EDITOR'S NOTE: Frozen Blood is the first novel written by Canadian author Joel A. Sutherland. It is available for pre-order now from Lachesis Publishing, and should ship to customers by December 28th. I was lucky enough to read the book in manuscript form, and it's a hell of a debut. In fact, the climax of the chapter you're about to read features the single most startling scene I read all year.


CHAPTER ONE


The cracked pavement under her Volkswagen Jetta was slick with water on the verge of hardening into ice. The night grew old, as the car's windshield wipers struggled to keep up with the rain spattering the windshield. It was hard to focus on the road in her present state of mind, but the raging January weather demanded it. Following the winding route through the thick and brooding forest, on her way North East to Ottawa, Tara turned up the heat and muttered to the emptiness surrounding her, "Goddamn Canada."

A puddle of water splashed up to the car windows as she plowed through it, sending thousands of icy beads flying through the air, reminding her of tiny daggers.

Soon the hail began to fall.

* * * *

Halfway through her cigarette, Tara pitched it outside and hurriedly rolled up the window. She was remiss to toss it, knowing there were only three left in her pack. With the cost of cigarettes these days, she had flirted with the idea of quitting, but stressful events kept on hitting her one after the other, making her crave tobacco. There were too many cracks, too many breaks in her life. She needed a release, now more than ever.

Fuck, just thinking about it makes me want a smoke. She eyed the pack of Marlies sitting on the passenger seat next to her. But there's only three left and your wallet is empty. Hold out. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, the outline of bone visible beneath the pale skin of her knuckles, and refocused on the road.

The falling hail found a way through the opened window, and the pieces that ricocheted off the glass hit her in the face with surprising force, stinging her skin and fouling her mood.

The damn hail. The sound of it falling filled the car, filled her head. She wanted to cover her ears, scream at the top of her lungs, tear her hair out--anything to mask the sound of the damn hail. She turned on the radio with a desperate flick of the dial.

Country, soft rock, country, pop, country, country--it was no use. Canadians had no taste in music. She needed something heavy, something loud, something that could drown out her life, make all the shit go away. She flipped off the dial, and once again the hail's crushing sound consumed her.

"I liked that last song," the man sitting next to her said.

She sucked in a quick, sharp burst of cold air, and the car swerved to the left side of the road. Pulling the wheel sharply back to the right, she reentered her lane. She looked to her right, and she felt her face stiffen with tension.

"Jesus Christ, Dad. You could have killed us both."

"Impossible." He was dressed as usual, both in life and death, khaki pants and a checkered sweater vest over a cotton dress shirt. He smiled, his face folding in on itself in a maze of wrinkles. That smile had always been his ace in the hole. "I'm already dead."

He was a big man, over six feet tall and thick in the shoulders, which cut an intimidating figure, but people warmed to him immediately when he smiled. He was the type of man who wanted everyone to know him, and everyone to like him, and everyone to remember his name, Arthur Stewart.

"Gee, like I didn't know that. You've got to be fucking kidding me. You think now's a good time to kid around?"

His smile faded. "Watch your language."

He still had it, the ability to make her blood feel cold in her veins. He was an intimidating man, and his smile was only a costume to hide that fact, like a white sheet posing as a ghost, hiding the gentle boy beneath.

His fingers curled into balled fists. Tara swallowed the saliva pooling under her tongue.

"Have I taught you nothing? Why do you insist on soiling the family's name with your filthy mouth? Disgraceful."

She cleared her throat, and took her focus off her father to stare back at the road. "You're not real." A shiver ran up her back.

He laughed. "Now I see you're the one with the sense of humour."

It was more than she could take. She couldn't wait any longer. She needed a cigarette right now. Immediately.

Her father mocked her with more laughter, as if relishing her desperate need. "How are you going to get at your pack of cigarettes when I'm sitting on it?"

She slammed her palm against the steering wheel and screamed, "You're not real! Go away!" When she looked again, her father was gone. Her cigarettes rested on the seat, just where she had left them.

