Blood Memory

Blood Memory

By Rebecca Flynn



Spain 1650

Mendosa gripped the hanging straps and strained. The widow midwife stood close by and murmured to herself, her eyes large and bewitched.

A hearty fire blazed in the stone fireplace, its spit empty. A cracked stewpot lie smoking on the hearth. Escaped cinders shone, untended, upon the dirt floor. Mendosa turned her face from the flames. They pained her eyes. The fire was large and the small hovel was hot and close, but Mendosa's altered state meant she had no need to sweat.

Reaching down, she felt the hard crown of the baby’s head. She did not feel the pains but waited for the next wave of contractions from her body. Such a pain free birth would be a boon to any mortal woman.

The scent of fresh blood called out to her base instincts, but she demurred and a burst of grateful, wild relief surged through her barely beating heart. There was still some humanity left to her, even after the change. Enough to bring a human babe into the world. Aiden's babe. Reaching up she grabbed the birthing strap, and squatting deeply she shifted her weight forward.

The midwife dutifully reached for a rag, and brought it to Mendosa's face. At her touch, the laboring woman's eyes dilated, need flaring through her veins. Not yet, she thought, not yet. It was tears the old woman was wiping from the face of her final charge.

"Leave them be old one, they remind me of what I have lost and what I am to be. Throw something on the fire. The little one will need the warm."

The midwife’s chest rattled as she took breath to speak, "Yes, it's nearly time. The next push maybe." she croaked. Her hacking coughs resembled an eerie cackle, and reminded Mendosa of the old witch-tales her grandmother had told her as a child.

With more strength and speed than possible for a near elderly woman, she picked up a wooden chair, smashed it to the floor and began to throw the shattered pieces into the roaring fire, her skirts smoking as they passed over the scattered embers.

Mendosa closed her eyes to slits and turned her face to the fire allowing it to dry the tears which now flowed down her cheeks.

She felt the baby slip from her and with it the last of her own living blood. Her heart fluttered gently, like a dying butterfly in a jar. The baby, its mouth cleared with a bit of rag by the midwife, let out a howling cry. Mendoza did not look at the child. She let go of the birthing straps, and settled back upon her cot, her hands clenched into fists.

The midwife wiped the baby down and wrapped it up snugly. She placed it in a basket just out of reach from the fire's scattered embers and returned to Mendoza. Turning her sleeves up, exposing too-thin arms, she began to palpate her charge's belly with her crablike hands.

Mendosa saw that the brightness in the old woman’s rheumy eyes had begun to fade. She had begun to look much like she had when they had first met, as though one foot were already in her grave. Her face was flushed, and beads of sweat lined her upper lip. Mendosa met her eyes, wondering what the old woman was thinking, here in the hovel nearly dead on her feet.

As if in response, she brushed Mendosa’s hair away from her face and smiled. "Well, you're a mamma now dear heart" the old woman said. "The whole world different for you. No matter your path there's one of your blood attached to your heart-strings wherever ye may be, for as many years as ye both may be and maybe even after. That's the way of it. It's like having a piece of your own heart walking about out in the world without you. You can't help but want to mother it and tend to it." she wheezed. Mendoza tilted her head toward the baby, and watched tiny fists swing above the edge of the little basket.

Finally, the afterbirth came from her. The baby screamed sharply, as though injured. The change its mother had resisted for so many months awakened, and began to complete its cycle. Her heart fluttered gently. She caught the midwife by the wrist before she could move from the cot. No surprise or fear registered on her weathered face. She was nearly gone, alive only through the vampiress' mind-will. Again the baby let out a painful scream. Mendoza's heart stopped.

She slipped from the bed and took the midwife in her arms like a lover. Just as she had once been bled, she bled the old woman. But she did not stop until the midwife’s heart too, beat its last. Taking a final pull, she released the withered throat, and laid the old woman down on the cot.

She would not be a violent killer. Like Proust. He was strong in her, with the change she had finally allowed. His blood memories began to rise, and she saw. Victims aware as their throats are torn out. Children covered in their own blood as he teases and cossets their minds into believing he is the dead parent they long for, before taking them. No, she promised herself, I am not Proust; I will never be like Proust. Pulling her mind from the memories, she turned to the body of her victim. Mendoza straightened the old woman’s hair, folded her hands upon her narrow chest, and brushed the cinders off of her skirts. Stepping back, she viewed her handiwork.

