Blood of Gato

One of the Skinners survived — by accident, almost by miracle.

William, blinded by rage and exhaustion, hadn't noticed that the body lying beneath the shattered door was merely unconscious.

The man came to about half an hour later. His head throbbed, and the world swayed as if he were standing on the deck of a sinking ship. The air reeked of blood, iron, and rain.

He staggered outside, barely suppressing the urge to vomit, gulping down the heavy, wet air. Rain drummed against the asphalt, fusing with the reflections of distant streetlights. The world had lost its colors — all that remained was a dull, gray certainty: his crew was dead. Every last one of them.

He was alone.

It took all his strength to stumble toward the phone booth. He nearly collapsed inside, fumbling a coin from his pocket. His trembling fingers struggled to feed it into the slot, and when the slick receiver nearly slipped from his wet hands, a curse escaped him. He dialed a number — familiar, dreaded.

A few long rings, and then a voice answered — low, calm, and dangerous.

"Speak."

"B-boss, we've got… a bit of a situation," the Skinner stammered, darting his eyes to the soaked street outside. Every shadow seemed alive. His heart hammered as if trying to break free from his chest. "A real serious one…"

A breath came over the line — quiet, almost weary.

"Did you catch her?"

The voice was steady. Cold. As if this were nothing more than an overdue report, not a massacre.

He clenched his jaw and glanced down at a puddle near his boots. His reflection stared back — pale with fear, streaked with soot and dried blood.

"No. We didn't," he whispered. "I… I'm the only one left. The others… they're gone. I'm sorry, boss. I'll fix it, I swear. Just… give me some time."

A sound came through the receiver — a short, mirthless chuckle.

"Excuses are useless. Tell me — did you take care of the bodies?"

"I'll call the cleanup team right now," he blurted out, wiping rain and sweat from his brow.

"Good." A pause stretched — long enough to prickle at his nerves. "How did you lose her?"

He swallowed, throat tightening.

"She wasn't alone. There was someone with her. Unknown. We didn't see him coming… He moved — like a blur, there and gone in a blink. Amulets, silver, fire — nothing worked. He killed Cody and Andrew before they even realized."

"A second one? Of another kind?"

For the first time, a hint of curiosity crept into the boss's voice.

"Maybe. I didn't get a clear look. He hit the door — next moment, I was out cold. Only thing I remember…" He hesitated. "His eyes, boss. Catlike. They glowed — like a predator's in the dark."

Silence. Thick, suffocating.

A minute passed. Then another.

He was about to speak again, thinking the line had gone dead, when the voice returned — softer now, but sharper somehow.

"The amulets didn't react at all?"

"Not one," the Skinner said quickly. "It was like they weren't even there."

"I see." The words were quiet, deliberate. "And Thomas?"

The name hit him like a slap. He froze.

"Thomas… he wasn't with us tonight, boss. I swear! He's alive!"

"Alive…" the boss murmured. A faint tapping came through the static, as though a long claw drummed idly against a desk.

"Then he'll handle this. Since you failed, you can at least manage him. And…" — the voice turned frigid — "make sure he's fed. I don't want to hear about another bloodshed in some small town next week. Are we clear?"

"Yes, boss…" the Skinner rasped.

"Then get moving. And pray Thomas stays in control."

A sharp click — and the line went dead.

For a long moment, he just stood there, listening to the hum of silence. Then, with a strangled roar, he slammed the receiver into the cradle and punched the metal frame again and again until his knuckles split and bled.

"Damn it! Damn it all!"

He trembled like a trapped animal. Outside, the rain intensified — hammering against the glass, each drop counting down the minutes until the blood-soaked dawn.

******

"What do you mean, I have to do that?!" William blurted out, his voice breaking the moment the words left his mouth. He sounded as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard.

Letecia let out a long, resigned sigh, rolling her eyes heavenward before fixing him with the look of someone explaining arithmetic to a particularly dense child.

"For a cat, sugar, your ears don't work worth a damn," she drawled, her Cajun lilt curling around the words. "Lemme make it real plain for ya: you and her—" she motioned loosely toward Milagros "—gonna strip all the way down. Stark naked. I'm gonna paint the signs on yer skin," she nodded toward the table cluttered with jars of thick pigment and small strips of cloth, "then y'all can wrap up in them scraps soaked in sacred oil. After that—it's into the woods."

Her accent deepened as her tone dropped lower, slower.

"You'll find the beast, kill it, and eat its meat right there. Together. Like a pair. Like hunters from the same damn pack."

