1.2 Blood and Unicorns

Golden sunshine spilled from the open window-seat onto the bed. Feeling hungover, I yawned and stretched, untangling myself from the sheets and blanket. I sat up in the warm puddle of light, cold all over as gunshots rang in the back of my mind.

Maybe it never happened. Maybe it was all a dream...

Elbow on my knee, head in my hand, I gave in to the awful memory of last night. I hoped none of it was real. But when my phone buzzed on the nightstand, I saw its cracked screen and knew that was wishful thinking.

Sighing, I grabbed my phone, scrolling through the list of missed calls and angry texts. Mom and Jeff weren't happy that I had missed the speech, but there was no way I could ever explain Dorian without sounding as crazy as him and Opal. Dorian was still alive; if I didn't make amends with Mom and Jeff I wouldn't be.

Slipping from the bed, I padded the short distance to the claw-footed tub, cast aside the sheer shower curtain, and turned on the shower-head. Since I had insisted on moving out of the mansion, Jeff had set me up with a superb studio apartment at the edge of the suburbs - a birthday gift for my 21st I couldn't refuse. In my downtime, I made peppermint tea and sat on the window-seat, painting monsters and visions only a fiend could imagine. Other days I was content just painting the blue-gray sea sparkling in the distance. The best part about Harbor Village was living on the coast, where incredible sea food, spectacular views, and the beach were only a drive away.

In the shower, I was crippled once more by images from last night. How I had stumbled into my apartment, a bloody mess. How I had stared at myself in the mirror above my vanity, transfixed by the blood smeared across my forehead and down my arms. How I had rinsed and scrubbed and exfoliated in the shower, watching pink water circle the drain. Three shots. Opal had put three shots in him and Dorian had died in my arms. How was he alive? How?

But did I really want to know?

I stepped from the shower, wrapping myself in a towel as I headed for the closet. I threw on my clothes - jeans and a netted sweater with a camisole underneath - and stepped in my ankle boots, running a comb through my damp curls. A cream cheese bagel and a dab of makeup was all I had time for. If I didn't hurry, I'd be late for my shift at the gallery. My job as in intern consisted of answering telephones, managing the display areas, keeping portfolios on the artists, and wooing new clients at exhibitions. Miriam had been so impressed with my efforts she had given me a small space to participate in the previous viewing. I sold one painting - to my best friend. Unless I wanted it to be my last, I couldn't afford to be tardy.

"Salt by the Sea Gallery. This is Amelia, how may I help you?" Sat at my desk, I balanced the phone against my ear, jotting down the client's message for Miriam. Minutes later, I knocked on her office door and was given permission to enter.

The large space was bright and airy as the rest of the gallery, with several windows to let in the natural light. Her walls were covered in artwork, some of them gifts, some of which she'd acquired on her own. One of my own paintings occupied the space behind her cluttered desk - a portrait of two little Black girls with gap-toothed smiles and bouncing curls, shooting marbles on a white tile floor as red eyes peered from the darkness behind them.

Miriam Fotopoulos smiled and raised one chubby ringed finger, her ear pressed to the phone as she addressed the speaker on the other line. A short, plump, vivacious woman with cat-eye spectacles and a penchant for caffeine, Miriam had a true eye for art and fashion. Originally from New York, she had chosen to leave the bustling art scene behind fifteen years ago, following her fisherman son out of state and to the sea. She worried about him. Two weeks ago he had nearly drowned in the ocean.

"Sweetheart, I would love nothing more than to acquire another piece but until the others have sold my hands are tied. We're bursting at the seams with collections, darling, I simply haven't the room. Have you considered E-Bay?"

Lowering my head, I bit my fist to hide the giggles.

"Alright, darling, alright. You too, dear. Ta-ta." Miriam lowered the phone. Pressing her hands to her temples, she massaged in slow circles. She was the gallery owner, but more importantly she was the aunt I never had.

I waved the sticky note in the air.

"Oh, please tell me it's a buyer and he's desperate."

"Not a buyer, but he is desperate." I poked out my lower lip in sympathy. "Mr. Jacobi called. Again. He wants to meet to discuss the lighting for the next show. And the music. And the food."

"Of course he does," she grumbled, reaching for the note. "You artists, never satisfied."

