The Immortal Conquistador

by Carrie Vaughn

  These vampires were not old. The old ones turned to ash when they died, the decay of centuries falling on them at once. These merely fell into desiccated corpses, the rot of a couple of decades at most. He didn’t say prayers for them.

  As he stood over them, their victims gaped, cringing back even as they reached for weapons.

  “Buenas noches, señores,” he said and ran. The men said later that a ghost had saved them, the spirit of one of the old conquistadors returned to defend the road.

  Approaching the plaza, Ricardo went down one street and had to stop abruptly. A force pressed him back, something smoky and distasteful. He tried to continue forward, and the dread building in him made it impossible. It was the same feeling he got when he tried to enter a church; the threshold of it might as well have been a wall.

  This ground had been consecrated. Entire streets made holy. Father Diego had been here.

  “Thanks be to God,” Ricardo murmured and turned back the way he came.

  At another street he 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 his face and forced himself to sit back. “Please.”

  “All right,” Ricardo said cautiously and continued.

  “What do you want?” Ricardo asked tiredly. He had been prepared to face an army here. To negotiate with either Elinor or this Dux Bellorum character. He was unprepared for . . . whatever this was.

  The man looked around, smiling thinly. “A crossroad. I don’t always manage these conversations right on a crossroad. But they always seem to go a little better when I do.”

  Ricardo hadn’t noticed, but yes, this was where the main road to the plaza crossed the road to the west and Taos Pueblo. A proper crossroad indeed. “It will be dawn in an hour or so,” Ricardo said. “I don’t have much time, so whatever conversation you wish to have, make it quick.”

  “Yes. Of course. I’d like you to come work for me, Ricardo.”

  “I don’t work for anyone, I haven’t in a very long time.”

  “Yes. But I need generals for my war.”

  Generals. Dux Bellorum. The man Elinor was so wary of was just another soldier. This man held the strings. Did she know that?

  “I am not interested in war. I had enough of that a long time ago.”

  “Even if my war will win you the world?” said de Luz. He seemed serious. His body stood easy, but his face was like stone.

  Ricardo laughed. “You seem young, so let me tell you what I have learned: They all say that. Those who make war always promise the world. I don’t want it.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “To be left alone, señor, truly. Why does no one understand this?”

  Grinning, he shook his head. “That’s not what you want. At least not all of it. Let’s try again. What do you want?”

  “To not have my patience tried.” He started to turn away.

  “Let me make you a different offer. I can offer you life. Make you human again.”

  Ricardo froze. The thought rattled in his skull a moment. Life. Warmth. To make his own blood, his own heat. To see the sun again. To have the life that had been stolen . . . Could de Luz turn back time? Could he send young Ricardo de Avila back to Spain, with everything he knew now so that he could choose differently?

  And would he really choose differently? To forget all that he had seen. Everyone that he had met. God has a plan for me, he used to tell himself. God has meant for this to happen. Inadequate comfort, and these days he was fairly c
ertain God didn’t concern himself with the lives of lone naive Spaniards.

  “Don Ricardo?” de Luz prompted.

  “Who are you that you would have such power? I’ve never met anyone who could do this thing.”

  He shrugged. “I’m just someone who makes deals.”

  “And what price do you ask for this astonishing thing you offer?”

  “I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement.”

  Chuckling, Ricardo said, “Oh no, this is the same deal as the first. I become yours, for you to do with as you see fit. We’re back where we started, señor. That life is no life at all. Buenas noches.” He started to walk away.

  The man called after him. “One last offer, and this is the last. Your friend, Juan. Juanito. He is dying. I can offer him life. Without the price that you have paid. That’s why you haven’t offered to turn him yourself, yes? You could walk into that house right now and save your best friend’s life. But you don’t.”

  “This isn’t life, it’s a curse.”

  “Be that as it may. But there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, as they say.”

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  “I can offer your friend life. I can heal him.”

