Лорел Гамильтон - Rafael

“ Gracias, abuela ,” she said, and looked pleased with herself. I wondered if abuela , which I knew meant grandmother , was an honorary term or a familial one. I’d ask later; the last time I’d seen my own abuela I’d been fourteen.

Rafael said, “If all supernatural blood suckers are defined as vampires, then yes, a tlahuelpuchi is a type of vampire.”

“Can’t we use that to just take him into custody?” I asked.

“You cannot be here as a marshal, Anita,” Rafael said.

“I don’t mean me taking him into custody, I mean you guys jumping his ass and capturing him so that we can use him to find Padma.”

“Challenge has been given and accepted, Anita,” Rafael repeated.

Benito said, “I’d like nothing better than to jump his ass, but once inside the fighting pit there are no excuses for canceling a fight.”

“Even the fact that we know he’s a Trojan horse for an evil vampire?” I asked.

“A Trojan horse is only dangerous if you don’t know that it is full of enemies,” Neva said.

I looked into her black eyes and realized that the other bruja with her had normal eyes; only Neva’s stayed in power mode. “What are you planning to do?” I asked.

“Win,” she said.

“Rafael,” Hector yelled, “are we going to fight, or will you talk the night away, old man?”

Rafael raised his arm so that the brand on his arm showed clearly. “If you want my crown, little boy, come and take it.”

“You first, my king.”

Rafael gave a slight nod. Hector did a deep bow that swung his braid forward over his head, which meant he was doing it wrong. For a real bow you bent at the waist, not the neck; I’d been learning protocol for bows and curtsies for the wedding.

Rafael handed the microphone to Benito, then ran down the steps toward the railing, put one hand on the top of it, and vaulted over. The crowd cheered.

“That’s a twenty-foot drop,” I said, my heart beating a little too hard just watching him go over.

“Yes,” Benito said, as if it was no big deal.

I glanced around, but everyone was chill with Rafael jumping, so I tried to be cool about it, too, when what I wanted to do was run to the edge and see if he’d broken his leg. Instead I stayed where I was and watched him walk toward the middle of the sand. He hadn’t broken anything; in fact, he’d taken the time to dust off any sand that might have clung to his black shorts.

Fredo stepped out into the sand below us, walking toward Rafael. Fredo was slender with his salt-and-pepper hair cut short and neat; the equally short and neat mustache and beard that he’d added recently made him look like a stranger almost. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to them. He looked even shorter than the five foot six I knew he was as he met Rafael in the middle of the sand. It gave me some idea of how tiny I’d look out there. Rafael was still unarmed, as Hector had been, but the overhead lights gleamed silver in the banderillas and small knives across Fredo’s black T-shirt. Some of them were throwing knives and some were just small blades. He was one of the few people I’d ever met who was truly dangerous with a throwing blade. If there was any way to use a blade for lethal purposes, Fredo could do it.

Hector backed up the steps between the benches and did a running start, on stairs, before launching himself into the air, where he rose higher as if he had invisible wings. I’d have fallen on my ass just running on the stairs, but Hector lengthened out his body, his arms tucked in tight, his legs long and graceful together as he flipped himself in the air as if he were on a high dive over a pool instead of solid, unforgiving ground. I honestly thought he was going to crash-land and the fight would be over before it began, but at the last second he bent his body over and did a shoulder roll across the sand like Rafael had done, except Hector rolled farther and faster from the extra momentum he’d gotten from his fancy airtime.

He came to his feet with an almost balletlike leap, arms up and out, when he landed. He smiled at the crowd, waving an arm again; there was that echo of dance or gymnastics or something that you didn’t learn in martial arts.

The crowd went wild, fickle motherfuckers. Flashy bastard, but my stomach was tight as I watched him glide toward the center, where the other men were waiting.

27

FREDO PATTED HECTOR down, tracing the edges of the fight shorts and even making him open his mouth to check that he wasn’t hiding anything there. He did the same for Rafael. He even checked their bare feet and hands and ran fingers over their hair. It was more like a prison search then even a cop pat-down.

When Fredo was satisfied that neither fighter was carrying anything but what God gave them to fight with, he literally drew a line in the sand between the two men. Then he reached back and hit the switch on something at his waist that I hadn’t even seen until he touched it. I realized it was a cordless microphone setup when Fredo spoke into the tiny mic by his mouth. I could see it as a thin black line almost lost in his beard now that I knew what I was looking for.

“Our king and his challenger have agreed to single blade and claws until one of them is dead.”

Rafael spoke low to him, but Hector wasn’t having any calming talk. He did a little bounce on the sand and it was just a little too high; again I thought dance training with his fight training maybe?

Hector held his hand out for the microphone, and Fredo passed him the tiny wired piece. “After I kill you, I will carve the crown from your skin, old man!”

Rafael just reached his hand toward Fredo, who pulled a blade from one of the many on him and handed it hilt first to his king. Hector threw the tiny microphone toward Fredo, who didn’t bother trying to catch it, he just let it dangle from the other half of the wire. Fredo pulled a blade that looked to be a match to the one he’d handed Rafael and offered it to Hector.

They took a stance on either side of the line in the sand. Fredo moved back from them toward the edge of the pit, and then Fredo must have shut the microphone off, because he shouted something that I couldn’t understand from here. Rafael saluted Hector with his knife. Hector returned the gesture, but with the blade pointed at the ground; in practice it points up or a little to the side, never at the ground, because that means it’s a fight to the death, as in I’m going to put you in the ground . I hadn’t been able to see Rafael, but I guess he gave the same salute. This wasn’t training, or practice, it was for real. The men moved in a blur too fast for me to follow and the fight was on.

28

IN THE MOVIES knife fights last a long time, because it’s supposed to be good cinematography, it’s supposed to be pretty and exciting. In real life they’re fast, because you’re fighting for your life and you don’t give a damn about pretty, you want to survive. Rafael and Hector moved forward at the same time, but the exchange of blades and arms blocking and moving them each past each other was so fast I couldn’t follow it with my eyes. It was like special-effects fast and then Rafael was bleeding from his lower arm, but Hector was bleeding from his side. Blur of movement and blood. The side wound bled more, dripping down in a bright red wash I hoped meant it was deeper, but wasn’t sure. They both ignored the wounds as if they were nothing; neither of them even hesitated. Most people will when they get cut, and a lot of them die in that moment, because the person who isn’t cut takes advantage of it, but neither of the men on the sand was going to make that amateur mistake. The first exchange had turned them around so that Rafael was facing us and all I could see was Hector’s back.