Chapter 2 Welcome to Hell
WELCOME TO HELL
For all his idle threats, this so-called precious asset spends a lot of time sleeping. He occasionally wakes up to threaten me, but aside from that, he's been snoozing like a contented little baby.
As long as no one finds us.
Someone—I'm guessing Julian—left a welcome pack for me filled with lots of very interesting information about my newest ward, and since I'm no longer able to enjoy my precious screen time, I have spent the last few hours poring over the details of his life.
Angel Ruiz is thirty-two years old, an only child, and a keen tennis player.
He's unmarried, has no kids, and splits his time between his opulent homes in Dallas, Miami, and Monterrey.
He attended a series of private schools in America, including a stint at SMU Dedman School of Law, where he specialized in corporate law, which I assume is criminal-speak for money laundering.
And just one other thing.
He's the heir apparent to the notoriously violent Los Huesos cartel.
Something cold crawls up my spine, and not just because the air in this fancy prison is cranked up, but because I know what that means.
I've heard of them, seen evidence of their crimes, and I know what they're capable of.
Even someone like me—a dead girl with potent magical blood running through her veins—knows those people are dangerous.
No wonder La Madre didn't want any of us to take this job.
Los Huesos, or "The Bones," hold huge amounts of territory along the US-Mexico border, controlling all the main trafficking routes for people, drugs, and fuck knows what else.
It's the most coveted stretch of land in North America, and thousands have died defending it.
You don't get to claim a piece of territory that big without doing some seriously messed up stuff in the process.
These people are revered, feared, and practically untouchable. Even the mere mention of their name is enough to strike terror into the hearts of most in the south.
It seems that somewhere down the line, the leader of Los Huesos, Angel's father, Alejandro, pissed off the leader of the most feared vampire clan in Texas—Lazaro. Both factions traffic in drugs, blood, and people, and for a while there was an alliance.
Until now.
Angel stirs again, turning and stretching against the leather restraints. I don't want him to see me reading the dossier. It feels too invasive and impolite, so I tidy the stack of papers into a nearby drawer and pocket the key.
His voice croaks behind me. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing you need to worry about," I say, straightening up. "How are you feeling?"
He swallows hard. "Water," he demands.
His eyes never leave me as I get up off the couch and walk to the huge chrome fridge buzzing in the pristine kitchenette's corner. Inside is exactly as Julian described. Gallons upon gallons of milk, around fifty blood pouches, and some bottled water.
When I get to him, I can see signs that the fever is spreading throughout his body. His skin is waxy and slick with sweat, the sickly smell of death hangs in the air around him, and his eyes are tired and bloodshot. As terrible as it looks now, it's only going to get worse.
He props himself up on his elbows and flinches as he shifts his weight to adjust his position.
"Here," I say, bringing the bottle to his lips.
He narrows his eyes, so I hold it up to the light.
"It's not poisoned," I say, trying to reassure him, but when it tumbles out of my mouth, it sounds like a lie. So I double down on the reassurance. "I...uh...promise."
"Then you drink it first," he challenges, and despite how much I know it'll suck, I do it anyway.
He doesn't know that for a vampire, anything other than blood is repulsive, and the second the water hits my tongue, all I can taste is burning chemicals and heavy metals.
It's so gross that I almost gag, like licking a rusty pole coated in bleach, but I stop myself.
I even tilt my head back and gargle some before swallowing it down like a bitter pill.
"See," I say, on the verge of throwing up. "Delicious and one hundred percent not poisoned."
He nods and tentatively opens his mouth to receive the liquid. Once the first drop touches his tongue, he relaxes and gulps the rest down silently until the bottle is empty and only the sound of the plastic heaving and crinkling under his heavy breath remains.
"More," he demands.
"More, please," I correct, flashing him a smile.
The bed creaks as he releases some slack in his wrist shackles to move closer. "The fuck you just say to me?"
"I said, please. Now you try it."
His entire body tenses like he's testing his restraints, and he gnashes his teeth under the effort. When his weakened body produces nothing but disappointment, he slumps back down, defeated.
"Fine," he sighs. "More, please."
He drinks the next bottle slower, his eyes studying my face as he takes deep, labored sips. When his eyes fix on the deep scar that runs through my eyebrow, I wink at him.
