Blood To Blood Page 4

  I breathed a gargantuan sigh of relief. She pointed to my small altar in another corner of the room. On it, below an ancient wooden cross, she’d placed a small blue candle, a small bowl of water, an offering of fresh flowers, and some sort of dried herb. Beside the chalice lay a small ceremonial knife and two miniature goblets.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  I knelt before the altar and felt the first twinges of apprehension. After all, I’d never had a mind lock before.

  She began. “I call upon protection from the Four Directions. Earth.” She placed a few of the grapes onto the altar. “Fire.” She lit the blue candle. “Water.” Dipping her fingers in the bowl, she said “and air” before exhaling and resting her hands on my head. “Mind of my mind, heart of my heart, sisters for eternity. We are bound forever. Now, you say it.”

  I repeated the words.

  “Our minds are one, our hearts are one, where you go I go,” she continued. “There is nowhere in this world you go that I cannot be. Do you agree?”

  “Yes. Mind, heart, and soul,” I said. Before I knew what was happening, the palm of my hand was slit with the knife. “Ouch!” She squeezed a few drops into one of the goblets and drank.

  “Now you,” she said cutting her wrist just as quickly, letting the blood drip into the other goblet.

  I hesitated. It wasn't the first time I would taste blood. Mom had given me some when I was six and too dumb to know any better. I'd been traumatized by that rusty, slippery taste ever since. I took a deep breath, held it, and downed the liquid as fast as I could without being rude.

  “Blood to blood, flesh to flesh, your mind is my mind. And so it is.”

  “And so it is.”

  We both blew out the candle. The tug of her mind on mine felt comforting.

  She glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. “Well daggone it Angel, why didn't you tell me you had to pee!” She hooted as I ran to the bathroom.

  # # #

  Sawyer's moving goatee-framed lips drew my attention back to the present. I focused my attention on them in order to digest what he was saying.

  “There's a hundred and eighty-two tracks here,” he said. “I'll play the first few bars of each. Just let me know what you think.” His sideways glance seemed to say, “See? I took your advice” as his arm reached over the board to hit “play.”

  A track started beating out a simple rhythm. As he sipped a bottle of mineral water and watched us intently to gauge our reactions, I wondered if he knew about that old-fashioned production myth—the one that says women are the sounding boards of choice when it comes to creating beats, and if we start dancing it usually means the track has better Top 10 potential.

  We listened to the beat with no interest at all.

  He hit the delete button, and the next track began. This one was upbeat and bouncy, with a good hip-hop backbone. Julietta started nodding her head, LaLa started chanting a few rap lyrics and I started riffing a little. But after a few seconds, I stopped. Sawyer’s eyebrow arched inquiringly and I shook my head “no.” “Eh,” LaLa declared. He hit delete. We went through quite a few tracks this way, some getting a lukewarm response, some getting no love at all.

  After the twenty-sixth track, I turned to the girls. “Edge,” I said. “We need it.”

  Julietta looked dubious. “Nina says to keep it less hip-hop and more pop.”

  “Should we be trying to sell the record before we even write the damn thing?” LaLa’s tone was ironic. “Let's just do what we feel.”

  “What about track No. 8?” I asked.

  They looked at me, trying to recall. I started singing the melody line, note for note, to help them remember.

  Sawyer’s gaze was sharp. “That's quite a memory you have.” Perceptive, I noted, adding that attribute to my mental Sawyer file.

  “I take good notes,” I lied, gesturing toward my laptop and small notebook. I always kept a notepad or something nearby for times like these so as not to draw attention to my knack for remembering almost every musical arrangement I hear. Changing the subject, I continued with a sense of urgency. “There’s a rock guitar with that, something like...” I started singing a counter-melody.

  With a deeper frown, Sawyer turned back to the board and pounded a button to start No. 8 again. I sang the melody of the guitar I heard in my head along with the track. Somehow, his frown looked pleased.

  “That's tight,” Julietta said. LaLa started paging through her lyrics and softly chanted what she found, just loud enough for us to hear her flow, but not enough to distract from the process of putting the different song elements together. Focused on finding just the right sound, Sawyer whip-swiveled his chair around to the keyboard and pounded a number of keys until he located the rock guitar voice.

