Matters of the Blood Read Free Page A

of the locals ever went out there. Residents here had grown used to the fact that guests at exclusive ranches for the rich and shameless rarely left their pampered lives to shop at the Video Hut or lunch at a small town deli. No matter—for the most part, we didn't bother them and they didn't bother us. I figured this incarnation of the Wild Moon was just another way for outsiders to not spend money in town.
    Boris took out his bandanna again, his hands restless. “You haven't heard then?"
    "Heard what?"
    "Two children, young people. They found two dead deer. By the picnic grounds at the lake. Bled. Mutilated."
    Oh, that was just freakin’ dandy. Unless Boris had a direct line to my twisted psyche—which he couldn't—evidently what I'd experienced were more than just nightmares; they had some connection with reality. Nightmare Visions Are Us. Welcome to the Clairvoyance Club—another byproduct of my wonderful weird heritage.
    But, wait—something didn't quite match my bloody dreams.
    "What do you mean, ‘mutilated'?” I asked. “Like the cattle in those horrible UFO stories?” Maybe I was wrong, maybe it was just—no. I wasn't wrong. I knew I wasn't wrong. The memory was too real, too fresh in my mind. This could not be a coincidence. Or could it?
    Boris shook his head as if to dislodge the memory. “Someone took the heads.” He sounded tired, raw.
    Now that was an interesting twist. When I'd—
    Okay, I'm not wanting to remember that part right now, but I do know the deer were intact in my vision. Dead, yes. Bled—well, yeah, as part of the feeding. But they had not been headless.
    Boris continued his story. “I was just making morning deliveries to the Inn. Then there was the shouting."
    "Deliveries?"
    "Yes. They are stocking up, I think. Open for guests now. Been taking supplies out there every day before breakfast. Most afternoons just before dark. I order wine and other things for them. Deliver it. Business is good."
    The last word came out as “goot.” Neither he nor Greta had much of an accent but, every once in a while, traces in their speech were reminders they hadn't always been Texans.
    Boris glanced past me. I looked over my shoulder to see what he was looking at. No one was near. A few customers sat in booths to our right, nobody I recognized offhand. Probably daytrippers. Boris wiped his face with his bandanna, as if just the telling of his tale upset him. “Those poor children. It was terrible. The blood was gone, the heads ... terrible."
    "Did you actually see the deer?"
    He nodded, and leaned toward me, whispering faster, as if the faster he spoke, the easier the words would be to say.
    "When the manager went to look, I followed. I saw the bodies. The death.” He shuddered a little and stuffed his bandanna back into his pocket. “There is evil. It is not safe, Keira. He doesn't know. Tell him—"
    The brass Indian elephant bells attached to the caf? door tinkled behind me, announcing a new arrival.
    Boris could see whoever had just entered. His eyes widened and a look of horror spread across his face. He shut his mouth, pressing his lips together.
    I whirled at his reaction, nearly dropping to a defensive crouch before I saw it was just Greta coming through the door. She had a peculiar look on her own face. Her mouth smiled, yet something else swam behind her dark eyes, something that could almost be anger. I'd never seen any strong emotion from her—at most a gentle lift of the corners of her mouth as if slightly amused.
    "Boris, did you get what you needed?"
    Greta's words were flat, juiceless, completely without inflection, as if each word were printed on a piece of paper from which she read.
    I tightened my grip on my coffee cup, my adrenaline surging just a little as I sensed her tension. I reinforced my mental shields. I did this naturally, without thinking. My barriers were a part of me; the first thing I learned during my early years—how to hide in plain sight. The emotions of