The First

by Michael Santana

  I think the look on my face showed her how unimpressed I was at this knowledge. “The Mayor is the Cardinal’s cousin.”

  “I’m not an angel.” I said finally.

  “Angel or Devil you saved me, and for that, I am forever grateful.”

  I would later find out that this group had terrorized the town for years. Because of who they were, there were little or no consequences for their actions.

  “I would get to know you.” I said. “You remind me…”

  “Yes! Yes,” she said impatiently.” But now you must go. By now the word is out that the mayor’s son is dead, and a legion of men will be on their way.”

  “I will see you again woman.”

  “Manuela, Sister Manuela,” she said turning her back to me and towards the direction of the oncoming group of men.

  She was right. I knew from experience how dangerous mobs could be. I thought of the weeks it took to heal from the wounds I suffered my last night with Irisi.

  I watched from the rooftops as they all converged on the bodies. Guards were questioning Manuela who just held onto her bible and wept. I saw the Mayor’s carriage arrive and a portly man with pasty skin and thinning hair stepped out of it. A younger man with black hair and olive colored skin followed him to the body.

  The young man was dressed in black robes and was kneeling over the dead body examining the crushed skull. At first glance, I had thought he was trying to revive the dead man. That wasn’t what was happening though. He lifted the body and turned it over examining it. He seemed to be searching for something. After a few minutes more he walked over to the other dead man, turning his body over like the first. With this one, he did something different. He examined the neck thoroughly. “What are you looking for?” I thought.

  Everyone thought the recounts given by the dead man’s cohorts were hysterical ranting. That was everyone except the priest, who kept looking off into the nighttime shadows.

  He kept asking them to repeat the events over and over until I was sure he could recite it back to them better than they could tell it.

  I kept my eyes on the priest. Something about him was unsettling. The fact that he paid little if no attention to the nun I found very curious. Unlike the guards, he was more interested as to what the men had to say as opposed to Manuela.

  The next night as I roamed the city, I noticed that posters had been put up. The image was supposed to be of me I guessed. It wasn’t a flattering one I might add. The image was that of a Christian devil, horns, tails, and hooves. I laughed at the likeness that was before me.

  Still, a small, nagging thought kept creeping.

  “What was he looking for?”

  That thought left my mind as a vision of Manuela took its place. The night before, after all the commotion had died down, I followed her. My eyes never left her as I jumped from rooftop to rooftop. She led us to an old monastery at the edge of town. The resemblance to my Keeza was uncanny. The memories of a life long ago played through my mind. I needed to see Manuela. After feeding, I set off for the monastery. The nighttime shadows provided cover as I floated from window to window. The fluttering candlelight in the rooms made it easier for me to see the occupants as I hovered outside of them. I found her on the third floor of the monastery. Her kneeling figure clutched a crucifix as she said her nightly prayers. I watched from the window as she rose and walked across the room and blew out one of the candles. The room darkened a little as the flame was extinguished.

  Are you coming in or are you planning on staying out there?” she asked.

  I moved in closer to the window and pulled myself through it.

  “They are assembling a squad of men under archbishop De La Iglesia,” she said. “De La Iglesia?” I asked.

  “He is the priest who is investigating the deaths of the two sons. He was called to accompany the mayor when the witness said a devil was responsible.” She replied.

  “I saw him talking with the others.” I said.

  “He is an investigator for the pope. He is here visiting Cardinal Murrieta.” “Investigator? What does he investigate?”

  “The unexplained, the unbelievable and anything else the church deems necessary. More importantly, I think he is here because of you.”

  “Because of me?” I asked surprised.

  “When he first arrived, he was asking questions about the unexplained disappearances and deaths that have plagued the town. He told stories of a devil that lived off the blood of the young. He said he had been chasing stories for years and that they had brought him to Cadiz.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “Last night when I arrived back here he called me into the rectory. He spent most of the night asking me to describe you. I had remembered an old picture of a dark angel I had seen in a book. I described in detail the horns and the tail in hopes he would think I was delusional and fraught with fear. I don’t think he believed I was either.”

  “I saw the sketches on the posters. I don’t think they’ve done me justice,” I laughed. “You said you weren’t an Angel. Are you a creature of God or one of the Dark Lord’s?” “I am neither, or maybe I am both. Thoughts such as these have never troubled me.” I told her. “May I touch you?” she asked shyly.

  “Yes, if that would please you.” I said.

  Her right hand rose from her side, and she gently brushed my cheek.

  “You are more beautiful than any picture of any angel I have ever seen.” She said smiling. I smiled at her. Her eyes once again locked on my mouth, well my little gifts to be exact. “So beautiful my savior is.” She said. “How could you be anything but an angel of the lord?” “You said the archbishop had been chasing stories.” I said, changing the subject “Yes. When he first told us the tales, I thought he had been out in the sun for too long, but now I’m not so sure. You don’t seem to be the horrible, murderous creature he described.” A knock on her door interrupted her thoughts.

