Of Soul and Blood

Chapter 1

April 13th, 1992.

The night was humid. 

The church tower shone like a black jewel on top of the small town. 

Among the tall oak trees lay cobbled, deserted streets, only a few late taxis passing steadily by.  It was near summer, and the humidity was suffocating even near midnight. 

A waitress was closing the doors of a coffee shop, the keys resounding over the old buildings. Couples passed by in stylish coats out of season in such a weather. 

They were a few miles from the center of downtown, but everyone liked to look their best in Lusvina, Louisiana.

A homeless man sat against the iron fence of an abandoned house in the square. His uneven beard matched his dark tattered coat, as his tanned skin looked like rawhide under the streetlights. 

He held out a hand as he could hear footsteps coming down the sidewalk. His stomach churned painfully as he hadn’t eaten in four days, and his stale water had a bitter taste. Maybe this stranger would be the one to save him tonight.

He didn’t dare meet anyone’s eyes, and tonight was no different. The man could hear the expensive leather shoes hit the concrete, the steps oddly making less and less sound as they came closer. 

The man glanced above him as he saw a very tall figure before him. It was clad in darkness, the streetlight failing to shine his face. The homeless man couldn’t see a thing but the hint of perfect white teeth. 

Usually he would say something along the lines of humble begging, but his words ran dry in his mouth. His stomach turned again, but of fear. He unconsciously backed into the fence, and his back ached agonizingly.

The man with perfect teeth shuffled in his suit, tight around his arms and legs, and took out something from his back pocket. He placed the wad of tens right into the man’s lap.

“Have a nice night, dear boy.”

The voice reached the man’s ear, the tall figure walking away.

 The homeless man felt his mouth open in shock as his eyes saw the immense amount of cash he was just given. A tear rolled down his dirty cheek.

Perhaps the man would use the money for food, and maybe even drugs. 

 What did it matter to the tall man? He was only trying to help.

The crescent moon was coming out from the tall oaks. A bit of warm wind moved the brown and darkened green leaves, the sound like music to the man. 

He walked on and on, until reaching the bar. It was closed but he knew the owner would be upstairs on the patio. He entered the dark room, the bottles glowing like love bugs in the neon signs light. The jukebox had a terrible amount of dust on it. The man smiled sadly and placed his finger from edge to edge of the machine.

He looked at his finger full of aged substance. He could smell skin, old whiskey, and even older blood. His leather shoes reached the stairs, glancing by old newspaper clippings from around town. Not one mentioned the bar.

The rooftop was covered in golden lights, a few missing here and there from the stream of bulbs. The tables were empty and half-cleaned. There was a second bar on the top floor, only a few bottles glowing, and some were slightly dirty. The owner had given up.

A short voluptuous woman stood against the side veranda, the lit cigarette burning in her mouth. The man approached her and could smell the menthol and expensive perfume.

“Johnn oh, Johnn. What to do, what to do…”

Her words were like dark chocolate, decadent, and bitter. Her pixie cut was growing out in tight curls around her square face, her large almond-shaped eyes glowing. Her dress fit her perfectly in all the right curves. 

He smiled a perfect smile, but Maria didn’t believe it. It was as fake as her ability to run this bar. This whole bar was a ruse; she had to feel human in some way or another.

Johnn looked at the street below, completely deserted by now. He pushed his black long bangs from his face and ran a hand through his hair. It had gotten long in the front, but he liked the feeling. 

Maria eyed his pale face, always finding it fascinating how it contrasted with her dark complexion. He hadn’t aged a bit.

“Me and you could make a sweet café au lait,” she stated, smiling a bit sarcastically. Her teeth were not exactly straight, but they added to her jovial features. She was beautiful, in a kind, warm way.

This made Johnn laugh, his blue eyes twinkling like stars. He didn’t blush, for he was used to empty flirts.

“You never change, Maria.”

Maria finished her cigarette and lit another. Her tone grew serious.

“.... Johnn…what happened?”

Johnn stretched his neck; he waited, for he always thought his words out carefully. He had much to tell her but it wasn’t his right to say everything either.

“The old Man has got her. And...we... we can’t touch her....”

His smile disappeared.  

“W…where…?”

Panic rose in Maria's throat. She tried suppressing it but her thick brows furrowed deep into her forehead.

“No idea...yet ,” Johnn stated, trying to state his words calmly. The cigarette smoke was annoying him but he wouldn’t bother her to put it out. 

Maria was silent, frustration boiling in her throat. Johnn looked at her absentmindedly. 

“ He chose well; I can’t even smell her.”

“So, what? She’s gone? That’s it?”

