Blood Stitches

By Erin Fanning

It’s called El Toque de la Luna—The Touch of the Moon. At least that’s how nineteen-year-old Gabby’s older sister, Esperanza, refers to the magical powers she  inherited from their Mayan ancestors. Esperanza says women with El Toque weave magic into their knitting, creating tapestries capable of saving—or devastating—the world. Gabby thinks Esperanza is more like touched in the head—until a man dressed like a candy corn arrives at their Seattle home on Halloween. But “Mr. C” is far from sweet…
Soon, Gabby and her almost-more-than-friend, Frank, find themselves spirited away to a demon ball, complete with shape shifters—and on a mission to destroy Esperanza’s tapestries before they cause an apocalyptic disaster…And before it’s too late to confess their true feelings for each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyrical Press
• Release date: May 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781616506735

Erin Fanning

Erin Fanning spends her summers on a northern Michigan lake, where her imagination explores the water and dense forest for undiscovered creatures. In the winter, she migrates to central Idaho, exchanging mountain bikes and kayaks for skis and snowshoes. She’s the author of Mountain Biking Michigan, as well as numerous articles, essays, and short stories. Visit her website and read her blog at erinfanning.com.

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It’s called El Toque de la Luna—Touched by the Moon. At least that’s how nineteen-year-old Gabby’s older sister, Esperanza, refers to the magical powers she inherited from their Mayan ancestors. Esperanza says women with El Toque weave magic into their knitting, creating tapestries capable of saving—or devastating—the world. Gabby thinks Esperanza is more like touched in the head—until a man dressed like a candy corn arrives at their Seattle home on Halloween. But Mr. C is far from sweet…

Soon, Gabby and her almost-more-than-friend, Frank, find themselves spirited away to a demon ball, complete with shape shifters—and on a mission to destroy Esperanza’s tapestries before they cause an apocalyptic disaster…And before it’s too late to confess their true feelings for each other.

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Books by Erin Fanning

Blood Stitches

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Blood Stitches

Erin Fanning

LYRICAL PRESS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

Copyright

Lyrical Press books are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2014 by Erin Fanning

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

First Electronic Edition: May 2015

eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-673-5

eISBN-10: 1-61650-673-3

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

For my mother Sherry and sister Kelly,

my first, and still favorite, reading companions.

Acknowledgements

In 2009, an Italian woman, trapped underneath her bed after an earthquake, kept herself occupied by knitting. I read about her around the same time I was learning how to knit. I imagined firefighters digging through the rubble and finding her wrapped in a knitted afghan.

The story tumbled around in my brain, somehow intersecting with my interest in Mexican culture. From there, I discovered the Mayan twin myth and the battle with the demon Vucub Caquix. Bit and pieces of Mayan mythology adhered themselves to my imagination, morphing into a history of magic and needlework.

Soon Gabby and her family formed, along with a question: what if you could not only knit your way to safety but also create a disaster through knitting. It wasn’t long afterward that Blood Stitches pushed its way through my fingertips.

As with all writing, many people touched this story and I’m forever grateful to them. Lori, Emily, and Carl read early drafts of Blood Stitches, and then Lori read it all over again. Ann, Kelly, and Sherry encouraged me more than they’ll ever realize. Finally, Renee and Lyrical Press gave Blood Stitches a chance to find an audience, while Penny helped me sculpt it into a better book.

But, as with most good things in my life, I ultimately have my husband Keith to thank. The story never would have existed if he hadn’t said almost twenty years ago, Let’s quit our jobs and travel. It opened the possibilities of a life no longer constrained by societal expectations and reignited the writing flame from my childhood.

Chapter 1

Trick or Treat

A gust of wind scattered leaves across the University of Seattle campus. My hair tangled over my face. New contacts tortured my eyes, and books weighed down my backpack. It didn’t matter. A tornado could have snatched me up. As long as it carried me home and put an end to the anniversary of the worst day of my life.

Watch out, Gabby. My best friend Frank thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his pinstriped suit. We’re being followed by a giant candy corn.

Giant candy corn? Yeah, right. If I turned around, Frank would laugh and say, Gotcha, or some other dorky thing. The mind-numbing boredom of Calculus I, our last class of the day, always set Frank off, making him zanier than usual.

I mean it. We’ve got a candy corn on our tail. Frank whistled a Lester Ruben song as he sauntered ahead.

Okay, okay. Let me see this Halloween wonder. If I didn’t give in, Frank would never leave me alone. I whirled, ready to hear Frank’s laugh, and almost ran into a man. His face glowed orange, like someone who’d spent too much time in a tanning booth, and he wore a white cap pulled down to his ears. A yellow scarf hid his neck and chin. For once, Frank wasn’t kidding. The man resembled a giant candy corn.

Shredded paper and a postage stamp poked out of his scarf, and a moon decorated an edge of the knitting, like one of my older sister Esperanza’s creations. It didn’t seem possible, but no one else I knew added garbage and a signature moon to their knitting. A wool coat covered the rest of him, except his face and steel-tipped boots.

Sorry. I jumped back.

Frank’s chuckles mixed with squirrels chattering in a nearby tree. Drizzle moistened my forehead, and a cold dampness seeped into my bones. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, like watching Esperanza unravel her knitting one stitch at a time to fix a mistake.

The man, smelling of hot chocolate and rotten eggs, stepped closer. He only reached my shoulder but doubled me in width, giving an impression of strength instead of fat, as if more than his boots were constructed of steel. I met his eyes, bloodshot with yellow flecks, and he swayed from foot to foot. Yeah, they call me Mr. Candy Corn. He rolled his shoulders like a gangster in an old movie and jabbed a gloved finger at me. Some people think I’m sweet, but I’m really not.

Him sweet? No way.

Frank stood behind me, so tall he could rest his chin on top of my head. What’s going on?

Mr. Candy Corn shifted his attention to Frank. No trouble, my friend.

I’m not your friend, and who said anything about trouble? Aren’t you a bit old for trick or treating?

Mr. Candy Corn threw back his head, shaking in soundless laughter.

Let’s go. Frank took my arm.

Whoa, I can handle this. I moved out of Frank’s shadow.

Protective Frank had arrived a few years ago as a package deal with his growth spurt and deepening voice. The knight-in-shining-armor routine irritated me, but I kinda liked it, complicating my already complicated feelings for Frank. Nice costume and everything, Mr. Candy Corn, but we need to get go—

Wait, wait. Call me Mr. C. He took a business card from his pocket and shoved it at me. Here, take my card. I’m looking for this broad named Hope. One of her neighbors thought I’d find her here, and you match Hope’s description, sort of.

Hope? Frank said. Your sister’s name in English?

I elbowed Frank in the ribs.

He clamped his lips together.

Mr. C must have spoken to our neighborhood chatterbox, Mrs. McGlinty. She called both Esperanza and me Hope and talked to anything and anybody, strangers, flowers, mailboxes, brooms. Luckily, she sometimes forgot which house we lived in, so maybe Mr. C didn’t know, either.

Sister, eh? Mr. C flicked his business card in my direction.

I caught it in my fist and nodded at Frank. Ignore him. He likes to babble nonsense. The card weighed heavy in my hand and glinted with golden specks. Alux Corn was engraved across it and nothing else, no phone number, e-mail, Web site, or address.