In The Blood (Lies the Dead Tell Book 1) Read online

  "I understand."

  Peter's mother put a hand over my fidgeting fingers, her other arm wrapped itself around my shoulders. I flinched but then my fingers fell still under her warm palm. I waited for a flash, but nothing came. I took a shaky breath.

  After all of the decisions had been made, my face wet with silent tears, Mrs Wilkes walked me slowly out to the car, her arm still around my shoulders.

  "You're too young to have to deal with all of this. I'm so sorry, my dear."

  "Thanks," I mumbled as I climbed into the back of her hatchback. It was one of those bright, crisp days. The sky had been bright blue all day, but now it had turned pink with the sun low. Fluffy clouds rippled across the sky, disappearing into a haze at the horizon. We weren't far from the Minster. I remembered hanging around near there with Peter after school day every day. It seemed like a decade ago, but it had only been a few years.

  The city buzzed with traffic and people, all going about their day with no regard for the weight in the pit of my stomach.

  That night, Mrs Wilkes served up another meal and for the first time in two days, my stomach gave a low rumble at the sight and smell of it laid out on the kitchen table. I took a slice of baguette and covered it with butter. Something easy and bland for me to break my unintentional fast. It was warm, fresh and soothing.

  An hour later I was sick in the guest bathroom and sticky bread chunks came back up. I ate too soon.

  I hid in the guest room and slept in my clothes. I felt as though the world would never be right again.

  "We should go to the house today," Mrs Wilkes was saying at breakfast the next day.

  "I can't!" I blurted out, more animated than I'd been since I arrived. A rush of fear and panic swept through me and I felt my cheeks burn scarlet.

  "Maybe after tomorrow?" Peter suggested gently. "After the funeral, Mum. Let her put them to rest first."

  "Okay, yes, that makes sense. I'm sorry, Eve. I don't want to push you." But she was more brisk than she had been previously. She patted my shoulder and a stray thought made its way into my mind. She thought I needed a bit of a push to get me through this slump. She'd dealt with the death of a parent herself. While she was sympathetic, she believed there was a right way to go about this process and I was stuck in the early stages of grief, which is no good when estates need settling. This is why wealthy people have solicitors, I mused, to deal with the legal crap so the grieving don't have to.

  I'd brought a pair of smart, black trousers with me from uni. I couldn't even remember why I owned them. But as I rummaged through my belongings in my bag I couldn't find anything to wear with them. I began pulling clothes out and tossing them to the floor, growing ever more frantic as I searched. Fresh tears stung my eyes.

  "Stop crying!" I yelled at myself.

  There was a gentle knock on the door and it opened. Peter stood there, gripping the edge of the door with a grim expression.

  "Can I help?"

  "I have nothing to wear tomorrow!" I shouted at him then slumped to the floor, surrounded by tops, jeans and underwear. I couldn't muster any embarrassment. He would just have to deal with seeing a couple of bras.

  He walked over, his bare feet sticking slightly to the polished wooden floorboards until they made contact with the thick rug on which I sat. He sat down beside me and crossed his legs. His mouth did that wonky thing, like he was getting stuck into a puzzle.

  "Do you want to go shopping? Or borrow something of my mum's? I might have a black shirt you could borrow."

  Peter was tall and skinny, his mum was not. I was built like a ballet dancer.

  "Maybe your shirt?" I muttered, not wanting to look at him. I could work a man's shirt, probably. Part of me didn't care what I looked like. Another part felt like it was the most important decision of my life.

  Peter patted my knee and got up to fetch the shirt. It was fine, it fit okay and when tucked into my trousers it was smart enough.

  The next day I dressed and styled my hair, which I rarely bothered with. It was long and dark and had a tendency to curl whether I wanted it to or not. I pulled half of it up into a messy bun and let the rest hang loose over my shoulders. I put on a little make-up, but no mascara.

  No one ate much for breakfast; it wasn't just me who didn't feel like eating. Conversation was sparse. Mrs Wilkes kept trying to smile and faltering. Mr Wilkes was wearing a suit. I'd never seen him in a suit before.

