Blood of Gato

"Who are they?" William whispered, forcing himself to breathe quieter, straining to catch through the silence the measured groan of floorboards under someone else's steps beyond the door. He felt like every thud of his heart was loud enough to betray them.

The girl cut him a sharp glance and curled her lips in disgust before hissing back:

"They're Skinners. They're hunting for my hide… well, not mine exactly—Edward's."

Her claws sprang out with a metallic snap, and her eyes flashed white—her pupils swallowed whole, leaving only pale, depthless voids.

"Skin… what?" William blurted out, a touch too loud, unable to stop himself.

She seethed, pressing a scorching palm over his mouth.

"Quiet, idiot!" Her whisper was pure venom, her breath hot against his cheek. "If they hear us, we're already dead. Skinners—simpler to think of them as hunters. Hounds on leashes, owned by collectors and other depraved elites. They fetch skins. Skins of 'phenomena' like me… or you."

Her words dripped poison. She clenched her jaw until the muscles trembled, her shoulders quivering, but even through weakness, her voice still carried a razor's edge.

"They've been on Edward's and my tail since Boston," she muttered. "We had to split. Together we were too loud, too visible. But those bastards stick harder than leeches—they don't let go. And right now I'm barely holding myself upright. Fighting them is suicide."

William noticed the faint tremor racing down her body, the way her strength faltered beneath the fury. Even monsters, it seems, have nightmares, he thought. Gently pulling her hand away from his mouth, he whispered back:

"So these hunters—they only want you? Or would a descendant of Bastet tempt them too?"

Her eyes narrowed, knives of cold suspicion.

"Funny. Just a minute ago you were swearing you wouldn't let me die. Now you're hinting you'd sell me off?" She let out a short, sharp laugh—more blade than smile. "And for the record, they'd gladly take the skin off a 'kitten' like you too. A wendigo isn't exactly a novelty, but Bastet's bloodline? That's one in a million."

She clicked her tongue and, with sudden mischief, pinched his ear hard enough to make him wince.

"Ow! Okay, okay—enough!" William whispered in pain, rubbing his ear when she finally let go with a disdainful snort.

"Holy hell…" he muttered under his breath. "Every damned day it's someone new, lining up to eat me, rip me apart, or—hell if I know—take turns testing their knife collection on me. Maybe I should just get used to it." He sighed, then looked at her seriously. "But tell me—can you fight right now? Honestly."

And then the footsteps outside stopped.

The silence that followed was worse, heavier than the sound of boots—untrustworthy, sticky, stretching like cobwebs between the walls.

The girl clenched her fists so tight that her nails cut into her palms, grinding each word out between her teeth:

"If you're wondering whether I can tear their throats out—trust me. I'll bite those bastards' tongues off and spit them out like seeds."

She lifted her chin, defiant, but William saw her knees shaking, her gaze slipping out of focus—her bravado a mask stretched thin. He nodded without a word, feeling the weight shift onto his own shoulders.

Suddenly, he rose and walked toward the bathroom, calm and deliberate.

"Hey, what the hell are you doing?" she hissed after him, fury tightening her whisper.

"In the bathroom," William answered calmly, shutting the door behind him.

She nearly exploded. We're about to be butchered, and this idiot decides now's the perfect time for a bathroom break?! God, what kind of lunatic have I teamed up with…

Then—three steady knocks. Dull, unhurried. Like someone politely announcing themselves at a dinner party, not standing at the edge of a slaughter.

"Sorry to bother, but I've got a pizza delivery… with anchovies," came a smooth, unshaken voice.

The girl froze, jaw slack, curses already rising in her throat—but before she could say a word, the bathroom door creaked open. William stepped out, smirking, something wrapped in a towel gripped in his hands. He looked like a man who'd just dragged an arsenal out of the plumbing.

"Oh, pardon me," he squeaked in a falsetto so shrill it could've belonged to someone's grandmother. "You must have the wrong room."

"Is that so?" The voice outside played along, mock-surprise curling every syllable. "But I've got the exact number written here. And the pizza's already paid for. Why not open up—at least take a look?"

"Ha! Of course…" William whined again in the same shrill old-lady pitch. "Sweetheart, this is a motel. These rooms multiply like cockroaches under a rug—you've obviously mixed them up. And I am but a fragile elderly woman whose poor stomach could never survive your anchovies."

What followed was silence—the sticky, suffocating kind that makes the hair on the back of your neck itch. Not for long, though. When the voice returned, the politeness was stripped bare, leaving only its jagged edge.

"Alright, children. That's enough playing house. Open up, nice and easy. We wouldn't want to splinter this fragile little door and make a mess. If you step out on your own, maybe we'll even let you keep your miserable lives… for the few minutes it takes us to peel the skin off."

