Devotion Calls

by Caridad Piñeiro

  “Sara doesn’t want to believe her mother won’t get well. She wants…hope.”

  “Don’t we all? But false hope—”

  “Is better than no hope at all, isn’t it, amiga? Think about your life before you believed again.”

  Before Samantha had fallen in love, a few months earlier, she had been brokenhearted. Wounded. Every time she came near he had sensed the stains of her past lives coloring her energy. They’d numbed her to all the good in her undead life. But then NYPD detective Peter Daly had come along. His love for Samantha had freed her to feel human once again.

  Ricardo was pleased for his friend; she deserved a chance at happiness. He smiled at her and motioned to the plate in the middle of the table, which held the sole remaining beignet that Samantha had brought. “Mind if I have the last one?”

  “So you like my little New Orleans treat?” she teased, picking up her cup to finish the last of her blood.

  He grinned. “Who couldn’t love something deep fried and drenched in sugar?”

  “Mon ami, I thought you were all about being healthy?”

  With a shrug and a chuckle, he replied, “We each have our demons. Mine happens to be a severe sweet tooth.”

  Chuckling, Samantha transformed. Her teeth elongated into wicked fangs that projected well below her bottom lip. Her blue eyes bled out until nothing but a bright green glow filled her irises. “Speaking of demons, this one needs to go make her nightly rounds.”

  He rose from the table, walked to his window and opened it to give her access to the fire escape. “Will I see you later?”

  With a fangy smile, she shook her head. “Sorry. Another handsome man is expecting me, and I don’t want to disappoint.”

  She slipped out the window and, with a burst of vampire speed, vanished from sight.

  Chapter 2

  T he shiny chrome hubcap held a place of honor much like his Winslow Homer landscape had at one time. Illuminated by a bare bulb hanging precariously from an electrical wire running through the sewer, the gleaming surface of the hubcap reflected back the beast’s image as he stood before it.

  Stroking a hand along his head, the creature imagined how his wayward strands of jet-black hair fell into place. In reality, his long talons, filthy with the gore of thousands of kills, slicked back the razor-sharp quills that began at the crown of his head and continued downward along his spine. They ended in a heavy tail-like knot of spikes that he prized now the way he had once treasured the manhood that had long ago receded into his lizardlike body.

  The keen-edged barbs on that knot provided an effective weapon, not that the demon had many enemies. Few people believed he existed, much less came after him. He had little need for self-defense, except against the bite of a large dog, or when he hunted out in the country, a goat or sheep that got rambunctious as he drained its blood.

  To balance the weight of that prodigious tail, the creature had to hunch, nearly halving his size of over six feet. But what he lacked in height, he made up for with superior strength, speed and efficiency.

  “Ssso p-p-pretty,” the beast said as he examined his chrome reflection, the words almost lost among the crackles and screeches spewing from his misshapen mouth. Those simple words and a few others were all that he could remember after decades of devolving from his once-human state. Of hiding from and subsisting on the refuse of humanity and its pets.

  He loved the pets best, he thought, clapping his gray-green-skinned hands with glee as he imagined going aboveground and finding himself a snack.

  “P-petsss. Eeeat-t.”

  In the corner of the sewer alcove, piled nearly a foot high, were the remnants of past meals. The decaying bodies of cats, rats and small dogs from the neighborhood above emitted a rank smell, but during his decades of existence, he had learned it was better to take the bodies with him than leave them behind with the telltale signature of his bite—two gaping holes where his sharpest fangs dug in so he could drain the animals.

  Occasionally, if the pet was particularly mouthwatering, he would gnaw past the fur, sample a bit of the meat. Blood, however, was what sustained him, as it did his vampire cousins.

  Much as people didn’t believe in him, he hadn’t believed in vampires, either, until the Depression. Pets and other animals had been not as easy to find back then. During an especially lean time, a vampire had come across him after he had chased down a nice fat rat to feast on. He had been so surprised by the demon, he had dropped the rat. The vampire had eagerly snared it, and escaped in a surge of speed nearly as quick as his own.

  Despite the briefness of that encounter, he could still remember the smell of the vampire, the energy unique to its undeadness. A hunter always remembered the signs of its prey and of its enemies.

  Occasionally, he would smell and sense his vampire cousins on the streets above as he went for his nighttime hunts, but he avoided them, having no need or desire to battle a vampire for his meal. Nor had he ever touched humans. They were just too much trouble. But their pets…

  “P-petsss. T-tassty,” he said out loud, the mangled sounds echoing against the walls in the empty sewer alcove.

  With a quick hop, the beast dropped onto all fours and loped down the sewer tunnel, eager to go aboveground and find himself an appetizing midnight snack.

