass chess piece until it seemed as if he cradled actual fire in his scarred, cupped palms. As neatly as if he were flipping a coin, he snapped the knight back between two fingers and used it to capture an opaque glass bishop. Although he looked at the chessboard, his smile felt aimed at me as he offered me the captured piece. I held the milky white bishop up to the firelight and wondered if Mr. Markov could somehow sense my answering smile. “Don’t you ever get tired of beating yourself?” I asked, placing the captured bishop in a neat line with his fallen comrades.

  “Of course.” He had the low, gravelly voice of a chronic smoker. “But this is balanced by the joy of winning against myself.” I snorted as he moved another piece. “Tell me what kind of candy drink you have invented today, my dear,” he invited, his rough fingers brushing lightly over the tops of the remaining pieces.

  “Pumpkin spice latte,” I said with a sigh. “It’s been popular. Amelie wants to make it the flavor of the week. And espresso drinks are not candy. They are Italian.”

  “That is just as bad.”

  “Whatever,” I said, trying not to laugh. The man had no imagination at all. Beige aprons, boring business name, plus he drank nothing but plain black coffee. “You’d be lost without us.” I propped my head on my arms and watched him demolish the board in three quick moves. I shook my head in admiration; there was a reason he played himself most of the time. No one in Whitfield was much competition. “Aren’t they supposed to be black and white?” I asked as he packed the pieces away. “Your pieces, and even your board, are glass. All white swirls, or clear glass.”

  “Ah, that is because I don’t see things in black and white, dear Caspia. In my world, it doesn’t exist.” He tapped his head and smiled. “Everything exists in shades of gray. Personally, I try to stick with the lighter spectrum.”

  “Because you’re… because of your eyes?”

  “Because I'm blind, you mean? Perhaps.” He leaned towards the fireplace, where the last dying embers glowed underneath a pile of darkening ash. “But I like to think of life in those terms, too. That there are no absolutes, and that even the deepest darknesses have shades of light in them.” His rough, permanently curved hand settled on my forearm. “Do you understand me, Caspia?”

  The winter will take him. “I’m going to Parson's Orchard with Logan,” I heard myself say through clenched teeth. Tears and words got twisted, somehow. They came out of me at the same time and I made no move to stop them. “I’m getting him a real down comforter for Christmas. Don’t tell him. It’s a secret.” The dying embers heaped along the bottom of the fireplace looked a bit like a bleeding wound through the tears I refused to wipe away. Wiping them away would mean acknowledging they were there.

  “…more time with your brother,” Mr. Markov was saying kindly when my ears started working again. The back of my throat felt numb as I nodded. “An extra day or two a week, just through th
e holidays. Of course, if you need money, you must tell me,” he said, squeezing my forearm gently. I wanted to tell him I was grateful for knowing what I needed without me even having to ask, but I settled for nodding. I thought of the extra money I’d made from my tarot card sales, and of how Mr. Mason had cornered me on the stairs before work and told me he wouldn’t let us pay December rent, that it was to be his Christmas present to us.

  “No, we should be ok for money,” I said, covering my boss’s hands with both of my own. “So don’t worry about us. I’ll still be here, and one of my buyers offered me a private commission if I need extra cash.” If I haven’t lost the stupid number forever, I thought with a frown, wondering what I had done with it. Maybe Mrs. Alice had kept a copy, or would remember it.

  That was the last thought I had before things changed.

  Mr. Markov jerked his hands out from under mine with lightening speed and grabbed his cane. He held it in both hands and stood in one fluid movement in front of me, silhouetted by a faint halo of dying fire. I never in a million years dreamed a blind old man could move so fast. “Who’s there?” he barked out in a voice thick with authority. I was so startled I spun sideways in my chair, knocking the closed and latched box that held the chess pieces off the table.

  Thank god it’s latched, I remember thinking as I tried to catch it. I imagined all those beautiful pieces, so lovingly handled, all smashed to bits because of me. I lunged from my chair, knowing I was going to be too late, sickened because it was one of the few things Mr. Markov had managed to smuggle out of Russia.

  A familiar hand settled in the curve of my spine, steadying me, pulling me upright against a dark cable knit sweater. I looked into unblinking blue-green eyes. No storm flickered behind them tonight; instead, they pinned me with the steady intensity of twin searchlights. “Still wobbly,” he said, and smiled. I held the box of chess pieces securely in my left hand, cradled between us. He’d put it there, and I hadn’t noticed. I leaned back a little, testing him, and the hand in the curve of my spine pulled me closer, tighter. I smiled.

  “Still…” I inhaled. He smelled of sunshine and pine tonight. “Fast,” I finished softly, silently adding the words I dared not say out loud.

  Wobbly, for a human.

  Inhumanly fast.

  Ethan.

  “And who the hell are you?” Mr. Markov demanded loudly. Inwardly, I groaned, suddenly conscious of my coffee-stained apron and my belligerent boss. I fought a sudden urge to hide behind Ethan’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry about your chess set,” I told Mr. Markov, replacing it on the table. “Ethan startled me.” I stripped off my apron as fast as I could. “But no harm done.”

  “Indeed,” Markov snorted, sounding personally offended.

  “Caspia,” Ethan said softly, but when I looked up at him, he stared intently at my boss. “Have you decided if you want my company? For your walk?”

