Watch Me Turn (Dirty 6th Vampires)

Chapter 1 No Threat to Me

NO THREAT TO ME

Most people don’t come to us unless they’re desperate, dying, or have something they can’t afford to lose.

Tonight, it’s all three.

I got a text from the client about half an hour ago letting me know the guy is already inside, but I’m in no hurry to meet him.

He’ll still be in the same state when I get down there, so I’m taking my time—savoring the fresh air and drinking in the deep indigo horizon.

Using these last few minutes to check for signs of danger before making my move.

From all the way up here, I can see two cities blending together like a rich urban tapestry.

Buildings lit by cold floodlights and the halogen glow of old bulbs.

Somewhere in the distance I spot the warehouse where I’ll be spending the next ten days.

It doesn’t look like much from the outside.

If anything, it looks like a stain as nightfall drapes across the El Paso skyline, but I know what lies beneath.

I know all the purpose-built tunnels that twist under the corrugated walls bleeding rust and snake under the dirty graffiti marking its decaying face.

That’s how it’s supposed to look. Like a place where most passersby don’t feel welcome. The physical embodiment of hostility that you’d ignore or even cross the street to avoid. It’s one of many places used by my kind to conduct our business in private. Away from daylight and nosy, human eyes.

I stretch my charcoal wings, relishing the last few moments of freedom before I’m forced to return to my human form.

With a final crow, I take off from the telephone wire I’ve been perched on for the last thirty minutes.

There’s a beautiful breeze tonight, and I close my eyes to feel the air whipping through my feathers as I glide over the tops of the buildings.

The city rolls and shifts beneath me like a map, the Rio Grande a black scar cutting it in two.

Then the ground rises, asphalt replacing sky, until my talons scrape metal and I land beside my pride and joy.

A black Honda CB750 motorcycle from the late 70s with chrome detailing and a custom leather seat in a deep crimson.

I call her my Black Betty, and she is magnificent.

“Sorry, old girl,” I chirp. I’ve had to park her beside a graffiti-tagged dumpster in an alley beside the warehouse.

She’s tucked out of sight from the main drag but still ready to go at a moment’s notice.

In this game, you never know when you might need to make a quick exit, and my crow form isn’t always an option.

I hop behind a stack of boxes and shift back to human—well, maybe not completely human—within a few seconds.

As the humid air licks at my naked body, I say a silent prayer of gratitude that a passing stranger hasn’t stolen the backpack I stashed away earlier, otherwise I’d be up a creek without a panty.

I tear into it, pulling out a ball of clothing and dressing at breakneck pace.

Hastily stepping into my ripped jeans and pulling a black tank top over my head to cover myself, I tie a black bandana around my neck and stuff a knitted balaclava in my pocket.

By the time I’ve thrown on my beat-up Chucks and clicked my gold hoops and nose ring back into place, I feel like myself again.

Usually that would be enough preening and grooming for one day, but with such a high-profile client inside, I should probably try to make a good impression.

My family—the non-human one—doesn’t know I’m here, and if they did, they’d be furious. But a hundred thousand dollars for ten days’ work is life-changing money, and Tía’s treatment starts next month. I still have no idea how they’re going to cover it without going broke.

This is my chance to be more than a glorified security guard, spending my nights watching over smuggling routes and babysitting bad guys. An opportunity to prove and make my family proud.

Besides, I’m sure that La Madre and my sisters are only looking out for me because I’m the youngest. Once I come back with a bag full of cash and a high-profile new client, they’ll thank me for my initiative.

Mark my words: this job will be the making of me.

I rifle through my bag, feeling for an old lipstick I carry for occasions like this, digging around amongst my detritus like protection stones and books until my fingers curl around a bullet-shaped container.

I apply a slick of red to match the blood I’ll be protecting for the next ten days and pout into the wing mirror of Betty.

I run my teeth over my fangs and lick the excess pigment away.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

“You’re Sophia?” the man sneers, his bony face barely containing his disgust. “You do know this is a serious job, don’t you? A very sensitive situation, which is why I asked for a professional.”

“I am a professional,” I say, offering my hand. “I’m Sophia Vijil, and I’m very good. You can check with the guy who found me. The one who came to our shop looking for a Maldita. José...something.”

