Whee! My first OuaTiM fic!
This little ficlet was inspired by a conversation I led with hippediva months ago. I finally got down to writing it. It's... weird, to say the least.
Title: The Bargain
Author: Donna Immaculata
Rating: R for violence and disturbing themes
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.
Summary: In order to get his eyesight back, Sands is prepared to strike a deal with the devil.
Shadows crept along the dusty road, their dark bulk almost corporeal. When they reached the outskirts of the town, one shadow detached itself from the dark masses and glided soundlessly onto the porch of the run-down old building. It must be substantial, as its weight made one of the rickety stairs creak ominously. Crimson rays of the late afternoon sun fell askance onto the porch, but they seemed to slide off the dark figure, which now stood silently by the door: a tall man dressed in black. His long hair, falling in his face, obscured his features, but his dark eyes were burning with intense fire from behind the dark veil. Poised to strike like a cobra, he listened motionlessly for a while before he pushed open the door.
The mariachi's mouth twisted in an unpleasant imitation of a smile. Trust the vulgar American to be hanging out in a place called "The Titti Twister".
***
Sands greeted him with a smirk. "Well, well, if that isn't The himself. Do be seated, El. I'm delighted you could find it in yourself to accept my invitation."
The mariachi remained silent. Placing his guitar carefully on a chair, he took a seat at the table, facing the American. Whatever it was that Sands wanted, he would let him know in his own time, and nothing that he, the mariachi, could do, would influence Sands' agenda. With patience acquired during his life as a hunter, he waited for the American to speak while taking in the details of the man's appearance. Sands was lounging in his chair, a faint smile playing around his lips. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses and his face remained in shadows cast by the rim of his ridiculous cowboy hat. A gloved hand was toying with a tea spoon. In Sands' hands, the innocent tool looked like a carefully crafted instrument of death.
"I've heard you're not a great talker, El, but a greeting of some sort would be nice. You almost make me feel like a non-entity, which, I assure you, is not a feeling I am accustomed to," Sands said, leaning in across the table. It almost seemed as though he was checking whether the mariachi was really there.
"I'm here. What do you want?" The mariachi fought the urge to pull out the weapon concealed in his sleeve and whack the American across the head. Shooting the lunatic would be too kind; Sands deserved to be thrown into a hellish pit of humiliation and pain. But the same morbid curiosity that had made him travel all the way to that godforsaken place made him listen to the American's words now. There was something very... captivating about Sands. His voice drew one in. The mariachi knew everything about voices, about how tone and modulation worked, and he could see that, in Sands, he had met an expert. He wondered vaguely whether the man could sing.
"Ah, El, El! So impatient. Must be all that hot Latino blood sizzling in your veins." Sands twirled the spoon between his fingers. "Do have a drink first." He waved one hand, an oddly elegant gesture, and a young woman appeared at his side, a tray in her hands and a knife-edge smile on her face. Her eyes traveled up and down the length of the mariachi's body and he could have sworn she had licked her lips. Sands smirked. He pushed a tequila shot and a lemon slice across the table. "Santé!" The mariachi watched his throat work around the smooth liquid, and then Sands put the empty glass back on the table, very gently.
"Why, El, you aren't drinking," said Sands. "That's not very nice, rejecting my hospitality."
"I don't drink... with the enemy."
"But El!" Sands threw his arms open in a grand gesture, knocking over the tequila bottle in the process. "I would not have thought it possible for you to consider me your enemy. Why, have I ever done you any harm? If so, please accept my most sincere apologies. It was unconsciously done and shall never-" Sands broke off abruptly. "Oops!" he said cheerfully. "I almost told a whopper there!"
The mariachi felt a bitter taste rising up in his mouth. There was an odd frisson in the air that made his blood run cold. All of a sudden, Sands' smile looked entirely demented, his lips thinning to reveal too-white teeth.
"I'm out," said the mariachi, rising up. "I'm not interested."
There was pressure on his shoulder, a very definite sort of pressure, which held him down quite effectively. A quick side glace revealed a long, pale hand, thin fingers wrapped around his shoulder. Despite the long nails and the fragile-looking knuckles, the mariachi knew that the hand would have no difficulty crushing his bones. It was the expression on the man's face, the set of the smiling mouth, the cold glitter of the pale blue eyes, that left him in no doubt that he was dealing with a killer here.
Sands was looking up at the man with a peculiar expression on his face. He looked almost tender, definitely more human than the mariachi had ever seen him before. Even though his eyes were still hidden behind those dark glasses, the mariachi was sure that his gaze was locked with that of the newcomer.
"You weren't thinking of leaving already, El," Sands said, his voice low and soft. He wasn't looking at the mariachi. "You have to meet my... friend first."