  “That's it,” I proclaimed, “that’s what I hear.”

  Nodding his head, he started playing chords in the rock guitar voice, searching for the right combination in the key I sang. Meanwhile, Julietta tweaked a harmonic vocal to counteract mine. On my laptop, I pulled up lyrics I’d jotted down during history class and started singing, while still allowing the track to breathe as we all worked out our contributions.

  Suddenly, Sawyer hit a specific chord combination and we cheered simultaneously. “That's it!” I exclaimed. It was exciting to hear him play it the exact way it sounded in my head. His face broke out in a grin as he added the chord to the track and started synching it up to loop and flow along with the beat.

  Underneath the excitement of creative synergy, I was disconcerted by his gleaming grin and wondered why the sight of it made my stomach jump. His body swayed slightly as he worked. As his long fingers splayed effortlessly across a wide span of keys, the thick gold ring on the middle finger of his right hand caught the light. His hair wasn't pulled back today. It fell forward in a wavy curtain hiding his face as he bent over the keyboard.

  Something, however, was odd about Sawyer: he was excited about the music, too, but his heartbeat didn’t accelerate. Mine was beating faster now; so were LaLa’s and Jules’. But, come to think of it, his heart had beat at roughly the same rate since I’d met him, despite his mood or level of activity. Maybe he was always calm, even if he only looked excited, or maybe he was in great shape; but either way, it was weird.

  I focused back on the music, singing the lyrics over and over again while Julietta and LaLa worked to solidify harmony and rhyme.

  It sounded absolutely, positively awesome.

  “That works,” Sawyer said in an understated tone that made everything feel even more exciting. He jotted down some notes as we high-fived. “I'll dump that on a work CD for you,” he added. “Let's move on to the next track.”

  He hit the play button and track twenty-seven began. “Boring,” Julietta said before shooting an apologetic smile at him.

  “Not a problem,” he said in a friendly tone, “tell it like you see it.” He obviously liked straight talk. I put that into my file, too, while noting his more chilled-out demeanor.

  The doorbell rang and soon an ultra-skinny guy walked into the studio. He wore baggy, immaculately pressed, dark blue jeans and Timberlands. A gigantic watch hung off his skeletal wrist. Freshly braided cornrows peeked out from under the rim of his pristine baseball cap as he traded fist pounds with Sawyer and tossed his thick, goose-down jacket into a corner.

  “Heist is a Quake intern,” Sawyer said as an introduction. “He'll take your orders for lunch.”

  Heist politely flashed a platinum grille. “Hello, ladies. Nice to meet the minds behind 'Get Out of Here.'”

  He referred to what was, as far as our fans were concerned, our signature tune. After we’d won the contest, I’d written the lyrics about feeling trapped in a life of pretense, and LaLa had added a blistering rap about rising above hypocrisy. The song lived in an edgy track co-created by the three of us on Julietta's simple keyboard. It was written up in The Boston Phoenix as an “underground hit,” and was probably responsible for helping to clinch the deal with
Quake.

  Out of one of the many pockets of his jeans, Heist pulled out a Blackberry. “So, Sawyer already gave me his order, what are y'all in the mood for?”

  “Extra spicy Thai soup,” Julietta said in her I’m-coming-down-with-a-cold voice.

  “Pizza with artichoke and peppers. Salad. And green tea. Please,” LaLa requested. Heist looked at me expectantly. I tried to think of something to order, and drew a blank.

  “What’d you order?” I asked Sawyer.

  He was caught off-guard, as if someone asking him about what he wanted was unusual. “Soul food from Nathan’s Hut. Wings, greens, candied yams.”

  I swallowed down a strong wave of nausea even worse than last night, mindlessly requested pizza, and couldn’t even remember the toppings or drink I asked for. Heist jetted out on his mission.

  LaLa stretched. “He came right on time. I'm starving,” she said before going to search for a bathroom.

  “You got any lemon and honey up in here?” Julietta yelled from the kitchen. Sawyer went to assist her.

  I assessed my feelings of nausea. I hadn't eaten anything today, and the only thing I'd drunk was Cici's blood.

