Gifts of the Blood (21 page)

“You’re not a terrible dancer,” he teased, his smile as big as I’d ever seen it. “What you lack in skill you make up for in sweat.”

I giggled. I never giggle. “If I didn’t know I’d hurt myself, I’d kick you somewhere very painful right now,” I told him between un-Caspia-like fits of snickering. “You’d better get off me. The whole town will talk.” I erupted in laughter so fierce I could barely breathe, let alone talk coherently. “If they can… stop casting spells and… drinking blood and… howling at the moon… and…
stuff
…” I held onto my stomach while tears leaked out of my eyes, unable to finish making fun of my neighbors.

Ethan sat near my head, watching me with the strangest expression on his face, as if unsure whether to stop me or join in.

“So her wits have not yet returned,” said a familiar, heavily accented voice from somewhere off to my side. “That is too bad. But I suppose she can still wash dishes.”

My giggling turned abruptly into choking. Mr.
Markov?
At the Festival on the Square? How much had he heard? Or perhaps he was here for the dancing. The choking turned right back into giggling as I pictured blind Mr. Markov dancing under the moon.

“Oh, leave the child alone,” chided yet another familiar voice I couldn’t quite place. Female. “She’s in love.” The voice sounded rapturous, then sharpened into a chiding tone I knew instantly. “Not that you’d know love if it bit you on your…”

“Mrs. Alice!” I sat up so fast the world temporarily resembled a carousel ride set on ‘kill.’ Ethan’s hand was there, supporting me, a firm familiar pressure against the small of my back, or I might have fallen flat again. I gave him a grateful smile that probably resembled a drunken leer more than anything else. “Mr. Markov?” I added, astonished to see my blind employer holding tightly to Mrs. Alice’s arm, his glass-topped cane loose in his other hand. As far as I knew, the two hated each other. I’d never once heard them say anything good about the other. “What are you two doing here?”

“Well, that’s a forward question, my dear.” Mrs. Alice sounded smug as she settled herself onto one of the wooden seats that ringed the cobblestone space around the fountain. She sat carefully, brushing her skirt straight as she did so with the same precise neatness with which she measured and labeled herbs in her shop. Mr. Markov, his familiar scowl never changing, held her shawl out to her. By miracle or coincidence he managed to hold it exactly above her arm. Mrs. Alice nodded sharply, in thanks or because she expected such treatment, and swathed her crisp white cotton blouse with a blue cashmere shawl that matched the deep indigo of her long skirt. “That’s better,” she said with a sigh, leaning back against the wooden slats. “I swear my bones feel the chill more this year than they did at last year’s festival.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Markov contradicted gruffly. I’d pulled myself into a cross-legged position on the grass next to Ethan. His hold on my back had turned from necessary to merely reassuring. I moved one hand to his lap and squeezed his knee to show him I appreciated it. “It’s a little colder this year; that’s all. Of course, this is nothing like a full-on Russian winter. This is more like early autumn along the banks of the Volga.” I watched as he began the familiar motions of setting up his chess set.

“You’re playing chess.” I sounded flat and dull even to myself. “With Mrs. Alice.”

“Every week,” she agreed. “Why so surprised? Don’t you think I can hold my own, Caspia dear?” I looked blankly at Ethan for help. He looked blankly back.

“No! Of course not!” I said quickly. “I mean… of course you can. Um. It’s just that I’ve never seen Mr. Markov play anyone else and lose. And you two… well, I thought you…” I slammed my lips together, suddenly very interested in the silver ribbons of my skirt. I couldn’t think of a single diplomatic thing to say.

The chessboard gleamed between them. Somehow, impossibly, the glass pieces glowed faintly, as if lit from within. A sudden image superimposed itself on all the others in my head: Mr. Markov, on the night Ethan came for me, the night Asheroth took me, holding a glass piece in his curved hand. What had he said?
Black and white don’t exist…shades of gray… prefer the lighter spectrum…
And yet, the chess piece, made entirely of clear glass, had flashed red in his hand, as if he’d been holding living flame.

Several long moments of silence later, when laughter, shouts, and music from beyond my immediate circle bled into my reverie, I realized I had spoken aloud. Mr. Markov nodded slowly. He wore a tiny, unfamiliar smile. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen the broken husk of the man who employed me smile. “You listen and remember. This is good. So is plain speaking, my Caspia. But you have much on your mind, and many burdens not of your own making, so I will do it for you this one time. You wonder why I meet to play chess with someone who, at every other occasion, treats me as a bitter enemy.” He inclined his head graciously towards Mrs. Alice. “No offense meant, Madam.” She nodded just as graciously back. “And, to be fair, I often treat her the same way.”

