Blood of Gato

The waitress drifted past with a tray, the air swelling with cinnamon and hot sugar. William burned his tongue on the pie, hissed under his breath, but said nothing.

"At first, cher, it was all real pretty," Leticia said. "A little basement hid under some broke-down laundromat. Beeswax candles, rosemary strung up like charms, folks whisperin' an' laughin'. People lined up at my door beggin': Please, tell me if my boy's safe in the army. Let me hear my mama's voice again. Make him love me, make him love me…" Her laugh was low and bitter, like whiskey on a sore throat. "Desperation, sugar, it plenty out there. Thick, warm, fillin'. Quiets that hunger crawlin' round my belly." She leaned back, lids heavy. "Joy got the taste of vanilla sugar. Envy? Sour green grapes on the vine. Grief put iron on your tongue an' makes the air smell like wet wool. I was careful. Always careful. Nobody walked out feelin' robbed. It was, mmm—" her mouth quirked—"almost humane."

"Almost," William echoed, watching cinnamon seep into cream.

"But then money came wanderin' in," Leticia drawled, shoulders loose with a shrug. "An' where there's money, bébé, there's greed not far behind. One sponsor got pulled into our little play, an' Valentin stuck to him like a blood-tick. That's when things soured for good. They dragged in old junk—artifacts smellin' of dirt and bone. Weren't about soothin' no more. They started bindin', breakin', takin'. Then came that crystal."

She held up two fingers to show its size. "Little shard—smoky, with veins runnin' through like ice breakin' in spring. Thing was never still. Always movin', always churnin'. Fed on folks' sufferin'. They called it their 'rainy-day treasure,' but all it did was puff their egos and pad their pockets. That thing… it juiced up their magic somethin' fierce."

"You stole it," William murmured.

Her smile flickered, sharp as a knife. "On the night they decided I was past my use. See, a lamia's mighty sweet so long as she sittin' fat on a nest of emotions. But we don't hold with leashes. I fought. And then I knew fightin' didn't matter. They was fixin' to do it the old way—blood, dagger, chantin'. Straight out the yellowed pages. An' if you truly wanna kill one like me," she said it plain, like giving directions home, "you take the head."

"Jesus," William breathed.

"Mm-hm." Her voice went thinner, remembering. "I slipped to that basement early. Rain hammerin' the grate, dryer shakin' upstairs. I opened their drawer, and soon as I touched it—whew." She shook her head, eyes far away. "That crystal weren't no tool. It was a bomb, cher. Inside, I heard screams, laughter, beggin', sobbin'. All the raw scraps we'd pulled from souls. Thing's hungry, dangerous. More it swallows, less steady it gets. Maybe it fuels your magic bright as fire—sure. But it can just as easy split a city to ash." Her gaze cut to him, sharp as a crow's beak. "Valentin don't realize he tote somethin' meaner than a pocket-size nuke."

For a breath, even the television's chatter crackled louder, static fussing through the vinyl seats.

"When he seen it was gone, I was halfway 'cross the state. He wouldn't have found me, not if I'd been whole. But… I'd already drained myself dealin' with some recent trouble." She hesitated, like leaving out a name on purpose. "An' yesterday, when you made me burn more just to patch myself back together? That sealed it, sugar. I couldn't block their trace spells no more. And wouldn't you know it—those fools still had their hands on one little strand of my hair."

She slid a fiery lock of hair 'twixt her fingers, strokin' it slow, that smirk curlin' like smoke. For a moment her glasses caught the light deep, little threads sparkin' like fireflies.

"Lemme give you some lagniappe, bébé," she drawled. "Don't be leavin' your hair lyin' round, non. Nor your nails, neither. Less of your leavings in this world, less chance some gris-gris worker gettin' clever wit' you."

William's mind jumped clean off its rails. He pictured himself shaved bald, shiny as a bulb in a storm lantern. His hand twitched up toward his scalp without him realizin'.

"And what now?" he managed, clingin' to his glass of water like it might reassure him. "You gonna… hide again?"

Her laugh was low, cruel-sweet. "Hide? Mais non." The smoke in her voice turned cold as bayou water. "Those chiens can kiss my ass. I'll rest 'til the strength come back to me, an' then"—she snapped her fingers sharp—"I'll crack their necks like dry sticks an' drink down their souls comme du vin."

She said it so offhand, like she was makin' a list for the grocery. Her green eyes shone through the glasses, bright as swampfire, and William felt a jolt hum 'tween them.

"But 'til that day comes," she went on, leanin' in close, "they might still come huntin' for me. Try an' rip my soul out with their nasty little spells. So…" She let the word dangle, smilin' like a gator lyin' in shallow water.

"So?" William echoed, tight in the chest, while the nearby patrons made a grand show of starin' anywhere but their way.

"So… I'll have to…" She let the silence stretch, drawlin' it long, lettin' it chew like taffy, eyes fixed on him without blinkin'. Then she grinned wide. "So I'll have to stay close to you, cher. Best trick for both me an' you."

He half-choked, half-coughed. The water went down wrong, scratchin' as it burned. She slid a napkin to him nice as Sunday service, though her mouth had just shaped the words snap and suck dry not a minute past.

"Damn, what—you plannin' to follow me 'round like my own shadow?" His voice was higher than he meant, drawin' a few curious looks.

