Milo
LESS THAN AN hour after I left Esteban’s, I pull up to the same spot near the Tijuana River. Tonight is different than the others, as a handful of cars are already waiting. I park, but don’t get out and watch as the people in the other cars do the same. They’re as cautious as I am, nervous as to what they’ve paid for and the mystery behind it.
I check my watch and see it’s nearly midnight. Sancho is probably just getting to the meeting spot at Las Pulgas. I smile when I imagine his response to my not showing up, which just goes to show how fucking gone my head is right now. No man should grin at the prospect of his own brutal murder.
The night ticks on as the moon rises higher. Adrenaline and the anticipation of getting new information about Mercy has my knees jumping and my fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
In the distance, two headlights shine as a vehicle comes our way. At first I think it’s another prospective client, but as it gets closer, I see it’s a van. A windowless black van.
Taking this as my cue to get out and make an appearance, I shove my backpack into the backseat and check to make sure the two guns holstered at my ribs are still in place before getting out of the car. Other people follow my lead until a group of seven of us are standing in a cluster where the van pulls up and parks.
A man gets out and eyes us. “Siete.” He seems satisfied that there are seven of us and pops open the back of the van. “Leave your wallets and phones here. If we find them, you won’t get them back,” he says in Spanish.
A few people jog back to their cars to drop their things. I didn’t bring mine because I don’t need these assholes knowing who I am or being able to hunt me down. We’re ushered inside the small space like cattle. There are five men, including myself, and two women who hold hands. They must’ve come together.
The back of the van is stuffy, but thankfully it’s air conditioned, so I’m able to wear my sweatshirt without being suspicious. The man driving gives a half-hearted apology about the ride and points at bottled waters stacked in the corner, then he closes the doors and locks them.
I’m alert and try to keep track of which direction we’re heading, but as we drive, I get the feeling the driver was instructed to take twists and turns in order to confuse us.
One of the men—an older guy in his sixties who seems to have some money, judging by his nice clothes, watch, and big diamond earring—speaks up first. “What are you all here for?”
The woman with her arm over the other lady answers. “My sister is sick. We were told the angel could heal her. What about you?”
“I’m expecting she’ll be able to help me get back money owed to me and curse those who robbed me.” He must sense my look of disbelief. “No, really. I have a friend who met with the angel and it worked. He too was sick, but she healed him. He’s now married to a girl half his age.” He laughs with a throaty cackle.
The image of Mercy, my Mercy, putting her hands on this man, pressing her body against his like she did mine that night in Los Angeles when she was trying to “heal” me, makes me want to rip him apart with my bare hands. I take a deep breath, focusing on the fact that everyone here is mentioning an angel. How many other albino women could be in Mexico? They have to be talking about Mercy.
“How long ago?” I ask.
He shrugs from his slouched position on the padded bench seat across from me. “Few months, maybe six.”
That doesn’t make sense. Mercy was safe with me six months ago, which means there’s someone else. A heavy feeling of defeat settles over me and I lean forward with my head in my hands, telling myself not to give up. At least now I’ll know where she was kept. After this, I can go back to Los Angeles and tell Laura what I know.
Then I’ll head out on the run, because after tonight, the LS will be out for my blood.
Mercy
THERE ARE MORE. More like me—children being caged and used.
I pace my bedroom. The pain in my jaw from Papa’s hand has disappeared with the rush of adrenaline. I’ve wrapped the small wound on my thigh in torn bed sheets, and one thought pounds in my mind.
I have to save them.
This whole time, I’ve been wishing I’d never left the safety of Milo’s arms, the protective walls of the estate, but I have a bigger purpose.
“This is my destiny,” I whisper while feeling the hard blade strapped to my belly with a strip from the sheets. “I’ve been called to save them.”
My thoughts tumble, scatter, and reform as though I’ve gone mad, and I struggle to hang on to every bit of sanity I have left. I need to stay clear-headed if I’m going to come up with a plan.
My gaze darts to the air vent above the door and the large bookcase that hides a secret door that leads to the sanctuary. Vague memories of people streaming in through an open door in the sanctuary assault my mind. Surely that door leads out—where, I have no idea.
