Certain Dark Things

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  Atl gritted her teeth and threw a bag of potato chips into her basket.

  She should not be in this situation in the first place, second-born and still woefully young. She was twenty-three in a family that could span centuries. Twenty-three and spoiled, because she had not cared much for anything that wasn’t fun and blood. She remembered Izel chiding her a few months ago for her disinterest in the family business, for gallivanting around the city on her new motorcycle. But Mother hadn’t cared.

  Atl smirked. Why would she? Mother had preferred Izel. Izel was the strong one. Izel was the heir. Izel was everything. Atl was just the spare.

  Now Izel was dead. And Atl couldn’t solve a thing.

  The bell rang again, startling her. Two cops walked into the joint.

  Atl’s hand tightened around the plastic handle of the basket. God damn luck. She steeled herself, shifting toward the back of the store, closer to the refrigerators.

  The teenagers were laughing raucously. They were popping chocolates into their mouths.

  “Hey, whose idea was it to park a car and take two whole spaces out front, huh?” one of the cops yelled.

  The teenagers turned their heads. One of them tripped and spilled dozens of bright, colorful chocolates onto the floor. They scattered wildly upon the white tiles.

  Atl felt the immediate desire to throw herself to her knees and start counting them. It was a nervous tic, a thing about her kind. She closed her eyes and rested a hand against one of the refrigerators.

  “It’s, like, for two minutes, man,” one of the teens said.

  “Two minutes. Okay, you fucker, show me your license. All of you, IDs and licenses.”

  One of the cops had lit a cigarette. She smelled it as if he were standing next to her. But he wasn’t. He was on the other side of the store. He wasn’t close. Everything was normal. She was just a normal person going out for a normal walk. Buying groceries. People did that.

  “You going to give me a fine?” one of the teenagers said. “Are you?”

  “What are you high on, kid?”

  Shoes squeaked upon the floor. The stench of the cigarette drifted closer to her.

  A cop was heading her way.

  She would be fine. She looked perfectly normal. She’d fed recently. Her eyes weren’t red, her cheeks were not too hollow.

  She would be fine.

  Atl looked down, staring at the prices stuck inside the refrigerator. Her lips moved silently, mouthing the numbers.

  The cop stopped next to her. She didn’t look at him.

  “Show me your license and ID,” he said.

  “I’m not with them,” Atl said. “You can ask them.”

  He paused to look at her. His gaze lingered.

  “Hey you, why are you handcuffing me, motherfucker? My dad is a lawyer, you dick!” one of the teenagers yelled.

  The cop next to Atl turned his head and yelled to the teenager.

  “Shut your mouth!” he said, then sighed and looked at her again. He seemed tired. “Damn kids, probably going out clubbing, you know?”

  She assented.

  The policeman opened the refrigerator door and pulled out an energy drink, then walked back to the front of the store. The teenagers were muttering to each other, the one who had been handcuffed still repeating the bit about his lawyer father. The policeman who had spoken to her told them they were headed to the station. They protested, and then came the expected bribery. Once they had their money the cops undid the teen’s handcuffs, bringing to an end the evening’s performance.

  The cashier, sitting behind the partition, returned to his TV watching as soon as the policemen and the teenagers left the store.

  Atl waited for a couple of minutes, grabbed an energy drink, and dumped it in her shopping basket before standing in front of the cashier and shoving a few bills beneath the opening in his partition. She didn’t bother waiting for him to give her her change.

  She walked outside, rubbed Cualli’s head, and glanced around her. The street was empty. She was fine.

  But she needed to make a damn move before she ended up like Mother and Izel. Now.

  “Come on,” she told the dog.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Rodrigo walked faster, scanning the lines outside the Zona Rosa’s nightclubs. It was close to midnight, he had a headache, and he needed a cigarette.

  It was the kid’s fault.

  Rodrigo had never felt like a stereotypical Renfield—or, the way the low-class assholes who couldn’t speak English pronounced it, Renfil. Yes, he’d seen how the young vampires treated their assistants and no, not all of them were nice to them. But Godoy was classy, he did things properly. And yet … Rodrigo was educated, refined, effective, and still Mr. Godoy felt the burning need to send his son with him, a vampire who had more teeth than he had common sense. Godoy trusted Rodrigo. But maybe not that much.

