Blood of Gato

A little later that evening, William was making his way to Leticia's trailer. The forest was already wrapped in coolness, and the usual nighttime life—the rustling, the crackling of branches, the occasional flap of wings—suddenly layered over an unfamiliar rhythm: many footsteps, varying weights; the longer strides of men, the shorter ones of women; muffled but harsh voices.

He stopped, raised his chin, and listened. On the wind, like a scrap of torn fabric, drifted: "She's inside… alone, there won't be any problems." Another voice followed: "The bitch will pay." William quietly exhaled.

"Something's not right," he whispered to himself and released his claws.

He moved in an arc, hiding behind the bushes, bending low enough that the wet leaves scratched his cheeks. The path smelled of tobacco ash and oil. William slipped behind a thick trunk and peered out.

Seven figures were grouped around the trailer. They wore black leather jackets, with metallic glints in their eyebrows and lips, short haircuts, and tight ponytails. Someone tapped their fingers on a weapon's butt, while another checked the chamber. Each was armed: shortened shotguns, handguns, and two wielded machetes with dark handles.

"They're definitely not hippies," William thought with a smirk.

A bald man in dark glasses stepped forward—glasses that looked almost provocative at night. A red snake tattoo coiled around his neck, as if crawling directly to his ear. He nodded, signaling his team.

"Two inside. The rest cover the perimeter. No hysterics," he said evenly.

"Mr. Val," replied a thin woman with a chain, "if it starts, do we cover?"

"Not if," he snapped tersely. "When. Make it quick."

Two of them separated—a broad-shouldered man with a shaved temple and a guy in a baseball cap pulled down to his eyebrows. The first kicked the door hard. The metal thudded mournfully as they dove inside.

At first, everything fell silent, as if the forest had been hushed. Then sounds erupted: a crack, a dull thud, a woman's sharp gasp, followed by a short burst of gunfire. Someone lunged for the door, but the bald man held up his palm.

"Stay," he commanded quietly.

After a couple of seconds, the door spat out one of the raiders. He tumbled out sideways, grabbing his shotgun, but his back twisted oddly, as if squeezed by an invisible clamp. The handle of a knife jutted from under his shoulder blade, a dark vertical stain. He pulled the trigger three times, blindly shooting into the opening, fell back, and went silent.

"Minus," someone said colorlessly from the left.

From the darkness of the trailer, Leticia slipped out. Her breath was ragged, her gaze hot and restless. Dark stains marred her sleeves, and her clothing was punctured in several places, as if burned by sparks. In her right hand, she held a hammer, and in her left, a knife gripped in reverse. She stepped sharply to the right and lunged at the bald man.

"Boss, back!" shouted the guy with a mohawk, raising his weapon.

"Die," Leticia rasped, swinging the hammer, aiming for his jaw.

The bald man stepped back half a step, dodging the blow just below his chin, and responded with two quick, almost lazy punches to her jaw and ribs. Leticia slipped, as if she momentarily fell, but held on, repositioning the knife to bite into his forearm. The metal clanged against the bracelet on his wrist; he immediately jerked, freeing his wrist, and drew a pistol from his belt.

"I missed you too," he said, his voice quieter than the click of the safety.

A couple of sharp shots cut through the air. Leticia jerked her whole body, stepped back, coughed, and wiped the back of her hand across her lips. For a moment, she seemed frozen, then her eyes reignited—and she soared, as if propelled not by the ground but by someone else's will: high, aiming to slip past them.

"Take her down!" someone barked.

The barrels rose simultaneously. The night erupted in brief bursts of fire. The sound of gunpowder sliced through the air, rebounding off the pines and returning as a dull echo. Leticia was engulfed by a wave of gunfire—she lost her trajectory and crashed into the grass, heavily, with a muffled thud. The hammer flew to the side, flipped over, and lay still.

"Check," the bald man said calmly, not lowering his pistol.

"Understood," the woman with the chain replied, moving forward, but still asked, "Finish her?"

"No."

William listened for a few seconds as silence returned: first, the echo faded, then the frantic rhythm of heartbeats organized itself, and finally, the forest remembered how to rustle with grass. The air hung thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder and warm blood. He took a breath, tilted his head slightly, noting who held their weapons confidently and who had a trembling finger on the trigger.

"Girl, can you hear me?" a woman leaned in toward Leticia, keeping her gun raised. "No tricks. Okay?"

"Don't get too close," the bald man warned. "First, check her hands."

"I see you've had some work done, Zero. Though it doesn't seem to have helped much," Leticia hoarsely replied, raising her middle finger. "If you want, you can shove it right up your ass!"

The bald man smirked.

"Wit is charming. When it's timely."

"Oh, Egghead, you're here too!" she shot back, clenching her teeth.

