The Church of Lost Souls
By Robert Weinberg
There are times when there seems to be no light at the end of the tunnel, when things are so dark there is no way in Hell the dawn will ever come to chase away the nightmares. In cases such as those, perhaps the beasts of one sort of darkness can only be combated by a monster of another type. Condemned to a fate far worse than death at the hands of vengeful gangbangers, a desperate assistant district attorney finds salvation.
1.
It was nearly eleven in the evening and the office was near empty when Rita decided she was through for the night. What she hadn’t gotten done today could wait for tomorrow. It was time to go home, take a hot shower, eat a light snack, and get a good night’s sleep. Final preparations for the Salinas case were nearly finished. The trial wasn’t scheduled until Thursday, giving her two more days to tidy up any loose ends. Assuming, of course, that Jose’s slime-ball attorney, Ed Conklin, didn’t file any more last-minute briefs asking for a change of venue, a dismissal of charges, or God to strike down Jose’s prosecutors. Tomorrow she was scheduled to prep the witnesses one more time and review the case with her boss, Executive Assistant District Attorney Sam Casey. With an election this fall, Sam’s boss, the D.A., wanted the highly publicized trial over and done and squarely in the win column.
Not that Jose Salinas had a chance in Hell of walking. The gangbanger was as guilty as sin. After dodging the law for eight years, Jose had screwed up big time. He’d made the mistake of knifing a rebellious hooker in full sight of two undercover cops posing as bums on a drug stakeout. For a change, the Latin Lords couldn’t intimidate the witnesses. Jose was going to take the fall. Rita smiled. Twenty-five to life, with no chance of parole. At long last, justice.
Riding the elevator down to the first floor, Rita mentally reviewed her plans for the morning. She wanted to talk to her colleague, Harvey Benson, see if he’d remembered anything more about Judge Carmichael. It never hurt to know a judge’s likes and dislikes before presenting a case in her court. Then, a quick review with the officers who made the collar, checking to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything that the defense lawyer might pull out of a hat. After that, it was lunch with her boyfriend, Lenny McGuire. When Lenny’s secretary Mandy called Rita earlier in the day to arrange the lunch, she whispered that Lenny had been seen looking in jewelry shops the past few days after work. Lunch tomorrow might be the big moment.
Twenty-eight years old, the daughter of poor immigrants from Mexico—she wasn’t doing badly. The first of her family ever to graduate high school, much less college and then law school, she was living proof that sometimes the system worked. Less than three years with the D.A.’s office, here she was prosecuting one of the most notorious gang leaders on the West Coast. And about to be engaged to one of the most eligible bachelors in Los Angeles. Her eyes glazed with thoughts of a romantic getaway for two to Hawaii, Rita nearly tripped over her own feet when she exited the elevator.
“Hey, Miss Esperenza, you goin’ out dancing tonight?” asked Carlos, one of the security guards. Twenty-three years old, three hundred pounds spread out like a warm bowl of cereal, Carlos thought he was God’s gift to women. “I’m da man if you wanna learn some moves.”
Rita nodded and smiled, thinking: Not in this lifetime, whale boy. Shower and sleep was what she wanted. No frisking in the sack this late at night. At least not with a bozo like Carlos. Now, if it were Lenny behind the desk, she’d be all over him in an instant. Empty lobby or not. Rita was a gambler; she believed in living life to its fullest. No matter what the risks.
Rita had ambitions. For the past three years, she’d kept a low profile, treading water in the D.A.’s office, waiting for her moment. Winning the Salinas case would put her name in the papers. Getting engaged to Lenny McGuire would keep it there. Lenny’s father was a California Supreme Court judge and his mother was a well-known member of the L.A. Bar Association. She worked as a defense attorney and represented some of the worst slime in Los Angeles. In certain circles, Lynda McGuire was more famous than her husband. And a lot more hated.
Mentally, Rita chided herself for having such thoughts about her future mother-in-law. Her heels beat a soft tattoo on the hardwood floor as she made her way to the building’s front entrance. Calling Lynda McGuire “Mom” was going to take practice. God surely worked in mysterious ways. Four months ago, when Sam Casey instructed everyone in his office to buy a ticket to the United Way dinner for Judge McGuire, Rita had no idea what a good investment that hundred dollars would be.