A sudden gush of wind threw open the door. The waitress jumped when it banged against the wall. She relaxed when in the next moment the wind carried in the coolness of the evening.
When he looked back at Sands, the mariachi knew that he couldn't leave. Whatever it was that was going on there, it had to be carried out there and then. He placed his hands carefully on the table, his palms pressed against the scraped wood.
"What do you want?" His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears. "It's time for us to get down to business."
"I want you to help me." Sands still wasn't looking at him. His eyes seemed glued to the stranger's face. There was something wrong with that picture; Sands was always in control of a conversation, the mariachi knew that much. He would not willingly hand over the reins, but here he was, looking at the stranger as though in need of confirmation. There was something missing, something left unsaid from their conversation, the definite feeling that the stranger had interrupted them before Sands was ready for him. The mariachi made up his mind.
"Why me?" He asked, imitating their first encounter. If Sands picked up the code, it would mean he wanted to communicate something.
"Well, frankly, because," Sands turned his head and looked straight at the mariachi, "because you've got nothing to live for."
The pressure was lifted from his shoulder, and then the stranger was standing beside Sands without appearing to have moved. He stroke across Sands' cheek with the back of his hand. Sands kept very still.
"Do you have it?" Sands whispered when the man lowered his hand.
The stranger ignored the question. "So that's the famous mariachi," his voice trickled down the mariachi's spine like molten honey. "We meet at last."
"Do you have it?" Sands repeated, his voice slightly raised.
The mariachi blinked. The stranger's hand hovered in front of Sands' face. Slowly, he uncurled his fingers, revealing what he was holding. From his position, the mariachi couldn't see it, but he was surprised when Sands spoke again. "Do you have it or not?" he almost snarled.
The stranger flexed his fingers. "Here they are. Are you blind?"
"Well, yeah, that's very funny. Fuck you!" said Sands, but in that moment the stranger leaned down, wrapping his free hand around the back of Sands' neck, and pulled the American into a kiss. Sands' response was as immediate as it was surprising; he let out a strangled groan and grabbed the lapels of the man's jacket, pulling him down. For a few seconds, the sound of their heated breathing sent the mariachi's head spinning, before Sands' groaned again and opened his mouth wider, granting a glimpse of his tongue as it slipped into the other man's mouth. The mariachi unfroze. He let his hands drop from the table, and when he stretched out his arms again, he was carrying two heavy guns. One shot split the air, and the stranger let go of Sands, staggering backwards. Sands' cowboy hat had fallen off, and his hair and face were splattered with blood. The stranger took another step back and just as the mariachi expected him to fall, he regained his equilibrium. He shook his head, bemusedly, and turned to look at the shot. There was a small red-brown hole where the bullet had entered his temple, and the right side of his face was missing. His left eye blinked.
"Gosh, El, I didn't know you cared!" said Sands, running the back of his hand over his face to wipe off the blood and only managing to smear it more thoroughly. "This is kinda sweet. Don't you think?" he asked, turning to the stranger. "Don't you think that's sweet?"
"Exceedingly," the stranger said. "A man of passion, I see."
"Oh yes indeed! You'll find a lot of passion there. Did you expect I would supply low-grade goods? And, for the love of all that's holy-" The stranger started at those words. The waitress winced. "-Do something about your face, will you?"
"How can you tell there's something wrong with my face?"
"He," Sands pointed to the mariachi, "never misses. And you lisp when your lips are blown to smithereens."
The remainder of the creature's mouth twitched in a grotesque imitation of a smile. It let its head fall back, and the mariachi saw its flesh throb, as though something was moving under its skin, before the head jerked forward again. The entire face was pulsating like some horrid infested wound. Thin tendrils of living flesh and bone crept up its neck, rebuilding the structure of its face. It was unlike the face of any human the mariachi had ever seen; hollow and scaly-skinned, with one blank, pupil-less white eye. While he was watching, the face filled out again, the skin regained color and the blank eye blinked once. When it opened, it was pale blue again.
"This is not how the game is played," said the stranger softly.
"This is how my game is played," said the mariachi and pulled the trigger.
In a movement too fast to follow, the stranger had grabbed the waitress around the middle and thrown her across the table in front of Sands. The bullet hit her square in the chest. Sands merely frowned.
"El, old friend," he said in a hurt voice. "You did not really try to kill me?"
"You sold me out to the devil," said El. "Why?"
"We-ell, since you're asking nicely," Sands swiped the body of the waitress off the table. She dropped to the ground in a crumpled heap. "He promised me something in return."
Sands tugged the black glove on his right hand back in shape and raised his hand to his sunglasses. Smiling faintly, he lowered the glasses slowly, almost coyly. The mariachi gasped.
