Blood Enchantment

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Our stares lock over the rims of our glasses as we regard each other. We have different motivations, but friendship binds us.

  I cannot help wondering where she is, and if she's thinking the same thoughts I am.

  The sparkling Sea of Cortez winks at me as we wind up the hill to la casa.

  I wish to share this view, and this life, with someone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Greta

  “Que Guapa, senorita.”

  Spanish.

  Get a grip, Greta.

  Mid-twenties males, three—I assess them as a threat, as I do all men.

  Their dark eyes travel my form but not with negative intent.

  What did Zaire say? Oh yes, I'm a level-two risk. Zaire said he's never given a female a five, the highest number for physical self-defense, conditioning, and prowess.

  Apparently, my “condition” is okay. Like a can of vegetables on a shelf, I'm not quite expired.

  My physical self-defense is not too great. I can't work knives or weaponry, but I know how to use my body. I've overcome paralyzing fears.

  I no longer stop in front of zip ties in the hardware store in a state of mind-numbing panic and despair.

  My gaze creeps to them as I walk by. I don't repress the shudder. I can't.

  My thoughts take seconds.

  I leave my crisp American accent behind and use the fluidity I was trained for. “Gracias,” I reply quietly then take one brave step down.

  The one who called me pretty lifts his lips in a small smile of surprise, and the cloying smoke becomes a veil in front of his face.

  I'm ten feet away, and I want to wave my hand to displace the opaque shroud so I can see his expression better in the pool of shadows he stands in—and gauge his intent.

  But I don't want to move nearer.

  Exert confidence.

  “El ascensor no funciona.” I say. The elevator's not working.

  “Si?” he says. he says. “I speak English.”

  “Excellent,” I reply, when nothing is remotely good at the moment.

  “Do you work here?”

  He shakes his head.

  God, like finding hen's teeth.

  “All right, well, I'm using the stairs because the elevator…” I wave a hand vaguely behind me.

  “No trabaja.”

  Right. We look at each other.

  “Si,” I say.

  Yeah, the elevator's not working. We got that now.

  I take the steps. Six more in my descent puts me at eye level with him. The man flicks the cigarette on the ground and crushes it into a smear of charred tobacco on the stairwell. I look at each face before me.

  I swallow hard. “Adios,” I say, turning the corner and moving two steps down. Then four.

  The sixth feels like a small victory.

  His words reach me at the tenth. “Nos vemos pronto.”

  I don't turn around, he and his band of semi-thugs won't be seeing me soon, because there won't be any repeats of that little thirteenth-floor bullshit.

  I burst out onto the twelfth floor, look at the elevator, and move back inside the stairwell.

  I'll take the eleven flights for now by foot.

  Flicking my eyes to the men who were just there, I see they're gone.

  Instead of being relieved, my unease grows.

  *

  I flop down on my bed, flinging bags of purchases on the adjacent bed.

  I braved the elevator after a lengthy pissing match with the concierge.

  Was my service inhospitable?

  No, I'd responded.

  But I was dumped on the thirteenth floor and had to use the stairwell, where I was greeted by the Spanish mob.

  That retelling was not entirely accurate, but it felt like it.

  I stayed calm until he assured me there was no access to the thirteenth floor. I'd kept to English until that moment.

  Then I'd switched to Norwegian, and the exchange got colorful.

  He called his manager, who assured me the stairway was for emergencies only and was open exclusively to employees, not guests.

  They'd given me the stink eye since.

  The assumptions were rampant. Why was I lying about the thirteenth floor? Why was I traipsing around the stairway all those floors above and ranting about men in said stairwell?

  They definitely didn't take me seriously.

  I stab Gia's avatar on my smartphone, briefly contemplating the hour. At nine in the evening here, it’s six in the morning in Seattle.

  I grimace, thinking about a raw Morning Gia. It rings once. I'm committed now—can't go back.

  “Hello?” Her greeting is muffled.