She stood before them in a coarse homespun dress stitched with bone and faded thread, her hair twisted into a wild knot, streaks of soot and pigment tracing the curve of her neck. In the hazy scent of herbs, wax, and oil, Letecia looked like something carved out of a fever dream—a priestess dragged straight out of time.

While William stood there blinking, still catching up, Milagros stepped forward. Without a word, she reached for the buttons of her shirt. Moving like this was the most ordinary task in the world, she began to undress. Her skin caught the flicker of the candlelight as if it, too, were alive.

William jerked around instantly.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing?!" he snapped, the heat of embarrassment firing his tone. "A little warning would've been nice!"

He slapped a hand over his eyes, but the reflection in the window betrayed him anyway.

"Why didn't I realize sooner this whole ritual thing would turn out to be some kind of occult circus?" he hissed—louder than he meant to.

Letecia turned to him slowly, gaze sharp as a bowie knife. When she spoke again, her voice carried that easy Louisiana rhythm, soft but edged.

"Occult circus, huh?" A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. "Baby, you got any idea how many nights I been up workin' on this ritual? You think I make folks run naked through the woods 'cause it tickles me?"

She stepped closer. In the dim light, he could see the tired strain behind her ringed eyes.

"This ain't no flappin' Disney picture," she said, the word coming out Dizz-neh, "where pretty girls sing with the damn bluebirds, and all their troubles up and vanish. Magic don't work that way, sugar. It's sweat and sacrifice—and once in a while, a fool who complains too loud."

Before he could answer, she slipped off one glove, crossed the space between them, and—quick as a striking snake—yanked his T-shirt over his head.

"Hey!" William jumped back. "What are you—"

Slap. A sharp sting landed on the back of his head.

"Quiet now, hero," she said, her drawl softened to something dangerously close to motherly. "'Less you want me recordin' the whole damn strip show, hm?"

"Ow! Fine, fine!" he muttered, rubbing the spot, cheeks burning. "I'll do it myself. No need for violence."

Clumsy, flustered, he shucked off his jeans until only his boxers were left. Shoulders hunched, he mumbled,

"God… you're actually serious about this."

Letecia's eyes narrowed, the corner of her mouth crooking slightly.

"Course I'm serious, baby. You think I'm playin' dress-up out here?"

He shuffled awkwardly, refusing to meet anyone's gaze. The warm, flickering light made the whole moment feel absurd—a mix of holiness and humiliation he couldn't name.

"You, uh…" he swallowed, voice small, "want me to take this off too?" He nodded downward.

Letecia's smile grew slow, dangerous. Her voice came out like honey laced with smoke.

"Yup. Every stitch," she said. "Gotta get them lines clean and true—or the magic won't take. After that, you can cover yourself up again—if you still got any modesty left to bother with."

He sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Oh, great misfortune… why, why couldn't we just talk to the spirits while clothed?"

Then he pointed toward Milagros.

"Let her go outside. I can't… I seriously can't do this with her standing there."

"Why not?" Milagros asked, calm as ever, a flicker of curiosity passing behind her eyes. She looked at him like a scientist might study a particularly odd animal. "We're only performing a ritual."

"Only?!" His voice cracked into a near-yelp. "This is not 'only,' okay?"

Milagros tilted her head, owlish, studying him with quiet fascination. Letecia gave a dry chuckle at the sight, shaking her head with an almost indulgent sigh.

"Cher, step outside for a spell, hmm?" she said to Milagros, her drawl warm and honey-thick, touched by smoke. "'Fore this boy starts bleedin' from places he ain't supposed to."

William shot her a wounded glare but stayed silent.

Milagros exhaled softly, shrugged, and stepped out without another word.

The door creaked. A cool breath of wind carried the scent of pine and damp earth into the trailer, the whisper of the forest folding around them.

Letecia moved toward the table where bowls, jars, and bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters. She reached for a wooden bowl with both hands; candlelight danced across her face, throwing deep shadows against her cheekbones.

"Now then…" she murmured, mostly to herself, and began to work.

A sprig of rosemary and a pinch of dried rue dropped into a thick crimson paint. The mix hissed softly, as if the bowl had been set over open coals. Letecia bit her lip, drew a small knife with a bone handle, and nicked the tip of her own finger. One drop of blood fell—and the mixture seemed to come alive, rippling faintly.

The scent turned sharp and metallic, cut with bitter herbs.

"Now you," she said, looking up at William. "Spit in it."

He blinked. "Sorry—what?"

"Spit, sugar. Don't make that face. It's part o' the work."

He groaned, the sound guttural, but did as she asked, eyes averted. Letecia's mouth curled in a sly smile.

