Once he laid the foundation of the drawing, then cool. People could stop and stare; the hombres could smoke reefer below and holler up at him with music blaring from cars. That was the only thing he didn’t like about doing outside, mural work. It wasn’t private. An artist needed a studio, a place to intimately commune with his work without commentary from a street peanut gallery. So, a piece of the night stolen while the brothers were drag racing, clubbing, or getting booty was the time to think out the wall until he had the image perfected.
A spray can tumbled into his hand as he dug into his pocket, his sole focus on the wall, his eyes unseeing, only envisioning the image that would grace it. Then, he began to work. Before long, his back and chest and armpits were damp. The cool night stung his scalp through his wet hair. Glorious images careened through his mind, sparked impassioned motions through his outstretched arm, his body bending and swaying in a choreographed union with his art. Soon blue and red lights dappled the walls. The familiar whoop of a police siren stopped the dance, broke the divine meditation, and made him stand up straight, hands in the air.
“Get off the scaffolding!” an angry voice yelled through a loudspeaker.
Jose turned slowly. “I’m an artist that’s been—”
“Down. Now, buddy!”
Two officers exited their patrol car.
“We are sick of you little bastards destroying property!” one officer shouted. “An artist my ass!”
Jose closed his eyes, keeping his arms outstretched. “Man, I’ve got a letter from the city in my pocket that says—”
He heard gun holsters unsnap. He opened his eyes quickly and remained as still as possible. “I need my hands to climb down, man!”
“Where are you going?” Juanita’s mother blocked the door and looked at her hard.
“Only out with my brother, Momma. He has a friend he wanted me to meet, and there’s a party—”
Her mother made the sign of the crucifix over her chest. “Your older brother breaks my heart with his friends. They’re all dope dealers and—”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Momma,” Juanita pleaded. “I stayed home after I went to work and watched—”
“That’s right, you should stay home and watch your little brother after work! What else more important do you have to do? I work sixteen hours a day to keep you all fed. Now I should feel guilty for wanting my daughter to be here, to stay away from the streets that have taken my eldest son?”
“I’m almost twenty, Momma. You act like—”
“I act like what? Who is this friend?”
Juanita measured her words. What could she tell her mother when she was in a state like this? The woman wasn’t rational. There were young girls in the neighborhood who were sixteen and had more freedom than her. After her father died she’d done her best to stand by her mother’s side, to help her out as much as she could. But it seemed as if her life was not her own!
“Juan’s friend is a cousin of the Riveras and just a little older, plus he’s—”
“Madre d’Dios! Men from that family have been spawned by the devil himself. Lucifer! How many young women have fallen to their lusts?” Her mother’s gaze roved over her. “Look at you, dressed like a tramp! Red halter. Jeans. Fancy little sandals and hair all over your head, with makeup like a whore. And you want me to believe this. Rivera person or whoever, cousin of Satan, is some sort of saint—”
“He’s Juan’s friend!” Juanita shrieked. “Because of you, Momma, and Juan threatening to shoot anyone who would come near me, nobody has ever asked me to a dance! No one has ever dared set foot in this house to come see me! No one! This is the first real chance any of his friends took notice! I don’t want to be like you!” She turned away from her mother, tears brimming to fall and smear mascara. Her mother spun her around with a hard yank and slapped her hard enough for her to see stars.
“Never do you speak to your momma with such disrespect! Who fed you? Who clothed you? Who kept a roof over your head! Who kept you clean, kept you from being pregnant and thrown away like all your girlfriends? Me! Your mother who loved you and deserves respect!” She smoothed her hands down her floral-print housecoat. “So, now, because I’m fat, and old, and my hair isn’t pretty… because my face has wrinkles from worry over my children, I know nothing of the world? I don’t deserve your ear to hear me?”
Guilt and shame collided with hurt until Juanita couldn’t breathe. She just wanted to be normal, have fun, and not waste being young cooped up in a house with her praying momma and aging grandmother to become some old maid.
