Blood Relations

By Katherine X. Rylien

Fair warning: Although this is a coming-of-age story with some erotic elements, it is not a romance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katherine X. Rylien
• Release date: Feb 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005566173

Katherine X. Rylien

Katherine X. Rylien began writing fiction as a teenager, in spiral-bound notebooks (her teachers assumed she was taking notes). She completed the first draft of Blood Relations, recounting the early life of Renee Cadieux-Smith, in 1980. Over the next decade, she wrote two sequels, Vicissitudes and Revisitations.Forty years later, after a plethora of other adventures, Katherine took these hand-written manuscripts down from the attic during the Covid-19 pandemic. 2020 saw a complete rewrite of all three volumes, with considerable revision for style and detail, yet Renee’s story is essentially unchanged. In the process of preparing the trilogy for publication, Katherine became convinced that there was a fourth book in the series—her answer to the question, “What happens next?”If you enjoy her work, she'd love to hear from you at [e-mail]. Or connect on Facebook. She rarely turns down a friend invite, unless it’s that rich, lonely widower whose backstory is so suspiciously lacking in detail ;-)

Book preview

Prologue

I was twelve years old when the social worker brought me to the house where my mother grew up. Red brick, two stories high, and as big as a hotel. Surrounded by uncut grass and weeds. No other buildings in sight, except for an old barn. It's even worse than I thought it would be.

Please, Miss Simmons, we can't go in there. It's haunted—there's like a million ghosts. Vampires, too. I'm not lying to you!

Come along, Renee. You've never met your aunt Luann, have you? I've spoken to her, and she's very nice. She put a hand on my shoulder, urging me forward. I was crying.

"They killed my parents! I don't know how they did it, but they must've set that fire! You can't leave me here!"

She did. Inside, the dining room was big enough to seat thirty people. There were only half a dozen; my mother's sister, a bunch of old folks, and a little kid hiding under one of the long tables.

After we got past the initial awkwardness, I asked, When do I start school? There's got to be a bus that comes out here, right? That's when I'll run away. Miss the bus, hitch a ride, and get back home. I was a California girl. I didn't belong in South Dakota. My friend Amy was going to let me live in her garage, which was so full of junk that nobody ever went in there. It'll be like Flowers in the Attic, but without the weird sex stuff and the poisoned donuts.

You'll be homeschooled, with Kevin, Aunt Luann told me. I looked under the table at my cousin. Half my age, if that.

One of the old men added, You won't have to leave the house. We’ve got everything we need, right here.

Part I: The House

1

When I walked into the kitchen, the first thing I saw was Dominique, sitting on the big butcher block table. Dominique died before I was born. Yet there she was, drinking from a glass of clear liquid, probably not water.

Luann was facing away from her, stirring something on the stove, shoulders hunched with tension. She didn’t look at me, because that would have meant turning toward Dominique. My family preferred to pretend the ghosts weren’t there. Which, in a sense, they were not. My eleven-year-old cousin, Kevin, was breaking eggs into a bowl, showing no sign that he was aware of our intangible visitor.

Or, visitors? A young woman with gorgeous dark curls and red lipstick stood at the sink, cleaning potatoes. I’d never seen her before. She glanced up at me for a moment, dropped her eyes, and resumed her vigorous scrubbing.

Dominique turned, saw me standing near the door, and raised her glass in a toast. So many ghosts! Whose ghost are you, little boy?

Kevin giggled, earning a deadly look from his mother, Luann. Dominique turned and looked at him. Can you hear me, little ghost? Kevin stared into his bowl of eggs. Ah, you can’t. Poor thing. She took another sip from her glass, looking over at the sink. You, new girl! Where did you come from? The new girl kept her eyes on her work. I guess the ghosts are ignoring each other, now.

As for Dominique thinking I was a boy, that was understandable. One sweltering day the previous summer, I’d let Luann cut my hair, and she’d gotten carried away. A year later, it had only grown a couple of inches. I hadn’t gained much height since moving to the house, either, and didn’t start my period until I was nearly seventeen. Nothing worked quite the way it was supposed to in that place.

