Blood of Gato

William waited outside the trailer, shifting his weight from one bare foot to the other. The grass was damp and cold, the fog curling low over the ground. Somewhere beyond the trees, an owl gave a soft, solitary hoot.

Inside, muted voices drifted through the thin metal walls — muffled, as though submerged underwater — along with the rhythmic clinking of metal charms that hung from Letecia's shaman's belt.

A pause. Then the quiet creak of a door.

Milagros stepped out, shivering as the night air wrapped around her, and stopped right in front of him.

Her body, like his, was marked with intricate symbols — jet-black lines twisting across her skin as if alive, drawn not with paint but smoke that had sunk into the flesh itself. In the moonlight, the marks gleamed faintly, like cracks in wet clay. They were nearly naked, barefoot, and for a fragile moment they looked like participants in some ancient ritual. Which, truth be told, wasn't far from the truth.

"You… look good," William said, his voice low and rough — not from shyness, but from something else entirely, something tense and magnetic that pulsed between them.

Milagros raised an eyebrow, her gaze measuring him from head to toe.

"Thanks," she said dryly. "But you should start eating properly. You're too thin."

He blinked, silent for a few beats, then smirked.

"Appreciate the concern, doc. But with your height and those twiggy arms, you're one stiff breeze away from blending in with the nearest acacia."

She frowned — unsure if he was teasing or rebuking her.

"You're angry?" she asked calmly. "I only told the truth. Your body is lean. Mine is depleted. Those are different things. When I'm well, I look… different."

"Right," he muttered, shaking his head. "You ever read a single book about how people respond to compliments? Usually, they don't fire back with a medical report."

The corner of her lips curved — not into a smile, more like the ghost of one. As if she was discovering something new in the art of playfulness, something she hadn't quite mastered yet.

That's when Letecia emerged from the trailer — barefoot too, hair a wild tangle that smelled of smoke and meadow herbs. She beamed at them like a mischievous aunt watching her favorite pair of troublemakers.

"Well now," she drawled in a thick Cajun lilt, clapping her hands once. "Looks like y'all're ready. Time for the fun part. You two head into them woods — hunt somethin', eat what you catch. After that, bond'll be sealed tight. Two souls, one pack. Meanwhile, I'll be back here rollin' 'round with the spirits, beatin' my drum, singin' somethin' holy an' slow so the heavens don't get jealous."

At her words, a fire burst to life behind William — silent at first, as if the flames had simply willed themselves into being. He spun around, shielding his eyes from the sudden heat.

"Damn it," he hissed. "Can we skip the hunting part? Maybe I'll just buy a steak, tell the spirits it's all legit?"

Letecia wagged a finger, eyes glinting with humor.

"No, sugar. Ain't no spirit fooled by a supermarket ribeye."

Milagros let out a short breath — half laugh, half snort — then clapped him on the shoulder. It was quick and friendly, but hard enough to nearly throw him off balance.

"Let's go," she said, and without waiting, bolted toward the forest.

William swore under his breath and took off after her. Wind pushed against his face, the ground slick and soft beneath his feet. Ahead, Milagros moved like a shadow — quick, fluid, almost weightless.

The deeper they went, the more the forest seemed to swallow them whole. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of wet bark, moss, blood — and something sweet, metallic, electric.

Then it happened: something flickered across William's vision.

He didn't see through his own eyes anymore — he saw through hers. The trees from another angle, her breath measured and steady, her hunger warm and urgent, pulsing through him as though it were his own.

"You feel that?" he whispered, stopping short, his voice trembling between awe and fear.

Milagros's voice answered him — not through his ears, but inside his head.

"Yes. Don't interfere. Just listen."

William shut his eyes. And the world around him breathed. The trees inhaled, the earth throbbed faintly under his feet, every sound left a trace — the snap of a twig, the rustle of wings, the whisper of mist sliding between the trunks.

"This way," she said aloud now, crouching low. Her eyes glimmered in the dark like an animal's, and William followed without hesitation.

They moved deeper, to where the moonlight fractured through the canopy in broken shards. The forest seemed to be watching them: every crunch of moss answered back with a whisper, every gust of wind stirred the fog like someone's slow, invisible breath.

Something inside him vibrated — as though an unseen string had been pulled taut in his chest and was humming now, alive under her nearness. The closer he drew to Milagros, the sharper everything became — scents brightened, sounds burned with detail. He could hear the pulse of a rabbit behind the trees, feel its warmth. His heart wasn't beating alone anymore; it matched hers, rhythm for rhythm.

Milagros moved ahead without a sound, gliding between brush and shadow. Her shoulders trembled slightly as she drew in the night air. In that moment, she wasn't human at all. The moon carved silver over her skin, tracing the dark patterns like fur coming alive beneath the light.

"Do you like it?" she whispered.

"Yes." The word slipped between them like a shared breath.

Through her eyes, he saw it — a bloom of heat near an ancient oak. A deer. Breathtaking, slender, as if woven from silver and shadow. The grass sparkled with dew, the creature's breath a faint smoke drifting into the cold.

William turned toward her — but it wasn't her anymore. A creature stood where the woman had been: half woman, half beast. The angles of her face sharper, eyes burning bright blue. And then he felt it — his own transformation taking hold. His skin buzzed, muscles coiled and shuddered; his fingers clawed into the soil. The scent of blood was suddenly sweet as honey.

Milagros crept forward, low and sure. He moved after her. Their breathing aligned — no longer two people, but one pulse split into twin bodies.

The deer lifted its head, ears flicking. For a moment the world froze — a thin, glimmering thread of time stretched taut between hunter and prey. Then both of them leapt. The forest exploded beneath their bare feet.