Wiping snot from under her nose, she grabbed them, shoved one in her mouth, and fumbled with her lighter. After flicking the roller three times, she finally got a flame. She held it to the tip of the cigarette and inhaled deeply, the glowing ember basking her face with warmth. She exhaled slowly and gazed at the eerie red light of the cherry. Smoke drifted around in the heavy air. Bluish-grey tendrils snaked their way haphazardly upwards, in the space where her father had sat a moment ago. The sound of the hail, forgotten for a while, came rushing back to her.

This time, as she puffed away, she didn't bother to roll down the window.

* * * *

Her headlights caught the sudden appearance of a green highway sign, and then it whipped past and was gone. It said Ottawa, Tara was sure of that, but how many kilometers? She couldn't remember if the number was two digits or three. She hated kilometers, could never get her head wrapped around them. What's wrong with miles, anyway? The metric system is just one more screwed up Canadian quirk.

The faint, green glowing numbers on her car's digital clock read 12:13. Shit, I'm really late. Evey's going to be pissed. Better call her. With frigid fingers, she rubbed her tired eyes then rummaged inside her purse. Cell phone in hand, she paused. Fuck it, let her wait. Would Evelyn have called her? Probably not. As far as sibling relationships went, theirs would never be described as peachy. Far from it. They hadn't spoken in over three years. Three years. The longest three years of my life.

The six years before that, however, had zoomed past in a blur. Addiction would do that to a person, make you feel like you never existed. The gallons of liquor she'd consumed in those six years had made the days bleed into the nights, while her worries dissolved. Her memories of the dark period were fractured at best and, even now, almost forty months after she gave up drinking for good--good God, forty months is a damned eternity--she still cringed at the recollection of her former self.

She would live with those memories forever, and she knew, no matter how many times she apologized to her friends, to her family, to herself, they would never go away, never leave her in peace. They'd haunt her, haunt her just as tirelessly as the wraith--now officially a ghost, I guess--of her father. That was the price she'd pay and she could live with that--she had to--although it was harder than hell to do. Whenever her bad memories surfaced, the ones that made her want to cry, made her itch, made her bite her tongue until it bled, she forced her mind to shut down. Ctrl+Alt+Delete, just like a machine. She'd think about anything else, she'd sing to herself, she'd smoke. But this time she was distracted and she didn't shut down in time. Three years. Haven't spoken to my sister in three years. The memories were in her head now and they were flowing and there wasn't time to stop them.

Three years...

Three years ago, parked in the same Volkswagen Jetta, Tara wiped her lips and screwed the cap back on the two-ounce bottle of vodka. She coughed lightly and savoured the burn flowing down her throat. It was guilt free drinking, she convinced herself, since it was such a small bottle. Just enough to take the edge off. Certainly not enough to get more than a twinge of lightheadedness. She dared not look at the liquor store bag in the backseat, in case she could see the outline of the twelve other bottles she'd also bought. Out of sight, out of mind. They don't even exist. She took another sip. Unless I need them.

The mid-afternoon sun streamed through the grime on the windshield. She wore oversized sunglasses, hoping they would somehow hide her, make her blend in with the other mourners. It was a hopeless dream she knew, deep down, since everyone would be looking for her. Catch a glimpse of the sad aunt. See if she has blood on her hands. At least they covered her red, puffy eyes.

Footsteps on the pavement outside approached the back of the car. She slumped in the driver's seat and put her left hand to the side of her face. A couple dressed in black walked past her car without looking in. Relieved, she watched them pass.

"My love is a candle,
That can burn all night,
And shine through the dark.
My love is a candle."

She spun the volume knob around until she couldn't hear the radio anymore. The last thing she wanted to listen to was some woman sing about love.

The funeral home had a full house today. The parking lot was overflowing, and cars lined the streets. People stood outside, crying, hugging, smoking. She wanted to join them for a quick cigarette, but then she would have to talk. Instead, she sat alone, trying to find some shred of courage.

She caught her finger and thumb caressing the key in the ignition, and almost turned it out of instinct. With a great deal of restraint, she pulled the key free and opened the door, forcing herself out of the car. If she didn't go in immediately, she feared she never would. That was something, no matter how much she dreaded the confrontation, she couldn't do. With time, her sister would appreciate her being there.