  Peter leaned against the kitchen sink, a bowl of cereal in his hand, but the spoon sat in the bowl untouched. He was staring at the floor, just under the table, transfixed, a look of concentration etched onto his brow. He was wearing a dark grey suit with a navy shirt and tie. His mother fussed at him, brushing some lint from his shoulders.

  "You should have a black one," she muttered, disapprovingly.

  "Yeah, for all the funerals I intend to have to attend. Mum, give over. I look smart, that's enough."

  "A black suit is versatile, isn't it, Kirk?"

  Mr Wilkes let out a non-committal "Hmm" and didn't lift his eyes from his paper.

  "Well, I don't have one, so Mr and Mrs Rawling will have to turn in their graves."

  Mrs Wilkes' mouth popped open and she clamped a hand to it before scurrying from the kitchen. I heard her crying as she hurried up the stairs.

  Peter cast me an apologetic glance but to my surprise, I was smiling. A small chuckle even escaped my dry lips. He smiled back at me and we just hung there in that moment.

  Kirk heaved a sigh, folded his paper and stood up, straightening his black tie, then cleared his throat and followed his wife upstairs.

  "We need to go in five minutes, sweetheart," he called.

  Peter and I exchanged more furtive glances and half-smiles. He did look smart, he looked really good, actually. I'd never been attracted to Peter. He was firmly friend-zoned in our early teens. By the time we were sixteen I was confident he was gay and would eventually come out to me first, because I was his best friend. But he still hadn't taken that leap out of the closet.

  Being intimate was difficult with my unusual gift. So I'd mostly steered clear of boys. With the exception of an awkward kiss with a boy called Billy in the last year of school. It felt like I was being attacked by a washing machine and was not an experience I was keen to repeat! Especially as I'd had a flash of a memory of him pleasuring himself to some awful porn. Yuck.

  I'd had a boyfriend briefly while I was in Caerton. We had very awkward sex. I felt so vulnerable and hated it. It was rare for me to even be attracted to someone; the fear of getting a vision kept me from seeing people that way, for the most part.

  But that morning, I did think Peter looked very handsome.

  "Are you okay?" Peter's voice seemed to come from far away, pulling me back to the kitchen from my memories.

  "Yeah. I actually am." I looked up at him and smiled. I'd been thinking about something other than my loss, something real and human and painfully ordinary in a way. Aside from the intrusion of my gift, that is.

  "You seem better today."

  "I think the waiting has been the worst bit," I said, with a shrug. "I have tissues." I pulled the little packet out of my pocket and waved it. "I'm ready."

  Peter smiled and dropped his untouched cereal bowl down on the counter.

  "Come on. We'll go. My parents can follow."

  We left the house and walked quickly along the narrow pavement, between parked cars and houses. There were no gardens in front of the houses on Peter's street, the doors opened right onto the pavement. The dark stone felt too close, everything was too close to me these days and I walked quickly to get to a more open area. We walked single file to avoid bumping into any cars and I led the way to the end of the street and around the corner. It was only a five-minute walk to my house. My parents' house. We had grown up together, Peter and I, we'd played in the park at the bottom of his street. Our mothers were friends. Our fathers weren't exactly drinking buddies, but they talked and seemed close.

&nbs
p; I had almost forgotten that Peter's family was grieving too.

  We arrived at the house and stood on the pavement outside. I pulled my coat around me, bracing myself against the chilly morning air. Peter pulled me into his arms and tucked my head under his chin. "Sorry, not sorry," he said softly, his breath moving my hair.

  I'd tensed at his touch, but I relaxed into the hug.

  "You're just keeping me warm. That's fine. That's nice." I smiled, even though I knew he couldn't see my face.

  My head spun slowly, pulling me down into a vision and I tensed up again, fighting it. Peter was running along a dark, cobbled street. I could hear his feet pounding on the stone. I felt his heart hammering in his chest and fear coursing through his veins.

  I gasped for breath and pulled out of his grasp. He let me go, he always let me go when I pulled away from him.

  "What did you see?" His voice was soft and it took a moment for his words to register. I looked into his face, too stunned to reply. How did he know?