That ticket and a slightly too-tight black dress paid her back in aces at the reception when she met Lenny. Rita had no idea at the time who he was or why he was there. All that mattered was that he was intelligent, moderately handsome with a nice smile, and a very good listener. After years of dealing with men who saw her either as a potential rival or a piece of meat in high heels, it had been refreshing to actually relax and just chatter about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
When Lenny offered to drive her home that evening, for the first time since she began law school, she didn’t say no. It wasn’t until then, when he made his goodbyes to Judge McGuire and his wife, that she realized who he was. It wasn’t till she saw his BMG sedan that she realized Lenny had lots and lots of money. And it wasn’t till their third date that she discovered that he was an incredible lover.
Thinking about Lenny in the sack gave Rita a rush. The Salinas case had kept her busy the past ten days. She hadn’t been able to spare a moment for romance. Lenny had been so understanding, so supportive. Maybe she could manage a quick stop at his condo to thank him for his patience. Thank him in a very personal, very intense manner. Rita’s nipples grew hard with the thought. With each step she took, she could feel herself getting more and more aroused. A visit to Lenny was definitely a good idea. The poor guy obviously needed her. And she needed him. Badly.
She was in such a hurry by the time she reached the parking lot that she didn’t notice that the night watchman wasn’t on duty. Not that it would have mattered. By then, the Latin Lords had her in their sights. She discovered that a few seconds later when a battered old black van pulled up to her side and the sliding door screeched open.
Rita didn’t even have a chance to scream. Four teenage thugs, wearing black muscle-Ts and stocking caps hiding their features, grabbed her by the arms and throat and wrenched her inside. The door shuddered shut and the truck was gone before the only witness, an elderly panhandler on the street corner, could mutter, “What the fuck was that about?”
2.
Security cameras at the parking lot showed the van’s owners had covered the plates with black masking tape. The security guard, his skull cracked open like a soft-boiled egg, provided no clues. It took nearly an hour of searching before the detectives assigned to the case determined the kidnapped woman was assistant D.A. Rita Esperenza. When Lenny McGuire arrived 15 minutes later, Chief Detective Oman Russell broke the news as best that he could.
“She could be alive, Mr. McGuire,” said Russell, trying to sound properly sympathetic. Everyone on the force knew who Lenny’s father was. They also knew about the family friends on his mother’s side. “We think the Lords took her. Probably want to make a trade. If that’s the case, they’ll keep her in good condition.”
“Probably?” repeated Lenny, his voice low and filled with rage. “Probably means shit, Detective. The District Attorney’s office doesn’t make deals with kidnappers. You know that and I know that and the hoodlums who snatched Rita know that. They took her for revenge, plain and simple. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. Over the next few days, if they haven’t started already, they’re going to rape her and brutalize her again and again and again, until they drive her mad. Then, just because they can’t risk even the smallest chance she’ll ever recover her mind and be able to identify any of them, they’ll shoot her full of holes and dump her body in the ocean for fish food. Oh God, Rita! Oh God!”
As McGuire wandered off to talk to the cops at the scene, Detective Arthur Cook glanced over at his partner. It was Cook’s first week on the job since being promoted up from the ranks, and he wasn’t too comfortable being chewed out by the victim’s boyfriend. “What you think, Oman?” he asked, watching Oman gulp down a swig of hot coffee. “This dame got a chance?”
“Doubt it,” said Oman with a shrug of his shoulders. “Boyfriend knows the score. The kidnappers probably dumped the black van in an underground parking garage five minutes after the snatch. Bound up Ms. Esperenza nice and tight using duct tape and threw her into a trunk of a regular car. Two or three of the meaner ones drove her to some out-of-the-way place in the desert. The only chance she’s got is to make one of them so angry he’ll cut her throat. Otherwise, she might live for weeks. By the time the entire gang finishes with her, she’ll be begging for death.”
3.The chamber was pitch black. There were no windows and the solitary door had been closed from the inside, with a layer of mortar applied to the cracks at the floor and ceiling. A lone figure, a man just under six feet tall, lay on top of a plank-wood coffin in the center of the narrow room. He was dressed entirely in black. His wrinkled skin was the color of ancient, sun-baked parchment. His hands were folded across his chest. His chest remained still, unmoving. Yet he did not appear to be dead. Only sleeping.
4.
