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  Ricardo could smell the lie on him. He could see it in the spears they carried, wooden shafts with sharpened ends. The other three dismounted and moved to flank the cave, so nothing could escape from it.

  Octavio stepped, then paused, looking at the ground. Ricardo clenched fistfuls of grass in anticipation. Another step, just one more. But how much could Octavio sense of what lay before him?

  “Diego? There’s something wrong—” Octavio said, and leaned forward. With the extra weight, the ground under him collapsed. A thin mat of grass had hidden the pit underneath.

  Almost, Octavio escaped. He twisted, making an inhuman grab at earth behind him. He seemed to hover, suspended in his moment of desperation. But he was not light enough, not fast enough, to overcome his surprise at falling, and he landed, impaled on the half-dozen stakes driven into the bottom of the pit. He didn’t even scream.

  “Damn!” Diego looked into the pit, an expression of fury marring his features.

  Ricardo stood and hurled one of his makeshift spears at the remaining riders. He put all the strength and speed of his newfound power, of the gift of the woman’s blood, into it, and the spear sang through the air like an arrow. He never should have been able to throw a weapon so strong, so true.

  This curse had to be good for something, or why would people like Juan and Diego revel in it? He would not revel. But he would use it. The bloodthirsty demon in him reveled in this hunt and lent him strength. They would come to an understanding. Ricardo would use the strength—but for his own purpose.

  The spear landed in Rafael’s chest, knocking him flat to the ground. He clutched at the shaft, writhing, teeth bared and hissing in what might have been anger or agony. Then, he went limp. His skin tightened, wrinkling, drying out, until the sunken cavities of his skull were visible under his face. His clothes drooped over a desiccated body. He looked like a corpse years in the grave. That was how long ago he died, Ricardo thought. He had been living as a beast for years. But now, perhaps he was at peace.

  Diego and Esteban were both flying up the hill toward him. Almost literally, with the speed of deer, barely touching earth. Ricardo took up another spear. This would be like fighting with a sword, a battle he understood a little better. They had their own spears ready.

  He thrust at the first to reach him, Esteban, who parried easily and came at him, ferocious, teeth bared, fangs showing. Ricardo stumbled back, losing ground, but braced the spear as his defense. Esteban couldn’t get through to him. But then there was Diego, who came at Ricardo from behind. Ricardo sensed him there but could do nothing.

  Diego braced his spear across Ricardo’s neck and dragged him back. Reflexively, Ricardo dropped his weapon and choked against the pressure on his throat, a memory of the old reaction he should have had. But now, he had no breath to cut off. The pressure meant nothing. Ricardo fell, letting his head snap back from under the bar, and his weight dropped him out of Diego’s grip. Another demonic movement. But he would not survive this fight as a human.

  Esteban came at him with his spear, ready to pin him to the ground. Ricardo rolled, and did not stop when he was clear. I am mist, I am speed. He spun and wrenched the spear from Esteban’s grip. He was charging one way and couldn’t resist the force of Ricardo’s movement in another direction. Even then, Ricardo didn’t stop. He slipped behind Esteban, who had pivoted with equal speed and grace to face him. But he had no weapon, and Ricardo did. He speared the third of the demons through his dead heart. Another desiccated corpse collapsed at his feet.

  Ricardo stared at Diego, who stood by, watching.

  “I was right to want you as one of Fray Juan’s caballeros,” Diego said. “You are very strong. You have the heart to control the power.”

  “Fray Juan is a monster.”

  “But Ricardo, New Spain is filled with monsters. We both know that.”

  Screaming, Ricardo charged him. Diego let him run against him, and they both toppled to the ground, wrestling.

  How did one defeat a man who was already dead? Who moved by demonic forces of blood? Ricardo closed his hands around the man’s throat, but Diego only laughed silently. He did not breathe—choking did no good. He tried to beat the man, pound his head into the ground, but Diego’s strength was effortless, unyielding. He might as well wrestle a bear.

