by Deanna Chase
“I shouldn’t feel guilty,” he said, as if speaking to a friend across the table. The shops were closing for the night and the only lights left on came from Isabella’s bar. “What’s there to feel guilty about?” he said, his words slurring into one long word.
“It’s just sex. She loved it. She told me she loved it. Why should I feel bad about it?” He felt his eyelids grow heavier with each word. “She had fun. I had fun…”
The world spun around him and he took a long draw of his coffee.
“Well, maybe taking a little bit of her life-force,” he chuckled to himself. “But its not like she needed those last few days. She won’t even miss them when the time comes.”
From the center of the square the cherub watched him, looking more like a gargoyle as the sun disappeared than an angel.
“And what do you get from it?” the cherub asked, his pen poised to write down the answer.
“Power!” Armand slammed his mug onto the table.
How could he explain to the statue that at the moment of a woman’s climax, he would siphon off some of her aura and make a wish? Money, status, charm. Tack on a few extra hours to his own life. Or maybe more energy to perform his tricks and keep the whole cycle going. Sexual energy was raw and untamed. The good stuff.
“I get power,” he repeated, wiping the drool from his lips.
The cherub eyed him. “I see.”
Armand pled his case. “I didn’t ask to be born like this.” He frowned at his offending hands, hands that plucked the flowers from women’s hair then crumbled them. “Take that up with God, okay?”
He took another drink of his coffee, his head clearing. The tears came back into his eyes.
“If I had stayed with Isabella I might have taken too much. I could have killed her. I was doing her a favor when I said goodbye.”
“You didn’t have to take anything.”
“But I did. I did. And I would, for as long as she let me.”
Scribble, scribble, scribble.
The angel lowered his pen. Mother Mary’s arms dropped to her side. Armand’s head hit the table.
Drool spilled from the corner of his mouth. Only half conscious, he drew up the image of Isabella: her arched back, her face between his hands. Their last night together when she whispered that she loved him.
He couldn’t keep a cat alive. He certainly couldn’t keep love alive. He might not even be able to keep her alive.
He closed his eyes, the image of Isabella’s crumbled flower the last thing he remembered before he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
A tap on the shoulder nudged him from his sleep.
Sleep?
He had been sleeping, without dreams or pills.
He rubbed his eyes, aware of the pounding in his head. The sun was out again. Families walked the square. He found his sunglasses on the table and put them on. He must look like shit.
“Señor, will you buy a doll? My grandmother make them homemade?” A young girl in tattered clothes stood before him, her eyes wide and hopeful. A cross hung around her neck. “The doll, she is for to protect you.”
Armand blinked at the girl, not quite comprehending. She stared back, her mouth stretching into a wide smile. He reached into his trench coat pocket and produced a handful of pesetas.
Too much for the doll, he knew, but he didn’t care.
“Gracias! Gracias!” the girl squealed, jumping up and down, her braids bouncing behind her. She gave him the cloth doll and raced off to announce her sale.
Soon he would be swarmed by an army of children, all trying to unload their overpriced goods onto him. Kindness rarely paid.
Armand studied the doll. A sweet but crude thing, with stitches that ran across its face like she’d undergone a bad surgery. He stuffed the doll into his coat pocket where his coins had been.
He was about to leave when a woman on the far side of the square caught his attention. She had brown curls that coiled down her back, a white cotton dress hemmed just above her knees, and a large, floppy hat––the type popular in his mother’s day––which framed her narrow face. She laughed easily as she conversed with a woman who was twice as wide yet inches shorter than herself.
As if she could feel his eyes on her, the woman turned, peering at him over her shoulder. As she stared, the easy manner dissolved from her face.
Once her appraisal of him was complete, her lips slid into a tight smile. Her aura flared around her, a light so blinding he was surprised it wasn’t accompanied by an explosion.
Just as abruptly, her light receded and she turned back to her friend.
“Señor, a coffee?” a young waiter, different from his server last night, asked, as he placed a clean ashtray on the table.
“Yes, a coffee. Do you know who that woman is? That one in the white hat?”
“I know everyone in the village, but this woman I do not know. I have seen her a few times this week, always with the other woman. She doesn't wear a wedding ring so perhaps…” The waiter smiled amorously.
The man continued on about the merits of love and marriage. Armand snapped his fingers to silence him. The waiter blinked in confusion before turning to go.
The woman looked at Armand again, her face caught in an expression between curiosity and amusement. She whispered to her friend, then crossed the courtyard in his direction with long confident strides.
Armand watched as her slim body drew closer. He kept his face stoic as she seated herself at his table.
“You were watching me,” she said, folding her hands in front of her.
Armand shrugged and spread his hands. “You caught me.”
“So I did.”
She reached into her bag and produced a thin cigarette. Armand lit it for her and she took a long drag.
“My last one” she said as she exhaled the smoke from the side of her mouth. “Or at least until the next one.”
She laughed at her joke, then clicked her nails on the table.