Ice-cold beer in her face brought Rita back to consciousness with a shriek. “What the Hell!” she screamed, her eyes popping wide open. Alcohol suds dripped in her eyes, making them burn. A thin line of beer trickled down her cheek. She was powerless to brush it away. Her hands were tied together behind her back. In a rush, the events of earlier that evening rushed back into her mind.
She was lying on the ground in some sort of deserted courtyard, her body pressed up against an old, crumbling adobe wall. There was a roof over her head but she could see stars. A slight hint of breeze stirred the hot air. A quick guess put her in one of the old, abandoned buildings in the desert several hours east of Los Angeles. Squatting on their heels a few feet away from her were three scrawny teenagers, all Latinos, all dressed in black muscle-Ts and wearing inverted baseball caps. One of them was holding an open can of beer.
“Hey, Paco,” yelled one of the trio. “The bitch is awake. She looks pretty angry. You better get over here. I bet she wants to know what the fuck’s going on.”
Rita was no fool. She knew quite well what was going on. The Lords had taken her hostage; she was trade bait for Jose Salinas. But the D.A.’s office never made deals. It couldn’t without jeopardizing the safety of all their other informants and witnesses. No deal meant she was entirely on her own. Rita knew the score. Unless she could somehow persuade her kidnappers to let her go, she was going to die. Very, very slowly and very, very painfully.
Paco ambled over from outside the courtyard. There was a car, an old Buick or Cadillac, parked in the desert about fifty feet away. The gangbanger carried a beer can in one hand, a switchblade knife in the other. The oldest of the bunch, he looked twenty or twenty-one. Thin as a rail, he stood five-foot-seven, maybe five-eight, and had slicked-back oily dark hair and watery slate-gray eyes. Staring down at Rita, he grinned, displaying two rows of yellowed, rotting teeth.
“My, my, my,” he said, bending down so his swarthy face was only inches away from hers. “The bitch lady prosecutor is awake. Ain’t that nice. Good thing for you, Sal. If that crack on the head you gave her had been fatal, I would’ve carved you up instead. But, no harm, no foul. Right?”
“Yeah, sure, Paco, whatever you say, man. When we gonna fuck this bitch already? Ain’t got all night.”
“Soon, Sal, soon,” replied Paco. His eyes shifted from the teenagers to Rita. A drop of spittle dripped from his mouth, landing on her chin. It stayed there, reminding Rita how absolutely helpless she was. “You hear that, bitch? We’re goin’ to fuck you. All four of us. Take turns. Fuck you until you drop, then fuck you some more. You’re goin’ to be our personal fuck machine. Fuck, fuck, fuck. For a week, maybe more. Until we get tired of you. Or find somebody else.”
“I can pay you,” said Rita, trying to remain calm. Letting Paco rattle her would only encourage him. “Whatever Jose’s giving you, I can give you more. My boyfriend’s rich. He’d pay a fortune if you returned me unharmed. No questions asked. Cash. Lots and lots of it.”
“Hmm, cash,” said Paco. “Sweet. I’m tempted. Real tempted. But—”
Without warning, Paco jerked his hand holding the switchblade up at Rita’s face. The five-inch steel blade slashed across her right cheek, drawing blood. Rita yelped in shock.
“Gonna leave a scar, I bet,” said Paco, his grin wider than ever. “Scare you, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Rita, as the hot blood dropped from her face to the ground. “You scared me.”
“Well, my friend, Jose Salinas,” said Paco, “he scares me just like I scare you. Jose, he told me to give you the full treatment. Don’t hold nothing back. You know, bitch? Rape, torture, horrible pain, the whole shit.
“Now, if you were me, scared of Jose like I am, wouldn’t you listen and do whatever he says? Cash, it’s nice. But stayin’ alive, that’s better. That’s a whole lot better.”
“Hey, Paco,” said another one of the boys, “when you gonna stop talkin’ and start workin’? Let’s spread the bitch’s legs and start pumping. Me and Sal wanna sandwich her. Like we did that hooker down on Main Street. Make her squeal like a fuckin’ pig.”
Rita shuddered. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be happening to her.
“Gator’s right, Paco,” said Sal. “Let’s make her scream.”
Paco laughed, his breath hot on Rita face. “You think that’s bad, bitch? After a few days, you’re gonna beg for just two of us at a time. Beg.”