Looking at her mother through teary eyes, Juanita held the side of her face. “You said ‘loved,’ not ‘loves,’” Juanita whispered.
Her mother’s angry gaze narrowed. “Who could love a daughter who is so ungrateful? I swore that if my own treated me that way, she would be dead to me.” Her mother turned away, sniffed hard, wiped her eyes, and strode into the kitchen. “Take off that harlot’s outfit and go wash your face!” she yelled over her shoulder.
Juanita remained rooted to the floor where she stood. Her own mother had said such things and meant it? Her own momma? Covering her mouth, Juanita stifled a sob. How could she? Hadn’t she graduated from high school, gotten a job, and gone to work at the corner pharmacy, never once complaining that the dream to go to college to study business was a dream deferred, because no provisions had been made for her education? She was a good daughter, who understood why no one had thought about the future when she was conceived. Until now, she’d accepted that no one cared that she had been the babysitter, the maid, the cook, the one to run a household while her mother worked herself to death night and day.
Her brother Juan was supposed to be the man of the house but was destroying the house. Yet, even for all her vicious words about Juan, her Momma still doted on him, even knowing where his money came from. He never had to lift a finger around the house because he was a so-called man. Didn’t Momma know she was the stable one, the one who could be counted on? Of course she didn’t have babies early; she’d seen what taking care of an infant was from constantly watching her younger brother—work. She knew what running a full household was—work. She was the maid! Her middle name was Work, her last name was Duty hyphenated with Commitment… and for the offense of wanting to go out with a handsome friend of her brother’s, she’d been struck?
That was it. The battles were over. No matter how much she tried to get her mother to see, the woman was still blind. A whore? A harlot? She had never even been with a man yet, at her age, and her mother had called her those terrible things?
Pure heartbreak made Juanita’s legs move her toward the door. Alienation and defeat helped her quietly slip out of the house. She wouldn’t wait for Juan to come home to pick her up. She didn’t want to meet this fine friend of his who had a street hustle. She didn’t want to be called a whore while still a virgin. She no longer wanted to carry the weight of her mother’s fury or frustration or bitterness. She couldn’t take all the superstition and omens about demons in her mother’s shrieking dreams. No more. She couldn’t stand by and watch another year go by, hoping, wanting, her nose pressed to the glass of approval for change.
The double standard propelled her quickly down to the end of the block. Her brother could be a male whore, drink, sell drugs, and do whatever, but she had been struck for thinking about a party… for hoping that this friend of Juan’s might dance with her, flirt with her… might even kiss her one day. Bitter tears fell as she began to run blindly into the night, avoiding neighbors’ waves, cars, and pedestrians she didn’t know.
Following the bus route, she hurried down blocks, unafraid. She’d never go back home, would never cross that threshold again. She was grown! She was a good daughter! She had a job and would get her own place, somehow.
A bus rolled by and slowed at the corner. Juanita got on and fumbled for change and bills, dropping coins in her distress. Numb, blank stares greeted her as she pushed her way
to the back of the lumbering vehicle, and she clasped a pole for support with her eyes closed.
God, just take me away from here. Anywhere but her mother’s house. Take her away from the hurts and insults, the verbal lashings, the constant suspicion and accusations. There had to be a place out there somewhere where beauty replaced the ugliness within human souls… where the air was clear and clean, where the stink of city garbage didn’t exist. A place where there were flowers and trees and quiet beauty… a place where someone loved her for who she was, not who he thought she was. She missed Papi, his warm bear hugs and the way he called her princess and made her feel like she was just that—his baby doll.
Her father was the only one who didn’t think her dreams were foolish and who calmed the night terrors when she dreamed of monsters… her mother thought she was possessed when she saw those things. Her momma said her visions were coming from the evil resident within her.
Blessed Mary, Mother of God, have mercy on her and send her into arms that would protect her from the cold, dead night.
