Blood Vines

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Monday, March 15

4:25 A.M.

Alex opened her eyes, fully awake. She held herself completely still, fear thundering through her veins. She moved her gaze slowly over the room. The darkness seeming to swallow it. The absolute and utter quiet.

Someone was in her house.

Slowly, she inched into a sitting position. She reached for her cell phone, resting on the bed stand. She closed her fingers over it, its cool weight reassuring. She let a breath out slowly, then listened some more.

Why was it so quiet? Where were the creaks and moans she had learned to associate with this old house?

She hadn’t been dreaming. Something, someone, had awakened her.

Or had she been? A disgusted laugh slipped past her lips. Another nightmare. Shit. Would she ever sleep through the night again? She looked at the bedside clock and groaned. Four thirty in the morning.

Margo sat up, stretched and blinked at her. “Yeah, I know,” Alex muttered, “I’m certifiable.”

Her voice, the words, brought her and Reed’s encounter crashing back.

She still hadn’t been completely honest with him. She hadn’t told him about her visions. Or her nightmares. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. They either made her look crazy, guilty, or both.

“Whatever’s happening, you’re a part of it.”

But which part? she wondered. And why? She squeezed her eyes shut. Remember, Alex. Remember. They’re only memories. They can’t hurt you.

She breathed deeply, working to relax and let go. She focused on what her subconscious had already freed-the robed figures… the flames licking at her… the faceless baby screaming…

Suddenly, an image flooded her mind. The robed men circling her… Hands holding her down… terror… screams and laughter… a thrumming, thundering drumbeat…

Run… run…

Alex launched to her feet, her scream echoing in the empty house. She took a step, then stopped, quaking, terrified. It hadn’t been real. A memory. Or a hallucination.

It was cold, she realized. A cold, damp breeze licked at her bare feet. She’d left her window cracked open. Alex reached for her robe, hanging on the bedpost, and shivering, slipped into it.

She closed the bedroom window, but still felt a breeze. Funny, she didn’t remember having opened another window.

Goose bumps racing up her legs, Alex followed the breeze. The bathroom. The single window at the far end stood open. The gauzy drape stirred.

Not bothering with the light, she hurried across the bathroom, yanked the window shut and locked it.

She stopped and relieved herself, the toilet seat frigid against her backside, then started back to her bed. Her foot landed on something. Cold and soft. It squished beneath her foot and between her toes.

Fear took her breath. She pictured the slaughtered lamb, eye winking up at her.

With a cry, Alex flipped on the light and was momentarily blinded. Then she saw red. Smeared across the floor. On her foot and between her toes. Her heart leapt to her throat. A series of images played across her mind: the lamb, the bloodied doll in the fermenting tank, the altar, dried blood spilled across its top.

With a squeak of fear, she took a step back. More wet. More red. Bringing her hands to her mouth to stifle a scream, she realized what she was looking at.

Lipstick. The red she and Rachel had picked out.

How had it ended up on the floor?

The scream became an embarrassed giggle. Thank goodness no one but Margo was here to see her make such a monumental ass out of herself.

She bent to pick it up, then stopped. Red on her right hand, a stain. She studied it, frowning. Her writing hand. Along her forefinger, on the ball of her hand and thumb.

Slowly, she straightened. Turned toward the mirror. There, scrawled across it in Light Your Fire red, was one word: Remember.