Certain Dark Things(16)

When he opened the refrigerator and pulled out the bags, he knew he would not drink any of the blood Rodrigo had procured. Just the smell of it made him want to vomit. It smelled like the plastic it came in. Rancid blood. Tasteless mush.

He might as well drink his own piss. Not that Rodrigo would care. Rodrigo didn’t give a shit what Nick felt, and hadn’t wanted Nick to come in the first place. He sensed the older man’s disapproval in every quiet look, every movement of his head. But Nick had more of a right to be there than Rodrigo. Atl had killed his kin, and not only did he want payback, but he was also going to prove to his father that he was ready to handle the family’s affairs.

Of course, Rodrigo disagreed. Rodrigo knew everything.

Dad should have sent me alone, Nick thought. He squished the bag of blood between his hands. Nick squished so hard that the bag burst open, spilling blood over the floor, which made his stomach grumble. But when he sniffed it, it still smelled disgusting.

Enough. He needed to eat. Real food, not the garbage Rodrigo was stuffing in the fridge. La Bola was on sentinel duty and Rodrigo was in his study, but Nick didn’t need to break down doors to get to where he wanted.

He went to the bathroom, locked the door, and opened the small window. It would not have been large enough for a normal man to squeeze through, but Nick was not normal. His bones cracked and he twisted his limbs, dislocating his joints, and out he slid, slipping down the edge of the wall like a lizard.

The Aztec vampires could fly a bit, he’d heard, but Nick was a Necros, so all he could manage was to climb up and down the sides of buildings. Not that it mattered. He didn’t envy the powers of the others. Most vampires were so caught up in tradition, in bullshit pomp and ceremony, that they forgot the reality of the world around them. The Necros were pragmatists, willing to seize modernity with both hands while the others cried about the good old days. His kin were creatures of action.

This was why Rodrigo made him so angry. Instead of catching the girl before she reached Mexico City, they had lost her trail and were now trapped in this ridiculous place. Nick was told to simply sit still and wait. Nick wouldn’t have to be hungry if it weren’t for Rodrigo’s ineptitude. After all, how hard was it to find a stupid spoiled chick like that?

Nick reached the alley behind the apartment building, cracked his knuckles, and headed away. The other night, when he’d gone to the Zona Rosa, one of the girls in line at the club had told him about an interesting joint where you could slip in without ID.

He found it without much trouble. The Hyena was an old Porfirian house in the Condesa, painted a bright blue. It was one of the more fashionable establishments in the area, supposedly Bohemian and really a bit snobbish. The interior was just what Nick was looking for: lots of taxidermied animals on the walls and stuffed birds hanging from the ceiling. Coyote heads, horse rears, a whole bull near the bar. The music was Eurotrash, with tiny beats and obscure vocals. He didn’t like it much, but at least it was loud. Loud was good. It mellowed him.

Nick ordered a drink. He didn’t bother with any food. He wasn’t there for overpriced nachos—he wanted blood. He zeroed in on a girl in a tiny neon pink miniskirt. She wore several silver crosses on her chest. The sight of them amused him. But no, not her.

He looked around and saw another. This one wore a black, lacy outfit. Her hair was a matching black and her makeup was excessive, caked too heavily, artlessly applied. He thought she looked a bit like Atl, a vague resemblance that stirred him, made him lick his lips.

He drifted toward her, smiling and asking if she was having a good time. She gave him an answer he did not catch, so he nodded and asked what she was having. She yelled into his ear, a screeching, irritating sound, but he continued smiling and ordered two, three, four shots for her. They danced.

Three songs later Nick told her it was too warm inside and it was too loud, and she agreed eagerly when he said they should step out for a minute.

Humans were so simple, so stupid, so trusting. Like this silly girl, wearing a ring on each finger, one of them a mood ring that sparkled blue and then green.

They ventured into the alley behind the club.

She kissed him and Nick kissed her back with the indifference of a man pressing his lips against a piece of mutton. But she did not care. She did not notice. Her hands drifted toward his belt and he considered his options. Sometimes sex and blood mingled well together. He didn’t mind playing with his food.

Nick grinned against her mouth and bit his own tongue, hard, then kissed her again, his blood coating her mouth. It took only a few seconds and the girl went lax in his arms.

“Take off your shirt,” he commanded her, and she did, an obedient doll.

“Your name is Atl.”

“My name is Atl,” she said.

She sounded wrong. Atl had a beautiful voice.

“Kiss me,” he said, deciding it was better if she didn’t speak.

She did. But then, when he looked at her, he frowned. He liked doing this. He liked using his power to control humans, wrap them around his little finger. Something felt wrong, though. It wasn’t a sudden attack of morality, but the realization that Atl would never, ever yield like this to him.

Staring at the girl, he realized what a cheap imitation she was.

“Put your top back on,” he said.

Her black hair, now that he looked at it more carefully, was a bad dye job. Her eyes, which had seemed as dark as Atl’s inside the club, were a honeyed brown. She looked nothing like Atl. The mere sight of her repulsed him.