I grinned. I loved it when she called me an artist.

"So, how was your night, dear? Was it everything you dreamed and more?"

"It was a nightmare." I dropped into to seat before her desk, petting the giant greyhound lounging on his pillow. "I missed the speech."

"Oof." The older woman clutched her chest like it hurt, amber eyes filled with empathy. "Sweetheart, I can have you on a plane to Manhattan tonight. Just say the word."

"It's Sunday dinner. I miss that and I might as well leave the planet."

"You never give up and you never back down. That's what I love about you, Amelia--apart from those stunning lines in your art." Miriam kissed her fingers. "Never change."

The Harley Sunset was the best diner in the Village, a favorite among the locals. After a long night's haul, fisherman would come from the docks to order heaping platters of Driselle's famous cinnamon pancakes. I came for the coffee and the clotted-cream scones. Having ended my shift at the gallery, I had just enough time for a snack before dinner. Mom had a habit of serving bougie, rich-people food I couldn't pronounce and didn't care for.

When I entered the diner, the Sunset's owner was counting the register - a raven-haired, olive-skinned beauty whose family had owned the restaurant through several generations and name-changes.

She smiled as I passed. "The usual?"

"You got it. Thanks, Drizzy." I rapped the counter on the way to my usual seat -  a booth in the back, next to the giant glass windows overlooking the parking lot. A few minutes later I had my coffee and two giant scones drizzled in cream and berries. I was licking my spoon when my bestie joined, sliding in the seat opposite, her grin as delicious as my plate.

A jet-haired beauty with large, brown eyes and a dimpled smile, Vanida Buasuwan had moved from Thailand when we were still in grade school. I taught her English slang and she taught me to sign.

I smacked her fingers when Van reached for my plate.

"Just a little taste," she signed.

"Get your own," I signed back, laughing when she tried again.

"How was last night?" She licked the cream from her fingers, reading my lips.

I sighed. "I missed the speech."

"Amelia!" It was rare for Van to speak aloud. She shook her head. "What happened?"

"If I say it you won't believe me. I dunno know what to think."

"Try me. I usually do the thinking for you."

So I told my story from beginning to end - starting with meeting Opal at the Fairway, ending with her nearly killing Dorian in the parking lot.

Vanida frowned. "Maybe she missed?"

"There's no way," I said aloud, glancing around and lowering my voice. "There was blood everywhere. I saw him die, Van, I swear."

"Then how is he still alive?" Vanida shook her pretty head, delicate features lined with concern.

I shrugged. "You tell me."

"Finish your scones. We'll figure this out--together."

I was so grateful, I passed her the plate and an extra spoon.

The evening sky was scarlet with dusk when we reached the Fairway. The champagne-colored building was silent as the grave, the parking lot emptied of the cars and delivery trucks from last night.

Vanida and I stood in the vacant side-lot, staring at the dried patch of red where Dorian Gray had taken his final breaths. Vanida crouched, balancing on the heels of her ankle boots; she boldly ran her fingers across the mess, inspecting the red flakes that came away on her fingers.

"See, Van? Blood. I'm not crazy."

"I believe you," she signed back, wiping her hands on her jeans as she straightened. "It's too much blood for someone to get up and walk away." Vanida would know; she was studying to be a pathologist. "Have you told anyone?"

I shook my head. "Who would believe me? Besides you."

"This could be huge, Amelia. Someone who is immune to death? I don't know where to begin."

"You and me both." My heart raced just thinking about it.

"In Thailand, we have our own myths and legends. Someone who dies and comes back to life is known as..." She paused. "P̄hīdib" she said aloud. "The living dead," she signed.

I scoffed. "Van, c'mon," I said, then returned to signing. "You don't seriously think--"

"You said it yourself. He got up and walked away." Vanida glanced at the ground. Tucking long, dark waves behind her ear, she chewed her lip in thought. "A few years ago, my parents rented a boat and took me out on the water. When it grew dark, just before we left, I looked over the rail, and I saw a face staring at me from the waves. We were far out, alone--no other boats in sight to explain the thing I saw in the water. For years it plagued me, until I realized--some things can't be explained."

"Not this, Van. I need to know."

She nodded in understanding. "I'll be right back."