  Ricardo would take nothing for himself. But for Juanito? He clenched his fist. He would give himself to this man to save Juanito. It would be easy.

  “What did you tell him?” the Abbot said. “Did you accept his offer? It’s very, very important. Did you accept?”

  “Why is this so important?” Rick was growing angry.

  “Who do you think this man was, Ricardo? What did you think of him, standing there in Santa Fe almost two hundred years ago?”

  “I thought he was a trickster. A magician. A con man. He liked theatrics. Maybe he could really help Juanito, maybe he couldn’t, but I didn’t trust him.”

  “And what did you say to him, when he made you this offer?”

  “Abbot. Who was de Luz?” Ricardo demanded. “Who is Lightman?”

  The Abbot’s gaze turned to the Scribe. Rick implored the figure at the lectern, who nodded and recited from a work that was not as old as Rick but still told an ancient story, “‘. . . what time his pride had cast him out from heav’n, with all his host of rebel angels, by whose aid aspiring to set himself in glory above his peers, he trusted to have equaled the Most High . . .’”

  Ricardo blinked. “You can’t be serious.”

  “The War in Heaven never ended,” the Abbot said. “We fight it still. So you must tell me by all that is holy on earth and in every realm beyond, when the Devil stood before you at the crossroad and made you an offer, did you accept?”

  For just a moment, the bottom dropped out of Ricardo’s world. The ground tipped, his head swam. It was like learning years later that the ship you were supposed to have been on but weren’t sank, killing all on board. Like leaving San Francisco right before the earthquake. He had not known the danger. If he had, it would have destroyed him on the spot.

  Then, he laughed. He laughed so hard he doubled over a cramping stomach and fell out of the chair. He settled on the floor, wiping tears streaming from his eyes. And then he lifted his gaze to the soaring ceiling and gave thanks to God.

  “What’s so funny?” the Abbot asked. “This is serious.” The Scribe stared, even through the blindfold. The pen was still.

  “Abbot. Don’t you understand what this means? This . . . this is wonderful.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Rick leaned back against the screen, stretched out his legs. He felt drunk. He felt amazing. He pointed at the Abbot. “You’re telling me I stood on the crossroads with the Devil, who offered to make me a deal. What does the Devil trade in? What would I sell to take his offer?”

  “Your soul.”

  He slapped the stone floor. “Which means I still have one. I still have my soul, and God still listens to me. My prayers are still good. For centuries everyone has tried to tell me I have no soul, that being made a vampire destroyed my soul. And yet the Devil stood there trying to buy it.” He laughed again. “I have my soul!”

  The Abbot stared. “Then you told him no?”

  Rick sighed. He’d been gasping, to take in enough air for that laugh. He was wrung out and high, all at the same time. “Yes, Abbot. I told him no. Praise be to God.”

  Ricardo could give away himself to save Juanito—and Juanito would not thank him for it. Juanito would never speak to him again, in fact. Perhaps . . . perhaps he should leave his friend’s fate to God. Maybe a better life really did await him.

  “No,” Ricardo said softly.

  “No?” De Luz stared at him. “No? Just like that?”

  “Just like that. I know better than anyone that death is not the end. Adios, Señor de Luz. I have things I must attend to.”

  “You’re just one man,” de Luz said. Ricardo kept walking. “Someone else will use you as a pawn. Someday you won’t be able to walk away!”

  Ricardo waved over his shoulder and turned the corner. Not sure where else he ought to go, he headed back to Imelda’s house. In fact, this was the only way he could go. The whole city was protected, its streets consecrated with burning incense, tin milagros nailed on doors and gates, Zuni fetish carvings, paintings made with sand, a dozen other various totems and charms from a dozen different traditions. Voices in several languages were singing in the plaza, clashing with one another but at this distance sounding like a dream. No sounds of battle at all.

  Elinor was waiting at the gate to the courtyard, leaning on the wall, her arms crossed, a wry look on her face. Like she had no opinion on the matter of the night’s events.