He took a step back as the horrible sight was revealed and crossed himself. Where the American's eyes should have been were only two empty holes, purple and black with dead tissue.
"You see, El," said Sands, "And believe me, I was quite attached to them. And Old Nick here," he nodded in the direction of the stranger, "he promised me new ones in exchange for a nice, juicy soul. So I said, Nick, old friend, I know just the soul you want. Full of anger. Full of passion. Full of lust. Ripe to be reaped, so to speak. And I dare say, Nick is not disappointed, are you, Nick? I bet all its lusciousness is singing to you like a bitch's pheromones are singing to a pack of dogs."
"You did well. I am not disappointed," said the stranger, gliding over to Sands. He stepped lightly over the curled up figure of the waitress, who was just beginning to stir. With a groan, she sat up and looked down at her chest.
"That was quite a blow," she said, directing her gaze at the mariachi. "You have powerful toys there, human." While she spoke, her face contorted into a sharp-angled mask, yellow-eyed and feral. She ran her tongue along her pointy incisors, grinning. The mariachi tilted his head. His bullet caught her right between the eyes.
"I do."
"I am glad you're enjoying yourself, El, but I better tell you that you can't kill a vampire with an ordinary gun," said Sands.
"But you can," the mariachi lowered his arm, "slow them down."
The stranger laughed softly. "Oh this is delightful," he said. "True heroic spirit! They don't make souls such as this these days."
"Don't forget who provided it," Sands reminded him delicately. "Don't forget the best part of our agreement."
"The best?"
"The best for me," said Sands. He pulled off his glove and reached out his hand. "My reward, if you please."
Instead of placing the item into Sands hands, the stranger wrapped his arm around the other man's waist and pulled him close. His tongue darted out, long and agile and forked. It slid across Sands' face, over his parted lips, snaked into his mouth. Sands tilted his head back, pressing his pelvis against the stranger's. The forked tongue continued its travel across Sands' face. When it flicked over the empty eye sockets, Sands hissed and arched into the man. The stranger lifted his hand and wrapped a lock of Sands' dark hair around his finger. "Sssoon," he hissed. "You're very clossse." Sands moaned as the stranger's hand passed across his mutilated eyes and he cried out when a long nail buried itself in the socket. When the stranger withdrew his finger, it was glistening - a dark, rich red. "Got to make spaccce," the stranger muttered. His tongue never stopped in its travel; it trailed a moist track along the long line of Sands' cheekbone, traced the curve of his brow, before it buried itself in the empty hole underneath. Sands was whimpering, but he held perfectly still. Only his chest was heaving with rapid breaths.
The stranger gripped him firmly around the chin and pushed his thumb into the other socket. There was a nasty squelching sound which made the mariachi's stomach turn. Sands curled up, his teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw muscles formed hard lumps under his skin. When the thumb withdrew, the sight of the long, thin thread trailing behind it made El avert his eyes.
His gaze fell on the waitress, who had stood up again and was watching in hungry fascination. The mariachi's bullet blasted her skull apart.
He heard Sands laugh out at that, a harsh, breathless sound, but in the next moment the man cried out in agony when the stranger gripped his face with one hand. A moment later, the stranger let go of Sands, who staggered around to regain control, and turned to the mariachi. A slow smile spread across his face.
Behind his back, the waitress got to her feet again. She was laughing. Snake-like, she glided to the stranger and wrapped her arms around him. "I want him," she purred. "He has hot blood. I want to taste him."
"No," he said, watching the mariachi intensely. "He's mine."
"But you already have him," she pointed to Sands, who had leaned back against the wall, panting for breath. The stranger ignored her.
"What are you waiting for?" He asked Sands. "Give him to me."
"Righty-ho," Sands muttered. The mariachi's own gun hand came up a fraction of a second too late. Sands' bullet hit him in the chest, and through the red fog that dissolved his vision almost immediately, he saw the man's dark eyes fixed at him with an expression of peculiar intensity.
He hit the ground with a loud thud and a groan as the air was knocked out of him. Black flakes danced in front of his vision, twirling faster and faster, and the world went white.
It was a feeling as though walking through thick fog, which would creep into his mouth and his eyes and dull his senses. The stranger extended one hand and the mariachi felt himself being drawn towards the man as though pulled by invisible strings. Desperately, he tried to resist the pull, but the fog made it impossible for him to move, paralyzing his muscles and liquefying his bones. Inch by inch, he slid towards the stranger, towards the feral grin and cold eyes.
But all of a sudden, the movement stopped. The stranger, now merely a few feet away, frowned and lowered his hand. The mariachi swayed on the spot when sudden pain hit him.
