Rachel Caine - The True Blood of Martyrs

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THE TRUE BLOOD OF MARTYRS

anoriginal short story by RachelCaine

The invitation to Jinx’s funeral came in the mail on Saturday before Halloween. It arrived in a gold-lined

envelope the color of heavy cream, but the sheet of paper inside was black printed with silver ink.

You are invited to join

Mr. Ivan Jenks

for a celebration of his death

beginning at Midnight, October 31

in this Year of Our Lord 1997

and ending promptly at dawn

All Saint’s Day.

The address below was that of a very old graveyard, one so old it had long ago been abandoned by

those who thought cemeteries should resemble suburban back yards. The Elysian was an overgrown

tangle of leaning headstones, memory heavy as jasmine in the air.

I thought in sheer disgust,oh, not again . I picked up the telephone and dialed his number, listened to

the hollow rings. After three of them the receiver lifted with a click, and Jinx’s cool, faintly English voice

said, "Helen, I’ve been expecting your call."

"It’s not funny," I said. "I’m not coming."

"It’s not meant to be funny, and of course you will. You always do, Helen. Don’t feel obliged to bring

anything. I can’t take it with me."

And he hung up, a gentle, definite disconnection that left me standing in the middle of my kitchen with the

telephone in my hand. I should have been angry with him, or at the very least annoyed. I was afraid.

I had known him for more than five hundred years.

The blurring growl of the engine soothed my anger. I drove out to one of the freeways, a marvelous wide

stretch of blacktop where I could fly in peace.

Why?There was no answer to the question. The Jinx I knew was a creature of air and fire, full of

impenetrable hungers. He was subject to bizarre fits of melancholia and spasms of drama, and his humor

could only be called twisted.

Few, if any of the others, understood that Jinx’s little funerals were not jokes.

I left behind the glaring amusement-park brilliance of the city doing a smooth, purring 90 miles an hour.

My mind emptied. The night closed around me, softened by the stars, and it seemed at this hour that I

was indeed flying, through a space that held no other life.

I closed my eyes and allowed my flesh to begin to mist. I went weightless. I heard the growl of an

oncoming engine and kept my eyes closed, squeezed them shut until tears leaked from under the lids and

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Rachel Caine - The True Blood of Martyrs

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