Certain Dark Things

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  Afterward, he headed to an Internet café. It was one of the large ones, with many rows of booths squeezed next to each other. Each booth had a door with a latch that would open only after you tossed tokens into a slot. Domingo bought a handful of tokens from an attendant at the front counter who was chewing bubble gum, then squeezed himself into an empty booth.

  Domingo sat in a ratty fake leather chair that had been patched one too many times. The computer screen was hidden behind a partition, and Domingo had to insert more tokens into a slot before the partition opened. He scooted closer to the computer screen, clumsily thumbing it until a few options showed up. He chose keyboard input, and a compartment beneath the screen slid open. He pulled out the keyboard.

  The breathy moans of a woman spilled into Domingo’s narrow space. He frowned. The woman panted and moaned again. The guy in the next cubicle must be watching porn.

  Domingo pulled out his frayed headphones, carefully wrapped with insulating tape, and pushed the play button on the music player. Depeche Mode began to sing about a personal Jesus. Domingo didn’t know a whole lot about music, but when he’d first found his player it was filled with ’80s songs and he’d listened to mixtures of Soda Stereo and Duran Duran with fascination. He’d asked Quinto about the bands, because Quinto knew all kinds of weird things. Quinto had taken him to an Internet café much like the one he was in now. They’d downloaded more tracks and Quinto had talked about a new wave, but Domingo told him he’d never seen the ocean.

  Domingo did a search for the word “Tlāhuihpochtli.” Stories about gangs, murders, and drugs filled the view screen, images quickly superimposing until they formed a large mosaic. Domingo tugged at the images, running his fingers across the screen.

  He scrolled through an article about the history of the Tlahuelpocmimi, pausing to look at the images that accompanied the text. They were black-and-white illustrations that looked very old, but were nothing like the pictures of the European vampires in the graphic novels. No one was wearing a cape, for one.

  “Mexico’s native vampire species, with roots that go back to the time of the Aztecs,” he whispered.

  The article had lots of information but it used very big words he didn’t know, such as “hematophagy,” “endemic,” “anticoagulants,” and “matrilineal stratified sept.” Domingo could read well enough, but these words and sentences were much harder than the ones in the mags. He gave up on the article, preferring to stare at the bold headlines and colorful pictures of the vampire gangsters. Those resembled the comic books he kept at his place; he was comfortable with this kind of stuff.

  Domingo opened another page and read the headline twice.

  CHILD KILLERS.

  “The Tlahuelpocmimi have a specialized diet. They consume only the blood of the young.”

  The accompanying illustration showed a line drawing of three hags huddled together. One of them was holding a baby up by its foot, dangling it above her grotesquely, impossibly large mouth. The other two were rubbing their hands together, waiting their turn.

  But no. Atl had not killed him. Atl was not an ugly, old woman.

  A countdown number blinked on the screen. If Domingo wished to stay inside the booth, he would need to dump more tokens into the slot. Instead, he stood up and left. The attendant was banging on the door next to Domingo’s, urging the bum who had fallen asleep inside to get out.

  It was raining when Domingo stepped out. He pulled up his jacket’s hood and walked up the street, hands in his pockets. He went back to the tunnels, lit a couple of candles, and fell upon his old mattress, thinking about Atl. He knew plenty of assholes. One didn’t get to be his age and live in the streets without bumping into a few of them. Atl didn’t strike him as one of the bad guys. And she was beautiful. And he hadn’t been with a girl in a while.

  Domingo wondered what it might be like to date someone as pretty and special as Atl. He had never really dated. There were hurried copulations in back alleys, the kind street kids manage. The rest he could only imagine, the stuff of commercials for wedding dresses and tuxedo rentals.

  Domingo placed a hand beneath his head.

  He remembered Belén and there was a sour taste in his mouth.

  Belén liked to wear her hair braided with plastic beads. She had a gap-toothed smile but she was nice. They’d snuggled together in the park, her head resting on his shoulder. Then Belén had gone off with the Jackal and he couldn’t even talk to her after that.

