Chapter 4 Tasting Tears
TASTING TEARS
You need to drink this," I say, holding the mug of lacrimae out to him.
Angel eyes it suspiciously from where he's propped against the pillows. "What is it?"
"An ancient recipe packed with essential nutrients and like twelve grams of protein. All the things your body needs right now."
"It looks like Pepto-Bismol."
"I figure it tastes better than Pepto-Bismol."
"You figure? That's a shitty sales pitch."
I shift on the edge of the bed so we're almost touching and bring the mug closer. "Just try it. Please. You've got to have something, and you're in no position to refuse. Not after that little stunt."
"I told you, I'm fine," he protests as he rubs his eyes. "I was just sleeping."
"Is that what you think that was? You looked like a corpse."
He curls his lip as he takes the mug from me and registers the smell. He suppresses a gag, but disgust turns to acceptance as he takes a deep breath and brings the putrid liquid to his lips, letting just the smallest amount in through pursed lips.
"So?" I ask before he can swallow. "How is it?"
His eyebrows rise slightly. He takes another gulp, bigger this time. Then another.
"Huh," he says, looking down at the mug with genuine surprise. "That's...not terrible."
I throw my hands heavenward. "Well, holy shit. Praise the Mother. 'Not terrible,' the little prince says. Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but I'll take it."
"I'm serious. It's actually pretty good. Kind of sweet. Like horchata. What's in it?"
"Better if you don't know. Not while you're enjoying it, at least," I say as I reach out to touch his burning forehead. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine, I think," he says with a lopsided smile, but his body says otherwise.
I didn't think it was possible, but he's even hotter than he was yesterday.
Literally, of course. Figuratively, he's less attractive—though come to think of it, the disheveled hair and stubble around his jawline do give him a less groomed look that I like in a man.
I'd attempt to jump his bones and hate-fuck the restless energy out of him if there wasn't such a risk of killing him in the process.
"What?" he asks, studying my face.
"Nothing.” I say staring at a microscopic divot in the granite wall behind him. “You just need rest."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'm an excellent liar. You're just annoyingly perceptive."
He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a hacking cough, and when he pulls his hand away, I can smell the microscopic flecks of blood on his palm.
"Sophia, what's wrong?” He asks. “And don't say it's nothing, because I can see it all over your face."
I weigh my options. I could lie and maintain the illusion that I have everything under control, or tell him the truth and admit I'm worried. Terrified, actually.
I opt for half a truth. I don't owe him anything, but it's what I'd want if I was in his shoes.
"You're a little off book," I admit.
"How bad is it?"
"It's...not ideal. At least I don't think it is. I've never done this before."
"What?" he splutters. "You're supposed to be looking out for me, and this is your first time?"
I cross my arms. "First time supervising, yes, but I've read plenty about turning, and I know the lore inside out. You've got nothing to worry about. You're in safe hands."
It's directed at him, but mostly I'm saying it for myself. I need assurance because the last of my confidence evaporated hours ago. I'm one step away from scrawling an affirmation on a mirror with lipstick and chanting, "You go girl!"
"Come on," I say, standing up. "Let's get you to the couch. A change of scenery might help."
He doesn't argue, which tells me how wretched he must feel.
I help him to his feet, and we shuffle across the room.
He's only in a creased white shirt and black boxers now, the rest of his suit discarded somewhere between the first and fifteenth wave of fever.
He leans heavily on me, and I can feel the heat of his strong thighs through my jeans like standing too close to a bonfire.
We collapse onto the couch together, him at one end and me at the other. I pull my backpack over and start rummaging through the supplies I brought, lining up a row of mismatched glass jars strategically on the walnut grain of the coffee table next to some of the herbs Julian left for me.
"What are you doing?" he asks, leaning in for a closer look.
"Making you something to help with the fever. A healing balm. I'm not sure what else to do, and my mom used to do this for us when we were sick. I'm going to try it with a few more magical modifications and see if I can bring your temperature down."
"A potion?"
"Something like that."
I inspect the dried herbs—feverfew, white willow bark, peppermint, yarrow—and start measuring them into a mortar.
The familiar ritual of grinding and mixing calms me.
I pound the stalks to dust and try to imbue the pieces with cooling energy.
I picture myself in the arctic, floating on a glacier, the chilled wind whipping strands of my frosted hair across my face.
