Page 1 of Watch Me Turn
1
NO THREAT TO ME
Most people don’t come to us unless they’re desperate, dying, or have something they can’t afford to lose.
Tonight, it’s all three.
I got a text from the client about half an hour ago letting me know the guy is already inside, but I’m in no hurry to meet him. He’ll still be in the same state when I get down there, so I’m taking my time—savoring the fresh air and drinking in the deep indigo horizon. Using these last few minutes to check for signs of danger before making my move.
From all the way up here, I can see two cities blending together like a rich urban tapestry. Buildings lit by cold floodlights and the halogen glow of old bulbs. Somewhere in the distance I spot the warehouse where I’ll be spending the next ten days. It doesn’t look like much from the outside. If anything, it looks like a stain as nightfall drapes across the El Paso skyline, but I know what lies beneath. I know all the purpose-built tunnels that twist under the corrugated walls bleeding rust and snake under the dirty graffiti marking its decaying face.
That’s how it’s supposed to look. Like a place where most passersby don’t feel welcome. The physical embodiment ofhostility that you’d ignore or even cross the street to avoid. It’s one of many places used by my kind to conduct our business in private. Away from daylight and nosy, human eyes.
I stretch my charcoal wings, relishing the last few moments of freedom before I’m forced to return to my human form. With a final crow, I take off from the telephone wire I’ve been perched on for the last thirty minutes. There’s a beautiful breeze tonight, and I close my eyes to feel the air whipping through my feathers as I glide over the tops of the buildings.
The city rolls and shifts beneath me like a map, the Rio Grande a black scar cutting it in two. Then the ground rises, asphalt replacing sky, until my talons scrape metal and I land beside my pride and joy. A black Honda CB750 motorcycle from the late 70s with chrome detailing and a custom leather seat in a deep crimson. I call her my Black Betty, and she is magnificent.
“Sorry, old girl,” I chirp. I’ve had to park her beside a graffiti-tagged dumpster in an alley beside the warehouse. She’s tucked out of sight from the main drag but still ready to go at a moment’s notice. In this game, you never know when you might need to make a quick exit, and my crow form isn’t always an option. I hop behind a stack of boxes and shift back to human—well, maybe not completely human—within a few seconds.
As the humid air licks at my naked body, I say a silent prayer of gratitude that a passing stranger hasn’t stolen the backpack I stashed away earlier, otherwise I’d be up a creek without a panty.
I tear into it, pulling out a ball of clothing and dressing at breakneck pace. Hastily stepping into my ripped jeans and pulling a black tank top over my head to cover myself, I tie a black bandana around my neck and stuff a knitted balaclava in my pocket. By the time I’ve thrown on my beat-up Chucks and clicked my gold hoops and nose ring back into place, I feel like myself again.
Usually that would be enough preening and grooming for one day, but with such a high-profile client inside, I should probably try to make a good impression.
My family—the non-human one—doesn’t know I’m here, and if they did, they’d be furious. But a hundred thousand dollars for ten days’ work is life-changing money, and Tía’s treatment starts next month. I still have no idea how they’re going to cover it without going broke.
This is my chance to be more than a glorified security guard, spending my nights watching over smuggling routes and babysitting bad guys. An opportunity to prove and make my family proud.
Besides, I’m sure that La Madre and my sisters are only looking out for me because I’m the youngest. Once I come back with a bag full of cash and a high-profile new client, they’ll thank me for my initiative.
Mark my words: this jobwillbe the making of me.
I rifle through my bag, feeling for an old lipstick I carry for occasions like this, digging around amongst my detritus like protection stones and books until my fingers curl around a bullet-shaped container. I apply a slick of red to match the blood I’ll be protecting for the next ten days and pout into the wing mirror of Betty.
I run my teeth over my fangs and lick the excess pigment away.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
“You’re Sophia?”the man sneers, his bony face barely containing his disgust. “You do know this is a serious job, don’tyou? A very sensitive situation, which is why I asked for a professional.”
“I am a professional,” I say, offering my hand. “I’m Sophia Vijil, and I’m very good. You can check with the guy who found me. The one who came to our shop looking for a Maldita. José...something.”
He curls his lip and recoils from the handshake. “That won’t be necessary. I just hope you understand the stakes.”
This guy hates me. I feel it radiating off him, and I’ve no desire to play the submissive little woman to his middle-aged ass. First impression be damned. I’m saying my piece.
“We’re all aware of the stakes. I have been briefed on the stakes. The stakes are known. I’m here to guard the stakes.” It’s a lie, of course. I only know the bare minimum about this job, but I’m not telling him that.
He clucks his tongue in response, and it echoes like a shot. The emptiness of the warehouse makes everything seem more naked. Exposed. There are no soft edges to hide behind. No comfort to be found. Just broken glass and barren concrete. The smell of musty damp and the remnants of copper wiring torn from the walls.
“Will I be meeting with the Primus? Mr. Lazaro?” I ask hopefully. The man paying the bill at the end of this. The man I am here to impress. The man I put lipstick on for.
“No.” He laughs, but there’s no warmth to it. “You will not. He doesn’t need to concern himself with such matters. He entrusts me to deal with all critical issues.”
His empty eyes trace up and down my body, taking in the frayed jeans, wild curly hair, and he gives a pitying half-smile. I straighten up by instinct—pushing my shoulders back and throwing him my meanest glare to show him how dangerous I am, but it doesn’t seem to work.
He narrows his eyes. “How old are you, exactly?”
