Michael had never been to the Hills by himself before. Father Jeremiah was always with him in the past. It felt different, entering the marketplace without him. The sounds and smells were the same but it was somehow different.

People noticed him immediately. He had done nothing to hide who he was, something the priest had taken to doing when he wanted to shop with Michael uninterrupted. The young man felt someone touch his shoulder but when he turned to see who, no one was behind him save the normal bustle of the market. Then he felt someone touch his elbow. He was pretty sure it was the old lady beside him but she was looking at some rutabaga and she didn't make eye contact with him.

The further he got into the marketplace, the more people touched him. It was a weird experience. When he finally caught one of the touchers—a woman with a flower print scarf over her head—he caught her hand so she couldn't get away.

"Why did you do that?" he asked her.

She began to tremble noticeably and wouldn't meet his eyes. "Forgive me, sir! I only wanted your blessing. My son is sick. I thought if I touched you, some of your... your..." She didn't know how to explain the folk belief and was too scared to try.

Michael was amazed. He hadn't been to the marketplace to heal anyone in months. It hadn't even crossed his mind. In his absence, the people had come up with their own beliefs to get them through the hard times.

He felt someone else touch his back in passing and he laughed. The poor woman before him cringed. That made him grin even bigger.

"Don't be scared," he told her, pulling her in for a hug like Pietre had done to him several times now. He dug in his pocket and found a cigarette lighter. He pulled it out and pressed it into her hand. "Go home to your son. Light a candle with this. Let it burn for an hour beside his bed and tomorrow he'll be fine. Then take the candle to anyone else who's sick and do the same thing for them, as payment. Understand?"

The woman took the cigarette lighter with a quaking hand. Michael smiled and kissed her forehead. When he did, he transferred some of his pent-up energy into her. The candle and lighter were unimportant; she would be the thing that healed others. If she was clever, she would figure that out. If not, her gift would die when the lighter did.

—

Conferring some of his power to the woman in the market made Michael feel a less edgy but he was still restless. Horny. Hungry. He was hungry most of the time now, primarily for blood. He could eat just about anything, but blood was the only thing that satisfied him.

It didn't take long for him to tire of the market. He attracted a crowd that followed him in a tight cluster everywhere he went. It was amusing at first but it became impossible to move more than a few steps at a time. When he discovered someone had cut off a corner of his shirt, he decided it was time to lose them.

Ducking between stalls lost some of his devotees but a handful persisted. Those he shook in a tent-like tavern. The shady, close quarters allowed him to snake his way through the throng of people crowded there and out the back way without his flock. He nabbed a hat from the bar when he passed and put the battered thing on once he was outside. He shed his jacket next and stuffed it in a wad under his arm.

He knew he needed a better disguise so he ducked into the nearest clothing stall he came to. Keeping his head down, he looked around for something that might work. He found a rack of bandanas and plucked a couple of random ones from the lot. He was set to move on when he felt someone grab his arm.

"You have to pay for those bandanas."

Turning, Michael found himself facing a girl he guessed to be his age, if a bit younger. She was shorter than him and had a no-nonsense jut to her jaw. He expected her to back down when she saw his face but she didn't. She didn't seem to recognize him.

"Oh. Right," he smiled, making a game of it. He patted his pockets but he had no money with him. He never had a reason to. "Well shit. I guess I left my money at home."

She wasn't amused. "Then you can't have the bandanas."

Her mousy brown hair was pinned up in a sloppy bun and her clothes were well-worn. The jeans she had on were threadbare at points that were obviously not fashionable. Her lips were of a nice shape but chapped, her fingernails were blunt and unpolished. She had a large bowie knife in a sheath at her hip.

Michael could end the game at any moment but he was enjoying the honesty of the interaction. He liked her plucky spirit. "Maybe I could do something for you, in exchange for them?"

"Like what?" she challenged.

"I'm told I give good backrubs."

She almost smiled because the way he said it was kind of cute. She did find him attractive, even if he was a sneak-thief. He was a charming one. "How about you move some crates for me and we'll call it even."

Michael made an exaggerated show of being disappointed. "Your loss. Show me to the crates. Maybe they'll appreciate might skills."

She motioned toward the back of the stall. "Behind the back canvas flap. What's your name?"

He went ahead of her and ducked through the opening in the tent side that led to the narrow space between stalls. He almost said his real name but didn't want to tip her off so he borrowed one. "Jude."

"I'm Mandy," the girl said. "Those're the crates."

She waved to encompass the man-high stack of old, splintery wood boxes. Michael eyed them. They looked like they would be uncomfortable to touch. "What do you want done with them?"

"My dad wants them gone," she shrugged. "He takes some down to the dump every chance he gets but he's busy. They're too heavy for me."

Michael studied the pile and considered his options. "So you just want them gone?"

"Yeah," the girl said, her tone edging into suspicious as he seemed to be giving the matter a lot of thought.

"Okay," Michael smiled. "Go on back to your work. I'll be just a few minutes."

"Minutes," she laughed. "More like hours. The dump's ten minutes away by foot."