"So if you're not a nurse, what are you? Some kind of witch?" he teases.
I feign outrage. "Me? A witch? What gave it away?" I laugh and gesture to the table of magical accoutrements. "Hey, listen. If you're going to watch, you should at least make yourself useful. Hand me that mugwort, would you? The green jar right there."
With a dramatic groan, he reaches for it and drops it in my palm like the exertion might kill him. I pay him no mind and scatter in a pinch before resuming my grinding.
He settles back into the couch, rubbing his temple as he speaks. "A witch, huh? Is that why you're watching over me? Someone paid you to put a hex on me?"
I scoff. "Goddess, no. Nothing like that. We're protectors, not enforcers. We look after precious things or valuable things. That's our whole deal."
"We?" he asks, shifting closer.
"The Malditas."
He cocks his head. "The cursed ones?"
"It's a bit of a misnomer. We Malditas are just witches who choose to become vampire. We straddle the line between living and dead. We're guardians, watchers. Women with witch blood who use vampirism to amplify our power."
"You went through this willingly?"
"I did. When I was twenty-two. My family didn't approve of me becoming one. They thought being a bruja was enough. They didn't understand why I'd want to...die."
I finish grinding the herbs and spit a good amount of saliva into the mixture so I can turn it into a paste. When I glance back at Angel, he's practically gagging, so I give him a wink.
"Why did you want to die?" he asks, looking away from the repulsive concoction.
I pause, pestle hovering over the mortar. Outside of my fellow Malditas, no one's ever asked me that before. My family certainly never did. They begged me to reconsider, threw every argument at me except the one that mattered: understanding why.
My dad came closest—told me he'd be proud of me whatever I chose—but even he couldn't quite hide the grief in his eyes.
My mom and sisters were worse, so consumed by the idea of losing me to a gang of vampires that they couldn't hear anything I tried to say.
No natural death. No place on the ofrenda.
"It was never about dying. I just wanted to fly," I whisper.
"What does that mean?"
"I just knew I was destined for more," I say, letting the mortar rest in my lap and shifting to face him.
"I grew up hearing the stories about Las Malditas.
A gang of legendary motorcycle-riding vampire witches who protected the most precious things on earth.
Who were feared and revered for their strength, their skills, their superior magic.
I wanted that. I wanted to be more than just another bruja in Tucson doing revenge spells for scorned housewives. "
He raises an eyebrow. "People fear you?"
"Some do. Mostly they respect us. When you see a Maldita coming, you know shit's about to get serious."
"Sorry, but you don't exactly scream 'fear me.' Even with that scar through your eyebrow, you look like a...muneca. A tough muneca, but a muneca all the same."
My cheeks warm as I flash my fangs at him. "Give it time."
He actually smiles at that, and something tingly blooms in my chest. It's nice talking to him like this. When he's not screaming insults or trying to escape, he's almost...likable. Almost.
"Okay, Sophia the witch. How did you become a vampire? You have to ask someone to bite you or something?"
"It's not that simple," I say, shaking my head.
"You can't just decide, and it's always so much more than just a bite.
There's a whole ritual element. You need to be bitten, drained, drink from a vampire, and be branded with their mark for it to stick.
La Madre—she's our maker, the first vampire bruja, the one who turns all of us—she doesn't accept just anyone.
Women come from all over the world asking to join Las Malditas and be turned.
Wiccans, voodoo practitioners, Nordic volvas, Slavic vedmas. She turns almost all of them away."
"But not you."
I chomp into my palm, and a gush of blood rushes to the surface.
I hold it over the bowl and let it drip into the magic mixture, each drop coloring the contents in rich crimson and turning everything into a thick, red paste.
I run the tip of my tongue along the wound and hold my hand up to Angel, who watches in fascination as the flesh seals together in an instant.
"Nope. Not me. But it wasn't easy. I hitchhiked from Tucson to Juárez when I was twenty-one.
Found an auto repair shop in a sketchy part of town where I'd heard the Malditas operated.
I don't know what I was expecting—maybe some grand headquarters behind a secret speakeasy entrance?
Instead, it was just a regular garage. I knew I couldn't turn back, not after making it that far, so I poked around until a pissed-off woman in greasy overalls chased me out with a tire iron. "