Human Revolt 02 - Vampire LA

by Phil Tucker

  Esteban shifted uneasily in his seat. “What does this mean?”

  “I don’t know,” said Padrino Machado, his voice low. “I must think on it. I must pray.”

  “You’re a healer,” said Cloud. “Why don’t you try to heal her?”

  Selah expected Padrino to laugh him off, but instead the curandero nodded. “Perhaps. I will see. Esteban, why don’t you let them get some rest. They must be tired.”

  Esteban nodded slowly. “Sure. All right.” He looked past them to the guards at the door. “Take them to the Rose Room. Make sure they’re comfortable. Comprende?”

  The two men with rifles clearly did. They pushed open the study door and waited for Cloud and Selah to follow. Selah took two steps, and then turned back to Padrino and Esteban. “I came to LA for a cure. I believe it’s in the Core. You don’t know what you’re dealing with here. I know you’re going to talk. But the best thing you can do is let me go so I can take care of this.”

  Esteban met her eyes, and his were flat like those of a fish. “If it’s that bad, a bullet in your head could solve the problem too. We’ll let you know what we decide.”

  It was the casual way in which he said this that shook her. Somebody took her by the elbow and guided her out the door. She followed numbly, not caring for the finery of the mansion.

  The Rose Room turned out to be an elegant and minimalist space, dominated by a king-sized bed. Five white roses extended from a slender flute on a single shelf along the opposite wall. The guard gave them a suspicious look, and stepped out and closed the door.

  Cloud strode over to the window and looked outside. “Guarded,” he said, turning back. “Man. What part of quiet and undercover did we not understand?”

  Selah looked past him at the sunlight outside. “Do you think he could heal me?”

  “What?” Cloud walked back to her. “Heal you? This Machado guy? Selah, it’s not like you’re running a fever.”

  “I know what I’m running,” said Selah, walking past him, fighting down her anger, her hope, her fear. “Trust me. But he’s obviously respected, right? He’s even giving the Culebra boss orders. There’s got to be a reason for that.”

  Cloud rubbed at his face and then raked his fingers through his hair. “Sure. He’s probably really good at convincing them all that he’s got mystical powers. But what are the odds that he does?”

  “What are the odds that I’d be carrying Sawiskera around in my blood?” Selah shook her head. “And how the hell did he know that? That I was tainted? That I have his—his spirit, inside me?”

  Cloud didn’t answer. They stood still, and then he walked over and put his arms around her and pulled her against his chest. “I don’t know,” he said, voice quiet. “I don’t know. I’d say lucky guess, but—that doesn’t sound right either. Maybe he can help. If this world has vampires in it, why can’t it have holy men too?”

  Selah closed her eyes. It was a dull, distant hope. A healing, right here, today. No need to hunt down a vampire. To wrestle the secret of a cure from its undead mind, to endure the cruelties of the LA slums. Salvation. Of her very soul. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Why can’t it?”

  Half an hour later there was a knock on the door. Cloud and Selah awoke from a fitful sleep, both of them exhausted from the long drive through the night, and sat up as the door opened. Padrino Machado stepped inside, alone.

  “I have prayed and consulted with the spirits. They wish me to try and help you.”

  Selah swung her legs off the bed and stood, smoothing down her clothing. “You think you can? You think you can drive Sawiskera from me?”

  “Not me. I am but a channel. But it is possible. I have done so before.” Padrino’s face was sober, pensive. “There is only one way of knowing.”

  “All right,” said Selah, heart hammering in her chest. “OK.”

  “Good,” said Padrino. “Then follow me. Both of you.”

  They followed him out into the garden. They circled the pool, the two guards trailing behind, and out into an excessively large expanse of lawn in which stood a circular gazebo, large enough to hold twenty people, unlit torches ringing it, walls of dried palm fronds hiding its interior. Candles leaned drunkenly along the base of its walls, out of place amidst the finery.

  Padrino Machado led them up the three wooden steps and entered the dark interior. Selah followed him, and walked into the gloom that was rich with the smell of incense. She moved in just a few steps, and stopped. It was very dark, with little light seeping through the chinks in the walls and through a gap at the ceiling’s apex.