I rush to the bookshelf and slide my fingers along the seam where the wood meets the wall. I dig with the pads of my fingertips, my nails. I take out the knife and shove the tip into the gap and try to leverage it open, but it’s all useless.
Foggy memories flow in and out like the tide on the beach. Before I can grab onto one long enough to glean information, it rushes out again, leaving me chasing but never grasping a memory. I sheath my knife and head over to the door that leads to the small patio with high walls. There are so many locks, both key and touch key, I wouldn’t even know where to start. And if I managed to get out, where would I go?
Without many more options, I flop onto the bed, discouraged and angry about getting caught trying to communicate with the child a few doors down. If I hadn’t been caught, Papa would still trust me and he might even let me go back out, but those opportunities are gone now.
I drop back onto the bed and roll to my side. “My last hope . . .” is a ceremony.
I have to figure out a way for Papa to allow me the opportunity to meet with people, then maybe, someway, I can slip them a message. But the chances of me ever being allowed in the sanctuary after what I’ve done are unlikely.
I press my cheek into the pillow and wince at the pain in my jaw. He’d never raised a hand to me in the past. I never gave him a reason to.
Hours pass, and no matter what I try to do to make time move faster, it doesn’t work. My evening meal never comes, and I wonder if being starved is part of Papa’s plan to break me. With every grumble of my stomach, the room gets darker and darker. I continue to stare at the wall across the room, thinking about Milo.
For the first time since I’ve returned here, I feel it’s unlikely I’ll ever see him again.
My eyelids slide closed as sleep beckons me with promises of relief from the pain in my heart. I dream I’m in the sun with Milo’s body wrapped around me, but I feel no burn. No heat. Only him. He runs his fingers through my hair, smiles, and tells me I’ll be okay. I beg him not to leave, and—
“Angel, wake up.”
The voice shakes me from my dream. Startled, I shoot to a sitting position on the bed. I reach for the blade beneath my gown and find comfort that it’s still there, concealed.
Papa sucks his teeth while studying me. “You’ve looked better.” He roughly cups my chin and yanks my face from one side to another, inspecting.
I wince as his fingers dig into my sore jaw. I haven’t looked, but there’s sure to be a nasty bruise.
“Shame you made me hurt you like this, Angel,” he says in a tone much softer than the one he woke me with. He releases my face with a push that would’ve had me falling back onto the bed if I wasn’t braced for it. “It’ll have to do.”
I don’t dare ask what he means, but wait quietly for instructions.
“Prepare for a ceremony.”
My gaze slides to his. I keep my expression impassive to avoid him seeing my excitement.
With his arms crossed, he tilts his head to study me more even though he’s less than a foot away. “You’ll have to do it on your own. You’ve proven I can’t trust you with others—first you keeping the girl in your room and then you disobeying me.”
I know whatever I say in this moment will be wrong, so I remain quiet.
He heads to my closet and whips out a long white ceremonial gown, the back cut so low it reveals the top of my backside. “You think you can manage it?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Good, now get ready and I’ll be back with the serum.”
“With all due respect, Papa, I don’t need—”
“You’re in no position to make requests. You use your voice to say ‘Yes, Papa’ and that’s it, or you stay locked in this room forever. Is that understood?”
I bow low, resting my forehead on the floor by his feet. “Yes, Papa.”
He lets out a rushed humph and leaves, but not before locking all five of the locks.
This is my chance.
I quickly bathe, pull my hair into a tight bun at the back of my neck, and apply oil to my body. I slip on my gown. With my back exposed, I can no longer strap the knife around my waist. I search for a new place to hide it and settle for the bandage on my thigh. I can conceal the blade between my legs, the only place I know Papa won’t go near.
I check my reflection in the mirror. Other than the discolored old wounds and the fresh bruise on my cheek, I look just as much an angel as I ever did. If anyone knew better, if they looked hard enough, they’d see what I see glowing behind my eyes, brighter than any heavenly host. Determination.
When I was in California, it was easy to tap into who I used to be. My angel side surfaced without my even trying. When Julian was sick or Milo was hurting, I could become the healer, and now there are people who need me. There are others no one outside this prison even knows exist, and it’s my job to save them.
