Blood of Gato

They had searched everywhere for Mateo's girl—the internet, the papers—but her address was nowhere to be found. Then Leticia suggested they try the most obvious place of all: Mateo's house. If she'd left a trace, or if he had hidden something, it would be there.

William led her to the red-brick house. He had expected to see it sealed off, strung with yellow tape, but there was nothing—no police, not even a scar of intrusion. Strange. The place stood neat and silent. Getting inside wasn't difficult. He cut the power first, disabled the alarm, then climbed through a window and unlocked the door for her.

"Well, well, well… looky here, sugah," Leticia drawled low, her eyes sweeping the rooms brimming with expensive furniture. "Yo' boy Mateo, heh, livin' large, oui? Like he thought the good Lord was sendin' him credit straight from Heaven."

"He was a businessman. That's what the paper said," William replied, his voice even and almost detached as he led her into the kitchen.

"Mm-hm. Businessman or somethin' close enough." She was already rifling through cabinets, metal doors clanging lightly.

"What are we looking for exactly?" he asked.

"Aw, cher, we lookin' for breadcrumbs. Receipts, tickets, shipping slips, letters with a pretty lil' return address. Tiny things, yeah, but baby, tiny things make the loudest noise." She ducked down, tugged open a lower cabinet, and stilled. "Ohhh, now wait jus' a doggone second…"

When she straightened, her hand held a dark glass bottle glinting with gold trim. The date on the label was one that invited silence.

"You don't seriously plan to drink that here, do you?" William arched an eyebrow.

"Drink it? Pffft. Naw, sug, drinkin's just sharin' somethin' nice wit' my liver. I'd rather share this here with a collector—an' he gonna thank me real sweet with cash." She slipped the bottle behind her back with a grin that was both sharp and playful.

"How much does a bottle like that bring?"

"Mmm… lemme put it this way, sugarpie. Enough to finally buy that sofa you swore ya'd get me—an' don't think I done forgot." She laughed, the sound bright but edged. "Think of it like me stickin' a reminder post-it right on yo' forehead."

"Point taken," William replied simply. His eyes moved toward the staircase. "I'll check upstairs."

The upper floor smelled faintly of bleach and other chemicals. No surprise—it was clear someone had done their best to wash the place clean. In the bedroom, the stain on the floor was subtle now, but not invisible. This was the spot. This was where Mateo had died by his hand, and where the blood had been dragged thin across the wooden floors.

"Just like walking into a reunion," William said under his breath, crouching down to touch the faded discoloration. For a moment, his shoulder ached—the ghost of the wound the girl had given him here—but he dismissed it with a steady breath.

On the nightstand rested a plain white envelope. No name. The paper felt coarse in his fingers. He slid a nail beneath the seal, split it open, and shook a folded sheet free.

The note was written in English—sloppy, clumsy, twisted on purpose:

I go Mexico. No come back to States never. For safe.

The grammar limped. The letters shambled. And yet William saw right through it. The clumsy hand was a mask. Someone wanted this to look like the fumbling of a fool. Instead, it was the careful work of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

"Trying too hard," William muttered quietly, then froze.

A smell. Thick, warm, animalistic. It brushed the edge of his senses like a whispered warning. Wet fur after rain.

"Dog…" he exhaled, crushing the note in his fist.

"Les!" he shouted instinctively. "Les, I found—"

He was already flying down the stairs, two steps at a time, bannister groaning under his palm, the staircase answering with a hollow creak. Somewhere below, the ticking of the clock grew unbearably loud. Tick. Tock. Tick.

And then—silence.

The living room.

Leticia was slumped against the wall, her body sliding down to the floor, her head tipped unnaturally, hair veiling half her face. From her chest jutted the handle of a knife—black, short, placed with surgical precision. On the cold parquet beside her, her palm left a fading imprint, as if she had tried to rise. Her lips were parted. No sound.

