Gringa: The Beast of Mexico by Eve Rabi - HTML preview

CHAPTER EIGHT

We drive up to the hills and finally slow down at a ranch. The sign at the entrance says Tana-Mera. Like the song. The Jeep stops, everyone alights and I’m confused – I’m not expecting Diablo to live on a ranch, I’m expecting him to live in a large Bin Laden-styled cave.

They tell me to get out of the Jeep. I comply. The darkness doesn’t help – everything looks sinister and creepy – so Addams’s Family.

Diablo and Santana walk ahead of me.

A man they call Lorenzo walks up to me. ‘Follow me, Señorita..’

I nod. We walk for a while and stop outside a door.

‘This is your room,’ he says and ushers me inside.

I have a room? Hesitating, I step into the room and look around. It’s normal, thank God!

Lorenzo shuts the door and leaves, but does not lock it.

I was expecting to be thrown into some dark, damp, underground dungeon, littered with human skulls and coffins of all sizes, complete with a cauldron of foul smelling liquid, bubbling on an open flame. Instead, and to my surprise, my room is modern, comfortable with colour co-ordinated linen – different hues of apple-green and cream and bits of silver strewn around. Cannibals with a flair for décor? Bling?

I stand in the middle of the room and look around. Not a single skull in sight and way cleaner than my bedroom back home. The room has a king-size bed, dressing table, side tables and a fluffy, spearmint-coloured carpet. No pictures and no personal stuff. Pretty much like a hotel room.

Too afraid to touch anything, I perch on the edge of the bed and try to think. What now?

I keep glancing at the door, expecting Diablo to barge in any moment and start hacking at me, or drag me outside, tie me to a stake and perform a ritual, virgin-killing while his hombres dance around me.

Good God! Does he think I’m a virgin? Well, if he does, I’m not going to correct the fucker.

A burst of loud music startles me. I spring to my feet. Omigod! It’s happening the way I imagined - loud music, the beating of the drums ...

Wait a minute – the music is modern, hip-hop – the kind I listen to on my iPod. Definitely not sacrificial music – however that sounds.

I tiptoe to the window and peep through the blinds. The place is now lit with strings of coloured lights and people are drinking and dancing - a carnival atmosphere prevails. The place no longer feels eerie.

An hour passes and from the looks of it, I’m not going to be sacrificed tonight. I relax and watch the partying through my blinds.

Christa dances with a young man – rotating her hips slowly, suggestively - her version of dirty dancing, I suppose. She uses a scarf to lasso him, then bumps and grinds against him. Eeeewww! Considering her age and the fact that her sons are present - I call that inappropriate.

Then I feel someone watching me. I look to my right - someone’s in the shadows smoking a cigarette.

Diablo!

I see the whites of his eyes – has to be him.

I jerk back, lose my balance and land on my ass. Quickly, I get up, grab a chair and wedge it under the door handle. As if that’s gonna keep the psycho out.

For a while, I stand and just stare at the door, waiting to see if the handle rattles, expecting someone to turn the handle anytime now. When nothing happens, I slowly back away - back to the edge of the bed where I sit and gnaw at my nails.

Weary from my eventful and exhausting day, I eventually crawl under the covers and lie in the dark and wait.

Around midnight, the music dies and place is ghostly-quiet again. People seem to have retired for the night. I toss around in the dark, desperately wanting to sleep but sleep evades me. Must be the adrenaline. I’m still on tenterhooks and jump each time I hear a sound.

The mountain climb was harsh and gruelling, so I should be sleeping soundly, but I’m not. I’m waiting for the Devil to come and claim me.