  “Gia, it's Greta.”

  I hear a rustle. The phone drops with a clatter and I pull it away from my ear.

  I hear her moving it, probably swooping to pick it up.

  “Greta?” Her voice is sharper now.

  I close my eyes in relief just from hearing her say my name. How many times has Gia been my touchstone? The only thing to hold onto when I was drowning?

  Too many.

  “I just wanted to phone and…”

  “What's happened?”

  I pause, wondering if I should bitch about something that ended in a closely skirted hotel brawl.

  I laugh.

  She does, too. “Listen, you're calling me in the middle of the night, so it better be good.”

  I check the clock on the nightstand. “Ah, no. It's six there.”

  “All right, can't fool you. What's up, buttercup?”

  “I had a thing.”

  “Ah, yes, that delves into it so thoroughly. What on God's green earth is a ʻthingʼ?”

  I explain everything.

  She's quiet for so long that I open my mouth to say more.

  “Doesn't sound like Club Alpha,” she says in a careful voice.

  “That's what I thought. I mean, it's for a potential romantic entanglement, right?”

  Silence.

  “Right, Gia?”

  “Kind of. Actually, Club Alpha is a method of exhausting the character of a person, showing their underbelly, if you will.”

  A handful of seconds roll by. “I know it's supposed to be intense. There's a lot of hoops to jump through.”

  “It's more than match-making. It's an irrevocable machine of non-compromise. It's meant to pair you with your best match while making sure the ineffability of life is ferreted out before a long-term commitment is engineered between the two.”

  “And I know two languages?” I make a sound in the back of my throat. “I think—yeah—English please. You make my brain hurt.”

  “You're a player in Club Alpha in part to face your fears, grow stronger, and find Mr. Right. It's simple.”

  “Yet, not,” I say with a laugh, realizing she can't see my rueful grin.

  “I'd love to refute that, but if you wanted a hole in one, eHarmony works. I guess they have the best outcome of all.”

  “Then why am I doing Club Alpha?” I put my hand on my stomach, feeling my pulse beating strong and sure.

  “First: I trust Zaire. Second: you don't care about money. What I mean is, you do, like most people. But it's not what propels you through this life. The male players of Club Alpha, without fail, do not want a woman driven by the dollar.”

  I sigh.

  “I heard that.”

  “I know, I'm just—I didn't like what happened today in the stairway.”

  “I told Zaire no triggers. Was it, Greta? Was it a trigger?”

  I think about it. It was frightening, but no, it wasn't a trigger.

  “Your attackers were white males of a certain order. Tall, large men.”

  “They were still guys,” I argue. But it wasn’t the same. Men of color are never a trigger. However, my distrust for males overall is a simmering pot that never comes to a boil.

  Now, if it had been a group of white men on that same stairwell…

  “Not the right type.” Gia says, her words
echoing my thoughts. “And if this is indeed a CA ruse, it stays within the rules Zaire accepted for you.”

  I'm quiet for a moment, suddenly wishing the distance across the pond wasn't between us.

  “But it's not without challenge. It's part of your therapy.”

  “But why mine? I mean, I can't ever repay you for what you've done. All that you've given me.”

  “Because, Greta, you were meant for great things. And a group of men and their viciousness will not rob you of your destiny. Your fate will include love and hope.”

  “I don't think I can.” I roll my lip into my teeth, chewing on it lightly.

  “Yes you can, Greta. Do you trust me?”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut. “Yes.”

  “Then let whatever will happen, happen.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Good. And? By the way, good job for taking the bull by the horns with hotel management. You would have never done that even a year ago.”

  She's right.

  “I was a bitch, and klutzy with my delivery.”

  “I doubt you were a bitch. Sometimes assertive females are labeled bitch—by men. Other women think of them as ʻopinionated.ʼ”

  I laugh. Gia's transparency is something I adore.

  “Don't let a man's discomfort with your thoughts diminish you.”