And above her—a figure. Black hoodie, hood drawn low, blank mask showing nothing but eyes. Predatory yellow eyes, gleaming through the holes. That stink of "wet dog" grew thick, undeniable.

The figure turned his head toward William. Not jerked—no. He moved lazily, with the calm certainty of someone whose every move had already been planned.

"Hello," the masked man said. "Been a long time, partner."

The envelope crackled in William's fist. Something inside his chest answered—anger. Familiar, sharp, welcome. He stepped forward. Another step. His gaze fixed only on those burning yellow points in the mask.

"Don't call me that," he said, low and steady.

"Aw, what's with the long face?" the maniac asked brightly, like an old friend stumbling into him at a party.

The answer wasn't words.

Claws ripped across the mask, dragging red down exposed skin where it cut past the opening. Three sharp furrows burned on the man's cheek. William didn't stop—he couldn't. He moved forward like a coiled spring released: sharp, brutal strikes without breath, without pause. An elbow cut the ribs, a palm smashed the throat, a knee cracked upward toward the jaw.

"Wait—wait, hold on! I just wanted—" Heart-Eater's voice cracked to a squeal.

William didn't hear him. He heard only his own breath, and the ticking inside his skull—tick for every strike, tock for the next.

Claws scraped into his thigh with a hiss, tearing flesh. A short cry escaped him—immediately swallowed by a rising rage. His knee snapped up toward the maniac's face, jarring his jaw. Heart-Eater staggered back, covering with his forearm, managed to catch William's wrist and twist it off line. For a heartbeat, he held it. And in that heartbeat he realized—words weren't going to save him.

He lifted William into the air like dead weight, swung him over his shoulder, then slammed him down. The impact shattered the coffee table—glass explodes, wood splintered like iced sugar. Pain detonated in William's back, white-hot, but rage only flared higher, untamed.

He rolled through the wreckage, rose to his feet silently, balanced on the balls of his feet like a cat ready to spring.

"Ohhh, I adore you, Gato!" Heart-Eater cried, clapping his hands together with manic delight. "Tonight, you and me—we're gonna really have some fun!"

William's gaze sharpened, pupils narrowing. Cold. Predatory. The reflection in those yellow eyes showed two thin flames. Both hungry. Both ready to consume the other.

They collided with no warning, no words.

Heart-Eater's fist came first—a hard, straight hammer. William slipped too late and it clipped his nose. Cartilage popped, blood spurted warm across his lip. Pain flared, sharp and mean, but he rolled with it, spitting crimson to the side, then cut low in response. His shin cracked into the man's calf, bone to bone, enough to deaden the leg for a heartbeat.

The maniac lunged with his weight, arms swinging heavy as a cudgel. William slipped sideways, close, too close, jamming an elbow up under the ribs, forcing breath out of him like air from a bellows. A quick palm heel into the jaw tilted the mask back—but Heart-Eater countered, fast. His knee shot up—caught William in the side. Ribs screamed. Sharp pain, sharp enough to steal air.

William staggered. For just a second, his breath didn't come.

Heart-Eater saw the pause, grinned through bloodied teeth, and threw a hook meant to take his head clean off. William ducked—barely—and drove a clawed hand into the maniac's thigh. The shriek was animal, real, but William knew better than to celebrate. He tightened and ripped fabric—flesh too, hot blood soaking down.

The maniac retaliated instantly, hands locking around William's throat with crushing power. Yellow eyes burned inches away. Spittle, sour and hot, stung William's cheek. The pressure tightened, black flashing at the edges of his vision.

William's claws lashed across the mask again, tearing another rent. He twisted his hips, slipped one arm free, and jammed his thumb into the soft tissue beneath the jaw hinge. The choke loosened just enough—he snapped his forehead forward. Skull met mask. Plastic cracked. His own head roared with pain, but the maniac reeled, dazed, his grip faltering.