  Sneaking into the night, the creature exited into an alley and quickly climbed to the nearest rooftop to scope out the neighborhood. He had been hunting in this area for weeks and the strays were getting scarce. As he leaped onto another rooftop, a movement down below caught his attention.

  A fat tabby, slinking along the edge of the building.

  A good snack, he thought, and vaulted over the ledge and to the ground.

  The cat sprang away from him, but he was on its trail quickly. Darting from one side to the other, the cat tried to shake off his pursuer, but capture was inevitable.

  The beast was just too fast.

  With a swift lunge, he had the cat’s tail in his grasp.

  The animal emitted a loud howl, but the beast swung it against the side of the building, stunning it into silence.

  Quickly, the creature returned to his lair, eager for his meal, but as he brought the animal up to his mouth, he sensed something different about the cat. Something…vital.

  Lowering the animal, he examined it, but could see nothing out of the ordinary. And yet a force radiated about it. Energy unlike any other he had ever encountered made his hands tingle. Human energy. That much he could tell. A human was responsible for what he was experiencing. A human with a great deal of power.

  The beast wondered what he could do if he possessed such force.

  Too bad the cat couldn’t talk and say what had touched it, what had given it such special energy, he thought as he raised the tabby’s body to his mouth once again, bared his fangs and sank his teeth deep. The cat’s blood spiced his mouth, supercharging him with the unusual vitality.

  Once he had drained the animal, he slipped a long nail into one of the holes made by his teeth and sliced open the fur, peeling it off so that he might also savor the cat’s flesh. As with the unusual blood, extra strength flowed through him as he ate.

  By the time he had devoured the last tasty bit of marrow from the bones, he was nearly giddy from the force pulsing through his body. A force that kindled the small spark of humanity that remained within him.

  A humanity that realized that whatever had gifted the cat wi
th such uncommon energy had to be nearby. Strays generally didn’t roam all that far once they had found a steady source of food. This well-fed tabby was clearly being cared for by someone.

  The beast rubbed his paws together, eagerly thinking about what he would do once he found the source of all that wonderful power.

  Ricardo prepared the altar, offering up those things he knew the Santería deities would prefer—money, rum and tobacco. For the virgencita, he tossed out the older sunflowers and placed some fresh ones on the altar. Another deity got treated to a rum-soaked pastry brought by a client.

  Afterward, Ricardo sat down in the middle of the thick mat of woven sea grass in the back section of his shop. Cross-legged, he laid his hands on his knees and commenced his meditation ritual. Many would probably consider what he did to be supernatural, when in fact he was just following a basic law of physics: matter was neither created nor destroyed, merely transformed from one type, one form, to energy, and vice versa.

  Ricardo was about to gather matter that had slipped free of its physical trappings to become free-floating energy. He chose to harness his power in that fashion, unlike others who stole the vitality of living beings. Some harvested it by a touch here and there, stealing a little bit at a time the way a bee might gather nectar.

  Some were not so kind, and drained large amounts of power from unsuspecting creatures. Then there were the others—the ones people whispered about in some of the far-off places he had visited during his stint as a marine. The soul suckers. People who completely drained life with their touch.

  As he had the day before, he stared at his hands. Hands that up until now had only been used to heal. Long ago he had sworn never to suck the energy from someone else. Never to use his power for evil.

  But was it evil if someone asked him to help them pass to ease their suffering?

  He had no doubt that Sara would think so. But she didn’t think much of him, anyway, so why did that bother him?

  Maybe because he had noticed on some level that Sara radiated goodness. It infused her features with light. And thanks to their touch yesterday, he’d learned so much more about her—that she had a pure spirit filled with love and compassion. But he had told himself, she might not wish to share that spirit with a man like him. A liar. A freak of nature.

  He had no doubt she was a good nurse. He had sensed in her a force very similar to his own. The little bit of healing power she possessed would assist her, even though she didn’t know it existed. Likely it had produced that immediate connection with him—similar forces attracted to each other.

  No doubt Sara would hate him if he helped her mother pass without pain. But Sara would probably hate him, anyway, when her mother died. Ricardo worried that it would happen soon, before Sara had a chance to prepare herself.

  Unless he could somehow gather enough energy to change that outcome. However unlikely, he had to try.

  Returning his concentration to that task, since Sara and her mother were coming by later that morning, he took slow, even breaths while he focused on a point before him—a bright beam of sunlight coming in through the clean glass of the shop’s display window and hitting the freshly swept floor. He concentrated on that sunny spot, letting his vision blur while he opened himself up to the forces floating around him.

  Little by little he perceived the scattered bits of energy dancing unfettered in the cosmos. If he opened his eyes a smidgen, the life forces were like colorful Christmas lights, frolicking around him.

  Although his physical body did not move, he imagined reaching out, collecting those points of energy and drawing them within. Piece by piece, he slowly filled his core. He felt the power tumbling within him, roiling and turbulent at being contained.

