Blood relations, p.1
Blood Relations, page 1
Blood Relations
The Fifth in the
Cycle of the Aphotic World
Tobin Elliott
Copyright @ 2023 Tobin Elliott
Luminous Aphotica Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any process—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and Luminous Aphotica Publishing, except for brief quotations in a review.
Please purchase only authorized electronic editions from reliable retailers. In doing so, you support our authors and respect their rights.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these stories are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously.
ISBN 978-1-998827-04-6 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-998827-03-9 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-998827-02-2 (ebook)
Cover Design by Camille Codling (Instagram: @codling.creations)
Interior Layout by Jennifer Dinsmore (jenniferdinsmoreeditorial.com)
The Aphotic Series
Bad Blood
Out For Blood
Blood Loss
Blood Pact
Blood Relations
Flesh and Blood
This one is about realizing that those who share your DNA—your blood relations—are not always your family. So, this one is about finding your real family.
This one is for those who became my family. Ryan. Lisa. Dale. You are my brothers from other mothers and my sister from another mister.
And yes, this also goes out to those who showed me that mothers and fathers and daughters and sons can get along, can love each other, and can be a real family. Karen, Madison, Hunter, you are my heart and my blood. And seeing my kids as they begin to create their own families is a joy to behold.
Thank all of you for showing me what family truly can be.
Acknowledgements
Once again, I’m thanking all the people I usually do. This time, I got it out of the way in that dedication on the previous page. But it doesn’t lessen their impact on me.
Aside from my family, I must once again tip my hat to Jennifer Dinsmore, editor extraordinaire. Without her carefully sharpened eyeballs and shocking skills with those twenty-six letters in all their various combinations, and the punctuation that makes them less confusing, I’d be spitting out unreadable messes. Word gumbos. Still horrifying, I’m sure, but for all the wrong reasons.
A special call-out to Pat Flewwelling, one of my first creative writing students, and eventually, friend and co-worker, and the one who poked the hell out of me when I stopped writing. She’s also the one who said, “Try something different! Try writing a mystery novel!” Yeah, well, that mystery novel stank, but the bones of it got me to this novel…which hopefully stinks far less.
Thank you to the Muskoka Novel Marathon for getting me to the first aborted draft of this non-mystery version. And also to my tablemate, who graciously allowed me to use her in the opening scene.
And a final thank you to the COVID-19 lockdowns, which got me off my ass and gave me the time to finish these damn stories that were living rent-free in my head for so long.
“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”
— William Shakespeare
Prologue
“Are you here for the birthday party?”
“Yes ma’am.” The girl stood under the awning, her raincoat shedding the moisture from the hissing rain. It was so dark out for mid-afternoon.
The first thing that caught Cheryl’s attention was the girl’s voice. It was remarkably deep for one so young. She seemed a little old for her son, Will, but then again girls matured so much faster than boys. She was so polite. And her eyes were so big and blue.
Will was only turning seven, but still, Cheryl could see him falling for such a pretty little thing. She had brought a lovely wrapped gift for him. Obviously she’d have to ask Will about…then she realized she had no idea what to call her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t get your name?”
“Glory, Mrs. Koechlin.” Then after an awkward pause. “Your first name’s Cheryl, isn’t it?” Cheryl was shocked enough that she nodded before thinking. “It means beloved,” Glory said. “You are beloved.”
Well, she knows my name. Yes, I’m definitely going to have to ask Will about this one.
“Well, thank you, I didn’t know that.” Smiling, she stepped to the side and held her hand toward the interior. “Come in out of the rain, honey,” she said. “We’re just about to serve some cake, then open the presents.”
“Great,” Glory said.
“Hope you like devil’s food cake?”
“My favourite,” she said, her lips curling into a small smile. Oh yes, Cheryl thought, you’re going to be dangerous in a few years.
Cheryl led her into the room with the other guests. Will had invited a small group of friends. One, that really nice kid, Stanley Holt, couldn’t make it. Only three others sat around the table. Will’s father, as per usual, had chosen to find something else to do rather than attend his own son’s party.
“Jesus, Cher,” he had said. “He’s only turning seven. Really? These are the pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey years. Call me when he’s shaving.”
She knew he thought her superstition about this whole seventh birthday thing was, as he so elegantly put it, bullshit.
Cheryl chose to tell Will his father was working late. She hoped he was, but figured he likely wasn’t. Things had changed radically in the past eight years. He’d been the triumphant WWII veteran coming home to his war bride, seeming to live only to be with her.
Then along came Will, her little boy. And it was as though his presence seemed to somehow irk the man. Maybe he feels he’s been replaced or something, she’d thought many times over the years. Cheryl didn’t know if that was the answer or not. She only knew that, as the world seemed to enter into this new prosperity of the fifties, her husband seemed more and more distant.
