The Strange Path

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Castillo gently set her pack in one of the two chairs across from his desk, and waved her to take a seat. “You want something to drink? I’ve got coffee and sarsaparilla.”

  “Still on that root beer kick?” She sank into the chair.

  “Nothing finer on a hot spring day.”

  She grinned at him. “Sarsaparilla it is then.”

  “Fantastic.” He sat down, and rummaged in the small refrigerator underneath the desk, pulling out two bottles of root beer. He cracked one open and handed it to her.

  Whiskey took a long draught, scanning the room. Shade trees kept the sun at bay. A bank of high windows helped her cause. For now she was safe. No street kids preying on the loner that walked among them, no police officers busting her for napping on a park bench, or business owners throwing things at her for daring to sit on the sidewalk in front of their establishments. Father Castillo understood her need for this more than any other counselor she’d ever had. He remained silent, waiting for her to take the next step. He never acted too busy for her, never gave the impression that he had more important matters to attend to even when his next appointment waited in the lobby.

  Maybe his youth kindled her trust. Whiskey immediately denied the argument. Her faith seldom manifested in anyone these days, and she hung around many people her own age. Except Reynhard. The memory of her emotions when meeting Dorst at the club troubled her. Now she thought of him by his first name? What the fuck is going on with me?

  She had to give Castillo credit, though; he had a refreshing approach to dealing with street people. Most priests and ministers spent quite a deal of time bringing the word of God to the downtrodden masses, pounding His holy writ into their heads with zealous intent. Castillo rarely brought up the topic. His goal seemed to be putting street youth into stable shelters and programs, nothing more. He required a prayer only before dishing up meals at the soup kitchen, allowing the homeless to eat their suppers without proselytizing.

  “Spent the night in a club?”

  Whiskey blinked. “How the—” She barely stopped herself from swearing. “How did you know that?”

  Castillo grinned, tapping the side of his nose with one finger. “I smell cigarette smoke, but not cloves. Obviously, not at Tallulah’s last night.”

  “I detect a certain...Cora about your person.”

  Whiskey pushed away the incongruous recollection. “You’re good, Padre. I partied at Malice last night.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Malice? That’s an adult club. How’d you get in?”

  “Don’t give me shit, Padre.” A faint grin contradicted the harshness of her words. “My benefactors slipped me in the main entrance.”

  He conceded with a bow of his head. “They give you that, too?” His bottle gestured toward the dragons running up her arm.

  “Yeah! Pretty cool, isn’t it?” She rolled up the sleeve of her T-shirt to expose as much of the artwork as possible, turning in her seat.

  Castillo stood, and leaned over his desk to get a better look at the tattoo. He gave a low whistle. “Top-notch work. When did you get it done?”

  “Last night.”

  He stared intently at her. “It looks days old.”

  Whiskey swallowed. His expression mirrored one she hadn’t seen since the first time they’d met—a sharp examination giving the impression he measured the breadth and width of her character in mere seconds. “Really? I didn’t know you had a lot of experience with this sort of thing.” Her joke sounded lame even to her. She didn’t want to tell him about the last couple of days. The whole stupid vampire thing—Sanguire, her mind corrected. Besides, priests always fought vampires in the movies and books.

  Castillo studied her a moment longer. He smiled without responding, and sat down. “What happened with Sister Rosa?” he asked, referring to a nun he’d introduced Whiskey to some weeks ago.

  She busied herself with rolling down her sleeve again, her stomach fluttering with relief at the change of topic. Sister Rosa ran a three-bed girls shelter out of an apartment. Whiskey hadn’t lasted long before leaving. Her biggest problem had been the imposed curfew. “Oh, she’s nice enough and all.” She looked away with a vague gesture. “Sleeping in a bed was pretty cool, but it’s just not my gig.”

  Castillo nodded. “She came to the church to ask after you. She was worried you’d gotten hurt or something.”

  Whiskey scowled. “Tell her I’m fine, Padre.”

  “I will,” he promised. “She has a good heart; don’t let that color your opinion of her. She wishes to help.”

  Chagrined, Whiskey nodded.

