Blood of Gato

William woke up on Letesia's couch, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket that smelled faintly of someone else's skin and incense smoke. His body ached as if a cavalry regiment had marched back and forth over him, and his mouth was painfully dry — his tongue rough, stuck to the roof of his mouth. He coughed, swallowed the dryness, and forced himself up on his elbows.

The trailer was silent. No sign of Letesia or Milagros. Only the dull drumming somewhere deep in his head — right at the crown, where memory had been sliced open and left blank. He blinked, trying to pull scraps of the night back together, but everything dissolved into darkness.

The last thing he remembered was the dancing firelight in the woods, Letesia's raspy whisper, the smell of wet leaves — and blood.

Oh, hell… blood.

He ran his tongue over his lips; the faint metallic taste told him enough.

"So we did find someone, after all," he muttered hoarsely. "Or maybe someone found us."

The words came out ragged, and his throat burned with thirst. I'd drink from a puddle right now, he thought grimly. Looking around, he lifted the blanket — better make sure he was at least decent before getting up.

He wasn't.

The blanket slipped away, and cold air slid down his bare skin. He was completely naked. The symbols Letesia had painted on him the night before — those fine twisting lines that had seemed almost alive in candlelight — were gone.

At first, he wanted to shrug it off. Maybe he'd washed up after the ritual. But the smell of damp earth on his feet and the streaks of dried mud on his legs told a different story.

"Well, cleanliness clearly isn't today's theme," he said dryly.

He pushed himself upright, leaning on the armrest. The wooden floor creaked under his bare feet. A quiet unease stirred in him — who undressed me? when? why? — and yet, beneath it, a strange calm pulsed, as if someone were gently smoothing over his thoughts from the inside.

His clothes were neatly folded on a chair by the wall. On top lay a sheet of white paper. William walked over, picking it up carefully by the corner before unfolding it.

The handwriting — looping, uneven, unmistakably Letesia:

We left early. I'm completely drained, so I went to recharge — the university's heavy with incense and karma again today. Your girl, by the way, took off too, pretending she had "a ton of work." Not sure what kind of work one has after a night like ours… Anyway. Wash up, get dressed, and head home before your parents call the witch-hunters. Or come straight to campus — we'll talk there.

P.S. The ritual went… more or less fine. The link's there now. It just needs time. Don't freak out if you can't hear her yet — she'll answer when you stop straining so hard.

He read it twice, then let out a slow breath, paper trembling slightly in his fingers. Through the haze of exhaustion came a heavy pull of weariness — the kind that drags you down like deep water.

"Well," he sighed, rubbing at his eyes, "at least it wasn't all for nothing. Could've gone worse."

He stretched, and the blanket pooled around his ankles. The air in the trailer was cool, laced with the scent of ash, herbs, and damp wood. Somewhere outside, a magpie screeched.

"Shower," he said aloud, as if ordering himself. "First, a shower."

He folded the note and tucked it into his pants pocket, then tossed the blanket aside and shuffled toward the tiny bathroom. Every step throbbed with soreness, but inside his chest something soft was stirring — faint, almost like warmth blooming from within.

Maybe that was her.

Milagros.

That strange new presence — subtle, breathlike — hovering at the back of his mind.

He stopped, listening.

Silence. Only the wind brushing against the trailer walls.

He let out a crooked smirk. "Great. One more voice in my head. Just what I needed."

He turned on the hot water and stepped under the stream. Dirt, blood, and remnants of the ritual night streamed down, vanishing in foamy swirls through the rusty drain. The water tingled against his skin — and somewhere deep inside, it felt as though it was washing away more than just grime. It rinsed off the forest's darkness, the whisper set loose among the trees, leaving behind only a faint tremor in his heart.

******

After getting himself cleaned up, William decided not to go home.

Just the thought of his mother starting another moral lecture filled him with a weariness so heavy it seemed physical. He could already picture her standing in the doorway — arms crossed, eyes narrowed — saying, "William, you were at that damned café again, weren't you?" Her stare always tried to burn straight through to his conscience — what little of it he still had left.

No. To hell with that. Better to head straight to the university, where no one looked at him like a lost kid tangled in his own secrets.

He walked down the street, the cold morning air biting at his cheeks. In his pocket, Letesia's note crinkled with every step — still carrying the faint scent of sandalwood and cinnabar. His muscles ached softly, and in his temples lingered the ghost of the night before: that trembling awareness that something inside him was sleeping — something wild, hungry.

Cops. Maniac. A pack of wendigos. The ritual… what a mess.

He walked on, replaying the chaos in his head.

So what now? Find food? Blood? Corpses? Or maybe… no, stop. No way. I'm not insane. I'm not going to—

Then it came — a flicker inside him, like a spark behind the ribs. Not a voice exactly, not a thought either. A whisper, alien and cold:

You already have.

He froze mid-step, as if tripping over invisible ground. Around him, students passed by laughing, talking on their phones — just another morning. No whisper. No trace of anyone else.

You imagined it, he told himself. But the tremor stayed in his fingers.

By the time he reached the university, classes had already started. The old building with its tall windows and echoing halls met him with the familiar smell of dust, old books, and cheap coffee from the vending machine — scents that used to calm him, but now felt strangely distant.

