Little did they know what I knew.

  Of course, the third bit of evidence pointing to the truth of his confession to me was what I witnessed later, but I am getting ahead of myself.

  His confession came late at night, when we secretly met in the barn behind my parents’ home. It had been many months after his stunning transition; indeed, my boy was looking less like a boy and more like a man. His chest and shoulders were filling out. He walked with confidence, spoke with surety. Always, he was kind to me, loving with me, but I noted an arrogance he had never possessed before. An arrogance that had, thus far, kept him alive in the ring.

  Truly, he was transforming before my eyes; indeed, before the eyes of those in our entire town.

  But it was on that night—the day before our town’s biggest bullfighting spectacle—as he lay next to me in the hayloft, head propped up on his hand, that wild gleam still in his eyes, when he confessed just what he had done.

  My poor, poor boy. My stupid boy.

  He looked and acted like a man, yes, but he wasn’t.

  Yes, the spilled blood had been the key. Also, his powerful desire to be the greatest matador who had ever lived. Perhaps I hadn’t completely understood his obsession with wanting to be the best, but that night in the barn, it finally hit me.

  I knew the Romans had once occupied our region; indeed, they had built one of their terrible Colosseums in our backyard. We knew this because the structure stood the test of time. Our teachers led us to believe it was thousands of years old, and it looked it, too. We were also led to believe that many people and animals were killed within those walls. Not unlike the bulls in the nearby bullring, the Romans put people to death there, fed them to lions and bears, and made them fight each other to the death. God only knows how many suffered within that ancient structure.

  And here was my beautiful boy, my future husband, practicing upon those stained grounds with other teenage boys, wishing to someday fight bulls in a similar arena... a fight to the death, no less. The similarities are many.

  When the blood spilled from his ghastly wound, something ancient awakened... or was drawn there once again. To be clear, we are not talking the devil, which I grew up resisting, having been born a Catholic. Same with Ferdinand, a devout Catholic himself; indeed, one of our favorite pastimes was to attend mass together.

  No, the entity that approached him had nothing to do with the Christian faith, and everything to do with those who came before.

  I am speaking of the Romans and their dastardly Colosseum. The Romans occupied our land for centuries, a good deal prior to the Spaniards, who would come far later. The Romans with their unholy gods, many of whom I was taught had been heavily borrowed from those who came before them, the Greeks.

  In particular, I am speaking of an entity who calls himself Dis Pater, a variation of the Greek god Hades and a forerunner of the Roman god Pluto. Sadly, it has been far too long now for me to remember the differences between the three names.

  This happened months earlier, back when my boy had been just that, a wounded and weak boy with a crazy dream. He had been alone in the stadium. The others had long since gone home, even his trainers. Ferdinand had just gathered the wooden practice swords and stored them in a locker. Next, he was to rake the pitch within the ancient and crumbling structure, and prepare the practice pitch for the next day. He cursed this task. Why should he help smooth the way for others? Alas, this was his lot in life, well, until he got better at his artistry, for there is much pageantry and graceful movement in bullfighting. It is death in the end, yes, but it is also a dance, a metaphor, a dramatic presentation. Unfortunately, the wound was infected, and, despite my best efforts, he was not getting better.

  The sky was darkening, despite a full moon. As he raked and cursed his lot in life, he said, to no one in particular, “I would do anything to be the greatest bullfighter the world has ever seen.”

  What happened next wasn’t immediate, but a minute or two later, a man approached him from the shadows, walking steadily toward young Ferdinand. As the man approached, a whirling dervish appeared within the walls of the ancient stadium, picking up speed and gathering loose dirt into a sort of funnel that rose up into the sky, glowing silver in the light of the moon.

  Yes, these are details I feel are important, and so I committed them to memory, repeating them often to myself.

  My Ferdinand watched all this, transfixed, unsure if he should run or stand his ground. The man was tall, dressed in all black, and approached with his hands clasped behind his back. Though not outwardly threatening, Ferdinand gripped the wooden rake in both hands. Certainly, it was better than nothing.