William felt a tiny switch click inside him. It would be wise to leave. Staying was dangerous. But curiosity, as always, squared his shoulders and stood between him and common sense. He relaxed his hand, felt the cool grass beneath his fingers, and, without altering his breathing, shifted into the shadow of a pine, already calculating who would shoot first if he intervened.

"Let's not complicate each other's lives, Leticia. Just tell me where my crystal is," the bald man's voice sounded surprisingly soft, almost affectionate, as if he were asking for a pie recipe. He wore black gloves and slowly took them off, revealing smooth, well-groomed fingers. He brushed the back of his hand across her cheek, as if it were glass. "I'm asking nicely."

"Guys!" Leticia smiled, though her grin revealed more teeth than joy. She shifted her gaze from one face to another. "I've missed you all so much. How have you been? It's been a year, hasn't it? You could have knocked… I thought you were robbers. Ana sent you here…"

She didn't finish. The bald man snapped her chin with his fingers in one swift motion, squeezing painfully—her teeth clicked together as he brought the blade of the machete close to her throat. He leaned in close to her ear and almost tenderly whispered:

"Don't start rambling. Otherwise, I'll cut out your tongue and make you eat it."

She swallowed hard, her entire neck tensing. He ordered her to nod if she understood. She nodded.

"Good girl. Now you, bitch, will tell me where my damn crystal is," — his voice rose half a tone, becoming thinner and sharper. The machete barely grazed her neck, leaving a narrow crimson line.

"No idea," Leticia hissed, not looking at him but at the glint of the blade and her reflection in the steel.

The bald man sighed and pulled a short chain with a heavy pendant from under his jacket. It was a golden toad with two seemingly glassy blue eyes. He pressed the toad against her cheek.

"Please, no," Leticia said calmly and then screamed.

The sound tore from her in jagged waves. The skin under the pendant swelled into a red spot, hissing—as if a drop of oil had fallen onto a hot skillet. It smelled bitter and sweet. Her eyes went wide, whitening; her fingers clawed at the ground, digging dirt until they bled. For a moment, her skin became thin and translucent, with ragged sparks running beneath it.

"Do you like that, bitch?" — the bald man's voice lost its softness, leaving only raw anger. "Do you enjoy being burned alive for your damn mistake? You stole from the coven and thought you could get away without paying?"

"Boss, maybe…" the unsure voice of the guy with a mohawk piped up.

"Shut your mouth," the bald man snapped without turning, holding the pendant for another moment before finally pulling it away, satisfied. Not giving her a proper breath, he struck her: once in the jaw, twice in the lips. The sound of broken teeth clattering on the asphalt mingled with her words; blood flowed thin and hot. He hit short and steady, like a metronome.

"Where's my crystal? Where, where, where?" — each question landed on her face with his knuckles.

Leticia coughed, turned her head, and spat thickly, blood and saliva hitting his boot. Her hand jerked, trembling, and slowly pointed to the right, toward a tilted stump.

"There," she rasped. "Underneath. To the left. A pit."

"Check," the bald man nodded.

Two of them moved. The one with the mohawk used a knife to slice through the roots, letting out a joyful grunt as he pulled out a small pouch, covered in dirt. He hurried over and opened it. A faint cold light slipped out from inside—like looking at ice in moonlight.

"We found it!" he shouted happily. "Here!"

The bald man smiled as if someone had finally given the right answer at a children's morning show. He shook the pouch in front of Leticia's eyes so she could see something dimly wriggling inside.

"See, Leticia? This could have all been avoided," he gently stroked her cheek with those same bare fingers, delicately, almost tenderly. "But you've always loved the theatrics."

From the grass in the distance, William watched without blinking. He noticed one important detail: Leticia wasn't regenerating as she used to. Her wounds were bleeding, and she struggled to breathe. "What's wrong with you?" William thought. He also noticed that she wasn't even trying to absorb the energy from any of these thugs. Was it part of her clever plan? Or could she simply do nothing? And that pendant? It gave off a sour, metallic smell. Hissing. This was clearly not just a trinket.

"Boss, what's next?" the woman with the chain asked, keeping Leticia in her sights. "It's dangerous to linger here too long."

The bald man shrugged, as if shaking off someone else's hand.

"Next…" he said calmly, raising the machete. "Do you have anything to say before I cut off your head?"

Leticia drew in a breath and smirked slightly. Her voice was raspy but steady.

"Come closer," she hoarsely requested.

He leaned in, the machete glinting in the moonlight.

"I'm listening."

"Ha-ha… Valentin," she coughed up blood, struggling to swallow the metallic taste. "You lost your little dog. What was her name… Daisy?"

He narrowed his eyes, urging her to continue. She smirked again, showing her blood-stained teeth.

