The leather file hit the table with a dull thud, its contents a collection of nightmares Rosa Delgado wasn't ready to face. She glared at Inquisitor Torres, her fingers itching to slap that smug face with the damned folder. The clean, relaxed feeling from her first proper bath in months evaporated like morning dew under Hil's merciless gaze.
"Bullshit," Rosa spat, the word tasting like bile. "This is all fucking bullshit."
Torres said nothing, sipping her cafecito with infuriating calm. The aroma of fresh coffee and warm pan dulce twisted into something sour in Rosa's gut.
"You expect me to believe this pinche old wives' tale?!" Rosa's voice was a low growl, her hand unconsciously drifting to the pistol at her hip. "It's a man, Torres. A goddamn man, not some legendary boogeyman!"
The Inquisitor set down her cup, the soft clink somehow louder than a gunshot in the tense silence. "Yet we have Vocas who conjure Hil's divine light and blasphemous necromancers who truck with the dead." Torres' voice was level, but her eyes flashed with barely contained fire. "Are you that narrow-minded, Delgado, or intentionally thick skulled? My people don't hunt men. That's your job, manhunter. We're after a monster – one that's been plaguing the populace for over 200 years, probably longer. You think the Order would waste our time on a bedtime story?"
Rosa's jaw clenched, teeth grinding as she fought to keep her temper in check. The cafe around them seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them in a bubble of tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
"It's bullshit," she repeated, defiance dripping from every syllable.
Torres rolled her eyes and hurled the folder at Rosa's chest. "Read the whole damn file, cabrona! You barely glanced at the first page. It won't kill you." The Inquisitor leaned forward, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Don't you get what I'm offering you, Delgado? The truth. How often does that coin land in your hand, woman of the law? Take a chance and read it."
Rosa's nostrils flared, her glare hot enough to melt steel. Without a word, she snatched up the folder and began to read, the weight of unseen eyes prickling the back of her neck.
Two cafecitos and a plate of pan dulce later, Rosa closed the file with trembling hands. She'd only made it halfway through, but it was enough to make her feel like she'd been gut-punched by a mule. The dark rider of legend – a skeletal figure haunting crossroads on moonless nights, offering wealth for souls – was more than just a cautionary tale for foolish drunks.
Tenebroso was real. A tool of vengeance, yes, but something far more ancient and terrible. Not undead, not a ghost, but something that defied easy classification. Rosa's mind reeled as she recalled passages from the file:
A rogue necromancer, employed by the Inquisition in a moment of desperation, his dark arts useless against the creature. Tenebroso had torn out the death mage's heart, consuming it before horrified onlookers before vanishing into the night.
Vocas, channeling Hil's raw power, their bodies exploding from the strain as Tenebroso staggered away... laughing.
"What use are guns against it if magic only pissed it off?" Rosa's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
"Fair question. I asked the same when I got this assignment." Torres stretched, joints popping. "Your answer's on the last page."
Rosa flipped to the final sheet – a list of names and dates. "Who are these people?"
"Hosts," Torres said, the word hanging heavy in the air. "Study the whole file later, but here's what we know: The entity, whatever it is, needs a host. We think someone makes a deal, probably someone who's been wronged. The creature does what it does best then – kill. Specifically, those with morally corrupt backgrounds. It's the only link between victims. The monster uses the hosts to move around, to manifest in our world. It kills until the job's done."
A chill ran down Rosa's spine. "What happens to the hosts afterward?"
"They die horribly," Torres said, grim satisfaction coloring her words. "Bullets, blades, magic – they don't touch the creature itself. But once it leaves the host..." She trailed off, her eyes distant. "All those injuries come back tenfold. Fausto Mendoza was the last known host, held on the longest too. His account was... interesting."
Torres' words cut off abruptly, her gaze snapping to something outside. Rosa's hand flew to her weapon as she registered the unnatural quiet that had fallen. Leaning back, she caught sight of two men with long guns positioned by some barrels near the entrance.
In a fluid motion, Rosa drew her pistol and aimed it at Torres. "What the hell is this, woman?!"
But the Inquisitor had already drawn her own weapons, focused not on Rosa but on the world beyond the cafe's walls. Torres crept towards the main doors, peering through the shutters. "¡Ese bastardo gordo!" she hissed.
Before Rosa could demand answers, a booming voice shattered the silence:
"ROSA DELGADO! THIS IS ALGUACILO SANCHEZ. WE HAVE SURROUNDED THE BUILDING. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP."
