Bound by Blood

Chapter 5

For a moment, I stared at the sphere in horrified shock. The metal felt almost painfully cold against my fingers and palms, as if it had been sitting on ice. The engravings looked dark against the gray surface in the dim light, and a weird shiver spread up my arms like a faint current of electricity. When nothing else happened, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Then I gasped.

The sphere began to split apart along the lines of the engravings, like the skin of a spiral-peeled orange. Beneath the thin strip of text, a glow like the fierce light of an arc welder shone forth.

Reflexively, I dropped the sphere to shield my eyes, but to my horror the thing seemed to come apart in my hands, the coiled script stretching between my palms like a loose spring.

I screamed as pain lanced through my hands and the script melted into my flesh. It snaked up my arms, burning like fire that raced over my wrists and spiraled to my shoulders. I fell to my knees as it spread across my chest and joined around my throat, cutting off my breath. Black spots and stars exploded in my vision, blinding me, and I fell back into a darkness like deep water at night.

~

I awoke with my eyes still shut, pain beating like a drum in my temples. At first I had no sense of where I was, but gradually memory crept back, starting with the evening I'd spent with Ben.

For a few confused moments, I found myself deep in the past, waking with a hangover after a night of torturous socializing at Ben's side. Then I recalled our dinner, the break-in, Pete's attack, and the sphere.

Reluctantly, I forced my eyes open.

The house was dark and still. I lay where I'd fallen near the front door, artifacts and debris strewn around me. The pale light of pre-dawn shone through the window, and cool ocean air tumbled in through the broken panes.

I sat up, shivering. I had no idea what time the break-in had happened, nor how long I might have been out, but my bare feet and arms were freezing.

I rubbed my hands over them as I got to my feet, caught sight of myself in the shadow-mirrors, and froze.

The script from the sphere was on my skin. It spiraled from my hands to my shoulders, joining around the base of my throat and trailing over my chest and down my back. The markings were white against my bronze skin, like old scars. I stared in mixed horror and awe. In a way, they were beautiful: delicate, intricate, and fascinating. In another, they were terrifying: I had no idea what they meant, or what they might do to me.

I ran my hands over the markings, but the skin felt smooth and no trace remained of the pain I'd felt when the sphere first touched me.

It occurred to me that if I touched it again, the markings might return to its surface. The problem with this idea was that there was no sign of it anywhere.

I searched the floor where I'd fallen, every surface, drawer, and cupboard, and even the storeroom where the sphere's box sat open. Pete had been right, it seemed: the sphere had been the target. But where was it now?

Finally, I gave up. I needed to report the break-in or there might be hang-ups with the insurance company. Upstairs, I plugged in my phone, turned it on, and called 911. Pulling on a sweatshirt to cover the marks on my arms, I returned downstairs to wait for the police. I wanted to start cleaning up, but I figured I should leave things as they were until the cops finished their report.

In the end, it was an anticlimactic affair. Two officers arrived about a quarter-hour later, inspected the premises, declared it clear, and took my statement. Of course, I didn't mention anything about Pete or the sphere, instead saying that the intruder had been scared off by a noise from outside.