Vampires of El Norte

by Isabel Cañas

Nena knew, even as a child, that magic was a turn of phrase. A way that adults talked about bounty and blessings: with reverence, and perhaps a bit of fear, for when you had much, you never knew how much of it could be lost.

A strangeness. A ripple of unease. An understanding, though timid at first, that perhaps there was some truth to the stories of blood-hungry beasts and river ghosts that the abuelas on the rancho spun to keep children close to home after sunset. A sense that there was a reason to watch one’s back when shadows grew long.

Nena no longer feared boogeymen or ghosts snatching at her plaits when rain lashed the rancho and lightning fractured the broad, black sky. In the last year, Tejas had been ripped out of México, leaving a gaping wound in its wake. She had learned that there were real monsters to be mindful of now.

October days were hot, but when the sun set, autumn announced itself with a nip in the air, its smell piney and crisp with the promise of change.

Everyone knew the appearance of a few Anglos was the harbinger of worse to come.

Growing older felt like holding water in cupped hands; the harder she pressed her fingers together to keep life with Néstor the way it used to be in her grasp, the faster it slipped away.

Fear was sour in her sweat, in her breath, in the pale, wordless ringing in her ears as teeth as sharp as knives sank into her neck.

Nena was his home. The one thing on earth more precious to him than his own life. Whatever that creature was, it did not matter—the only thing that mattered was getting it away from her.

Of the many unspoken dicta that ruled life on the rancho, one of the most important was this: if tragedy struck and you escaped unscathed, it was unlucky to call attention to your fortune by talking about it. Even if you emerged with scrapes and bruises, it was simply not prudent to talk about it. You survived, and that was what mattered. Nothing could be gained from lingering on the past.

Ever since she was old enough to bleed, she became something to be sent away. Something to be bartered like meat or salt in exchange for a powerful relationship, in exchange for more cattle or land or vaqueros.

It all made her want to shed her skin like the witch in Abuela’s story, let everything that made her a woman fall to the ground to be salted and ruined as she flew into the night, her bones bare and cold in the starlight.

For years, the vultures had circled, carried high on a hot updraft. Now, they were close enough for her to hear the rustle of feathers, the click of talons. Close enough to feel their fetid breath on the back of her neck.

Néstor, as a rule, did not cry. If he hid his weakness from the world, then the world could not hit him where it hurt the most. It became habit to blink away any stinging sensation from his eyes, to lower his voice and push it gruffly past any emotion.

“When Jesus Christ told the story of the prodigal son, He says the father forgave the boy,” Abuela cried. When Néstor left, he was a hair taller than her; in the nine years that passed, he had grown to add a head and shoulders to that height difference. Perhaps she had shrunk as well, but that did not prevent how she still towered over him. “But did He talk about the boy’s grandmother? No!” Another smack. “Because she was angry and that would ruin a pretty fable!”

“Losing you,” she said, her dark eyes searching his face. “To you, Nena died. To her, you left. Those are two very different griefs.”

Was Hell like this? Not a burning inferno but humid and cloying, the air thick with the tastes of sulfur and gunpowder, the clammy fingertips of the dead grasping at her, seeking her soul and dragging her down, down, down…

On his deathbed, he would remember this image: Nena’s long plaits gleaming in the firelight and shifting over the back of her sweat-stained white shirt—his shirt, and his trousers—as she turned to shoot him a look over her shoulder. Though he feared the claws of the darkness beyond the jacal, there was a boldness in her stance and in her firm grip on the machete. She would protect him. She was just as capable of watching his back as he was hers.

“I said horrible things earlier,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean them. I’m…I’m sorry. Please don’t leave.” If the vampire returned and wrenched his arm back out of its socket, it would hurt less than hearing the break in her voice. “I won’t,” he said.

Nine years divided them, but time meant nothing to hands: her fingers interlaced with his as naturally as if they were eight years old, or ten, or thirteen. Palm to palm, thumb over thumb. A bridge between them. She drew their clasped hands down to rest on his thigh.

“If you’re going to watch, you may as well sit closer,” he said over his shoulder. He gestured for her to follow. “Better view from over here.” “Very funny,” she shot back.

She wanted the world to disappear around them. No war, no Papá, no marriage to a stranger waiting for her at the end of their journey. Because this was right. Because even when they were children, when they spent long, lazy afternoons watching the sheep, they knew they grew from the same roots. Their branches tangled through each other’s as they reached toward the sky, and forever would.

“Can’t any animal be broken, if you hurt it enough?” Nena said. “Besides, Félix always says that Anglos have never met anything they couldn’t turn into a means to take what they want.”

“Do you trust me?” he asked, brushing away tears and tucking loose locks of hair behind her ears. His fingertips light and loving, his eyes never leaving hers as their foreheads touched. She nodded once. “I do.” Hope lit his features from within. “Then don’t cry, mi nena. We’re together, and we’ll always be,” he said. “That alone is a miracle. You are my miracle.”

“Nena,” he crooned against her mouth. “I am yours. Command me.” No matter what happened when they returned to Los Ojuelos, she would always have this night. She wanted to always have a part of him. She reached for his hips and pulled him hard against her. His groan sent a trill of pleasure through her. “I want all of you,” she said.

“Trust me,” she said. “Be careful. And if you ever see Néstor again…” She steeled herself. “Tell him I love him.”

Quietly, barely audible above the man’s screaming that bludgeoned her skull, a voice in her mind calmly concluded that if she survived this, she wanted to cut off her damn hair. Then she reached for the pouch of salt at her hip, tied next to her holster. She seized a fistful and flung it in his eyes. He released her hair, screaming anew as he pawed at his face. Salt worked against all monsters, it seemed.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “I love you.” He held her tighter. Spoke into her hair. “You know I love you.” “So marry me,” she murmured. A breathy, surprised laugh brushed against her ear. “Is that a proposal?” “It is if you say yes.” “Of course.” His voice cracked. He rubbed her back gently. “Of course.”

Los Ojuelos was the land that raised her, that cradled her in its streams and shadows, that grew with her through seasons of drought and seasons of plenty. She would give it up. For home was this person behind her. The one who pressed on her wounded arm to stop the bleeding. Who had returned despite her father’s anger and her mother’s disapproval. Who had shown her time and time again that he loved her. He spirited her out of danger on the battlefield. He snuck to la casa mayor in the middle of the night when they were children to leave gifts and notes on her windowsill. He teased laughter from her even when the night closed dark and threatening around them. He came back. If she let him leave again, if she failed him again, she would never feel whole. It was that simple.