  As the man approached, the whirling dervish spun faster and faster.

  Ferdinand was forced to shield his eyes as sand and dirt assaulted his face, and when the man stopped before him, the wind abated. Strangely, he could see the wind scatter in all directions, up into the seats above them and even into the surrounding trees. How could one see the wind? Indeed, Ferdinand realized he wasn’t seeing the wind. No, he was seeing hundreds, if not thousands, of damned souls, all watching him and waiting for the command of their dark master.

  The man standing before Ferdinand, of course.

  If indeed, he was a man.

  What passed for conversation between the two, I do not recall—and may not have ever known, try as I might to remember. However, I can give you the gist of it. The man, who called himself Dis Pater, had heard Ferdinand’s plea, and offered the boy a deal. Dis Pater, the oldest of the Roman gods of the Underworld, would grant Ferdinand his wish: the boy would become the greatest bullfighter the world had ever seen. But in return, his soul would belong to Dis Pater, where it would reside in the Underworld for all time.

  My foolish, sweet, greedy boy agreed immediately, believing it all a hoax, and believing his own death was decades away, shook the man’s hand, but not before the man drew a bloody line with a pointed fingernail across Ferdinand’s open palm.

  Sealed in blood, the pact had been made.

  That next day, the ugly wound across the back of his hand had healed. Same with the one on his palm.

  In short order, Dis Pater made good on his promise.

  My sweet boy soon became not so sweet. To be sure, I still loved him, but the change in him had been cataclysmic. Of course, at the time, I hadn’t known how and why the change occurred and so, like so many in our village, we sat back and watched the evolution of what had been a slightly clumsy, skinny, often wounded matador-in-training, rise in rank rapidly. So much so that he was soon given his first bullfight in one of the smaller events.

  His moves were captivating. His skill undeniable. He was like a phantom out there. Here one moment, gone the next, leaving the poor bull perplexed. Ferdinand finished each move with a grand flourish, playing to the small crowd who had gathered to watch the teen boy they had started to hear about. He did not disappoint. Quite the opposite. Many saw in him, greatness. The bull was dead, and Ferdinand had taken a magnificent first step.

  It was followed by another such fight, and another, the crowds growing until finally he was given center stage on the biggest night of all, when all the town gathered and filled the stadium—this very stadium, in fact, though it looked far different back then. It was the culmination of the bullfighting season, and already people were comparing my Ferdinand with the greatest of them all. I would hear little boys in the streets, arguing who was better, and always, always, they concluded it was Ferdinand. Ferdinand, who had everyone on the edges of their seats during the Suerte de matar, the third and final act where the matador fights the bull alone, to the death.

  The finale of the season was a grand spectacle. All the best bullfighters were there, but none shone as bright as him. None. He stood head and shoulders above the others, and it was obvious that the teenage boy to whom I had been betrothed was no longer a boy. He was a man among men. He had proven himself beyond a doubt. It was obvious to any who had eyes who was the greatest of them all.

  Unfortunately, the fine print of the blood-sealed deal he’d made had made no mention of how long Ferdinand would remain the best in the world.

  I supported my young hero. What was I to think? Perhaps his rapid ascent was real. Perhaps his conversation with this Dis Pater man was from a fevered dream. Perhaps I was dreaming all of this, too. It all seemed so unlikely, so unreal, so crazy, I didn’t know what to think.

  And then, a week later, came his next fight, and I would know the truth of his words, the horror of his deal, and what it means to have a heart so broken that living is not an option. At the onset of the fight, Ferdinand didn’t seem himself. He seemed clumsy and, quite frankly, drunk. But he never drank. No, it was obvious to anyone watching the fight that my sweet boy had returned to his rather inelegant ways. I worried for him. I gasped each time the massive bull charged. My little hero was not up to the task. He slipped often. Once, he tripped and just barely managed to roll out of the way. I screamed for them to stop the fight, but that is not the way of these things.