  Domingo blew out the candles, turned on his music player, and the happy beats of ’80s pop music lulled him to sleep.

  He went to the public baths the next morning. He bought a ticket for a public bath with a tub instead of the communal showers and purchased two hours of bath time with unlimited use of water. He made a point to purchase the expensive shampoo and soap. He also bought a shaving kit.

  Domingo usually brought laundry to wash at the baths, but not this day. He filled the tub with warm water and slipped in, soaking until his fingers were wrinkled. He washed his hair with lots of shampoo. Two years before he’d had lice. It had been very annoying. He had to buy a soap that smelled bad and a lice comb to get rid of the infestation. It might have been easier to shave his hair off, but Domingo thought that his hair was one of his best features.

  Once he was done with his bath, Domingo stepped out of the tub and wrapped the towel he had brought with him, tying it around his waist. He did not shave often. It was not like he had a lot of facial hair, merely some incipient whiskers. But he wanted to appear well groomed. He lathered his face and shaved.

  After his bath, Domingo went clothes shopping. He had never bought new clothes in his entire life. When he was still living at home, before his stepdad kicked him out, he’d enjoyed the hand-me-downs of his older brothers. On the streets, when he was washing car windows, there was little chance of new clothes. Now that he gathered garbage he found enough stuff among the rubbish to wear. Shoes, hats, jackets. If the rag-and-bone man didn’t want them, Domingo kept them. But that day he had money and he ventured into a department store.

  He tried on fancy jeans, peered curiously into the full-length mirror. He’d looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror of cars and in bathrooms. Not like this, under so many lights, three mirrors angled and repeating his image.

  Domingo observed himself critically. His hair was longish and a rich, pleasant brown. His mouth, when he opened it, revealed ugly, crooked teeth. He had bushy eyebrows, a broad nose. He was not handsome, but he thought that if he stood upright and if he kept his mouth shut he looked fine.

  He decided to buy a gift for Atl because he’d seen an ad for diamonds near a bus stop once that had informed him that diamonds celebrate the greatest love stories.

  He wandered around the jewelry department, staring at rings, earrings, necklaces, pins. They looked too frilly, too simple, too elaborate, too cheap. He settled at last on a watch. It was completely black save for the hands, which were white. He asked the lady behind the counter to wrap it.

  Domingo walked out nearly broke and feeling very happy even though he had only a few bills in his pocket and he was starting to feel hungry.

  It was dark by the time he made it to Atl’s apartment building. He stood outside for a while, trying to figure out how he was going to get in, before an old lady with a dog and a bag of groceries opened the front door. He politely held the door for her and was able to gain access to the building this way.

  He looked at the mailboxes in the lobby. A few of them were labeled with the occupant’s name. Others said simply TENANT. None said Atl. He figured he could remember her door, just as he’d tattooed the way to her building in his mind, and climbed the stairs to her floor.

  When he reached her door, he held his breath and knocked. He couldn’t hear anything inside. Domingo knocked again. Silence.

  He was going to knock a third time when the door swung open suddenly. The dog growled at him. Atl leaned against the doorframe, frowning. Her eyes were a bit red,
like she’d been up for a long time.

  “Hi. Atl. Um … What are you doing tonight?” he asked lamely. He’d practiced his greeting. It had sounded better in his head.

  “Go away,” she said.

  “Wait,” he said, holding up his hands in front of him. “I figure you want a steady person. Steady food, no? And … the other day, it was, ah … it was fun. Kind of.”

  “Fun,” she repeated.

  “I just … I have this hunch about you. I think we could be friends. That’s what you said, no? That you’re looking for a friend.”

  He was going to add that she seemed kind of lonely and he was kind of lonely too, but she stared at him so hard all he could do was look down at his shoes knowing he’d probably fucked it up. He ought to have given her the gift first.

  “You’re not getting any more money, all right?” she said. “I don’t need food right now. There’s no sense in you coming here.”

