Yolanda Torres could not sleep.
Her body, worn thin by endless roads, throbbed a dull, insistent rhythm. Beyond the wall, a monstrous symphony played, a grotesque concerto of snores that sawed at the edges of sanity. Two nights of this torment, and the melody had deepened its claws into her consciousness.
Though adorned with the trappings of comfort, the room provided little rest to the Inquisitor. It was a far cry from the austere sanctity of a Shrine, where stone and silence were the only loyal companions. Here, in this mortal inn, the world pressed in, a relentless tide of noise and discomfort.
The occupant of the room next door made a strange gagging noise and continued their horrible chorus.
She sat up and looked out the window. No shrine to Hil stood as a beacon in the night, offering solace to weary souls. Instead, lights from inns and taverns, places of fleeting respite and mortal comforts, dotted the darkened night. Given a few more years of commerce; the missionaries would arrive ready to build with faith and hammer. For now, Lugo was a growing travel hub and branching travel artery for the Guild. With Guild's presence, the route to Lugo from Wolfram would grow and transform this place into a thriving community. Until then, the dedicated Guild representatives will handle all messages, reports, and additional requests.
She tore her gaze from the window with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of forgotten worlds. The town, bereft of a Shrine, offered her a choice between two unlikely sanctuaries: the wild embrace of its outskirts or the dubious comfort of an Inn.
As she shifted on the bed, seeking relief for her battle-worn muscles, whispers of judgment echoed in the chambers of her mind. She could almost hear the disapproving tuts of her fellow Manos, their voices dripping with disdain for such "softness." In their eyes, a true hunter embraced the harsh caress of the earth, scorning the decadence of four walls and a roof.
But she knew better. This wasn't about luxury; it was about survival. The past week had been nothing save chaos and danger, leaving her ill-prepared and disinclined to "rough it" as her peers so proudly proclaimed.
She snorted softly at the thought, a sound caught between amusement and contempt. Let them have their rigid ideals and uncomfortable nights. She'd take practicality over pride any day, especially when the shadows seemed to lengthen and the air itself whispered of impending peril.
In the flickering candlelight, she allowed herself a small smile. Sometimes, she mused, true strength lay not in enduring unnecessary hardship, but in knowing when to rest and regroup. And tonight, that's exactly what she intended to do.
The horses had been exchanged for a Guild carriage back in Wolfram. While the Inquisition and the Guild were not at odds with one another, they bore no love for each other. Yet, as is often the case in tales both mortal and divine, a bag of coins can work miracles that prayers cannot. Their jingling chorus bought speed, if not comfort, on the road to Lugo.
The bed beneath her was passable, a patchwork of lumps and hollows that cradled her road-weary bones. Across the way, a cacophony of snores and gurgles waged war against the night's silence. Sleep, it seemed, had packed its bags and departed for quieter shores.
Rather than wallow in irritation, she let her mind wander down the twisting paths of tomorrow. She imagined many different conversations, each with intense arguments and hostility.
Another gurgle erupted from across the hall, a sound so unholy that she half-expected Styx herself to rise from the floorboards and claim Martinez for her own. His snoring was a beast with many voices – part drowning man, part lumber mill, all torment.
She allowed herself a grim smile, imagining how other Acolytes might have dealt with such a nightly assault. In her mind's eye, she saw herself wielding a stick with righteous fury, beating a lullaby into his thick skull.
Thankfully, they were not forced to share a room. The man was already low on her list. Happily, Martinez rode outside the carriage next to the driver for the journey. She was grateful she didn’t have to hear more about why her course of action was terrible. Whatever trust she had in the man had slowly eroded over the passing days. The incident with the Silba hung between them, unspoken yet ever-present, turning his sycophantic devotion to something colder, more formal – a mask poorly fitted to hide contempt.
Yolanda toyed with the idea of dismissal, rolling it around her mind like a sour candy. But even as she savored the thought, she knew the bitter aftertaste of bureaucracy that would follow. How does one explain that a monster's words sowed seeds of distrust? The absurdity of it drew a chuckle from her lips, quickly swallowed by the shadows.
Tenebroso's insight into Acolyte’s soul shed light where she did not realize it had been needed. It feasted on the corruption of the soul, that much was known to her. And it had no reason to lie about its potential meals. Records of the creature showed that it was never known for deceit. Cruelty and vengeance, yes, but the revelation had now sown seeds of distrust in the Acolyte she was already beginning to detest.