  Diego must have grown tired of Ricardo’s flailing, because he finally hit him, and Ricardo flew, tumbling down the hill, away from his dropped weapons. Diego loomed over him now, with the advantage of high ground.

  Ricardo made himself keep rolling. Time slowed, and he knew what would happen—at least what might happen. So he slid all the way to the bottom of the hill and waited. He wasn’t breathing hard—he wasn’t breathing at all. He hadn’t broken a sweat. He was as calm as still water. But Diego didn’t have to know that.

  The smart thing for Diego to do would be to drive a spear through his chest. But Ricardo thought Diego would gloat. He’d pick Ricardo up, laugh in his face one more time, before tossing him aside and stabbing him. Ricardo waited for this to happen, ready for it.

  But he’d also be ready to dodge if Diego surprised him and went for a quick kill.

  “Ricardo! You’re more than a fool. You’re an idealist,” Diego said, making his way down the hill, sauntering like a man with an annoying chore at hand.

  God, give me strength, Ricardo prayed, not knowing if God would listen to one such as him. Not caring. The prayer focused him.

  He struggled to get up, as if he were weak, powerless, starving. Let Diego think he had all the power. He flailed like a beetle trapped on his back, while Diego leaned down, twisted his hands in the fabric of his doublet and hauled him to his feet.

  Then Ricardo took hold of the man’s wrists and dragged him toward the hole that had swallowed Octavio.

  Diego seemed not to realize what was happening at first. His eyes went wide, and he actually let go of Ricardo, which was more than Ricardo had hoped for. Using Diego’s own arms for leverage, he swung the man and let go. Diego was already at the edge of the pit, and like Octavio he made an effort to avoid the fall. But with the grace of a drifting leaf, he sank.

  Ricardo stood on the edge and watched the body, stuck on the stakes on top of Octavio, turn to a dried husk.

  * * *

  He gathered up their horses and rode back to the church, torn between wanting to move and worrying about breaking them down. They had already made this trip once, and they were mortal. He rode both as quickly and slowly as he dared, and when he reached the village, the sky had paled. He could feel the rising sun within his bones.

  Rushing, he unsaddled the horses and set them loose in the pasture. He would need resources, when he started his new life, and they were worth something, even in the dark of night.

  He had only moments left to find Juan. Striding through the chapel, he hid a spear along the length of his leg.

  “Juan! Bastard! Come show yourself!”

  The friar was waiting in the back room where Ricardo had first spoken with him, a respectable if bedraggled servant of God hunched over his desk, watching the world with a furtive gaze.

  “I felt it when you killed them,” the friar said in a husky voice. “They were my children, part of me—I felt the light of their minds go out.”

  Don’t let him speak. Ricardo’s own power recognized the force behind the words, the connection that bound them together. His power flowed from the other.

  Ricardo started to lunge, but the friar held up a hand and said, “No!” The younger man stopped, spear upraised, face in a snarl, an allegorical picture of war.

  Fray Juan smiled. “Understand, you are mine. You will serve me as my caballeros served me. You cannot stop it.” The Master had a toothy, wicked smile.

  Ricardo closed his eyes. He’d fought for nothing, all these years and nothing to show for it but a curse. He was not even master of his fate.

  Free will was part of God’s plan. What better way to damn the sinful than to let them choose sin
over righteousness? But he had not chosen this. Had he? Had something in his past directed him to this moment? To this curse?

  Then couldn’t he choose to walk away from this path?

  He started to pray out loud, all the prayers he knew. Pater Noster, Ave Maria, even passages of Psalms, what he could remember.

  The friar stared back at him. His lips trembled. “You should not be able to speak those words,” Juan said. “You are a demon. One of Satan’s pawns. He is our father. The holy words should burn your tongue.”

  “Then you believe the tales of the Inquisition? I don’t think I do. Come, Juan, pray with me.” Louder now, he spoke again, and still Juan trembled at the words.

  “They’re only words, Padre! Why can’t you speak them?” Ricardo shouted, then started the prayers again.