Chapter Two
Spread-eagled on the hood of the police cruiser, Jose gritted his teeth as his legs were kicked open and his body frisked for a weapon. His letter from the city might as well have been toilet paper, for all the good it did him. Anger fused with spray paint, engine fumes, gasoline, and the cops’ dank sweat plus a hint of sulfur made him want to hurl. But he knew better than to argue with LA cops down in the barrios. Going to lockup was the least of his worries; getting shot and beat down was a high probability.
But the scent of something was raising the hair on the back of his neck in the darkened street. A shadow flitted past his peripheral vision, and in reflex he jerked his head up, only to have it slammed down again.
“You resisting arrest, punk?” one burly officer said.
“Naw, man,” Jose said between clenched teeth. “I saw something outta the corner of my eye.”
The two officers glanced at each other.
“Better check it out,” the tall, lean one said. “Might be more of ‘em out here with this one. They always work in packs.”
“Call for backup,” the thick officer with a barrel chest warned.
“Gimme a minute. You stay here with this punk. I’ll just do a quick recognizance; then we can haul his ass in.”
Jose was yanked back by his shirt.
“Get in the car.”
The officer who was still with him had opened the door, taken the safety off his revolver, and begun to shove him into the vehicle when they all saw it. The building came alive, blackness pouring over the edges of the windows, sliding out from under the bolted doors. The two officers backed up, and the three men stood paralyzed for a second by terror.
It seemed like the ooze had created a yawning blackness that was darker than the night, and then within the fragile seconds it took for natural human reaction, the surreal darkness separated, took flight, and hundreds of bats fanned out in the air.
“Oh, shit!” the burly officer yelled as tiny beasts swarmed him in a billowing funnel cloud.
Gunfire ripped from his revolver as his bellows turned to screams. Fearing what he was seeing more than a shot in the back, Jose made a break for his motorcycle. He immediately smashed on his helmet to keep the vicious flying creatures from attacking his head.
Jose turned to glance over his shoulder only once to see a swarm gather around the other cop and then become a large singular entity masquerading as a bald, jaundiced-hued, black-suited man with hooked claws, red gleaming eyes, and fangs. He was out.
Stomping down on the motor, he careened away from the highway underpass near the scaffold-clad building, heading for open, wide streets that were populated by something that made sense—people. In a blur, a wisp of red fabric stabbed into his vision from the sidewalk. The high-pitched scream of a woman became a Doppler effect in his mind, welding it to the piercing decibel of screeches from the things that flew.
Billowing sulfur-tainted smoke obscured all but the woman’s terror-stricken brown eyes as he drove, turning to look over his shoulder, hunkered down to keep control of the bike. The sound of guttural moans, then the stench of blood made him hock and spit in the wind as his bike raced down the center of the lonely street. He wasn’t stopping for shit!
“Oh, my God! Help me!”
The female voice rang in his ears behind him. The familiar scent dragged his bike to a pivoting spin. Two beasts had her cornered against a vacant building in a huddled mass. He reached, one-handed, into his saddlebags and found paint. His bike became a weapon, hitting the curb and barreling down the sidewalk playing chicken with the unknown. Something landed on his seat behind him with a heavy thud, but his Harley was a part of his body, and Jose instantly whirled around to blacken gleaming eyes with paint, sending the invader shrieking to the ground clutching its hideous face.
Kicking and screaming, the woman covered her head as a predator bent. But the thing looked up too late to avoid Harley wheels burning at 80 miles an hour. Jose braced for the tumble, expecting the collision to throw him from the bike. Instead the entity parted in a foul splatter of sulfuric green gook that wet his helmet, chest, and the sidewalk.
“Jump on!” Jose yelled. “Up now, or I’m leaving you!”
The woman scrambled to her feet and immediately mounted his bike. Gone in seconds, he zigzagged them into traffic, popping a wheelie as they entered a busy intersection to make cars stop and give way.
His heart thudded, sweat blinding him along with demon gook on his helmet shield, forcing him to snatch it off and let it bounce away in the street. Frightened hands clung to his chest, and a feminine face pressed to his shoulder blades. He rode like the night wind itself, still smelling approaching sulfur.