  “No.”

  “Go get ’em, tiger.”

  I grin, feeling lighter.

  “Thanks, Gia.”

  “Now hang up on me so I can get back to my life of leisure.”

  I swipe at my eyes.

  “ ʼKay, bye.”

  “Goodbye, Greta.”

  I pass my thumb over the smiling Gia, with her coal-black eyes and swarm of big hair fro-ing out behind her.

  I want to be her, where ambivalence has no home. Decisiveness and determination are the only things that share the space of her mind.

  Nodding, I release my beat-up lip with a small smile.

  I'm working on me.

  I fall asleep with my clothes on, and without a nightmare in sight.

  *

  “Hallo, Ms. Dahlem.”

  Mr. Aros bends low over my hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss it. I leave it loose as countless etiquette courses have taught me. Dead weight of the hand when being kissed. Check.

  If I help him lift, I'll smack him in the face.

  That won't get me any points in a clothing line deal.

  Today, I’m wearing my charcoal pantsuit. The dark gray is elegant, keeping it out of dowdy territory. I pair it with a sherbet-orange silk blouse shell of the palest variety, the color appears to shimmer like the ice cream. Buff pumps peek out from the long inseam of the pants, which are a blend that promises to never wrinkle.

  I have done my research, and Aros is a typical tall Scandinavian, though he's really a Dane. Red hair and a six-feet-seven-inch frame towers over me even with the heels that make me five inches taller.

  “It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I say in perfect Norwegian.

  Though I speak two languages, I have some degree of fluency in Danish, Swedish and can stumble through Spanish and French.

  “For mig så godt,” he replies in Danish. Nice to meet you as well.

  I smile.

  He grins back. Perfect white teeth stand out from a complexion that is uniquely olive.

  “Now that we've done the dance of tongues and I know you can speak in my native language as well as the one of this country… please, be seated,” he says in lightly accented English.

  Aros indicates a chair opposite his desk.

  He moves aside without waiting to see what I do, but merely assuming I'll sit.

  I do.

  “Please call me by my given name, Tor. Mr. Aros is simply too formal.” He straightens cuffs on a custom-tailored suit in pristine navy with subtle ivory pinstripes.

  “I admire your sense of color, Ms. Dahlem.”

  I'm immediately self-conscious and ignore the compliment. “I'm sorry,” I say, flustered, “you may call me Greta.”

  He smiles, and it makes my belly do a little flop. “What a charming name.”

  Charming.

  I loved my parents with a fierceness that doesn't fade with time. So all I can do is agree.

  I glance down at my ensemble and give a secret smile at his words.

  “Greta,” he says softly.

  I wonder when I lost control of the meeting, allowing it to get personal so quickly. It's like a landslide.

  “Never be sorry,” he says. His intense chocolate eyes control mine, commanding me not to look away again.

  Instead of answering sensibly, I say the first thing that pops into my head.

  “Okay.”

  His eyes don't drop, and neither do mine.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Paco

  Sweat rolls down my body as my legs pound the wide cement swaths lining the malecón. The longest sidewalk in the world, it is twenty-one kilometers of seaside walkway flowing with pedestrian traffic by day and night.

  I'll do just over a half-marathon's worth of running today. Even keeping my pace to sub-seven-minute miles, it's still brutal. I've become accustomed to the temperate Seattle weather after traveling back and forth to meet with the clients I hope to woo. There, early October is pleasantly cool as Indian summer gently kisses the hottest part of the year goodbye.

  In severe contrast, early October in Mazatlán clings to heat and humidity as though its life depends on it.

  The weather is a great training opportunity.

  I smirk, throwing a glance behind me at Tallinn, who raggedly follows me. He extends his middle finger then quickly hides it behind him as two lovely senoritas sway by.

  “You're killing me, Paco!” he shouts after they pass.

  I pick up speed, breathing deeply through my nose and out my mouth. I make my way past the Fisherman's Monument in Playa Norte, where Tallinn catches up.