  The hold on his body broke. He had been balanced, poised for the strike, and now he plunged forward, his spear leading, and drove it into the friar’s chest. Juan tumbled back in his chair, Ricardo standing over him, still leaning on the spear though it wouldn’t go farther. Juan didn’t make a sound.

  Juan’s skin turned gray. It didn’t simply dry into hard leather; it turned to dust, crumbling away, his cassock collapsing around him. A corpse decayed by decades or centuries.

  Ricardo backed away from the dust. He dropped the spear. His knees gave out then, and he folded to the floor, where he curled up on his side and let the sleep of daylight overcome him.

  * * *

  Rumor said that the small estancia had once been a mission, but that the friar who ran it went mad and fled to the hills, never to be seen again. A young hidalgo now occupied the place, turning it into a quiet manor that bred and raised sheep for wool and mutton. The peasants who lived and worked there were quiet and seemed happy. The governor said that the place was a model from which all estancias ought to learn.

  The hidalgo himself was a strange, mysterious man, seldom seen in society. Of course all the lords in New Spain with daughters had an interest in getting to know him, for he was not only successful, but unmarried. But the man refused all such overtures.

  It was said that Don Ricardo had ridden north with Coronado. Of course that rumor had to be false, because everyone knew Ricardo was a man in the prime of his life, and Coronado’s expedition to find Cibola rode out fifty years ago.

  But such wild rumors will grow up around a gentleman who only leaves his house at night.

  THE BOOK OF DANIEL

  Daniel stood at the edge of the pit and prayed. God of my ancestors, wise in all things, powerful beyond measure, thank you for my life. All praise is yours.

  Daniel’s rivals at court stood around the pit, almost daring to smile.

  King Darius—a proud king, susceptible to flattery and prone to suspicions—would not face him. He could not look Daniel in the eye as he condemned him, however much Daniel stared at him, trying to meet his gaze. Darius had trusted him, once.

  “Put him in,” the king said and turned away.

  The royal guards shoved Daniel onto the ramp that led into the brick-lined pit of lions. Daniel fell and rolled down. The thick wooden lid closed overhead, and the light was gone.

  * * *

  For a man who had been twice-conquered, Daniel had done well. He stood among the advisers to Darius, King of Persia. Before that, he had counseled Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon. Then Persia invaded. Because Daniel was not Babylonian, he was spared the fate of the conquered. He was an Israelite and already in exile.

  The Persian king held court in the great atrium of the palace at Babylon, which until five years ago had been the seat of the kings of Babylonia. Civilizations had risen and fallen on this spot for countless centuries. Cities, palaces, and the fortunes of men like Daniel rose and fell with them.

  The atrium of the palace reached several stories high, a tower soaring to heaven, a triumph of empire and ambition. Fountains and artificial streams watered a jungle of vegetation, trees—palms, cedars, poplars—and rare flowers that climbed for the sunlight shining through windows set high in the reaching walls. The splash and trickle of water made a constant sound that blended with the murmur of voices in conversation and with the music from the chimes and lyres of the musicians. Darius nominally conducted business when he held court here, but the setting was pleasant and distracting—a world apart from the dirt and heat outside.

  Near the musicians, a court dancer performed, a piece of living artwork. Suza moved like a sapling in the wind, swaying, her limbs curving. Her bare feet touched the floor with the lightest grace. Bangles around her ankles rang at each step. Her gold tunic, tightly cinched, showed the curves of her hips and breasts. Her dark, curling hair—loose and unadorned, scandalous and alluring—fell down her back. She had almond-shaped eyes the color of mahogany.

  Much food and wine circulated, carried by slaves in gleaming white tunics, bearing bronze ewers and platters. Supplicants to the king were lulled and diverted. Unfortunately, many of the advisers and administrators were as well. Not to mention the king himself, so noble in his tunic and robe, whiter than the plumage of egrets. His rich headdress sat perfectly on his head, pressing on his curled and oiled hair, even as he leaned back in his throne, half-asleep.

  Daniel drank water, to keep his senses clear.