"What is it?" Sands' voice reached him through the pounding in his ears. "Anything wrong?"
"Thisss sssoul," hissed the stranger, his voice raising with fury, "thisss sssoul isss faulty!"
"Why, yes, I'm sure it is," Sands said, and an odd ring in his voice caught the mariachi's attention. "That's what human souls are all about. Faulty. This is why your lot claim them, isn't it?"
"But thissss sssoul!" The stranger's face twitched horribly, the human mask shifting and making space for a demonic grimace. "Thisss sssoul is pure! I cannot claim it!"
"Ah," said Sands. "Oh dear. I can see how this upsets you." There was unveiled amusement in his voice now.
The mariachi felt the horrible pulling force give another sharp tug, but in the next moment, the creature in front of him let go as though burned and let out a high-pitched cry. With strength born from desperation, the mariachi turned around and staggered to his guitar case - when a terrifying sight caught his eye.
"Dios mio!" The mariachi stumbled backwards, crossing himself. He looked down at his own body, spread out on the cold stone floor, his eyes open wide, his white shirt stained with dark, rich blood. There was another sting of pain and he felt himself being tugged forwards and onto his body. He opened his mouth to scream, but all that he managed was a weak croak. Then, the world went black again.
The mariachi opened his eyes with a start. The world was fading in and out of focus, making him dizzy and disoriented. There was pain, piercing, excruciating pain in his chest. His lungs gurgled with every shallow breath he took. He coughed, spitting blood.
He was lying on his back, and the pain and the cold he felt were proof enough that he was back in his body. In the background, he could see Satan advancing on Sands, could see his form twitch and shift as he did so, could see the American backing away, talking, but his head was throbbing too forcefully to allow him to follow their actions. And there was the woman, yellow eyes agleam, slinking slowly towards him, her nostrils flaring at the sight and the smell of his blood.
Groaning with the effort, he rolled over onto his front, coughing harsh, desperate coughs. She laughed softly, playfully, as though enjoying the sight of him crawling away from certain death.
His guitar case was merely inches away now. The click-click of her heels stopped as she placed one foot delicately between his legs. Mobilizing what felt like his last ounce of strength, the mariachi flicked open the fastenings of the case. She laughed again, lowering herself onto him. A long, slim hand slid up his thigh, along his flank, and came to rest on the side of his neck. He watched his own hand slipping into the case, leaving bloodied tracks all over the smooth velvety surface. Her weight shifted and a warm puff of breath hit his exposed skin.
"All mine, guitar boy," she purred. "I'm looking forward to those fingers strumming me tonight."
The mariachi's arm came up with a flash of silver. She let out a shrill scream as he flipped them both over. The yellow eyes widened, dark red blood spouted from between red lips, and, twitching underneath his weight, she suddenly went very still. The mariachi pulled Carolina's silver throwing knife out of the vampire's neck.
"The string is broken," he said, before he crashed down to the ground.
"El, that was simply spectacular! I am impressed."
The mariachi didn't turn around. Sharp stabs of pain were shooting sparks up his torso, his head was pounding and he was afraid he would throw up.
There was the rustling of clothes and the sensation of warmth as Sands put a hand on his back.
"You might be happy to hear," the American continued, "that Old Nick is gone. It seems his boss," he pointed downwards, "is not too happy about his performance here. Quite understandably so. They like actually receiving the goods in exchange for payment."
Sands' gloved hand appeared in the mariachi's range of vision. The man picked up Carolina's knife and twirled it between his fingers. "Very nice, El. You do have style, I must grant you that." Arms, stronger then he would have expected, wrapped themselves around him and the mariachi was flipped over and onto his back. More gently than he would have expected, too.
"Nevertheless, we really must get out of here." Sands suddenly sounded very businesslike. "It would be a great help if you weren't just lying here like a log."
"What-" the mariachi rasped and then, rage boosting his strength, he grabbed Sands' shirtfront and pulled the man down. "You killed me!"
"Even you must realize how ridiculous this statement is!" Sands shook off his grip. "Obviously, you are alive. Not for much longer, though, if you don't help me get you in the car."
"You sold my soul!"
"El, El, stop being such a pain in the ass. He didn't take your soul, did he?"
"But you couldn't know-" El stared up in the American's dark eyes. "How?" he whispered.
"Well," Sands had at last managed to get him into a sitting position. He stepped behind the other man and hooked his arms underneath the mariachi's, dragging him towards the exit. "Your hatred for me was so overpowering that it was devouring you alive. It made you think unchristian thoughts and cherish unchristian hopes. How, therefore, could you not go to confession before meeting up with me?"
The End
A/N: The ending is inspired by the following exchange from "Desperado":
El Mariachi: I have to go to church.