“Well, yes,” I said, startled. I glanced swiftly sideways at Ethan. What was the protocol here? I knew Mr. Markov was a magician of some kind, and I’d heard the word “witch” applied to Mrs. Alice. None of that surprised me. Little could, since meeting a creature like Asheroth, or walking hand in hand with Ethan daily. But what was the procedure? Was I supposed to know? Could I, should I, bring it up? Did I want to?

Then Ethan’s gentle pressure against my back reminded me that there was something I wanted to know, very badly indeed.

“Oh, tell the child,” Mrs. Alice said at last, studying the board intently. She leaned forward and touched one finger to the top of her queen’s head. All her pieces turned a deep and instant black. I forgot to breathe. Ice froze the breath in the back of my throat, chilling my neck as it held it trapped there.

Beside me, Ethan hissed. He was up and in front of me, one knee to the ground, the other tensed to spring, both arms carefully blocking me.

“Easy,” Mr. Markov barked. “My colleague has offered no insult and poses no threat.”

“I see you don’t prefer the lighter spectrum, yourself,” I said to Mrs. Alice, weakly.

She smiled briefly at me and moved a piece, ignoring Ethan, who was positively bristling in front of me. “It’s not for everyone,” she said. “Will you call off your… gentleman friend? He’s being quite rude.”

“He’s just being protective,” I said defensively. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure I wanted Ethan to relax. Mr. Markov moved a piece. His pieces remained white, and a tiny part of me felt relieved. How many more surprises lay in store for me about the people and town I thought I knew so well? “Am I right in assuming you’re like Mr. Markov, only… darker?” She moved another piece, not responding. “Ethan? Why couldn’t you tell?”

“I am best attuned to our kind,” he ground out through locked teeth.

“Really?” This was news. “So we could be surrounded by evil, and unless they were Nephilim…”

“You
must
,” Mr. Markov snapped, moving a bishop and snapping up one pawn and a rook from Mrs. Alice. “Stop thinking in those terms. Good and evil. Black and white. Absolutes.” He set the captured pieces down on his side of the board with an angry thunk. He tapped madly at his temple. “Spectrums, Caspia. Continuums. Shades of gray. Take Mrs. Alice here. She is no different from me. We are both practitioners of the same Art. We are both community leaders of the same Art. However, I lead those who follow a…lighter spectrum. My colleague’s path is… somewhat darker.
Not
evil. Merely different. We meet sometimes as all good leaders do: to sort out differences, to air grievances, to share information. I would not consort with evil.”

“And neither would I,” added Mrs. Alice, somewhat haughtily, as she demolished a line of white glass pieces.

“But what does that even
mean
?” I wailed. “Light and Dark. Good and evil. They’re just words. They mean the same thing.”

“No.” Mr. Markov’s fist came down on the table, shaking the board and all its pieces. “They are actions, Caspia, as well as words. But the actions behind them matter most. Neither Mrs. Alice nor myself would sit here in the very heart of our home and play chess with evil.”

“This town is a refuge for all types of supernaturals, of the Light and the Dark, and yes, we do not always get along.” She flashed Mr. Markov a smile. “Sometimes, there is outright war amongst us. But what I think you mean as evil? Sacrificing innocents and mortals, for one? Murder? No. What you must learn, Caspia dear,” she moved a pawn. “Is that Dark does not mean evil, and Light does not always equal good.”

I remembered Ethan’s warning from the bakery:
Evil, real evil, should it ever show itself to you, will wear the most beautiful form you’ve ever seen and charm you as nothing ever has.

His angry voice pulled me back. “Then how do you explain the demon taint surrounding your store the night I first came to you? The night I met Caspia? Even the Dark Realms will not give it sanctuary.” Ethan had risen from his crouch and pulled me with him. He still stood in front of me, but he stood to the side of the chess game now.

Mrs. Alice paused mid-move. She replaced her piece on its original square. “Forgive me, Omar. The rules allow, if I don’t remove my hand…” He waved her words away as inconsequential. She rubbed the bridge of her nose with her left hand. Light refracted off the rings she wore. Mrs. Alice stared off into nothing for a moment, her eyes going slightly unfocused. “Such a creature is loose in Whitfield?” she asked slowly.