Like many Manos, she rarely trusted others. Trust creates connections and can be exploited quickly enough to develop a weakness. A Manos must stand alone, as they can only Trust, she mused, was a luxury ill-afforded by a Manos. It was a thread easily snapped, a weakness waiting to be exploited. Even those in her retinue were trusted only to die gloriously (and often gruesomely) in Hil's name. Martinez had slipped from dependable to dubious, a shifting shadow at her back when she needed solid ground.
“You better be worth it, Delgado,” she whispered, blowing out the candle.
image [https://img.wattpad.com/4cb2be823b8a09ddba9a276859c3ea1ad6cb811f/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f52427342524754745275696a37773d3d2d313430393536383734302e313761353637393930613634326162353338303239343634383734352e706e67?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]
Like clockwork, Yolanda was up when the morning light broke the surface. She knelt at the window, her sun medallion catching the first rays of Hil’s blessed countenance upon the world.
Her prayer to Hil was a whisper, a secret shared between mortal and divine:
"I am your hand of justice, humble and seeking. Not for strength or power do I ask, but for your blessing, your wisdom. The path before me twists, demanding tools and methods beyond our hallowed traditions. If my heart leads me astray, I beg you, show me the truth."
As Hil's light spilled over the horizon, warming her face despite the morning's bite, a feeling washed over Yolanda. It was a sensation of completeness, as if for a heartbeat, she and the universe were one perfectly aligned equation. In that moment, she knew–or perhaps desperately wanted to believe – that Hil had heard and approved.
Rising, the absence of a familiar, grating sound suddenly struck her. The snoring that had been her nighttime nemesis had fallen silent, not in the natural ebb of sleep, but in its complete absence. Martinez should have been awake, his voice raised in El Saludo–that daily ritual of faith and devotion.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Yolanda turned from the window, her gaze falling on the wall that separated her from her absent companion. "So much for the faithful,"
image [https://img.wattpad.com/4cb2be823b8a09ddba9a276859c3ea1ad6cb811f/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f52427342524754745275696a37773d3d2d313430393536383734302e313761353637393930613634326162353338303239343634383734352e706e67?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]
They had waited two days here for the Alguacila who was tracking the same prey. Torres needed Delgado’s sharp eyes and investigative mind if they were to capture the creature responsible for these murders.
Rosa Delgado sat alone, at a small table in the simple cafe. Her hair was down, and appeared freshly washed. The road grime that Yolanda expected to see was missing as well. Her back to the wall, in clear sight of all the room’s exits she cupped what appeared to be a hot cup of coffee with her calloused hands. For the moment, she was relaxed.
The Inquisitor nodded. She too had enjoyed a hot bath her first night here. She could not blame the woman. A brief respite to rid oneself of the weight of the world, if only until the water cooled, was a much needed gift.
Inquisitor Torres paused at her vantage point on the stairwell and watched Delgado. She was a skilled investigator. Had she intentionally let her guard down this morning? She waited a moment, but the woman made no motion other than drinking her coffee.
A young man, the only other occupant of the cafe this morning, was setting up for the day. A pile of freshly folded linen napkins before him, he lifted his eyes at the movement of the Inquisitor.
There will never be a perfect time for this conversation. Yolanda thought. She took a breath and stepped off the stairs.
The scrape of a chair alerted Rosa to Yolanda’s approach. Her eyes flashed open and locked on the woman who had been her nemesis these past months.
They regarded each other for the passing of several heartbeats. Finally, their standoff was broken by the young man, as he quickly interjected himself into their silent feud.
“Breakfast, Inquisitor?” the young man asked.
The young man, Pedro, his name a whisper in the air, offered a lifeline. "A cafecito," Yolanda replied, her voice a soft counterpoint to the tension. "And for you, Rosa?" she added, her gaze fixed on the Alguacila.
Silence was the reply.
“Breakfast sounds good, my friend, for both of us, por favor,” Yolanda answered.
With a quick nod of his head, Pedro disappeared back into the kitchen and left both women to their conversation.
“What do you want, Torres?” Rosa said coldly.
Yolanda’s left eye twitched slightly at the use of her name. She then inclined her head in Rosa’s direction and took a seat opposite her. “Breakfast, coffee, and a civil conversation, if the gods are kind.”
The Alguacila snorted and looked around the small cafe, “Where’s Gordo?”
Yolanda stifled a scowl at the mention of her irritating acolyte."I do not know, nor do I care. This is not about Martinez. It is about a horror that plagues our world."
Delgado scoffed, “How did you find me, Inquisitor?” Her eyes glanced briefly toward the would-be exits.
