"Love At First Bite" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kenyon Sherrilyn, Banks L. A., Squires Susan, Thompson Ronda)

Chapter One

After the fall of the dark angel, after man and woman were deceived and ousted from Paradise, the legions of evil beset humanity with all manner of strife and hardship to sway their choice. Earth became the Gray Zone of choice, where free will could manifest for good or evil, and a soul could be compromised in this fragile environment that cast shadows of darkness amid the light.

The angels on High wept as they watched the fate of humankind in their struggle against demonic forces, mere flesh and bones and the hope of earthbound spirits crushed by plagues, pestilence, famines, disasters, violence… no mercy. The cry for help that went up to heaven from the peoples of the earth was heard.

From the twelve scattered tribes, twelve Guardian Councils were mission-anointed and made up of honorable, courageous men and women of all positive faiths and all races, working as a united front, quietly moving behind the scenes, each battling evil in their own corner of the globe. The balance could not be easily tipped; their fight was vigilant. But just as the forces of evil had human helpers to reinforce the negative spheres of soul-killing influence, the forces of good had the Guardians… those who held the line no matter what challenges befell them. They would not allow the Light to be extinguished.

And from those twelve armies came the Covenant—one from each Guardian Council, twelve members in all, the bravest of the brave, the wisest of the wise, the keepers of the faith and the knowledge between worlds.

Only the Covenant could foretell the coming of the Neteru, although they would never know whether this mortal superbeing would come as male or female. All they could do was prepare a special Neteru Guardian Team as they searched for the prophesied being.

Anointed with the Divine mission to protect the Neteru, this elite category of spiritual warriors was chosen to surround their charge with heightened extrasensory awareness, superior physical and inner strength, unmatched courage, keen battle strategy, and unparalleled skill. These strengths not only protect but also reinforce the Neteru's learning curve and developmental life preparation for his/her own perilous mission.

Each Guardian's mastery was a lone, hard-won trial by fire and a baptism of struggles until their faith was made impervious to doubt. They come from the ranks of the unwashed, huddled masses, the tired, the poor, the downtrodden, the nameless, the faceless, the obscure—but they are mighty… for in the last days "… the first shall be last and the last shall be first."

EAST LOS ANGELES, 1990

He was having the same dream again. Could smell the sulfur, see the swirling, billowing, horrible clouds of smoke. The angry mass almost seemed like it was alive as it wrapped around him and the finest woman he'd ever been with in his life. The thick smoke covered her face, but there was always the strange sense that he knew her. She reached out, calling to him for protection.

As frightening as the dream was, that was always the best part… the part where they'd escape from the cloud, riding on the back of his bike to safety—then get naked. Oddly, her face was always obscured then, too. Shadows, half moonlight—he couldn't see her face, but her body was undeniably awesome. He tried to will the dream to skip to that part.

Por dios, she was fine. He'd only copped some tail a few times in high school, since he wasn't one of the serious bailers who got all the females. If you weren't an athlete or dealer, forget about it. Now that he was out of school, broke, and didn't have a fly ride—just a motorcycle—female company found at the clubs was a costly habit that he couldn't afford… so he snuggled down deeper into the pillows, not even afraid of the hellish scene playing out in his dreams.

His body was ready to fast-forward to the soft skin… the breathless panting, gorgeous, firm breasts with toffee-colored nipples. Jesus… wonderful, tight ass and long legs wrapped around his waist out in the middle of the desert. His name a cry on the wind. Silky dark brown hair in his hands. Screw the demons in his dreams; he'd ride through smoke and hellfire to get to all of that. He shifted uncomfortably in his sleep, the pulsing erection a killer. C'mon, where was the girl, this time?

"Jose!"

Wrong voice. Reality jerked him awake like a splash of cold water. Jose could smell the hotel cleaning products wafting off his mother's skin from the doorway of his bedroom before he even opened his eyes. Oh, shit… Maybe if he pretended he was still asleep, she would just go away, por favor.

The fight would be the same. It always was. He finally opened his eyes and simply stared at the woman. The dream had flitted away, just like his arousal. If he could have died from embarrassment he would have. His mother glared at him, her angry gaze raking his body with a disgusted click of her tongue. How did time manage to make a once beautiful thirty-seven-year-old woman seem like an old crone so fast? he wondered, bracing for the inevitable.

