The Immortal Conquistador Page 14

  “Because by keeping this road clear . . . you’ll funnel our enemies to the space you control. A bottleneck.”

  “Exactly!”

  “This will keep us safe,” he said wonderingly. “But you—”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Ricardo said and then explained it all again to John in Apache.

  “This won’t stop the wolf men,” John said.

  “That’s where I need you and Lucinda to help. Every protection spell you know, every charm and incantation, every talisman and totem. Bring them all. Everyone you know who practices such magic, get their help. Surround the city if you can.” And again in Spanish for Lucinda and the others. He tried to be patient. He was losing words, mixing languages. He had to be clear.

  “It’s blasphemy—” the priest started, and Ricardo glared.

  “We need all the help we can get—”

  “Ricardo! Ricardo de Avila, I need to speak with you! If the mistress of the house won’t invite me in, you must come out here!” Elinor was shouting from outside the courtyard wall.

  “If you’ll excuse me a moment,” he said, bowing slightly, and went to the gate to look out. She stood in the street, again surrounded by her entourage. The poor young man she had sent to spy on him was there, looking ruffled.

  They smelled of blood, a tangy-sweet aura that clung to them, though their clothing was clean, though they had sucked every drop of it off their teeth. Ricardo’s muscles clenched, his nerves fired. He yearned toward that smell, swayed on his feet for just a second. But that was too much. Showed too much weakness. He was determined to hold himself strong, to stay within the protection of Imelda’s house as he glared out.

  “Buenas noches, Elinor,” he said.

  “Ricardo. I understand you’ve had a busy night.”

  “Indeed, and it keeps getting busier. What do you want?”

  “You’ve met the werewolves. They belong to Dux Bellorum. They are only one group of his many minions. They are all converging here. If you stay, you will have to choose to join either him or me. I think you would prefer me.”

  “You only say that because you need my help.”

  She acknowledged him with a slight nod. “I can certainly use your help, but I will get along without it. You need me, Ricardo.”

  “Oh no. I cannot let you have a foothold in the city, Doña Elinor. I am the Master of Santa Fe. I’m declaring myself so right now.”

  “You can’t just declare yourself Master of a city, Ricardo,” the Abbot said.

  “That’s exactly what Elinor said. And well, I didn’t know that. I’m still not entirely sure what’s involved in becoming Master of a city. I know there’s the whole business of challenging and killing an existing Master and draining his or her blood. But surely there was a first Master of the first city. That would have been what—the Master of Uruk? Was there a Master vampire of Uruk?”

  “It’s not generally believed so, no.”

  “And there must have been a first Master of every city that has a Master. Who decided? They didn’t spring into existence when the cities all came into existence, did they? I imagine they are made like the cities themselves. Santa Fe used to be little more than a way station for travelers. The same with Denver, El Paso, in all of them there must have been a point where a vampire arrived and decided they liked it enough to call it theirs, and—why are you looking at me like that?”

  The Abbot frowned. Drew an obvious breath to be able to speak. “I thought once I met you, your story would become more clear. It has not.”

  “I don’t understand why this is so difficult. I’m being totally straightforward.”

  “You are a very badly trained vampire, Ricardo.”

  He had not been trained at all. “Yes, I’ve been told that often. I can’t say I mind too much. The well-trained ones haven’t impressed me very much.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “May I continue? I was just getting to the good part.”

  “Please.”

  “Do you even know what’s involved in declaring yourself Master of a city?” Elinor said, disbelieving. Her minions had put hands on weapons, arranging themselves in a defensive pose in what they thought was a subtle manner.

  “Not really,” Ricardo said. “And I don’t really care. Santa Fe is under my protection now.”

  “You can’t just walk into a city and say that it’s yours—”

  “Isn’t that what you planned on doing? What this Dux Bellorum plans? I was here first! This city is mine!”

  “Only for as long as you can hold it,” she said. “You can’t stay out of the fight, Ricardo. You’re too strong.”

