Blood Ties Read Online Free Page B

silence on my little psychosis. No need to draw suspicion that not all my rockets were firing. Most people didn’t see blonde deer that could talk, or kiss for that matter, stalking the highways. No, nothing appropriate to share there.
     
     
    ***
     
     
    I lowered my head as I walked into the bustling town square of our small village, carefully navigating the puddles left over from last night’s rain. It was a warm humid day, the air sweet, cleansed from last night’s downpour. My dress hung heavy and damp on my frame. I wiped the sweat from my hands on the apron around my waist and pulled a few strands of loose hair back behind my ear.
    “Alisé.”
    Squinting into the sun, I saw my father, a large man, pause from pounding on a piece of glowing metal across an anvil inside the arched doorway of his atelier, his metal studio. He stopped for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and watched me with worry. “Where have you been, child? Your mother is having a fit trying to find you." He frowned, glancing towards the second story of our chipped and aged yellow and white stucco home, one of many that lined the cobblestone street. A closed sign, signaling the lateness of the day, was displayed in the window of my mother’s boulangerie-patisserie, combination bread and pastry shop housed on the first floor. “You’d better get quick, I don’t think I can hold her back from thrashing you this time.”
    “Sorry, father, I just lost track of time.” A weathered window flew open with a loud bang and a livid face with a white cap peered out and screeched. “Alisé, you get yourself back inside at once to help with supper!” Her voice continued to rise in pitch. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, running off … it’s that boy isn’t it!”
    I winced. “Sorry momma, I’ll be right there.”
    She slammed the window shut and I let out a resigned sigh. As I raised my foot to step over a particularly deep puddle, a pair of large, calloused hands closed over my eyes and a lean, muscular body engulfed me. A masculine scent mixed with horses and fresh grass filled the air.
    A deep voice whispered in my ear. “Guess, my love ... my Alisé, whose hands hold your precious face?”
    My heart fluttered. “Why, it must be my Michel, my only love …” I turned, softly laughing to see his face .
     
    I woke up with a start. A familiar ache twisted my heart. I curled into a ball, my pillow clutched in my arms, and wept. The force of my sobs shook my bed. Please God, please make it stop. I prayed for the dreams to go away.
     
     
     
    Chapter 3
     
     
     
    A soft glow illuminated a few hundred Art History 101 students crammed into a large amphitheatre. It was quiet, like the few moments before the start of a play complete with the occasional cough and shuffle. I stood at the back while I caught my breath from the mad dash across campus. I tried to breathe quietly, evenly. On the wall down in the pit, a giganticized painting was splayed out in illuminated Technicolor, floor to ceiling.
    I was ten minutes late. No surprise there. I’d be late for my own funeral. No, I didn’t make that one up. My mom had screamed that clever epitaph when I showed up late for my piano recital. A feigned smash of my finger in a car door wasn’t believable enough, since my mom, suspicious as ever, took a closer look and discovered I had borrowed her green and purple eye shadow. She finally got the hint and didn’t force me into any more lessons when my years of crying and angry forté hadn’t.
    A deep, masculine voice cut through the silence. Its intonations were beautiful, so melodic that it slid across my skin like sex on the wind. It held a hint of a French accent.
    I waited until my eyes adjusted then made my way over to the left aisle, scanning the room for an empty seat. The only one available was five rows from the front. I carefully walked down the steps then began to make my way through nine