  Is today the day I turn Shimshana?

  But Cici told me I had at least a few days. I recalled drinking her blood earlier that morning and waited to see if the memory evoked feelings of hunger. Nope, I concluded after a few moments, I was still as grossed out as before. Maybe I just wasn't hungry.

  I wandered over to the boards, fascinated with the complexity of Sawyer’s equipment and its many buttons and flashing lights. The large monitors played the waves of track number twenty-seven, and I was mesmerized by the colors and lines that pounded to the rhythm of the beat.

  I heard his heartbeat and felt the heat of his body before his voice sounded behind me. “The flashing red button to the left will shut that track down if you press it,” he said near my right ear.

  I pressed the button. The monitor’s dancing waves and colors immediately died. He continued to stand behind me, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose as if a waft of cold air had just entered the room. I smelled freshly showered soap scent mixed with the smell of his skin—mmmm, spicy and sweet—and was reminded of cake batter I'd lick from Mom's bowl when I was little. His lean, muscled arm dusted with light-brown hair reached around my left side to point at a dark button on the board.

  “This here's the delete button. You want to send that track to the trash?”

  “Yes,” I said after a breathless pause, in which I savored the slow drawl of his Georgian accent. I pressed the “delete” button, and a low sound bite of a maniacal clown laugh confirmed the file’s deletion. I giggled at his dark sense of humor. But my smile instantly dissolved once I turned around. He was standing so close that I had to lean back slightly with my thighs resting on the edge of the keyboard. His proximity had an overwhelming effect on me.

  It was like I was surrounded by an electric circle of Sawyer aura and nothing existed outside of it. I took a deep breath, and his scent entered my nostrils.

  And then something weird happened.

  The aroma of him—his skin, hair (and other things I couldn’t even identify)—traveled down my throat and entered my stomach...where it was met with a loud, undeniable growl.

  I was hungry. But not for food. I was hungry for Sawyer.

  Panic rose as I looked up to meet his eyes. He gazed back steadily, as if examining a strange piece of art. From a distance my mind shrieked; Sawyer is food! But I straightened up and moved closer to him. He took a small step back, his eyes never leaving mine. The sound of his heartbeat was the background music banging in my ears as I, in a daze, took another step forward. My fingers itched with the desire to pull through the gold-tinged hair hanging less than an inch from my face. His eyes narrowed and his head cocked to the side. He was exposing his neck...yes, as if he was offering it to me. I inhaled his scent again and my brain switched off.

  Led by my watering mouth, I closed the gap between us and placed my lips on his neck.

  9. BLOOD, DEATH AND TEARS

  My teeth never touched Sawyer’s skin.

  STOP BREATHING! Cici's voice was deafening and shrill in my head.

  I followed the instruction and the spell was broken. What had I done? Scared at how close I came to doing I didn’t even know what, I scooted sideways, like a crab, along the edge of the board and out of his proximity.

  He looked confused about what just happened. “Angel…?”

  I’d run out of air and was in danger of breathing in his scent again. Go outside. NOW!

  I ran to the front door, stepped out, and sat on the top step. Confused and close to tears, I desperately sucked in the cold winter air.

  The good thing about having a sister who can fly is that you never have to wait for her too long. Cici soon bounded up the steps from whatever hidden spot it was she had dropped out of the sky. She reached into her backpack and pulled out a slim thermos. “Drink,” she ordered. The smell wafting out of the metal container confirmed it was blood. Before I could even think about it, I drained it quicker than you could say, “Type A.”

  And that was that.

  No trumpet fanfare. No divine choir singing from parted cumulus clouds or anything else I’d fantasized would accompany such a momentous occasion. Nonetheless, I was now a bonafide blood drinker.

  I broke out in a cold sweat. “More,” I said. Forehead wrinkled with concern, she drew out another thermos. And another. On the fourth, Julietta popped her head out the door.

  “Oh, hi, Cici.”

  My sister, ever the socialite, got up to give her a huge hug while I downed the rest of the blood. “How's it going?” Cici asked after throwing a quick glance at me.

  “We're up to track number twenty-eight.” Jules rubbed her upper arms against the winter chill.