He curls his lip and recoils from the handshake. “That won’t be necessary. I just hope you understand the stakes.”

This guy hates me. I feel it radiating off him, and I’ve no desire to play the submissive little woman to his middle-aged ass. First impression be damned. I’m saying my piece.

“We’re all aware of the stakes. I have been briefed on the stakes. The stakes are known. I’m here to guard the stakes.” It’s a lie, of course. I only know the bare minimum about this job, but I’m not telling him that.

He clucks his tongue in response, and it echoes like a shot.

The emptiness of the warehouse makes everything seem more naked.

Exposed. There are no soft edges to hide behind.

No comfort to be found. Just broken glass and barren concrete.

The smell of musty damp and the remnants of copper wiring torn from the walls.

“Will I be meeting with the Primus? Mr. Lazaro?” I ask hopefully. The man paying the bill at the end of this. The man I am here to impress. The man I put lipstick on for.

“No.” He laughs, but there’s no warmth to it. “You will not. He doesn’t need to concern himself with such matters. He entrusts me to deal with all critical issues.”

His empty eyes trace up and down my body, taking in the frayed jeans, wild curly hair, and he gives a pitying half-smile. I straighten up by instinct—pushing my shoulders back and throwing him my meanest glare to show him how dangerous I am, but it doesn’t seem to work.

He narrows his eyes. “How old are you, exactly?”

“Um. We talking vampire years or total?”

“Vampire. Why would I be interested in anything else?”

“Forty-three years vampire,” I reply quickly.

His mouth moves to say something, but I interrupt before he can.

“But as you probably know, Bruja are different. I was practicing magic as a human for over a decade before I was turned, so I’m very strong.

I’m what you’ve got, and I’m your best shot at keeping this guy safe. ”

He rolls his eyes at me, but I’m not offended.

I look at this guy, this company man, second-tier vampire mafioso destined to serve for eternity.

This is the so-called brains of the operation?

I’m not impressed. All I see is thinning blond hair slicked back over a shiny little bald spot, his pigeon chest padded with a stake-proof vest and leather holster containing a pistol-sized crossbow.

I want to ask him if he’s compensating for something but I decide not to.

This is a man with something to prove, or a score to settle and a chip on his shoulder.

I know his kind, and they don't intimidate me.

He catches me eyeing the crossbow, and his hand automatically twitches toward it. After a short staredown, where both of us practice the art of loaded silences, he gives up first.

“Fine,” he sighs. “Follow me.”

We’re touching shoulders as we wind through the concrete tunnels under the warehouse, but he makes no effort to make conversation, so I choose to annoy him instead.

Idly chattering away about everything from the weather to the lighting as we pass through the barely lit underground corridors.

He doesn’t respond aside from the odd grumble here and there.

“What did you say your name was?” I ask. I know it, of course. It’s Julian. I could use it, but I find that when dealing his kind, it’s always fun to humble them every chance you get. Remind them how forgettable they are. They hate that.

When he tells me for the third time, his voice shaking with unmasked fury, I take a crumb of pleasure knowing how far under his skin I am.

“Tell me something, Jonathan. When were you turned?” I ask with a grin.

He clenches his teeth. “It’s Julian, and that’s none of your business.”

“I say fifty years, maybe sixty, tops?”

He grumbles. “It’s more than sixty.”

“But less than a hundred, right?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so.”

He ushers me around a corner where the tunnel opens up into a larger space. It has the same industrial feel but with a higher ceiling and the first real signs of life. There are a few scattered couches and a bank of mismatched monitors set on an old wooden desk, but nothing is turned on.

The deeper we get into the tunnel system, the more civilized it becomes.

The lighting becomes less flickery, and the nasty damp smell and physical signs of neglect give way to smooth, freshly painted walls and newly fitted sconces housing bulbs that glow with soft, warm light.

It would be far more peaceful, I’m sure, were it not for the sound of my voice.

When we arrive at a circular door with a huge bank vault lock, he stops and turns to me with a pained “please shut up” look. I don’t give him a chance to speak.

“Tell me about the guy,” I say. “The one I’m watching. How long ago was he bitten and branded?”