Blood, She Read

By Sara Hubbard

Petra lives a charmed life, but only in the magical sense. Her absentee father is a criminal, her mother is emotionally dead, and everyone at her new school knows she comes from a family of witches.

No matter what, she's determined to fit in, but when a cop asks for her help with a murder case, the whole town finds out. And to make matters worse, the cop points his investigation toward Finn Harris, a guy from school who girls can't resist. Including Petra. 

Although she knows Finn's hiding something, she's determined to uncover his secrets. But as her feelings for him grow, she'll have to make a choice: does she follow her head or follow her heart? 

*Blood, She Read is a young adult paranormal novel with strong romantic elements. It was originally published in 2012.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sara Hubbard
• Release date: Nov 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781988212203

Sara Hubbard

Sara Hubbard is a romantic fiction author. She loves alpha males and the sweet, sassy women who make them believe in change. Sara lives in Nova Scotia, Canada with her two children (four if you count her husband and her needy labradoodle) and works as registered nurse.  Sign up for Sara's mailing list to be notified about new releases and for bonus content: http://eepurl.com/NDwi5 

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The police cruiser turned down my street and accelerated through spun-up dirt. My heart slammed against my ribs and a hard lump formed in my throat. I leaned forward in my bedroom window seat, unwilling to believe my eyes.

They were coming for my mother. They had to be. Nothing else made sense. I lived in the only house on a dead-end street, and Mom broke more rules than she followed. Although I knew at some point the police would bang on my door, I hadn't expected it to be so soon. We’d only lived in Paradise, Nova Scotia for a few weeks.

What’s she done now? I bolted for my door. Gina!

I jerked to a stop when I reached the top stair. Mom already stood in the foyer below. She’d probably heard the panic in my voice, but she didn’t look concerned. Oh, no. She scowled up at me instead. All morning she’d been experimenting in the secret room off the kitchen, and she was probably pissed at me for interrupting her.

This better be good, Petra. You made me set fire to Toby’s tail. As if to prove her point, she pointed to the fat orange and white cat at her feet. Curls of smoke escaped from Toby's blackened and hairless ass.

Forget about Toby!

Toby hissed. His cheeks retracted to reveal sharp white teeth. A twinge of guilt made my stomach twist and ache, but I pushed it aside. There were more important things we needed to worry about. Besides, Mom could easily fix his tail later, though his pride would be harder to heal.

The cops are here. What did you do?

She rolled her eyes and propped her hands on her hips. Oh, calm down, Petra. You’re making my eyelids twitch. She walked over to the door and drew back the curtain. A sunbeam slid through the opening and raked across the dark hardwood. After a quick glance outside, she moved away from the window and gave herself a once-over in the hall mirror.

He’s not coming to take your picture. Un-freaking-believable.

She grumbled something under her breath as she opened the door. The chilly September breeze blew in, carrying with it the scent of burning firewood. Or was that Toby’s fur? I shuddered as goosebumps pricked my arms.

On the other side of the door stood a uniformed cop. He held his fist chest high, about to knock. My gaze lowered to his middle where he wore a full tool belt, complete with gun, Taser, and baton. On the left side of his chest he wore a fabric nametag with the name MILLER sewn across it in big block letters. Standing next to Miller, my mother looked short and rail-thin, just like unfortunate me. They looked about the same age, but I couldn't be sure. His hair was salt and pepper grey, and he had an awful lot of wrinkles around his mouth and his eyes. Mom didn’t have those. Then again, maybe he smiled more.

Hello, Henry. What can I do for you? Mom asked.

The officer puffed out his chest and shifted his feet. I slid down a couple more steps as Toby stalked off into the dining room, smoke puffing off him like a steam engine.

Good evening, Ginny, the officer said in a thick, deep voice. It’s been a long time.

Not long enough, Mom muttered.

They stared at each other, engaged in some kind of wordless conversation. It made me want to slink away. Personal? Definitely. Surprising? Not so much. Mom had grown up in Paradise, in the same house we lived in now. Everyone knew everyone in this town—the population was like minus four hundred.

I was sorry to hear about your sister, he said.

