Maria the wanted, p.1
Maria the Wanted, page 1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Leave us a Review
Copyright
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
Part Two
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
Epilogue: Origins
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Praise for
Maria the Wanted
“A high-octane, heartfelt story that puts a refreshingly human spin on the birth-of-a-vampire tale.”
KELLEY ARMSTRONG, New York Times-bestselling author of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow and the Women of the Otherworld series
“Without a doubt, V. Castro is a searing and stunning voice in modern horror. Maria the Wanted takes the vampire mythos and entirely reinvents it in a way only V. Castro can. Dark, sexy, and a whole lot of fun, this book should not be missed.”
GWENDOLYN KISTE, Four-time Bram Stoker Award®-winning author of The Haunting of Velkwood and Reluctant Immortals
“Fast, fun, and furious, Maria the Wanted gives us a new vampire mythology with echoes of Anne Rice and a powerful heroine determined to save herself—and the world.”
DELILAH S. DAWSON, New York Times-bestselling author of House of Idyll and Guillotine
“A gripping tale of heart-wrenching loss, gory vengeance and brutal justice! Never underestimate the weak, especially a woman armed with deadly fangs and a blistering, all-consuming rage! A relentless page-turner!”
NUZO ONOH, Bram Stoker Award®-winning author of Where the Dead Brides Gather and Futility
“Brutal, bloody and brilliant, Maria the Wanted will shock and delight you. It’s V. Castro at her very best.”
TIM LEBBON, New York Times-bestselling author of Secret Lives of the Dead and Among the Living
Also by V. Castro
and available from Titan Books
IMMORTAL PLEASURES
THE HAUNTING OF ALEJANDRA
ALIENS: VASQUEZ
REBEL MOON PART ONE –
A CHILD OF FIRE: THE OFFICIAL NOVELIZATION
REBEL MOON PART TWO –
THE SCARGIVER: THE OFFICIAL NOVELIZATION
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Maria the Wanted
Print edition ISBN: 9781803366722
E-book edition ISBN: 9781803366739
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
www.titanbooks.com
First edition: February 2026
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
© V. Castro 2026
V. Castro asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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Designed and typeset in Sabon LT by Richard Mason.
1
JUÁREZ, MEXICO—1995
Maria faced the warehouse, inhaling the last breath of fresh air she would enjoy until she trudged back out at dawn. Just looking at the poorly ventilated building made her feel sluggish, even before setting foot inside. Ándale, Maria. Be grateful. It’s only for a few more months. I don’t know where we’ll be, but it won’t be here. Anywhere but here. The financial and political instability was deepening by the day, giving Maria little confidence in what her future would be in Mexico with assassinations, currency devaluation, violent insurrections. She didn’t recognize her home or what the world was calling the Peso Crisis.
The rusty front door let out an ear-piercing screech as she forced herself inside, the final rays of sunlight making her coworkers squint, each already at their sewing machines.
“Hola, chicas,” she shouted over the clip-clapping of the machines.
Big Boss sat in his office watching some sports event on the crackling fuzzy TV. Pictures of naked women covered the walls, making Maria shudder. There he was, relishing his fistfuls of power while they all scrambled to make a living.
“You’re late,” he barked, barely sparing her a glance.
No cameras aimed their lenses at her, so she flipped the middle finger behind his back as she continued on to the middle of the factory floor. Maria never told her husband, Diego, that Big Boss still managed to sneak in his backside slaps or lecherous winks whenever he got the chance. This seemed like a small price to pay for a job—a job that would get them to the States. She yearned for change. Her mind seemed always fixed on the idea, as if a hidden part of her clawed from somewhere deep inside wanting to get out. These days, people lurked at every corner ready to suck her dry. If it wasn’t Big Boss, it was the coyotes—and if it wasn’t either of those, then there would be La Migra to deal with.
The coyotes. Their prices were as high as their promises to get you into the States with no problems. She toyed with the idea of taking extra hours at the bakery with Mamá, but she was so tired and sick all the time. Once Maria reached twelve weeks in her pregnancy, they would be across the border by any means necessary. No, she couldn’t take the extra hours, as much as she wanted the money, because she would need every bit of strength for a journey that often ended in death.
It was the usual skeleton crew of five working that night. There were only five because the Even Bigger Bosses didn’t like to pay overtime, but their quota had to be met somehow. At night, temperatures dropped, and it was quiet enough to listen to Selena Quintanilla or conversational English tapes on a cassette player and headphones while working. Tapping feet to ‘Como La Flor’ or repeating English phrases under her breath made the monotonous work bearable. Tonight they were making cheap ugly red ties, which would be sold at a price they could only afford after a month’s wages. Even though this was the easiest shift of the day, there was nothing easy about maquiladora work.