  Castillo took a drink from his bottle. “So, why did you want to see me today?”

  Whiskey considered the question. Her initial reasons had been bus tickets and food vouchers, with a side order of visiting with the priest for a while. He wasn’t exactly a friend, but she enjoyed the time they spent together regardless of the occasional rough spots. Flush for a few days, she felt greedy demanding things she didn’t need.

  Take more than you give.

  For a change, she pushed aside the thought. “I was wondering if I could use the shelter as a permanent address so I can get a library card.”

  He leaned back in his chair, teeth gleaming at her. “A library card?”

  Smirking, she nodded. “Yeah. It’d be nice to legally take a book out, and finish it sometime, you know?”

  “You do realize you have to have state identification for a library card?”

  Whiskey’s face fell. “Really?” Damn.

  “It’d be an easy thing to do,” he continued, reaching for a pad and pen. “You’ve told me you don’t know where your birth records are, but I could do a search on your real name.” He slid the items across the desk to her.

  She stared at the notepad. After four years in Seattle, she’d had nothing but minor scrapes with the law. No one here knew who she was, only her nickname. Years of foster homes and the fucked-up bureaucracy inherent in them had nurtured a desire to be completely clear of the system.

  “We’ve talked about this before. I know you’re allergic to the idea of revealing your identity to the social services,” Castillo said. “But we both know you’ll get nothing but scraps as long as you refuse to take the requisite steps.”

  Whiskey grimaced at him, but didn’t argue.

  “You’ve told me you’re eighteen, legal age. That means the child welfare system is closed to you. I know you were in the system in Oregon. You don’t have to worry about someone coming to cart you back there to a foster home or lockup—unless you have a warrant out for your arrest?”

  “I don’t. Not that I know of.”

  Castillo leaned closer, his hands in his lap. “Give me your name and birth date, Whiskey. I can do some research, find your birth records, and get you that ID. That’ll open the doors for you—library card, Social Security card, GED courses, maybe college. You’re a smart young woman who can do anything if you set your mind to it.” He paused. “Give yourself the chance.”

  Whiskey rubbed her forehead, fingers drifting across the lightly scabbed wound left from Paul and his cronies. No one knew her name here, not even Gin who’d come here with her from Portland. But the padre knew the way of things. In a couple of more years, she’d be too old for the youth services. If she didn’t play her cards right, she’d be one of those bag ladies downtown, wheeling a decrepit shopping cart through the city and sleeping under bridges. Not looking at him, she reached for the notepad and pen. Quickly scribbling the information, she shoved it back onto his desk as if the paper burned her skin.

  Castillo just as rapidly snapped it up, not letting her change her mind. “Thank you, Whiskey. I won’t say you won’t regret it.”

  Despite her foreboding, Whiskey snorted. She gave him a lopsided grin. “You know me well, Padre.”

  He rummaged through his desk, and pulled out a stamped envelope. As he addressed it, he said, “Now take this out to the closest mailbox, and send it. It’ll come back
here, and be your proof of address.” He slid the envelope to her. “Once we get your identification, we can get that library card.”

  Whiskey took the envelope. Jenna Davis, c/o Father James Castillo. “Thanks, Padre. I’ll do that.”

  “Jenna Davis. J.D.” Castillo gave her a gentle smile as he made the connection to her nickname. “Jack Daniels?”

  She wondered why she had the urge to cry, forcing herself to swallow past the lump in her throat as she nodded.

  He sensed her distress. “Need bus tickets? Vouchers?”

  The desire to get away surged over her. She shook her head and stood. “No, I’m flush at the moment. Maybe next time.”

  Castillo rose, and came around her desk. “Shall we arrange for next Saturday? Same time?”

  “Yeah, okay.” Whiskey settled her pack on her shoulders, hoping he wouldn’t insist on another hug. She didn’t know if her brittle emotions could handle the closeness.

  He sensed her need for distance. Opening the door for her, he stood beside it, smiling. “I’ll do my best to keep your confidence.”

  She focused on him, gauging his words against his demeanor. He meant what he said. “Thanks, Padre. I appreciate that.” Doesn’t mean he’ll succeed.