Michael kept smiling, undaunted. She finally left him to the chore and, when she did, he turned to the crates.

—

A wealthy customer came by in the interim and took up a good deal of time with her ineffective browsing. When Mandy finally got a chance to check on the work "Jude" was doing, he was already done and thumbing through a vintage comic book he'd picked up at one of the other vendor stalls. His blond hair was covered by one of the bandanas he'd taken from the shop front. He smiled when he saw her.

"Where did the crates go?" she asked.

The only thing left of the pile was a depression in the dirt where they had been.

"Away," he grinned, rolling the comic up so he could shove it into the back of his waistband. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"You didn't take those all down to the dump by yourself," she accused. She wouldn't be satisfied till she knew his trick.

"No," he agreed amiably, closing the distance between them.

She scowled at him but the look lacked venom. Her green eyes held a spark of amusement. "Well. Whatever. I guess you can keep the bandanas." She folded her arms. "Did you sell the crates?"

"No," he smiled. He was right in front of her. He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. "I don't want to talk about the crates anymore."

Mandy blushed hard. "I.. should..." she motioned vaguely toward the canvas flap that led back to her family's shop.

"Should you?" He cupped her jaw with his hand and leaned in to kiss her.

She kissed back.

—

Michael floored the gas pedal and sped down out of the hills, taking the curves so fast he nearly lost control of the car. The tires squealed in protest. As he descended into the valley, he noticed peripherally that the fog now reached the base of the hill. Soon it would reach the Hollywood settlement. The change had happened while he was in the market and he had a strong suspicion it had to do with the blood on his shirt.

Soon he was near the Coven's hotel. He pulled up fast and slammed on the brakes, leaving long lines of black rubber on the pavement. He shut off the engine and hopped out of the car. Several crows flapped above the hotel, startled up from their roosts by his noisy arrival. They settled back down on the eaves of the hulking old building once he went inside.

He paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. The central fire pit was lit but the room was virtually empty. Only a dark-haired man and a bald Chinese girl were there, tucked away at the back bar where the light was worst.

"Is Fiona here?" Michael asked them, trying to appear calmer than he felt.

The guy shook his head. He was conservatively dressed, wearing a simple long-sleeve button-down shirt and pants, both in black. The girl with him was a study in contrast, baring most of her pale body. She wore a black fishnet shirt under which her small breasts were virtually bare, made decent only with strips of duct tape to cover her nipples. Michael had seen underpants that covered more than her tiny black leather shorts. It took no effort to mentally undress her.

"Where did she go?"

"I think she's still visiting her sister?" the guy offered. "Do you want to wait? I can get you something to drink."

"No, thanks," Michael said. "If you see her, tell her I'm looking for her."

He headed for the stairs then and took them two at a time to the second floor. He went to the room that Aunt Fiona had let him have, wanting to wash, but the door was locked. He had a key somewhere that she'd given him but he couldn't remember where he put it.

He tried to recall but his thoughts looped right back to the girl in the market. When they kissed, his hunger took over. The scent of her innocent arousal was maddening and, before he knew it, he was fucking her there in the narrow alleyway. Then he was choking her. Her neck snapped so easily, he didn't even try. She spasmed a few times then died in his arms.

The Bowie knife at her side was razor sharp. He used it to slit her throat. In the shadows between the closely-crowded stalls, Michael gorged himself on the sweetest blood he had tasted. He left her body beneath some moldy old rice sacks he found behind another booth. He could have gotten rid of her as easily as he did the crates but he wanted her father to find her, so he wouldn't have to wonder what happened to her.

Michael let his forehead rest against the door to his room. Everything he did was bad. So bad, his own family had kept him hidden for years so he couldn't do things like he did at the market. He thought of Mandy and felt a strange constriction in his middle. He had liked her. She was spunky and seemed to like him, even though she had every reason not to. She was the only person he had met who didn't know who he was on sight. Her lips had tasted like mint.

Now she was dead under a pile of scratchy old bags.

He could have tried to bring her back. It was too late now. Someone would have found her. Bugs would be inside her.

"Hey."

It was the guy from downstairs. He had followed Michael and was heading his way.

"Hey," the younger man said. He tried to pull his shit together and put on a poker face.

"You okay?"

Michael gave him a dry smile. "Yeah. I just... sometimes I wish I was somebody else."

"I think everyone does," the other guy said. Then he looked down. Michael had cleaned his face and hands but the black shirt clung wetly to his chest. "What's that?"

"Blood," was Michael's honest answer. "Not mine. I need to shower but I locked myself out of my room."

He slumped, though it was the nagging thought of Mandy weighing him down, not the predicament he was in.

"Hey," the other guy said, misunderstanding his mood. "You can use the communal bathroom. It's a mess but there's shampoo and soap. I can find you a clean towel somewhere."

"Do you have a shirt I could borrow?" Michael intended to burn the one he was wearing.

"I don't think my stuff would fit you but I can find you something that will."

.

Author's Note:

The title of this chapter refers to Michael's attempt at going it alone. Turns out he's not so good with it. But if at first you don't succeed...

Next time: Rubber Man. 'Nuff said.