Though the victim’s wound was clean, birthing blood soaked through her skirts, and dotted her sleeves. Mendoza had placed her first victim in the last of her own living blood.

She stood before the cot, her shift and legs crusted with drying blood, her waist length blond hair tangled, and her hands clenched into fists. She felt the numbness slipping away. The Mesmer she had placed upon her own emotional state began to falter. Mendoza growled, low in her throat, as her feelings surfaced. Aiden’s face floated in her mind, and grief hit her. She screamed and buried her long fingers in her hair, pulling at the tangles. Mendoza’s eyes searched the cottage and settled on the fire. Her bare feet made no sound on the dirt floor as she crossed to the hearth. From the fire, she pulled a burning chair leg. Shading her sensitive eyes with her other arm, she held the piece of wood out, like a torch, and crossed the room toward the corpse, touching the fire to anything that would light along the way. Finally, she came to the midwife. Swinging the torch over her shoulder she swung, connecting with the body on the cot. Again and again she swung, her furious screams of grief smothered by the crackling of the many fires she had lit, merging into one inferno. The midwife’s skirts had caught the fire, and the body was alight within seconds.

The baby screamed. Mendoza swung the torch around, and stalked toward the basket. Her eyes rolled in her head, and her long hair smoked, singed at the ends. She lifted the chair leg to swing, and the baby let out another curdled scream. A flame licked up from the basket, the wrap around the infant had caught fire.

“No.” She whispered, “No, no, no.” Mendoza dropped the chair leg and scooped the baby from the basket, cradling it in her arm. She smothered the tiny flame with her other hand. The baby’s screams turned to choking coughs.

She ducked beneath the smoke, and made her way to the door. Her leather carry-all waited on the floor by the door, its worn patina shiny in the firelight. She slung it over her shoulder, threw open the door and fled from the hovel.

At the front gate she stopped to look back. Proust’s blood memory gave her the fury. Her own grief mixed with that fury had taken Mendoza out of her mind. Monster, she thought.

Flames licked the thatched roof, and smoke billowed from the open door. Though the hovel stood on the far edge of town, well off of the main road, there was once a time when the town would have come, to help put out such a fire as this. “Plague,” Mendoza whispered to the wind. “Fever and death and plague,” she whispered, letting the little Mesmer spell catch wind with the smoke from the hovel. No one would come now.

The yard was bathed in moonlight, and Mendoza found the little well with ease. The crank and pulley were cracked and unusable, but she found the rope, pinned under a rock, just as she had left it two days before. She laid the baby down on her carry-all, moved the rock and began to pull. The bucket clunked and thumped its way up from the depths. Mendoza could smell the water, but felt no thirst for it. Hauling the bucket up over the edge of the well, she set it down by the whimpering baby.

Reaching toward her throat with both hands, she wrapped her fingers around the neckline of her shift. The fabric tore easily, and she ripped the garment from throat to hemline. It slipped it from her shoulders and she stood naked. Looking down at her arms and legs, she could see that her pale skin gleamed in the moonlight. Running her fingers over her body, she could feel no obvious changes brought about by her death. Again, Proust entered her mind. His speed and agility. His furious bloodletting. Finally, she felt her breasts for any change. As she had expected, her body was not capable of producing milk. Had it been, there was no one living or dead who could tell her what kind of creature her baby would become should she feed it the milk of the dead. Nowhere in her blood memory could she find a story like her own. Proust’s selfishness and loneliness had created her, and she in turn, had resisted her change long enough to bring forth a living child.

Picking up the ruined shift, she tore it into strips and squares. She dipped the scraps into the well bucket, and drizzled cold water into her hair. She then finger combed it into a reasonable mess, and braided it into a long tail, before rolling it into a bun at the nape of her neck. Satisfied, she rinsed the crusted blood from her body, and threw the used scraps of her shift into the well. From her carry-all, she pulled a fresh shift, peasant’s dress, and traveling cape. The baby continued to cry as she dressed, but she did not look at it.

Mendoza had seen babies before, had handled them. She employed control, and did not allow her mind to bring forth images of the last baby she had seen, and buried.