I watched as Vanida re-traced her steps to the parking lot. Most people wouldn't entertain the idea of the impossible, but Vanida was good that way. When she returned, it was with with her medication transportation bag. Crouched at the dried blood pool, Vanida unzipped the maroon bag, removing a blood collection tube and a scalpel.

She slipped on a pair of latex gloves. "I'll take a sample to the lab at the university. Maybe the results will tell us something."

"Thank you-thank you-thank you," I signed, flooded with relief.

"Don't thank me yet. You might not like the answer." Then, using her scalpel, she scraped red flecks from the pavement.

Alessa was there to greet me when I arrived at the mansion later that evening. She glided down the parlor stairs as one of the staff removed my jacket. The sixteen-year-old gymnast was pretty with such little effort. Today her long curls were straightened, piled on her head in a messy bun. Large hoops dangled from her ears, the silver glinting against her sable skin. Her cheekbones were too amazing and too high for her own damn good, much like her denim skirt and neon yellow, off-the shoulder crop-top. When we embraced, she smelled like the Gucci perfume I'd bought her for Christmas; it matched her personality - sweet and bubbly with a hint of vicious.

"You're early. For once."

"I have a life, y'know."

Alessa smirked - my mini-me, the good twin. "Does college turn everyone into self-absorbed assholes?"

"Eh, pretty much. How pissed are mom and Jeff?"

"Mom? On a scale of one to a hundred? Try infinity and beyond. What happened last night, Aimes? The speech was scheduled weeks in advance. To be fair, Jeff's not mad. I think he's just hurt."

"Shit." I sighed. Hurt Jeff was worse than angry Jeff.

"It was supposed to be a family moment. You were so close--"

"To doing the right thing? But for who?"

"They just want our support. That's all Jeff's ever asked and you know it."

"Yeah, well, it's easy to ask for support you never give." Amused by my sister's exasperation, I tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "What's for dinner?"

Approaching voices interrupted from the hall. Jeffrey entered the foyer in business attire - slacks and a tie-less, navy dress shirt. Tan and handsome, his smiling green eyes and presidential haircut charmed the most stubborn constituents to his side. It was easy for anyone to believe in Jeffrey and to trust him when he said he would make the state a better, safer place. But that stopped being a possibility the moment I saw the beautiful figure striding beside him - the Scarlet Woman, Opal. She could have been the First Lady in her red A-Line dress and matching pumps.

"Alessa, go with mom." My mouth was dry, the words like ash on my tongue.

"Why?"

"Just do it." I pushed her toward the hall to get her moving. She obliged, casting a bewildered glance over her shoulder as she went.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. St. Martin." Jeffrey offered his best smile. "My family and I appreciate your generous donation and we thank you for your vote in November's election."

"I look forward to supporting your campaign, Governor Foley. I value someone with such... unwavering morals. I'm sure your other constituents feel the same."

"Thank you. Have a wonderful night."

I nearly died when they shook hands, Jeffrey guiding Opal around me and to the front door. Our gazes connected when we passed, Opal greeting me with the smallest, most sinister of smiles. Gunshots went off in my brain and I swallowed, unable to breathe until Jeffrey closed the door,w which I immediately locked.

"What was she doing here?"

Jeffrey was startled. "Amelia, Ms. St. Martin is a kind and generous benefactor. What's the problem?"

"You don't even know her! Last night, she... She..."

"She what?" He waited, brows raised, dark as the perfectly coiffed brunette hairs on his head.

"She... never mind. You wouldn't understand."

"You're right, I don't understand, Amelia, so help me. You missed the speech last night, but what bothers me is that you don't seem to care--about anything that matters to this family."

"What you really mean is that I don't care about anything that matters to you," I retorted, nostrils flaring as Jeffrey crossed his arms. "And frankly, I could say the same."

His chest heaved. The anger in his face rose and subsided. He exhaled, and somehow let it all go. For now.

"It's Sunday dinner. For your mother's sake, let's not ruin a good thing by arguing. The food's getting cold." Jeffrey extended his arm towards the dining room.

I stalked past him without another word.

If you're enjoying the story, please VOTE and add Immortal Sin to your reading list! More Amelia and Dorian ahead! 🎨🥞🔬