Blood of Gato

Inside the trailer, it turned out to be much larger than it appeared from the outside. The air was thick with the scents of herbs, wax, and old dust. Colorful glass beads hung from the ceiling, jingling softly as he brushed against them with his shoulder. The shelves were lined with bottles of murky tinctures, crystals that likely started life in a souvenir shop, and stacks of cards with worn-out backs. On a small table lay soft-covered books: How to Love Yourself, How to Breathe When It Feels Impossible, and How to Attract the Moon with Tangerines. He rummaged quickly and coldly. The drawers creaked as he pulled them open; under his fingers were buttons, dried petals, bundles of heather, and crumpled envelopes stuffed with banknotes.

In the lower drawer, tightly shut, he found a box—heavy, dark wood, covered in intricate patterns resembling either grapes or a snake biting its own tail. Taped to the top was a note written in a sprawling hand: "Do not open! Declan will tear your head off." William snorted. "Of course..." he muttered, prying at the lid. The lock wouldn't budge. He tried with his claw—still no luck. He glanced around, gauged the weight, and was just about to lift the box to smash it against the edge of the table when a voice howled behind him, "Mine! Don't touch it!"

Something filthy, wet, and heavy crashed into him with full force. The smell of earth, decaying leaves, and human skin that had lain in the cold for too long enveloped him like a wet blanket. It coiled around his neck and chest, instantly draining all emotions from him. His head buzzed briefly, as if someone had tuned an old radio between frequencies.

"Damn, you're persistent..." he exhaled. Strength drained away. The world lost its contrast; the lamps in the trailer turned murky yellow, their outlines blurred. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled. He yanked out a handful, but she didn't let go. Gasping, he slammed his back against the wall, then harder, enough to make the whole structure shudder.

The trailer groaned like an old ship in a storm. Jars clattered to the floor, the pendants jingled, and cards tumbled down. Somewhere, glass tinkled as a small lamp was knocked off the edge of the table. Leticia clung to him like a hungry vampire, growing stronger. A thin layer of transparency appeared on William's skin, enough to reveal the veins and muscles beneath.

"Let go," he rasped. "It'll be worse for you..."

She only smiled in response. In a fit of rage, William drove his claw straight into her eye. He gripped her head tightly, then violently threw her out the window. The curtain ripped along with the curtain rod, the frame cracked, and glass exploded in a spray. Leticia flew outside, hit the ground beneath the wheels, and rolled through the grass, leaving behind a dark, smeared trail.

William collapsed to his knees, pressing his palms against the floor, greedily gulping air. The world returned in fragments—sounds, smells, the pain in his throat, adrenaline coursing through his muscles.

Before he could gather his thoughts, the trailer door slammed, and Leticia burst in like a gust of wind, wielding two knives snatched from the table. The metal whistled past his ear; he instinctively dodged, toppled a stool, and kicked her in the stomach. Air rushed out of her with a wheeze. Without losing her balance, she caught his ankle and yanked it down, cold steel slicing through his calf. William howled, pulling his leg away, and, driven mad by the pain, seized her wrist, twisting it until the joint cracked, sending shockwaves through his teeth.

"You shithead!" she gasped, trying to reach for the blade.

He released her but immediately launched a counterattack, claws flashing as they sliced across her cheek and shoulder. Leticia recoiled, her eyes widening, and then, as if exploding from within, she struck back with a quick, fierce motion. William instinctively stepped back, but the blade grazed his stomach, cutting through fabric and skin. Warm blood flowed between his fingers as he pressed them desperately against the wound.

The trailer shook. Leticia, gritting her teeth, ran her palm across her face, leaving dark streaks as strands of hair clung to her forehead. She shook her head briefly, sharply repositioned her wrist, and shuddered, grinning through the pain.

They retreated to opposite corners, breathing heavily. He moved toward the couch, settling down but keeping his eyes fixed on her knives. She pressed her back against the cabinet, where a red keychain dangled from a bunch of keys. For several seconds, the only sounds were the dripping of blood and the hum of the old refrigerator. Their bodies began to heal; skin tightened, and their breathing steadied.

"I'll rip your heart out, you monster!" William hissed, gripping the edge of the couch so tightly that the plywood creaked.

"You should say that to your mommy!" Leticia shot back, tugging at her rumpled strap. "You bastard, you ruined my face! Didn't anyone tell you not to hit women?"

"I was taught not to hit women," he replied with a crooked smile, "but no one mentioned anything about damn witches."