Anyway, she would deal with that in due time. For now, it was time to put on a brave face. Let’s just get through this party first. She looked around the table at Will and his three friends. Will, with his shocking blond hair, almost white. He seemed a little sensitive about it. She thought it gave him character, but each time she stated this, he only snorted.
Seven years old and already gaining an attitude. The next seven would be much more trying than the last, that was something she could take to the bank. Probably just as trying for him as for his father. Still, she needed to get Will through this day. Through this meal.
“Will,” she said, and all four boys turned to look at Mrs. Koechlin. Then they all stared at the girl.
“Who’s that?” Billy said. Billy, friend of Will. Willy and Billy.
“Glory,” Glory said and again, Cheryl became aware of the deepness of her voice. “You know me, Billy Mathers.”
“Oh,” was all he said, nodding slowly. “Yeah, of course.”
Cheryl noticed the unusual expression on Will’s face, but put it down to being a little flummoxed by the appearance of an actual girl at his party. She thought, Maybe he didn’t invite her. Or maybe she invited herself. Maybe she’s the one with the crush?
Cheryl got Glory seated. As she bustled off to the kitchen, she wondered a bit at how the room got so quiet. It was unusual, but she was more concerned with the cake.
The cake.
Seven years in the making.
God, I hope he doesn’t taste it.
She’d chosen his favourite, mainly for the extra chocolate taste, and loaded the icing on it, maybe a bit heavy. She hoped it would hide the one bitter, but vital, ingredient.
She pulled the cake from the fridge and placed it on the counter. As she grabbed the candles and matches from the drawer, she wondered if her husband was right. Maybe this was bullshit.
Seriously, she thought. What mother does this? Feeds this to her own son, part of his own birthing? She imagined she could see that addition swirled into the batter. Of course, she couldn’t. She’d ground it fine, almost to dust. There’s no way it would be seen. No way.
Still.
She placed both hands on the cake plate, briefly considered dropping it on the floor and taking them all for ice cream. But no. What’s the worst that could happen? A bellyache? What kid doesn’t get a bellyache from a birthday cake?
She hoped there was enough baked into the entire cake. She needed the slice she would feed him to be potent enough to…
To what, Cheryl? she wondered. To make sure your boy doesn’t turn into a vampire? Are you seriously going to do this? Feed his caul to not only him but his friends, too?
She paused for a moment longer. Then made up her mind. She’d try and get him to eat two, just to be sure.
Are there rules to this? She didn’t know the answer to that. She was running on information from her grandmother, the one who, on hearing that Will had been born with a caul over his face, had demanded that it be preserved. Everyone thought she’d been crazy, but she’d been insistent, and Cheryl had complied.
After Will’s birth, her grandmother, her Babcia, had pulled her aside and told her the stories. Terrible stories. She told her she could save Will. Then she told her how.
When her Babcia had died, five years ago, she made Cheryl make a d eath-bed promise to her that she would fulfill her role on the boy’s seventh birthday. Cheryl had promised.
Five years later, here she stood, in her own kitchen, with this horrible cake. Her death-bed promise. She would feed it to her son.
As her husband said, it was probably all bullshit anyway.
If it worked, she’d never know. But if it didn’t…
Well, she’d likely know then, wouldn’t she?
She sank six of the seven candles into the frosting around the perimeter of the cake, careful to not smear the Happy Birthday Will! message in the icing. She pulled the box of matches open, selected one, then closed the box and scraped the tip against the rough surface and the match flared to life.
She stood, transfixed for a moment by the flicker of the flame. Then she touched it to the remaining candle, watched it catch, then shook out the flame on the match, dropping it in the sink to be dealt with later.
She touched the lit candle to the six others in turn, then pushed the candle into the frosting, dotting the “i” in Will. It was ready. There was no more reason to delay.
She took a steadying breath, placed a hand on each side of the plate, lifted it, and went back out to the dining room.
“Happy birthday,” she sang in her shy, too-quiet voice, counting on the boys—and the girl—to pick up the song. Seven-year-old boys? Yes, they’d start quiet, and get silly by the end of it.
They didn’t disappoint.
Yet, as they sang, a single voice rang high and sweet over the others. It’s a cliché, Cheryl thought, but Glory’s voice is like an angel’s. Beautiful, confident, like the voice of a seasoned stage performer. Strange for a girl with such a low speaking voice.
It was enough to stop Cheryl for a moment. For a brief slice of time, likely less than a second, but feeling like minutes, Cheryl simply couldn’t pull her eyes away from Glory. The girl sat to one side of the table, her sweet cherub mouth releasing the sweetest sounds. Cheryl felt the prick of tears in her eyes, but caught herself, blinked rapidly, then kept on, approaching the table and setting the cake down in front of Will, who looked equal parts impressed and embarrassed.
They finished up the song, with the boys riding over Glory with the obligatory, “You look like a monkeeeeeeeey and you smell like one, tooooooooo.”
She waited until the last, drawn-out note fell away. “Make a wish,” Cheryl said.