Reluctantly, she turned her attention to the squalling infant. She unwrapped the swaddling and inspected the tiny body. Aiden’s baby was a boy. An unexpected happiness surged through her blood. She stroked the baby from head to toe with her finger tips, and marveled at the tiny fingers, long and tapered like her own. There was a burn, on the center of his chest. Blisters were forming, and it would need to be treated to stave off infection. He whimpered, and turned his tiny face toward her hands, searching for a breast. She swaddled the baby, and reached into the bucket at his side.

From the bucket, Mendoza pulled a skin full of chilled goat’s milk. Unrolling the tapered end, she wrapped the leather thong around the neck to control the flow. Settling by the well, she gathered the baby onto her lap, and offered him the leather nipple. As he suckled, she dipped a scrap of her shift into the bucket and squeezed the water out. She held the rag in her hand to warm it, and after a few moments she realized she didn’t have enough blood in her to warm the rag. But the baby was hungry, and didn’t seem to notice as she used the cold rag to wipe the soot from his face, and wash the birth fluids from his head of downy blond hair.

He looked like Aiden. With the same winged eyebrows, and high cheekbones. Emotion flowed through her, out of her, and across the baby in her lap. “You are a Mynder. Like your father and his fathers before him. You will grow to be a strong and kind man. Just like your father. And I will always be here, for as long as you live I will lead you from harm, I will keep you safe.” The baby had stopped suckling, and eyes wide, focused on his mother. Too late Mendoza realized that his young mind had absorbed her emotions as a mezmer. Proust had said that her ability to train a human mind was stronger than any he had met in his deathtime. She could feel the power of her emotions and promises, it hung in the air around them both, and the baby continued to stare, until finally, she rolled away the milk bag and settled him into her carry-all.

Mendosa found her gelding, tied in a copse of trees, just where she had left him after bringing the midwife to the hovel just two nights before. She held out a handful of grain and reached out with her other hand to stroke his forehead. The horse shied from her, but she waited a moment, and his hunger won out. He took the grain from her palm and quieted.

Mendosa hung her carry all over the saddle horn and tied on her traveling cape. What she had held back for so long had awoken. The blood of the midwife, even in her weakened state, had brought Mendosa some relief, but she needed to feed again soon. She could feel Proust’s influence in her blood memory. Her blood nature hungered for another soul, not so willingly given, but there was a task to be performed first.

She hooked her foot into the stirrup and threw her leg up and over the horse. She found her seat, and reaching down, patted the saddle bag, where the baby slept. “Horseback riding an hour after giving birth, not a mortal woman’s feat.” she said with a laugh.

Trotting the horse out of the trees, she took stock of the moon. She smiled, the moon was high in the sky and she had hours of travel time to reach her next safe house. A cluck of her tongue brought the horse to a canter. Mendosa stroked the big horse’s neck, and turned him toward the Southern roads. She did not look back.

And so, in the big leather bag where his father had once carried his tools, the baby slept and absorbed the mind-magic of his mother, Mendoza, the only living dead in blood memory to produce a living child from her womb.


USA 2008

Mynders Aiden finished brushing the sorrel gelding and tossed the comb into a bucket by the stall door. The horse seemed nervous and unsettled, he whickered and shifted his feet, keeping his eyes on Mynder. Wind roared outside the open barn door, having picked up since dawn, when Mynder had begun his morning tasks.

Mynder ran his hands down the sleek sides of the big gelding. Sniffing the air, a disquieted feeling settled in his gut. On instinct he threw open the stall door, and slapped the gelding’s haunch as he shouted "heyah." The horse shot out of the stall and thundered out of the barn, the sound of its hooves slowing only once they reached open pasture.

Mynder headed out into the open barn. The horses whickered as he walked past them to the supply area. He returned to the gelding’s stall with a pitchfork. Holding the weapen at his side, Mynder scanned the staw filled space around him. So quickly the eye could not catch it, the pitchfork was propelled into the straw in the corner of the stall. A growling scream erupted from beneath the horse's bedding. From the surrounding stalls, horses whinnied in alarm.

Pulling the fork from the hay, Mynder stared at the impaled body of a barn rat, which had been hidden beneath the straw. Perhaps hungry for stray oats. Perhaps hungry for horseflesh. It was nearly the size of a half-grown housecat, its long teeth exposed over its lower lip. The creature twitched once, twice, and died bleeding over its hidey-hole.

The horses were silent as Mynder walked through the barn, past their stalls, and out into the wind to dispose of the dripping body. The smell of blood, not unfamiliar to the tall, dusty, blond man, wafted through the barn.

