Free Haunted Love by Cynthia Leitich Smith Page B

bruises in the years that followed. And they knew what Uncle Dean was like.
    For a long time, I thought sooner or later somebody would report him to social services — a preacher, a teacher, the school nurse — but it never happened.
    I guess most folks were as scared of Uncle Dean as I was.
    Ginny is looking at me with an oddly knowing smile, and I realize she’s waiting for my decision. I can’t help thinking she may be useful. I can’t help wondering if she has a boyfriend. But spending quality time around that flesh-and-blood girl is intrinsically problematic. The flesh is a problem. The blood is a problem. At any given moment, it’s a toss-up which is worse. “Okay,” I say. “You’re hired.”
    The chandelier rattles, distracting us both.
    “Drafty,” Ginny says, glancing around. “But where’s it coming from?”
    She asks too many questions. “I turned on the air conditioner.”
    It’s a lie.
    After a ridiculous amount of negotiation, I agree to ten cents above minimum wage, send Ginny home to change into a white button-down shirt, black slacks, and black shoes, and tell her to come back in a couple of hours.
    Unlocking the door to my cramped office, I’m less than thrilled to realize that I may need to hire a second person. Someone local. Quiet.
    Within the next few years, I need to sew up an understanding with the good people of Spirit. They may not know what I am, but they’ll figure it out over time. On the off chance that Ginny’s daddy’s “revitalization” plan works, I’ll be here for generations. I need to reassure them that my presence is no more threatening than the fact that Edwina Labarge collects snow globes or that Betty Mueller talks to her dead husband or that Miss Josefina and Miss Abigail have been “roommates” for more than thirty years.
    I’ll need front people, I realize, so that the customers who drive in from nearby towns don’t notice that the “young” owner never seems to age.
    Inside the office, I hit the ceiling-fan light, and begin sifting through the old newspapers and boxes, looking for one that will do for the concession stand.
    The headline of a yellowed copy of
The Spirit Sentinel
from June 13, 1959, catches my eye. It reads “City Mourns Daughter; New Girl Missing.”
    I lift it, studying the black-and-white picture — Sonia’s dimple and laughing eyes. I trace the hairline around her lovely face. Sixteen forever.
    I never want to be the kind of monster that destroys innocence like that.
    Reaching into my small half-fridge, I grab a bottle of blood, pour a quarter of it into a Texas A&M mug, and pop that into the microwave on the shelf.
    Seconds later, I close my eyes, savoring the taste, pushing back the disgust.
    I’ve been this way for only a few weeks.
    It’s funny. I used to roll my eyes at all those media stories about the trouble kids get into on the Internet. How every generation of grown-ups assumes that whatever’s new — from flapper dresses to rock and roll to the World Wide Web — is automatically a sign of the apocalypse. My theory was that parenthood triggered amnesia followed by paranoia, though I had to admit it would’ve been nice to have someone who cared.
    Not long after Uncle Dean cracked one of my ribs, I heard at school that there was this guy in Athens, Georgia, selling a “power elixir” on the Net. I figured it was some kind of steroid cocktail. Probably risky, but it’s not like my life was all that safe to begin with. Anyway, the guy supposedly supplied a vat of the stuff to the Varsity football team in El Paso that took state last year.
    It was so easy. I “borrowed” Uncle Dean’s Mastercard and put in my order. The vial arrived overnight in a box packed with dry ice.
    I remember thinking as I unscrewed the cap,
What the hell?
    Nothing could’ve been more appropriate.
    Blinking back the memory, I reach for the bottle to pour myself more blood.
    Someone has used a finger to write something in the condensation