He gave her the middle finger. She snorted, tossing a knife in her hand and rolling her eyes. "Who's the witch here, you little shit? I'm a lamia! Not some spoiled brat of dark arts."

The word hung in the air like a spark. William blinked. "Lamia? What the hell is that?"

"Unbelievable," she pressed her palm to her forehead. "A level of idiocy that's off the charts. A lamia is when you don't drink blood from fangs but take something else—warmth, pulse, attention. See?" She snapped her fingers in front of his face, and the air seemed to grow colder for a moment. "I'm an energy vampire. I don't bite you; I shut you down. And you..." Her gaze swept over the overturned furniture and blood-stained upholstery. "You're a walking problem barging into places you weren't invited."

He pursed his lips and glanced around, feeling guilty. "Sorry about the mess," he mumbled, scratching the back of his head. "But it's your fault too."

"What?!" Leticia exclaimed, throwing her arms wide, her knives sinking into the couch cushions, leaving two neat slits. "You barged in! I was just trying to have a quiet dinner. And now look," she gestured around. "Who's going to pay for all this chaos?"

She grabbed the nearest cushion and slammed it against his shoulder with all her might. Feathers burst into the air, creating a ridiculous snowstorm above them. William coughed and swatted at the air but didn't reply—his stomach wound still burned. He visibly darkened, but the fingers on his side had stopped trembling; the skin there was tightening under his palm, leaving a damp trail. Leticia, sitting on the edge of the couch, wiped the blood from her chin with her sleeve and glanced at the spreading stain with annoyance.

"Damn it, you've soaked all my furniture," she muttered. "Didn't anyone teach you to wipe your feet before visiting?"

"And what are you looking at?" she squinted when she caught his gaze, a mix of anger and curiosity. "Want to continue?"

He barely shook his head.

"Good. Move over."

She plopped down next to him, the knives still embedded in the cushions. Their wounds were nearly healed, the fabric under William's shirt had stuck together, and he finally exhaled more freely.

"Did you just recently awaken your powers?" Leticia asked, her tone softer now as she looked away, peeling a stuck feather off the couch.

"Yeah. Actually, yes," he replied, rubbing his neck where the pulse still throbbed.

"Haha, God, what a day!" Leticia leaned back against the couch, tilting her head and laughing so hard that the thin bulb overhead flickered slightly from the vibration. Her laughter ceased when she caught William's gaze—serious and watchful. "Alright, no jokes," she said, her voice leveling out as she rested her elbows on her knees and intertwined her fingers. "Listen carefully, and let's agree right away: I don't want to be your guide in our... alternative world, okay? Not an agent, not a mentor, not a hotline. Got it?"

He nodded, not interrupting.

"As you now know, you're different—one of the chosen ones," she continued, thoughtfully twirling the cap of a jar between her fingers. "You'll see the world as it truly is. What used to hide in the corners will peek out. Whispers will grow louder. Shadows will stretch longer. And also... your sanity might start to slip over time," she shrugged, as if discussing the weather. "There's too much in our world that ordinary people will never experience. And you're among the lucky ones. Rejoice or weep, that's your choice. But the main rule for people like us, often called the Phenomena, is to keep a low profile. Got it? Don't stick out. Don't shine."

William absorbed every word like a sponge. He leaned forward slightly, his mouth opening to speak.

"Not yet," she raised her palm, cutting him off, and tapped the plastic cap with her fingernail. "No 'Can I get rid of this?' or 'How do I live now?' Not my concern, not my problems. There are no cures. For the most part, we're just born this way, period. Sometimes we wake up later," she poked his chest. "Like you. And that's it."

She reached under the table, pulled out a small jar of cream with a green label, and began applying it to her face in soft, circular motions. It smelled of aloe and bitter lemon. The cuts under her fingers were already fading, like marks from cat claws on fresh paint.

"Okay. Thanks," William exhaled. For the first time that evening, his voice lacked its usual edge. "I was already... suspecting. You just confirmed it. But can you tell me more about what I am? You called me a descendant of Bastet when you saw my changes."

A quiet hope flickered on his face.

Leticia rolled her eyes but softened. She slapped the jar down on the table, sighed, and said, "Alright. I'll answer, and then you're out of my house. Seriously. I need a bath. Deal?"

"I promise," he replied quickly, sitting up straight. His fingers unconsciously brushed the hem of his shirt, where the fabric was still damp with blood—now cold.