  Mr. Godoy insisted that someone from the family needed to go with the crew, making it sound like Rodrigo was a toddler instead of a grown-ass man. And when things turned sour in Guadalajara, Junior would not be left behind. Rodrigo had not wanted to bring Nicolás, El Nick, to Mexico City, not only because it was a pickle to smuggle a vampire into Mexico City, but also because he found the little prick insufferable.

  Then, to top it off, La Bola—who was huge, but not too bright, one of the younger goons who got along well with Nick—had not been watching the boy as he’d been told and now Nick was roaming around the Zona Rosa on his own. Ten vampire subspecies and Rodrigo had one of the most dangerous in his hands. Not to mention Nick was young. He could get into all kinds of trouble. He often did. But they weren’t on their home turf; the rules of the game were different.

  Rodrigo bumped into a man handing out leaflets advertising “seven dancing semi-virgins” onstage, and pushed him aside. The Zona Rosa had been famous as a gay area and many gay clubs still remained, but since the late ’90s a good chunk of it had transformed into Little Seoul, with a multitude of Internet cafés, restaurants, and clubs geared toward Koreans, dominating streets around Florencia. There were also a few men’s clubs, some fancier than others, and a lot of nightclubs, both Korean and Mexican, several of them adorned with a rainbow flag, which identified them as GLBT-friendly zones. It was fashionable for certain heterosexual Mexico City youths to dance at the GLBT clubs, though the Korean ones were not popular with outsiders.

  The Zona always looked a bit in decline, ever since the ’80s, its luster lost when massage parlors began replacing art galleries. The wealthier, more fashionable people danced in Polanco or Santa Fe, and they gave these old clubs—which were frankly a bit seedy—a wide berth. But the kids from nearby colonias did not know any better, other clubs were far away, and they couldn’t have gotten into El Congo even if they wanted to, so they lined up for the clubs at the Zona, where few bouncers checked IDs, merry and ready for a night of partying.

  Neon signs burned bright, flashing white and red and green. The themes of the clubs were wildly different. One going for the Wild West, another attempting a spaceship, the third a kitsch pink. Rodrigo crossed a street, avoiding two Cronengs who were asking for spare change. He elbowed through a gaggle of teens.

  Rodrigo finally spotted him. Nick was chatting with a girl who was standing in line outside a cheap club called Bananas, complete with a glowing neon blinking banana to signal its location.

  “Nick,” Rodrigo said.

  The boy turned his head, looking bored. He had the easy looks, easy swagger of his type, and the bad attitude to match. His clothes were neat and expensive. He sported sunglasses and a knowing smirk, always sharp at the edges.

  A handsome kid. His family were beautiful. Too beautiful. He’d heard about the uncanny valley. A sensation people get when they looked at computer-generated faces that approximate realistic human features, though imperfectly, causing a deep sense of revulsion because the slight imperfection signals there is something amiss. That’s exactly what Nick’s type inspired. The
feeling that something was very wrong. But it was a split-second thing, like a flash frame, and then you were subdued by the charm and the smile of the vampires.

  “Time to go.”

  For a moment Rodrigo doubted Nick was going to come, but then the boy whirled away from the girl and walked to his side, removing his sunglasses, his eyes very mean and deep. Christ, it was the eyes that did it for him. Rodrigo wasn’t scared of vampires. He’d been working for them for years and they—barring a couple of species—looked pretty similar to humans, at least most of the time and for the most part. And the feeling, the nagging feeling of danger that came with them, he’d grown used to that. But the eyes, it was the eyes that bothered him with boys like Nick, the eyes he could never get used to. They were very large, their pupils dilating until it seemed like the vampire had just returned from a visit to the optometrist. It was a small detail, to be sure, something most people might not catch, but boy did those eyes with those dilated pupils give Rodrigo a bad feeling.