  The court was in the midst of hearing an adultery case. Two prominent merchants claimed they had seen the wife of a judge in a dalliance with a young man. The woman was young and beautiful. The rumors flew. Many could believe such a deed of her, no matter that her husband was well respected and their family admired. If found guilty, she would be put to death.

  In the marketplace, around the wells and plazas where people gathered and talked, Daniel had heard other rumors: The merchants had made advances toward her, she had rejected them, and now they took revenge on her. When Daniel focused on the merchants, he could smell the sweat of a lie on their skin, even through the smell of spice, flowers, honey, and perfume.

  The merchants made a great deal of the story they told the king, dramatically relating how they chanced upon the house’s garden, saw the lady send her maids away, watched as the young man in question appeared from his hiding place, and then how the couple sported in the shade of a tree outside her husband’s very window. The witnesses did not seem concerned that the identity of this young man remained a mystery.

  The husband—a self-made man who seemed uncomfortable in his finery—looked stunned, uncertain, glancing back and forth between the merchants and his wife. The lady stood apart. She was draped in a rich silk tunic and shawl. Two veiled maids stood with her. Her gaze was downcast, but her posture was proud.

  The merchants finished and begged the king for his judgment.

  Darius glanced at the husband, then at his advisers. He said, “It is difficult to deny the firsthand testimony of such esteemed citizens of our empire. What say my advisers?”

  They agreed, bowing and murmuring, that yes, the account told by such respected witnesses was undeniable, the lady must be guilty, yes, yes.

  Hands clasped behind his back, Daniel stepped forward, leaned close to Darius’s ear and said, “Sire, question them separately. Discover if their testimony remains as sure.”

  One of the advisers spoke angrily, “Why must you always be contrary, foreigner?”

  Lifting a brow, the king said, “You do enjoy making things difficult, Daniel.”

  “I seek only the truth, Sire.” He was out of place in his simple tunic belted with a plain brown sash.

  “And if such truth goes against my wishes?”

  “Truth is truth, Sire,” Daniel said with a careful bow.

  From another adviser, a not-so-subtle whisper reached them. “See how arrogant he is, he thinks his truth is greater than the king!”

  Daniel met the king’s gaze and did not flinch.

  Darius looked away and gestured, “You. Come forward.”

  The first merchant approached the dais and bowed. Did his hands tremble ever so slightly? Darius tipped a finge
r at Daniel, indicating he should proceed.

  In a low voice, so that only the king, the other advisers, and the merchant could hear, Daniel asked, “What kind of tree was it that you saw them under?”

  The man shrugged, glancing over his shoulder at his fellow, but Daniel stepped beside him and held his shoulder, to keep him facing forward. The man said, “How should I know? I’m not a gardener.”

  “Just describe it.”

  “It … it was wide. With many branches spreading out.”

  “And the leaves?”

  “Dark green. Oval.”

  “Did it have fruit? Lemons, perhaps? Or apples?”

  “Yes, yes. Perhaps they were lemons.”

  “Thank you.”

  Released, the merchant retreated from the dais. Darius called the second forward. Daniel guided him, so the two merchants could not exchange words.

  When asked what tree it had been, the second merchant said, “Why, I’m sure it was a date palm.”

  The most common tree in all of Babylon, of course.

  “Tall?” Daniel said.

  “Yes, yes. Very tall.”

  “And the leaves?”

  “Fronds, high off the ground. You know what a palm looks like.”

  “Thank you.”

  As the second merchant retreated, Daniel said to the king and the other advisers, “Sire, they are lying.”

  Darius nodded and announced his verdict. “Their story is invention. They have witnessed falsely against an innocent woman.”

  Then came an uproar, because the punishment for false witnessing was death. Darius ordered guards to come, the advisers shuffled and grumbled among themselves, and the courtiers sighed in wonder. The husband ran to his wife. When she lifted her face to him, tears covered her cheeks. They embraced, abased themselves before the king, and begged leave to return to their home.

  Daniel stood out of the way, smiling wryly at the havoc he’d created.