"One night, I got so tired of her howling that I solved the problem radically. Daisy doesn't whine anymore, Val. I turned her into an accessory. If you want, take a look in the trailer. You can pick her up, and perhaps she will even fit you."

She spat—a thick dark drop hit Valentin on the cheek. A nerve in his face twitched; he silently wiped the blood away with his thumb and raised the machete to swing it at her head.

"Boss!" a shriek came from the right.

Something burst out of the bushes. It latched onto the female shooter's thigh, yanked her, and hurled her against the nearest tree trunk, splintering the bark. The girl didn't even have time to raise her weapon. The shadow landed, flattened for an instant, and darted back into the underbrush.

It was William.

He emerged and immediately vanished, breath steaming, claws glinting in the dim light.

"One down. Four to go," he quietly told himself, leaping into a new concealed spot as the first shots rang out in his direction.

"What the hell?!" the guy with the mohawk blasted his shotgun at the running shadow.

"There's another beast here!" growled another thug with pierced cheeks, and without hesitation, he started shooting into the bushes. Bullets tore through leaves, ripping the air apart.

Amidst the gunfire, Valentin grabbed Leticia by her red hair and yanked her back toward him.

"Found yourself a monster just like you?" he asked, his voice trembling with hatred mixed with poorly concealed fear.

He truly hadn't expected a blow from the side. A light tremor ran through his arm—Leticia noticed this and couldn't help but add fuel to the fire:

"You idiots walked into a tank with your bare asses. And now you're going to complain? Val, maybe you should go cry to the matriarch? Maybe she'll save your sorry ass?"

He wanted nothing more than to strangle her right then and there. But the situation required calculation. He sharply slapped Leticia across the face, sending her tumbling into the damp grass—and then he turned, firing at the spot where he estimated the shadow would appear in a second.

"Damn it! What was I thinking?" William cursed to himself as he slipped between the trunks. The whistling of bullets pierced his ears; one zipped by so closely that he felt the heat at his temple.

"How many rounds do you have?" he hissed, not really expecting an answer.

He pulled himself up on a lower branch, swung higher, shifted on the bark, and pushed off. With a jump, his weight came crashing down on the guy with the mohawk. The thug instinctively raised his shotgun and pulled the trigger.

Click.

"Out of ammo?" William asked, almost cheerfully.

With a quick twist, he wrenched the gun away, tossed it aside, and without losing momentum, struck. His claws sliced a diagonal line across the jacket—short and sharp. The thug gasped, doubled over, clutching his stomach as blood rapidly soaked through his skin and fabric. He sank to his knees, then collapsed, gasping for air.

"Another one down," William muttered to himself and, without pausing, slipped into the shadows.

"Keep the circle!" shouted the woman with the chain, backing toward Valentin. "He jumps like a demon! Shift the left flank!"

"Right side is clear… no, movement!" the pierced-cheek thug turned his head, eyes darting around. "Boss?"

Valentin, still holding Leticia's wrist with his foot, didn't take his gaze off the forest.

"Quiet. Listen. He's playing on our nerves," he said evenly, though his hand with the gun trembled. "Show yourself, freak," he called into the darkness. "I'll still take what's mine."

Leticia snorted and looked up at him, disheveled strands sticking to her temples.

"You've already taken it, Val," she whispered. "Now you just need to take a head. The question is whose."

For a moment, everything in the forest returned to normal: the damp pine needles, the fading smell of gunpowder, and rare droplets falling from the branches. From this silence came the rustle again—William shifted, circling, calculating angles, breaths, and the pauses between the clicks of the chambers. Movement built up in him like a coiled spring.

"Here he comes," the woman with the chain whispered, raising her weapon. "Left!"

William burst from the bushes again—a ragged shadow, closing the distance in bursts. He changed his rhythm, broke angles, dove under the line of fire, rolled in the wet grass, and soared up again as if he were forcing the night forest to be his springboard. The flashes of gunfire cut through the darkness, but the bullets only caught air.

"This freak is too quick! It's impossible to hit him!" the woman with the chain hissed, trying to catch him in her sights. "Stay still, damn it!"

"We need to pin him down! Or draw him into the open!" the pierced-cheek thug barked as William's claws flashed near his neck, leaving a cold breeze just millimeters from his skin. He fired a short burst but hit only shadow, not target.

Valentin assessed the chaos with one glance. He yanked Leticia up, pressed her against him, and shoved the barrel of the gun to her temple.

"Hey, buddy! It seems we have a misunderstanding. We only came for what she stole. We don't have a problem with you! Let's sort this out peacefully before it gets worse," he shouted, forcing his voice to sound steady.