Elanie Aiden was stuck in traffic. Sighing, she adjusted the rearview mirror so she could apply a load of her favorite Lancomb gloss to her lips. Commuting to the city had seemed like a vacation at first. Time to herself, with the radio blasting and no one to deal with but herself, and the other 5000 cars on the highway, ahhhh bliss.

Two years of real-life had put the kibosh on any glamorous early impressions she might have had. Now, a vision of the burnt bottom of her crock pot came to mind. Dinner would be singed, and all of the convenience of a quick meal would be trashed by the immediate need to scour the damn ceramic crock. She could imagine Cassidy's little voice, "Emma's mommy never burns up the dinners."

Perhaps it was time to let Mynder have his way, to take on a "stay at home" job, like Emmy's mommy. "Our little chickadee is growing up," he was fond of noting, "she'll be grown and gone and not needing us soon enough."

El's friends were still surprised by her choice of husbands. Mynder, the rugged outdoorsman, with Elanie, a self-imposed high-maintenance woman of the millennium. But somehow, they had meshed, supplying one another with everything they lacked individually. Almost everything.

Elanie thought of the long hours of study, the tough courses which had lead to the degree which had gotten her this far. She treasured her position as Vice President of Marketing for Cottage Cities, a premier home rental agency. While her office was based in the city, the homes she represented were scattered across mid-New York state. Not a bad job for a suburban girl with prada dreams and a healthy appetite for Coach: the bags, not the airline seating, she thought smugly.

Tilting her head, she squinted at the mirror, inspecting the nearly non-existent wrinkles around her eyes. She smacked her lips, spreading the gloss across them. Her honey colored hair gleamed. Emmy's mommy didn't look this good. Score one for Mrs. Robinson she thought, steering her Limited Edition Durango toward her exit.

Promising herself she would review her priorities ASAP, she tilted the mirror back into place, happy to be leaving the traffic behind.

Elanie relished entering the front door of their home. It was her routine to park in the garage, close the door with her key chain remote, and duck beneath the garage door as it shut. This maneuver left her standing in the driveway at the front of their house. She enjoyed using the little stone walk from the garage to the front door. Mynder had chosen the rocks himself from a nearby creek and built the walk just weeks after they had moved in. She held her hands out at her sides, and ran her fingertips over the tops of the plantings as she walked the path. El inhaled, the garden smelled wonderful. Russian sage and English Lavender mixed with the scent of just-rained-on greenery.

Taking the front steps to the big front door she entered the foyer with a flourish. The sound of her dress shoes on the hard wood floors echoed through the house. "Honeys, I'm home," she shouted. Mr. Puss dashed around the corner meowing piteously. Elanie laughed. Hanging her coat, she followed the cat into the kitchen. Pulling the cat food box from the corner cupboard, she gave it a shake, "Here's your kitty kibble” she said, shaking some into Mr. Puss’s bowl, “now what have you done with my family?" she asked.

Taking stock of the kitchen, she noted two glasses rinsed in the sink, a package of Oreos left out and the dreaded crock pot, which had been set to low, "thank God." A fresh loaf of Italian bread sat next to it. Munching on an Oreo, she peered through the sink window into her back yard. Sure enough, Mynder and Emmy were enjoying a large pile of leaves. He held the rake, as Emmy made a running leap into the pile. It never ceased to amaze her, what a great dad Mynder was. How much he enjoyed being a father.

That night, Mynder's mutterings woke her again from a sound sleep. Elanie had a moment to collect her waking thoughts before he began to fidget and toss, pulling their down comforter to the floor on his side of the bed. Beads of sweat lined his upper lip and brow.

Elanie slipped from the king size bed and padded around to her husband's side of the bed. Her flat feet slapped audibly on the wood floor as she hurried. Gathering up the comforter in one hand, she slipped into bed behind the sturdy man. Nestling his head in her lap, she quickly flung the blanket out across his long form. Methodically she began to stroke his forehead. She leaned forward and whispered to him, she whispered anything comforting that came to mind, along with, “it’s ok, everything is ok.” Occasionally it seemed as though he were calling out to someone. After several minutes, he seemed to calm. His breathing slowed and his frantic incomprehensible talk stopped. He wouldn't remember this in the morning. But he would wake up with his head cradled across his sleeping wife's lap, and wonder at her worried expression. There would be tired lines around his eyes, and tension in his shoulders that day.

