Nagualli
The lovely coffeandtin came up with a werewolf hunter au idea that struck me, and has been nice enough to beta for me while I write little ficlets for it. This is the first installment!
Vasquez woke to the acrid tang of blood in his mouth. He cursed as he licked his lips, and spat out the dried, rust-brown blood. He was, at least, back at his own camp; but he was naked as the day he was born. That wasn’t surprising after a change; just inconvenient. He grabbed his blanket off the ground and covered himself as he rummaged through his things. He let out a steady stream of curses, Spanish and English, as he dressed himself and tried to piece together what had happened.
“Hijo de lechina,” he growled, stuffing his legs into his pants with rough, precise motion. He yanked his shirt over his head and tucked it in hastily, casting around for his socks and boots all the while. He shifted his feet, lest they freeze on the cold stone beneath him.
He had suffered the curse of the Nagual since childhood. It was why he could never be around people. His abuela had insisted that it was a gift, that he could see the soul in a man and know his own judgment to be true about them. He hated it. The beast inside him could abide no evil. During the day he could remain in control and keep it in check. Most of the time. The beast broke free and hunted for prey by night, while he slept. And then there were the High Days, as his abuela had called them: the days of the year when the Jaguar spirit’s strength reached its zenith. During those days, it was stronger than his will as a man.
Sometimes he could remember the night before. The beast was still a part of him, not wholly separate but not wholly integral to him, either. When he saw a truly evil soul, he would let he beast free on purpose. Vasquez never cared to speak of the heinous things that condemned these people, though. He had warred with his animal side for as long as he could remember. He embraced and shunned its power. Any people around him had been the same.
They loved me, Vasquez thought bitterly.
His people had loved him dearly, for a time. In his home the Nagualli were considered protectors. They brought good luck to a village and its people, and kept them safe. But there were others of his kind who were evil.
I will find him. I will find the bastard and I will make him pay, he vowed.
His mother had, with reluctance, accepted his gift; his father had looked at him with disgust. ‘My son is not a whole man’, he had said. His abuela was the only one of his family who had praised him for who he was. She had been taken from him—violently, cruelly—and he had been blamed. His people feared him, and he was driven out. After all, no one would dare attack the family of their beloved Nagualli. They cried that he had lost control, that the beast had broken free from his command…that he had killed his own abuela.
I’ve never killed anyone who didn’t have it coming.
His head was hanging as he pulled on his hat.
He packed up quickly. With any luck, he could escape farther into the middle of nowhere before whatever he had done caught up to him. He was good at disappearing.