  You still hungry?

  My stomach’s not growling anymore.

  Stay as far away from him as you can. Keep sipping every ten or fifteen minutes. I'll come get you when you're done.

  “Then I won't keep you guys,” Cici said out loud. She brought out two more thermoses and offered them to me. Julietta grabbed one.

  “Wouldn't recommend it, sweetie,” Cici said to Julietta. “You sound a little hoarse, and this might make whatever you're starting to come down with worse.”

  Yeah, you’re right,” Jules said, unaware of Cici’s power of suggestion. Cici calmly took the thermos out of Jules’ hands and handed it to me. “I’ll pick you up later, sis.” She punched my arm and headed into the flow of mortal life known as Commonwealth Avenue.

  I felt right again. Jules and I went back inside, where a frowning Sawyer had already fired up the next track. The undecipherable look on his face told me that he, too, had put the incident on the back burner. For now.

  The work pace quickened as we continued to delete tracks that didn't work and modify those with potential. Some tracks had samples taken from a number of lesser-known operas, and there were tracks with rock riffs, country, and even blues samples. The diversity of his choices made me feel guilty for having dissed his skills.

  Soon we had six hot tracks to build our vocals on, and by the time Heist returned, we'd gone through an additional ten and identified two more to work on. Sipping blood from the thermos, I looked with disinterest at the food Heist brought. Sawyer retreated with his lunch somewhere upstairs, while LaLa tore into her pizza and Julietta slurped down her soup. I was completely grossed out.

  “Want?” LaLa asked while gesturing toward my pizza.

  “Go for it.” I said.

  “Your tongue's so red. Thanks.”

  She tore into a slice. Cheese pulled in long strings from her mouth. I looked away in private disgust and sipped more.

  After lunch, we threw ourselves back into picking out tracks from the remaining files and settled into a groove of listening, contributing, amending, and critiquing. Sawyer had become slightly more talkative, but not by much. I chose the chair far
thest away from him and he chuckled.

  “Something funny?” I threw a dark glare at him.

  “Touché,” he quipped, turning his attention back to the board.

  As we worked, Heist would pop in with packages, which he'd place quietly on one of the couches before heading out again. “Efficient,” LaLa remarked while watching him take the stairs three at a time.

  She liked him. Jules’ rounded eyes met mine in mutual surprise. This sort of thing, LaLa into a guy, didn't happen that often. She was a rebel who didn't care what she wore, except for her extensive collection of top-of-the-line baseball caps. She always put music first, always had rap lyrics and razor-edged poetry bubbling at the edge of her brain or on the tip of her tongue. Because of her strong non-girlie-girl personality, most dudes were oblivious to her, and she to them. But Heist, with his easy-going confidence, was one of the rare ones who caught her eye.

  We were waiting for Sawyer, who’d stopped to calibrate some doohickey on the back of his keyboard where a mass of wires lived. He finally finished, sat on his stool, and started banging out Beethoven's “Prometheus Overture” so rapidly the maniacal pace seemed to propel me to another place.

  Suddenly, I was downtown and surrounded by buildings. I recognized the office building where Mom worked, B.O.R. International. But I wasn’t actually there. My body was still in the studio, and what I saw felt like it was viewed through some sort of tunnel.

  It hit me then. I was seeing what Cici saw.

  So the mind lock was a two-way street. She could see and experience what I was doing, and now I saw what she saw and felt what she felt. The mind lock was responsible for the mellow feelings I'd had all day (with the exception of wanting to eat Sawyer). It was as if I was bathing in an invisible stream of chill. It made sense that Cici, the most chilled-out person I knew, would rub off on me.

  But now she was a bunch of nerves, desperately wanting to get close to Mom and tell her something. Mom's office was on the top floor of the building, and I could feel Cici's frustration at having to adhere to the modicum of “normalcy” that dictated she take the slow elevator as opposed to flying up there. By the time she got to the top floor, she was about to jump out of her skin and I was fidgeting in my chair with her anxiety. The receptionist, whose name, as I remembered, started with a Q, greeted her before speaking into the intercom. Cici moved forward into the office as soon as we heard Mom's terse, “Let her in.”