Johnn looked at the swinging bulbs above them. He knew what this meant and he knew Maria was right to panic. The little one was gone.

“Johnn…this was our job. And we failed, didn’t we?”

Her voice shivered. She took another puff of the cigarette on instinct.

“I tried, Maria. She’s hidden and, I hope, safe…. I….hm…”

Her head fell into her shoulders. She felt suddenly so heavy against the wood railing. She could fall off and nothing would happen, but it would have been nice to feel something right now.

He patted her shoulders. 

“We’ll be alright, don’t you worry…”

The woman turned to him, dropping her cigarette on the floor and putting it out with her heel. She shook her head.

“How? He’ll kill us for this.”

Johnn turned around to the empty bar, taking out his favorite gin and pouring himself a warm glass. The liquid burned his lips in the finest way.

“This isn’t our fault, Maria. Besides… I’ll figure out a way... Eventually.”

Maria walked over to him. Her shivering was getting worse.

He drank the last of the gin in one swing. It didn’t feel like anything. 

“We’ll just have to wait and see it all play out...”

He took the gin bottle and closed it shut, wiping the edge with his handkerchief. He put it right back where it was, right where the dust accumulated.

She had her hand in a curl near her neck, twisting it nervously.

“Is this our end? …” Marias asked into the empty night. 

 Johnn’s stomached curled within itself. He was beyond terrified, yet he wouldn’t show her that.

María felt empty; She could suddenly feel a pant of hunger, but tossed that feeling away. She had fed only a few weeks ago; Maria would have to wait.

A cold hand found a curl on Maria’s head. 

His deep blue eyes were shouting at her, furiously searching in hers. They stared back in fear. 

“I promise. I’ll fix this.”

Maria looked down at the floor. 

He grabbed her chin gently. 

Her brown eyes found his.

“I’ll find her. I swear on my life, I will. For all of us. For everyone. And for our God.”

…..

April 6th, 1992.

….

Hundreds of miles away, a few towns away from Macon, Georgia, a baby was asleep in a makeshift cradle. Its nursery was pathetic in a wholesome, beautiful way. A Christian would be gasping at such a sight, so familiar to the infant Jesus Christ.

She looked deep in thought as her small hand touched her cheek, a thick head of black hair already growing on her head. A priest was on his knees beside the cradle, praying as hard as he could.

St. Judes’ Catholic church didn’t have a budget for keeping children, but this one was the first. And this would be the exception. 

The town of Thomasin was quiet, its residents in deep slumber.

It was quite a charming town; it was situated between the Georgian forest and the main busy interstate. Its town survived on the industrial plant outside the city.

 It wasn’t much but it did have the southern hospitality of Savannah, and a bit of the rustic magic of the South, mostly due to its cemetery dating back to the early nineteenth century.

The church’s square was empty, except for a few homeless men and dogs on leashes.

Father Vicente Flores looked upon the baby, steadily asleep and in utter peace. He had no idea what had occurred that night, but he had been given instructions and would not dare break them. 

The shadow had come in the night and had uttered only one sentence.

The voice was thick and unworldly, and it sent shivers down the priest’s back. 

It had appeared at his quarters, one knock on the door.

The priest thought it was another drunk asking for help, but to his surprise, it was much more startling.

A baby was left at his feet by a shadow. That was the only way the man could describe what he saw that night. The shadow had no face, only a light-colored cloak covering its decrepit body. It had no eyes, and no mouth, but only darkness. It had a calm aura, despite its old appearance.

“Protect her with your life, and protect her in this sanctuary. This is what you have been waiting for,” the voice spoke in perfect diction.

The creature had uttered those words, turned around, and crumbled into the moist air. The priest cried out to it but received no answers. He held his simple rosary against his chest, knowing whatever had left this child was perhaps of God, or something else entirely.

 He didn’t think it was evil, but he knew this child needed him, whether he wanted the task or not.

The forty-seven-year-old man had seen many things in his life, but this was the first time he was sure of his God. Even as a priest, he had his moments of doubt but he always had a lingering hope, deep down anyway. 

Now, he had proof. Humans always need proof.

He touched his temple, beads of sweat accumulating in his greying chestnut hair. He wiped his face with the bottom of his black cassock, ignoring his pang of guilt. 

Vincent realized he was being watched.

The baby was suddenly wide awake, silently watching the priest. She must have been a few months old, judging by her size. Her eyes were the color of honey, except for her right eye, which had a particular speck of grey near the center. The priest realized she was purely beautiful.

Vicente’s initial shock and fear were disappearing as he found himself smiling at the baby. The baby smiled in return, cooing happily.

He was a father now, in more ways than one.

“And what shall we call you, pequeña?”