"I'm not too strong in your history," she said, gathering her hair into a messy ponytail, "but I know one thing: your sub-species are direct descendants of Bastet, yes, that ancient Egyptian 'goddess' of cats. Keep the quotes in your head. There are few of you. And before you ask, you're the second one I've met in my entire life. Believe me, I've lived long enough to keep count."

She looked at him intently, appraisingly, as if assessing a beast that didn't know how sharp its teeth were.

"You all share common traits: feline traits," she said, touching her face where the marks had almost disappeared. "Reactivity, instinct, aura—even the atmosphere changes when you enter. I can feel how the room begins to shift differently. But there's one major drawback: you can snap and pounce on someone quickly. That's especially dangerous when you're scared or hungry."

Words poured out, and William suddenly felt a click inside him: the puzzle fell into place. He lowered his head. Half-god? — flashed in his mind and immediately stuck in his throat. His heart seemed to beat louder.

"Hey!" Leticia's fingers snapped in the air, bringing him back. "Don't start wallowing in nonsense. Being a descendant of Bastet doesn't make you a god, neither with a capital 'G' nor a lowercase one. And, to be completely honest, Bastet…" — she slightly curled her lips, "isn't a goddess in the celestial sense. She's just another Phenomenon like you, very ancient and very well-timed to catch the religious trend. The term 'goddess' is just a cultural label, got it? People love to put up signs. You've been given the shiniest one."

"So, no altars," he muttered with a sour smile.

"You can set up a scratching post and a food bowl by your bed," she waved her hand dismissively. "But please, no pomp. And remember, the louder you shout about your superiority, the faster someone will try to rip that superiority away from you. Right down to your shoulder blades."

He huffed, briefly, without humor. A shadow passed across his face, relief and a new weight at the same time.

"Alright," he said. "Thanks for at least saying that."

"Don't get used to it," Leticia replied, standing up. The trailer creaked softly. She clicked on the lamp, and the yellow light shrank the space to a cozy circle. "Now it's late, young man," her tone became deliberately teacher-like, "and I'm sure it's time for you to go home. That's where you'll process everything I just told you."

"I'd like to—"

"No," she said gently but firmly. In three steps, she was at the door, opening it; the cool night air rushed into the trailer. "The exit is where the entrance is, honey."

He didn't have time to argue or thank her. Leticia deftly turned him by the shoulder and nudged him toward the threshold. He instinctively took his jacket off the hook—when had he hung it there?—and stepped outside.

"Oh, and one more thing," she added, shaking her index finger in front of his nose: "You'll pay for the couch. And the cushions."

She waved, two quick gestures, and the door slammed shut, leaving him facing the night. The lock clicked, then again, and the chain rattled.

There was nothing to be done; it was time to go home. The cold air pressed down the remnants of adrenaline, and William, shoving his hands into his pockets, walked away from the trailer. The wet ground squelched under his sneakers, and the lamps flickered and buzzed one by one like tired eyes.

"Yeah, I learned a lot today," he muttered to himself. "I wonder if this means I'm kind of… Egyptian now?"

He even found it amusing. He imagined himself in a white robe with eyeliner, then immediately shook his head.

"Calm down, Pharaoh," he scoffed and took a few more steps.

In the next moment, he slapped himself on the forehead.

"Hey, wait! I came to stop her from draining the students!"

He abruptly stopped and turned around. The rectangle of light in the trailer window trembled, and from the sound, it was clear that water had been turned on inside; the pipes sang like a thin flute. The wind rolled an empty coffee cup across the ground. William leaned against an oak tree with his shoulder and thought.

"Should I go back now?" he asked the night. "Or should I stay out of it?"

The answer was the dull hum of the forest.

He closed his eyes and began mentally organizing everything. On one side, she fed on students. On the other, she helped, explained things, and set boundaries. One side was a potential threat. The other side she said: "I don't usually kill." And she acted… strangely peacefully.

"Damn, this is complicated," he sighed, scratching the back of his head.

He looked back at the trailer. Behind the thin wall, water gurgled, and someone—well, she—was pacing back and forth. He could hear the curtain rustling. His hand involuntarily clenched into a fist, claws slightly extended—like scissors, they clicked. He immediately pulled them back in.

"Okay. I won't interfere for now," he said aloud, making a deal with the night air. "I won't kill anyone; I won't get involved. If she kills, that will be another matter."

The words felt surprisingly heavy but settled evenly. He understood: right now, he was no match for her. Her regeneration was like his, only more resilient. He had even hit her in the head, and she seemed to rise from the dead. So first, he needed to know what would work against her.

"Ah, to hell with it all; I'm tired for today!" With that thought, the young man headed home.