El's heart constricted, his dreams, or whatever they were, were becoming more intense. As strong as Mynder was, she worried that whatever his unconscious mind had begun to drag up, might be stronger. She ran her fingers gently over his forehead. The same repetitive gesture he always used when Cassidy couldn’t sleep. She kissed his head, and remembered when his big calloused fingers had gently stroked Cassidy’s tiny baby forehead. He could always make her fall asleep. Six now, she was truly Daddy’s little girl. They would work this out together. Mynder was a good man, whatever haunted his dreams could be dealt with. Resolved, El promised herself she would begin searching for help the next day.

The next night, Elanie fell into bed with her husband. Worry lines crossed her forehead, and dark smudges had collected below her eyes.

“Els, you look exhausted,” Mynders pulled his wife close to him. She loved to be spooned. Wrapping an arm around her, he whispered, “you’re working too hard. We should take a break, maybe a trip to the lake. Don’t you think?”

Elanie cringed. It was really beyond time to let him know that it was his dreams keeping her awake at night. Snuggling into the spoon, she realized that she couldn’t do it yet. The discussion would no doubt be lengthy and she was exhausted. There were still two days before the “emergency” appointment she had set. “I agree babe. We should. But let’s talk in the morning, I’m too tired now. Just hold me.” Breathing slowly and steadily in mock sleep, she waited for Mynder to fall deeply asleep before she crept out of his embrace, and rolled onto her back.

She wondered how to tell him she had made an appointment for him with a doctor who specialized in sleep disorders. Steeling a look at the alarm clock, she counted down, only 6 hours until it went off at 6. Pulling the comforter up to her neck, she turned to look at her sleeping husband. He hadn't changed in ten years. His blond hair hadn’t grayed, she reached out swept stray strands back from his forehead and stole a kiss. She thought of the hundreds of dollars spent on magic potions to keep her own crow's feet at bay and marveled at his perfect skin. With the outdoor work he regularly performed, she had expected him to look like a weathered version of himself far before she had succumbed to her own "smile lines." She fell asleep watching him, and woke up alone two hours later.

Mynders was cognizant of the fact he was no longer at home in bed. He felt the chill of cold wet leaves against his bare feet as he walked through the leaf pile he had tossed Emmy in just a few hours before. One step after another, he watched as his feet moved him further away from home. The feeling of being aware and unaware felt familiar. The tempting pull felt familiar. He was cold and realized his feet should hurt, walking barefoot through his back acre, and yet they didn't. The numb walking felt familiar too, he thought back to the stitches he had needed in his palm the summer before. Watching the needle plunge and snag through numb, Novocain induced bare skin had fascinated him. Now, the same sensation felt right and wrong all at once.

His body continued to move, while he pushed his mind into awareness. Inspecting the situation from within, he identified the feelings he had to keep moving, moving away from home, it was a “compulsion.” He looked around himself. He was now well past the yard and headed toward the thruway that ran to the West of his property line. His body moved at a quick pace, breathing deeply he determined to make sense of the situation. “Why would I leave El?” he whispered, he could almost feel her fingers, brushing his forehead. Cassidy’s blue eyes crossed his mind. “Why am I leaving?” He questioned. As though in response, a lazy calm spread over him. He nearly succumbed it was easy to rest and let himself continue toward the thruway. The process felt so familiar. Mynder knew then. He would not see Elanie or Cassidy again.

Reaching out, he tried to take charge of his arms and legs. He scowled, threw his head back and screamed. His muscles began to tingle. Taking back control was like lifting free-weights after bailing hay all day. Suddenly, he could feel his hands and arms. He reached down, clawing at his legs, but they continued to march. He threw his arms out, hoping to catch a bramble or sapling, the movement caused his feet to stumble, and Mynder fell to the ground panting.

Running his hands over his face, he breathed deeply, in an effort to calm down. Whatever compulsion he had been under, it was over. The feeling had retreated, burnt by his intense desire to stay with his family. He looked to the sky. Stars were twinkling, and a half moon shone brightly. He wondered if El had realized he was gone. If she had realized that something was very, very wrong. Sitting up, he inspected his bleeding feet. Brambles and thorns had torn open the soft flesh of his soles, and they hurt, but they would heal. The important thing was that they were in good enough shape to get his ass home where he belonged.

