The Graves of Saints by Christopher Golden

southern end of the Barrio, staring into the last wet inch of whiskey in his glass.
    ‘Tio,’ a soft voice said.
    It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the voice, but the first time it had registered. Then he felt the gentle touch on his arm and he blinked, waking from a daze, and glanced up from
his glass. Anita with the storm-gray eyes stood beside him looking tired and worn – much too worn for a girl of only twenty.
    ‘Tio, please,’ she said.
    He frowned, not understanding, and she glanced away worriedly, as if she might fear his reaction. This puzzled him. Santiago had been coming into Luna’s for years; they all knew him here.
Tio was both a play on his name and the Spanish word for ‘uncle’, indicating the protective fondness he felt for the owner, Ana Moon, and the people who worked there. His appearance
could be intimidating; he knew that. Though only five foot six, he was powerfully built, with ancient tattoos over corded muscles, and his bald head and long, pointed goatee spoke of menace and
violence, even when he didn’t want them to.
    But these people knew him. The idea that Anita might be nervous around him would have made him laugh if not for the pang of hurt and disappointment he felt.
    ‘Did I do something wrong?’ he asked.
    Anita smiled, but he could see that it was forced. ‘Tio. It’s three o’clock in the morning. We just want to go home.’
    Santiago knitted his brow, trying to process that. He glanced around and saw that the bar was empty except for Anita and himself, and for Miguelito the cook, who sat slumped in a booth with an
empty beer glass in front of him. Even the bartender, Rubio, had gone home. The chairs had been put up onto the tables and the wooden floor was damp with ammonia-scented mop water. The music had
been turned off. He had no idea how long he had been sitting in near silence.
    He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, and knocked back the final swallow of whiskey, setting down the glass. Then he slipped two twenties from his wallet and left them on the bar. When he
slid off the stool and moved toward Anita, she flinched back. It hurt him all over again.
    ‘No, no. Now, come on,’ he said. ‘A man just gets a little lost sometimes.’
    Perhaps she saw the hurt in his eyes, for she stood still and let him kiss her cheek. He had to stretch a little to do it; Anita was two inches taller.
    ‘My apologies to you both,’ he said. ‘You won’t see me for a while.’
    ‘Don’t be that way, Tio,’ Anita said quickly. ‘It’s only that we’re tired.’
    Santiago glanced at Miguelito, who looked so tired he didn’t even feel any of the anxiety that had been troubling the waitress.
    ‘I know,
bonita
. I’m sorry about that, but I didn’t mean I wouldn’t come into the bar. I’m just going away for a while, that’s all. Go home and get
some sleep. I’ll see you when I come back.’
    Santiago headed for the door. His flight to Philadelphia was at 7:10, which gave him plenty of time to go home, shower, change, and pack a bag, and still make it to San Diego in plenty of time.
He could’ve flown out of McClellan, but changing planes would mean a layover, and he wanted the fastest route east.
    ‘Where are you going?’ Anita asked as he opened the door.
    ‘To a funeral,’ Santiago said. ‘After that, maybe to war.’
    Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
    Charlotte’s eyes fluttered open. She was surprised to find that she had been dozing, her head nested between pillows and the bedclothes pulled up to her neck. The drone of
voices from CNN came from the television in the hotel room that Octavian had secured for her. She had been watching numbly and had had no intention of sleeping. Shadows had the capacity for sleep
but not the human necessity; yet she had apparently drifted off.
    Drifted
? she thought with bleary amusement.
More like plummeted
.
    She sat up and propped herself on a couple of pillows, staring at the television and trying to make sense