Flowers, and people whispering to one another, cramped the entrance. She weaved around them with her head down, catching a glimpse of Amy.

"Damn it," she said, thinking for a fraction of a second, in her grief, that it really was her niece, before she realized it was just a life-sized photograph. Some people looked in her direction, but she pushed past without another word and entered the viewing room.

Her head spinning, partially from the vodka but mostly from her anxiety, she spotted Evelyn sitting in a corner of the room. Her husband, Peter, stood next to her, a hand resting limply on her shoulder as he spoke to some distant relatives. Beside them was the casket.

Thank God it's closed.

Fraternal twins, Tara and Evelyn had similar auburn hair, naturally pale skin, and thin frames, and today they also wore similar signs of suffering. Tara recognized the disheveled hair, the flushed cheeks, and the facial twitches in her sister. The same signs she'd seen in the mirror these past three days. It made her feel sick to her stomach, seeing her sister look the way she, too, must've appeared to others.

Unexpectedly, Evelyn raised her hands to her ears. What the hell is she trying to block out? The room is quiet.

Walking as if through an ocean, dragging her feet, she forced herself towards Evelyn. She couldn't think of anything to say, and stood with her shoulders hunched, mute.

"You," Evelyn said. She lowered her hands to her lap.

Her stomach felt like it flipped over, throwing words out of her mouth like spewed bile. "Evey, I'm so sorry for you. I--"

"Don't." Evelyn held up a hand and shook her head. "Please, don't say anything."

She opened her mouth to continue, but nothing came. She turned, instead, to Peter. "I don't know what to say. This is terrible. I feel awful."

"I know," he said. It sounded like he was trying to be understanding and strong, but his voice came off weak, and it lacked conviction. "It's not your fault."

She nodded, and looked back down at Evelyn. "All the same, I am sorry."

Her sister raised her head. Her eyes were narrowed to slits that seemed to be filled with darkness. "Do you feel guilty?"

Tara's knees felt weak, and she flinched backward as if struck. "What?"

The low and constant murmur of conversation humming around the room faded. Heads turned. Evelyn stood up. She raised her voice. "I said, do you feel guilty? For Amy's death?"

Taking a step back, afraid she would lose consciousness, Tara allowed her misery to surface. She felt her forehead crease with unleashed panic as her eyes welled up with tears. "I'm sorry, so sorry." Sweat beaded her brow. The room was humid, and carried the thick smells of body odour, perfume, and a slight twinge of formaldehyde--or is that just in my head?--and had fallen deathly silent. A man coughed, the overhead fans squeaked, shoes shuffled, a siren whirred past outside, sniffles were muffled. It was too much for her. She needed to get out. She needed a drink. "I'm sorry."

"You bitch." Evelyn crumpled to the ground. Peter bent over to help her up, but she batted his hands away. She began to sob. "It could have been you. You came so close to taking my daughter's life. You think her death was a coincidence? It was fate finishing what you started."

Tara covered her mouth and ran for the door, bumping into people and knocking them out of her way. Her head pounded with all the things she wanted to say but couldn't. How much she loved Amy. How she would never hurt her. How she had made a mistake, a terrible mistake, but no harm had come of it, and she'd gladly spend the rest of her life atoning for it, if Evelyn would give her the chance. Only now, that chance would never come.

As she fled, she heard Evelyn yell at her. "Don't speak to me ever again."

She threw open the doors and stopped. Her father stood outside, making small talk with an old business associate. She looked deep into his eyes, pleading, willing him to take her into his arms, tell her it will be all right, make her feel like a girl again, a girl who did nothing worse than scrape her knee. She looked at him and opened her mouth.

Arthur turned back to the man and resumed their conversation. As if she wasn't even there. As if she was a ghost.

It started to rain. Her tires screeched as she sped away from the funeral home, unaware then that Evelyn would get her wish, and they wouldn't speak for the next three years.

I shouldn't have lasted that long. I should have--

Amy, Amy.