  Footsteps hurried along the street behind him and his parents came into view. Mrs Wilkes' eyes were red and puffy and she clutched a handbag that swung wildly from side to side as she rushed towards us. Just behind them were two slow-moving, black hearses, followed by a sleek, black saloon.

  "Just in time!" Mrs Wilkes huffed as she came to a halt next to Peter. Her husband sauntered more casually just behind her, his hands in his pockets. He gave me a small, apologetic smile.

  The vehicles stopped alongside us and a sinking feeling settled into my body, pulling me back to the moment and what was really happening. Peter's startling question drifted out of my mind as I was led to the car and ushered into it. I couldn't look at the hearses and the two mahogany coffins inside them.

  Peter slid in to sit next to me and grabbed hold of my hand, entwining our fingers. I looked into his face. The shock must have been written all over mine, but he didn't flinch, or pull away. He held my hand fast and stared resolutely straight ahead, avoiding my gaze.

  #

  "Sylvia and Jonathan were beloved members of their community." The celebrant spoke clearly and solemnly about my parents. He told the story of their lives, pumped full of dignity and splintered with light humour. Those around me let out soft whimpers. Mrs Wilkes was quietly sobbing, a handkerchief pressed to her lips. Her husband kept a firm arm around her shoulders. I noticed his free hand clenched tight on his knee, the knuckles blazing white.

  Peter had not let go of my hand and I hadn't pulled it out of his grasp. The image of him running through the dark kept resurfacing, but only the memory of the vision, it wasn't fresh. I kept expecting to get something else, as if he was transmitting. But my mind wasn't up for receiving the signal. Was my grief getting in the way?

  Part of me wanted to be open to the vision. I needed to know if Peter was in real danger, and if so, from whom? I also didn't want to deal with the funeral. I didn't want to be there, I didn't want to hear about how my parents met or their thriving, five-star Italian restaurant. It wasn't all true anyway. So much of life was this polished presentation. The celebrant didn't mention the time they had nearly lost the business. In fairness, I wouldn't have known about that either if it hadn't been for my gift.

  My parents were experts in keeping secrets, even from me. But on the day of the funeral I had no idea just how true that was, just how much they had kept from me.

  With all of this distraction, I managed to get through the service without crying. But I was barely there. It took Peter standing and tugging me to my feet for me to realise that the service was over.

  Mr and Mrs Wilkes went up to the coffins and pressed their hands to each in turn. I watched them, my eyes glazed. Was I expected to do that too? A surge of panic rose in my chest and I looked up into Peter's eyes.

  "You don't have to do it," he whispered, reading me expertly.

  "I want to, but what if..." My voice trailed away. It was obvious now that he knew about my gift, but we had never spoken about it. People were waiting behind me to file out of the chapel. I walked forward and brushed my fingers across the top of my father's coffin, bracing myself. But nothing happened. I let out a slow, shaky breath and moved over to my mother's. Again, I just lightly brushed the tips of my fingers over where her head must be.

  Like a jolt, an image shot into my mind and I stumbled back, right into Peter's arms. A second flash whipped through my mind and I felt so sick and dizzy that I was sure I was about to hit the floor. Someone nearby let out a little cry.

  "Eve!" Mrs Wilkes called.

  The two visions crashed through my senses simultaneously, fluctuating between one another and I felt as though I were drowning in them.

  My parents were in their car, driving quickly through a rainstorm. The road was inches deep in water, and spray filled the air. Their headlights glared on the water, and the wipers swished frantically back and forth.

  "I don't want to see this!" I screamed. I could feel Peter's arms around me, keeping me from collapsing completely.

  But my parents didn't veer off the road, they didn't plunge into the nearby river. There was a figure in the road ahead, facing their car, illuminated by their headlights. I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, the image was blurred and moving too fast.

  Then Peter's past overtook my parents' deaths. He was hurrying home from work. It was night and the street was illuminated by dozens of lights from shops and bars; it was hot too and he was dressed in shorts. He passed a dark, narrow side street and a voice stopped him. Hands grabbed him and pulled him into the shadows. Fear swamped him and his head pounded as the man who had grabbed him shoved him against the wall and roughly searched him for his wallet and phone. He took a punch to the face and his nose broke with a sickening crunch. I was in his head, seeing it all through his eyes. Pain throbbed through his head. His limbs began to shake violently and something like a snarl erupted from his throat.