Mom cleared her throat and shifted her stance. Then she tossed her head and straightened her back. Did she suddenly feel something for her dead sister, Mildred? I wasn’t convinced. They’d been estranged for years, ever since my grandmother had willed Aunt Mildred this house and her money, and she’d left my mom with nothing but a necklace. Three weeks ago Mom had inherited that same house from my aunt, and not because my aunt had left it to her but because my aunt hadn’t bothered to make a will. After getting the phone call, Mom had jumped up and down, hooting and hollering. Yes! Yes! Yes! she’d cried. I’d thought she’d won the lottery; I’d almost started celebrating too. Imagine my shock when I’d found out she was super happy because her sister had drowned. I couldn’t imagine a house being worth more than a sister, but what did I know? I was an only child, and I hadn’t known Aunt Mildred at all. Maybe she’d been heinous. But even if she had been, I knew there had to be more to their split than what Mom had told me. My mother couldn’t be that cold.

Can I come in? Miller asked.

Mom’s shoulders relaxed, if only slightly. Then she edged to the side so that Miller could duck his head and pass through the doorway. He walked into the living room with slow, thoughtful steps, his wide shoulders rounded, as if carrying the weight of the world. My mother followed him. I padded down the stairs to stay at her rear.

May I? Miller asked, pointing to the recliner next to the lit stone fireplace. Embers blazed. The blackened logs spit and crackled and shot flares of amber out onto the marble tiled hearth. A bubbling cast-iron pot hung above the flames, stewing the Clean Face concoction that my mother sold over the Internet.

Mom shrugged at Miller’s question and then lowered herself into a matching chair next to the foyer entrance. She sat there on purpose, in case she needed a speedy exit. I wasn’t sure we’d need one. He would have arrested her already, so what else could he be here for? The only thing that came to mind was bad news. I sat on the arm of mom’s chair, feeling the need to be close to her.

Miller crossed and uncrossed his feet and tugged at his collar. For a minute he looked boyish, a surprising look for a guy so big. He scanned the room, his eyes lingering on the crown molding, the brewing pot, and the pictures on the mantle: Mom and me at the beach; my grandmother in her herb garden, plucking weeds; Mom and her former coven members from Toronto, all dressed in white gowns, crowns of flowers in their hair; and, of course, a collection of school pictures of me, with crazy red curls and a face full of freckles—wonderful physical traits I'd inherited from my psychopathic father. Thankfully, I didn’t take after him in any other way. Otherwise this town would have been in serious trouble.

OK. Let’s have it, then. You didn’t come here to play catch up. She tapped her long, manicured fingernails on the upholstery. They lacked the irritating clicking noise, but she didn’t need it to punctuate her impatience. It radiated from her like the heat from the fire.

Miller sighed. Last spring, a young girl was murdered out at the old Newman mine.

Josie. Josie Brennen, I said. I’d seen an entire bulletin board at school plastered with pictures of her. Sympathy cards surrounded the pictures, and wreaths and bouquets sat on the floor beneath the board. Underneath the largest, central photo was her obituary and, beside that, a clipped newspaper article. Both claimed the girl’s heart had been ripped free from her chest and then she’d been thrown down a mineshaft. Such a brutal way to die. Hopefully, she hadn’t suffered.

Yes, that's right, he said. We seem to have hit a brick wall with this case. And…I’ve never done this before, but I’m willing to try some…unconventional methods to move forward. Do you understand my meaning?

No, I’m afraid I don’t, Mom said, matter-of-factly.

Over the years I spoke with your sister from time to time. She’d tell me about how you were getting along. And she also told me about—his jaw tensed—your husband, and about Petra too.

Mom cleared her throat. Mildred never could keep her mouth shut.

"I know all you Maras women have magic in you, but she once mentioned that Petra is extra special. That she’s some kind of psychic."

She did, did she? Mom said, more statement than question.

I swallowed hard. The room grew hot. My heart dropped like a rock thrown in water. My aunt had betrayed me, spilled my secrets. How could she? Why would she? I wanted to hate her, but how could I hate a dead woman? I couldn’t. I bit my lip to stop myself from screaming while Mom dug her nails into the upholstery. People had never accepted my mother’s magic, or mine. I didn’t imagine this town would be any different, even if my family had lived and practiced witchcraft here for decades.

Is it true? He diverted his eyes, looking embarrassed, as if what he suggested sounded impossible.

