Blood of Gato

"Fuck, this is a nightmare! It's a complete disaster — they'll definitely throw me in jail now!" William burst out, pacing his fifth lap around the tiny coffee table and nearly knocking over a pale cactus in a tin can. Classes had ended an hour ago. He had lied to his parents, saying he stayed late for a shift at the café, and now that lie buzzed in his pocket with unread messages. At least the night was free.

Leticia, holdin' a cup of chamomile tea, sat cross‑legged on the worn‑down couch, lemon‑printed socks peekin' out. She watched him with a steady calm, the same look you'd give an old box fan—noisy, restless, but you can't quite get rid of it. The trailer creaked, outside a bike chain clinked under the window, and above the stove a dreamcatcher swayed slow in the draft.

"They've got my DNA!" he cried, spinning his circles. "If the results come back matching, it's over—prison gates, or worse, some kind of government lab!" His voice wavered like a guitar string pulled too tight.

"Mais non, cher," Leticia murmured, blowing across her tea, "you best sit yo'self down 'fore you wear a hole in my floor."

He spun toward her. "Sit down? Are you kidding me!? The cops could figure out I'm a psycho and come at any second, and you want me to just sit?"

She didn't answer quick. Just set her mug down among the ring‑stained circles on the table.

"Canada, hein?" she said with a wry laugh. "Swim the river, freeze ya tail clean off—that's yo' great escape plan, bébé? Mon Dieu…" She smirked into her tea. "Tell you what: I grab a blanket, a thermos, an' we bring along your big ol' panic attack too. Or you sit that wiry derrière right here an' let me figure how to keep you outta Angola, sha." She patted the cushion beside her, easy as Sunday.

He resisted a beat, fists flexing, but finally dropped down. The couch groaned. Panic still prickled his throat, but Leticia pressed her warm fingers to his lips.

"Non. Hush, bébé. You done said plenty—and half sounded like static on some broke‑down radio. Here de rules: I ask, you answer. If I don' ask, you keep quiet. We clear, cher?"

He nodded. His pocket buzzed: Son, how's your shift? Not too late yet? He ignored it.

Leticia rubbed her temple, rolling her eyes. "Lawd, dat pacin' near made me seasick. Alright now. First t'ing: dey take your blood, or jus' spit?"

"Both."

"Spit from a cup, yeah?" she leaned in, brows raised.

He nodded.

"Mm. An' you didn't sign no paper, no consent, rien at all lettin' 'em take it?" she pressed, voice soft but sharp.

"No. I didn't."

She fell quiet, listenin' to the branch tappin' at the window. Then she lifted her cup, smilin' faint at last.

"Then demain, nobody draggin' you off by yo' collar, cher. What dey did—underhanded, maybe even illegal. No consent, no warrant? Dat's fragile. Mais cases like dat, dey fall apart en cour all the time. You lucky, bébé. But—" she raised her finger "—only partly."

William's shoulders dropped, just a notch. "Only partly? What do you mean?"

"It mean yo' DNA alone won't slam cuffs on ya, not yet. But it give 'em excitement, oui. Make 'em push deeper, pry at every corner of your vie. If there's anything real out dere, they gon' sniff it." She tapped her nail against the mug, steady as a clock. "You understand, sha?"

He nodded, taking the tea. The chamomile rose warm, innocent, wrong against his dread. He blew at it, eyes fixed on the black window.

"So… the DNA test proves nothing?"

"It proves confidence, dat's all," Leticia shrugged. "Noise, not a death sentence. Your worst enemy, cher, is your panic. Cut dat out an' t'ink straight. Calm. Calm, Will."

He whispered it, faint. "Calm…"

"By the way," she said casually, "what's your blood type, bébé?"

"O positive," he muttered. "The most boring one."

"The most common," she corrected. "Statistics, sha—they cruel. A blood‑match mean rien du tout."

She slid the coasters around like cards. "You don't have no bad hand, Will—you just gotta play it right. Maybe then you slip back into somethin' like normal. Well… normal for a phénomène, anyway. Now tell me true—dey got anythin' else on you besides stolen DNA?"

William froze, eyes stuck on the rug. Breath shallow. Then, hesitant:

"Nothing major… just one tiny detail."

"Spit it out, cher," Leticia said, auburn strands shifting off her shoulders.

"She saw me," he breathed. "The girl. The girlfriend of the guy I tore up with my claws. I was masked, but still…"

"Mon Dieu…" Leticia shut her eyes, winced at herself. "A witness? At a meurtre scene? You left her alive, saw you? Mais pourquoi—why you didn't stop her?"

His eyes dropped.

"It was complicated. I didn't want to touch her. She looked… innocent. The guy I killed—he was a rapist. He was about to strangle her. If I hadn't stepped in, he would've…"

The words trailed, dangling like a shutter bangin' loose in the wind.

Leticia bit her lip. For a heartbeat, pity flickered—then gone, replaced with the sharp steel of her voice.

"Will, you playin' ange‑savior. As a person, bon, I understand. But as a phénomène? Reckless as swamp fire, sha. Police? Dey don' give a damn pourquoi. You kill, dat's all dey see. You mighty sure she saw only de mask—rien else, cher?"