  Padrino struck a match and began to light candles, walking in a circle about the gazebo, until a ring of flames surrounded Selah and Cloud. Once lit, the interior revealed a wealth of fascinating objects. Central was the altar pressed against the far wall, blanketed with an immaculate white sheet edged with gorgeous lace, its surface covered in a variety of framed paintings of saints and with a beautifully painted reredos behind it, gleaming gold and crimson in the light of the candles, a large crucifix held in its center. From the ceiling hung endless sheaves of herbs, while the walls were ringed with carved wooden bottles, more candles, statues, great jars and pots, wax-leafed plants, and more. Beads hung from support beams. Images of the Virgin Mary of Guadalupe were everywhere, as well as photographs of strangers, smiling from behind dusty glass. A central fire pit had been dug into the center of the floor, a black hole surrounded by stones, and looking up Selah saw that the pinnacle of the gazebo’s ceiling was open to the sky.

  “Now,” said Padrino Machado. His voice took on a hollow tone. “Let us see what the saints and spirits desire.” He moved away, lighting several sticks of incense as he began to recite what sounded like a prayer. He walked around them, boards creaking beneath his feet, and Selah fixed her eyes on the crucifix. How long had it been since she’d been to church? She’d been devout as a child, but after Mama B had abandoned them, she’d lapsed, grown indifferent to ceremony and prayer. Looking upon the crucifix now, however, she couldn’t help but feel a leap of hope.

  People filed into the hut, a fire lit in its center, aromatic smoke rising through the hole above. More candles were lit, and slowly people seated themselves along the walls. A heavyset lady with a white bandana around her hair began to hum, to sway slightly, and then a second took it up as the first stopped. It was as if they were summoning the spirit of music in fits and starts, so that at times three or even four might hum, only for it to die out and silence creep back in.

  A drum was tapped, falteringly at first, and then with more confidence, underscoring the humming, which blossomed into a chant. Selah didn’t understand the language. At least fifteen people sat around the walls now, some old, some young. Long faces, creased with dour melancholy, fat faces filled with vivacity, faces focused and grave, others blank and staring as if into another world. All seemed to slowly drift away into a trance while the music picked up, more drums and then a tambourine, as voices raised themselves into song, a chant that was low and powerful and reminded Selah of the ocean, constant and pulling at her heart, her mind, her spirit.

  Padrino Machado knelt at the altar amidst the symphony, and prayed. His mumbled voice was a low drone, a constant in the background, and he seemed completely oblivious to the music, the others, the activity within the hut. Selah refused to meet Cloud’s eyes, knowing he thought this foolish, knowing he thought it a waste of time. And she tried to do so too. But she couldn’t, not completely. Mama B had been born and raised in New York, but her mother, a spindly old woman Selah barely remembered, had been from Jamaica. Listening to these songs now—even if they were in Spanish—seeing this ritual unfold touched something within Selah, something she wasn’t even aware of, a part of her that reached all the way back to her childhood, when Granny Mon would tell her stories that she could no longer recall. It was more a sense, a feeling, borne aloft perhaps as much by hope as anything else.

  At last Padrino Machado arose. The song was in full force
now, everybody adding their voices to the chant that rose and fell with the regularity of a prayer. Padrino moved to a shelf and drew forth a small box, from which he took what looked like sticks of cinnamon, and cast them into the fire. Coffee beans went in next, followed by what looked like brown sugar and a variety of different herbs, each drawn down from the sheaves that hung from the rafters. He approached Selah, and drew her from the wall, out into the center of the room to stand before the fire. Her heart thudded and she felt torn, knowing that Mama B, that everybody she knew would disapprove of her standing here, participating in this, but she had to try, she had to give it a shot.

  Padrino took a collection of dry herbs and began to sweep it against her, washing her with them, their dry, rustling edges scratching lightly at her skin, catching on her clothing. He circled her, sweeping her from head to toe, and with a grand gesture cast the herbs into the fire, chanting as he did so. For a moment Selah smelled rosemary in the air laced with other herbal scents she couldn’t discern. He snapped his fingers, and a young boy ran in through the doorway, cradling two round objects in his palm. Padrino took these, and Selah saw they were eggs. He walked back to the altar and cracked them both into a hand-carved wooden bowl, to which he added pinches of powders from different containers.

