Bloodlust

Bloodlust by Deborah O'Toole (aka Deidre Dalton) is Book #2 in the Bloodline Trilogy.

Noel and Pim's daughter Kate Grady has unusual powers which allow her to bend people to her will. At first she uses her gifts wisely, but then goes astray after falling in love with Kirk Lester. She finds herself honing her special powers to keep her place in Kirk's heart, no matter how evil or depraved life with him becomes.

From Chapter Twenty

NOEL WAITED UNTIL the Saturday after her break-in at the Lester home before she scrutinized the photographs she had collected. She told Pim she was going over to Madge's house for a visit, and he absently acknowledged her departure. It was common for the two women to get together on weekends to chat and have a few glasses of wine, or in Madge's case, Sobieski vodka in a tumbler. Noel left Pim sitting in the living room, where he was reading the Saturday edition of the Boston Globe.

Madge was quick to make copies of the photographs Noel showed her, using the printer in her office above the garage, where she and Noel settled to talk about the find. It was nearly eleven in the morning, but Madge obliged with a glass of wine for Noel, and a tumbler of vodka for herself. Dither was sleeping comfortably in the leather recliner by Madge's desk, while Noel reposed in the facing windowsill.

Madge looked over the photos, seeing the list of names and the various poems written by Kirk and his grandmother, Elizabeth. "All of this is interesting," she acquiesced. "But how you went about getting it - rather reckless, don't you think? Breaking and entering is a serious crime, Noel. If you'd been caught . . ."

"But I wasn't caught," Noel said firmly. "The poems are rather dark, but may contain some hidden meanings if we examine them closely. The list of names, however, bear some closer scrutiny. If Ken helped his son and Kate to get away, he had to have some contacts along the way. I'm thinking this list might lead us to some of them, if not all."

"We should probably hand the list over to the police," Madge noted, as she stared at the photographs laid out flat on her desk. "But perhaps I should give it to one of my old contacts on the force, have it given the once over under the table, so to speak. We don't want our names involved, because then there will be questions about how we obtained the list in the first place."

"Agreed," Noel replied. "I wish there was a way we could hand it over directly to the detective assigned to Kate's case. What if I just gave it to him, with no explanation? I could say I received it from an anonymous source."

"That's an option," Madge responded.

Noel nodded. "Okay. In the meantime, what do you think about the poems? The one with Kate's name in the title seems a bit harmless, just Kirk declaring his love for my daughter. While the words are a bit intense, it doesn't appear to be over the top for a teenager experiencing his first love."

Madge pulled the photo of "My Katie" and began reading it aloud:

The day I saw her, the earth stood still.

Her eyes, hair and smile drew me in.

In meeting her, I lost all of my will.

For her, I would commit any sin.

It was more than physical presence,

in mere mind's eye.

She radiates fulsome essence.

Bright star shooting from the sky.

My Katie, center of the universe for me.

Willpower and thought, all gone away.

My mind and soul for all I can see.

In all radiant light, be that as it may.

My Katie, love of my life.

As I exist and draw breath.

For her, I would endure any strife,

to exist in her world, until my own dying death.

"He's actually quite good," Madge noted, her glance going to Noel. "What do you make of the words?"

Noel shrugged. "He's in love with my daughter, or thinks he is. I've never been one to read hidden meanings in poetry. I was hoping you could."

"He is consumed by her," Madge said softly, tapping her finger on the photograph. "He's obsessed. Kirk is envisioning an entire life with Katie, and cannot see going through it without her."

"That's what I was afraid of," Noel replied grimly.

"If we are going to be objective, you could see it as two teenagers in love," Madge pointed out. "It's a common angst suffered by most of us as we grow up."

"I'm being objective," Noel protested faintly, meeting her eyes. "But we both know better. It's not just two teenagers in love. There is evil lurking in the midst of it all. Whether it's Kirk or his damned father, remains to be seen." She pointed to Madge's desk: "How about reading another one of his poems? Try Blood of My Father. Maybe that will give us some insight into Ken, from Kirk's viewpoint."

Madge began reading:

It spills and reeks, soaked to the floor.

Pools of liquid ruby red,

hidden by a drawn door.

For all who are gone and dead.

This blood is in my veins,

it runs rampant and true.

As thy father does ordain,

the knowing to trusted few.

Unbeknownst and bygone,

shall never see the light of day.

Forthwith and near every dawn,

under the seedbed plot they do lay.

Swaying bells in the summer breeze,

none too gentle for those gone under.

Nor will any likely feel an appease,

as life and limb are torn asunder.

Noel gasped, setting her wine glass on the windowsill. "That one sent a chill down my spine."

"Mine too," Madge whispered, her eyes wide.

"Kirk knows what his father is up to and does nothing about it," Noel said strongly, her eyes flashing angrily. "This poem - it's like a roadmap to the steps Ken takes to hide his victim and/or victims. By the way, what the hell is a seedbed plot?"

"It's just the soil area that's prepared and where seeds are planted," Madge told her. "The terminology is used for vegetables and flowers, or whatever is being planted. It's also referred to as a seedbed patch."

Noel appeared puzzled. "Does that mean Ken has buried his victims under flower beds, or in a vegetable garden? It's wintertime, and hard to tell what he has planted around his house. All the shrubs are dead-looking and bare, with no life to them."

