heard singing, the chanting and drumming of a group of Apache men, a holy song. Ricardo smiled.
On yet another street he found a pair of women lighting little candles in paper lanterns, lining the whole street with them, one every few feet. He arrived in time to see a shadow pacing them, stalking them. Ricardo raced ahead, got between the vampire and his prey, and stabbed him with his stake. The vampire was the young man Ricardo had confronted earlier that night, Elinor’s henchman. He looked at Ricardo reproachfully before sliding to the ground, his skin turning gray, dry, and dying.
“I told you to look out for each other,” Ricardo said when he returned to Imelda and Lucinda.
“We killed the other one of them who came for us,” Lucinda said. “This one was a lot quieter.”
“How goes it?” Ricardo asked.
Imelda beamed. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but will it stop them?”
Lucinda’s smile was wicked. “Every single one has a prayer. This will work.”
“Bueno. I must be off.”
He ran, tracking more trails of cold, of ill will. He killed four more werewolves and another three vampires, using speed, stealth. Using the fact that none of them seemed to be expecting opposition. At least not opposition like him, a desperate assassin. They had come ready to face an army. He didn’t see Elinor and wondered what would happen if he tried to kill her. She might be the one vampire here who was older than he was. Stronger. He didn’t know if he could kill her. Perhaps if he left her with no allies, she would negotiate.
This city was his, he was Master here. This was how Masters were made.
Soon, he was running out of places he could travel. Holy lights lit whole sections of streets. Father Diego’s prayers protected others. The plaza was awash in prayers and spells of protection. All of it raised Ricardo’s spirits. He came to an unprotected section and waited, testing the air, listening. Waiting for more opponents to reveal themselves.
But there was nothing. The air was clear, empty, smelling of pine trees and sage, and the heady smell of candles burning. Maybe it was done, over. Maybe they had won.
Then, a lone figure approached, walking in the middle of the street. He appeared Anglo, of average height, clean shaven, a fine-boned face. He was dressed in a duster over a dark wool waistcoat and starched shirt, tailored trousers, polished boots. Neat, finely made. Almost luxurious for all that he seemed straightforward. Ricardo felt grubby by comparison, but then he’d had a rough evening. He only now noticed the spatters of blood across his shirt in addition to the blood from the bullet wound. He waited for the man’s approach. The stranger stopped, still some distance away. Close enough to be heard. Close enough to shoot in the eye with a pistol.
“You’re Dux Bellorum, of course,” Ricardo stated, unsure of himself but faking arrogance.
“No,” the man said. “I’m not.” He spoke Spanish with a perfect Castilian accent, much like Ricardo’s own.
“You are not a vampire. Who are you?”
The Abbot had gone pale as a sheet of parchment, even after drinking blood an hour before.
“What’s wrong?” Ricardo said.
“Describe him to me.”
“Not quite thirty, I’d guess. Pale skin, young-looking, but hard. Handsome. Black hair. Not tall. Arrogant.”
“And his name,” the Abbot said, leaning forward, pleading with desperation. “What was this man’s name? Did he tell you?” His eyes were wide. Afraid. He had been a vampire for thousands of years, and now he was afraid.
“Let me think a moment, let me remember—” He had not thought of any of this in so long. And now . . . what was wrong? His spine had gone cold. Even colder.
“Ricardo, please! What did he call himself?”
“I’m thinking . . .” Ricardo’s eyes widened. He had it.
“I’m not Dux Bellorum,” the man said. “I am Carlos de Luz. And you, Ricardo el Conquistador, are a very interesting man.”
The name did not reassure the Abbot at all. He gripped the arms of his chair, as if to stop his hands from shaking.
“Lightman,” he said. “You saw him. You actually spoke to him.”
“Lightman? De Luz—I suppose so. Who is he?”
“Tell the rest of the story. Please. I must hear everything. Don’t leave anything out.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do, but how am I to know what’s important and what isn’t? How am I supposed to tell the story when you seem so astonished? Why does this old memory terrify you so much?”
“Ricardo!” The Abbot rubbed