  “Take care, Whiskey.”

  Whiskey nodded, and swept past him. In moments she stood outside, shards of sunlight stabbing her unprotected eyes. She fumbled for her sunglasses, trying to convince herself that the brightness caused her blurred vision.

  Chapter Nine

  Minn’ast.

  Whiskey woke with a start, the sharp pain in her right thigh companion to her rousing. Once she waded through the resultant confusion and feelings of loss, she swore. She might eventually sleep through the nightmare, but she didn’t hold out any great hope. The ache faded as she stumbled from the thin mattress toward the mildewed bathroom. She turned on the overhead light. A single bulb glowed in the ceiling, illuminating water stains and yellow drip marks marring the paint above. Discolored and pitted, the counter embraced a sink with rust stains oozing from the perpetual faucet leak. Rough linoleum floor scuffed her feet where innumerable dropped items had gouged the surface. Definitely not Fiona’s place. She focused on her reflection in the spotted mirror.

  The cut on her face had completely healed. When she lifted up her T-shirt, unblemished skin met her gaze. Not a single green or yellow discoloration marked where serious bruising had been two days before. She pulled the shirt off to examine the rest of her torso. Nothing. Poking at her abdomen caused no discomfort. The dragon tattoo snaking up her arm appeared completely healed, the scabs flaking away as she’d slept through the afternoon. She rotated the small silver bars piercing her nipples with little resistance. A tingle of arousal spilled through her, and she did it again for good measure. Whoa. That’s cool.

  Taking her shirt, she stepped back into the bedroom. The grubby decor matched the bathroom—nondescript brown carpet, white walls with odd splotches of dingy color here and there, and permanent shelves in place of nightstands and desk. The only true pieces of furniture in the room were the dresser and the bed; the dresser drawers were nailed shut to deter clientele from use of them. The sheets and blanket had been so dirty, Whiskey had used her new sleeping bag on the bed.

  She turned on the lamp bolted to the shelf masquerading as a desk, and lit a cigarette. While she smoked, she rummaged through her pack for clothing and toiletries. After speaking with Castillo and mailing the envelope, she’d returned downtown and bought her boots. They’d cost almost two hundred dollars. She’d expected the purchase to raise her spirits, but it had physically hurt when she handed that much money to the clerk. In a wave of guilt at her extravagance, she had stopped at a drugstore to pick up the essentials she’d need for the next week. She also selected a belated birthday card for Gin, stuffing fifty dollars into it as a gift.

  Whiskey brushed out her hair, examining the black-streaked tips. She could probably do with a trim and another dye job, and debated the wisdom of spending her dwindling cash supply. Swiping deodorant under her arms, she turned to her clothes and dressed. Not wanting to hide the dragons under cloth, she wore the deep red camisole she’d gotten from Fiona. She sat on the bed to put on her newest pride and joy, shiny black Dr. Marten boots that swept up her calf to her knees. She laced them over the top of her cargo pants.

  Standing, she went to the window and opened the curtains. The motel she’d found wasn’t far from where she’d done the majority of her shopping. Few hotels allowed guests to register without identification, so she’d had limited choices. She could have paid the offered hourly rates instead of a full night. Even now she heard the grunts and thumps of someone fucking in a nearby room. Across the street, a car wash gleamed in the twilight. Behind it, the Seattle sky turned a dark blue-gray.

  With the night came the doubts. During daylight, thoughts of Fiona and her people faded into the distance. They told bizarre stories to freak and frighten people, nothing more. Just a game they played on unsuspecting marks. All the urgency and fear Whiskey had felt in the dark seemed laughable in sunlight. Vampires weren’t real, therefore neither were Sanguire. Fiona and the rest perpetuated this delusion upon themselves and others around them. Whiskey’s reality revolved around food vouchers, bus tickets and flops. Fiona was nothing but a rich bitch who’d targeted Whiskey for— For what? A massive joke? A new toy for her friends to tease and torture?