Lead the mass of shrieking demons to his mother’s home?
Impossible. Stop riding? Not likely. Talk to this chick on the back of his bike and figure out how to ditch the unexpected passenger along the way? Not. Oh yeah, hang around and try to explain that he hadn’t butchered two cops? Suicide. Stop? Oh, hell no. Not until he ran out of gas. Not until he was somewhere safe. Not until his heart stopped slamming into his chest. Not until he reached the only place in the world where he knew people who believed in such things and had something to deal with it—Grandpop’s.
They came to a stop on an old dusty road on reservation lands. An old man sat on the porch chewing the stem of a worn corncob pipe with a smile.
Jose’s grandfather stood with effort, his tattered red and gray plaid shirt loosely blowing in the just-before-dawn breeze. He came to the edge of the porch rail and waited and shoved his hands in his brown corduroy pants. The old man simply nodded as the coyotes howled. Waning moonlight washed across his silver hair which hung in two long braids over his chest.
“The Thunderbirds sent you,” Jose’s grandfather murmured, and then looked up at the moon. “You smelled them?”
Jose leaned his head against the bike handlebar, too spent to immediately respond. “I’m freaked out, Pops. No riddles right now.”
“I was on the bus,” the girl clinging to him sobbed. “I was; I was… Then the bus stopped at the end of the line. I got off!” she said, her voice rising in hysteria. “It was deserted and I was afraid, so I headed toward police lights in the distance, and then… and then… oh, dear Mother of God…” She pressed her face to Jose’s back and wept.
“We know,” the old man said calmly. “The council of elders had a vision. It is the season for these things.”
Jose felt the woman behind him cringe but lift her head. He looked at his grandfather with a harsh glare. “This wasn’t gypsy moths, Pops! The season? The freakin’ season! Do you know what they did to two cops? Have you any idea what—”
“Yes,” his grandfather said in a calm tone. “Your training to guard the innocent begins with a harsh lesson, because you bear the totem of the Thunderbird. You are a sensor. Your gift is like that of the wolf, a tracker, but you fly like the night wind, and portend
the rains of change.” He signed a calm, satisfied sigh. “Come into the house, wash, and eat. The women have clothes for her. I have clothes for you. We’ve been waiting for you both for a very long time.”
Jose watched his grandfather go into the house with quiet dignity. His serene acceptance of their story was both comforting and unnerving. Trying to piece together the fragments of reality that still existed within his mind, Jose finally turned to the woman on the back of his bike.
“Listen, sis… this ain’t no place to be. I’m sorry I didn’t drop you off in LA, but shit…”
He rubbed his hands down his face and kicked the bike stand down so he could dismount. She still had her palms covering her face, breathing into them slowly as though holding back a scream. He knew exactly where she was at—freaked out.
Rather than dismount, he turned to her and touched her tousled hair. “What’s your name?”
She didn’t answer, just dragged her breaths in and out of her lungs as though about to have an asthma attack. “I saw it all in my dream,” she whispered. “The same one I have almost every night. I never saw his face… the man on the bike. But the demons, the street… the dead cops—I saw it all!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Jose grabbed her by both arms. “Come again? Tell me the dream!” he nearly shouted.
As she lifted her head slowly from her hands, the same eyes he’d seen night after haunting night stared back at him until her gorgeous heart-shaped face was revealed. Tears and terror had made circles under her eyes from bled mascara. But it was her. He let his gaze trail down her torso. Oh yeah… it was her. Violet-laden perfume, Dove soap, and adrenaline-spiked pheromone got separated out from her skin in layers to attack his senses with dream-memory. The scent bottomed out in his stomach and made it clench.
“I never saw his face,” she murmured, “because he wore a black helmet.” She allowed her gaze to slide down Jose’s torso. “But he was wet with sweat. And I know the bike…” Her words trailed off as she glanced at his hands. “I know those hands,” she added quietly. “Same grip.”
Love At First Bite Page 9