Stop it. Stop it right now. Don't go there. Remember what Dr. Liebowitz said. That way only leads to pain and suffering, and it's in the past. It's best to leave it there. So, just stop it.

Tara took a deep breath and almost choked on the frigid air. The nicotine phlegm collected in a thick, yellow wad in the back of her throat, and blocked her air passage. She coughed violently and loosened a path just big enough to catch her breath, but it still wasn't a lung-filling breath. The kind people in cough syrup ads take once the medicine has relieved their colds and their stuffed up sinuses.

Letting her mind drift to thoughts of television advertisements made her feel better. Soon, she wasn't thinking about her mother's funeral, about the six solid alcohol-infused years that followed, about Jess and the heartbreak of the relationship's disintegration, about Amy, about all of her mistakes, it was all gone. Gone for the time being.

Driving through the darkness of the night, her head filled with an image of a man in lederhosen on a mountaintop screaming Ricola! and she smiled. The bite of the past was narrowly averted once again, its venom shooting just wide of her sanity.

The cell phone was still in her right hand, its blue digital screen giving off a faint glow. She scrolled down the list of numbers and pressed 'Enter' when the name Mandy Campbell was highlighted. After four rings, there came a click, and she heard the tail end of a yawn. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"12:14."

"Is everything all right?"

"Not really." Tara paused, and drummed the steering wheel with the fingers of her left hand. "I saw him again."

Mandy sighed. "Tara, my flight is in five hours. I need to get a couple hours of sleep."

"Are you listening to me?" Her tone was sharper than she meant it to be. "I saw him again. He was right here, in the car, next to me."

"Did he hurt you?"

"No."

"Then what's new? You've been seeing him in the middle of the night for years." Mandy sounded like she was drifting back asleep.

"He was alive before." Which was even weirder. Tara quickly glanced to her right. Good. Still gone. "I thought it would stop when he died."

"Apparitions aren't very accommodating, are they?"

A few tears slid down her cheek. She promptly wiped them away, fearing that someone watching might see them.

"I'm sorry," Mandy said after a quiet moment. "I didn't mean that. I'm tired. I'm not thinking straight." Rustling sounds of her sitting up in bed came through the phone. "What the hell is that sound outside? Is that hail?"

"It's hailing like a motherfucker here, too," Tara said.

"Yeah, but that's Canada. What's it doing hailing in Charlotte?"

As if I know. "Have a safe flight. I'll see you when I get back." As she removed the phone from her ear, she heard Mandy saying something else, but she didn't catch it.

She glanced at her last two cigarettes and punched her thigh lightly with her fist. More tears slipped down her cheeks, but this time she didn't bother wiping them away.

Click clack click clack click clack click click click clack.

She willed the hail to please shut up with all her might, but the weather did not oblige her, so she hummed under her breath, filling her mind with a made-up tune. She felt herself losing her grasp, slipping away...

Dr. Liebowitz's soothing voice filled her head. Breathe, and repeat after me.

Tara took a deep breath.

I am overreacting.

"I am overreacting."

I will be okay.

"I will be okay."

Yes, this will pass. Yes, it will.

"Yes, this will pass. Yes, it will."

Calm is available now.

"Calm is available now."

I am quite safe.

"I am quite safe."

Panic comes from a part of me that hates myself, and I am not going to let it win.

"Panic comes from a part of me that hates myself, and I am not going to let it win." She took another deep breath, held it until her lungs burned, then let the air seep slowly out of her mouth.

It worked. She felt better.

A moment later, panic pierced through her chest and pained her, as if her ribs were clutching at her heart. She slammed on the brake and stiffened in her seat. Something was in the road directly ahead of her. Not something--some things. The locked tires slid on the icy pavement and the back of the car swerved out to the left. With a loud whack, her car collided with a deer. The door behind her caved in, and the animal was thrown into the air, then landed in a crumpled heap on the ground.

A second deer ran into the forest and the crack of its hooves on the pavement seemed to overpower the roar of the falling hailstones. Tara's head was heavy. In a state of shock, she inspected her body and felt her face, but she didn't seem to have any cuts or broken bones. Not like the dying deer on the road. As loud and pained as the sound was, it was still barely audible over the storm.