I lower to my knees, fold my hands in my lap, bow my head, and close my eyes, focusing on my breathing, searching desperately for the inner strength I’m going to need to do what needs to be done. The metal of the knife warms between my thighs, and I make a silent vow to use it if anyone stands between my goal and me.
“Forgive me for the sin I’m about to commit,” I whisper into the emptiness of the room.
Is mortal sin wrong when it’s used to save the lives of others? Am I prepared to carry the weight of eternal damnation to rescue someone I don’t even know?
As the questions filter through my mind, so does the resounding answer. Yes.
This is my purpose. My destiny. Like Saint Bernadette and Saint Philomena, I am called to do something bigger than could ever be understood in the hearts of men.
Thumping footsteps grow louder outside my door. The locks click, and the door opens. I remain with my head bowed and imagine from the stillness of the person in the doorway that I am being studied.
“Beautiful, my Angel,” Papa says then closes the door.
There’s the scrape of a food tray being set on the table, then the tinkling of china. I remain still, so still even my breathing is shallow.
His feet shuffle closer, and the bed springs creak as he takes a seat at my side. “You’re stunning.”
“Thank you, Papa.” I dip my head lower, hoping he believes my submission is sincere.
“Come now, time to drink.”
I sit up tall and fix my eyes on his. I don’t miss the slight jump in his jaw as he meets my gaze, and I wonder if that jump is from fear. Does he believe his own lies, the lies he tells others to earn their trust, faith, and money?
He brings the cup to my lips. “Drink.”
I close my eyes and swallow the warm, bitter tea.
“All of it.”
There’s no telling what he’s giving me. I have no choice but to swallow it, but unlike the past when I would feed off of the euphoric feeling it brought, tonight I will fight it with everything I have.
“Good girl.” He takes the cup back to the table and checks his watch. “Your parish should be here any minute. It won’t be long now.”
“Yes, Papa.”
He squats in front of me, meeting me eye to eye, tilting his head to study me, and I drop my gaze to keep him from seeing my true intentions. My head swims, and I blink to focus on the swirling grains of wood that move and dance around me.
No! Fight it!
I lick my lips, and the warmth of my tongue spreads like sunshine on my skin to my cheeks, ears, neck, and down my chest.
“What did you give me?” I sway on my knees only to be caught by his firm grip on my bicep. In my weakness, I spoke out of turn, but I sense no anger in his touch.
“How are you feeling, Angel?”
“I feel . . . powerful.”
His thumb brushes the bare skin of my shoulder, sending a wave of tingles down my body.
“And sensitive.”
“That’s the MDMA.” There’s a smile in his voice.
I lick my lips, and it’s impossible not to fall into the incredible feeling of my own tongue.
He chuckles. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you? What else do you feel?”
I meet his eyes and blink to focus. “Relaxed.”
“That’s the valium. I’d say you’re ready.” He stands and, gripping my shoulders, lifts me up.
I sway on my feet and allow him to take most of my weight as he leads me to the bookcase. He pulls a device from his pocket and hits a series of buttons that I sluggishly feel like I should pay attention to but can’t. The locking mechanism releases, swinging the bookcase off the wall to reveal a door with only one lock. After he unlocks it, he guides me through a dark passageway as the rhythmic beating of drums warms my ears. If it weren’t for the knife strapped to my thigh, I could easily forget why I’m here, what I’m meant to do, but I push back the fog of drugs and focus on the warm steel that is my only promise of escape.
Heavily scented smoke fills my nose as I’m led into the sanctuary. The space is larger than my room, but it only has a red rug and a single towering chair. Papa takes a seat on the chair and tugs me onto his lap. My legs feel wobbly, and I make sure to keep my thighs clenched as I place myself on his right knee. He runs his fingers up and down my spine, sending rainbows of pleasure throughout my body, igniting my skin with the need to be touched. My eyes burn with a fierce need for Milo, for his hands, his kiss, and his whispered words in my ear.
Mi alma.
His voice calls out in my head, reducing my drug-induced rapture to an annoyance.
“Bring them!” Papa calls lazily toward the door.
A column of light pierces the darkened room. I recoil, and he pulls me closer to his chest, cradling me in his arms with my nose buried in his neck. He smells wrong, but the touch feels right.
“Shh, Angel, I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Once they’re all in, you’ll be safe to open your eyes.”