Carolina: What for?
El Mariachi: Confess my sins. I'm a sinner
Title: The Bargain
Author: Donna Immaculata
Rating: R for violence and disturbing themes
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.
Summary: In order to get his eyesight back, Sands is prepared to strike a deal with the devil.
Shadows crept along the dusty road, their dark bulk almost corporeal. When they reached the outskirts of the town, one shadow detached itself from the dark masses and glided soundlessly onto the porch of the run-down old building. It must be substantial, as its weight made one of the rickety stairs creak ominously. Crimson rays of the late afternoon sun fell askance onto the porch, but they seemed to slide off the dark figure, which now stood silently by the door: a tall man dressed in black. His long hair, falling in his face, obscured his features, but his dark eyes were burning with intense fire from behind the dark veil. Poised to strike like a cobra, he listened motionlessly for a while before he pushed open the door.
The mariachi's mouth twisted in an unpleasant imitation of a smile. Trust the vulgar American to be hanging out in a place called "The Titti Twister".
***
Sands greeted him with a smirk. "Well, well, if that isn't The himself. Do be seated, El. I'm delighted you could find it in yourself to accept my invitation."
The mariachi remained silent. Placing his guitar carefully on a chair, he took a seat at the table, facing the American. Whatever it was that Sands wanted, he would let him know in his own time, and nothing that he, the mariachi, could do, would influence Sands' agenda. With patience acquired during his life as a hunter, he waited for the American to speak while taking in the details of the man's appearance. Sands was lounging in his chair, a faint smile playing around his lips. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses and his face remained in shadows cast by the rim of his ridiculous cowboy hat. A gloved hand was toying with a tea spoon. In Sands' hands, the innocent tool looked like a carefully crafted instrument of death.
"I've heard you're not a great talker, El, but a greeting of some sort would be nice. You almost make me feel like a non-entity, which, I assure you, is not a feeling I am accustomed to," Sands said, leaning in across the table. It almost seemed as though he was checking whether the mariachi was really there.
"I'm here. What do you want?" The mariachi fought the urge to pull out the weapon concealed in his sleeve and whack the American across the head. Shooting the lunatic would be too kind; Sands deserved to be thrown into a hellish pit of humiliation and pain. But the same morbid curiosity that had made him travel all the way to that godforsaken place made him listen to the American's words now. There was something very... captivating about Sands. His voice drew one in. The mariachi knew everything about voices, about how tone and modulation worked, and he could see that, in Sands, he had met an expert. He wondered vaguely whether the man could sing.
"Ah, El, El! So impatient. Must be all that hot Latino blood sizzling in your veins." Sands twirled the spoon between his fingers. "Do have a drink first." He waved one hand, an oddly elegant gesture, and a young woman appeared at his side, a tray in her hands and a knife-edge smile on her face. Her eyes traveled up and down the length of the mariachi's body and he could have sworn she had licked her lips. Sands smirked. He pushed a tequila shot and a lemon slice across the table. "Santé!" The mariachi watched his throat work around the smooth liquid, and then Sands put the empty glass back on the table, very gently.
"Why, El, you aren't drinking," said Sands. "That's not very nice, rejecting my hospitality."
"I don't drink... with the enemy."
"But El!" Sands threw his arms open in a grand gesture, knocking over the tequila bottle in the process. "I would not have thought it possible for you to consider me your enemy. Why, have I ever done you any harm? If so, please accept my most sincere apologies. It was unconsciously done and shall never-" Sands broke off abruptly. "Oops!" he said cheerfully. "I almost told a whopper there!"
The mariachi felt a bitter taste rising up in his mouth. There was an odd frisson in the air that made his blood run cold. All of a sudden, Sands' smile looked entirely demented, his lips thinning to reveal too-white teeth.
"I'm out," said the mariachi, rising up. "I'm not interested."
There was pressure on his shoulder, a very definite sort of pressure, which held him down quite effectively. A quick side glace revealed a long, pale hand, thin fingers wrapped around his shoulder. Despite the long nails and the fragile-looking knuckles, the mariachi knew that the hand would have no difficulty crushing his bones. It was the expression on the man's face, the set of the smiling mouth, the cold glitter of the pale blue eyes, that left him in no doubt that he was dealing with a killer here.
Sands was looking up at the man with a peculiar expression on his face. He looked almost tender, definitely more human than the mariachi had ever seen him before. Even though his eyes were still hidden behind those dark glasses, the mariachi was sure that his gaze was locked with that of the newcomer.
"You weren't thinking of leaving already, El," Sands said, his voice low and soft. He wasn't looking at the mariachi. "You have to meet my... friend first."