William shoved off, stumbling, sucking air hard through a ruined throat. His ribs felt like ground glass, his thigh burned, one eye already swelling. The room tilted for a moment—but he forced focus.

Heart-Eater was already back, grinning, blood streaking down one cheek. He dropped into a wrestler's stance, shoulders forward, dangerous as ever.

"You're slow, Gato," he hissed, delighted.

William rolled his shoulders, spat another thin line of blood onto the floor, and answered in his flat, cold voice:

"You'll choke on that grin."

They crashed together again.

William didn't fight pretty. He fought to end it. A kick stomped the knee sideways—ligaments strained with an ugly pop. Heart-Eater howled, dropped, lashed back with a wild left hook that clipped William's ear and rattled his skull. The room rang. The world tilted.

William countered by collapsing into the man's space—elbow across the jaw, hooks deep into his shoulder, weight dragging him down. Both grunted, straining, bodies slamming against the broken remnants of the table. Shards of glass bit into William's hand, lines of red across his wrist, but he used it—he pushed a shard deeper into the mask's rent, grinding it across exposed skin. Heart-Eater screeched, batting him away.

But William was already pivoting. Low spin. Heel whip. Connects with the temple. The masked head snapped back with a crack. The man's body stiffened, stumbling hard into the wall, portrait frames jolting loose from the impact.

William didn't let him recover. He was on him again, claw aimed for throat, teeth bared in a hiss. But Heart-Eater, even crippled, was faster than a man with that much damage should be—he raised a knee, caught William mid-charge, a thump like a sledge to his gut. Air fled. Vision blurred.

They broke apart for half a breath, both panting, both swaying, blood and glass between them.

The clock ticked on the wall.

Tick.

Tock.

Two predators. Injured, burning, but unbroken. The room reeked of sweat, blood, and that animal musk that clung to Heart-Eater's presence.

Round wasn't over. Far from it.

The room bent under the weight of the fight like a tray slipping from careless hands. A chair smashed against the wall. A bookshelf shuddered sideways, spilling hardcovers across the floor. Through the kitchen doorway came the crash and clatter of pots and pans—a whole arsenal of steel jarred loose.

Heart-Eater yanked a knife from the block. The blade gleamed, ugly and mocking in the low light. He drove it inward, sharp and unceremonious.

Steel slid into William's side. Fire erupted under his skin. His world collapsed to a single point of heat. And still—he didn't stop.

His hand closed around the heavy cast-iron pan lying across the stove. With a desperate swing, he brought it down on the maniac's head. The sound was hollow, thunderous—like the bell of a small church.

Heart-Eater jerked his head side to side like a wet dog, dazed but not down, and staggered back half a step.

"I just wanted to talk!" he snarled, seizing William by the collar and slamming him into the wall. Drywall cracked, paint fractured, a spiderline of dust blooming outward.

"You killed my friend, you bastard!" William's breath came sharp iron, metallic in his mouth. He stumbled toward the fireplace, hand closing around the iron poker. Stepping back, he hurled it like a spear. The weapon hissed through the air, clipping the maniac's hood before burying itself quivering in the door frame.

Heart-Eater glanced at Leticia's slumped form against the wall. His voice carried a note of mocking wonder. "Wait. She was your friend? But her heart…" His yellow gaze gleamed. "Rotten clean through."

William felt something snap deep in him—not in the room, not in the furniture, but inside his chest. He launched forward in one violent leap, fist driving into Heart-Eater's mouth.

The crack was sharp, sickening. Teeth shattered. The man staggered back, hand to his face, fumbling. He tore the mask away—the strap snapping as it came off. His nose and lips were split, swelling fast. Dark red dripped between his fingers. He spat onto the floor—blood and two shattered white fragments.

"Man, you broke my teeth! What the hell is wrong with you?!" he shouted, half-outraged, half in disbelief, prodding at the empty gaps in his gums like a sulky child.

