Free Bleeding Out by Jes Battis Page A

tesserae.
    “Who sent you?”
    He melts into the water. Seconds later, there’s nothing left of him but smoke and a vile odor. I start to shake. I can barely feel my broken wrist, which means that my body is going into shock. Numbly, I make my way back into the beach, holding my injured hand close to my chest. I see headlights. I hear voices. Someone is running toward me, and I realize that it’s Derrick.
    “She’s here! I’ve got her!”
    He sees the blood on me. He sees my wrist. Before he can say anything, I bury my face in his neck and start to cry.
    “I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Geez. What happened? Did a shark attack you? What are you doing here at this time of night?”
    “I don’t know,” I say, holding on to him. “I don’t know who’s lying to me and who isn’t. I can’t fucking tell anymore.”
    “I’ll never lie to you again.”
    I want to believe him, but I can’t. I look down and see a glimmer of light on the sand. It’s my athame, burning like a birthday candle too stubborn to realize that its peculiar life is already over.

6
    This is an old dream.
    I’m in the pool with my mother. She spins me around in circles while I exclaim:
I love my friend the water
. I make waves with my small, prunish hands, while she holds me. I whirl in the heart of a golden mean. I am an overjoyed crystal in my mother’s arms, polished by the sun and the water.
    I know that she will never let me go. We will spin like an eternal record in this flood, and after, on the drive home, I will eat a tuna sandwich with diced pickles and watch the trees effervesce. With my bare feet propped against the cooler, I can drift with the power lines as my mother sings us around familiar curves in the road. A blue spark glows in my hand. I look at it and smile. It’s aburning flake of our water I stole when nobody was looking.
    I open my eyes. I’m in my own bed, doused in sweat. For a moment, the loss of the dream is so sharp that I can feel its exit wound. Then I realize that it’s just my fractured wrist, numbed by painkillers but still throbbing. I look up at the ceiling fan. All it can do is displace the muggy air. My sheets are a wet tangle. I could take a shower, but I can’t bear the thought of more water. I can still see the vampire melting before me like a hideous snowflake.
    I don’t think that my father sent him. But if not my father, then who? Arcadia? She could kill me by blinking if she wanted to. She had no reason to send tweaked vampires after me.
    I can’t stop thinking about what he said.
The truce ended with him
. If this is the public sentiment among vampires, then something has gone seriously wrong. Deonara isn’t doing her job as the new Lord Nightingale. I doubt I’ll have any luck brokering a meeting with her, but I can at least ask Modred about it. Figuring out what to wear to an undead house party will distract me from thinking about what I learned at the clinic.
    I pull on a clean shirt and walk into the living room. Derrick’s watching television, and he frowns when he sees me.
    “You should be asleep.”
    “It’s too hot. The fan is useless.”
    “Those painkillers are hard on your stomach.” He stands up. “I’ll get you some dry toast and ginger ale.”
    “You don’t have to.”
    “Nonsense. I’ll be back in two shakes of a rabbit’s tail.”
    I sit down on the couch. It’s so late that it might as well be morning. They spent hours fussing over me, plying me with hot tea and blankets. It was a relief when everyone finally went to bed. I’ve never liked being taken care of. I’m like a cat when I’m sick. All I want to do is crawl under a piece of furniture and sleep.
    Derrick returns with a plate of dry toast and a glass of ginger ale. He places them warily next to me, as if I might claw him. The bubbles relax me, but it’s hard to chew because my throat still aches.
    “What are you watching?” I ask, once I’ve finished.
    “
Today’s Special.
For some reason,