The Holy Death

Chapter 16

Cressida tossed the case containing the break-down rifle into the trunk of her rented gray Nissan Altima, along with her balaclava. She jumped into the driver's seat and drove away from the neighborhood adjacent to the pub, driving down backstreets and through neighborhoods in order to create a circuitous route, ensuring that anyone who may have been following her, mortal or not, would have been skillfully evaded. She pulled to the curbside next to one of the reservoirs on Mount Tabor, pulled her cell phone from one of her jacket pockets and dialed a number. She waited patiently as the phone rang.

"Yes?" The voice on the other side said.

"Yeah, this is Cressida. That problem I told you about earlier, well, it's worse."

"How so? Please explain."

"I tried to take out Campbell tonight and his brother intervened."

"His brother?"

"Yes, Santa Muerte, his brother. Scott Campbell, the goofiest vampire I've ever met."

There was a brief silence on the other side. "This complicates things."

"No shit. What do we do now? I'm not a vampire slayer!"

"You take no action until I have had a chance to consider how best to proceed. Comprende?"

"Okay, fine. Then what do I do for now?"

"You wait for my instructions. That is what you do."

"Fine, fine, I'll hold off on killing Douglas Campbell for now. But I'm on the clock, so my time will be paid for, even if I'm doing nothing. Okay?"

"Very well. I will contact you when a course of action has been decided."

The call ended. Cressida sighed. She wasn't looking forward to doing nothing, even if she was still going to be paid for the trouble.

*

The Santa Muerte was disturbed by the news. He had heard the name Scott Campbell before, but never before thought that the 'Redeemed One' of vampiric prophecy could at all be related to such a dishonorable thief as Douglas Campbell, let alone wish to protect him. This did indeed complicate things. On the other hand, it piqued the Santa Muerte's interest: he was interested in the long-awaited vampire deliverer, and wished to meet him. And more, he wanted to know why this 'chosen one' would stoop to defending such a worthless human as Doug Campbell. He believed that Doug Campbell could well be his key to meeting the promised one. And if the prophecies were true, then perhaps Scott Campbell could help deliver him from his bondage, the debt of honor he owed to the House of Calderon. The thought appealed to him, especially now, disgusted as he was by the current heads of that old and formerly distinguished family. When the House of Calderon was younger and more honorable, it was almost a pleasure for the Santa Muerte; now that it had devolved into a gang of drug dealers, the Santa Muerte was displeased. However, there was nothing he could do about it. 'Bondage' was the correct term, a bond of honor twisted into a bond of slavery. His curse, among many such curses.

He knew he could not have Doug Campbell killed. Not yet, anyway. The American, as dishonorable and conniving as he was, had to live for now. The Santa Muerte made his own call to the man to whom he was bound by honor.

Don Ramon Calderon was up fairly late, as if expecting the call. He was seated behind his old pine desk, an open bottle of mescal in front of him, checking some figures on his desktop computer (both numeric figures, and female figures. His wife knew of Ramon's appetites, but she figured that his attentions were best focused away from her, as she didn't particularly care for her husband anyway). The call came to his cellphone, and of course he recognized the caller ID. He figured that this must be important.