Chapter Seven
Coyote’s mother? The feared La Llorona?
Two auras materialized in the distance, about halfway to the houses at the far rim of the mesa. One was roughly the size of a human woman. The other was shaped … well, like something definitely not human. Their auras floated like glowing blobs, fluctuating colors: red to orange to yellow to green to blue to indigo to violet and then back through the spectrum.
Every living creature emits an aura, and the color reveals where the creature manifests its psychic awareness. The red chakra resides at the base of the spine and shows a preoccupation with material concerns. The orange resides in the sacral plexus and shows a connection from the material to the psychic world. The other chakras continue up the spine and through the head. Yellow is transformation. Green, compassion. Blue, inspiration. Indigo, illumination. Violet, oneness with the universe.
Humans, not surprisingly, have a red aura. We vampires exist on the orange plane as do most supernatural creatures. Werewolves flicker between red and orange. I’ve only met a few creatures with a yellow aura, extraterrestrials among them. And only one creature with a green aura, a forest dryad I’d had an affair with and who was later murdered by another vampire. But this was the first time I’ve ever seen a creature whose aura not only reached the rare indigo and violet chakras but also cycled through their aura colors like lights on a theater marquee.
Coyote and his burro continued to lead us forward. Spikes of anxiety poked from the penumbra of his orange aura. Rayo’s aura remained a steady red.
I nodded to the one shaped like a woman. “That’s your mom?”
“Unfortunately,” groaned Coyote.
“What’s that thing with her?”
“You’ll see.”
If Coyote’s mother could shift her psychic awareness to the violet plane, then she must be an incredibly spiritual creature. But that didn’t square with her reputation as La Llorona. Someone that enlightened wouldn’t spend her free time drowning strangers.
She cried out again, and goose bumps returned to my arms.
Jolie sidled close. “What’s going on?”
I explained about La Llorona.
“And she’s Coyote’s mom? She drowned him?”
Coyote had once briefly given me the lowdown of his life. “Not that I know.”
Jolie said, “I thought Coyote’s mom was La Malinche.”
“That too.”
“But she drowned her kids?”
“I don’t think so. History says La Malinche had a daughter and another son. They would’ve been step-siblings to Coyote though I’m sure they never knew each other. Besides acting as Cortes’ booty call, she was also his translator and was a big reason the Spaniards got the drop on the Aztecs. That’s why in Mexico La Malinche is a synonym for traitor. In one myth, her punishment is being doomed to walk the earth as La Llorona.”
“And the drowned kids?”
“A metaphor for the indigenous people she betrayed to the Conquistadores.”
Jolie’s aura sparked in annoyance. “Figures. Spanish men raped and pillaged Mexico, and it’s an Indian woman who’s pinned with the blame.”
Our two parties halted, facing each other. Coyote introduced Jolie and me. La Malinche, La Llorona, whatever her name was, stood to our left. She looked petite and healthy considering she was over five centuries old. And between you and me, her delicate features—big shiny eyes rimmed with thick lashes, a well-proportioned nose, wide mouth with a plump lower lip—made her a real MILF. Much too pretty to be Coyote’s mother. Or rather, Coyote was too homely to be her son. Her flowing dark hair and gauzy garments fluttered dramatically despite the calm air.
She stared at us, then at Coyote, then back at us, smiling awkwardly as if waiting for an introduction. Finally she frowned, “Coyote, where are your manners, cabezón?” She waved at Jolie and me. “I am Doña Marina.”
Her companion resembled a velociraptor crossed with a gorilla—a lizard’s snout, beady eyes, plenty of sharp teeth, long muscular arms with fearsome clawed hands. His crinkled metallic suit seemed to be made of faceted bits of pewter that undulated like they were connected with magnets. As a vampire, I was introduced to all kinds of weird shit.
He bowed. “El Cucuy.”
I translated for Jolie. “The boogieman.”
They stood at eye level.
“The boogieman?” Her brow knitted. “I thought you would be taller.”
“I hear that a lot.”
“How can you change your aura colors?” she asked.
Coyote’s mother answered. “When you’ve lived as long as we have, you learn a few things.” She made her aura glow like a stack of illuminated Lifesavers then fused the colors into a brilliant white light. Her aura dimmed to an orange that matched ours.
“Hmmm … interesting,” Jolie remarked. “What should I call you? Doña Marina? I’m not fond of either La Malinche or La Llorona.”
Coyote’s mother smiled. Her aura flashed a pleasant green. “Marina is fine.” She beckoned Jolie close. “What a nice girl you are. Mijo,” Marina said to Coyote, “you could learn from her. Some class for starters.”
Coyote spurred the burro forward. “Vamonós, Rayo. Let’s go find some tequila and forget we have family.”
Marina braided her arm with Jolie’s, and they walked together. “I bet a girl like you doesn’t drink tequila.” Marina’s voice rose as she said this, obviously for Coyote’s benefit.
Jolie’s aura bubbled, the equivalent of a blush. Marina acted as if she didn’t notice. Truth was, I’ve seen Jolie drink enough tequila in one sitting to drown the Mexican navy.
“Hey mijo,” Marina said, “it’s a long walk back to the house.”
“Mom,” he replied wearily, “you want to ride the burro?”
“No. But you could’ve asked.”
“I never ask because you never say yes.”
“See what I put up with up?” Yellow spines covered Marina’s aura. “What is the greater shame? Being cursed as La Llorona or enduring the pain of such a thoughtless son?”
A plume extended from Coyote’s aura, fashioned itself into an out-sized pistol, and shot him in the head. The plume dissolved into confetti and disappeared.
El Cucuy and I fell in behind Jolie and Marina. He leaned toward me and whispered, “Awkward.”