"Jose, this has got to stop!" his mother said, folding her arms over her chest, crushing her maid's uniform. "It is nearly six o'clock at night! What have you been doing all day, huh? Are you taking those drugs, or smoking those funny cigarettes? You're almost twenty-two years old and still living here like a bum. Well, not under my roof! I can't support a grown son who won't get a job. It was bad enough that your father left me, then died. Now, you sleep all day and then go out with those gangs at night—and when I come home, not a dish is washed, nothing around the house is done. I'm tired of this!"

Jose sat up slowly, scratching his head, searching for words. "Momma, listen—"

"No, you listen, Jose! You listen to me for once! You've been out of high school now for three years already, and what do you have to show for your life? Where's your ambition?"

He let out a weary breath. "I bring home money every week to help the household and—"

"I don't want drug money!" she shrieked, coming into the room to stand over him.

He was on his feet. "It's not drug money!" he shouted, wishing he could just make her understand. "I draw for them, paint their jackets, and detail their cars! They pay me to do my art, Momma."

"Art," she snapped, disbelieving, "is for the rich. Like all that foolishness about one day playing in some stupid band. Instruments, motorcycles from drug money, no doubt, are all over this place. Besides, you don't need to be doing gang emblems. It's all such a ridiculous waste of time."

He stood facing her, not knowing where to begin. Her eyes traveled over him as though she wanted to spit in his face for merely existing. There was no arguing at this point; her mind had already been made up and was closed. He watched his mother fold her arms tighter against her chest and scan his room with her nose turned up.

"I'm not a bum, Momma," he whispered. "One day, I'm gonna move us both—"

"Oh, stop dreaming," she said with a wave of her hand. "How, with no job, Jose?"

"I have a job. Drawing."

"Don't speak to me," she snapped. "You must be high." She began fussing around his room, inspecting, each step a brittle, agitated, jerky motion.

He could only look at her as she walked through his room snatching up clothes from the floor and flinging them onto the chair, violating his haven. High? Him? The smell of weed, or anything else for that matter, made him sick as a dog… his boyz always teased him about that. How could she have given birth to him and still not know him at all?

If she would have listened, he would have told her that drawing for the hombres was better than having to run drugs, go to prison, or die. Being the local artist was like being their mascot. It was a way to live between worlds in a place where few options existed. He swallowed thickly, holding back the pain her angry eyes caused. She didn't understand. All through high school, nobody picked on him, nobody tried him, and nobody forced him to prove his manhood or gang loyalty by dropping a body—all because he could design the baddest logos… could turn a leather jacket or beat-up car into a prize with his custom work.

It had put food in the house when her small checks couldn't stretch. His so-called foolishness had even helped pay rent from time to time. Didn't she know how many storefronts had his signature on them? Bodegas and other small shops went graffiti-free because his one-of-a-kind designs marked them as off-limits. Auto-body joints called for him by name. He was not a bum! He was not a bad son.

But as he looked as his mother's exhausted expression, he couldn't remind her of all of that, because to do so would be a slap in her face. Tears of frustration glittered in her eyes, and he knew in his soul they came from much more than his messy room.

Who stole her laughter, her beauty, her soft side, her hugs? Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun and wrapped in a black fishnet. Her brown eyes were dull and lifeless, just like her skin. Her figure was gathering rolls from disuse in the middle, and she was still so young. No one came to take her anywhere nice. No one had come to her since his father. No, as her son, he was both the man of the house as well as the enemy species. By now, he was used to the tirades.

So a reminder of what he'd done to support himself for as long as he could remember would be a stab in her heart. As the only man who still loved her, he couldn't say those vicious things to her, no matter what. He was her son. She was his mother. Madonna in a dirty housekeeper's uniform. The brutal truth would be just like saying she was a bad mother—a young girl who had had him too soon, had to endure a shotgun wedding, a woman-child who had made bad choices, and that's why her life had turned out the way it did, from her own decisions. Then she would have the right to beat him and cry and tell him that if he'd been aborted, her life would have been different and so much better. Maybe it would have. That was the part that tortured him the most.