  “You only eat young blood, no?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I do,” she said. “Before you even think about it, that doesn’t make me a Lucy Westenra, all right?”

  “Like in Dracula? Oh, I read that one,” he said.

  He’d also watched a black-and-white movie with that bloke, Germán Robles, which wasn’t quite Dracula but wasn’t far from it either. He should ask her if she’d seen the film.

  Her frown deepened. He heard voices coming down the hallway. People were walking their way.

  “Get in,” Atl said, pulling him inside.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Atl had made a mistake. The kid had found his way back. She was a silly girl. She would die.

  She rubbed her wrist, nervous. She could kill him, could stuff his body in the bathtub. It would decompose, and what if he made a ruckus and what if … what if … Somebody was coming down the hallway and what if those were cops? Surely they were cops.

  Cool it, she thought. She had made it from Sinaloa. She had avoided Godoy’s agents and fooled everyone in Guadalajara, backtracking and sneaking into Mexico City. She was young and she was not prepared for this, but she was not foolish. What was he? Nothing but a street kid without common sense. She would make him leave. If he wouldn’t go willingly, then she’d kill him.

  “Yeah, Dracula,” she muttered as she locked the door.

  Atl stared at Domingo until he lowered his gaze, studying his shoes. Had he … bathed? And the clothes looked new. What was this, a bizarre courtship ritual?

  “I read the comic book adaptation, actually. It was good. I figure it’s the same thing as the book, no? I … you know this article it talked about vampires and children and blood and there was a picture of a baby—”

  She drank the blood of young people, not babies! Suddenly Atl was more offended that he thought she ate infants than worried because he’d returned to her apartment.

  “Be quiet,” she ordered.

  The voices were drawing closer. She heard laughter, a giggle. Three, four people. They were in front of her door for a moment, but they kept walking. Not cops. Just other tenants.

  Atl let out a sigh and looked at Domingo. He had extended his hand as if to pet the dog.

  “He’ll bite your hand off,” she warned him, and Domingo stopped in midair.

  Izel had given Atl her first dog. Izel loved animals. She was fond of her axolotls, but she also had a thing for snakes and spiders. When they would drive around and Izel spotted roadkill, she would often stop to look at it. Sometimes she buried the animals in the desert.

  “What’s it called?” Domingo asked.

  Atl crossed her arms, leaning her back against the front door. “I said I’m not paying you.”

  “I know. I didn’t come for money. I have a gift for you.”

  He took out a white box from his jacket. It was wrapped with a red bow. Atl tore the paper off. Instinct. That innate desire for presents and secrets. A compulsion similar to the one that drove her to count grains of rice and beans in jars.

  It was a watch. Atl felt it going tick-tick-tick beneath her fingers. Such a pleasant and reassuring sound.

  She shook her head, raising an eyebrow at the boy. “Why are you giving me this?”

  “I wanted to get you something pretty. Do you like it?”

  “Take it back,” she said, tossing it to him and slowly circling the living room like a wild cat inspecting its cage.

  “It’s not a cheap plastic one. It’s a nice one.”

  “Look, you’ve got to get a few facts straight, all right? I’m not in Mexico City on vacation. You don’t want to hang out with me. Trust me, I’m more likely to bite your head off than give you a hug. Understood?”

  She spoke more to herself than to him. He was nobody of importance. A speck, a nothing.

  “You can really bite someone’s head off?” Domingo said, excited. “That’s cool!”

  “Jesus,” Atl said, standing still and staring at him. “Are you some sort of fanboy?”

  Domingo shook his head. “No.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “You seem all right. I like your dog,” he said. “I didn’t have anything to do so I thought I’d say hi.”

