Secrets In The Bones: The Curse of Blood Bay

Forty six

Blood, sweat and tears. These are three words I never imagined using in the same sentence. Skip's skin was on fire; considering there was no heartbeat and how clammy he looked, it didn't sit right. I had Skip by the scruff with blood falling from my claws, adding to what Skip was losing as I dragged him through the doorway. My head was busy shedding tears, boiling with anger that I may have lost the only consistent and good father figure in my life. While looking for any sign of those vampire bastards coming back with reinforcements.

I could still see a headless, desiccated body on the floor. I watched Grey Flakes crumble into the wind for the first time. Embers of death shredding away. A bittersweet moment. Now, I had to get us safe and fast. I hoisted Skip on the sofa in front of the fire before securing the front door. The fire was soon on, but Skip's condition spooked me; his chest started bouncing more like thumping rapidly. Still, he had no heartbeat or sign of breath, with his eyes clamped shut.

His fingers were next; the claws slithered forward and became sets of skinny talon-like nails, then phased back to normal again. I was frantic; nothing made sense in my frazzled mind. I kept dashing to the window, checking for unwanted company—each time, painted by the ominous red sky of doom. Time was ticking away with us far more fucked, and now I had another no-win situation to add to my list. At first, Skip looked dead. Or, as well as now, his body was becoming something else.

Becoming one of them. I damm well couldn't afford that; how could I let my surrogate father, friend, and beta become a bloodsucker? Could I even bring myself to end him? My family. My options weren't looking good.

Nothing around us stood out, no fancy herbs or wonder drugs I could jam down the big guy's throat. The place was quiet, far too, so I only realised when I stood still to get the hamster spinning in its wheel and think. My ears scanned everywhere, still hearing some blood fuckers in the distance; no other heartbeats. Ruth, or whoever they were, was polishing the count's coffin or whatever he demanded while I watched Skip die or become one of them.

It was eating me up. The week had come to this, and I felt broken; I hated being so helpless. Enough, I nearly gave into temptation; the alcohol cabinet was calling, 'Georgie, come to me and drown your sorrows,' and I nearly fell for it when I saw that decanter on the mirrored shelf. Half full or half empty, depending on how you look at it, with a shimmering brownish purple-red liquid, reminding me we still didn't know what Ruth had put in it. Only Ellena seemed to get sick.

I was mesmerised by the liquid shimmers when I had a lightbulb moment, the 'secrets' and the six vials, which were a strange number to make. There was no way of knowing what it could be or what it was for. It had to be important, though, right? I kept saying that as I picked the velvet bundle off the floor. I mean, what reason would a bunch of vials be doing hidden with changed stakes?

With a quick tug on the crusty leather tie, the smooth velvet bundle rolled open across the coffee table. The fire's warm yellow glow made the vials shimmer like the drink I now wanted. Each had tiny black stoppers. I rolled a vial between my fingers with an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I was so bloody out of my depth, and this piece of glass was nothing but a Hail Mary. A shot in the dark. Like a blind man playing darts.

It was time to either take a risk by tipping it down Skip's throat or watch our slim hopes fade with him turning during our last hours. The little devil and angel were back on my shoulders whispering sweet nothings, one saying don't and the other saying why the hell not? Skip was all but dead, anyway. He would die now, or I would have to find the courage to impale his heart with a stake.

The devil won again. As I say, I'm going to hell, anyway. I shook the vial; why? I did not know. A force of habit, perhaps. It's what we do with medicine bottles, right? Another clueless example of me winging it. No time like the present.