She gave a snort and waved the idea away with one delicate hand. "Pfft. Non, bébé. Don't be frettin'. Not all the time. Jus' at night, là. Least 'til I get my full wards and blocks back in place."

Some men, William thought bitterly, might call that a dream—redheaded fox spendin' nights close by. But them men never dealt with blood cults and a lamia who might break a body in two if the whim took her. Great. Just great company for the evening.

"You know, I… probably got things to do," he stammered, laughin' thin. Tried to slide out, but her fingers coiled round his wrist warm and slow, not tight, but firm enough to make escape seem foolish.

She looked at him like he was the last matchstick dry in a thunderstorm.

"Please, William." Her voice carried that low honey-over-smoke weight. "Don't you see? I ain't askin' for much. Only thing I love more'n anythin' in this world is my own life, cher. That's it."

She let go, but her gaze kept him pinned. He shuffled, throat dry, scramblin' for a joke. "What, you mean… you wanna start livin' with me or somethin'?" he blurted, and half the diner definitely heard.

She stared just a beat too long, then near-burst into laughter, shakin' her head. "Non, non. Don't twist it. I wouldn't mind shackin' up with you,"—she bent close, perfume risin' up herbal, smokey, with maybe a lil' bite of pepper—"but what I mean is: I jus' need to sip your energy at night. Keep them hounds from sniffin' me out."

William's whole face went stiff, frozen like plaster. He blinked two, three times, mouth workin'. At last, a broken, "What?"

Leticia sighed big, scratchin' lazy at the corner of her eye, leanin' back easy in her chair. "Tch. Hate to break those sweet lil' fantasies you got churnin', p'tit. I don't need your bed, an' I sure don't need your virtue. All I need," she smirked slow as smoke climbin' the rafters, "is a lil' sip of your spark, cher. Nothin' more."

If it had been possible to sink under the table and just die there from sheer embarrassment, William would have done exactly that. Heat rushed to his ears, his tongue turned heavy as lead. And they say women have a heart, he thought grimly, though he still forced a smile and, berating himself for his stupidity, nodded:

"You know, you could've just said right away what you needed instead of circling around it. But whatever—fine. Feeding, then feeding. I agree. Just promise you won't drain me dry, alright?"

He waved his hand, as though that gesture could shoo away both the words and his own shame.

"I swear, cher!" she exclaimed brightly, dragging her fingernail across the skin of her collarbone like drawin' a little cross. For a moment a thin green line flared beneath her touch and winked out. "An' since we bein' honest now—mind if I ask you a lil' somethin', too?"

"Go ahead," he muttered curtly, settling back into dryness.

"That maniac, the Heart-Eater. You know him, don't ya? He one o' them Phenomena too, hein?" Her gaze cut ice-cold, sharp as a needle, like it could burn clear down into the marrow.

William flinched. "How did you—how could you guess that?"

"It ain't hard," Leticia smiled with one corner of her mouth. "Your left eye twitched soon as I said his name. An' nine times outta ten, mon cher, maniacs like that? They Phenomena. Easy as pie for 'em to hide the beast under a coat o' respectability."

"My God…" William rubbed his face with both hands. "Every damn day convinces me this world's worse than the last."

"What kind he is, though? This Heart-Eater?" she asked, nodding at the waitress glidin' by and flashin' two fingers—l'addition, s'il vous plaît.

"Honestly? No idea," he admitted. "Strong as a sledgehammer. Plus regeneration, and a nose no worse than mine. And he stank like a wet dog. Horrible smell—made me sick."

"Wet dog…" Leticia tapped her nail on the table, thoughtful. "Mm-hm. That narrows it some. Couple beasts carry that stink. Most of 'em run up North—New England way. They like the woods, swamps, old ghost stories. But here? Sounds more like a dogman to me. Y'ever hear tell o' those? Halfway 'twixt jackal an' wolf, think they kings o' the hunt. Filthy bastards too—shit right on the street if they please. They mess up everythin' not nailed down, then duck outta sight. By the way you describe him, cher, sounds like your maniac fits nice an' tidy'n that hide."

The waitress laid down the bill. Peaceful little slip: forty dollars and a cursive swirl of pen. Leticia barely looked—she slid out the cash, tucked an extra ten on top, and smiled warm as butter. "Merci, bébé." The poor girl flushed under that look and all but fled, though she'd clearly itched to stay and listen.

"You best stay clear o' that one," Leticia went on once the hush wrapped back around them. "He makes too much noise, someone'll sweep him quick. Can't be drawin' eyes. We got folks who do the cleanin'. Don't care for 'em, but eh—they useful sometimes."

"Maybe I should kill him myself?" William blurted. The thought came easy, strangely simple.

Leticia's brow arched high. "Eh bien! Looks like all you ever need is an excuse to cut some poor bastard's throat." A quick laugh, half mocking, half amused. "But that your business. Jus' don't forget—creatures like that? They ain't no playthings. You go after him, you take his head clean. Don't you get clever tryin' to wound him or scare him. Non. Be sharp, be fast, quick as you can. Else…" She leaned in, voice a whisper of smoke. "Else he'll come knockin' in the night, come sayin' his merci in person."

William grimaced. "Charming. You've got such a talent for reassurance."

"I try my best, cher," she said with a lil' shrug.