  He swallowed his dismay, as he always did, pushed it down and away. “What do you think you are doing?” Rodrigo asked.

  “Nothing,” Nick said.

  “You can’t hunt here.”

  Not with sanitation crews sweeping the city. Bribes could buy almost anything back north, but this was not the North. This was good old Mexico City, which had fallen to the Spaniards but would not yield to vampires. Rodrigo had no time to bury a corpse for this spoiled kid. And if Nick didn’t mean to drink and kill, if he meant to drink and gain control of a human—that nasty trick the Necros loved to play—well, that wasn’t going to happen either. It was too fucking risky.

  “Who said anything about hunting?”

  “Don’t bullshit me, pretty boy,” Rodrigo said.

  The neon banana sign blinked from yellow to green and then back to yellow. Nick flashed him a smile that was all teeth.

  “What if I was hunting? These people are nobody.”

  “Nobody can still call the cops. If you’re hungry we’ll head back to the apartment and open one of those blood packs,” Rodrigo reminded the kid.

  “Drinking that blood is like drinking piss.”

  “Nothing I can do about it.”

  “We should be hunting that bitch down,” Nick said as he fiddled with his sunglasses, thought it over, and put them on again.

  “I might do that if you hadn’t left the apartment without an escort. It’s Mexico City.”

  “I don’t need an escort. Give me a cigarette,” Nick said, snapping his fingers.

  Damn twat, Rodrigo thought, but he took out his cigarettes. Gauloises. He never smoked anything else. Lighter, American-style cigarettes were for pansies. You either smoked dark or went home. Rodrigo smoked dark, and he smoked a lot.

  He took out two cigarettes and struck a match, lighting both and handing one to Nick. Nick took a puff, gave the line of young people one last look, and shrugged.

  “Fine, let’s head back to the apartment,” Nick said.

  They had to walk several blocks, back in the direction of Parque España. They stopped at a liquor store because Nick wanted booze. Nick’s kind—Necros, though jokers called them “Necros nacos,” the trashy vampires—drank like it was going out of fashion. Something to do with endophenotypes, but Rodrigo was no biologist.

  True to his heritage, Nick put half a dozen bottles of vodka into a green shopping basket. He also wanted absinthe. Not just any absinthe. Czech absinthe, using the original formula, with authentic wormwood. They did not have any and Nick looked like he was going to pitch a fit. Rodrigo convinced him to take two bottles of whiskey and said he’d find him absinthe later.

  When they walked into the apartment they found La Bola eating fried chicken and playing video games. He sucked his fingers and waved at them.

  “Where are Colima and Nacho?” Rodrigo asked as soon as he closed the door.

  “They’ve gone to find those cousins they mentioned. To help with the job.”

  Rodrigo had brought only three operatives with him. He needed a few extra hands to help out. It would not be difficult to recruit a few more guns. Nacho and Colima had relatives here, eager for a break, for a ticket back north. These thugs were cheap and easy to come by. He might have been able to play it with just the lot he had, but Rodrigo didn’t want to take chances. Although Atl was alone, she was still a vampire and she’d already given them a run for their money. Of course, Rodrigo had Nick, but Nick was young and hardly well trained for such a task. He’d lost the girl when they were in Jalisco; she’d slipped from his fingers despite his macho posturing. It hardly mattered how big your fangs were if your prey could outwit you, and land a mighty good punch in your face, breaking a few of those sharp teeth. He healed fast—vampires like Nick were like sharks and there was always a tooth behind the one that just fell out. When they were angry, their maws were a scary sight—but facts were facts. Nick had been outwitted by a girl.

  “I wonder what they’ll bring,” Nick said. “Colima and Nacho are vermin. I liked Justiniano.”

  “Justiniano’s dead and vermin serves its purpose.”

  Nick grabbed one of the bottles and opened it. He sat down on the couch and began drinking it straight from the bottle, vodka dribbling down his chin.

  “Come,” Rodrigo said, motioning to La Bola.

