Dia Reeves - Bleeding Violet

Bleeding Violet

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Dia Reeves

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real
locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the
product of the authors imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Childrens Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
First Simon Pulse hardcover edition January 2010
Copyright 2010 by Dia Reeves
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Designed by Paul Weil
The text of this book was set in Caslon.
Manufactured in the United States of America
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Reeves, Dia.
Bleeding violet / Dia Reeves. First Simon Pulse hardcover ed.
p. cm.
Summary: A mentally ill sixteen-year-old girl reunites with her estranged mother
in an East Texas town that is haunted with doors to dimensions of the dead and
protected by demon hunters called Mortmaine.
ISBN 978-1-4169-8618-8
[1. Mothers and daughtersFiction. 2. Mental illnessFiction. 3. DeadFiction.
4. SupernaturalFiction. 5. TexasFiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.R25583Bl 2010
[Fic]dc22
2009015006
ISBN 978-1-4169-9866-2
ISBN 978-1-4169-9866-2 (eBook)

To my mother, Glenda, who always lets me be myself

Many thanks to Susan Lynn Byerly Smith for not only being an awesome Alpha Reader, but also for coming up with the title of this book, though I still think The Other Side of Crazy is sooo funny (nice try, Ma!). Big thanks to my first agent, Michelle Andelman, for taking a chance on an unknown kid (always wanted to say that!). Thanks to Michael del Rosario for really getting my book and helping me make it stronger, and for understanding that yes, some peoplelike usactually do have green veins. And thanks to Valerie Shea, because although Im a stickler when it comes to word usage, shes way sticklier (and yes I know thats not a word :p). A big hug to my Blueboarder peeps, especially Amy Spitzley, Brad the Brad White, and Elaine Sweetpea Alexanderthree folks who have taken the art of BS to a whole nother level. And Sylvia Nordeman! Thanks for keeping my secret writer life a secret and for letting me vent about all sorts of heinous stuffyou know what I mean shh! Finally, I have to give a special shout-out to my family: the Reeveses, of course; the Costellos; the Mundines; and the Runnelses. Thanks for giving me the space to be as weird as I need to be.

The truck driver let me off on Lamartine, on the odd side of the street. I felt odd too, standing in the town where my mother lived. For the first seven years of my life, we hadnt even lived on the same continent, and now she waited only a few houses away.

Unreal.

Why didnt you have the truck driver let you off right in front of her house? Poppas voice echoed peevishly in my head, as if he were the one having to navigate alone in the dark.

I have to creep up on her, I whispered, unwilling to disturb the extreme quiet of midnight, otherwise my heart might explode.

Whats her house number?

1821, I told him, noting mailboxes of castles and pirate ships and the street numbers painted on them. I had to fish my penlight from my pack to see the numbers; streetlights were scarce, and the sky bulged with low, sooty clouds instead of helpful moonlight.

Portero sat in a part of East Texas right on the tip of the Piney Woods; wild tangles of ancient pine and oak twisted throughout the town. But here on Lamartine, the trees had been tamed, corralled behind ornamental fences and yoked with tire swings.

Its pretty here, isnt it?

Disturbingly pretty. said Poppa. Where are the slaughterhouses? The oil oozing from every pore of the land? Wheres the brimstone?

Dont be so dramatic, Poppa. Shes not that bad. She cant be.

No? His grim tone unnerved me as it always did when he spoke of my mother. Rosebushes and novelty mailboxes dont explain her attitude. I never imagined she would live in such a place. She isnt the type.

Maybe shes changed.

Ha!

Then Ill make her change, I said, passing a mailbox shaped like a chicken1817.

How had I gotten so close?

A few short feet later, I was better than closeI was there: 1821.

My mothers house huddled in the middle of a great expanse of lawn. None of the other houses nestled chummily near hers; even her garage was unattached. A lone tree decorated her lawn, a sweet gum, bare and uglynothing like her neighbors gracefully spreading shade trees. Her mailbox was strictly utilitarian, and the fence that circled her property was chin high and unfriendly.

Ah. said Poppa, vindicated. Thats more like it.

I ignored him and crept through the unfriendly gate and up the porch steps. The screen door wasnt lockeddidnt even have a lockso I let myself into the dark space and sat in the little garden chair to the left of the front door. I sat for a long time, catching my breath. I sat and I breathed. I breathed and I sat

Stop stalling, Hanna.

My hands knotted over my stomach, over the swarm of butterflies warring within. I gazed at the dark length of the front door, consumed with what was on the other side of it. Do you think shell be happy to see me? I asked Poppa. Even a little?

Not if you go in with that attitude. Wheres your spine?

What if she doesnt believe Im her daughter?

You look exactly like her. How many times have I told you? Now, stop being silly and go introduce yourself.

Poppa always knew how to press my rational button. Youre right. I am being silly. I straightened my dress, hitched up my pack, marched to the front door, and raised my fist to

NO. The force of the word rattled my brain. Dont knock. Its after midnight. Youll wake her up, and she awakens badly.

How badly? I whispered, hand to my ringing skull.

As badly as you.

Uh-oh.

Nine times out of ten, I awoke on my own, naturally, even without an alarm clock, but if I was awoken before I was ready, things could get interesting. And apparently, Id gotten that trait from my mother.

Cool.

Just let yourself in. said Poppa, his advice rock solid as always. Its practically your house anyway.

I crouched on the porch, the wood unkind to my bare knees, and folded back the welcome mat. A stubby bronze key glinted in the glow of my penlight.

A spare key.

Only in a small town, I whispered, snatching it up.

I unlocked the door and slipped inside.

A red metallic floor lamp with spotlights stuck all over it stood in the center of the room. One of the spotlights beamed coldlyas though my mother had known I was coming and had left the light on for me.