A sudden gush of wind threw open the door. The waitress jumped when it banged against the wall. She relaxed when in the next moment the wind carried in the coolness of the evening.
When he looked back at Sands, the mariachi knew that he couldn't leave. Whatever it was that was going on there, it had to be carried out there and then. He placed his hands carefully on the table, his palms pressed against the scraped wood.
"What do you want?" His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears. "It's time for us to get down to business."
"I want you to help me." Sands still wasn't looking at him. His eyes seemed glued to the stranger's face. There was something wrong with that picture; Sands was always in control of a conversation, the mariachi knew that much. He would not willingly hand over the reins, but here he was, looking at the stranger as though in need of confirmation. There was something missing, something left unsaid from their conversation, the definite feeling that the stranger had interrupted them before Sands was ready for him. The mariachi made up his mind.
"Why me?" He asked, imitating their first encounter. If Sands picked up the code, it would mean he wanted to communicate something.
"Well, frankly, because," Sands turned his head and looked straight at the mariachi, "because you've got nothing to live for."
The pressure was lifted from his shoulder, and then the stranger was standing beside Sands without appearing to have moved. He stroke across Sands' cheek with the back of his hand. Sands kept very still.
"Do you have it?" Sands whispered when the man lowered his hand.
The stranger ignored the question. "So that's the famous mariachi," his voice trickled down the mariachi's spine like molten honey. "We meet at last."
"Do you have it?" Sands repeated, his voice slightly raised.
The mariachi blinked. The stranger's hand hovered in front of Sands' face. Slowly, he uncurled his fingers, revealing what he was holding. From his position, the mariachi couldn't see it, but he was surprised when Sands spoke again. "Do you have it or not?" he almost snarled.
The stranger flexed his fingers. "Here they are. Are you blind?"
"Well, yeah, that's very funny. Fuck you!" said Sands, but in that moment the stranger leaned down, wrapping his free hand around the back of Sands' neck, and pulled the American into a kiss. Sands' response was as immediate as it was surprising; he let out a strangled groan and grabbed the lapels of the man's jacket, pulling him down. For a few seconds, the sound of their heated breathing sent the mariachi's head spinning, before Sands' groaned again and opened his mouth wider, granting a glimpse of his tongue as it slipped into the other man's mouth. The mariachi unfroze. He let his hands drop from the table, and when he stretched out his arms again, he was carrying two heavy guns. One shot split the air, and the stranger let go of Sands, staggering backwards. Sands' cowboy hat had fallen off, and his hair and face were splattered with blood. The stranger took another step back and just as the mariachi expected him to fall, he regained his equilibrium. He shook his head, bemusedly, and turned to look at the shot. There was a small red-brown hole where the bullet had entered his temple, and the right side of his face was missing. His left eye blinked.
"Gosh, El, I didn't know you cared!" said Sands, running the back of his hand over his face to wipe off the blood and only managing to smear it more thoroughly. "This is kinda sweet. Don't you think?" he asked, turning to the stranger. "Don't you think that's sweet?"
"Exceedingly," the stranger said. "A man of passion, I see."
"Oh yes indeed! You'll find a lot of passion there. Did you expect I would supply low-grade goods? And, for the love of all that's holy-" The stranger started at those words. The waitress winced. "-Do something about your face, will you?"
"How can you tell there's something wrong with my face?"
"He," Sands pointed to the mariachi, "never misses. And you lisp when your lips are blown to smithereens."
The remainder of the creature's mouth twitched in a grotesque imitation of a smile. It let its head fall back, and the mariachi saw its flesh throb, as though something was moving under its skin, before the head jerked forward again. The entire face was pulsating like some horrid infested wound. Thin tendrils of living flesh and bone crept up its neck, rebuilding the structure of its face. It was unlike the face of any human the mariachi had ever seen; hollow and scaly-skinned, with one blank, pupil-less white eye. While he was watching, the face filled out again, the skin regained color and the blank eye blinked once. When it opened, it was pale blue again.
"This is not how the game is played," said the stranger softly.
"This is how my game is played," said the mariachi and pulled the trigger.
In a movement too fast to follow, the stranger had grabbed the waitress around the middle and thrown her across the table in front of Sands. The bullet hit her square in the chest. Sands merely frowned.
"El, old friend," he said in a hurt voice. "You did not really try to kill me?"
"You sold me out to the devil," said El. "Why?"
"We-ell, since you're asking nicely," Sands swiped the body of the waitress off the table. She dropped to the ground in a crumpled heap. "He promised me something in return."
Sands tugged the black glove on his right hand back in shape and raised his hand to his sunglasses. Smiling faintly, he lowered the glasses slowly, almost coyly. The mariachi gasped.