What felt like hours passed. The muscles in her back and shoulders began to spasm, and sweat gathered underneath her braided hair. She didn’t want to lose momentum to stretch or scratch her head, fearing Boss’s attention for not making her count. Selena began to sing ‘Bidi Bidi Bom Bom’ when the screech of the heavy door broke the room’s silent concentration. Maria turned to see Big Boss guiding three men inside, being careful to keep his distance as he did so. If Boss was afraid of these strangers, it couldn’t be good. He pointed to the clock hanging on the wall, shut the door and then ran off. The revving of his car as he pulled away was distinct. There would be no one to help them now.
Two of the men were Mexican or South American: she could tell by their shiny silver-tipped snakeskin boots, dark jeans and the large hats which shielded their faces. The third had to be white. From what Maria could see he was handsome with wavy light chestnut brown hair, soft blue eyes and a perfect cupid’s bow for lips. He was dressed like an American soap or pop star in a silk shirt, matching jacket and stylish dress shoes. The gringo walked the factory floor looking at the faces of the five women and his surroundings in mild disgust while the other two chuckled among themselves. The girls were dumbstruck and fearful because Juárez and its body count was notorious for good reason.
“Mujeres,” one of the laughing men shouted out. “Let’s have some fun!”
The other rifled through a stack of cassettes before choosing one for the tape player located just outside the office. He pushed play and turned the volume up as loud as the crappy speakers would allow. ‘Devil Inside’ by INXS started to play.
“This one’s for you, gringo!” he yelled.
The other women were out of their seats and huddled together against the office’s glass window. With a mother’s instinct, Maria grabbed her belly. No, no, no, she thought. Not now, not before this little nine-week-old life had a chance, her little mustard seed of faith in everything that was good in this miserable world.
Before she had a chance to join the other workers, one of the strangers hurled himself headfirst into the group of women. These men, these things were not looking for sex: they were out for blood.
The nearly empty factory amplified the screams of their terror. Maria’s coworkers tried to run for the door, but the men blocked their way. One made silly faces like you would to a baby, toying with them while dancing to the music.
Backing toward the end of the factory floor, she tried to make herself as small and unnoticed as possible. Her bladder cramped as fear seized every fiber of her being. If she recalled correctly, there was another door, a fire exit. As the two men in hats tore into her coworkers again she white-knuckled one hand over her mouth and the other over her belly, as if she could cast some protective spell over both. One for silence; one for safety. The gringo watched on, bored and impatient, checking his watch twice before placing his hands back into his pockets.
As if in slow motion, one of the now-bloodied strangers pointed straight at Maria. His wide smile was smeared with red, and white points protruded where normal teeth should have been. Maria ran toward the fire door, but a thick chain snaked around the handle, a large bolt latched on the front like an evil present wrapped with a metal bow. Prayers flooded past her lips as she pulled on the unrelenting chains.
“Your turn, amigo,” someone called to the gringo. “We break bread tonight. Show us you’re serious about our deal! Tizoc demands loyalty.”
As they continued picking through the now nearly lifeless bodies, the blue-eyed devil with an angel’s mouth looked at Maria with a weariness like he hadn’t slept in years. She hoped whatever he had in mind would be quick. He didn’t seem to have the same wild appetite as the others. He was handsome and had dressed nice, yet he had misery etched in his every expression. He grabbed a red polyester tie from one of the boxes as he approached her. The two others continued to feed and terrorize, but still managed to shout encouragements.
“You tying her up? Kinky! It’s always the quiet types!”
Those blue eyes narrowed at this comment, suddenly coming alive, his anger obvious. Maria couldn’t understand—if he disliked this pointless slaughter, then why was he allowing it? Desperate to survive, she searched for whatever she could find lying nearby to use as a weapon. All she found was a pitiful metal stool. The man walked toward her in a slow, calm manner, as if he was approaching a rabid dog just waiting to strike.
“Please don’t fight me. You will only make things worse. We don’t want them to become involved.” His tone was slow and even. Somehow, she believed him. His voice proved he was not local or American. He had an accent you only heard in historic films set in a country far away. England. He opened pale pink lips to reveal two small points stabbing downwards. A gasp fled her throat as she dropped the useless stool and reached for the silver and turquoise cross around her neck. Didn’t monsters despise the crucifix? At least that was the story always told.