"Oh, this?" I smile, pointing at the scar I've had since I was fourteen years old. "You should see the other guy." Except the other guy is dead, but I probably shouldn't mention that since I'm trying to build rapport and all.
"Why are you wearing that thing?" he asks.
"The balaclava? I think it helps to maintain a boundary."
He furrows his brow. "So this is a ransom situation? I knew it would happen eventually."
"Not quite."
He pulls back and eases into the pile of silk pillows, grimacing as he does.
"You want me to flip these? Fluff them, maybe? They're kinda sweaty. You probably don't wanna be lying on them like this."
He grunts something that sounds affirmative, and I ease him forward so I can get to work. He takes advantage of this new position by massaging his ankles, running his thumb around the stiff cuffs and trying to release some of the tension.
"What are you?" he asks, his face grim. "Some kind of nurse?"
"I'm something else," I say, karate-chopping a feather pillow to puff it back up. "I've been asked to look out for you for a while. To protect you."
He laughs. "Protect me? Is that what this is?" He tugs on the chain attached to the cuff, and it clanks against the wrought-iron bedframe. "No offense, but how do you think you're gonna protect me? You're so afraid of me that you gotta chain me up?"
"Oh, those things?" I shake my head. "They're for your protection, not mine."
He scoffs. "Sure, but you know who I am, right?"
"I do."
"So, you know you're already in deep shit. When my father finds out I'm missing, he'll raise hell looking for me. I don't know what the pendejo dumb enough to do this is paying"—he raises his arms and clinks the chains for dramatic effect—"but whatever it is, I'll pay double for you to let me out."
I can't resist. "And this payment...? Will this be your money, or will your narco daddy be writing the check?"
"Fuck you, mocosa," he spits.
"Sophia," I correct, turning and throwing him a wink over my shoulder. "You can call me Sophia."
As I settle into the couch, my stomach rumbles, and I know I'm due for a feed, but I doubt that tearing into a pouch of blood in front of him is exactly what he needs to see right now.
So I kick my feet up onto the coffee table and reach for the book I've been itching to read.
El Arte de la Muerte Segunda, the definitive text, written centuries ago by the Old Ones.
Vampires so ancient they're practically prehistoric.
I run my fingers along the spine, inspecting the ancient ridges. The pages are practically falling out. She said it's the best resource on vampiric turning. I have a feeling somewhere deep within my bones that I'm going to need it.
Somewhere in my memories there are flashes of my own turning experience, but it's hazy.
Just snippets of things. Candles. So many candles.
The smell of palo santo. The heat in my veins raging like a fire and spreading through my body.
The sound of women chanting in unison. I wish I could remember more, but the fever does something to your mind, kind of like the trauma of a painful childbirth or something.
Your brain kinda erases all the bad bits.
The nerdiest part of me loves this. As the youngest of the Malditas, I haven't had the opportunity to watch it firsthand, and I've always wanted to follow the process of vampiric transformation from start to finish.
Our mother is so selective about who she turns, and we're forbidden from making vampires ourselves.
This is the closest I'll ever get to being a sire.
"So you're just going to keep me here?" Angel asks, trying to sound threatening but wavering slightly.
"Yep."
"For how long?"
I gesture to the digital timer above his head. The red numbers glow and tick down ominously: 232:41:55... 54... 53...
"For that long," I say.
"What the hell is that?" he asks, though from his tone I think he already knows.
"That's how long until that door opens again," I say, nodding to the fortified door behind me. "You’d better start enjoying my company, because you're about to get a whole lot more of it."
He stares daggers, trying to intimidate me, but I ignore him and read in silence for a bit, vaguely aware of him tossing and turning against the restraints. Oscillating between trying to get more comfortable and escape. After a few halfhearted attempts, he gives up and lies back down again.
"What if I need something?" he grumbles.
I smile. "If you need something, then all you gotta do is ask."
"Okay, then I need something."
I put my book down. "What do you need?" I ask, propping myself up to look at him.
He scowls at me in return, awkwardly pawing at his cuffed ankles and rubbing his feet. "I need the bathroom," he says, his voice tight with embarrassment.
"Oh."