William's voice was low, ragged with fury. "I'll break more than your teeth, filth." He started forward again, eyes blazing—

A sound split the room. A cough.

Female. Harsh, dry, tasting of blood in the air. Louder than the fight itself.

William froze. Slowly—against all reason—Leticia opened her eyes. One trembling hand closed around the knife hilt still buried in her chest.

Her knuckles whitened as she yanked it free—steel slid out of her body with a wet, tearing sound. She rolled onto her side and clamped a bloodied palm over the wound.

Lifting her head, she looked at the two men with eyes as hard and fierce as fire. Her grin broke through pale lips, sharp even now.

"Lawd… been so damn long since somebody run steel through my heart, I near forgot what it felt like." Her voice was hoarse, laced with pain but alive, defiant.

"Les…" William's word cracked—half heat, half freezing terror.

In the next breath, relief broke him open. He dropped to her side, sliding an arm under her shoulders.

Heart-Eater stood frozen, eyes wide. The yellow fire dimmed to shock. His lips trembled. For a full second, he resembled no killer at all, just a spooked statue.

Then suddenly, childishly high and shrill, he shrieked:

"Gh—Ghoul! Zombie! There's a damn zombie in here!"

He collapsed straight onto the floor, hands flying up to cover his maskless face, knees tucked tight against his chest. He shook like a child in a thunderstorm, screaming at the ceiling:

"Help! Somebody—anybody! Oh God, save me!"

The room paused. The absurdity was a slap of silence.

Both William and Leticia stared at him—battle-hardened killer and bloodied woman—gaping in shared, incredulous disbelief.

Leticia blinked, then rasped out, "Cher… do I got somethin' nasty on my face?"

William looked at her through wet laughter, a break of pure relief flooding through cracked ribs and a bleeding wound. "No," he managed, voice splitting with the absurdity of it all. "You look perfect."

"Can ya… y'know?" She stretched her hand toward him with the faintest nod.

He set his palm into hers. A hush of warmth sparked between them — like a quiet current, slipping through his skin into hers, sending golden shivers racing along Leticia's veins. The wound beneath her hand stopped bleeding, drew itself closed, left a threadlike mark that paled, then faded clean away. Her shoulders squared, her breath leveled.

"Take what you need," William said, steady but low.

"Mmm, non, cher… that's plenty," Leticia drawled, sliding her hand back. She tugged the strap across her chest, straightened her top, pulled air deep into her lungs, then stepped toward the wall. Rolling her neck until it popped, she muttered, "That no-good bastard caught me slippin'. Hit me hard while Ah was lookin' at them books. Slid in quiet, like swamp water. Guess Ah let mah guard down."

"I… I thought—" William's throat cramped. He swallowed. "I thought you were dead."

"Well, ain't you sweet," she teased, flashing him a crooked little grin as she nudged his shoulder. "Real nice, sugar. But lessen they drag me straight to the guillotine, Ah can take care o' m'self." Her voice cut sharp. "Bigger question is: what we doin' with this poor fool?"

She tapped Heart-Eater's spine with the edge of her boot. He whimpered, collapsing tighter against the floor.

"Why was he so afraid when you… came back?" William stammered. Foolish, he knew as soon as it left his mouth. Anyone might've been afraid — but this one wasn't just anyone.

"Two reasons it could be," Leticia answered, eyes narrowing on the trembling bulk. "One — maybe he's fresh awake, same as you. Ain't used t' what he seen. Two — his aura, see how it flickers cold blue? Dat's the look of a mind turnin' on itself. Means somethin' broken upstairs." She tapped her temple. "Proper unwell."

"Perfect," William muttered. "A lunatic and a monster. Great combination."

"Call it what ya please, cher," Leticia said flat, "but make up yo' mind quick. Cops'll come nosin' 'round once they hear all this noise."

Their eyes locked. On one, she narrowed hers. On two, William dipped his head. On three, they moved.