  He tilted his head. “I am?” She flushed, pursed her lips, as if she hadn’t meant to say that and wished she could take it back. He gave her half a grin, wry and wicked. “Strong enough to hold Santa Fe, you think?”

  “It would be better if we worked together.”

  “Yes, it would. But then you will be like your Mistress Catalina and demand obedience, and then you and I will fight, and it will all be very messy, and I’d rather not play those games.”

  She angrily sliced a hand at him. “Those games are what being a vampire is all about.”

  “I have a confession, Doña Elinor. I think I hate vampires.”

  She laughed. “There is no arguing with you. Not two hundred years ago, and you haven’t changed a bit. Farewell then, Ricardo. If you change your mind, I will always welcome you.” Tipping her chin at her minions, she turned to go.

  He said, “Elinor. One question: What kills wolf men? These werewolves?”

  Her expression when she looked at him made her seem as baffled as she’d yet been. “You don’t know? In all this time you’ve never had to deal with werewolves?”

  “I have not.”

  “And why should I tell you?”

  “Because if I manage to drive them off, you will not have to deal with them,” he said, and she nodded.

  “Silver. Silver blades, silver bullets. Cut the skin with it.”

  It was a testament to the strangeness of his life that this sounded not just possible but reasonable. “Good. Thank you.”

  She started to leave again, and one of the other vampires pleaded with her. “But Mistress, if he joins with Dux Bellorum—”

  “There is no danger of that, I think. Don Ricardo is his own man.”

  Then they were gone, and he heaved a sigh. How much he would have liked to sit down with one of these old vampires, hear their stories, learn the histories of how any of them had come to be . . . but they were all so conniving.

  When he came back to the courtyard, his would-be allies were lined up before him, looking somber but determined. They must have been watching over the low wall, which meant they had some idea of what was about to happen. He ought to lock them all in the house and flee. They would be safer. Most mortals in the city would have no idea what was going on tonight. That would be better. But these people were here, they knew too much, and he had put them in danger.

  Then he noticed that Imelda Constance held a small cup filled with blood, and that they all had bandages tied to their forearms.

  “What?” Ricardo asked warily.

  Imelda stepped forward. She looked like she was offering him communion. The thought horrified him.

  She said, “When you would not eat, I asked Juan what you like. I thought I could make you something special that would tempt you. Then he told us all what you need. And so . . .” She held out the cup.

  “It’s none of your concern, Imelda,” Ricardo said, biting the words sharply. “I told him I would take care of it—”

  “Juan said if we all gave just a little, it would be enough, and no one would be hurt by it. So we did. This is from all of us.” Imelda offered the cup, one of her delicate teacups with roses painted around the edge. The blood was still warm, smelled rich and lovely. Ricardo’s throat closed; he wanted to cry.

  “Lucinda, in your condition you cannot spare—”

/>   “Oh yes I can.” She glared. “Don’t you dare coddle me.”

  “John—”

  The Navajo man said, “I don’t like it. But if it works?”

  “Even you, Padre?”

  Father Diego’s voice trembled a little but he stood firm when he said, “Juan said . . . he said if you were strong, you really could protect the city. That you have done it before.”

  They would none of them back down. And besides, the blood was already given. They knew he wouldn’t be so rude as to waste it once it had been spilled.

  He bowed his head. Tried to smile. “This is one of the kindest things anyone has done for me. I have no words.”

  “Whatever it is that is happening—stop it,” Imelda said.

  “Win this battle, Conquistador,” said John.

  Reconciled, he took the cup from Imelda, his chill hand brushing her warm skin, raised the cup in a toast, and drank. After several days without feeding, the blood hit him hard, like whiskey set on fire. His nerves had been growing sluggish, his muscles stiffening. Now they blazed, and the heat grew. His skin flushed with the borrowed blood.