I went over and ruffled Kevin’s hair. I knew he was beating himself up for laughing. Kevin was slight and dark-haired, like me, and rather intense. At least he was growing at a normal rate and looked his age.

Dominique tilted her head back to finish her drink, and took another look around the room. "Merde," she remarked, and vanished.

Luann looked up at me as if I’d just arrived. Renee, good morning! You can help Marya with the potatoes. She’s a friend of Wilbur’s, and she’s going to be staying with us for a while. I put her in the room next to Kevin’s. The woman at the sink gave me a little wave. Not a ghost, after all.

We never have guests. Not ever. I glanced at the door to the cellar. It was closed. I wasn’t really expecting to see Uncle Wilbur emerge from it; he was a vampire, and it was well past dawn.

I walked over to the sink. Welcome. I’m Renee Cadieux-Smith. I’ll be nineteen in October. It sounded childish, but if I didn’t make some reference to my age, she’d assume I was much younger.

She gave me an appraising look, possibly discarding a first impression of me as Kevin’s slightly older brother. Hi, Renee.

So, Marya, where do you know Wilbur from?

I work at Good Morning, Sunshine. You know where that is?

I shook my head. It sounded like an unlikely place to encounter Uncle Wilbur.

Hmm. Yeah, he said you guys don’t get out much. It’s a little coffee place in town, across from the park.

So Wilbur just dropped in to grab a cup of coffee? I was prepared to re-evaluate the little I knew, or thought I knew, about vampires.

Marya laughed. Well, his friends do, the ones he does business with. We’re open late, and they sit in the back for their meetings. The rest of them get coffee, and Willy, well, he eventually grabbed me. She gave me a brilliant smile, teeth looking particularly white against the bright red of her lipstick. I found myself wanting to check her neck for suspicious marks, but there were all those curls in the way. I’m seriously jealous of that hair.

And, Willy? Certainly the first time I’d heard anybody call him that. Wilbur was older than Aunt Ada, even if he didn’t look it, and possessed a certain innate dignity. When he left the house, he usually wore a tie. Sometimes a suit jacket. I’d never realized he was headed for business meetings at the back of a coffee shop called Good Morning, Sunshine.

In a low voice, Marya asked, So, the ghosts, we’re supposed to pretend we don’t see them? I think they’re cool. I wasn’t sure if Willy was pulling my leg. I hadn’t seen any of them until just now.

We don’t see them all the time. They’re more active some days than others. But, yeah, the older folks won’t like it if you talk to them. If we do, they tend to come around more.

"Gotcha. I’ll try and remember that. I really appreciate getting to stay here. I have three housemates, and things were getting too crazy there. They were getting too crazy."

What happened to Imogene? I’d seen her visiting Wilbur from time to time, and had always thought she was his girlfriend. Tall, pale, and thin, she’d stayed down in the cellar with him, not upstairs in one of the rooms, and had never joined us for breakfast or any other meal. Did he ditch her for this girl from the coffee shop?

—

As Marya and I walked upstairs after breakfast, little Robert, barely more than a toddler, dashed across the mezzanine that overlooked the grand foyer. Marya paused to stare after him. I didn’t realize there was a little girl living here! Is she Luann’s?

Just another ghost. That’s Robert. Boys used to dress that way.

Her smile faded. How did he die?

Old age, I guess. Way before my time. For whatever reason, that image got stuck and keeps replaying. It’s not like Dominique. She could see us.

Wilbur said the ghosts were because of… what did he call it?

The cotemporal field. As we passed through the upstairs lounge, I glanced at the pair of portraits hanging on the wall between two of the big front windows, but didn’t point them out to Marya. Grandpa Larson’s invention, although he was really more like my great, great, great-grandfather. He made all the rules, too, about none of us leaving the house. He disappeared, but his wife, Helene, kept things the way he wanted them. The way they still are. She always said Larson would be back, some day. Sometimes, in the silence, it seemed altogether too plausible.

