Read The Key (Sanguinem Emere) for Free Online Page A

from what?” I nearly shout the words at her, exasperated by her docile, cloistered tones, as I snatch my hand from her fingers, irritated by the way she strokes my skin as though trying to placate an over-tired toddler.
    “Does it matter?” Cecily’s voice whispers from the other end of the kitchen, almost forgotten in my rage at Delilah. I turn on her, fully prepared to voice my disgust at her audacity for daring to think her thoughts are welcome in any argument I see fit to delve into after what she has done, but the innocent adoration over her features makes me stay my tongue. I try to reprimand her. I want to scream at her like a banshee, like my voice has no end, my hatred will never cease. I want to punish her until she crumbles into the soft, soppy ball I have always known my baby sister to be. But all the energy, the emotion and effort of it drains from me as I open my mouth to shout and nothing comes out but a small noise, almost akin to a sob. Cecily takes it for what it sounds like and she walks swiftly towards me before I can step aside in fear that she will touch me. Afraid I’ll hurt her feelings with the volatility of my adverse reaction to her closeness.
    But I allow her to grasp me by the shoulders and pull me to her chest. I allow her to stroke my hair and coo in my ear like a mother. Because once again, not for the first, second, or even third time since this strange, tumultuous day started, I feel like I am missing a foot to stand on. As though some peculiar mixture of chemical substances is reacting under my feet and everyone else knows about the incoming explosion, except me. And it feels almost natural for them to treat me like a baby, because I am beginning to see the similarities. I want to scream constantly, because no one can understand my dilemma, they don’t seem to understand me.
    I pull gently away from my sister’s embrace, not wanting to break her pattern of affection or her tender, overwrought, little heart, but unwilling to feign love when, to me, she is still a traitorous whore.
    Sort of.
    “You know what? This is just a little too psychotic for me, Ladies. I’m going home.” I mutter as I extricate myself and dig for my car keys in the wreck that was a perfectly well-packed handbag before I destroyed that illusion.
    Delilah, quietly standing by and watching my inner turmoil with concern lining her features, speaks in a small voice, as though afraid I may attempt to punch her. Her fears are not exactly unfounded I have to concede to myself. “Do you really want to, Eva?”
    A sigh escapes my lungs before I can stop it, but my words seem to flee with it and I groan to myself at my complete inability to shut up, “No, not really. But I know a scandal headline when I see one and this one is bound to cause a wave of destruction for us all. That is, of course, unless we wind up being listed under the obituaries for being stupid enough to find ourselves in some sort of love/suicide cult. I know how these things end, and it is always in tears or blood.”
    “I can’t let you leave, Eva,” Delilah whispers again, quietly, as I march for the door. I can feel a chill race up my spin to curl away under my hair as my skin twitches in the first pangs of fear. I turn to the girls who have both risen, although Cecily is standing a step behind my friend with her hand tight on Delilah’s arm.
    “What is that supposed to mean, D?” I try and keep my voice gentle. I have been in situations before where an interviewee, or sometimes, on occasion, a family member of the recently deceased, has threatened a combination of physical violence and detention. Training would dictate that I keep calm and try to think of a plausible exit strategy. But this is my friend. Why do I suddenly feel the urge to run from the fervour I see brimming in her eyes?
    “You know what it means, Duckling. I was told to make sure you are comfortable. That you are important and we cannot lose you. And besides,” Her eyes