Rosa's blood ran cold, but she kept her gun trained on Torres, searching the Inquisitor's face for any sign of betrayal. Instead, she found only irritation twisting the other woman's features.
"What the hell is going on, Torres?" Rosa growled.
"Brother Martinez being a rat bastard, that's what," Torres snarled. She shoved aside their breakfast dishes, pulling another folder from her jacket. "Listen, Delgado. You're a fugitive now, thanks to that pendejo out there. There won't be a trial. The Alguacilo will call for El Muerte, and that's that. We have one chance to get you out alive."
Rosa's fingers once more traced the outline of her service tattoo. The specter of El Muerte, the Deathsman, loomed in her mind. She'd witnessed the grim ritual before – the disgraced officer kneeling, the hooded figure approaching with a gleaming blade. The swift cuts forming an "X" over the tattoo, blood spilling onto dusty ground.
Most didn't survive, bleeding out within minutes as the crowd watched. A public reminder of betrayal's cost. The few who lived became walking cautionary tales, their scarred necks a permanent badge of dishonor.
Rosa swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. If Torres's plan failed, that would be her fate – bleeding out in the town square or worse, surviving with that damning scar. The thought of Carlos seeing her marked as a traitor from the afterlife made her chest tighten.
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Her fingers pressed harder against her throat. She'd rather die fighting than submit to El Muerte's blade.
A shot rang out, splintering the door. Both women hit the floor as the world erupted into chaos, glass and wood raining down around them. Rosa's finger tightened on the trigger, every instinct screaming at her to return fire. But that would only make things worse.
"CEASE FIRE! CEASE FIRE!" Sanchez's voice cut through the din. "I DID NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO START SHOOTING, MARTINEZ!"
"THAT WOMAN HAS DEFIED THE HOLY ORDER OF HIL AND IS A FUGITIVE OF THE LAW!" Martinez's voice was thick with righteous fury. "COME OUT NOW AND FACE YOUR JUSTICE, WOMAN!"
More shots followed, punctuated by angry shouts.
Torres grabbed the large plate, moving it to another table. From her jacket, she produced a rolled-up document, unfurling it before Rosa with a snap that cut through the chaos outside.
"What is this?" Rosa's eyes narrowed as she scanned the paper, her stomach twisting. "A Service contract? You expect me to sign my life away to you?"
"Listen, Delgado," Torres hissed, her words sharp and urgent. “We have one chance to get you out of here alive, and it's this." She jabbed a finger at the bottom of the document.
Another shot rang out, showering them with splinters. Rosa flinched, her mind racing. This was madness, but what choice did she have?
"I need you on this, Delgado!" Torres pressed, her voice barely audible over the continued gunfire. "I need someone willing to help me find the man who made the deal, to stop the killing. When this ends, I'll release you from the contract and have you pardoned. You have my word."
Rosa's eyes bored into Torres, searching for any hint of deception. "This better not be a trick, Torres," she growled, her voice low and dangerous. "If it is, or if you're lying to me... I will kill you."
The threat hung in the air, as real and solid as the bullets that had torn through the cafe. Torres met Rosa's gaze unflinchingly, a silent understanding passing between them.
With a hand that only slightly trembled, Rosa reached for the contract. The weight of her choices, of the lies and half-truths, settled on her shoulders like a lead blanket. But beneath it all, a fierce determination burned. She would see this through, for Carlos, for justice, and for her own soul's redemption.
As Rosa's fingers closed around the pen, Torres called out, "WE'RE COMING OUT, ALGUACILO SANCHEZ! DO I HAVE YOUR WORD AS ALGUACILO THAT WE WILL NOT BE SHOT?"
"WHO IS 'WE'?" Sanchez's voice carried a mix of wariness and curiosity.
"YOLANDA TERESA TORRES, MANOS OF HIL AND INQUISITOR FOR THE HOLY ORDER! ROSA DELGADO IS WITH ME. DO I HAVE YOUR WORD?"
A moment of tense silence followed before Sanchez's reply: "YOU HAVE MY WORD, INQUISITOR."
Torres flashed Rosa a half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "See? Not so hard."
Rosa snorted, quickly tying her hair back and tightening the belt of her hotel robe. She held out her gun to Torres, her voice low and dangerous. "If this doesn’t work I will spend the rest of my life making you regret yours."
"If it doesn't, we're both dead," Torres shrugged, tucking Rosa's pistol into her belt. "So do with that as you will."
The door creaked open, sunlight spearing through the gap. Torres stepped out first, hands raised, Rosa following close behind. The scene before them unfolded like a twisted painting.
