Bad Blood

Deep down in the recesses of her mind, she knew why. She just didn’t want to give credence to the thought because that seemed too much like making it real.

The witch’s spell. The smoke they’d both walked through in the belly of the freighter. The one that had made them both whole again. She would have closed her eyes if she hadn’t been driving. If the witch had done something to Doc with that spell… Fi exhaled a sigh that was almost a sob. It was her fault. She’d convinced Doc to go through the smoke. Whatever was going on, she had to find him.

On the street ahead the neon lights from Umberto’s restaurant shone like a carnival ride. Little Havana was mostly dark otherwise, a few dull glimmers from windows where folks were up and still had juice in their solars. If Umberto’s could afford to run their electric, business must be good. She drove by slowly to look through the bars on the windows. Place was full.

A block up, she found a parking spot under one of the dim streetlights. She parked and got out, tucking the sacre through the belt in her jeans. In other parts of Paradise City, walking around with a sword hanging off your hip might attract attention, but in Little Havana, people did what they had to do to stay safe.

Putting on her best touch-me-and-die attitude, she strolled to Umberto’s and went inside. The customers gave her and her sword a wide berth, and while her Spanish was passable, she didn’t understand a lot of the things being said. Still, it was pretty plain they weren’t exactly thrilled an Americana with a three-foot sword had just interrupted their ropa vieja.

She beelined for the bar, finding an open space with no problem. “Hola.”

The bartender, a fat man with a thin mustache and a wandering eye, waddled over wiping a glass with a rag of questionable cleanliness. Lovely. He nodded at her. “Buenas noches. Que te puedo hacer?”

“Hables ingles?”

“Si. What do you want to drink?”

“Nothing. I need some information.”

He cocked one eyebrow. “I have paying customers, señorita.”

“I just want to know where the old Catholic church is.”

He shrugged. “And people at the other end of the bar want more cervezas. It is a cruel, cruel world.”

Time mattered more than playing games with this butt munch. She dug into the pocket of her jeans, pulled out a twenty, and slid it toward him. “Where’s the church?”

He took the plastic bill and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “You don’t want to go there. Muy peligroso.”

She already knew it was dangerous. What she needed to know was its location. Her hand went to the sword’s hilt without too much thought. “Tell me. Now.”

“Or what? You going to cut me, comebola?” He laughed and a stream of Spanish slipped past his puffy lips too fast for her to understand.

If only Mal were here. One look at his vampire face and this guy would need fresh pants. His face. The image gave her an idea. Mal wasn’t the only one with a second nature. She’d never done it before, but she had nothing to lose. The next step was whipping out the sword, and that was a big step. She climbed onto a bar stool, leaned over, and grabbed Fatty by his shirt. When he was inches from her, she called up the darkest part of her ghostly presence. The part she’d used to haunt Mal in the years after he’d killed her. The part she’d hidden away when Doc had come into her life.

The dark emptiness of death spread through her, trying to transform her whole being, but she used her anger to control it and hold it on her face alone.

Fatty dropped the rag he’d been holding. “Santa Maria.” He scrabbled at her fingers, trying to pluck them off his shirt. His black eyes reflected her sunken ones, the deep hollows of her cheeks, the torn and ruined flesh of her neck. “La iglesia—”

“In English,” she said, the words as gravelly and cold as the darkness within her.

“The church is that way.” He pointed, hand shaking. “Two blocks down, two blocks right, one left.”

She released him and the ugliness she’d summoned, sliding off the bar stool and back to her feet. “Muchas gracias, fat boy.” She sauntered out of the bar, making deliberate eye contact with any customer who looked her way. Few did.

She drove the man’s directions as fast as she could, saving the last block to walk. If Preacher was there, if he had Doc, a little surprise could be good. The tiniest bit of light twinkled through the church’s few remaining stained-glass panels. She tried the massive double doors, but they didn’t budge at the first try and she didn’t fight them for fear Preacher would hear her.

On the side she found an open door tucked under a small overhang. Cautiously, her hand on the hilt of the sacre, she crept inside. The twinkle she’d seen coming through the windows came from a stand of votive candles flickering in red glass cups. She hung by the door, letting her eyes adjust while she scanned for Preacher or Doc.

She didn’t see or hear either of them, so she ventured into the sanctuary. A worn spot marked the floor before the altar. Like someone kneeled there a lot.

A cold hand grabbed her arm, yanking her fingers off the sacre’s hilt. “Witch! Have you come for your mother?”

Fi jerked away, but Preacher’s grip was too strong. Why couldn’t vampires make more noise? “What? No. I—”

“Good, because you won’t find her. She’s dead.” A little dried blood clung to the corner of his mouth. He must have been out feeding.