  The music and smoke were making Selah’s head swim. She felt a sense of vertigo, the sound pulsing and sweeping in and out of her mind, flooding in only to retreat once more, rhythmic and insistent, without sense but laden with power. The same phrases were being used over and over again, she realized. Commands? Entreaties? She blinked her eyes, fought off a growing sense of lethargy, and wondered dimly what else had been cast in the fire, what else might be in this smoke she was breathing.

  Padrino was back. He stood before her and though he was speaking, calling out to her, she couldn’t hear his voice. She saw his lips move, and nausea began to rise within her, a greasy, bubbling feeling, as if her insides were being slicked with rancid grease. Her eyes were tearing from the smoke, and she couldn’t breathe. The music pressed in on her, swirling about her head, making the walls seem to breathe, to inhale and bulge in, only to exhale and extend away. The light of the fire and candles were lurid.

  A sudden chill swept over her. Fury. Disgust. Fear. Selah knocked Padrino’s hand aside as he reached for her. He began to yell, but she just wanted out. Out of this smoke, this sound, this room. She stalked toward the door, but men rose to intercept her, their arms outstretched. She shook them free with ease, sent them tumbling down to the floor. Darkness and firelight. Did they think they could stop her? Did they think they could banish her so easily? One man took her by the shoulder, and she threw him into another man. They both went down.

  There singing had become yells, screams of pain and confusion. The music breaking up. She reached the door, and but recoiled from the sunlight. Somebody called her name, and she turned, the sound of his voice sliding through the panic, parting her madness for but a moment. Cloud. He stepped before her, between her and the door, his face twisted in shock, concern. He reached out for her and took her by the shoulder. Held her. Her mind rebelled as she realized he was pushing her back, back into the smoke and darkness.

  No. She reached up, took his wrist, and twisted it sharply away. He fell away. She had to get out. The sunlight was hateful, but there was no choice. She fled, sprinting across the grass as if the very blades of sun-bright grass were slicing the soles of her feet. She shielded her face from the fire in the sky, and fled into the shadows beneath the trees, snarling in pain as she ran, coughing and retching as the taste of the smoke refused to leave the back of her throat.

  Silence. Selah awoke by gradual degrees till finally she cracked open her eyes. Her cheek was pressed against dry dirt. She blinked, confused. Her head was pounding. It was afternoon, but she couldn’t make out the sky. She was lying under a thick, heavy bush, enclosed on all sides by its branches. She lifted her head, dirt and soil sticking to her face. Groaned, and pressed her palm to her temple. What the hell?

  Vague memories began to return. She had run. From what? Smoke. Voices, people singing. Where was she? Where was Cloud? She dry heaved suddenly, and saw stale vomit already on the ground before her. She rolled away and army crawled out from under the bush. She was in a small copse of scrubby pines. Heaving for air, Selah crawled out farther and collapsed onto her side. Her head pounded, but already the pain was beginning to recede. She shivered, forced herself to crawl further, out of the shade altogether, and into a patch of warm sunlight where she curled on her side, soaking it in, the hot rays, the golden light.

  She must have dozed once more. When she next opened her eyes, she was stiff, and the sun had dipped toward the horizon. She yawned and rubbed her face, brushing the dirt from her cheek. Sat up. Looked down the slope of the mountain at the San Bernardino Valley below. How had she gotten up so high? The ground was scrubby and raw, dry bushes and stunted trees descending down toward the first houses, and out over the expanse of the slums. Her eyes widened. Even after having walked through them for hours, she had no idea they were so large. They extended into the haze, disappearing just shy of the distant line of mountains she could barely make out. A vast and seething blanket of buildings, roads, avenues, trees, and construction. And this wasn’t even all of LA, she realized. Just this valley.

