Blood and Kisses - By Karin Shah Page 0,14

the mark were equal to the size of her talent, she’d be hell on wheels.

She leaned her forehead against the cool plastic of the kicking bag. Of course, she’d never thought anything about her mark, except to be proud of her family’s heritage, until she’d gone to school.

She could still remember walking to the bus stop that first morning. Her mother had sent Spirit with her, although actually he’d watched, invisible, from afar.

It’d been a warm, sunny day. They’d had an unusually wet summer. Only a few leaves had begun to turn, and the grass was still bright green, but the tree growing at the bus stop corner had turned early. Its leaves glowed ruby-red in the morning sun. The sky was a brilliant blue, unmarred by clouds.

She’d worn a pretty new dress, pink gingham with white daisies embroidered on the bodice, and shiny white shoes. God, she’d loved the dress.

Then the other had children arrived, one by one, until there were five in all, and the whispering began.

The stares didn’t bother her at first. It was an awfully pretty dress.

A boy about her age, or maybe a year older, showed up. He possessed a shock of dark hair, a snub nose, and thick red lips. He walked around her silently in a slow circle. His eyes fixed on her mark. Not knowing what he was doing, she stood still, looking down at the shiny white patent leather of her shoes.

Then he spoke. “What’s that on your face?”

“A birthmark,” she said, peering up at him. Her mother had told her not to tell the other children the significance of her mark.

“Looks like you need to wash your face.”

She’d stomped her foot. “It’s a birthmark.”

“I don’t think so. I think you’ve got a dirty face. Why don’t you wash your face, Messy Bessie?” he’d sneered, upper lip drawn back to reveal missing front teeth. “Messy Bessie, Messy Bessie,” he’d chanted in a singsong voice. The other children joined in.

He’d laughed and picked up a clump of dirt from a ridge of raised earth, tossing the clump from hand to hand. “Wash your face, Messy Bessie!” With that, he threw the clump at her, striking one of the pretty white daisies on her dress. The clump exploded into a cloud of dust, and dirt rained down on her shoes, dulling the veneer. Forbidden by her mother to use magic, Thalia could only shield her head with her arms and sob as the other children began to follow his lead, scooping up clumps of dirt and lobbing them at her, soiling her dress, her hair and her legs, while continuing to chant.

When they ran out of dirt, they began to push her. She stumbled back and forth, bouncing from shoving hands to shoving hands until finally she’d tripped and fallen to the ground with a loud ripping sound. She sat on the sidewalk for a moment, shocked, and then picked herself up and ran back home, her face smudged, her dress destroyed.

She hadn’t made it to kindergarten that day, but she’d gone the next. Her mother’s angry phone-call to the other children’s parents’ made their jeers more subtle, but no less hurtful.

Billy Lasher, the boy who’d started it all, seemed to make it his personal duty to hound her, and the name Messy Bessie had followed her until middle school, when her schoolmates had chosen a new name.

God that was a long time ago. She bounced back on the balls of her feet and took another swing at the bag. It landed with a solid thunk. If only the past could be defeated with your fists.

She was twenty-five years old and she had never made love, had never even dated. It seemed unlikely she ever would.

But she had been kissed, well and truly kissed this morning, even if it had been in anger. In spite of the fact that it could never be repeated, it was a memory she would savor.

A disgusted chuff exploded from her chest and she planted a fist in the bag. God, she was pathetic.

In the dream, Gideon didn’t see a man, he saw a demon. A monstrous creature bent on annihilation. Devoted to death. An unstoppable force guided by shadows. Driven by madness.

Men screamed as he ripped out their pumping hearts with his bare hands. Cries of triumph spilled from his chest as he wallowed in the sounds of hearts beating, lungs fighting for coveted air, and living flesh being rendered from bone. The smell of death haunted