  I looked down and saw his bare skin splitting. Instead of blood, thick, dark fur appeared in the cracks in the skin, gradually spreading to cover his arms. I tried to scream but no sound came out. His throat had morphed, no human sound could escape from it now. His broken nose was now a huge snout and his vicious teeth gnashed. The mugger let out a terrified scream. I could smell fresh urine. Peter's clawed hands reached for the man and wrapped themselves around his neck. As easily as a twig, Peter snapped it. He didn't stop there, his claws ripped the man's clothes and flesh, tearing him to shreds. I felt a wave of sickness wash up over me as the blood poured out onto the dark stone.

  Then Peter was running, human again, but terrified. It was what I had seen before, but now I knew what he was running from.

  "Eve?" Mr Wilkes had hold of me and was gently pulling me along. I was outside the chapel, bathed in bright sunlight. "Eve. Come on, I've got you. Come back to us."

  My eyes found Peter just beyond his father's face. There was a little crowd around him, concerned faces all fixed on me.

  "Poor thing," someone said. "So hard, so unfortunate, just awful." The voices chorused, mostly in my head. "What's wrong with her? I've never seen anyone grieve like that. She's always been a bit odd." I shook my head clear of those voices.

  Peter stood still as people bustled past him. It was like he was standing in a rushing river, with water flowing swiftly past him on either side. Our eyes were locked together.

  "What did you do?" I asked, the words never leaving my mouth.

  "I changed." His reply was firm, hard and certain. His lips never moved but I heard his words as clear as crystal in my mind.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When I settled back into my senses, everything was quiet and still. The clear blue sky overhead was like a soothing blanket of colour and light. A soft, cold breeze cooled my cheeks and dried my tears. I breathed deeply and focused on the brightly coloured leaves on the ground. This was what was real – right here and now. The wooden bench beneath me was cool but dry.

  "I'm in the graveyard next to the chapel," I to
ld myself in my head, looking around to orient myself. My parents were inside in their coffins, probably being moved to the crematorium, somewhere out of sight of the grieving family. People had laid vibrant flowers all along the path up to the chapel door. Almost everyone had gone now. The crowd of onlookers with their intrusive thoughts about my oddness were gone and my head was silent.

  I looked around for Peter and found him standing near the funeral car, talking to the driver. He kept throwing furtive glances my way but our eyes didn't meet. An uncomfortable lump stuck in my throat and flashes of blood hitting cobblestones came back to me. I blinked them away and focused again on that azure sky.

  Mrs Wilkes was talking to the Humanist celebrant, thanking him and shaking his hand.

  "Will she be okay?" he asked, nodding in my direction.

  "I'm sure she will. Such an awful thing to deal with at such a young age." They both nodded solemnly.

  Mr Wilkes was sitting next to me, I realised, his presence steady and calming. We sat in silence for what seemed like an hour.

  "Shall we go?" I asked at last. My throat was hoarse and my words croaked out of my mouth like the crunch of dry leaves.

  "If you like," he replied, not looking at me.

  I stood up slowly, unsure if my legs could take my weight, but they just about managed. We walked slowly to the car and the driver opened the doors for us. I crawled into the back and slid across to the far side, pressing myself against the door and staring out of the window at the empty cemetery. Peter's parents joined me in the back, but Peter sat up front next to the driver. I let out a little sigh of relief and released my tight grip on the door handle. I couldn't look at him without seeing the monster and the blood. I didn't want him near me.

  I focused my thoughts instead on the first vision in the double-whammy. My parents. Who was that in the road? Had they swerved to avoid them? That wasn't what I saw. The car was slowing down. My parents had glanced at each other and clasped hands. They were afraid, but resolved. I'd felt it.

  Tears slid down my cheeks and I brushed them away. I'd seen what I was afraid to see, almost. But it hadn't been what I expected and now I had questions. Did Peter have the answers? What was he?