At least half a dozen deputies formed a ragged semicircle, their badges glinting in the morning light. Rosa recognized only two faces from her arrival; Sanchez must have deputized locals to bolster his numbers. Her gaze caught on Martinez, bound and gagged on the ground, his face a mottled red as he struggled beneath a tall deputy's boot. Sanchez stood at the center, mustache twitching with barely contained fury at his town square becoming an impromptu shooting gallery.
"Thank you, Alguacilo," Torres said, her voice steady as she faced the older lawman. Every eye, every potential bullet, seemed trained on the Inquisitor. "Unfortunately, all this fanfare and destruction was unnecessary. I assume Acolyte Martinez there has told you how Alguacila Rosa Delgado betrayed her oaths and sullied the people's trust. What he failed to mention is that she has voluntarily submitted herself to Hil's Most Holy Order."
Torres produced a document from her jacket, the paper crinkling loudly in the tense silence. "I have here a signed and witnessed document showing she's been working for the Inquisition on a case outside her jurisdiction. She's not a criminal, only guilty of invoking a little man's jealousy." Her withering glance at Martinez could have melted steel.
Rosa watched as the Inquisitor presented the contract, knowing its true nature. It bore three signatures, but one was a clever manipulation. Inquisitors often carried pre-signed "contracts" from the Order, a practice reminiscent of long-dead traditions. These documents, blessed by high-ranking clergy, could be used to retroactively sanction almost any action in the name of Hil's justice.
The "Witness" signature belonged to a priest Torres had met in Wolfram. She'd convinced him to sign three blank contracts for her, "just in case," a common request from Inquisitors that few clergy dared refuse. Torres had filled in the details herself, her penmanship a perfect match to the rest of the document.
As Sanchez examined the paper, Rosa's gaze drifted to Martinez. The Acolyte thrashed against his bonds, dark eyes blazing with impotent rage. A chill ran down her spine; if he got loose, there'd be blood.
Sanchez took the proffered document, his brow furrowing as he examined it. "Why does this smell like... cafe?" he asked, suspicion coloring his voice.
Torres didn't miss a beat. "Someone," she said, her gaze sweeping the crowd, "shot up our breakfast table while we were reviewing case files." She pulled out a notebook, folders, and a map, all stained dark with coffee. Only the Tenebroso files, hidden in Rosa's robe, remained pristine.
"So not only did reckless behavior endanger lives," Torres continued, "it also marred Inquisitorial documents and public property."
Sanchez's piercing gaze fell on Rosa. "Alguacila Delgado, is this true?"
Rosa felt the weight of the old man's scrutiny, knowing he'd smell a lie like week-old corpse. She met his eyes, forcing her voice to remain steady. "The Inquisition and I have been hunting a serial killer for months. This fugitive killed my deputy. I was called back, but the Inquisitor offered to combine our efforts. I accepted because the people aren't safe until we find this killer."
It wasn't a lie, not exactly. But Rosa knew the whole house of cards would collapse if Sanchez started asking about timelines.
Sanchez's mustache twitched as he considered their story. Finally, he called out, "Weapons down, everyone." He nodded to the deputy restraining Martinez. "Get him up."
As Martinez was hauled to his feet, his face a mask of barely contained fury, Torres stepped forward. Her voice rang out with the finality of a judge's gavel. "Acolyte Daniel Martinez, your reckless behavior is deplorable and unbecoming of El Cuerpo de Acolitos. I, Yolanda Torres, Mano of the Order, dismiss you from service and formally expel you from El Cuerpo de Acolitos. I will be sending notices through the proper—"
"You lying bitch!" Martinez roared the moment his gag was removed, lunging forward with murder in his eyes.
The crack of a gunshot split the air. Martinez went down screaming, clutching his knee. Rosa blinked, surprised at how quickly Torres had drawn and fired.
"Say something else or threaten any member of the Inquisition, and you'll find yourself dancing at the end of a rope, Mr. Martinez," Torres said, her voice cold as a desert night. She turned, handing the still-smoking pistol back to Rosa with a look that spoke volumes.
As Torres wrapped up the formalities with Sanchez, arranging for Martinez's detention and offering to assist with the property damage, Rosa felt a hollowness settling in her chest. She'd avoided the noose, for now, but at what cost?
"Come along, Sister Delgado," Sanchez said, his tone softer but still wary. "We need to pack."
Rosa nodded, turning back towards the hotel. Each step felt like wading through quicksand, the weight of her choices threatening to drag her under. As she crossed the bullet-riddled threshold, a single thought echoed in her mind:
Forgive me, Carlos. Please forgive me.