"They will sprout in the spring," Madge said. "That's the natural order of it, especially if he uses bulbs."

Noel paused, recalling the two crates she had spied in Ken's tool shed. "I saw two containers full of bluebell bulbs in his backyard shed," she said excitedly. "Do you suppose that's what he has planted around his house? And he's just waiting for spring to plant some more?"

"They can also be planted in late winter," Madge told her. "Typically, though, they are planted in mid-fall so they have time to grow for a spring bloom."

"Maybe the bulbs I saw are leftover from last autumn," Noel said thoughtfully, her expression turning uneasy. "But what does it mean? How many victims do you think he's trying to conceal in the earth, for God's sake?"

Madge shook her head. "Speaking of God, only he knows." She glanced down at the photographs on her desk. "Do you want me to read another?"

"Might as well," Noel replied dismally.

"This one's called Screech & Moan."

"Lovely," Noel muttered. She picked up her wine glass from the windowsill and took a deep swallow. "I'm ready."

Madge took a healthy swig of vodka from her tumbler, giving a loud gasp as she set it back on the desk. "So am I," she declared. And then she began reading.

Through the rafters and floorboards I hear

the screech and moan of many.

Childhood full of loathing and fear,

for my thoughts, not even a half-penny.

The cries never stop, even in my dreams.

The screech and moan of many.

In our house, nothing is as it seems,

tainted hearts as black as ebony.

I pray nightly for it to cease,

the screech and moan of many.

Even thy mother he won't release,

as if that would matter to any.

In the quiet of a lull,

I still hear the screech and moan of many.

I cannot erase, extract or pull,

Not even in the darkest hour of agony.

"Jesus," Noel whispered. "Kirk must have witnessed some of the goings-on when he was a child. And mention of his mother? I never thought about that."

"Didn't you tell me Ken's wife and daughter died in a car accident?" Madge asked.

"Yes, about five or six years ago. That's all I know about it."

"Do you think Ken tormented his wife, right in the house with the kids present?"

"I wouldn't put anything past that bastard," Noel replied in a bitter tone.

"Do you want me to read the last two poems?" Madge asked pointedly. "They aren't written by Kirk, but by Elizabeth Lester."

"Kate told me Kirk was inspired by his grandmother to write his own poetry."

Madge glanced at the pictures. "One of them is titled Bluebells & Fuchsia, and the other one is called The Rot in the Wood."

Noel rolled her eyes. "Give them a whirl."

"I'll do Bluebells & Fuchsia first," Madge said.

The dark red path,

littered with blood and bloom

and arced with portents of death.

Never easy to assume.

Bluebells and fuchsia,

with hints of loom

and bits of minutia,

points at certain doom.

What is hidden,

will be revealed.

To unveil the forbidden,

no longer concealed.

Bluebells and fuchsia,

with hints of loom

and bits of minutia,

points at certain doom.

Bones and flesh,

forever rest

in the rotted mesh

at his behest.

Bluebells and fuchsia,

with hints of loom

and bits of minutia,

points at certain doom.

"Cheery family, aren't they?" Noel asked sarcastically.

"Not even a bit," Madge shuddered.

"Let's finish this up," Noel told her tersely.

"This one is called The Rot in the Wood."

On the fringes of something so foul,

creeping around the edges of all.

Hiding secrets in the earth's inner bowel.

Birds shrieking in the night, to enthrall.

Breathing life now rotted in the ground.

Once viable and full of joy,

now making not a sound.

No going back, no being coy.

Cracking thunder and lightning,

leading the way.

All the more frightening,

when illuminated by day.

Encroaching, swirling fog,

enveloping all in its path,

as if one giant cog,

rolling back like a curl, spreading its wrath.

No secrets last forever.

The rot in the wood,

acting like a burning tether,

sending to hell as it could.

"God almighty," Madge breathed. "This woman was either very talented, or well beyond any sort of sanity."

"A crazy genius," Noel spoke up. "It's all good as far as the writing goes, but the content . . . it's twisted and sick. Perhaps it's hereditary."

"Are you going to show these poems to Pim?" Madge wanted to know.

"No, not yet." Noel hesitated. "I want to mull them over, maybe try to make some sense of them before I tell him."

Madge stared at her friend. "You realize you're going to have to tell Pim about all of this at some point, don't you?"

Noel sighed. "I know, but we've come to this mutual agreement not to discuss Katie until we get something concrete. He's literally destroyed inside, Madge, as if he is just going through the motions of living while she's gone. I feel the same way to a certain extent, but I'm driven more by anger at the moment. I'm not about to let things go. I want to get to the bottom of it, whether Pim wants to be part of it or not. It's just too painful to talk about between us, and it's as if by mutual agreement we don't, without even acknowledging her. To me, that's more painful than actually talking about her, dismissing the very mention of her name.''

Madge appeared sad. "I'm sorry, Noel. Sorry for everything."

"Me, too, but I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that it's not over, not by a long shot. I sense there is even more sickness and depravity just under the surface of Ken Lester and his life." She returned Madge's gaze, her voice near to a whisper. "We probably haven't seen the worst of it, not yet."