The rugged man got to his feet and steeled his mind to one possible outcome, getting home to his wife and daughter. Fifty feet away a silver BMW with darkened windows, had parked at the highway’s edge. The driver could not be seen, though she sat in the driver’s seat, stunned.

“Mynder, what I would like to do today, is to place you in a gentle trancelike state. While you relax, I will ask you a few simple questions. Should you become agitated in any way, I will simply say ‘milk chocolate’ and you will find yourself awake, here in this room with Elanie and I.”

Dr. Jane Ansten, with her fine grey hair, and pilled sweater vest, did not look like any sort of Dr. Mynder had ever seen. She would however, see him immediately in her own home, and after his “trip” the night before, this had been enough for Elanie.

Mynders was seated on an aged leather recliner, his feet swaddled in gauze and resting on a worn hand-embroidered pillow. Elanie sat on a small ottoman beside him, and held his hand.

“Mynder,” began Dr. Ansten, I am going to begin counting backwards, and with each number, you will move back in time just a little bit. You will see with great clarity all events which have emotionally impacted you, and the individuals who have been involved with these events.” At a nod from the Doctor, Elanie released his hand. “One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight….”

“Milk chocolate.” Mynders came back to active consciousness. Immediately, he looked at the ottoman next to him for his wife, but Elanie stood across the room looking at the wall. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wide. Dr. Ansten appeared torn between her patient, and managing Elanie’s outstanding panic. Her weathered blue eyes met Mynder’s with concern.

“I’ve seen her,” Elanie said from across the room. “She was there in the hospital when Cassidy was a baby, when she was so sick. And she was standing outside the Plaza on Saturday night, after I took Cassidy to see Kung Fu Panda. Cassi said a pretty lady with blond hair was whispering to her, but I didn’t see anyone. Mynders was at the barn late that night, with a new foal.” Elanie ran her hands through her hair, pushing it behind her ears. “I think I remember this seeing this woman over the years. She is striking. I can’t believe I never caught on to this.”

Elanie squatted, putting hands over her face, “Are you telling me that she is after my husband?” she choked out. “That she’s the reason he wandered around confused in the woods for hours? He was looking for her?” Her voice lowered to a growl, and she looked up at the confused doctor, “What the hell is going on? Who is this woman, and who are all of these people he is talking about?”

Silent tears slid down Mynder’s cheek. The scent of the leather chair seemed stifling to him. “The woman is my mother.” He said. His words echoed in the room.

Elanie stood and wrapped her arms around herself, turning to address her husband. “How stupid do you think I am, you run around with another woman, a young beautiful woman, and try to tell me she’s your mother? We’ve been married for nearly 9 years, and you’ve never spoken of any relatives, let alone your mother and now I am supposed to believe…”

Mynders had closed his eyes, blocking the sight of his distraught wife, but he opened them and interrupted her tirade “The woman is my mother, and she is trying to lead me from harm, and to keep me safe. I forgot her again. I forget that this is what she does.”

He tried to sit up in the chair, and immediately put a hand to his head. “My mind is littered with the lives I have led and it’s tired. We need to pick up Cassidy, go home and rest. I have to regroup before she comes for me again. I need to talk with her. This needs to end.” Mynder took a deep breath and pushed the recliner’s foot rest down. Finding his feet, he limped to the door, followed by a confused, angry and disbelieving wife. Dr. Ansten let them out, and insisted they call should they like to further discuss the situation.

Mendoza stood in the shadows. “His mind is so full. I’ve laced together so many stories for him that they are converging.”
I don’t understand, why did you let it all unfold before the wife?” asked Dr. Ansten. “That’s not like you. He should be half way across the world, speaking another language and thinking he was born on a hillside in Tibet. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.”

Mendoza sighed, continuing her thought as though Ansten had not spoken, “and the wife, so strong. In sharing blood with her infant, I changed something in her as well. I did not anticipate that, she’s shucking off my mesmers like a fall wardrobe in spring. And my granddaughter, she is something new all together.
“What’s next?” asked the little doctor.

Suddenly Mendoza stood before her, a frown on her red lips. “That’s not for you to ask. You become too familiar.” She pressed a manicured fingertip to the older woman’s brow and whispered, “forget.”

When the blue eyes were suitably awed and focused on her again, she removed her finger from the doctor’s forehead and continued, “I would like for you to procure me two new ID’s, preferably Russian, as he’s never been there. Give him whatever name you please, but the little girl’s should read “Alayna.”