  “You,” he gasps, “are the biggest dick.”

  “Have,” I correct dryly.

  “Whatever!” He huffs beside me. His midnight skin glows with sweat, which runs like ink. “You probably have a pencil dick—just sayinʼ.”

  My eyebrow pops. I toss a disbelieving look his way and sprint up the gradual hill that winds around the huge cliff where Diablo's cave resides right across the busy street running parallel to the malecón.

  Jogging to a stop, I shield my eyes from the mid-day sun.

  A diver stands poised, perfectly balanced to drop the fifty feet to the shallow, glittering waters below.

  This is the same view from my home. But it is more spectacular up close and personal.

  I pace back and forth, waiting for the diver to jump.

  Like a bronzed swan in flight, the man leaps from a board, plunging himself into waters too shallow for the maneuver.

  “What the fuck?” Tallinn says in a hoarse whisper, rushing to wash his rapid plunge from the seaside railing.

  They are experts, these fearless locals. My chest swells with pride for my fellow Mexican.

  Vivir al día.

  I don't realize I say it aloud until Tallinn says, “Huh?”

  “Live for today,” I say like a prayer.

  “Yeah… too cool.”

  I smile, clapping him on the shoulder.

  “Listen,” Tallinn begins, catching his breath as we cross the street and head up the steep hill toward the house. “I managed to stay on your butt through sheer willpower. But you need to beef up. No more extreme cardio. Lift the metal, pal.”

  I sigh as I trudge up the ancient cobblestones.

  “Yes, I accept.”

  He frowns.

  We're almost to the top of a great circular drive. An island surrounded by hand-cut antique-marble pavers encloses a small grove of palm trees.

  “Accept what?” He shakes his head, still breathing hard. “Stop with the Bozo the Clown bullshit. The foreplay's killing me, Paco.”

&
nbsp; “I accept the challenge to ʻbeef up.ʼ”

  Tallinn’s critical eyes rove my body with the gaze of a maestro. We both know I cannot be taught. “Look, you're cut. You're like a pack of unused razor blades. Hard. Lean. So fit I could play a tune on those abs. But…” He grins. “There's some unrealized potential here”—he slaps my open palm—“and here.” His hands grip my shoulders.

  “You're as broad as a house with bear paws for hands. Let's get the rest of your body matching your size.”

  “Fine,” I wave a hand at him, smelling the homemade tortillas being lovingly made inside.

  His nostrils flare at the same time. “I smell something that's awakening the beast!”

  I grin at the proof of Tallinn's fine appetite.

  We stroll into the house, and three men in suits rise from their seats in the grand foyer.

  Narcos.

  My maid, Amelia, speaks in rushed Spanish, explaining who they are.

  I already know.

  Tallinn's gaze flicks in my direction. Some males see potential for violence right away. Tallinn is one of those.

  I did not hire him for just his personal training skills. His knowledge of weaponry and skill in using said weapons is renown. He's also instinctual—an excellent trait in a guard.

  He steps away, giving us both room to maneuver.

  The narcos have arrived at my doorstep a day earlier than we agreed. They’re in my home, where I eat, sleep, and relax.

  I do not abide such things.

  My thoughts flow through my mind in seconds. I know with grim certainty that my expression shows nothing.

  “We have come to collect, Francisco.”

  Manuel Rodriguez stands in the center of the knot of men. They carry concealed weapons.

  I know this because Tallinn has taught me to spot uneven weight distribution and suits pulled taut where they should otherwise hang straight.

  The gait of a man who has a knife strapped to his calf is unequal.

  I count the weapons, stepping closer. The sweat from my run chilling against my body. “I am aware.” My eyes search his face. All the while, I wonder what I've done to garner this surprise visit. It can't be good. “I have never been late in a payment of any kind in the time we have been acquainted,” I say in crisp Spanish, without bothering to rein in my irritation.