He took a step back as the horrible sight was revealed and crossed himself. Where the American's eyes should have been were only two empty holes, purple and black with dead tissue.
"You see, El," said Sands, "And believe me, I was quite attached to them. And Old Nick here," he nodded in the direction of the stranger, "he promised me new ones in exchange for a nice, juicy soul. So I said, Nick, old friend, I know just the soul you want. Full of anger. Full of passion. Full of lust. Ripe to be reaped, so to speak. And I dare say, Nick is not disappointed, are you, Nick? I bet all its lusciousness is singing to you like a bitch's pheromones are singing to a pack of dogs."
"You did well. I am not disappointed," said the stranger, gliding over to Sands. He stepped lightly over the curled up figure of the waitress, who was just beginning to stir. With a groan, she sat up and looked down at her chest.
"That was quite a blow," she said, directing her gaze at the mariachi. "You have powerful toys there, human." While she spoke, her face contorted into a sharp-angled mask, yellow-eyed and feral. She ran her tongue along her pointy incisors, grinning. The mariachi tilted his head. His bullet caught her right between the eyes.
"I do."
"I am glad you're enjoying yourself, El, but I better tell you that you can't kill a vampire with an ordinary gun," said Sands.
"But you can," the mariachi lowered his arm, "slow them down."
The stranger laughed softly. "Oh this is delightful," he said. "True heroic spirit! They don't make souls such as this these days."
"Don't forget who provided it," Sands reminded him delicately. "Don't forget the best part of our agreement."
"The best?"
"The best for me," said Sands. He pulled off his glove and reached out his hand. "My reward, if you please."
Instead of placing the item into Sands hands, the stranger wrapped his arm around the other man's waist and pulled him close. His tongue darted out, long and agile and forked. It slid across Sands' face, over his parted lips, snaked into his mouth. Sands tilted his head back, pressing his pelvis against the stranger's. The forked tongue continued its travel across Sands' face. When it flicked over the empty eye sockets, Sands hissed and arched into the man. The stranger lifted his hand and wrapped a lock of Sands' dark hair around his finger. "Sssoon," he hissed. "You're very clossse." Sands moaned as the stranger's hand passed across his mutilated eyes and he cried out when a long nail buried itself in the socket. When the stranger withdrew his finger, it was glistening - a dark, rich red. "Got to make spaccce," the stranger muttered. His tongue never stopped in its travel; it trailed a moist track along the long line of Sands' cheekbone, traced the curve of his brow, before it buried itself in the empty hole underneath. Sands was whimpering, but he held perfectly still. Only his chest was heaving with rapid breaths.
The stranger gripped him firmly around the chin and pushed his thumb into the other socket. There was a nasty squelching sound which made the mariachi's stomach turn. Sands curled up, his teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw muscles formed hard lumps under his skin. When the thumb withdrew, the sight of the long, thin thread trailing behind it made El avert his eyes.
His gaze fell on the waitress, who had stood up again and was watching in hungry fascination. The mariachi's bullet blasted her skull apart.
He heard Sands laugh out at that, a harsh, breathless sound, but in the next moment the man cried out in agony when the stranger gripped his face with one hand. A moment later, the stranger let go of Sands, who staggered around to regain control, and turned to the mariachi. A slow smile spread across his face.
Behind his back, the waitress got to her feet again. She was laughing. Snake-like, she glided to the stranger and wrapped her arms around him. "I want him," she purred. "He has hot blood. I want to taste him."
"No," he said, watching the mariachi intensely. "He's mine."
"But you already have him," she pointed to Sands, who had leaned back against the wall, panting for breath. The stranger ignored her.
"What are you waiting for?" He asked Sands. "Give him to me."
"Righty-ho," Sands muttered. The mariachi's own gun hand came up a fraction of a second too late. Sands' bullet hit him in the chest, and through the red fog that dissolved his vision almost immediately, he saw the man's dark eyes fixed at him with an expression of peculiar intensity.
He hit the ground with a loud thud and a groan as the air was knocked out of him. Black flakes danced in front of his vision, twirling faster and faster, and the world went white.
It was a feeling as though walking through thick fog, which would creep into his mouth and his eyes and dull his senses. The stranger extended one hand and the mariachi felt himself being drawn towards the man as though pulled by invisible strings. Desperately, he tried to resist the pull, but the fog made it impossible for him to move, paralyzing his muscles and liquefying his bones. Inch by inch, he slid towards the stranger, towards the feral grin and cold eyes.
But all of a sudden, the movement stopped. The stranger, now merely a few feet away, frowned and lowered his hand. The mariachi swayed on the spot when sudden pain hit him.
"What is it?" Sands' voice reached him through the pounding in his ears. "Anything wrong?"