"Right. And…" — he hesitated — "she shot at me. Even though I saved her life."

Slap! A sharp smack landed on the back of his head. Instinctively, William clutched at his skull.

"Ow! What the hell was that for?"

"For bein' a fool, cher," Leticia snapped, her voice hot as cayenne. "Un idiot who don't know a damn t'ing 'bout sex jeux."

"What? What games?" William's face flushed bright, frowning.

"Mon Dieu…" Leticia sank back on the couch, knuckles pressing into her temples like she holdin' back a migraine. "I don' know what rock or monastery cave you grew up in, but grown folks? Sometimes dey play. Whips, slaps, chokeholds—roleplay. Not always safe, not always smart, mais sometimes it's consentuel. Safe words, signals, des lines agreed on. From the outside, cher, it look jus' like violence. But it may be un jeu. And you—wit' your noble lil' cœur—decided you saw a crime. So what you do? You storm in claws out, héro mode, and—" her breath broke out in a sigh, shoulders saggin'—"maybe you killed an innocent man."

"No." The word ripped free. William shot to his feet. "No, no, no, goddamn it, no!" He paced frantically, knocking an elbow into the shelf. "He had her by the throat! She couldn't breathe. She was shaking—"

He froze. Memory lashed at him: trembling hand, gunshot crack, the burn as the bullet skimmed his skin.

"And still," Leticia said soft now, "tu sais pas, non? You didn't ask. Didn't check. You just reacted."

William braced palms against the table, jaw twitching. "So I… I might have…"

"You might have," she cut clean, voice like a blade gleamin' in moonlight. "An' now, mon pauvre, you neck‑deep in merde."

The words drenched him in ice. William shook, tugging at his hair, claws bursting out from under his nails. The air thickened.

Suddenly Leticia was on him, swift as a gator snap. She caught both his wrists, slammed 'em to the table.

"Eh, regarde moi, sha!" she barked. "Don't touch yo' face. Breathe. In. Out. Again."

He stared wild at her, chest buckin'. She leaned closer. Her tone softened, coaxin':

"Bon. Sit now, cher." She guided him down, never lettin' go his hand. "Don' turn dat colère on yourself. Aim it outward. At de mess. At yo'… naïveté."

"I thought I was saving her," he whispered, voice raw. "I didn't want to hurt anyone. He was on top of her—she was coughing—I—"

"Shhh." Her fingers tightened round his. Beneath his skin she could feel dat beast thunder. "Écoute bien: we don't know what really happened dat night. We don't know what she saw. All we do know—dere is a témoin. And dat's de problème."

She released him, grabbed a glass off the shelf, shoved it into his hands. "Bois. Drink."

He obeyed, water warm but steady, pulling his claws back inside. Score marks cut across the table.

"What do we do?" His voice cracked low.

"We kill her," Leticia said flat, no heat, jus' iron. Porcelain tapped down against wood, dull and final.

"I can't!" His protest exploded raw, his throat torn up dry.

"Alors, get ready for prison, cher," Leticia replied even and cold. "Non, not jus' prison—pire. If dey find out what you are, dey won't toss you behind bars. Dey gon' send les gens who handle monsters. And when dey take you, Will…" her voice dropped lullaby‑soft, almost tender, which made it worse, "personne will ever see you again."

"I…" William's throat clicked as he swallowed. "There's gotta be another way. A deal. A warning. Some kinda explanation…"

"Explain what, bébé?" Leticia snorted, sharp like a match strike. "That you, hidin' in a mask with claws out, bust in like some preacher of doom? That you split her boy open 'cause somethin' in your skull started wailin' like church bells? Hah." Her laugh had no joy in it, just smoke. "Lemme tell ya somethin'. A witness ain't no lil' rock in your boot you just kick loose. A witness, cher… that's a knife slid in yo' spine. An' it cuts when you're facin' the other way."

Will backed up 'til the kitchen counter dug into his back, stuck like a deer in the headlights.

Leticia slow‑walked 'round the table, her bare feet soft on the worn rug, and came right up on him. Warm palms cupped his face, thumbs pressin' near his mouth, her fingers holdin' his jaw steady. Her freckles glowed close as map dots under the yellow bulb. Her eyes caught his like a gator's — steady, unblinking, patient.

"Listen here, Will." Her voice dipped slow, honey‑thick, with iron underneath. "This ain't no play, an' it damn sure ain't no Hollywood picture show. This here's life. Life in the raw. An' life gon' make ya choose ugly, filthy things if you fixin' to keep breathin'. That's all there is." She leaned in closer, her drawl curling tight around his ears. "An' don't make no mistake — I ain't helpin' you 'cause my heart's full o' sweetness. Non, cher. I helpin' you 'cause I aim to stay alive too. I need you. An' you need me. Straight up an' true."

She let his face go, the last hint of heat leavin' his skin. With a calm ease that felt more threatenin' than shouts ever could, she reached for the notepad hangin' by the wall, ripped it down, flipped it open, clicked the pen with a snap.

"We gon' find her address, cher," she said, voice draggin' like muddy water under cypress shade. "An' then…" The pen tapped once against the paper. Her green eyes cut to his, sharp as a filet knife. "…we gon' do what need doin'."