Paco rose to his feet. “We’ll start in a little while. First, we need to send the D.A. a souvenir. Something to remind him you don’t fuck around with the Lords. Then, we have a few brews back at the car to loosen up, relax a little. Let the bitch think about what’s gonna happen. We got a long night ahead of us. Real long. Gotta be juiced up so we don’t disappoint the lady.”
Paco glanced at the one teenager who hadn’t said a word. Shortest of the three, with thick curly rings of black hair, he had eyes focused on a point six inches in front of his nose. “Benny, you know what to do. Like that bitch in Pasadena.”
“Yeah, Paco, I know,” said Benny, his voice slow, halting; sounding like he was half asleep. He stood up, shambled over next to Rita. “I know the routine. Hand or foot?”
“Hand,” said Paco. “Her fingerprints are on file. There won’t be no fuckin’ confusion when they get the package.”
“Wha-what are you saying?” said Rita, the blood rushing to her head. Totally ignoring her words, Benny knelt behind her. A second later, the ropes holding her hands tied were gone. Rita started to tremble. Fingerprints? They couldn’t. They wouldn’t!
Paco grabbed her right arm and pulled it forward. She tried to resist but she had no strength in her hands. An instant later, Benny pushed one knee into the small of her back. Lacing his fingers beneath her chin, he pulled her head back, so that she was staring at the ceiling.
“What nice little fingers you have, bitch,” said Paco, pressing one hand on top of hers. She could feel the gravelly sand beneath her fingertips. “I bet the D.A. will recognize them real easy.”
Rita couldn’t talk with Benny’s hands holding her mouth shut. The world was spinning, her breath coming in huge gasps in and out of her nostrils. She tried to fight the panic down, knew she must not panic or that would be the end. Panic led to hysterics, and hysterics led to madness. And she couldn’t go mad. Not a day before Lenny proposed.
“Every day, we’re gonna send your boss a souvenir,” said Paco calmly, as if discussing the weather, “just to let him know you’re still alive. Ten days, ten fingers, ten souvenirs. We’ll start with the little finger tonight and work our way up, one by one by one.”
Rita felt the cold steel at the base of her pinkie. Her body arched in pain. Even Benny’s hands couldn’t hold back her scream.
5.
His eyes opened slowly. Very slowly. A skeletal-thin arm brushed the thick layer of dust off his face. His leathery skin crackled like dried parchment as he moved his head from one side to the other. In the absolute darkness, there was nothing to see. Nothing indicated what had drawn him out of the deep sleep.
Gathering what little strength he had, he raised himself into a sitting position. The room was pitch black, but he could see without lights. There was no sign that anyone had disturbed the sanctity of this inner chamber in a long, long time. It was quiet, quiet as a tomb. He chuckled, a dry, cracking sound that did not belong in a man’s throat.
Moving slowly, cautiously, he lowered his feet over the edge of the coffin. His wood sandals, like all of his clothing, remained untouched by the desert weather. He stretched his toes, felt some small measure of feeling return to his feet. Now, he could walk. Standing up, he walked to the rear of the tomb. There was a stain on one of the upper bricks. He reached out and touched the mark. And with that touch, he froze.
“Innocent blood,” he said, using lungs that had not inhaled air in many, many years. “It called out to me. Screamed to me until I woke.”
Walking to the only door in the vault, he gave it a slight push. It fell forward on the hard sand floor. “Blood calls out for blood. It is the law,” he muttered, stepping out of the crypt that had been his resting-place for so long. “Thy will be done, Lord, on the Earth as it is in Heaven.”
6.Hands clutched tightly into fists, arms pressing hard against her breasts, Rita waited for the next obscenity to begin. Eyes clenched shut as if trying to close out the horror of her situation, she rocked back and forth on the ground, muttering and moaning bits and pieces of prayers remembered from Sunday school. She knew she was going to die. At most, she could pray that it wouldn’t last long and her death would be relatively painless. She knew her captors planned otherwise.Rita had lost what little control she still had over her emotions when Paco had slammed the knife blade down on her finger, slicing it off like a piece of sausage. Laughing harshly, the gangbanger had wrenched her bloody hand up to her eyes, to make sure she saw the raw wound. Temporarily out of her head, mad with animal fury, Rita had struggled furiously against the others who held her, trying to rip at Paco’s neck with her teeth.
