Page 4 of Watch Me Turn
WELCOME TO HELL
For all his idle threats, this so-called precious asset spends a lot of time sleeping. He occasionally wakes up to threaten me, but aside from that, he's been snoozing like a contented little baby.
The first 24 hours in this bunker have been a breeze. This job is going to be even easier than I thought.
As long as no one finds us.
Someone—I'm guessing Julian—left a welcome pack for me filled with lots of very interesting information about my newest ward, and since I'm no longer able to enjoy my precious screen time, I have spent the last few hours poring over the details of his life.
Angel Ruiz is thirty-two years old, an only child, and a keen tennis player. He's unmarried, has no kids, and splits his time between his opulent homes in Dallas, Miami, and Monterrey. He attended a series of private schools in America, including a stint at SMU Dedman School of Law, where he specialized in corporate law, which I assume is criminal-speak for money laundering.
And just one other thing.
He's the heir apparent to the notoriously violent Los Huesos cartel.
Something cold crawls up my spine, and not just because the air in this fancy prison is cranked up, but because I know what that means. I've heard of them, seen evidence of their crimes, and I know what they're capable of. Even someone like me—a dead girl with potent magical blood running through her veins—knows those people are dangerous.
No wonder La Madre didn't want any of us to take this job.
Los Huesos, or "The Bones," hold huge amounts of territory along the US-Mexico border, controlling all the main trafficking routes for people, drugs, and fuck knows what else. It's the most coveted stretch of land in North America, and thousands have died defending it. You don't get to claim a piece of territory that big without doing some seriously messed up stuff in the process.
These people are revered, feared, and practically untouchable. Even the mere mention of their name is enough to strike terror into the hearts of most in the south.
It seems that somewhere down the line, the leader of Los Huesos, Angel's father, Alejandro, pissed off the leader of the most feared vampire clan in Texas—Lazaro. Both factions traffic in drugs, blood, and people, and for a while there was an alliance.
Until now.
Angel stirs again, turning and stretching against the leather restraints. I don't want him to see me reading the dossier. It feels too invasive and impolite, so I tidy the stack of papers into a nearby drawer and pocket the key.
His voice croaks behind me. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing you need to worry about," I say, straightening up. "How are you feeling?"
He swallows hard. "Water," he demands.
His eyes never leave me as I get up off the couch and walk to the huge chrome fridge buzzing in the pristine kitchenette's corner. Inside is exactly as Julian described. Gallons upon gallons of milk, around fifty blood pouches, and some bottled water.
When I get to him, I can see signs that the fever is spreading throughout his body. His skin is waxy and slick with sweat, the sickly smell of death hangs in the air around him, and his eyes are tired and bloodshot. As terrible as it looks now, it's only going to get worse.
He props himself up on his elbows and flinches as he shifts his weight to adjust his position.
"Here," I say, bringing the bottle to his lips.
He narrows his eyes, so I hold it up to the light.
"It's not poisoned," I say, trying to reassure him, but when it tumbles out of my mouth, it sounds like a lie. So I double down on the reassurance. "I...uh...promise."
"Then you drink it first," he challenges, and despite how much I know it'll suck, I do it anyway.
He doesn't know that for a vampire, anything other than blood is repulsive, and the second the water hits my tongue, all I can taste is burning chemicals and heavy metals. It's so gross that I almost gag, like licking a rusty pole coated in bleach, but I stop myself. I even tilt my head back and gargle some before swallowing it down like a bitter pill.
"See," I say, on the verge of throwing up. "Delicious and one hundred percent not poisoned."
He nods and tentatively opens his mouth to receive the liquid. Once the first drop touches his tongue, he relaxes and gulps the rest down silently until the bottle is empty and only the sound of the plastic heaving and crinkling under his heavy breath remains.
"More," he demands.
"More,please," I correct, flashing him a smile.
