They were at her door. No vampires. She let him in.
She switched on the light in the bathroom, which was a dim little bulb with a pink shade. In the half-light he peeled off his shirt, and she saw that his tattoos swirled up his arms and across his broad chest, coiling patterns like Chinese dragons. Nowhere stark white unsunned, even when he stepped out of his jeans. Nothing to repel her, nothing on which she could look in scorn. If Samantha had gone down on her knees and prayed for a lover, he’d look like this.
But she was Shadow.
She got up and skinned out of her clothes, summoning all her arrogance, and if he was repelled by her pallid skin or those five pounds she couldn’t shear off no matter how she starved herself, if he regretted being here, well, it was too damn late now. She gave him a push toward the bed.
“Come on, stud,” she said. “Do you do anything else as nice as you dance?”
She kept control, at first. She rode him, hard and careless, and he performed like a big, stolid horse. It was only when she collapsed on him, when he put his arms around her and rolled over onto her, that Samantha, dumb bitch, began crying and telling him how beautiful he was.
She couldn’t get out of his arms. She was too weak to get out of his arms, even when the sheets blackened and the flames rose in a great burst, lighting up the room like sunrise. Unsmiling, he looked into her eyes. His muscles rippled, the dragons on his body went writhing over her flesh. He put his face close to hers and her hair flared up, all the chemicals from the dye erupting in rainbow sparks, and there was pain but a kind of ecstasy too. The fire was paring away her ugly, overweight body.
And Samantha was gone at last and she was Shadow.
The landlord was so old his skin was going transparent, but he wore a sporty cap and had no trouble hobbling around with a cane. He led Jon into the parking lot and waved a hand at the incinerated ruin of Unit D.
“That’s it,” he said. Jon shook his head, looking at the police tape around the wreckage. He leaned back to look up at the overhanging trees whose branches had shriveled from the heat, the stands of bamboo with their leaves seared away. Then he glanced across at the bulldozed space on the other side of the parking lot.
“This is your second fire in a month, isn’t it?” he said, with suspicion in his voice.
“Yep,” said the landlord. “No connection, though. This one, tenant fell asleep smoking in bed. Near as the cops could tell.”
“Yeah?” Jon stepped back, raised his camera and took three quick shots in succession. “That’s too bad.”
The landlord shrugged. “Good excuse to sell the place. Some young guy like you could tear all these units out, put in a nice big condo building, make a lot of money. You know anybody who’s interested?”
Jon shook his head. He walked up to the edge of the police tape and leaned in to get a closer shot of the tumbled ashes, the twisted bed frame with its paint blistered, its rubber casters melted off. He saw no sign of the mattress; the police must have carted it away.
Something caught his attention, moving back in among the cinders. Jon reached forward gingerly and lifted back what was left of a coffee table.
A kitten backed away on unsteady legs. It was black as the cinders themselves, and so young its eyes were pearly.
“Oh, cool,” said Jon, wishing he could use the image for Negative Pulse. He raised his camera anyway, and took a photograph.
MONKEY DAY
The faithful came in pickup trucks, setting out in the dark hours of the morning. Some came down the highway in old sedans, from other fishing towns. Some simply rose, as Father Souza had risen, and drove five blocks to the parking lot where the parade was assembling, under sea-fog and the curious stares of surfers getting into wetsuits. It was the day of the Grand Festival of St. Anthony of Padua.
Father Souza parked his elderly Toyota and got out, looking around.
All the panoply was unpacked and assembled. Here was the statue of the Saint himself, on a platform decked with lilies, hoisted into the air on two long poles by daddies and uncles and brothers-in-law, carried in state on their shoulders. Here was the ox in its harness, its horns tipped with gleaming brass knobs. A man hitched it to the two-wheeled carreta while various members of the Apostolic Association filled the cart with St. Anthony’s bread. This year, the Saint was providing turf club rolls out of big plastic bags from Ralphs market.
Here were the Queens and their Courts, teenaged girls in ballgowns, bearing flowers. Here were the Little Queens, first graders restless in scratchy tulle. Here were their mothers and aunts, bringing out the trailing capes and trains to grace their daughters. Grandmothers, now quiet and expectant dust, had embroidered the Holy Spirit doves, the roses, the Madonnas, the sacred hearts bleeding diamonds and fire in gold and silver thread on heavy, red velvet. Each cape bore the emblem of its particular group, winking in crystaclass="underline" TAFT ALTAR ASSOCIATION, 1908. PORTERVILLE ROSARY SOCIETY, 1882. MCKITTRICK CHI-RHO CLUB, 1938.
Father Souza opened the Toyota’s hatchback and took out his own vestments, slipping them on over his black shirt and trousers. They were a little threadbare and nowhere near medieval in their splendor.
“Hey, Father Mark, I have an outfit too. See?” The voice floated up from elbow level.
“Good morning, Patrick,” said Father Souza, as his head emerged from the chasuble. He looked down at Patrick Avila.
Patrick turned proudly to display himself. He was playing Francisco, one of the three little shepherds who witnessed the miraculous visitation of Our Lady of Fatima. There was a red sash threaded through the belt loops of his jeans. He wore a red tasseled stocking cap.
“See? Isn’t the hat great? My daddy loaned it to me. It’s part of his French trapper clothes.”
Father Souza was mystified for a moment, and then remembered that Patrick’s father did historical re-enactments.
“Right. Yes. Very nice, Patrick.”
“Because I couldn’t wear my Super-P outfit,” Patrick continued. “Because I’m supposed to be Francisco today.”
Father Souza blinked. “Super-P?”
“That’s me when I’m going to have my superpowers,” explained Patrick. “Actually I won’t have them until I turn eighteen. But I have the outfit already. It has a cape and everything.”
“Good morning, Father Mark.” Kali Silva, who was six, like Patrick, wandered up with a tall fifth grader named Brittany Machado. The girls wore bandanas on their heads and carried rosaries. They were playing the other two Children of Fatima.
“Mrs. Okura says we’re supposed to walk in front of you,” Kali informed Father Souza.
“Are you?” Father Souza looked around in a helpless kind of way. “I guess so.”
“It’s on the schedule,” said Brittany. She looked at Patrick severely. “Where’s Our Lady?”
Patrick looked blank a moment and then shouted, “Oh my God, she’s still sitting in my mom’s car!” He tore off through the crowd.
“You’re going to go to Hell,” Kali shouted after him.
“You’re not supposed to say Hell,” Brittany told her.
“But he took the name of the Lord thy God in vain,” said Kali.
“Cool it, kids,” said Father Souza. “Six-year-olds don’t go to Hell.”
Both girls turned bright, speculative faces up to him.
“Really?” said Kali. “Not even if—”
“Here she is,” bellowed Patrick, charging up with Our Lady of Fatima, who resided that day in a ten-inch-tall plastic statue glued to a white pillow representing a cloud.
The schoolbuses bringing the bands arrived at about the same time as the van bearing the news crew from KCLM (K-CLAM News at Six!). The Knights of Columbus arrived shortly thereafter, with their swords and plumed hats. Patrick attempted to sidle over and get a better look at the swords.