  “Um, yes?” I half-answered, half-questioned. Both men completely ignored me, focused on each other instead. I found Ethan unsettling enough under the best of circumstances, but to see him engaged in some silent contest of wills with a blind man did funny things to my heart rate. Even stranger, Mr. Markov stared at Ethan just as intently, his sightless eyes moving in jerky slips up and down his form as if he could see him. I slipped my messenger bag, heavy with the night’s deposit, across my chest. “And I’m ready to go. Right. Now.”

  “You should get your jacket,” Ethan reminded me, gaze still locked on Markov, another meaning not meant for me hidden under his words.

  They stared at each other, showing no intention of moving. “Ok, then,” I sighed. “I’ll, uh, be right back.” Hopefully, they wouldn't kill each other in the interim. I practically sprinted to the front coat rack. I could hear Amelie singing something in French over the sound of running water from the depths of the kitchen. I snagged the jacket, guiltily grateful she would miss meeting Ethan. She would ask a million questions I didn’t have answers for, and my boss’s reaction had been strange enough.

  Mr. Markov acted exactly as if he could see Ethan. And he hadn't liked what he'd seen, whatever it had been. My fingers froze over the leather. Warm fingers took the jacket from me, slipping it over my shoulders. I jumped. In that moment, I hated the silent way he moved. “Ready?” he asked, holding the door open for me. I hesitated for just a second. Mr. Markov sat by the cold, dead fireplace, his sightless eyes trained directly on me. Just what did the blind man see when he looked at the not-quite-human drawing come to life? Did I want to find out?

  Streetlights touched off strands of gold in Ethan's hair. He held the door for me, waiting. Of course I wanted to know.

  “Goodnight!” I called out. “And thank you!” I stood on the threshold until I saw my boss nod in acknowledgement, then I let myself be pulled out into the night. “What was that about?” I asked as Ethan spun me towards him on the sidewalk. He straightened the jacket over my shoulders, buttoning the top button so it hung off me like a cloak.

  “He cares about you,” he said simply.

  “Was he sizing you up?”

  "Something like that.”

  I groaned. “Oh, god. I’m sorry. He means well.”

  Ethan smiled, a quick, tiny flash of a gesture, dismissing the incident. “What would you like to do?”

  “Mmm.” I looked at him sideways. “Bank first, to get rid of this deposit. That means a walk through the park. And then, after that, what plans do you have?”

  He frowned, puzzled. “Am I expected to have any?”

  I paused for a second and decided he wasn’t joking. “Right, then. No plans.” I put my hand lightly, shyly, on top of his arm. “I’d like to show you Old Town Square.”

  Another boy might have laughed. Another boy might have looked at the four streets lined with small, brightly lit shops and restaurants boxing in a haphazard scattering of light-laden trees and seen boredom and decay instead of a vibrant beating box-shaped heart. Most people my age were desperate to escape to bigger cities and faster lives. Instead, I loved my strange little town with its eclectic businesses open all kinds of odd hours and its even odder citizens who stuck their noses into everybody else's lives. I couldn't imagine living any other way. But not everyone understood; boys had laughed at me before, and gone home to play their X Boxes and get wasted instead. I kept my head down and my expectations in check, waiting.

  Warm rough fingers lifted my chin until I could look nowhere else but his bright eyes. “Yes, please,” he said simply. “And then we’ll go home.”

  “Yes,” I echoed, the word one long exhalation that tasted like a long-held promise. “Home.”

  He tucked my arm underneath his and walked with me into patches of flowing dark spaces and trees flecked with steady white lights.

  Chapter Seven:

  Light and Promises

  The night air was chillier than normal for early fall in the South; my breath made faint skeletal wreaths of mist that faded quickly into the wind. On a normal night, I would have taken the straightest path through the park to get to the bank, then back to my brother and a long soak to banish the last stubborn scents of coffee. But tonight, I had Ethan. I wanted privacy and enough time alone with him to force him to answer my questions. Neither of us spoke as we crossed the street and headed into the park. I had so many questions that I barely registered the silence between us, trying to sort through and prioritize the things I most wanted to know. I intentionally steered us onto one of the footpaths that was little more than a thinly covered trail of leaves winding through patches of darkness and dimly lit trees. The brightly lit, gurgling triple tiered fountain with its marble gargoyles, nymphs, and chimeras faded as I led us deeper into the deserted wooded part of the park.

  Funny how little details like what path I chose through the park that night or in what order I did my errands or even what kind of bag I carried altered the shape of so many people’s lives.

  I probably shouldn’t have trusted him. I didn’t know hi
m, this almost stranger who unbalanced me and freely augured danger. I knew better than to walk in the woods after dark with strangers, even if we were only in Blind Springs Park and within walking proximity to my home. But I felt no alarm, no fear at all as I pulled my hand free of his arm, sliding it down the length of his dark sweater until I found his warm strange hand and took it in mine. I kept my eyes locked on the toes of my brown hiking boots as I laced my fingers through his. His skin against mine was so rough it was almost abrasive. I rubbed my thumb against his and thought of porous stone, of statues worn away by time. My muscles stretched and tightened as he became a weight I pulled behind me, not unwilling to follow but a little resistant, as if he was uncertain of my purpose. It was enough to slow and annoy me.

  “Caspia.” My name from his lips was tight with warning and regret. My fingers curled defiantly around his at the tension in his voice. He was a solid presence at my back. Tonight I would have answers, I promised myself, or never see him again.