  It is a fight to the death—bull or matador.

  I had to be held back, to be pulled down from the fence. I fought, kicking and screaming. Surely, it would have been foolish for me to run on out onto the pitch, but I didn’t care. I would rather die than see my Ferdinand trampled or gored to death.

  Sadly, it would be both, and that hateful bull seemed to do it with relish. Though I do not blame it for defending itself, did it have to repeatedly drive its horns into my sweet boy’s chest, finally to raise him up for all to see? Ferdinand was alive still. I saw him reach for the horn, even as it punctured out through his back. As blood poured from his mouth, the bull tossed him backward, where Ferdinand bounced off its rump. The beast then spun around, raised its front hooves, and drove them down, over and over again. And this was all before help could arrive, so fast was the bull’s assault.

  Ferdinand, I knew, had long since perished under the onslaught.

  When they finally pulled the snorting devil bull away, a strange wind appeared in the arena, blowing wildly, turning the dirt of the pitch into a dusty cyclone. I heard gasps from the audience, amid the weeping: after all, many had just witnessed the death of my fiancé. But it was what stepped out of the cyclone that made the crowd gasp and grow silent.

  It was a tall man dressed in black. He was there one moment, and gone the next. But it is what he did in that moment that has remained with me forever, and why I forced myself to remember this terrible tale. He reached down for Ferdinand’s hand and clasped it. A shimmering imitation of my young Ferdinand appeared. The two disappeared a heartbeat later, just as the whirling dervish dissipated.

  Others might not have believed their eyes, but I know what I saw. The devil had come to collect what was his, though it wasn’t the devil, not quite.

  I knew where they kept the pistols in the stadium; after all, sometimes the injured animals had to be destroyed in a more humane way. I pushed my way past those who stood there in shock over what they had just seen in the ring—from the death of a young matador to a weird devil wind—and made my way to the small armory.

  In fact, it was located in this very corner.

  Unable to put it to my head, I instead decided to relieve the pain of my shattered heart. And so, I held it to my chest, hoping beyond hope that I would join my sweet boy in whatever fate had befallen him.

  But I never left here, never joined him, never saw him again, except for the statue they eventually erected of him. Though he’d only given them three months of greatness, all believed it had been the greatest span of bullfighting any had witnessed. Thus, the statue. They did a remarkable job of capturing his likeness, and when I am not here, I am often there, curled at its base.

  And when the time came for the dismantling and moving of the stadium, I did the only thing I could think of. I slipped inside the statue and traveled to this place, wherever this is, and spent my days remembering this very story in hopes that Ferdinand’s tale would someday be heard.

  Why do I want his story told? Because he had been tricked, of that I am certain. He had been taken advantage of by a nasty, evil god who preyed upon a sickly boy who desired fame. Should my sweet Ferdinand suffer now for all eternity because of the simple whims of his teenage self? How is that fair? And how dare this evil bastard take my fiancé from me?

  I do not know you, Samantha Moon, but I sense your desire to help.

  Please help me save my lost boy.

  Chapter Eleven

  I’m at Fang’s Place in Echo Park, a blood bar for vampires.

  Yeah, it’s a bit weird knowing that the majority of the folk in this place are undead. Even crazier, there are a few mortals here, too, completely oblivious they’d literally walked into the lion’s den. Or the vampire’s lair. Then again, to all the world, this looks like another trendy bar in the heart of Los Angeles. Of course, if one looks closely enough, one would see a distinct lack of, say, security cameras. Or proper licensing on the walls. Certainly no permits or inspection license, or safety posters, most of which I have on the walls of my office back in Fullerton.

  There is, however, a large collection of men and women with absolutely no auras to speak of. That everyone plays so nicely together is a credit to Fang and his many club rules, as he calls them. Want easy access to blood in a social setting, then this is the place to be. Want to terrorize the few humans here and draw attention to the establishment, then beat it. His list of banned vampires was, apparently, lengthy.