At the door of the physics lecture hall, he hesitated, peeking inside. Professor Kline was already scrawling something across the blackboard — white chalk dust swirling like smoke around his dark jacket. The room was full, as usual. William hoped to slip in quietly.

That hope died the moment Kline slammed his pointer against the desk.

"Mr. Farrow!" he barked without turning around. "Take your seat! And before anyone gets clever — I've got an important announcement today, so quiet down. No circus acts, understood?"

The chatter vanished instantly. Twenty pairs of eyes turned toward the door.

"Perfect," William muttered under his breath, stepping inside as a flush of embarrassment crawled up his neck.

He slid into his usual spot beside Kemar — the perpetually grinning classmate who somehow always had enough energy for jokes, even at six in the morning. Kemar leaned closer, covering his mouth with a hand.

"Rough luck, man," he whispered conspiratorially. "Old Kline's in the mood of a vampire on a juice cleanse."

"What happened this time?" William murmured, pretending to dig through his bag for a notebook.

Kemar smirked. "Word is, we're getting a visiting professor. From Arkham."

William stopped mid-motion. "Arkham? Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. And here's the best part — Kline didn't get the post." Kemar tilted his head toward the professor. "So now he's sulking like a demon during Lent. They consoled him with tickets to Miami. But judging from that death glare, sunshine isn't exactly doing the trick."

"Well," William said under his breath, "it's not every day you get slapped down by the Arkham University."

"No kidding." Kemar chuckled. "If it were me, I'd call it a blessing — beaches, cocktails, girls… though in his case, probably means 'undergrads.'"

They both stifled their laughter behind their notebooks. But unlike Kemar's easy grin, William's smile was tight, distracted.

Up front, Professor Kline turned from the board and tapped a piece of chalk sharply against the desk, commanding silence.

"All right, everyone, listen up," he said, his tone sharp and deliberate. "Today's a special day."

The murmur running through the rows vanished at once. Pens were set aside, bodies straightened. Even Kemar stopped doodling.

"Excellent," Professor Kline said, clearing his throat. "St. Bulman University is proud to announce that as part of our academic exchange program, we'll be hosting a visiting professor from Arkham."

A low ripple of sound passed through the lecture hall — a collective ohhh, like a breeze brushing over water. Even the laziest students perked up. The name Arkham had that effect — as if someone had just mentioned a legendary trophy of war.

"Yes, yes," Kline added, raising his eyebrows, "that Arkham. The university that costs more than my house and where getting in is harder than earning a handshake between gods and demons. So, do try to act like civilized human beings."

He snapped the chalk against the board and turned to face the class.

"I don't want anyone making a disgrace of this department by gawking at the guest like you've never seen a professor before. The man is coming here to share knowledge, not to witness your pitiful attempts at pretending you're smarter than you are."

A few students snickered, but went quiet the instant Kline's glare cut across the room.

"Tomorrow there will be an open lecture. Attendance is mandatory. And don't even think about being late. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" came the chorus.

Kline nodded, wiped his hands, and turned back to begin droning about Hawking radiation. But William's mind was already far away from numbers and equations.

He leaned toward Kemar. "So who is this professor, anyway?"

Kemar shrugged. "Word is, someone named Dr. Merriweather. Theoretical physicist. Works on spatial oscillations and energy dynamics. Supposed to be a genius — though he looks like the kind of guy who only talks to equations."

"From Arkham," William repeated softly, tasting the words. His tone wasn't admiring — it was closer to envy.

For him, Arkham had always been a mountaintop — a temple of science reserved for the brilliant and the born-lucky, the heirs of ancient names with family crests older than cities. As a kid, he'd dreamed of seeing it just once — to walk its halls, to hear lectures from people whose names were printed in textbooks.

And now one of them was coming here. To Everhart.

Kemar kept talking. "Rumor is, Dr. Merriweather travels around scouting for students — looking for talent."

William's head snapped up. "He's recruiting?"

"Could be. If he likes you, you might get invited there." Kemar grinned. "Not that we stand a chance, bro. Our microscopes belong in a museum, and that's being generous."

William smirked weakly, waving him off, but his pulse had quickened. If Arkham's recruiting… there's a chance?

He didn't dare hope — not really — but the thought took root quietly and firm.

If I could go there… start over. No rituals. No blood. No forests whispering in the dark.

Somewhere in the back row, someone whispered that Dr. Merriweather was arriving tonight. Kline's head snapped toward the sound.

"And put those ridiculous hopes out of your minds," he said sharply. "Arkham doesn't hand out invitations to just anyone. None of you are going there."

His voice was cold enough to make the air tighten.

William looked down at his notebook.

Maybe not, he thought. But if there's even one chance in a hundred, I'll take it.

Absentmindedly, his pen began tracing something in the margin — not a number or a letter, but a curve, a loop… a shape disturbingly close to the symbols Letesia had once painted across his skin. He froze when he realized, then slammed the notebook shut.

"Hey," Kemar murmured, glancing sideways. "You good?"

"Yeah," William said, forcing a faint smile. "Just thinking."

About connections. About futures. About how everything keeps shifting faster than I can learn who I even am.

He looked up at the board where Kline, precise as always, was drawing a single clean chalk line — straight, flawless, deliberate.

And yet William couldn't shake the feeling that beneath that careful line was another one — invisible, pulsing quietly — the one charting his own path, leading him straight into the unknown.