  “Sister Manuela? Sister Manuela, it’s me, Father De La Iglesia.” The voice said from beyond the door. “Sister I would like to ask you a few more questions and maybe show you some drawings.

  Sister Manuela?”

  The thought of meeting the Archbishop intrigued me. I thought of how utterly delicious his blood would taste.

  “Sister Manuela are you there?”

  “Yes, I am coming father,” she said finally breaking her silence.

  “Will you return when he leaves?” she asked.

  “I could stay and meet the good father.” I said with a smirk.

  “Please don’t,” she pleaded.

  “I will be outside until he leaves then.”

  “Sister Manuela!” the Archbishop demanded.

  “I’ll be waiting.” I whispered as I left the room.

  I flew out the window and landed on the branch of a large tree that was right outside. Looking in, I saw the door open, and Father De La Iglesia stepped inside.

  He was older than I first thought, maybe in his forties. He walked with an air of superiority. He carried a set of books in his hands. The books appeared to be ancient. The leather bindings were faded and worn. The yellow pages were crumpled on the edges. Loose sheets stuck out of the books here and there.

  He took her by the hand and led her to the table where he placed down the large stack.

  “Sister I’m very sorry to be disturbing you, but I had some more questions I needed to ask.

  Before we start can I trouble you for a glass of water?” the priest said.

  “Why of course Father” Manuela replied.

  She walked across the room to a small shelf that held a pitcher of water and a few cups. He opened the small book I had seen him taking notes in the night before. Laying the little journal on the table, he opened one of the leather-bound tomes and scanned the pages.

  “I thought that now the initial shoc
k has passed, you might have remembered more details.” He said as he opened another book and placed it open but face down on the table.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more helpful. It really was a terrible experience.” She said as she glanced over her shoulder at the priest who was still examining different books and sheets of paper. “I’m sure it was,” he said. “Watching those men being murdered would have been a nightmare come to life.”

  “Oh, it was, I assure you,” she replied.

  “That’s why I understood how maybe your description may have been a little off from the others. You were the one who had the closest look and spent the longest time with the beast. I am sure you were in a state of shock. That’s why I came back tonight.”

  Manuela brought the water pitcher back to the table with two full glasses of water. I adjusted my position so I could see both of their faces as they continued their discussion.

  “Thank you. I was parched from the running I have been doing today.” He said placing his cup back on the table. “I have some sketches I want you to see. I found them in Africa during my travels for the church. Before we do that, I would pose a question to you.”

  “Yes?” she responded.

  “Why did the beast allow you to live?”

  “I’m not sure, maybe it was divine intervention.” She said.

  “You think the Lord saved you?” I heard him say a bit sarcastically.

  “He may have heard the men coming?” she offered.

  “He? Was this a man or a beast?” He asked.

  At this point, the whole situation was starting to bore me. I left the window knowing that Manuela would tell me the rest when I saw her again. I decided to go have some fun before the sun came up. I remember being particularly brutal that night. I had picked three victims that night and left them in different poses for the priest to find. My game of cat and mouse with the good father had begun.

  Chapter 9

  I visited Manuela in the same fashion as the last night.

  “He has many sketches of you.” She said as I entered the room.

  “Does he?” I asked.

  “He says you’re a blood demon, a life stealer. Some of the drawings he showed were hundreds of years old. He says that you have killed many women and children. Is it true? She asked. “Yes, but is that really the questions you want to ask me?” I said.

  The look on her face was one of disbelief but not shock.

  “Why did you save me?” She asked.

  “Do you wish I hadn’t?” I asked.

  “No, that’s not it; I just don’t understand. If you are this demon, he speaks of why didn’t you kill me also?”

  “The thought crossed my mind, but I chose not to,” I said honestly.

  With unsteady hands, she picked up her cup and sipped from it. Placing the cup back on the table she looked into my eyes.

  “Will you kill me?”

  I paused for a second contemplating her question.

  “No, I would never harm you,” I replied. “I feel a special connection to you, one that transcends time.”

  I didn’t expect her to understand, but she asked no further questions about the matter. “He plans on catching you. He is assembling an army under the cardinal’s authority. They’re coming from all over. He says he knows what you are and how to kill you.”

  Now, this last bit I found interesting.

  “I have to leave. I will return later if you like.”

  “Must you?” She asked sadly.

  “I will see you again soon,” I said.

  I decided to do something about the priest. I definitely didn’t need an army searching for me. It would not be safe for me as long as he was alive. It was late the next night when I decided it was time to pay Father De La Iglesia a visit. The posters that had been posted all over the little town were taken down and replaced with those that bore my likeness. I was being hunted. I quickly moved through the city tearing down every poster I came across. As soon as I removed them all, I set out to find the Archbishop. Walking thru the halls of the monastery wasn’t tricky. Most had already retired to their rooms and the ones that weren’t were praying or cleaning up. I was stunned when I entered his room. The walls, the tables everything was covered. It was plastered from floor to ceiling with pictures and maps of all sorts. The images depicted various renditions of a demonic creature devouring the young.