  They tasted of fear, all of them. But not the immediate animal fear of prey. This was more uncertain, and with it came fortitude. Power. The will to stand. And there was magic—a spice, a charge like this blood had been touched by lightning. If he had had to guess which of them this spark had come from, he wouldn’t have been able to. They all had it. They were all holy, all magical, all powerful.

  There must have been something fraught in his gaze when he looked up, because their eyes widened. Diego crossed himself.

  Ricardo finished off the last of the blood, then wiped his finger around the inside of the cup and sucked the finger, then sucked every drop from his teeth and tongue. He wouldn’t waste a drop of the gift. “Amigos, we have much work to do.”

  There was declaring himself Master of the city, and then there was making it real. If he only had a bit more time . . . The thought made him laugh. Until now he had had so much more time than he should have. At the moment he had allies, which was just as good.

  Father Diego had silver at the church. Chalices, candlesticks, decorations, all of them holy. Ricardo didn’t know if that would make them more powerful, but it couldn’t hurt. He felt guilty asking the priest to cut up the items, to wake up a metalsmith to melt and mold them into spear points. But he was already damned with his curse, so let the blame fall on him.

  John went with Diego. The pair would summon every priest, monk, medicine man, and healer from every church, abbey, mission, and tribal house they could reach, all of them blessing everything they could along the way.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Father Diego muttered, just before Ricardo saw them off. “‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me.’ All my own blessings will be undone by the others.”

  “No, Padre,” Ricardo said. “They will be doubled. I’m sure of it.”

  “And am I to listen to a demon who drinks blood?”

  “I’m a Catholic like you, Father. Perhaps not so good a one. But I believe all prayers offered by good people in good faith are strong. Don’t you?”

  John listened to the conversation politely, then looked to Ricardo to explain. In Apache the vampire said, “Padre Diego doubts any magic but his own.”

  The Navajo smiled thinly. “So do I. But between all of us, one of our prayers ought to work.”

  “What did he say?” Diego demanded.

  “The more prayers are offered, the more likely one is to work.”

  The priest’s brow furrowed. “That almost makes sense.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? I often find that the case where magic and demons are concerned. Go, look after each other, and be careful.”

  The pair went into the night. Lucinda and Imelda were next.

  “I do not like sending you out into the dark,” Ricardo said, sighing at the pair of them.

  “Stop being all chivalrous,” Lucinda said. “We’ll be fine.”

  Imelda nodded. “We know Santa Fe very well, Don Ricardo. We know just what to do.”

  “Thank you both so much.” He gripped both their hands, overwhelmed. How had he come to be so fortunate in his friends?

  “Until we meet again,” Lucinda said. Shawls wrapped tightly over their heads and around their shoulders, they quickly went out into the street arm in arm, both of them clinging to the large basket of herbs and talismans that the curandera had provided.

  He had one more meeting before he went out to do his own work. Back in the house, he sat by the bed in the sickroom. The chair creaked, and the eyes of the man in the bed cracked open.

  “Still here?” Juanito said softly, his breath failing him.

  “I’m afraid I’ve done something foolish,” Ricardo said.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “You remember the story of why I never travel south of El Paso?”

  “You angered the demons who live in Ciudad de México. You promised to keep away from them.”

  “Yes. Well. One of them has come here. And I . . .”

  Juanito chuckled. “This is another fight that you didn’t start but you plan to finish, yes?”

  “Just so.”

  “I . . . I cannot help you this time, my friend.”

  “I know. Except for all the times you already have. What would I do without you, Juanito?” Ricardo said, then wished he hadn’t. He would go on. And on, and on.

  “You have many friends. They will always help you, if you let them,” Juanito said, reaching out a shaking hand. Ricardo squeezed it tightly. “Warm,” Juanito said, chuckling. “You let them feed you, then. Good.”

  “I need it, with what I’m about to do.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

  Juanito nodded. His eyes closed. Ricardo watched the worn shirt, waiting for the rise and fall of breathing. And yes, it came, though shallowly. Ricardo must win this battle so that his friend could die in peace, if nothing else.