"I'm trying to get my money together to go to art school, Momma," he finally said in a quiet voice while beginning to gather up the mess in his room so she could calm down. "Maybe once I graduate and get a good job, you can retire from cleaning rooms, and I'll be able to support us both so you can rest. I—"

Her attention jerked up from the floor as she slowly straightened her spine and balled up a dirty towel in her fists. "Art school? Art school! You need to get a real job, take up a trade, a vocational-tech program that makes sense, and stop dreaming… just like your father. I cannot deal with this."

"I got a mural job, Momma. I was waiting till you came home to tell you." Pure defeat claimed him. How could he ever get her to understand that he'd go nuts in a factory, where his soul would shrivel up and die? He didn't want to work the hotels or landscape the lawns of the wealthy. Something so much greater was calling him, but at the moment, he couldn't name it for her approval.

"Two choices," she said, her tone a low warning. "You enroll in a vo-tech program tomorrow, or you pack your bags and go live on the reservation in Arizona with your grandfather. Maybe your father's family will have you, and allow you to be an artist there."

They both stared at each other, mother and son locked in a quiet, urgent straggle. There was no way in hell he was going out to Arizona to live with some old, superstitious Creek Indian shaman and his Navajo wife. Been there, done that, when he was a little kid. His mother had left him there once, when she and his papi were breaking up. Now she was threatening to send him back there again? To the crazy people? The only one he'd really connected with was the wild biker who had passed through… a guitar player. If Jack Rider was there, cool. Jose remembered it like it was yesterday. Each summer when his momma was insistent about getting him off the streets while school was out, he and Rider had some really wild times out there together. But who knew where Jack Rider was now? The guy was like the wind… something he wanted to be. Free.

"So, what is it going to be, Jose?" His mother's gaze had narrowed, the ultimatum a thick wall between them.

"I'm gonna go paint the mural, get enough money to enroll in the first semester of art classes at Santa Monica College, and—"

"Walk out of my door tonight, young man, and your bags will be packed at the door when you get back."

He passed his mother without saying a word and headed toward the bathroom in their tiny apartment. If he had to sleep on the streets to follow his dream, so be it! He was not a bad son.

Jose stared up at the vacant apartment building by the 405 Expressway. It was the most beautiful canvas he'd ever seen in his life. A city program had pulled him off the most-wanted-graffiti-artist list and had given him a jewel, instead of a record. God bless America!

He quickly parked his gleaming silver and black Harley chopper and yanked off his helmet so he could see the building better. Breathing in deeply, he allowed the night air to enter his lungs and fill his spirit. Adrenaline rushed through his system as he braced the helmet under his arm and stared up. The scaffolding was already erected in his honor. They'd given him brashes and said they'd make paint available, but he preferred spray cans. It was all about sensing the pressure of the color release, the texture of the building that would be anointed.

A can of white, to begin the outlines, whispered to him from his motorcycle saddlebags. The city program wanted an anti-drug message… or something positive and community-reinforcing to be splashed on the walls. Hombres from the neighborhood who had heard about his good fortune wanted him to make sure their gang territorial markers and names of their dead soldiers were emblazoned on the side of the building that faced the highway—while he was up there. But he had this image in his mind that he couldn't shake. It was a part of the recurring dream.

She was gorgeous… all curves… wide brown eyes haunted with fear… if he could only get the rest of her face to come forward through the smoke. Monsters and demons were all around her. A Thunderbird totem loomed in the background as she ran toward it. Native American shamans war-danced while ghostly Chicano ancestors drew dead Conquistador blades and rode horrifying phantom horses toward the flying demons.

Jose closed his eyes, seeing the mural come to life in his mind. A young man stood with a gleaming revolver pointed at the monsters, splattering gook with the ancestor spirits. Yeah. That was the ticket. He could tell the city program it was his artistic interpretation of how youths were being lost and hunted by the demonic forces of drugs and violence in the streets and how the spiritual past of the people was their hope. He smiled. Total bull, but it might work.

Then he could tell the gang brothers that the guy with the gun was one of them—all he had to do was tie the right color bandana around the hombre's head in the mural to play it off. He'd then kick some game about how all the demons and whatnot were the man and how the girl was running toward the hype brother with the stoopid gun because she was fine, like the women they all had. Yeah… he'd make that gun real big to keep down the static. Jose chuckled quietly to himself. Being an artist with skills had certain privileges, the greatest being that everyone expected you to be crazy and didn't challenge your artistic interpretations.