  What an idiot, she thought. He wasn’t even there to blackmail her, not that he had the air of a blackmailer. But maybe she was the greater fool because she was starting to think, starting to consider … a tlapalēhuiāni. They had different names for them—some called them Renfields or blood lackeys or other nicknames, but she thought that was a disservice—although the rules were pretty constant regardless of names. Human servants, loyal to a vampire. The particulars might vary, but in general it was a type of vassalage, taken rather seriously by vampires. Renfields represented an extension of the value of the vampire’s clan, so you would not have a Renfield dressed shabbily or behaving in a dishonorable way. Killing a vampire’s Renfield was akin to injuring a family member, and Renfields were protected by whatever treaty was arranged between vampire clans. Vampires tended to keep only one or two Renfields, though they might employ many humans in their service. Or in the case of the Necros, they might enslave many humans and still keep a Renfield.

  She’d never had one. Not yet. She was still a girl in her mother’s eyes, meant to live with her clan, in the shadow of the older women, for a few decades more. To learn and assist. She was not yet old enough to earn the privilege of tlapalēhuiānis, nor of weapons and warrior’s marks, nor the trappings of an adult.

  And yet … Atl was alone, adrift. She needed food. She needed help.

  Atl began to move toward the kitchen. She wanted a cup of tea with lots of sugar. She wanted to open the windows and feel the night air against her skin. She wished he would leave. Or not. She could smell it. His life, his youth.

  “I’ll give you a cup of tea and you leave afterward, all right?”

  “Sure. What were you up to before I got here?”

  Atl didn’t reply. She put the kettle to boil, observing the steam curl up. She grabbed the cups, the tea bags, and poured the water, adding three sugar cubes to her tea. They sat at the kitchen table. He watched her with interest, a man attempting to solve a puzzle.

  “Do you have a sweet tooth?”

  She stared at him, frowning. He shook his head.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean it as a joke. I only see vampires in the papers.”

  “Go figure.”

  Atl lifted her cup. Like a mirror, Domingo raised his own and took a sip. Humans gave many physical clues about their thoughts. Perspiration, heart rate, inflections. He was nervous, but not scared.

  “I’m not trying to be obnoxious. I just think you’re interesting.” Domingo said.

  “Oh, you’re just trying to get into my pants,” she replied.

  He looked at her from above the rim of his cup, mortification making his lips tremble.

  “Not really,” he mumbled.

  Cualli curled down by her feet as she finished her tea. There were benefits to humans, of course. Her dog was useful,
had saved her life before, but it was not infallible. A human servant.

  “You should keep the watch,” he said, sliding it toward her, across the table. Then he walked out of the kitchen.

  Atl blinked in surprise. “Where are you going?”

  “You said you wanted me to leave after I drank my tea,” he said, shrugging, hands in his pockets. “I’m heading out.”

  “I’ll buy you dinner,” she said.

  It sounded like it would be the nice thing to do. Not that she really cared to eat with him, but she wanted to make a good impression. Atl needed Domingo to feel at ease.

  “No, I don’t—”

  “Oh, please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Like you weren’t hoping for that.”

  He grinned at her. Atl grabbed her vinyl jacket and Cualli’s leash.

  * * *

  Atl nursed a glass of water, ignoring the salad in front of her, while Domingo wolfed down a whole plate of eggs rancheros. She watched him as he pushed every last morsel around the plate with a tortilla, gulping his soda and removing rolls from the bread basket. He was slim as a bamboo stalk, but she thought just like bamboo he wouldn’t break.

  “You’re not going to eat?” he asked her when he paused to look up at her.

  Atl leaned her chin on the back of her hand and shook her head. “I can’t eat that,” she said. Just seeing him eat was kind of gross. His meal looked utterly greasy. But she thought it best to order at least one thing.

  “What do you mean you can’t?”

  “This junk would make me sick.”

  “But it’s very good,” he proclaimed, and held up the bread basket.

  Atl looked at the bread rolls with disinterest. He might as well have offered her a plate full of stones.

  “It doesn’t matter. My body can’t process it.”

  “That sucks,” he said.

  “On the other hand, I have a much higher tolerance for alcohol than you’ll ever have,” she replied.