Everything was motion — the whip of branches, the fling of wet earth, the rush of cold air. Strength coursed through William, wild and searing, something older than muscle, older than man. Leaves spun in spirals around them; two hearts pounded as one echoing drum.

Milagros struck first. Her body arced through the air, muscles playing like an instrument. William followed, raw instinct guiding him. Their movements collided perfectly — one pattern, two forms.

When the deer fell, the world went utterly still. Only the sound of its shallow breath lingered, mingling with theirs — ragged, trembling, alive.

Milagros looked up at him. There was no mercy in her eyes, no cruelty either — only power, unbroken and ancient. She reached down, dipped her palm into the blood, and raised her gaze to him.

"Together," she said softly.

He didn't fully understand, but stepped closer anyway. Their hands met above the fallen creature. The blood was warm, pulsing between their fingers. And with that heat, something vast and musical poured into him — a tide of energy, a chant, a calling. Clarity rose within him like dawn: he was no longer alone.

Milagros shut her eyes, breathing in sync with his. For a heartbeat, the forest disappeared — the fire, the night, their human shapes — gone. Only the essence of them remained: movement, scent, heartbeat.

When she opened her eyes again, their glow had softened, warmer now.

"Now you understand why it had to be this way," she whispered.

Something broke open inside him — a hunger so feral it almost sang. Not mere desire, but thirst; primal, burning, inhuman. He didn't answer her — only shook his head once, then dropped to his knees and buried his hands in the warmth of the kill.

The forest exhaled around them, silent witness to the moment when blood and breath, spirit and flesh, finally became one.

Fangs, sharp as shattered glass, tore into flesh.

Warm blood surged over William's hands, spreading down his chest in a thick wave. He bit deeper, growling, gasping—beyond hunger, beyond reason. Every motion was instinct, carved into the marrow of the night itself. He devoured like an addict after a long abstinence, mind fractured from whatever man he had been half an hour ago.

Milagros watched him quietly, head tilted in something close to tenderness. There was no judgment in her eyes, no fear—only recognition. He was becoming. She moved closer, knelt beside him, and without hesitation joined him.

The air reeked of blood and wet soil. The deer's body cooled slowly, yet between them burned something hotter—a feverish charge of beastly frenzy and eerie awe. Her breath scorched his ear like a whisper of fire; her heartbeat thudded beside his, too close, too loud.

They ate side by side until the act no longer belonged to either of them. Blood smeared their faces; Milagros reached out, traced a line along his cheek, and licked the crimson from her finger. Their movements began to synchronize—instinct, or something greater. A rhythm of two bodies but a single hunger.

If Milagros was the cold—winter incarnate, the breath that freezes rivers and cracks branches—William was her counterpoint, pure flame blazing in the dark. Ice and fire, restraint and ruin. And somehow, they were perfect in their violence.

But Milagros felt it—a foreign ache stirring within him. Something vast and broken living behind his ribs, not alone but shared. A shadow, another self, crouched deep in his mind. She didn't ask. Those reborn always carried something—memories, curses, ghosts.

They ripped through the last sinew. The forest went utterly silent.

Only the scent of blood lingered, thick and heavy, clinging to the air.

Then Milagros stiffened.

Another scent struck her senses—human.

Far off beyond the ravine: woodsmoke, sweat, the metallic tang of weapons. Two, maybe three of them.

Her eyes snapped up to William's, and in that same breath she knew he'd sensed it too.

His pupils thinned to slits. His gaze darted toward the unseen prey, hungry, unblinking. His chest rose in ragged surges.

"William," her voice was low, steady, threaded with command. "Not now."

But he didn't hear her. Whatever mind was left inside that body was drowning in instinct. Her own fullness, her blood-warm satiation, only sharpened his hunger.

Was he feeling her emotions—or simply ravenous for both of them?

A deep, wordless growl rasped out of his throat, so low that the ground seemed to tremble.

Milagros seized his face, forcing him to meet her eyes.

"Listen to me," she hissed. "Not now. The ritual isn't finished. If you break now, the bond won't hold."

His breath came rough and fast; his nostrils flared. There was no mind in that face—only the wild, snapping animal, every muscle ready to tear.

She knew words wouldn't reach him.

So she did what instinct demanded.

Milagros tore a fragment of raw flesh from the carcass, clamped it between her teeth, and lunged forward. Their mouths collided—hot, violent, not a kiss but an exchange. She pressed the meat against his lips, forcing the taste into him, forcing the fire to stay focused here, with her.

It worked.

He froze. Then shuddered, a guttural moan twisting out of him as he staggered back.

His eyes began to clear.

"We're a pack," Milagros whispered, voice low but pulsing with authority. "I'm your guide. We hunt together. Only together. Tonight—this is enough. Can you feel it?"

She rested her palm on his chest, over his heart. "This is our blood. Our kill. And it's enough."

He grunted softly, a sound more beast than man—but the fury ebbed from his eyes. He bowed his head in quiet submission, acknowledging her as alpha.

The forest released its breath. The hush around them deepened, vast and watching.

High above, an owl called once.

Far off, beyond the clearing, a fire flared near the trailer. Letecia was there, pounding her drum beneath the rising moonlight. Sparks leapt like amber stars into the smoke as her song cracked through the night—half prayer, half curse.

Between beats she muttered under her breath, pressing a palm against her temple.

"Lawd have mercy... if those two start kissin' out there, the goddess gon' turn this whole thing upside‑down. Spirits above, keep their fool hearts on the ritual 'fore it all goes to hell…"

Her voice dissolved into the rhythm, swallowed by the shifting dark—while deep in the woods, blood soaked into the earth like an offering that dared to live.