Inspired, he slung his helmet onto his motorcycle seat and quickly pulled two cans of white spray paint out of the bike gear carrier. Tucking them into the pockets of his gray hoodie, he rushed over to the scaffolding and began to climb.

The night was his. He loved it as though it were a woman. It was daring and free and passionate and dark… the sounds it contained were so different, just like the scents changed as the sun went down. As chaotic as the neighborhood was, the darkness provided a certain peace that stilled his soul.

Jose hoisted himself up to the top platform three stories higher and stood before his beloved blank canvas, suddenly king of the world. The scent of bricks and mortar made him reach his palms out flat and lightly touch the surface of the building with a caress, studying where to begin.

Shadowy motion passed by a darkened, broken window and gave him a start. But given how long this building had sat abandoned, cats, rats, crack addicts, the homeless, anyone or anything, probably inhabited the joint. Jose had to focus and was not about to allow some stray cat to chase him away. He blew out a nervous breath and ran his fingers through his hair, determined.

Once he laid the foundation of the drawing, then cool. People could stop and stare; the hombres could smoke reefer below and holler up at him with music blaring from cars. That was the only thing he didn't like about doing outside, mural work. It wasn't private. An artist needed a studio, a place to intimately commune with his work without commentary from a street peanut gallery. So, a piece of the night stolen while the brothers were drag racing, clubbing, or getting booty was the time to think out the wall until he had the image perfected.

A spray can tumbled into his hand as he dug into his pocket, his sole focus on the wall, his eyes unseeing, only envisioning the image that would grace it. Then, he began to work. Before long, his back and chest and armpits were damp. The cool night stung his scalp through his wet hair. Glorious images careened through his mind, sparked impassioned motions through his outstretched arm, his body bending and swaying in a choreographed union with his art. Soon blue and red lights dappled the walls. The familiar whoop of a police siren stopped the dance, broke the divine meditation, and made him stand up straight, hands in the air.

"Get off the scaffolding!" an angry voice yelled through a loudspeaker.

Jose turned slowly. "I'm an artist that's been—"

"Down. Now, buddy!"

Two officers exited their patrol car.

"We are sick of you little bastards destroying property!" one officer shouted. "An artist my ass!"

Jose closed his eyes, keeping his arms outstretched. "Man, I've got a letter from the city in my pocket that says—"

He heard gun holsters unsnap. He opened his eyes quickly and remained as still as possible. "I need my hands to climb down, man!"

"Where are you going?" Juanita's mother blocked the door and looked at her hard.

"Only out with my brother, Momma. He has a friend he wanted me to meet, and there's a party—"

Her mother made the sign of the crucifix over her chest. "Your older brother breaks my heart with his friends. They're all dope dealers and—"

"You don't know what you're talking about, Momma," Juanita pleaded. "I stayed home after I went to work and watched—"

"That's right, you should stay home and watch your little brother after work! What else more important do you have to do? I work sixteen hours a day to keep you all fed. Now I should feel guilty for wanting my daughter to be here, to stay away from the streets that have taken my eldest son?"

"I'm almost twenty, Momma. You act like—"

"I act like what? Who is this friend?"

Juanita measured her words. What could she tell her mother when she was in a state like this? The woman wasn't rational. There were young girls in the neighborhood who were sixteen and had more freedom than her. After her father died she'd done her best to stand by her mother's side, to help her out as much as she could. But it seemed as if her life was not her own!

"Juan's friend is a cousin of the Riveras and just a little older, plus he's—"

"Madre d'Dios! Men from that family have been spawned by the devil himself. Lucifer! How many young women have fallen to their lusts?" Her mother's gaze roved over her. "Look at you, dressed like a tramp! Red halter. Jeans. Fancy little sandals and hair all over your head, with makeup like a whore. And you want me to believe this. Rivera person or whoever, cousin of Satan, is some sort of saint—"

"He's Juan's friend!" Juanita shrieked. "Because of you, Momma, and Juan threatening to shoot anyone who would come near me, nobody has ever asked me to a dance! No one has ever dared set foot in this house to come see me! No one! This is the first real chance any of his friends took notice! I don't want to be like you!" She turned away from her mother, tears brimming to fall and smear mascara. Her mother spun her around with a hard yank and slapped her hard enough for her to see stars.