  “I was wondering when I’d see you again,” Ricardo said. “How are you?”

  “I can’t get into Santa Fe. I don’t know what you did, but it worked.”

  “I told you, I am Master here.” He winked. “If it’s any consolation, your enemy cannot enter the town either.”

  “I suppose it’ll have to be. What did you do?”

  “I asked for help. Elinor—” He didn’t know quite how to warn her. With the sky turning gray, the light of dawn tugging at him, he wasn’t sure the encounter had even happened. “I don’t know anything about this Dux Bellorum, and I hope not to. But you should know that he isn’t alone. There are other powers around him. I don’t like it.”

  “Well, one villain at a time, I think. Goodbye, Ricardo. I must go report what happened here. One way or another . . .”

  “What will you tell your Mistress about me?”

  She shook her head wryly. “I will not tell anyone anything. They will not believe me. But at least now you will stay in one place for a while, and I will know where to find you.”

  Ricardo wasn’t sure about that. He could call himself Master, but . . . he wasn’t sure that Santa Fe needed one, not after tonight. His travels beckoned. “I don’t know. I have stopped trying to predict anything.”

  “You could be a king. Do you realize how much power you’ve gathered?”

  He did not. He did not want to know. “The kings all seem to have so much to worry about.”

  “Good night.” She tossed a haphazard bow, took a step—and then ran, with a burst of speed that turned her into shadow. She was gone. He went into the house, to Juanito’s room.

  They were all there—Imelda, Lucinda, John, and Father Diego—each praying in his or her own way, hands clasped and heads bent. And Juanito lay on the bed, too still, too cold. Ricardo was too late; he’d missed it. Dead, the man looked twenty years older, his flesh hanging in folds, gray and lifeless. His hair seemed to have become translucent. Sleeping eyes had movement to them, the hint of dreaming. But he was so, so still. Sunken into the blankets. Dead.

  De Luz. De Luz had killed him, when Ricardo refused his offer—

  No. This had been coming for days. Slowly, he came to the side of the bed, knelt down, and rested his elbows on the mattress, put his face in his hands. I’m sorry
, I’m sorry, Juan. I cannot save anyone.

  A hand touched his shoulder, a gentle pressure. Imelda. Ricardo clasped it, grateful for the contact. Her skin was burning compared to his, as cold as Juan’s. As dead as he was.

  “His passing was easy,” she said softly. “He went to sleep and sighed, and God carried him away.”

  Ricardo would miss him. As he missed everyone, all the way back to Suerte and his family right at the start. He carried them all with him, and the weight was heavy.

  “I think . . . I am very tired and must sleep. We . . . we can take care of him in the evening. Father, can you—”

  “Yes, I will make arrangements,” Diego said.

  “Thank you all,” he said to each of them. “Thank you all so much for your . . . your faith.” They each nodded back to him in turn. Ricardo took a blanket off the back of a nearby chair, wrapped it over his shoulders. “If you could close the door on the way out and not let anyone back in until dusk, I would be most grateful.”

  “Señor—” Lucinda said. They all looked back at him, worried.

  He didn’t have the strength to do more than smile and nod. He got down on the floor, crept under the bed, wrapped the blanket all around him, and then dawn dragged him into the sleep of the dead.

  “And that’s everything?” the Abbot asked.

  “I don’t know, is it? What else do you want to know? I stayed in Santa Fe a month, making sure that the protections held, that Elinor or the werewolves didn’t return. It was never really my city though, Abbot. After, I rode to Bent’s Fort as we had planned. Found my next job as a guide. Made do as best I could, as I had for decades. Whenis my next appearance in your great book?” He turned to the Scribe.

  “Virginia City, 1860.”

  “Ah yes,” Rick said. “The Comstock Lode. It turns out that some packs of werewolves are capable of holding grudges for many years, and a town in the middle of a silver rush is a good place to hide from them.”