"See there? Even cats can follow directions."

She stirred the liquid with a carved wooden stick until it thickened—something between paint and living skin. Then she turned back to him, brisk and commanding.

"Alright then, cher. Off with the rest. All of it."

William hesitated, but her look left no argument. With fingers that trembled ever so slightly, he stripped the last of his clothes away. The air in the trailer bit cool against his skin, and goosebumps rose along his shoulders. He instinctively crossed his arms, but Letecia snorted.

"Uh-uh, none o' that. Drop the shame, hero. Right now you ain't a man—you my canvas."

With that, she dipped her fingers into the thick red-black mixture and touched them to his chest. The first strokes were cold, sticky, metallic. Then, as she worked, the substance warmed, flowing smoother, like it was responding to his body heat.

"Don't move," she murmured, her accent thickening around the edges of the words. "These signs gotta link just right, or you'll end up conjurin' somethin' you don't want."

Her voice fell into a rhythm halfway between whisper and chant. The language she spoke wasn't English—or any tongue he recognized. Harsh, primal syllables rolled from her mouth, each one vibrating faintly in the air, like the room itself was listening. Her eyes half-closed, pupils vanishing upward as her hands sketched symbols with increasing speed: beasts, claws, circles, jagged lines.

For a brief moment, William thought he saw the paint pulse… breathe.

The candles flickered violently, and either the wind brushed past them—or something unseen did. He felt a soft pressure on his back, like unseen fingers trailing over his skin. Warm, curious, almost tender. Not malicious. Just there.

He let out a slow breath, and the world around him seemed to stretch and still, as though time itself was holding its breath along with him.

His gaze dropped before he even realized it—and froze.

The symbols Letecia had painted onto his skin were moving. Shapes rippled to life across his body: eagles wheeling over a dark abyss, warriors with spears circling a horned creature, its antlers branching like a stag's.

It all unfolded across him—not drawn, but alive, like a film projected on flesh instead of canvas.

"Holy…" he whispered, voice trembling. "Is this real?"

"Hush now," murmured Letecia without pausing. Her lips moved fast, her drawl softened by the rhythm of the spell. "Don' speak, cher. Air's heavy with what's wakin'."

Her hands moved faster and faster, circles tightening, words cascading from her mouth—sounds that made the air thicken, pressing in like an invisible current. Then, just as suddenly, everything stopped.

She exhaled hard, eyes snapping open, and drew two long crimson lines beneath each of his eyes.

"Satus vinculum!" she cried, her voice cracking through the thick silence—so loud his heart almost jumped out of his chest.

For one heartbeat, everything gleamed red. Then Letecia's eyes cleared, the trance vanishing as quickly as it came. She took a deep breath, another, as though surfacing from deep, icy water. Stepping back, she studied him, her grin slow and satisfied.

"Well now," she drawled, setting the brush back into the bowl. "That's more like it. Looks downright fine on ya, Will."

"What?" he gasped, still shaking.

"The marks, sugar," she said lightly. "They clean, they balanced—and still breathin'. Most times that's a real good sign." She leaned closer, tracing one symbol lightly with her fingertip. "And best part? Nobody caught on fire. I call that progress."

He blinked, stunned. "I'm sorry—no one caught fire? Was… was that a possible outcome?!"

Letecia shrugged with theatrical indifference, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"Happens sometimes," she said, voice lilting, easy. "Mix up them sigils, and the blood'll start to boil. But you? You standin', you ain't smokin'—so I'd say we doin' mighty fine."

"Oh my God," William groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. "You couldn't mention that little risk earlier?"

"Would've broken my focus," she replied with that lazy smile. She grabbed a thick piece of grey cloth from the table and handed it to him. It smelled faintly of rosemary and sage. "Now do me a favor, cher—cover that thing you so proud of."

"Shit!" William blurted, realizing himself and hastily wrapping the cloth around his hips.

Letecia barely held back a chuckle, one brow lifting.

"Well, ain't you lookin' just about like a proper neophyte now." Her grin widened. "Almost."

He lifted his eyes nervously. "And now… Milagros?"

Letecia sighed, running her finger along the rim of the bowl.

"Now it's her turn, sugar. And if you takin' advice from me—don't go sneakin' a peek. Them marks, they don't like impure thoughts. React somethin' fierce."

William swallowed hard. "That's… fantastic advice. Thank you so much."

But he turned away anyway—better safe than sorry.

Somewhere deep inside, beneath his ribs, something had begun to stir. A quiet shifting, a whisper like dry leaves moving in the dark.

As though another part of him—older, stranger—was waking up.