Sangre De Toro (Old Draft - Now Published!)

Chapter 36 - Audacious Plans

He didn't know what exactly happened after the woman’s car pulled up, but Pepelito sensed something had. With no humans tormenting him, he put his head down and drank his water while he still could. Chicero drank greedily from the trough beside his, until it was all finished. Another stood in the far corner, plus one where Castella’s minions had dumped a miserable amount of food.

They’d shout at them and hit them for needing it replenished so fast.

They'd do it for any reason they wanted.

Or no reason at all.

But even before whatever happened had happened, all had not been well with his torturer. Pepelito sensed that Castella needed to prove he was still the dominant one in the herd. The matador found his behaviour and recovered strength upsetting, threatening – he was scared. And he was ill. Maybe he'd eaten something bad. Weird chemicals permeated his sweat,  much stronger than the faint whiff Pepelito had smelt in the enclosure.

The moment he'd seen Castella, something had begun replacing his fear.

Once he had drunk enough, he gave Chicero an affectionate lick. What he was learning about the grey bull made him so sad, it hurt him.

Chicero was not from Spain. He was from Italy, born on a farm that bred a few fighting bulls for export to the Spanish market, alongside the usual beef and dairy cattle. The journey had been long and difficult, and not everyone had made it. He’d escaped the arena’s deadly cruelty, but the corridas he’d had no choice but to hear left him broken.

The day before he was arrested, Valero and the others had goaded two of the bulls trapped alongside Chicero into fighting each other. The loser was badly injured; they’d driven him into one of the dark cells by the ring. Chicero had heard everything that happened next.

Pepelito was overcome with protectiveness for his new friend, the way first Ladron, then Maribel had cared for him. He knew these people shouldn’t have done these things. They’d hurt him and his friends on purpose, and now, they’d killed a human he loved before his eyes.

They enjoyed causing this terrible pain. They did it because they liked it.

Pepelito stood beside Chicero, who was grateful for the loving contact. He sniffed the air. Something had definitely happened. The place was eerily quiet. None of Castella's thugs had come back to torment them; he hadn't even heard them – and he could smell blood.

Then he heard a car pull up in the drive in front of Castella's house. Chicero was trembling with fear, and Pepelito tried to reassure him despite his own anxiety. Two men got out and spoke in an unfamiliar language. Did he recognise them? He couldn't tell. They definitely weren’t friendly.

'Ah!' Castella's servant said obsequiously. 'Henry!'

****

Javier's choice of exteriors was too vulgar and flashy for a great artist like him, Henry thought with distaste as he got out of Lord Owenstoft's vintage Mercedes, George tailing on behind somewhere. Didn't he realise, these ostentatious fountains, Roman pillars by his door and gold statues of angels and lions, and all the Lamborghinis and limousines in the drive, just made him look like a drug dealer?

The servant said in almost unaccented English, 'I think Javier is preoccupied at the moment with a lady friend. Would you like to see the bulls?'

Henry’s relief was tinged with an irrational annoyance. He wanted his achievements recognised. This flunky was clearly a man who hadn't watched the news recently, or checked it as religiously as he now constantly did.

'I would love to,' Henry said, licking his lips at the prospect of the long-awaited corrida. Was that blood he could smell? Perhaps it was simply his imagination – Castella’s servant did not seem to notice. Henry and Lord Owenstoft followed the man onto Javier's terrace, then past his infinity pool, tennis courts and luxurious lawn. One side of the lawn had a gate to a wooded path with longer grass on either side, leading to the pen and bullring.