In the shadows between the trunks, William fell silent, not responding. His breathing was even. His gaze darted quickly across the trees, branches, and misty openings. He spotted something that might work—and smiled slightly: a broken branch, already sharpened by his nail. A stake. Dense enough to fly straight.

"Hey! My patience isn't infinite! Show yourself, or I'll blow your pretty girl's brains out!" Valentin clenched the pistol so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"Listen," Leticia said hoarsely, "if you think I'll still be alive with my brains blown out, you're mistaken. So hurry up."

"Shut up," Valentin snapped, tugging her arm.

The forest seemed to hold its breath. A rustle broke the silence, and they all turned their guns toward the darkness. One second. Another. From the shadows stumbled a wounded man—his clothes torn, blood darkening on his shoulder.

"Help! There's a monster!" His voice trembled, hands raised with palms forward, looking back as if expecting a blow at any moment.

"Who the hell are you?" shouted the pierced-cheek thug, keeping his gun raised. "What attacked you?"

"It's a trick, sir!" the woman with the chain subtly shook her head, tightening her grip on the stock. "Finish him!"

Valentin didn't like guessing. He shot. The bullet hit somewhere in the guy's shoulder—he flinched, grimaced, and hissed, clutching his wound.

"Monster!" he screamed, pointing behind them. "Behind!"

Reflexes overcame common sense. They turned around. That was enough.

"Thanks for being so stupid," William said in his own voice and, pivoting his body, hurled the sharpened stake.

The stake whistled through the air and struck Valentin in the face, near his eye. He howled, released Leticia, and, blinded, fired wildly into the void. Bullets scattered among the branches.

"Boss!" the woman with the chain jerked her gun upward, but William was already upon her: a step, a lunge, a pivot—and a sharp kick to the jaw. Her head snapped back, and she collapsed, dropping her weapon.

The pierced-cheek thug reacted faster: he tried to step back and shoot while retreating. William slammed into him, seized the arm with the gun, and twisted the joint outward—there was a sharp, dry crack. The man screamed, but his voice was cut off as William ripped out his windpipe, not allowing him to scream one last time.

Leticia, limping, made her way through the wet grass toward him. William rushed to meet her, his hand reaching for her elbow.

"Are you okay? I can—"

She raised her hand to stop him and smiled.

"Just a minute. We'll talk later. Better take care of Egghead."

He nodded. The redhead, propping herself up with her shoulder, reached the pierced-cheek thug and knelt down. A knife glinted in her fingers. The fabric on the chest of the dead man crunched under the blade. Leticia sliced quickly, skillfully carving out the tattoo from his chest, and the air above the body trembled. A thin bluish mist rose from the wound, coiling around her wrist and pulling under her skin, leaving a brief scattering of bright dots on her forearm. She breathed in deeply, as if she had gulped down water.

Meanwhile, William was already approaching Valentin. He clutched the pouch as if his life depended on it, mumbling in a foreign tongue—hissing, harsh, unpleasant to the ear. When William got close, Valentin raised his hand, he erupted in a greenish light and… disintegrated. A swarm of dark flies surged up from where the man had been, like black steam, hitting William in the face and scattering into the treetops. His claws caught only something cold.

"Damn it," he exhaled, sinking to the ground. In his palm lay the very pendant. "Where the hell did that freak go? Did he… slip away?!"

Leticia ran up to him—and she was fully restored. Her skin was clear, her breathing steady, and her eyes bright. It was as if just five minutes ago no one had been planning to separate her head from her body. She glanced at the empty spot where Valentin had stood only moments before and sighed.

"Wow. Can you believe it? Yesterday we almost killed each other, and today you're saving my red ass!" She broke into a wide smile, masking the remnants of tension.

William seemed not to hear her. He was still fixated on the swarm, the flickering light, and the sticky murmuring in a foreign language.

"Were they also Phenomena like us?" he asked, lifting his gaze from the pendant.

"Oh, ha-ha, no, of course not," she waved it off. "They were just…"

She didn't get to finish. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the woman with the chain dragging herself through the grass, leaving a broken trail, trying to escape. Leticia stood up without haste, picked up the shotgun lying nearby, and kicked the surviving woman over to face her.

"Wow, look—one still breathes."

"Please, no…" the woman covered her face with her hands, her voice cracking into a pitiful whimper.

Leticia didn't argue or hesitate. A short breath, arms in a straight line—bang. The sound cracked through the forest and immediately faded. The woman slumped.

"They're just a bunch of crazy cultists," Leticia said calmly.

William got up, looking at her with a bewildered astonishment rarely seen on a predator's face. He had just fought for his life, but her casual ease in this final act struck him unexpectedly.

She caught his gaze. For a moment, her expression softened as she slung the shotgun over her shoulder like a toy and quietly asked, "Want to grab a bite?"