He couldn’t.
Rodrigo took a deep breath.
He was used to solving problems. All that was required was a little creative thinking.
*
The woman called herself Dulce. He found her next to a bike repair shop, wearing a plastic, transparent poncho that allowed customers to see her underwear. She looked like she was in her midtwenties. Bubbly, though not pretty. She might have been attractive once, but time and drug use had left her with a weary, hardened look. Dulce told Rodrigo she really liked his car and suggested they go to a nearby motel—or they could do it right there in the car. He said he wanted her to go back to his place. She balked at that, but then he offered her a bit more money and told her he was doing this as a surprise birthday present for his friend, who was feeling a bit down. Her accent was northern and he added he was originally from Monterrey.
That seemed to calm her down. On the ride back, she expressed her love of cumbias and Rodrigo replied at the appropriate intervals. Once inside the apartment, he quickly guided her to Nick’s room. Nick was sprawled over the bed, his face buried in the pillows, and Dulce stood by the door, smiling.
“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.