Marina looked over her shoulder at me. “You’re here to help Coyote?”
“I am, though I’m not sure how.”
“He’s very scared by this,” she whispered, “but don’t tell him I said so.”
Coyote flicked the reins and made Rayo trot ahead.
“I don’t know what ‘this’ is,” I said.
“This has to do with Fajada Butte,” Marina replied. “That’s all I know.”
“We’re here because of a war.”
“As if that’s a surprise. Tell me when there is no war.”
“A vampire war.”
“How does that change anything? One side killing another.”
“You’re talking like we wished for this trouble. If we don’t fight, we’ll be annihilated. Maybe you as well.”
“I don’t think so.” Her body and aura shrank to a point of light and disappeared. I blinked and searched the darkness. A moment later, a tiny light appeared to our right and grew into a column of flame. A figure materialized inside the fire. Marina.
“Very Biblical,” Jolie offered, “but probably not much good against Phaedra.”
“Why does it have to be Coyote?” Marina’s pleading voice sounded like any mother who grieved as a child marched off to battle. Even the ugly ones.
“Why does it have to be any of us?” I answered.
Jolie pointed at El Cucuy. “What’s your business in this war?”
He raised his hands and shook them. “Keep me out of this. I’m only here to keep Marina company.”
We reached the doublewide. A rust-colored cur—a dust mop on legs—lunged at Coyote, barking and wagging its tail.
He reached for the dog. “Che, come here.”
“Che?” I asked. “Odd name for a dog.”
“Why, vato? What else could I name him? He’s a red dog.”
The door opened. A woman appeared in silhouette behind a screen door. Red aura. Human. Hair cut short and spiky. She stepped barefoot onto the small wooden porch and propped the screen door against her plump hip. “You finally made it, slowpoke,” she said to Coyote.
He introduced Jolie and me. She was his girlfriend. Rainelle Tewa.
“You’re Felix?” she asked. “The one with Coyote’s money?”
I gave him the stink eye.
Rainelle was a stocky woman and on the busty side, though she was hardly the over-endowed queen that was Coyote’s last amante. She was dark skinned. Round face with almond eyes. A patchwork dress and bangles on her wrists made her look especially Hopi Bohemian. I wondered if Rainelle was Coyote’s chalice but she didn’t wear a scarf or a collar that would’ve identified her as a vampire’s feedbag.
She hip-checked the door and held it wide. “You guys come inside. Doña Marina,” she said to Coyote’s mom, “you want to join us?”
She replied no.
“Cucuy?”
“I’ll hang out with her. We need to practice scaring people.”
Marina eased into the night, her aura dimming as she screeched, “Dónde están mis hijos?”
El Cucuy sauntered beside her and howled, “Bleah! Boo! Booga! Booga!”
Coyote rode Rayo into the pen around the first adobe building, let the burro loose with the dog, and returned. He stepped through the door and Rainelle scolded him. “Wipe your feet.”
“You’re sounding like my mother.”
“Then you should listen to her.”
The doublewide creaked and shifted as we entered through a tiny kitchen. Every doublewide I’d ever been in had a unique odor, and this one was no different. A greasy cooking smell clotted the air.
Second-hand furniture—a threadbare sofa, chipped and battered chairs, bookcases sagging with knickknacks, a coffee table covered in rings from the bottoms of cups—crowded the worn carpet of a living room lined with fake-wood vinyl paneling.
A heavy-set man filled a wingback chair like a hermit crab in its shell. He had ruddy, peeling skin and bushy Elvis sideburns. A Peterbilt trucker’s cap. A turquoise bolo tie with a Zia sun cinched the collar of a western shirt. His eyelids drooped, and his head bobbed to whatever tune played through the earbuds that climbed like a vine from the pocket of his canvas vest. Coyote didn’t introduce him—or us—and up close, the guy reeked of peyote.
Jolie sat next to me on the sofa.
Rainelle brought a baking pan covered with a dishtowel and set it on the coffee table. She made more trips and brought soup bowls filled with grilled cobs of corn, sliced peppers, onion, and chunks of goat meat.
Coyote slapped the trucker’s knee with a length of thin copper tubing. The trucker cracked his eyelids, loosened his bolo tie, and spread his shirt collar to bare his neck. He tilted his head to one side.
Coyote gestured that Jolie bring one of the bowls. He spit on one end of the tubing and screwed it into the trucker’s neck. He held the other end of the tube over the bowl. Blood flowed out the tubing like a thick sauce and drenched the food. My bowl was next. Rainelle held the last bowl for Coyote.
When his bowl was filled, Coyote popped the tube from the trucker’s neck, then licked his thumb and mashed it over the hole. Vampiric enzymes would heal the wound. He sucked out the blood remaining in the tube. A moment later he pulled his thumb from the trucker’s neck, and the wound had scabbed over.
The trucker raised one hand and rubbed his fingertips together.
Coyote looked at me and pointed to the hand.
I pulled out my wallet and slapped two fifties into the trucker’s palm. First time that I’d ever paid a chalice.
He stuffed the money into a vest pocket, pulled a pair of sunglasses from another pocket, and put them on. He settled into the chair and resumed bobbing his head.
The blood steamed in our bowls. Rainelle uncovered the pan to offer loaves of fry bread. She tore the bread into pieces and handed them to Jolie and me. “Hurry, eat, before it gets cold.”
I slathered blood over a corncob like it was melted butter.
Jolie folded the meat and vegetables into the blood. “When do we start our mission to get Carmen?”
Coyote squeezed next to me on the sofa and shoveled a spoon into his bowl. A warm meal. Back at home. Back with his woman. He should’ve been content. But his aura percolated with dread.
“Tomorrow we’ll visit Fajada Butte and I’ll explain what you need to know.”