“Dora is always after me to stop, but I just can’t. They make one appear so sophisticated, don’t you think?” She continued to puff on her cigarette, blowing rings of smoke into the air.
She was interesting-looking, Armand decided, but not beautiful. Her lips were too thin, her skin too pale, and her breasts too small. Still, she held herself with the manner of a woman who has never been told that she is anything but beautiful.
He continued to study her as she conversed about the Spanish countryside, Franco, and her love of olives. Her features softened as she spoke, her lips becoming fuller, her eyes turning an ethereal shade of blue.
Was she hypnotizing him? He probed her mind but came up empty.
She stopped chattering and regarded him with amused eyes.
“Stop trying to read me,” she laughed, throwing her head back. “And to answer your question, I wasn’t hypnotizing you. I used a Glamour spell. It only works for a short while, but that’s usually enough.”
“How did you know my thoughts?” He leaned forward with new interest. “And enough for what?”
“Enough to get people to pay attention to me, I suppose.” She shrugged, looking for her next cigarette in her petite purse. “As for knowing what’s in your head, I could see it in your energy sphere. I can’t read minds, but I can tune into a person’s emotions. Similar to what you do, I suppose.”
She smiled and batted her fake eyelashes.
“But you…you read minds, don’t you? Interesting. That’s a very rare gift. You must have done something right in a past life to have gotten that one.” She sat back in her chair, assessing him with a frown. “You won’t be able to read me though. I have shields.” She raised a thin eyebrow. “You should learn to block your own thoughts as well. Someone may use them against you one day.”
“Someone?”
“It’s just an expression.” She smiled and flicked an ash on the ground.
A sudden gust of wind caught the woman’s hat, sending it drifting in the direction of the founta
in. Armand was about to retrieve it when she stopped him.
“Don’t bother. I’ve kept that one for too long anyways. Sometimes you need to let go of old things to make room for the new.” They watched as the hat skipped across the courtyard before sailing over Mother Mary and into the ethers.
“I’m Sasha,” the woman introduced herself, stamping out her second cigarette and offering him her hand to shake. “I’m an actress. Or was, before the war.”
She couldn’t be more than a handful of years older than himself, not old enough to have seen World War Two. Perhaps it was the Korean War she referred to.
“I’m Armand,” he said, keeping his voice as flat and unaffected as he could.
If she could read him, even his energy, he didn’t want to give her information to use against him.
“You’re American.” She chewed on her bottom lip. Armand noted that she must not be a heavy smoker. Neither her teeth nor her fingers had yellowed. “From California, I’m guessing, by the accent and your clothes.” Her aura flared a fiery white. He rubbed his thumb and middle finger together, trying to conceal his interest.
“Don’t talk much, do you? I’ll bet you are a Scorpio.” Sasha leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “I can tell by your aura. It’s got that used car salesman smell.”
“A Scorpio? I don’t know.” He scratched his head, confused by the conversation. He wasn’t used to being led like this.
“What’s your birth date?”
“November 11th, 1942.”
“I knew it! Only a Scorpio transmits that kind of energy.” Her eyes were sharp, lending her a wisdom that didn’t match the smoothness of her complexion. “You radiate sex, too. That’s another tell. You should learn to put a lid on that or you might attract the wrong type of women.”
Armand grinned and leaned back, bridging his fingers together behind his head. This was the type of conversation he felt more comfortable with.
“Maybe I like the wrong type of women.”
Sasha’s jaw tightened. She leaned forward, a finger pointed at his face. “First off, comb your hair and brush your teeth before you make innuendos. It’s disgusting.”
“Uh...” Armand’s hands dropped to his side.
“Secondly, you’re not as clever and smooth as you think you are. I know who you are and I know what you are. You use women, without giving anything back. You think that because you’re great in the sack––or at least that’s what you tell yourself––that you don’t owe them anything more.” She looked him up and down, the right corner of her mouth curving into a scowl. “You don’t impress me at all.”
“Now listen, lady…” Armand’s face reddened. Any lingering drunkenness from the night before disappeared. “I didn’t invite you to sit down and I sure as hell didn’t ask for your opinions on my lifestyle.” He clenched and unclenched his fists.
A thought occurred to him. Isabella had vowed to pay him back the night she called him diablo. This strange woman could be a part of Isabella’s revenge.
“Give me your palm,” Sasha commanded.
Without waiting she reached across the table and took his still-clenched fists. She turned them face up, just as Armand had done to Isabella the night he’d told her he could predict her future.
He was about to pull away and leave the scene, when he felt Sasha’s energy ripple through him, like small electrical currents. He had never experienced such a sensation before. He opened his hands and watched as she traced the lines on his palms with her fingertips.
Sasha pressed her lips together, staring at his hands for a long time. Too long.
“I see,” she said.
With a shake of her head, she released him.
He shouldn’t ask what she’d seen. If she were sent by Isabella, she would say something meant to emasculate him, words about his inadequate size or his poor lovemaking skills.