Mom loaded her faced with a megawatt smile. Maybe it is. And you want my daughter to read that kid’s fortune? Her voice was all pep.

I waited for the sarcasm.

Something like that.

I can help you there. It’s easy. The girl is dead. She doesn't have one.

Miller coughed, clearly out of frustration. I understood; Mom had that effect on me too.

Look, I know we’ve had our problems, but I'm hoping we can look past them. Folks around these parts haven’t been the same since Josie died. People are afraid to leave their homes. Aren’t you concerned for your safety? He paused. For your daughter’s?

How dare you come here and ask my seventeen-year-old daughter to help you with a murder investigation. You said yourself that the killer is still out there. What happens when the killer finds out you got information from my daughter?

Gina. I gripped her arm, but she shrugged me off.

Do your job, Henry. Don’t ask my daughter to do it for you.

My cheeks blazed. My mom had to go for the jugular, every single time. And what’s more, she and I both knew she was full of crap. She didn’t want me to stay out of the investigation because she feared the killer might come after me, or at least that wasn’t her main reason. She didn’t want me helping because my family had a rule about talking to cops: we didn’t do it—not ever.

You think I want to be here? He shook his head. This is the last place I want to be and even if your daughter’s gifts are real, nothing she says will stand up in court. But I’ve got a distraught mother who comes to me every day looking for news about her daughter’s death. Every. Single. Day. And every day for the last six months I’ve had to turn her away. It’s Claire Cole, Gina. Do you remember Claire?

If Mom did, she didn't let it show. Her face remained hard and unforgiving.

She deserves to know what happened to her daughter. She deserves peace.

Miller’s face twisted and creased as he spoke. I could almost feel the sharp, pointed end of his torture. It reminded me of my own. Unfortunately for him, my magic had caused me a lot of grief so I didn’t like using it. It had hurt people, killed even. Sometimes my guilt threatened to choke the life out of me. And on top of that, helping him meant standing out. I didn’t want that, not even a little. But how could I say no? Especially when he asked me to use my magic for good—an opportunity I’d rarely been given. What if helping him lessened my guilt? Or made up for some of the things I’d done?

I’ll do it.

With a slow turn of the head, my mother threw me a wicked stare, telling me I was about to cross a line. I didn’t care. The heaviness in my chest had already begun to lift. No way I’d change my mind.

You don't have to do this, she said, her voice sugary sweet, but we both knew what she really meant was, don’t you dare.

I ignored her. I’ll do it on one condition: whatever we say doesn’t go any further, OK? You can say you had an anonymous tip or something.

You have my word.

And I can’t promise I’ll see anything either. I usually pick up information from touching someone, and Josie’s dead. That’s just too weird.

Pet is NOT touching a dead body! Mom said. That’s where I draw the line.

I clutched her shoulder to stop her from springing to her feet. Heat radiated from her flesh, seeping through the thin fabric of her blouse. She teetered on the edge of a volcanic eruption, and I had to calm her down—when all I really wanted to do was scream at her for calling me Pet.

No. Of course not. That’s not what I meant, he said. I don’t know how this works, but I thought if I brought something…something of Josie’s… He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a sealed baggie with a thin-banded gold bracelet curled inside. He removed it, then held it out to me. A handful of tiny gems decorated the exterior. The chandelier overhead caught the jewels, making them sparkle, but slicing through the amethyst’s and the opal’s brilliance was a streak of red.

Blood? It had to be Josie’s.

Would this work? he asked.

I didn’t know. Normally, I Read people’s memories by touching their hands and concentrating. Sometimes, I even saw glimpses of their futures. As long as their minds were open, I could see what they had seen or were about to. But I’d never read an object before. Would dried blood be enough?

I slid off the arm of the chair and padded across the room. Miller’s intense gaze held mine as he opened his hand and slid the bracelet off his palm and into my waiting hands. I hesitated, just like I always did before attempting a Reading. Seventeen years of Seeing had forced a lot of unwanted memories into my head, and I couldn’t un-See them no matter how hard I tried. Josie’s heart had been ripped out. I couldn’t imagine the brutality she’d experienced in the minutes, or even hours, before her death. Did I want to add her memories to those that already haunted me?

No. I didn’t.