  They headed from the living room to the studio. Rodrigo kept two places, one in Sinaloa and this other one. Of the two, the Mexico City apartment was the grander place even if he visited it sparingly. It had more style, more things, more of him. The apartment was large, with tall ceilings. There was a monochromatic look about the furniture, everything black and white, though he added dashes of color with several paintings of vast sizes hanging from the walls.

  The studio was very much the same. A huge desk, a couple of comfortable chairs, and his rare books on display. Electronic books might be easy to purchase, but Rodrigo was a collector, not a consumer. This, he thought, was what differentiated him from the vampire lords—God, the affront of these drug pushers to call themselves lords—who splashed their cash with no taste. Rodrigo had taste. He had style.

  He couldn’t say the same for everyone else.

  “Sit,” Rodrigo ordered.

  La Bola sat on one of his fine leather chairs. While Rodrigo was short and skinny, La Bola was a tall, beefy man. Despite their difference in bulk, La Bola looked at Rodrigo meekly.

  As soon as La Bola sat, Rodrigo approached him and punched him in the face.

  “You moron, didn’t I tell you to keep an eye on the kid?”

  “I was, Rodrigo! But this is Mr. Godoy’s son. I can’t just—”

  “Lock him in the bedroom if that’s what it takes. What do you think Mr. Godoy will say if his son gets picked up by sanitation?”

  “He said he was just going to get himself some tail,” La Bola babbled.

  “Wake up, you moron. How long have you been around vamps, huh? Three years?”

  La Bola raised a couple of fingers. “Two.”

  “You should know better, shithead. Tail ain’t ever just tail. Not for Nick. I shouldn’t have talked your dad into letting you work for me.”

  “I’m sorry, Rodrigo.”

  “Just watch him, properly.”

  “I will,” La Bola muttered as he rubbed his face. “Um … Rodrigo, did your contact know anything about the girl?”

  “No,” Rodrigo said, irritated. “But she was in Toluca. I confirmed as much. Which means she’s here. Somewhere.”

  “Hey, Rodrigo! I want pizza!”

  Nick. He was probably guzzling his second bottle and aching for greasy food.

  “Go take care of him,” Rodrigo told La Bola in a low voice.

  La Bola dipped his head, hurrying back to the living room.

  Rodrigo stretched his arms and smoothed his suit, pausing to check his black enamel cuff links. He glanced at himself in the great floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror that adorned the south wall of the office. Gray, thinning hair, parte
d in the middle. A web of wrinkles etched on his face. Teeth slowly yellowing. Yes, he was getting old. Maybe too old for these games. Even a vampire’s goon deserves a pension and a peaceful retirement.

  He’d go live somewhere sunny. Somewhere where he’d never have to stare another bloodsucker in the face. He’d killed enough of them for Godoy.

  Just one more, he thought. Just that blasted girl. How long can she run, anyway?

  CHAPTER

  4

  Domingo woke late. He stretched his arms, propped himself up on his elbows, and reached for the hand-crank lantern. He wound it up and then lit an oil lamp and a candle for good measure.

  There was no electricity in the web of narrow underground tunnels that ran downtown, but it was a free space to hang out and he didn’t mind having to maintain a mountain of lanterns on hand. Besides, Domingo did not need electricity, not when he had his comic books. He raised the lantern and looked at his special pile of vampire comic books. He had a big stash of them.

  Domingo stared at the colorful panels. Eventually he turned his attention to the wall he had plastered with magazine and book covers. He ran a hand over an image of a vampire woman in a long white dress, a misty forest behind her.

  Vampires. Danger. Adventure. He’d met one and she was damn pretty.

  Domingo looked at the pile of hybrid personal protective clothing he was putting together for the rag-and-bone man. He should do some work, collect more clothes, take empty bottles to the recycling center. But he did not need to. He had money. He had a whole fortune.

  Domingo did not know how to spend all that cash. After careful consideration he decided he needed breakfast. He exited the tunnel and walked into a fast-food joint, where he purchased an egg-and-sausage combo. It didn’t taste the way it looked in the picture, but he wolfed it down and bought a large orange juice at a stand outside. He drank it in a few quick gulps, then went back for a milk shake.