"Never do you speak to your momma with such disrespect! Who fed you? Who clothed you? Who kept a roof over your head! Who kept you clean, kept you from being pregnant and thrown away like all your girlfriends? Me! Your mother who loved you and deserves respect!" She smoothed her hands down her floral-print housecoat. "So, now, because I'm fat, and old, and my hair isn't pretty… because my face has wrinkles from worry over my children, I know nothing of the world? I don't deserve your ear to hear me?"

Guilt and shame collided with hurt until Juanita couldn't breathe. She just wanted to be normal, have fun, and not waste being young cooped up in a house with her praying momma and aging grandmother to become some old maid.

Looking at her mother through teary eyes, Juanita held the side of her face. "You said 'loved,' not 'loves,'" Juanita whispered.

Her mother's angry gaze narrowed. "Who could love a daughter who is so ungrateful? I swore that if my own treated me that way, she would be dead to me." Her mother turned away, sniffed hard, wiped her eyes, and strode into the kitchen. "Take off that harlot's outfit and go wash your face!" she yelled over her shoulder.

Juanita remained rooted to the floor where she stood. Her own mother had said such things and meant it? Her own momma? Covering her mouth, Juanita stifled a sob. How could she? Hadn't she graduated from high school, gotten a job, and gone to work at the corner pharmacy, never once complaining that the dream to go to college to study business was a dream deferred, because no provisions had been made for her education? She was a good daughter, who understood why no one had thought about the future when she was conceived. Until now, she'd accepted that no one cared that she had been the babysitter, the maid, the cook, the one to run a household while her mother worked herself to death night and day.

Her brother Juan was supposed to be the man of the house but was destroying the house. Yet, even for all her vicious words about Juan, her Momma still doted on him, even knowing where his money came from. He never had to lift a finger around the house because he was a so-called man. Didn't Momma know she was the stable one, the one who could be counted on? Of course she didn't have babies early; she'd seen what taking care of an infant was from constantly watching her younger brother—work. She knew what running a full household was—work. She was the maid! Her middle name was Work, her last name was Duty hyphenated with Commitment… and for the offense of wanting to go out with a handsome friend of her brother's, she'd been struck?

That was it. The battles were over. No matter how much she tried to get her mother to see, the woman was still blind. A whore? A harlot? She had never even been with a man yet, at her age, and her mother had called her those terrible things?

Pure heartbreak made Juanita's legs move her toward the door. Alienation and defeat helped her quietly slip out of the house. She wouldn't wait for Juan to come home to pick her up. She didn't want to meet this fine friend of his who had a street hustle. She didn't want to be called a whore while still a virgin. She no longer wanted to carry the weight of her mother's fury or frustration or bitterness. She couldn't take all the superstition and omens about demons in her mother's shrieking dreams. No more. She couldn't stand by and watch another year go by, hoping, wanting, her nose pressed to the glass of approval for change.

The double standard propelled her quickly down to the end of the block. Her brother could be a male whore, drink, sell drugs, and do whatever, but she had been struck for thinking about a party… for hoping that this friend of Juan's might dance with her, flirt with her… might even kiss her one day. Bitter tears fell as she began to run blindly into the night, avoiding neighbors' waves, cars, and pedestrians she didn't know.

Following the bus route, she hurried down blocks, unafraid. She'd never go back home, would never cross that threshold again. She was grown! She was a good daughter! She had a job and would get her own place, somehow.

A bus rolled by and slowed at the corner. Juanita got on and fumbled for change and bills, dropping coins in her distress. Numb, blank stares greeted her as she pushed her way to the back of the lumbering vehicle, and she clasped a pole for support with her eyes closed.

God, just take me away from here. Anywhere but her mother's house. Take her away from the hurts and insults, the verbal lashings, the constant suspicion and accusations. There had to be a place out there somewhere where beauty replaced the ugliness within human souls… where the air was clear and clean, where the stink of city garbage didn't exist. A place where there were flowers and trees and quiet beauty… a place where someone loved her for who she was, not who he thought she was. She missed Papi, his warm bear hugs and the way he called her princess and made her feel like she was just that—his baby doll.

Her father was the only one who didn't think her dreams were foolish and who calmed the night terrors when she dreamed of monsters… her mother thought she was possessed when she saw those things. Her momma said her visions were coming from the evil resident within her.

Blessed Mary, Mother of God, have mercy on her and send her into arms that would protect her from the cold, dead night.