  She burped, foul air erupting from her chest, and looked closer down the slope. There. A neighborhood of grand mansions, perhaps a quarter mile below. Had she run up here by herself? She looked around. She’d wanted shade. Why?

  She rose weakly to her feet, and began to make her way back down. She was stiff and moved awkwardly as if her joints weren’t connected properly. She slid down the dry scree, occasionally slipping, following a rain gulley till the slope grew less steep and she was able to strike out directly for what she thought was Esteban’s house.

  Padrino Machado. The name invoked a face, hard and lined, mouth moving as he yelled at her, words inaudible, smoke everywhere. She felt her stomach twist. The healing. Stopped, nearly fell. The healing. Cloud. Recalled him falling, one hand clamped to the other wrist, face twisted in pain. Remembered the sound of screams, trailing out behind her as she’d fled.

  Oh, no.

  Chapter Five

  Ramonito was waiting for her just outside the garden. He was hidden beside the back entrance in the hedge, arms wrapped around his knees, face freshly washed but closed as he watched her approach the gate. Selah stopped. He stared up at her with his one fierce eye, mouth a thin line.

  “Are you a vampire?”

  “No. Not yet,” It took a lot out of her to answer honestly. To admit where she was going.

  “That’s not what the guards are saying. They say you’re possessed by an evil spirit, that you’re going to become a vampiro. Are you?”

  Selah tried to think of an honest answer. What was she? “I’m not a vampire, but they’re right. I’m in trouble. I’m becoming something else.” Her throat constricted, and she nodded. “But right now, I’m just Selah.” She tried for a smile, but it came out broken. “That’s why I came to LA. To get … healed.”

  Ramonito nodded slowly. “You think you can be healed?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so. I’m going to do everything I can to make that happen. But I don’t know.” She couldn’t lie to him. Couldn’t lie to herself.

  Ramonito nodded again, digesting this. “OK.”

  “Why are you here? Why didn’t you run away?”

  He shrugged, and looked aside for the first time. “You still owe me money.”

  Selah smiled. She wasn’t convinced. “This isn’t safe, Ramonito. You could get really hurt. You should get out of here before somebody sees you.”

  Ramonito snorted. “They won’t see me.”

  Selah hesitated, and then leaned down and hugged him. He stood tensely in her arms, but then at the last moment gave her a quick squeeze just as she let go. “I’ve got to go inside. I’ve got to see if Cloud’s OK. Thank you for wait
ing for me. It was very brave—but don’t do anything dangerous, all right?”

  He kicked at the ground, not meeting her eyes again. “Sure. OK.”

  Selah wasn’t sure if she believed him, but a voice called out from close by. She’d been spotted. Ramonito doubled over and scooted down the length of the hedge, and then stepped into it and out of sight just as a couple of men ran out the back entrance, guns pointed at her. That didn’t alarm her. It was as if they were children playing a role, and allowed them to jostle her back onto the property.

  They marched her across the lawn, and in through the left side of the house into the study. Padrino Machado and Esteban were seated at the desk once more, but she ignored them. Instead she looked at Cloud, not wanting to acknowledge his bandaged wrist or the walls up within his eyes.

  She shook her elbow free of the guard, heart pounding, and took two steps forward, only to draw short. Cloud had straightened—not flinched—but sat a little taller as she’d done so. His face, normally so was hard, faint lines of pain drawn around his mouth, his eyes.

  “Are you OK?”

  “Yeah,” he said, shifting his weight. “I’m fine. What about you?”

  “I’m better. I’m—sorry.”

  “It’s OK.” She could tell he was struggling, trying to break through his own unaccustomed reserve. Trying to find a way to reach out to her, reassure her, but his walls were just too high. “Don’t worry about it. We couldn’t have known what was going to happen.”

  At least he had given her that. We. She pursed her lips, swore to herself, I am not going to cry, damn it, and looked at Padrino. He was leaning back in his black leather chair, chin held between thumb and forefinger, examining her. He wore necklaces of different colors and styles, a medley of wooden and metallic beads and links, one with small black pin feathers attached, another looking to be made of beach glass, marine hues subtle against his white linen shirt.