He rolled his eyes, grabbed her wrists and pushed the cross back to her chest. Her hands went limp under his cold vice-like grasp as he bound them with the tie. He was stronger than his voice and appearance made him out to be. But she wouldn’t be taken that easy. Not like this, not here. If her life meant anything in this world she would walk out of here alive. Unable to break away, she resorted to biting his hand while stomping on his gleaming shoes as hard as her soft sneakers would allow. Maybe by the sacred heart of Jesus she could just make it past the others and out the door. Not a drop of blood from his skin or welp of pain from his mouth.
The stranger’s eyes and voice trembled. “Please, I beg you. Don’t do this. I will drain you and it will be over.”
“Hurry, lover boy, we don’t have all night,” one of his companions joked.
He whipped his head back and smirked. “Let me have my fun, okay?”
When he turned back to Maria, his dead expression returned and his jaw clenched.
He pulled his bitten hand away to wipe away her saliva and proceeded to drag her from the door with the other with solid quick steps. Crouching on the floor, she did her best to resist being taken toward the hungry demons nearby. Her body tensed, every muscle resisting certain death. She wouldn’t go without trying to fight back for her baby. She had to survive this. But the creature lifted her over one shoulder as if she weighed no more than a small child. More music played loudly, and she heard the breaking of shot bottles. The others must have found Boss’s stash of tequila. Still bound and trying to wiggle away, she found herself being lowered onto the sewing table. The man looked over his shoulder, then back to Maria, completely cool and calm. From the weight of his arms holding her down, she knew the fight was over. There was no way out. How arrogant she was to think she mattered at all. The stupidity in her big plan to shake off this town and her unremarkable existence. Her mother had been right all along.
“Como te llamas?” the stranger whispered as he caressed her cheek like a lover. His eyes darted across her face as though reading a poem about heartbreak. But his ice-cold touch made her shudder with fear.
Her voice cracked, but she managed to whisper, “Maria.”
He glanced back at his companions again then faced her again. In that moment something seemed to change in his eyes. Instead of sadness there was a spark of determination. “Do you want to live through death? I only give you a gift, a chance. What you do with it is up to you. Do you want my gift?”
Living through death? She wondered if he meant Santa Muerte. But what would he know of her?
“Sí,” she answered with hope as small as the child inside of her. Maybe the sacred heart still burned. Her tears drenched the stranger’s fingers. Maria’s fear throbbed and writhed inside as she wondered what would happen next.
The stranger reached for a pair of scissors lying on the table. With a swift motion, he sliced open his wrist. Before she could react, his body was leaning over her and two long needles for teeth punctured her neck. A roar of laughter and howling filled her ears as she screamed in agony. Warmth drained from her skin. Pinpricks of pain dotted her body.
This was the end. The end of Diego, their baby, the States, night school, a good job. This was the death of the only dream she had ever dared to dream. Maria could feel her eyes become heavy when a small tide of blood moved down her throat. She had to swallow it otherwise it would choke her with its viscosity. The taste of cold pesos made her gag. And that is what her life was worth in that place.
The gringo placed his hand over her lips. “Don’t move until we leave. Your boss will be back soon, so I hope you enjoy your vengeance, Maria. Sometimes that is enough to get people like us from one day to another.” A wicked smile, and then he closed her eyes with his cold hand. She kept them shut.
“We didn’t think you had it in you!” The other two were still reveling in their killing spree. “You old vamps are all the same. You forget how to party!”
The heavy door screeched open and closed again. Maria lay on the sewing table, trying to still her quivering body and labored breath. The music stopped and she assumed they were gone, but the fear of seeing what they had done made her unable to move. Twenty minutes passed before the pain began. Deep cramps radiated from her lower belly to her back, like tiny fists armed with knives trying to punch through her guts. Waves upon waves of torment pulled at her body like a lethal undertow, then stopped just as suddenly as they had started. A pool of warmth settled between her legs. Her jeans were wet, and the truth suddenly hit her like a blow to the face. Her mustard seed—her spark of life—was gone.
Maria placed her hand over her mouth, sealing in guttural sobs of loss and grief. She lodged her fist between her lips to contain any sound. The heartache so deep, teeth broke the skin over her knuckles leaving little spots of blood. She hadn’t realized saving her own life meant ending another. No longer able to contain the despair, she let out a soul-rending cry until the cords of her neck felt like they were about to snap. Maria grabbed her abuelita’s turquoise cross and kissed it. Now she wanted to die. She wanted to fly away like a cicada leaving its shell clinging onto a branch.
It was then some other terror started to emerge with a fever. Beads of sweat formed at the small of her back and the top of her lip. Sweat continued to pour from her pores. Her gums ached, and she tasted blood on her tongue. Maria wondered if a slow death was the gift the gringo spoke of.