“Let’s see how much you fight in twenty minutes,” the gang leader called over his shoulder as he and his companions headed back to the dark blue Cadillac. “That’s when we’ll be finished with our beers and draw lots for who gets you first, second, third, and fourth. We’ll see how much bite you got after you’ve been fucked thirty or forty times, bitch.”
A flicker of motion in the far corner of the dark room caught her eye. A figure, tall and very thin, slipped soundlessly through the shadows. A person, another human, in this bleak sand ruin. Her eyes burning from crying, Rita could hardly see him. The stranger somehow appeared shadowy, indistinct, almost an illusion. But he was all that she had left.
“Please,” she whispered softly, so the gangbangers by the car wouldn’t hear. “Please, I need your help. Please, please.”
“Whooooo-aaaaaare-youuuu?” the figure replied, the words slurred, faint, ghost-like. “Whyyy-arrrrre-youuu-hereeeee?”
“I’m Rita Esperenza,” Rita answered, rushing her words out as quickly as possible. “I’m an assistant district attorney working in L.A. I’ve been kidnapped by four members of the Latin Lords street gang. They plan to rape and kill me. Can you telephone the police? Tell them I’m here? Please, please.”
The figure shuffled silently across the bare floor, close enough that Rita could make out his features. The stranger was tall and incredibly thin. His face was lined with wrinkles and was the color of the desert sand. Rita tried to blink away the tears. This man was old, very old. Only his deep brooding black eyes appeared to be alive. He wore wood sandals and a long black robe, like that of a priest. A hood covered most of his head.
“I-ammmm-ssssorrrry,” said the old man, his slurred words starting to make sense. “Theeere-issss-no-telephone here. No elec-tri-city.”
No phone, no electricity? Could her nightmare get any worse? “Do you have a car? Maybe drive to the nearest gas station and use their phone?”
“This is a church,” said the old man. Moonlight bathed his features, revealing his face. He had thin lips, sunken cheeks and appeared to be completely hairless. He didn’t even have any eyebrows. “It is a place of peace, not violence. You have been harmed. I will not allow them to hurt you again.”
Rita moaned. She realized now the old man was crazy. Probably some homeless drifter who had wandered into the ruins looking for a place to sleep. There was no way he could save her. All he was going to do was get himself killed.
“Listen,” she said, gathering up what little courage she still possessed. “You’ve got to leave here. Now. Before these maniacs come back. Get away while you still can. Go. Find a cop. Tell them where I am. Rita Esperenza, they’ll know my name. They’ll be—”
“Well-well,” said Paco. “What do we have here? The fuckin’ bitch found herself a boyfriend?”
The gangbanger and his three stooges stood ten feet away. Paco and the one he called Sal had switchblades. Gator carried a 3-foot-long piece of bicycle chain, one end wrapped around a small fist, while Benny held a lead pipe. All four of the Lords were smiling.
“We heard you talkin’,” said Paco. “Don’t know who the fuck you are, you old fuck, but there’s no way you’re leavin’ here and goin’ to the fuckin’ police. No way.”
“This is a holy place,” said the stranger. “A church. Committing violence on this ground is a sin against God. If you fear for your immortal souls, you will leave here. Now.”
“Fuck you,” said Benny. “Damned fuckin’ loony. I hate loonies.”
“This ain’t no fuckin’ church,” said Gator. He swung the bicycle chain back and forth as he spoke. “And you ain’t no fuckin’ priest.”
“Guess we ain’t the religious types, old man,” said Paco. “But you seen our faces. We can’t let you go and maybe talk to the police about our little party with the bitch.”
“Leave him alone,” said Rita. “He’s just an old—”
“Shut up, bitch,” said Paco. “Or I’ll cut out your fuckin’ tongue.”
“Enough fuckin’ talk,” said Benny. He took two steps forward, pounding the lead pipe into the palm of his other hand. “Let’s kill this old bughead, then fuck the bitch.”
Benny raised the pipe over his head. Rita blinked but didn’t look away. If somehow she escaped, somehow she survived, she wanted to be able to tell a jury what these four did, down to the last detail. She wanted them to pay for their crimes. She had to watch.
Benny swung the club at the old man’s head. It never connected.
