Certain Dark Things(72)

“Let me wake him up,” Rodrigo told her. “Boy, is he going to be surprised.”

Rodrigo crouched next to the side of the bed and whispered. “I have a girl for you,” he told him.

Nick turned his head and stared at Rodrigo. His eyes were bloodshot.

“Come here,” Rodrigo told Dulce, motioning to her. “Come here and meet my friend.”

Dulce stepped forward, moving to Rodrigo’s side. Her pleasant, sweet smile faded as soon as she caught sight of Nick. She took a step back. Nick caught her. He was fast and she was unable to scream. All Rodrigo heard was a whimper.

He left the room, not bothering to watch as Nick fed. He went to his studio and put on Silvio Rodríguez, listening to the soothing melodies. He ran his fingers over his books, pausing over a particularly pleasing first edition. He allowed his eyes to wander to the photo of him sitting in a convertible. Young. Optimistic. Foolish.

He sat behind his desk and poured himself another whiskey but didn’t drink it, instead holding the glass between his hands.

Three or four songs later there came the footsteps. The door opened and Nick walked in, his face smeared in crimson; his clothes drenched in blood. He smelled of carrion. That deep, uncomfortable stench that Rodrigo had gotten used to, working for a vampire for so long.

“Her blood was thin,” Nick complained. “Give me a drink.”

Nick snatched the glass of whiskey from Rodrigo’s hands and downed it.

Of course. No gratitude from this younger generation, these children with their mouths like sharks and their vicious appetites. None whatsoever.

“I want Atl. I want Atl’s blood and Atl’s flesh. I want her alive for a hundred days and a hundred nights, skinned and bleeding.”

“Someone else has the same idea,” Rodrigo said.

“What do you mean?”

“The Jackal said she was suffering from silver nitrate poisoning and that one of his guys pulled several darts out of her arms. How do you think she got those? Not from us.”

“Cops,” Nick said, rubbing the back of his hand against his mouth.

“Not exactly standard equipment.”

“Then who? Does it matter?”

“There’s a detective who might know. Ana Aguirre.”

He’d been thinking about Aguirre as the boy fed. From what his contact had told him and from Rodrigo’s own quiet inquiries, Ana Aguirre hailed from Zacatecas, where she’d developed a reputation as a vampire killer, and one who seemed to know what she was doing. While most cops thought the best way to deal with vampires was to spray them with as much lead as possible—and that did help, but wasted ammunition and manpower—Rodrigo looked at her file and saw cases of vampires who had bitten the dust thanks to anaphylactic shock, electrical shock, UV burns, and the like. It was possible, he thought, that Ana Aguirre had found Atl before Rodrigo and Nick did. It was also possible she had knowledge that would prove useful. Nothing like a vampire hunter to help them hunt a vampire.

“You said it wasn’t the cops.”

“I know what I said. Do you still feel hungry? I’m thinking you could use a snack.”

Nick smiled, a ghastly, painted smile. A child’s grin set upon a horrid mask. He handed Rodrigo the empty glass.

“I’m always up for takeout.”





CHAPTER

29

Music. Atl knew she should rest, conserve her energy. Sit and heal. The music, however, made it hard to keep her eyes closed. That, and the burning headache that threatened to split her skull in two. She opened the lid of the trunk and followed the music straight into a room that seemed colder and more humid than the rest of the house, if that was possible.

A phonograph was playing, the needle running across the worn surface of a record. She’d never seen a real vinyl record before and stood mesmerized, watching the disc spin and spin.

“It’s called ‘Stardust,’” Bernardino said. “Most music is like nails on chalkboard to my ears, it drives me mad. This isn’t like most music, though.”

He was sitting on a couch upholstered in brocade, a tabby on his lap. His clothes, just like the couch, were from another era. It was as if he were keeping the current century at bay.

“It’s nice,” she said.

Bernardino nodded, his hands resting against his cane. His fingers were long, his eyebrows joined in the middle, and he was terribly pale, his skin reminding her of a deep sea–dwelling creature. She’d never had a chance to meet one of his kind. Not that she’d wanted to.

“How did your mother die?” he asked.

“Decapitated. The Necros did it. Godoy, he killed her.”

“Your sister, she is also dead?”

Atl nodded.

“I imagined as much.”

“I think everyone else is dead too,” she muttered.

“Probably not. Your lot is hardy.”

He gently put the cat on the floor and stood up, shuffling to her side. There were stacks of records by the table and he grabbed one, switching it. The singer was a woman this time, talking about a man she loved.

“How is the arm feeling?” he asked.

“Fine, I suppose.”

“Let me see.”

Atl raised her arm and he removed the bandage, running his fingers along the stump. Atl glanced away. She didn’t want to look at it.