You seriously never leave?

Only to see the dentist, or if we need a doctor. Stuff like that. Luann goes every week for groceries. I used to ride along when I was a kid. Everything except the food gets delivered.

What on earth do you do all day?

Hang out in my room, mostly. I read a lot. Science fiction, fantasy, horror. I also like to draw. That makes it sound like I don’t have a life at all.

You have to do my portrait!

Sure, just let me go and get—

Not right now, though, I have to work today.

A loud knocking reverberated through the room. Marya flinched.

I’m pretty sure that’s just air in the pipes.

She straightened her shoulders. Okay. Listen, I better get changed.

Marya went into her room, coming out a few minutes later wearing a brown rayon dress with a plastic name tag shaped like a coffee cup. I should’ve kept a better eye on the time. Gotta go. I’ll talk to you soon! She went clattering down the stairs, and I heard the front door slam.

I went to one of the front windows and watched the highway. Traffic was sparse. Pressing my hand against the cold glass, I imagined myself driving away, and going, where? Wherever I want.

Right, like I even know how to drive. A small white car went bouncing across the grass between the barn and the driveway, trailing a cloud of blue smoke. I waved, but Marya didn’t look up and see me.

Heading for my room, I paused at the sound of voices in the grand foyer, staying back so I wouldn’t be seen.

She’s welcome here, but she can’t just come and go like that damn vampire does. She doesn’t need a job, if she’s staying with us. Did you explain to her about the investments? Uncle Jim, keeper of the family traditions. He’d stepped into that role after Uncle Albie died the previous spring.

Luann’s response was quieter; I couldn’t make out her words. It didn’t sound like she agreed. I edged closer to the foyer, straining to hear, silently rooting for Luann to defend our house guest.

Jim muttered something and went into his workshop near the front entrance, closing the door softly. None of us slammed doors, or hurried, or raised our voices. We all followed the rules, except for certain small infractions that were tolerated, but never discussed.

When I heard Luann moving deeper into the house, I crossed the mezzanine, turning down the east wing hall. The rooms there were smaller than the ones up front, not as fancy, but I had the upper floor of the wing to myself.

Except for the ghosts, of course. When I came around the corner, I saw Gilbert at the far end of the hall, repairing a hole that looked like it had once been a doorway. Not the first time I’d seen him doing that. His red hair was dark with sweat at the temples, and there were flecks of plaster on his arms and face. He showed no awareness of my presence.

I leaned close, trying to catch a look at what lay on the other side of that wall. The north wing, which was completely sealed off. A topic nobody in the family would discuss. All I could see was bright daylight beyond the laths, like a glimpse of freedom through prison bars.

2

I ran my fingers across the top of the dresser in Gilbert’s old room, leaving dark streaks in the dust, like claw marks. There was no other furniture, except for a bed frame with no mattress. The faded wallpaper had a design of pink roses. It struck me as an odd choice for a man’s room.

I tried to open the top drawer. It came out an inch or two, and stuck. I could see a piece of paper, yellow with age and printed with old-fashioned type, so I pulled harder. Then the light changed. I looked up, and there was Gilbert, reflected in the mirror above the dresser. He was looking right at me.

I turned around, and he was still there, sitting at a desk that hadn’t been there a moment ago, face illuminated by a lantern with a warm yellow flame. The sky outside the window, clear and sunny before, had turned stormy.

Hello. Who are you? He stood up, taking a couple of steps toward me.

I didn’t answer. I’d wanted to talk to him for so long; now that he could see me, I just stood there looking at him. He was wearing a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I saw the freckles on his arms, and wiry reddish hairs, as he reached for my shoulder. His hand passed through it.

You’re not there.

Either that, or you’re not, I suggested.

I’m here. He gestured around the room, encompassing the bulky quilt that covered his bed, the fluted glass chimney of his lamp. He stepped over to the desk and grabbed a cloth-bound book, setting it on the dresser top, where the dark wood gleamed with polish. Pick that up.