  As the sky darkened, the idea of a race of vampires became more plausible, more concrete. Whiskey’s sunlit rationalizations drowned in the spreading shadows. What if it is true? Why else would I know the word Sanguire? She knew she’d heard it before Fiona had said it, but she still couldn’t pin down from where. Why did the sound of the word strike such feeling if she’d only read it in a book or on a website? And where was the joke last night? Fiona had given Whiskey well over a grand with the gifts, the tattoo and the entertainment. Whiskey had suffered nothing more than Fiona’s malicious teasing, receiving a small fortune for the aggravation.

  A door slammed somewhere below her. Moments later she saw a businessman climb into a sedan. He left alone. A couple of minutes later, another slam, and a woman appeared. She wore a skimpy skirt and high-heel shoes that showed off long legs. Strutting, she walked across the parking lot, and back to the street where she wiggled her ass for traffic. Streetlights had already come on, giving the woman a garish look under the yellow bulbs.

  Whiskey studied the street, the traffic, searching. Where’s Fiona now? What are they doing? Have they targeted someone else tonight? Is this a nightly ritual for them, to find some unsuspecting idiot to fill with lies? She rubbed the healed dragon tattoo.

  What if they told it true?

  Another door slammed, and she jumped. Scowling, she turned back to the crappy little room.

  ***

  After a bento dinner, Whiskey hopped a bus back to the U District. Feeling foolish, she watched for Fiona or one of her people, even here. They ain’t gonna ride the fucking bus, idiot. Regardless, she slumped in her seat at the back, warily watching every individual come aboard. She remained on guard after she reached her stop, eyeing traffic for the Lexus, Porsche or motorcycles.

  Her mood lightened as she neared Tallulah’s, the heavy bass beat thumping louder and louder. No way would anyone from Fiona’s crew be found here. They partied at Malice or Crucible, upscale clubs more suited to their cash flow. Nothing more than a hole in the wall youth club, Tallulah’s operated without a liquor license, and had little in the way of flashy decor. Arriving late, she paid a two dollar cover charge to a grizzled old man. She ignored his leer as he stamped her hand.

  As she pushed inside the all ages club, the music hit her with physical force. She saw the usual crowd—street kids looking for a nighttime haven, local teenagers in search of risk and adventure, and adults either trying to relive their misspent youth or trolling for entertainment. She bypassed the pool tables and snack counter, passing the posturing youths smoking clove ciga
rettes. Whiskey breathed in through her mouth until she passed the noxious sweet smoke. Entering the bar proper, she looked around for her friend. Strobe lights flashed, illuminating the otherwise dark room. Tables sprouted here and there around a dance floor packed with people.

  A handful of teenagers and young adults she recognized lounged in one corner. Most of them wore baggy pants and shirts in the typical skater street style, a striking difference to Whiskey’s punk dress. She easily spotted Ghost among them, a twenty-something albino man sprawled in a chair with Gin in his lap. The fluorescent spotlights made his hair and skin glow like the specter for which he called himself. Gin spotted her. She waved, and then leaned over to say something into Ghost’s ear. Whiskey saw him glance her way, a sour expression on his face. He didn’t argue with Gin, though, just nodded and released her to stand. Gin gave him a kiss, and left his company.

  “Hey, Gin. How goes it?”

  Gin gave her a welcome hug. “Hola, amiga! I missed you last night.”

  Whiskey saw Ghost scowl at the intimacy, and quickly pulled away. “I know, but something came up. Forgive me?”

  “Always, chica.” Gin led her to the outskirts of her street family. She sat on a recently vacated chair. “Sit down.”

  Grinning, Whiskey dropped her pack, and did so. “So how was the party? Get anything good?”

  “Ghost got me some really cool glass. And Lena gave me a teddy bear.”

  “Sounds cool. Is it a pipe or a bong?” Whiskey asked, bending over to rummage in her pack.

  “Pipe, a little one. But it’s shaped like a dolphin.”

  Whiskey winked at her. “You and your dolphins, amiga.”

  Gin gave her a light punch on the arm. “Better than vampires or werewolves, chica!”

  Considering her recent meeting with Fiona, Whiskey’s smile faltered. She forced away the desire to glance around the bar for Sanguire. Don’t be stupid. She handed Gin the birthday card. “Here. For you. Happy belated birthday.”