  On closer inspection, I could see that certain locations were marked with wax. A date was written under every waxy leaving. The dates on the wall spanned about eleven hundred years. In Egypt, where the earliest of the times were, there were pairs of wax markings. The pictures coinciding with these markers depicted two beasts feeding.

  On the table, I found journal after journal spanning roughly a century. Folded papers containing sketches were loosely tucked in the pages of the books. Quickly I scanned the pictures in the little books from the earliest date to latest. The drawing showed an evolution of knowledge. The earliest ones showed a hoofed, long-tailed, horned devil devouring women. Later in the journals, the sketches evolved. The devil now had no horns, hooves or tail, yet teeth like a saber tooth tiger. In these children were the prey.

  Further on, the pictures shortened the elongated teeth and darkened the pigment of skin. In the last of the books, I stared at almost mirror images of myself. I should have been flattered, but I wasn’t, I was angered at my sloppiness. Too many people had seen me and put my likeness on parchment. My youthful arrogance annoyed me. I had left not only a trail of bodies but also one of information. How many times did I narrowly escape discovery and possibly death?

  More books were scattered about the floor, all full of tucked loose-leaf pictures. It seemed the loss of the ability to pick up the thoughts of those around me, had left me vulnerable. I had been like the animal in the woods drinking from a watering hole. The animal flutters through existence, never knowing that a bulls-eye had been painted on it. Anger was replaced by curiosity, then by hilarity. This man knew a lot about me. Exactly how much, was yet to be known. I heard footsteps in the hall and a few moments later mutterings before the knob turned. I quickly escaped to the shadows in the room and waited.

  He came into the room and shut the door behind him. He still carried the stack of books he had shown Manuela. I stood in the shadows and watched him place the papers down on the table. He placed a leather satchel on the table next to the books. After loosening the flap of the bag, he pulled out its contents and inspected them.

  One by one, he laid item after item on the table. Two pieces of wood, each shaved to a point. Next was a jewel-encrusted gold crucifix which he put next to the wooden stakes. He pulled out a vial of clear liquid and laid this next to the cross. His hands started to shake as he reached back into the bag. This time he pulled out an old bible. His whole body trembled, and his heartbeat quickened. I hadn’t noticed the mirror on the wall opposite me. I cannot say the same for Father De La Iglesia. My silhouette was outlined perfectly in the shadows. It seemed the priest had been watching me, watching him.

  His shaking hands closed around two objects, one around the crucifix and the other grabbed one of the wooden sticks. He jumped up from his chair, spun and charged. I moved quickly and watched as he rushed into the darkness. His outstretched right hand held the crucifix. His left hand held the stake, drawn back, ready to strike. As he moved into the now vacant shadow, he crouched. He spun around wildly, slashing at the air with his wooden stake. I could hear his heart drumming in his chest. Perspiration slung from his brow as his head jerked from side to side.

  I listened as his heartbeat and breathing slowed. His posture softened, and he let out a long exasperated sigh. I guess he finally decided his mind had played a trick on him and he dropped his arms to his side. I watched as he walked over to the table and placed the objects on it once more. He took a seat at the table, put his head in his hands, a
nd screamed into them. The cupped hands effectively contained the yell. He cried again and again until he was out of breath. Tears streamed down the outside of his hands and through the spaces of his fingers. He had been terrified when he made his courageous charge.

  His hands left his face, and he stared in shocked silence. While his vision was blurred by hands and tears, I had moved and taken the seat opposite him. He reached instinctively to where his little souvenirs had been only moments before. I had removed them as I sat down, and they were now out of his reach. His mouth opened to scream. Before a sound could be made, I moved across the table and put my hands over his mouth.

  “I could have killed you already,” I whispered in his ear. “I could drain you and shred you to tiny pieces before any help reaches you. So be silent.”

  His eyes showed understanding, so I removed my hand from his mouth. He gasped as the air again filled his lungs. It seemed I had also clamped over his nose and the poor man had been unable to breathe.

  “Why have you been chasing me?” I asked softly.

  “You are an abomination to our Lord Jesus Christ.” He replied sharply. “Careful now, keep a civil tongue, if you want to keep your tongue at all,” I said smiling. “What do you want?” He asked.

  “Answers, that is what I want.”

  “I have heard rumors you plan on killing me. Is this correct priest?”

  “The church” he stammered. “The church has ordered your capture and execution.” “Interesting,” I said, glancing at his map covered wall.

  “The orders come from the Pope. He would see you dead.”

  “How long have you been following me?” I asked.

  “Me, for a little over a decade. The church, for over five hundred years.”

  “How did the church learn of me? “I asked.

  “They have been investigating you ever since the slaughter at the children’s asylum in Rome. It is said you murdered twenty-four children and made the Sisters watch. Then you murdered the Sisters after that.”