I passed my hand over the smooth wood, right through the book.

"There, you see? I’m here."

He’s right, he’s here and I’m not. My scalp prickled. Gilbert grew translucent, daylight fighting with lamplight as the past faded. I struggled to hold on to it. Outside the window, lightning seared its way across the sky, closely followed by a crash of thunder. The room came back into focus. The roses on the wallpaper were a darker color now, dusky pink shading to maroon, and no longer struck me as wrong for the masculine vibe of the room.

Gilbert sat down at his desk, picking up a pad of paper and a pencil. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before. What year are you living in?

1989. What about you?

Fifty-three years, he muttered to himself, which sort of answered my question. What’s your name, son? How old are you? Who are your mother and father, your grandparents?

This thing with being mistaken for a boy is getting old. My name is Renee, and I’m eighteen. I’m not your son, or your daughter, for that matter. I judged that Gilbert was around my own age. Although he looked like a grown man. Not fair. "How old are you?"

You’re a girl! Why are you dressed— he shook his head. Never mind.

Gilbert, why did you seal off the door to the north wing?

"I did what? He frowned. No. I have to get in there. I’ve been trying to carry on the work Larson started, but I need his journals. Grandma Helene told me that was where he kept all his notes. The north wing was his laboratory."

Do you have any idea what Grandpa Larson intended by all this? Why we’re not supposed to leave the house, what the cotemporal field is for?

Gilbert drummed his fingers against the polished wood of his desk. I’d have a better chance of answering those questions if I could get into that lab. Why did you say I sealed off the door? Where was it?

Right at the end of this hall. I saw you. Maybe it hasn’t happened yet, from your point of view. Had he looked a little older in that image, broader across the shoulders?

That doesn’t make any sense. There was never any door there. 1989… I would be seventy-one. Good lord. Could you ask me? Am I still alive?

If I really traveled into the past, it would cause a paradox. This must be an alternate timeline. I didn’t want to answer his question. Gilbert had gone missing, same as Grandpa Larson.

That’s actually correct, yes. There are rules that govern these things. Consider the fact that you couldn’t pick up that book. As I expected. But you can touch the dresser, correct?

Maybe because the dresser is in the same place in my time.

I think that’s it, exactly. He sounded like a teacher, praising a student who’d answered correctly in class.

I ran my hand along the top of the dresser, then down the front. My fingers sank through the top drawer, making it look as if they’d been amputated. I reached in farther and could feel rough wood. I opened that top one, in 1989. As far as it would go, anyway.

He was scribbling frantically. This makes sense, based on my understanding of the cotemporal field, but we need to confirm it. Where could we find some small objects that would stay in the same place for over fifty years?

I wasn’t able to think of anything, but a moment later, he did. The library! There’s a lot of old books in there that nobody ever reads.

For good reason. When I first came to the house, I was excited to see such a wealth of reading material, until I started to browse. All the books I tried were deadly dull, and many were incomprehensible, even the ones that were in English.

As we approached the library, a little girl standing in the hallway stared at us. At me, in particular.

I smiled and gave her a friendly wave. She waved back, and Gilbert said, Buzz off, Beatrice. I whipped my head around to get another look at her, but she was running down the hall away from us, the skirt of her plaid dress flouncing around her legs. I suspected she wasn’t truly intimidated by Gil’s casual dismissal, just filled with youthful energy. Grandma Beatrice.

3

If I can get into Larson’s lab… Gilbert hadn’t found a way in; if I succeeded where he’d failed, it would knock the feet out from under his condescending attitude. Assuming I ever had the chance to tell him about it. No matter how many times I went into his old room, I could never seem to find my way back into the past.

I also wanted to see those journals for myself.

The west wing smelled of abandonment and gentle decay. It had once been the children’s area, but hadn’t been used in decades. Disturbing that ancient stillness felt like a desecration. I searched all the rooms that shared a wall with the north wing, finding no hidden