“Such a creature was in your shop,” Ethan told her tersely. “Such a creature bought all her tarot cards and tried to lure her to it by using you as its agent. You are the one who gave her the phone number of a stranger who wanted a ‘private commission,’ aren’t you?”

Mrs. Alice had gone as white as Mr. Markov’s chess pieces. She looked ill. Mr. Markov reached for her. “Alice,” he said reassuringly. “There was already an attack. A mad Nephilim, lost for many centuries now. We thought it was over, but he must not have been the one. We’ll check your wards. We’ll get both our circles together, if we must, to reinforce them. Caspia’s Guardian said himself he is best attuned to his own kind. It is the same for all of us; we often see only our own kind. It isn’t another magic user. That has to be the reason why.”

She shook her head violently. “That’s no excuse. Why didn’t I recognize it? Why didn’t I know? To endanger an innocent that way… If her Guardian hadn’t come along then… who knows what could have happened?”

A bitter uneasiness had begun to skitter down my neck. “She’s not an innocent,” Ethan said. I blushed scarlet and was about to protest, but Ethan overrode me. “She’s known she has Nephilim blood for a while now, and she’s had Nephilim-born abilities her whole life.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling silly and shy at the same time. I was relieved to know my ‘innocence’ meant nothing more than whether I had a touch of the supernatural or not. I’d genuinely thought the attacking angels in the park had been out just to insult me. “But Ethan’s not my Guardian,” I said to Mrs. Alice and Mr. Markov. “Ethan’s here for Logan.” I wanted to be clear about that.

“Then why…” Mr. Markov began. He thought for a minute, and I actually watched his formerly open face close down into inscrutability. I saw the realization hit him: the man beside me was guardian of my brother’s death. “Oh. You’re
that
kind of Guardian.” He turned his sightless eyes on Ethan with a new kind of wariness. “Then why, pray tell, aren’t you with your actual charge?”

“Because both of them asked me not to be,” he said softly, so softly, the wind stole his words easily away. His neck and shoulders bowed suddenly, as if carrying a weight none of us could see. “And because I have nothing else to give him.”

“Logan’s on a date,” I said, defensively. “With Amberlyn. They’re meeting us here. In just a few minutes, actually.”

“The demon seems to be targeting Caspia exclusively,” Ethan seconded. He looked at me guiltily. “It seemed a shame to interrupt them.” He didn’t add,
when Logan has so little time
, but he might as well have. The sentiment hung thickly in the air around us.

Mrs. Alice shook her head and wrapped her cashmere shawl more tightly around her shoulders. With shaking hands, she began to gather her pieces together. They turned from black to white as she gathered them together. “If you’ll forgive me, Omar. My mind will no longer allow me to concentrate on beating you this evening. It seems there is much to tell my circle.”

Mr. Markov gathered the pieces and began methodically storing them in their folding box that doubled as a storage box. “As do I,” he murmured. “You will allow me to walk you home?” Mrs. Alice nodded and rose in one graceful gesture.

I found myself enveloped in an embrace of lavender and cashmere before I realized her intentions. “Don’t let this change how you feel about me, or Whitfield,” she whispered, her fingers in my hair trembling slightly with age for the first time in my memory. “I’m the same woman I’ve always been. And everyone in this town will fight for you. You’re one of us, Caspia dear.” Lips coated lightly with beeswax and honey, her own preparation and a marvel against the chapped harshness of winter, pressed gently against my cheek. “Your mother didn’t know what we were. Your gifts passed her by, somehow. But she was dear to me anyway. I think she would be proud, if she could see you now. You’re such a strong young woman.” Mrs. Alice smiled at me, and, Dark Witch or not, something lightened inside me. Some burden I’d been carrying slipped off of its own accord. I remembered hot chocolates in her store while my mother bought loose tea and spices. I remembered piling pretty stones into little houses and smiling at Logan who wanted badly to throw one at me but couldn’t because both my mother and Mrs. Alice would catch him.

Mrs. Alice, who brewed special teas when we had colds as children; who bandaged my arm when I’d burned it the night I’d met Ethan; who insisted on drinking my coffee out of fine china; she couldn’t be evil. My mother loved and trusted her. So had Gran. She was proof positive that Dark and Evil weren’t the same thing.