But I would try, regardless. And I knew I might not see anything at all. I couldn’t pick and choose what I saw. My gift was totally unpredictable. With tension building in my chest, I closed my eyes and searched for a memory, for a feeling, for anything…

Then someone walked their cold, rough fingers up and down my spine.

CHAPTER TWO

Burning cold penetrated my skin and rushed through my veins as if forcibly injected with a syringe. It took my breath away. I stiffened, determined to stay strong. A collection of dark, rough voices whispered in my ear while images blurred together in the far recesses of my mind, like faint, quivering lights. But I couldn’t reach them, no matter how far I stretched myself. Blood and personal possessions just weren’t enough.

I stopped reaching and the pain retreated. Inch by inch, it clawed its way back through my veins to collect and extinguish in the pit of my gut. When my eyes flashed open, my gaze locked onto Miller. His Adam’s apple bobbed and sweat collected on his brows. He looked expectant, almost bursting with anticipation. I didn’t want to tell him I had nothing. I hated to fail, and I also felt…disappointed? The chance to make amends for my past wrongs lifted the heaviness in my chest.

I’m so sorry, I told him. I meant it too.

Behind me, Mom sighed. I could almost hear the smile behind it.

I extended my arm to give Miller the bracelet back, but stopped the moment his fingers clutched the other side. My eyes widened. People emit energy, kind of like a life force, and some people give off way more than others. Miller’s energy felt like a building electrical storm. It poured off of him, hitting me with spectacular force, like incoming waves slamming against a coastal shore. It swam through his fingers, through the gold metal, and melded with mine. Our combined energy provided enough of a jolt for me to grasp the once-shrouded memories. In an instant, images exploded in my mind.

Wait, I said.

What is it? His fingers loosened around the bracelet.

"No! Don’t let go."

He tightened his grip and leaned forward, to the very edge of his seat, as if closing the distance between us might bring him closer to the truth and to Josie’s murderer. I let the memory unfold and told him everything I saw as layers peeled away.

There’s a small stream of water. A creek, maybe? There’s trees all around me. Above me. The sun is out, but most of it’s hidden behind branches and trees. It’s afternoon? There's a large rock, with chalk drawings and scribblings. I can’t make them out. I’m not close enough.

Half of Paradise is forest. This doesn't help me much.

I don’t like this, Mom said.

There's a dirt path. It leads to a creek, and then the path continues on the other side of the water. Oh, wait! I took a breath. There's a sign nailed to a tree. A number four is carved into the wood. Does that make any sense?

A number four?

My muscles automatically tightened as if my body were on autopilot, determined to protect itself from the cold. The pain lessened, but then exhaustion hit. Even my eyes felt weak. How much longer could I continue? Squinting, I looked into the officer’s soft brown eyes. Do you know it?

The number four trail leads from Whistle Creek to Clover Lane. His voice quieted, as if musing to himself. But, it’s on the complete opposite end of the county from where Josie’s body was found. Looking awfully confused, he shook his head.

Whistle Creek was a small town not far from where I lived, but Clover Lane was in the middle of the woods, completely secluded. Some guys from my school lived there—all of them related. Not that I knew much about the guys at my school, but these boys were different. They were stupid popular and one boy in particular sprang into my mind: Finnigan Harris. Not that I’d ever talked to him before.

What else do you see?

With a shiver, I closed my eyes and reached again, gripping tighter and tighter. The vision blurred and focused and blurred again before snapping into focus. She’s in the woods, by the creek.

I went deeper. Leaves rustled. Quick, heavy footsteps stomped furiously, followed by snaps and crackles. A thick shadow raced behind the trees. It moved too fast for me to identify. And then I heard rapid, gasping breaths. Were they mine? I felt Josie’s heart beat skip and then her heart spasm before speeding up in a drum roll that made my ears ring. Then my feet—Josie’s feet—grew tired as she moved faster and faster.

She’s running. The bushes are moving. He’s all around her. Everywhere. She can't escape him.

Him? Who’s him? Miller asked.

"There's a fallen tree. She tries to jump it, but she falls. There’s so much blood. It’s all over her hands, dripping from her head. She crawls forward, finally makes it to her feet to run again, but she’s missing a shoe. The branches and rocks are so sharp. She’s not sure she can go on. Her legs feel heavy. Impossible to lift. There's nothing left inside of her. She’s on the ground. Her heart is slowing, she can’t breathe. Wet grass is slick against her face. And then, everything’s black. Her heart…stops. Dead? Blacked out?" I shook my head. I don’t know which.