The man in black moved faster than it seemed possible. Sidestepping the descending pipe, he glided silently past the off-balance teenager. Gnarled, yellow fingers, thin as dried bones, swept across Benny’s features. The boy shrieked in sudden pain.
Dropping the club, Benny sank to his knees, both his hands clutching his face. “My eyes,” he screamed. “My eyes!”
“Watch that fucker!” yelled Paco. “He’s—”
Paco never finished the sentence. He never finished another sentence ever. The old man’s hands sliced out at Paco’s neck, hit the flesh once, twice, three times in less than an instant. Flesh and muscle tore like cheap wrapping paper. Blood spurted in a fountain from Paco’s throat. Eyes popped to twice their normal size, Paco collapsed in a heap, his lifeblood melting into the sandy soil.
“I got him!” screamed the one called Gator as he jumped onto the old man’s back, the chain in his hands circling the black robe like a lasso. “Stick him, Sal, stick him!”
“Take that, motherfucker!” Sal rammed his switchblade deep into the old man’s chest. “You fuckin’ killed Paco!”
With a sharp twist of his shoulders, the old man sent Gator flying. The teenager hit an adobe wall with a crunch and slid down to the ground, knocked unconscious.
The old man’s jet-black eyes looked down at the knife protruding from his chest. Rita was amazed the man in black was still standing. He should be on the ground, spitting up blood. Or dead.
Instead, the stranger reached up with one hand and pulled the knife free. It slid loose easily, effortlessly. Moonlight bounced off steel. There wasn’t a drop of blood on the blade. “You thought to kill me with this toy?”
“Holy Mother of Jesus,” said Sal. A dark stain spread across the front of his pants as he wet himself. “Please, please—”
“May God grant you mercy,” said the old man, dropping the switchblade to the ground, “for I cannot.”
The stranger’s hands moved faster than Rita could follow. Sal managed one high-pitched scream followed by three loud snaps. Crack! Crack! Crack! The teenager fell to the ground, his eyes frozen wide in horror, the top of his skull crushed like an eggshell.
The old man turned and looked at Rita. He no longer looked so old. The skin on his face was smooth, unbroken. His face seemed to glow with an inner power. “Please,” he said, “close your eyes. What comes next you should not witness.”
Rita closed her eyes, pressed them tightly shut. After the past few minutes, she was willing to do whatever the old man said.
Benny shrieked, a cry of such horrible agony that Rita couldn’t help shuddering. The teenager had helped cut off her finger. It wasn’t the first time he had assisted Paco mutilate someone. Still, for an instant, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for anyone in such terrible pain. But only for an instant.
Silence descended on the courtyard like a shroud. It was so quiet Rita could hear the sound of her own heart beating. She began to count numbers to herself. Seconds. Wondering what came next.
She had just reached one hundred when she felt the ropes binding her hands fall away. A moment later, those tying her legs also came free. “It is finished,” said the old man. “You are free, child. Free to depart.”
Taking a deep breath, Rita opened her eyes. The ruins were still. Four lumps of unmoving flesh were the only reminders of the terrible events that had taken place here tonight. The old man was at her side. Reaching down with one hand, he helped her to her feet.
“Will you be able to make your way to safety?” he asked. His voice, like his skin, was as smooth as silk. “This is my home. I cannot leave.”
“I-I’ll cross the wires in their car,” said Rita, still dazed by what had occurred. It was unbelievable, like a horrible dream that had come to an end. But she knew it was no dream. Her missing finger made that clear. “I can drive. Sooner or later, I’ll find a cop.”
“I will pray for your safety,” said the old man. “Go with God.”
Tentatively, Rita took a step forward. Then another. Then a third. She was free—free and alive. But she needed some answers. Some explanation. She needed the truth.
She turned and looked at the old man. He stood in the courtyard, the moon shining directly on him. His hands were raised as if uttering a benediction. The moonlight cast his shadow, in the form of a huge cross, on the adobe bricks behind him. His dark eyes shone like red candles in the light. The old man wore the black robe of a Catholic priest. There was a trace of crimson on his lips and some dark stains on his black robe.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice shaking. “I must know. What are you?”
“This is Iglesia de los Espiritus Perdidos, the Church of Lost Souls,” said the old man. “I am Father Francisco Hidalgo de Mendoza. I am its priest.
“And, I am a vampire.”