Still, he needed to know. Did he have a future at all?
“Tell me what it is,” he demanded.
Sasha tilted her head; there was pity on her face. “You’re all alone in this world, and you always will be alone unless you change your ways.”
Sasha gathered her purse and stood to leave.
Armand grabbed for her hand but found the cool polished glass of her crystal bracelet instead. Colorful sparks shot into the air, so quickly and brightly Armand thought he’d imagined it.
She shook him away. “Scorpios can become the most exalted of all the Zodiac signs.” She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “Or the lowest. The choice is theirs.”
She started to walk away, then stopped. “One thing you must learn, young warlock, is that you will never be as powerful as a female-born witch.”
Armand watched as she crossed the square and returned to her friend, who eyed him suspiciously. They shared a laugh and then locked arms, disappearing down a narrow alley between two shops.
Young warlock? Female-born witch?
The woman wasn’t messing with his head, he realized.
She was just crazy. He must be, too, for talking to her.
His waiter returned to fill his coffee.
“No,” said Armand. “I’ll take a brandy. Keep them coming.”
Five
For the next three days, Armand kept to his rented room, living on the booze and pot he’d acquired during his last outing, the latter a score from his coffee serving waiter.
“It is dangerous,” his waiter said, looking up and down the alleys for sight of the officials. The policia were everywhere, and sometimes they didn’t wear their uniforms.
In between getting drunk and high he nibbled at the eggs, coffee, and pastries his landlady dropped by every afternoon.
“You need to eat,” she insisted, handing him his tray like he were a hospital patient. Armand would have argued had he not caught his own reflection in the mirror. His ribs were showing and the circles beneath his eyes now ringed them completely.
From time to time, he’d peek out the window, down the narrow slab of alley and into the square, contemplating whether it was safe to go outside.
Christ, he thought, searching for shadows in the alley. I’m hiding from two women, and I’ve only screwed one.
He tapped his booted heel against the floor. Why had his conversation with Sasha frightened him? She was just a woman, and a small one at that. But even though he tried to drink her away, her words continued to haunt him.
You’ll die alone.
––Ah, hell. I’m trapped in here like a caged lion.
––Just go home, for God’s sake.
––If I go home I’ll miss it.
––Miss what?
––I don’t know. Shut up. I don’t know.
His temples throbbed and he pushed his fingers into the sides of his head to ease the pressure. He walked the length of the small room and back again, his shoulder-length hair swooping behind him like a fiery cape. He stopped at his dresser and retrieved his pocket watch, feeling the small trace of his father’s energy spread through him. It was enough to remind him why he’d come to Santo Aldea in the first place.
“They’re just women,” he said, pulling on his jeans and tucking the watch into the front pocket. “I’ll give it a few more days, and then I leave. Isabella and that witch be damned.”
He waited until dusk and left his room.
His landlady grinned as she passed him in the hallway, her arms overflowing with clean sheets. “You’re getting out then? Good,” she smiled. “Your father would want that.”
Armand stopped in his tracks. “What did you say about my father?”
But she had already disappeared into another room, closing the door behind her.
The night was as cold and quiet as an old church.
Armand wrapped his arms around his chest as he wandered through the sleeping village like a crazy man, looking for God knows what. Whatever it was, it was the only thing that gave this pilgrimage any meaning.
He’d felt compelle
d to not only come here, to this small town, but to stay long after he should have gone.
A whistle sounded, an announcement that it was midnight. All citizens were encouraged to be indoors. Two uniformed men marched up one road and down another.
Bad things must only come out after midnight, Armand thought, scanning the dark alleys that surrounded him.
“Bad Things.” He spoke the words aloud that time, watching the steam roll from his mouth like dragon’s breath.
His mother had been fearful of bad things, telling him they lurked in every corner, waiting to get him if he let his guard down. And once, when Armand had successfully predicted that their car would be hit at an intersection by a truck, his mother had looked at him like he were one of those bad things.
Dong!
The church clock counted down another hour. Judgment was coming.
Returning to the square, Armand rubbed his hands together and seated himself on the edge of the fountain, ignoring the cherub’s mocking eyes and the frown that Mother Mary now adopted. Several lights glimmered above the neighborhood shops, bakers and craftsmen getting a jump on tomorrow’s wares.
He was struck again with homesickness.
He’d only been here a short time but he missed the Anaheim lights, the Hollywood sign, and the bars that stayed open until dawn. This Spanish village, with its curfews, its traditions, and its wares, was practically medieval in comparison.
And its bad things.
His father must not have been a great man; great men drew from cities.
Armand laid his back along the fountain’s edge, letting one hand dip into the cold water as he stared upwards into the night. There was no pollution or light to block out the stars here. They hurled themselves across the sky like tinsel on a Christmas tree. He knew he should have been awed by the scene, but he felt even lonelier and less significant than ever––a speck of nothingness in a vast galaxy waiting to swallow him up.