She'd heard of people hitting deer before. If it didn't die on impact, you had to put the suffering animal out of its misery. But she didn't have a gun. She looked up and down the stretch of highway, but couldn't see any houses or gas stations, no lights at all, and she wasn't going to walk aimlessly down the road in the middle of the hailstorm. Stalling for a moment, she searched for another solution, but she could hear the deer bleating in pain, and it was like sharp nails being dragged across a chalkboard in her skull.

Once she exited her car, she knew she had to do this fast. The hail pounded against the top of her head and clung to her hair. It hurt like hell.

She walked as fast as she could on the slippery road. The deer's tongue lolled out of its mouth, and its eyes were rolling up in its sockets. Two of its legs were broken, and jagged bones jutted out from the torn fur and skin. Blood, steaming in the cold winter air, spread over the ice.

Kneeling down beside the deer, she gripped its antlers and gritted her teeth.

Can I really fucking do this?

For a second, the world around her appeared to slow to a halt, and she forgot about all her problems, other than the dying deer in her hands.

Viciously, she yanked the antlers ninety degrees around clockwise, and the deer's neck snapped. The crack was louder than she'd expected. To her, it sounded like it would echo throughout the forest, bouncing off of trees. In a daze, she gently laid the animal's head down on the pavement, and then dragged the carcass to the side of the road. She left it there, without a second glance back.

Her car was battered, but it would still run. She got back in, cursed under her breath, and started the engine. Her headlights turned on and extinguished the blackness that lay ahead. Tara's foot hovered above the gas pedal as she focused on the scene before her.

More animals. Many kinds of animals, all crossing the road from left to right in a haphazard manner. She squinted and tried to count. There had to be more than twenty, but they were hard to keep track of. They were frantic, some running in circles, others frozen in the headlights, many climbing over others. She recognized raccoons, squirrels, rabbits, foxes, and wild turkeys, but there were other animal breeds in the large group that she had never seen before. What the hell are they all doing together?

Another strange realization seeped into her brain, causing her to frown. There were two of every breed, but only two. And despite the confusion of this odd animal march, each pair appeared to stick together. She shook her head. "The great outdoors."

A blur of grey fur flashed in her peripheral vision, a split second before it smashed into the driver's side door, rattling it violently. Tara screamed and leapt towards the middle of the car. A large, grey wolf hurled itself against the metal, lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing sharp bloody fangs. Saliva dripped from those razor-sharp teeth as the wolf scrambled at the door, obviously looking for a way in. Its claws screeched against the window, and she stopped breathing. Fear tightened her muscles until it felt like she was paralyzed. A fractured and feeble prayer ran through her head. Good God, please God, good God, please God. But there was nothing God could do, and she knew it. She whimpered.

The deep howl of another wolf called out close by. She watched as her attacker's ears pricked up and its hackles lowered. It turned to look towards the far side of the road. There, the other wolf stood with its front paws together and its head thrown back, its mouth and lips elongated, as it howled again. Its stance said it claimed the dead deer as its territory.

The first wolf gave up its assault on her Jetta and padded quickly over to its mate. It wasted no time in hunching over the kill and burying its muzzle into the steaming flesh.

Tara sat up and positioned herself back in the driver's seat, careful not to make any unnecessary sounds over the steady purr of the running engine. She laid her palms on her thighs, closed her eyes, and focused on filling her lungs with air then slowly expelling it.

I am quite safe.

"I am quite safe."

Panic comes from a part of me that hates myself, and I am not going to let it win.

"Panic comes from a part of me that hates myself, and I am not going to let it win."

The mind-numbing clamour of the hailstorm faded away. Her hands gripped the wheel, her eyes opened, and her right foot slowly pressed down on the gas. Her mind had cleared.

The animals that hadn't fled from the wolves darted out of the way of the oncoming tires. The only creature that didn't move on was the second deer. It stood watch over the wolves and their bloody feast. Its baleful expression belied the fact that it was fortunate to be alive.