Will took his time, really thinking it over. Long enough for Cheryl to glance around the table. The other three boys eyed the cake with hunger. But Glory? She only had eyes for Will. She watched him intently.
Strange.
Will blew out the flame, leaving seven curls of smoke rising in an odorous twist.
Then the world turned on its head.
Glory cleared her throat. Cheryl turned her attention back to the strange little girl once again. She followed the girl’s gaze.
A red-haired boy about the same age as Glory, dripping rain water, entered the dining room. Someone late to the party? How many did Will invite?
“Oh,” Cheryl said. “Hello. And you are…?”
“You can call me Red.”
Red? What kind of name is that? Okay, the hair, but still…he seems a little young for a nickname. “You’re a friend of Will’s?”
“I am now,” he said. His voice held the confident air of someone with a lot more years under their belt. He walked into the room like he owned it. He almost had a swagger to his walk, and an easy smile. The kid was Frank Sinatra in a boy’s body.
Glory stood up. The two of them paced the room, circling slowly, one at each side. It reminded Cheryl of sharks in a tank.
“I’m sorry,” Cheryl said. “I don’t understand.”
“Let me ask you all a question,” Red said, ignoring Cheryl’s comment.
Cheryl could only stare at him. She was stunned that this little brat would simply dismiss her. She’d be having a talk with Mr. Red’s parents, and that was a fact.
“How many of you heard the Vilni church bell ring last night?” he said.
“I did,” Billy said.
“Yeah, me too,” Jonathon said. “It woke me up.”
“I did too,” Derek said, his brows furrowing. “Weird.”
Cheryl didn’t say anything. Red looked at her, obviously waiting for her to answer.
“Yes,” she said, shocked that she was responding to this…this impudent little boy’s question. “I did as well.” It had surprised her, the church bells ringing so late at night.
“Excellent,” he said, but his voice wasn’t the same. It had become a thunderingly low thing, the three syllables leaving his mouth as though they had travelled through caverns all the way from hell itself.
He smiled.
Oh God, Cheryl thought. Oh my dear Lord in His heaven. And she knew then and there that her husband was wrong. It’s not bullshit.
In that smile, she knew.
When Red smiled, she saw his teeth. His horrible, terribly sharp teeth.
“Will?” Cheryl said.
Will seemed too stunned to look at her, only stared at Red’s smile. She tried to keep the urgency and panic out of her voice. “Will, I need you to eat some cake honey.”
“But…”
“Will, honey, don’t argue with me, don’t worry about a fork, just eat some cake.” She didn’t like how her voice was so high and thin, as though her windpipe had been constricted.
“Why?”
That was enough to pull off all the controls and filters. She found her voice. “Just eat some of the goddamn cake, Will!”
Will lifted a tentative hand.
Red didn’t say a word. He just stared into Will’s eyes and shook his head no.
Will’s hand retreated, and Cheryl let out a sob.
Then Glory, who’d somehow managed to get around behind Cheryl, leapt onto Cheryl’s back and before she could react, the girl had plunged her teeth into her neck. Deep into her neck. Cheryl felt the puncturing of her skin, felt muscles twist and tear under the pressure.
Cheryl bucked and spun, but the girl had a firm grip, her arms and legs wrapped around Cheryl like a lover, her teeth locked on her neck. Then she felt warmth down her back, down her left breast, warm through her blouse and bra, right to the skin. But she couldn’t look down. Glory first shook her head as though she was a dog with a stick, then, her teeth firmly planted, held Cheryl’s neck tight with the pressure…and was she… Was she sucking at her neck?
Then the screams started around the room. Jonathon, Derek, Billy. But not Will.
Cheryl slid to the floor, unable to stand upright, unable to fight back. The blood in her body surged toward her neck. The children’s screams silenced, one by one.
“Glory?” Cheryl heard. It was the boy, Red. “A little help?”
Glory detached herself from Cheryl’s neck. Everything felt wrong, as though her head couldn’t be supported by her neck anymore. But she could still crawl to the phone in the front hall.
Then she felt Glory’s hands on either side of her head. “Sorry, Mrs. Koechlin.” And she seemed to be sincere. “But you shouldn’t have tried to feed him that goddamn cake.” That deep, deep voice.
Will had been the only one not to say he’d heard the church bells. The only one not to scream when Red and Glory attacked.
Oh my dear Lord in heaven. It’s true. It’s all true.
Cheryl wondered what would become of him. My little boy.
“Don’t worry, Cheryl,” Glory said. “We’ll be Will’s new beloved.”
Part One
Coming Home
“No new horror can be more terrible than
the daily torture of the commonplace.”
Ex Oblivione
H. P. Lovecraft
First Interlude
The beast comes aware as it finishes chewing its way out from its mother’s belly. It has no words yet, but sounds are in its hindbrain. Three distinct noises.
Mar. See. Ah.