I jerked my hand from the bracelet. The cold retreated almost immediately. As my fingers began to thaw, I glanced down and noticed the tips of my fingers were blue, like I’d spent hours in the snow without mittens. Not good. I pumped them to force my blood to circulate. Mom threw an afghan over my shoulders and the suddenness of the action startled me. I jumped. She’d come at me from behind. Then, Mom stepped in front of me, blocking my view of Miller.

Who did you see, Petra? Miller asked again, louder.

That’s enough, Mom said. Are you happy now? She’s freezing to death.

I didn’t see a face or hear a name, but I get this feeling… I put my hands over my stomach as I listened to a little voice inside of me. She knew him. She knew him well.

And the shoe? What did it look like?

A shoe? Who cared about a shoe? I made a face.

I said that’s enough, Gina said.

Geeze, Mom. I’m fine now. I shrugged off the afghan. My blood and skin finally felt lukewarm. I tried to rub life back into my frigid hands. They were wrinkled and pale now and they felt wax-like. A white tennis shoe with pink laces.

Miller nodded his head, but his eyes seemed far away. Did you see anything else?

No. Sorry. That’s it.

After moving to his feet, he studied my face. It made me uncomfortable to the point of nausea. What did he see when he looked at me? A freak? A murderer? I looked away.

Without a word, he headed for the door. I’ll check out the trail and see what I come up with. Thank you, Petra.

It surprised me that he accepted what I said so easily. But given how he’d talked to my mother with such familiarity and that he’d known my aunt, I guessed he was a little more familiar with my family’s magic than most.

We followed him to the door where he tried to shake my mom’s hand, but once again she refused it. Instead, my mother, the mature parent she is, gave him the finger. Feeling the need to smooth things over, I felt compelled to shake his hand instead. Pissing off cops wasn’t smart, especially considering my family’s criminal tendencies. And he wasn’t here for himself. He’d come to help a mom who had a dead kid and also to protect everyone in town, including Mom and me. The guy was decent, unlike most guys I’d known, except maybe my old bodyguard, Sebastian. So how could I possibly be rude to him?

Miller's outstretched hand hung in midair. In slow time, I reached out to grasp it. An image from his future punched me in the face. I couldn’t believe how open this guy was. He might as well have stood outside and screamed his thoughts and feelings for the whole town to hear. Normally, I had to concentrate and dig for things, but he was like a poster board advertisement. My jaw dropped, and my eyes grew wide. I saw my mother—with much shorter hair—and Officer Miller lip-locked in the bushes behind the Catholic Church on Main Street. My stomach lurched. What the freaking hell?

He walked out the door, leaving me with nasty images I couldn’t shake. I’d never be free of them. Bile climbed up my throat as I looked at my mother. She wore her ugly, mad face. She wanted to fight, and in that moment, I wanted to fight back, to distract myself from her future hypocritical self.

What? I said, challenging her.

Do you have rocks in your head?

I opened my mouth to speak. She didn’t wait for a response.

"How. Could. You?"

How could I do the right thing? That’s what you’re asking me?

Mom in the bushes. Miller’s lips on her neck. Ugh.

She stepped forward. Two five-foot nothings squaring off. But the half inch she had on me grew to a foot, then two. I swallowed air. She must have sensed my fear; her canines came out as she drew closer.

If your father finds out you helped a cop—

We haven’t talked to Dad in years. And Officer Miller said he’d wouldn’t use my name.

It won’t matter. Just ’cause your dad leaves us alone don’t think for a second he doesn’t keep tabs on everything we do.

As far as I knew, when Mom had left Dad and had taken me with her, my Dad hadn’t cared. He’d never given me another thought, not once trying to find or contact me. Not that I’d minded. The man was a psycho and him leaving me alone was the best gift he’d ever given me.

You don’t know that for sure, I said.

She raised her eyebrows.

Oh, man. She did. I stepped back, took a breath. What if he discovered I’d talked to the cop? According to my dad, helping cops was like the ultimate sin, no matter the reason. He’d killed people