The words slithered through the room like an icy draft. The air prickled, turned sharp.

"Mílagros, you are in there, aren't you?" another man called, his voice oozing delight at her silence. She bared her teeth, her hands trembling—not only with rage but with exhaustion. The weight of her past pressed down on her, urging her to leap, to fight, to end it here.

"Well, well," the first man chuckled darkly. "You've given us quite the run, haven't you, girl? But it always ends the same way. Meat on a fork… or a rug on the floor. Why suffer longer than you have to? Step out now—and we'll make it quick."

Her chest heaved, veins throbbing at her temples. She said nothing, but fury carved deep lines into her face.

The hunter must have sensed the wound he'd opened—so he twisted the knife.

"What's wrong, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue? And who's that in there with you? Doesn't sound like your Alpha dog, Edward… Don't tell me you picked up some new boy toy. That's low, even for a wendigo. I thought loyalty was supposed to be your sacred thing."

That did it—she was on the edge, ready to fling the door wide open and tear them apart, even if it meant dying on the spot. But William caught her wrist in both hands. Her skin burned under his touch, her pulse flaring hot and frantic.

"Easy," he whispered.

She shot him a glare sharp enough to kill—but then exhaled raggedly, forcing the fury down.

William turned to the door. This time, his voice was his own, steady and unshaken:

"Mind if I ask you one question first?"

"Oh, but of course, young man," came the reply, syrupy soft, almost affectionate.

"It's the least I can do for you… right before you cough up your last drop of snot."

William let out a dry, humorless chuckle. When he spoke again, his voice was an icy whisper:

"Tell me… ever had your eyes cut out?"

For a heartbeat there was silence outside, measured and brittle. Then—gravelly laughter:

"Whoa… Kid, are you actually threatening me?"

The answer wasn't words.

The jangle of keys in the lock had barely begun when William fell back one step, braced—then drove his boot square into the door just beneath the handle. With a deafening crack the cheap wood burst, hinges tearing free. The slab of the door slammed forward like a battering ram, crushing into the hunter on the other side. He toppled onto the concrete of the motel lot with a strangled grunt, air punched from his lungs.

The other two were ready. One hefted a flamethrower that snarled to life with a sudden lick of fire, its barrel glowing with eager heat. The other leveled a shotgun—its stock glossy and black, its muzzle fat with menace, crafted for one purpose: extermination.

"Got the little bastard!" the shotgun wielder barked, teeth flashing as he swung the barrel up—

But William was already moving.

The towel unraveled in a blur, and what slipped from his palm wasn't steel, but shards—razored fragments of broken glass, honed by desperate hands. He snapped his wrist, and they whistled through the air like fangs. Two shards punched into the flamethrower man's face; another sank with a wet, crystalline crunch into his eye socket.

The man shrieked, clutching at his face—and his finger convulsed on the trigger. A torrent of fire spewed wildly, washing across the ceiling, licking the walls with murderous heat.

"Shit!" cursed the shotgun fighter, staggering back—too late.

William surged forward, a predator's focus burning through his veins. He grabbed the blinded flamethrower operator, using every ounce of momentum to drag and twist him into a makeshift shield. Fire bloomed uncontrolled, belching from the nozzle, streaming in the direction of the shotgun wielder.

The hunter's scream was blood-curdling as flames swallowed him. Flesh blackened, armor charred, fire eating into the gaps until skin blistered and peeled. Napalm and burning meat reeked thick in the air, gagging.

William bent low, yanking the thrashing flamethrower man's arm to redirect the weapon. Another deaf explosion erupted as the shotgun jerked in panic—silver shot shredding through his comrade's shoulder instead of William's chest. One blaze-fed monster roasted alive, the other perforated into bloody ruin.

The flamethrower man staggered, half-blinded, hair and skin molten wreckage—but William didn't hesitate. Cold, merciless, he snapped the hunter's neck with a brutal twist. The crunch was final, bone collapsing like dry wood.

Silence fell—not silence, exactly, but the broken, choked kind. Only the whispering crackle of flames and the wet, grotesque gargle of a dying man's last few breaths.

William straightened, shirt spattered with soot and flecked crimson, the jagged remains of glass still clutched in his hand. He wiped the shards clean against the dead man's charred sleeve, slow and deliberate, before lifting his gaze.

Mílagros stood at the threshold, lips bitten pale, her eyes a ghostly, trembling white. Her sharp defiance was laced now with something else—a raw shock, tinged with unwilling admiration.

"What?" William asked, smirking through labored breaths. "Didn't expect kittens to have claws?"

For a long beat she only stared, chest heaving, trying to decide whether she wanted to snarl or laugh. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and rough, trembling somewhere between awe and fury:

"…You're insane. Completely insane. But… you can kill, after all."