  He found a spear leaning by the courtyard gate, what looked like the handle of a broom with a rough blade of beaten silver strapped to one end. John had already delivered the first of the weapons.

  He was no longer exhausted. In fact, he thought he might be able to fly. Spread his arms like wings and let himself float away . . . he had heard stories that some vampires could fly. Perhaps he had to age a few more centuries before gaining that power. Right now, though, he could run. He could taste currents of air around him, the ancient stone mountains to the west, the desert heat from the east, and the hint of blood from the thousands of souls living in the town. If he was very still, he could hear their hearts,follow the pounding of each living drum to his prey—

  Now those were not his prey. He watched, listened, tasted the air, and found the musky, distinctive scent of the wolf men. Half skin, half fur; steel and wild. Howls with the hint of human words behind them, or words that might turn into howling. They were all through the city, running and hunting.

  He found two of them approaching the plaza. One walked as a man, one as a wolf. The man carried a pistol and a wooden spear. Ricardo held back, admiring the striking image the pair made: a hardened gunman with his oversized wolf companion, who nevertheless gazed with knowing eyes. The wolf was the lookout, ears up, tail straight out, nose working hard. Likely, he could smell vampire. Ricardo stayed downwind. When the pair paused at the intersection between one street and the next, he ran fast.

  They might have heard a whistle in the air before they saw him, the wind of his passage, racing faster than anyone ought to be able to. He struck the man first, coming from behind, not really caring about honor and fair fights, not on a night like this. A thin strip of bare neck, white skin, shone between the collar of his coat and the fringe of his hair. Ricardo stabbed here with the silver; his unworldly strength drove the makeshift blade through skin. Blood sprayed. The man cried out and fell to his knees, which surprised Ricardo;
the wound wasn’t deep. He’d meant to go for the front of his throat, not the back.

  The wolf was on Ricardo in the next moment, leaping, jaws closing over the wrist that held his weapon. Teeth tore into his skin; he dropped the silver. Growling, slavering, the wolf used all his weight and claws to shove Ricardo to the ground. Ricardo dug his hands into the creature’s fur and heaved. Drawing on all the considerable strength of his borrowed blood, he managed to throw the creature back. The wolf let out a whimper, scuttled back to his feet.

  The man groaned in agony, his back arched, reaching for the wound, which trailed black threads through his skin, from his neck across his face. Poison, the silver was poison to them. A moment later he fell still.

  Enraged, the wolf came at Ricardo again. Ricardo stood, feet apart, ready for him. He should have been terrified, facing down a charging monster. But he knew he was stronger. And the wolf wasn’t thinking clearly. The open jaws came for his throat, and Ricardo stepped aside at the last moment, grabbed the creature by the head, and wrenched until he heard the crack of bone and the wolf’s body went limp. He let it fall to the ground, waited a moment.

  The wolf whined. Amber eyes blinked back at him, furious and afraid. So, the creatures could be injured. This would heal, in time. Ricardo looked around for the silver knife. The wolf jerked, trying to stand.

  “I am sorry,” Ricardo said. “But this is war and I have people to protect.”

  He dug through fur to stab the wolf’s throat, while the wolf struggled to let out a choked howl. And then he was still. Ricardo watched a moment, and the wolf transformed in death. The fur vanished, the limbs melted, re-formed, until a human man lay at Ricardo’s feet, naked and limp. Too young, with brown skin and dark hair, the start of a beard. And how had such a one come to this? Ricardo whispered a prayer, commending the boy’s soul to God.

  Wiping the silver with a handkerchief, he went in search of the next enemy.

  At the edge of town, he found a trio of vampires harassing a troop of guards on a trading caravan. The vampires were looking to feed and seemed the kind who played with their food, herding them against a wall, knocking their heads, and retreating to shadow while their victims lay stunned. Ricardo didn’t know which side these vampires were on, Elinor’s or her enemies, but he didn’t much care. He came up behind and plunged wooden stakes through their backs, one after the other, before any of them knew what attacked.