"Thisss sssoul," hissed the stranger, his voice raising with fury, "thisss sssoul isss faulty!"
"Why, yes, I'm sure it is," Sands said, and an odd ring in his voice caught the mariachi's attention. "That's what human souls are all about. Faulty. This is why your lot claim them, isn't it?"
"But thissss sssoul!" The stranger's face twitched horribly, the human mask shifting and making space for a demonic grimace. "Thisss sssoul is pure! I cannot claim it!"
"Ah," said Sands. "Oh dear. I can see how this upsets you." There was unveiled amusement in his voice now.
The mariachi felt the horrible pulling force give another sharp tug, but in the next moment, the creature in front of him let go as though burned and let out a high-pitched cry. With strength born from desperation, the mariachi turned around and staggered to his guitar case - when a terrifying sight caught his eye.
"Dios mio!" The mariachi stumbled backwards, crossing himself. He looked down at his own body, spread out on the cold stone floor, his eyes open wide, his white shirt stained with dark, rich blood. There was another sting of pain and he felt himself being tugged forwards and onto his body. He opened his mouth to scream, but all that he managed was a weak croak. Then, the world went black again.
The mariachi opened his eyes with a start. The world was fading in and out of focus, making him dizzy and disoriented. There was pain, piercing, excruciating pain in his chest. His lungs gurgled with every shallow breath he took. He coughed, spitting blood.
He was lying on his back, and the pain and the cold he felt were proof enough that he was back in his body. In the background, he could see Satan advancing on Sands, could see his form twitch and shift as he did so, could see the American backing away, talking, but his head was throbbing too forcefully to allow him to follow their actions. And there was the woman, yellow eyes agleam, slinking slowly towards him, her nostrils flaring at the sight and the smell of his blood.
Groaning with the effort, he rolled over onto his front, coughing harsh, desperate coughs. She laughed softly, playfully, as though enjoying the sight of him crawling away from certain death.
His guitar case was merely inches away now. The click-click of her heels stopped as she placed one foot delicately between his legs. Mobilizing what felt like his last ounce of strength, the mariachi flicked open the fastenings of the case. She laughed again, lowering herself onto him. A long, slim hand slid up his thigh, along his flank, and came to rest on the side of his neck. He watched his own hand slipping into the case, leaving bloodied tracks all over the smooth velvety surface. Her weight shifted and a warm puff of breath hit his exposed skin.
"All mine, guitar boy," she purred. "I'm looking forward to those fingers strumming me tonight."
The mariachi's arm came up with a flash of silver. She let out a shrill scream as he flipped them both over. The yellow eyes widened, dark red blood spouted from between red lips, and, twitching underneath his weight, she suddenly went very still. The mariachi pulled Carolina's silver throwing knife out of the vampire's neck.
"The string is broken," he said, before he crashed down to the ground.
"El, that was simply spectacular! I am impressed."
The mariachi didn't turn around. Sharp stabs of pain were shooting sparks up his torso, his head was pounding and he was afraid he would throw up.
There was the rustling of clothes and the sensation of warmth as Sands put a hand on his back.
"You might be happy to hear," the American continued, "that Old Nick is gone. It seems his boss," he pointed downwards, "is not too happy about his performance here. Quite understandably so. They like actually receiving the goods in exchange for payment."
Sands' gloved hand appeared in the mariachi's range of vision. The man picked up Carolina's knife and twirled it between his fingers. "Very nice, El. You do have style, I must grant you that." Arms, stronger then he would have expected, wrapped themselves around him and the mariachi was flipped over and onto his back. More gently than he would have expected, too.
"Nevertheless, we really must get out of here." Sands suddenly sounded very businesslike. "It would be a great help if you weren't just lying here like a log."
"What-" the mariachi rasped and then, rage boosting his strength, he grabbed Sands' shirtfront and pulled the man down. "You killed me!"
"Even you must realize how ridiculous this statement is!" Sands shook off his grip. "Obviously, you are alive. Not for much longer, though, if you don't help me get you in the car."
"You sold my soul!"
"El, El, stop being such a pain in the ass. He didn't take your soul, did he?"
"But you couldn't know-" El stared up in the American's dark eyes. "How?" he whispered.
"Well," Sands had at last managed to get him into a sitting position. He stepped behind the other man and hooked his arms underneath the mariachi's, dragging him towards the exit. "Your hatred for me was so overpowering that it was devouring you alive. It made you think unchristian thoughts and cherish unchristian hopes. How, therefore, could you not go to confession before meeting up with me?"
The End
A/N: The ending is inspired by the following exchange from "Desperado":
El Mariachi: I have to go to church.
Carolina: What for?
El Mariachi: Confess my sins. I'm a sinner