  Meanwhile, no blood on tap for me. I’m sipping a chardonnay and sitting at the bar, ignoring the real vamps around me. Likely, they were curious as to why I’m not having a sip of the red stuff that’s not made from grapes. Turns out, I’m one of the few energy vampires around. There is another I’m aware of in Ireland—someone I find myself curious to meet—but that’s for another trip to the Emerald Isle.

  I get Fang caught up on my latest case, relating Annabelle’s tale as best as I can remember. When I finish, he tops my wine and leans a hip against the bar. “What I find most interesting, Sam, is that she held onto the memory for so long... for what purpose? On the off chance a vampire and psychic medium might swing by to hear her tale? And then, to what end? Deals with devils aren’t easy to overturn.”

  “Dis Pater isn’t the devil,” I say. “And her ‘boy’, as she calls him, isn’t in a personal hell. He’s in the Greek and Roman Underworld.”

  “Which I’m betting is one and the same,” says Fang. “Why create two underworlds, especially since the Greek pantheon of gods was essentially absorbed by the Romans.”

  “Not sure how all that works, but it does seem easier to essentially use the same underworld.”

  “Hades lived in a golden palace,” says Fang. “Along with Persephone for part of the year.”

  “Half the year,” I say. “Something to do with pomegranate seeds.”

  He nods, distracted, his mind clearly having moved on to other aspects. “I think you’re right about one thing, Sam. The Underworld likely has its own rules and definitely isn’t an individual hell situation.”

  “You don’t think Hades has an Underworld all to himself? And this Dis Pater character might have one, too?”

  “Not sure what I’m saying, but I am trying to puzzle out how the Universe works. Remember, there is also Pluto. He, too, was a god of the Underworld. Let’s not forget Orcus and Tartarus, both gods of the underworld, the latter perhaps even the first. All would have stepped into existence by the worshiping throngs. Each would have had a realm to preside over. The question is: was it the same realm, or a brand-new one? And from a logistics perspective, would the Universe create such massive spaces for each god? Or...”

  “Or just use one space?” I proffer.

  “That’s what I’m thinking. Then again, it’s all a moot point, right? Like any of us could ever visit.”

  “Unless we’re dead,” I say.

  “Even so,” says Fang, “one would need to, you know, believe in such a realm to wind up there after death. I mean, has anyone in our modern world even heard of Dis Pater?”

  “I know I hadn’t. Hades and Persephone, yes. Pluto, definitely. The dog, right?”

  Fang chuckles and winks. “I had heard of him, Dis Pater, that is. Then again, I also make a habit of studying obscure things. Did you know he also goes by Rex Infernus?”

  “I did not, and that is so much cooler sounding. Maybe we should call him that.”

  “I don’t think he cares,” says Fang.

  “But doesn’t he need, you know, belief in him to keep on existing?”

  “To stay powerful and relevant, yeah. To keep existing, probably not. Certainly he wouldn’t be the most powerful being in the underworld, but his name is alive and well to those who search for it.”

  “So, he’s likely still ruling over, say, a section of the Underworld?”

  “Hades and Pluto are probably the bigger names down there, but yeah. Maybe Dis Pater is off overseeing some corner of the place.”

  I chuckle. “Hard to take any god seriously that’s named Pluto.”

  “He’s probably not a fan of Disney. One moment.”

  He steps away to pour a goblet of hemoglobin for a patron sitting three or four seats down from me at the bar. Fang keeps the music loud and a central fountain gurgling, anything to drown out conversations from the many creatures with super hearing. Pretty sure no one is following my conversation. Then again, don’t much care either. Just helping the owner of a stadium and her resident ghost.

  When finished, Fang sidles back over to me, his lanky form hovering over the beautifully lacquered bar. He eases forward on his pointed elbows and winks at me the way he does. He’s flirting with me again. The hint of a flame flares just behind his pupils. His invited host (read: dark master) is also watching me. I don’t know much about Edward, but that’s probably a good thing. Fang and Edward seem to have an amicable enough relationship. Then again, I don’t ask about it.