“Please, that isn’t necessary…” she carefully placed both of her hands on the table before them, palms up, in a gesture of peace. She met the eyes of the woman opposite her. “We have been at this dance for some time, you and I, yes?”
Rosa’s eyes narrowed. “What of it?”
“I am not here to fight, Delgado. I give you my word. If you will listen, I have a proposition for you.” Yolanda hoped that the word of one of Hil’s Faithful still carried weight with the woman.
Rosa scoffed again and sipped her coffee, "I’m surprised you did not have me arrested on sight.”
“Oh, Martinez was eager, I assure you,” Yolanda said as she removed her wide-brimmed hat and hung it on the back of a nearby chair. “To answer your question honestly, I sought guidance from the gods, and they led me to you. We arrived two days ago, ahead of you, it seems. I had my watchers waiting for your arrival. Even the Alguacilo was part of this. You surprised me there, going to the old man yourself. You are a woman of unexpected moves, Rosa.
Pedro returned with a steaming hot mug set before Yolanda. "Your cafecito, Inquisitor," he said, placing the steaming mug before her. "Eggs, beans, ham. Coming soon." he glanced at Rosa.
Delgado shook her head, but Yolanda looked up at him. “Corn tortillas and another cafecito for my friend,” she said with a smile.
Pedro nodded and vanished once more.
“They know you?” the Alguacila asked.
Yolanda shrugged. “Morning walks over the last couple of days.” She looked across at the woman seated opposite her, “But tell me, Rosa, will you help me?”
“Why should I?” Delgado said in a harsh whisper; her face was flushed and angry. “You made it clear in Perdido that this was none of my concern. According to that letter you dropped off, not only was I to turn myself in, but there was also a chance that I would serve time for interfering with an Inquisitorial investigation outside of my jurisdiction. You can go to hell, Torres!” she spat.
Unfazed, Yolanda replied, “Why are you chasing this thing?”
Delgado leaned back in her chair, silent and angry.
Yolanda took a sip of her coffee, a moment of contemplation. "Let me guess," she began, her voice a gentle probe. "Someone close to you... was taken."
The Alguacila's eyes, twin pools of darkness, remained still.
Yolanda pressed on. "A ritual, a pattern, a moonless dance of death. You saw the pattern. But you are a woman of the law. You seek not just vengeance, but answers. A name for the face in your nightmares. A reason for the cold fire in your heart."
Delgado's silence was a heavy stone.
Yolanda leaned closer, her voice a whisper in the still morning, her hand slid down to her weapon. "You want to look into its eyes as you end it. To feel the silence when its heart stops. A final victory, a cleansing flame."
There was a single clicking sound. Rosa had pulled back the hammer of her pistol. It was a sound that Yolanda knew well.
“Get up and leave Yolanda,” the Alguacila said. “I am already considered a criminal, so why should any of this matter? If you have your way, I’ll dance on the rope either way.”
“Pendeja!” Yolanda hissed as her thumb cocked the mechanism of her weapon.
“Here we go, ladies,” said the young man as he returned with a large serving tray full of small plates of food.
Two statues they remained, their gazes locked in silent combat. Yolanda's mind raced, a tempest of plans and counter plans.
“Will there be anything else?” Pedro asked.
Yolanda shot him a practiced smile. “No, thank you. It looks…inviting.”
The young man returned the smile and turned back to the kitchen.
Yolanda turned her attention back to the Alguacila. "A deal," she offered, "Dislike it, and we can turn this table into a battlefield. But I prefer not to die hungry. Trust me, a small thing I ask."
The Alguacila’s eyes narrowed in disbelief as the words hung, “Trust you?”
Yolanda slowly placed both hands on the table once more, then picked up a fork with one hand and the mug with the other. A slow, deliberate motion.
“Talk,” was all Delgado said.
"Eat first," Yolanda suggested, her tone casual. "The ham... extraordinary. I ate a pound of it yesterday, I swear."
Delgado watched silently, then slowly, she began to eat.
Silence stretched between them. A heavy, tangible thing. Then a whisper from Delgado. "Brown sugar."
Yolanda raised an eyebrow. "In the ham?"
" And butter…sweet and crispy," Delgado confirmed.
“Would have never guessed,” Yolanda said truthfully.
Delgado nodded at Torres with her chin. “What is this deal?”
Yolanda slowly reached into her coat and produced a leather folder. "Read it. Question it. Eat. And for the love of all that is holy, don't shoot me." Her voice was steady, calm in the storm's eye. "Together, we can end this. Or we can die trying."
Delgado's eyes narrowed. "You think it's a monster."
"Read the file," Yolanda replied. "Then tell me."