  Turning inward, he concentrated on the power, imagined the disparate pieces melding and becoming one, becoming balanced and settled. After those forces were under control, he realized there was still room within him for more energy, and he redoubled his efforts, needing the additional strength if he was going to make any difference to Evita later.

  A fine sweat covered his body from the physical demand of his task. Wiping a hand across his brow, he decided to shower before Sara and her mother arrived.

  It was never too late to make a good first impression.

  “That’s it, Sara. Keep up your defenses,” the instructor advised as her partner advanced.

  Sara positioned herself and then unleashed a dropkick, catching her partner squarely in the chest and rocking the young man backward. She advanced on him rapidly, released two quick jabs, and while he was unsteady, dropped down and swept his legs out from under him.

  The young man landed on the padded mat with a thud.

  “Seems like you haven’t lost those hand-to-hand skills, Martinez. Next pair,” the instructor called out.

  Sara bowed to the sensei and walked to the sidelines as she watched her friend, Melissa Danvers, take her place on the mat. Melissa had joined the dojo after her baby had been born, claiming that she had to work off the baby fat. Though she’d lost it quickly, she continued the kickboxing lessons, much to Sara’s delight. She enjoyed the time with her friend.

  Once they were in the locker room, removing their gear, Sara wasted no time before she sought Melissa’s counsel. “Do you believe in alternative healing practices?”

  Melissa plopped down on the locker room bench across from her. Sweat stained her T-shirt, and strands of her blond hair had come out of her ponytail to hang in damp wisps around her face. “This is a familiar question.”

  Wasn’t it? Sara thought. Over a year ago she had asked her friend the same thing, wondering if taking her mother to Ricardo was a mistake. With science having failed her, however, and the doctors at the hospital indicating it was just a matter of weeks before her mom succumbed to the cancer ravaging her body, she really hadn’t had much choice.

  Now she was asking again because…

  Because Ricardo had touched her the other day, and with that bond she had sensed…goodness. And an attraction she didn’t want to consider. She had watched him with her mother yesterday, and he had been kind and gentle. He had seemed shaken by the time they had finished their session, and her mother had appeared better. At least for now.

  “So, do you believe in alternative healing practices?” she asked her friend again, wanting a doctor’s perspective on it.

  Melissa pulled off her boxing gloves and then went to work the wrist wraps beneath. She shrugged as she replied, “Acupuncture. Chinese herbal medicine. A lot of things that people used to denigrate are now being considered as viable medical alternatives.”

  “What about Santería?” she pressed.

  “This is about your healer again, isn’t it?”

  “He says the cancer is spreading too quickly. That he may not be able to help her anymore.”

  Melissa unwound the last bit of protective wrap from one wrist. It dangled in her hands for a moment before she answered. “What does he want so that he can heal her? More blood? Money?”

  Her friend had made the same assumptions that Sara had. For some reason, after that confusing touch, and how diligently Ricardo had tended to her mother yesterday, the words now sounded harsh. Ungrateful. “He doesn’t want anything else. He hasn’t asked for anything more.”

  Silence followed her statement. She looked up and met Melissa’s gaze. “I think he might be telling the truth about mami,” she admitted for the first time.

  Melissa leaned forward
and, with a small sigh, said, “I’m sorry, Sara. Is there anything I can do?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not sure there’s anything anyone can do.”

  “You may say that, but I’m getting a different vibe here. As if you think that somehow this santero—”

  She snapped her hand up to silence her friend. “Can do more than he says he can?”

  Melissa sat back, considering her carefully, her intense perusal unnerving. “You say you’re not sure, but I’ve got a hunch about something. Something that is so totally not good.” As if to emphasize the point her hand slashed through the air.

  Sara considered how a year ago she would have never believed Ricardo could heal her mother. But he had helped. Even yesterday, when her mom had been in so much pain, Ricardo had eased her discomfort, given her strength.

  He clearly possessed skills, only…

  From that touch the other day Sara realized he was different. How different, she didn’t know. His touch had roused so many conflicting and unwanted emotions, emotions that confused her, and frightened her, if she were honest. Because she was attracted to a man she couldn’t trust.

  “Sara? Is there anything you want me to do?” Melissa asked, clearly aware of her uncertainty.

  Was there? Sara wondered. Nearly six months ago, Melissa had examined her mother as a favor, since she hadn’t been one of the attending physicians. After reviewing her chart she’d concluded that the cancer eating away her liver had disappeared.

  Melissa had cautioned her, however, that due to the cancer’s location and severity prior to its inexplicable disappearance, she feared that it had metastasized and would return in other places.

  Her diagnosis may have unfortunately proved accurate.

  “Sara?” Melissa repeated, when she didn’t answer.