“You’re too weak to drink. Ideally, you should have several quarts of human blood. But mine will do.”
She watched, sick with hunger, as he tourniqueted his arm, slipped the needle into the vein inside his elbow and drew blood.
She reached for the syringe. He held it away from her. She lunged with death-strength. He put the syringe on the table behind him, caught her wrists, held them together.
“You’re stronger than I expected.” He squeezed until the distant pain quelled her. She pretended to relax, still fixated on the sip of blood, so near. She darted at his throat, but he held her easily.
“Stop it! There isn’t enough blood in the syringe to help you if you drink it! If I inject it, you’ll get some relief. But my blood is forbidden.”
Yes, she would have killed him, anybody, for blood. She sank back, shaking with desire. The needle entered her vein and she never felt the prick. She shuddered with pleasure as the blood trickled in. She could taste it. Old blood, sour with a hunger of its own, but the echo of satiety radiated from her arm.
“Here are some clothes. You should be just strong enough to walk to the car. I’ll carry you from there.”
She fumbled for his wrists. “No. Any more vampire blood would kill you. Or,” he laughed grimly, “you might be strong enough to kill me. On your feet.” He lifted her like a child.
In his apartment, he carried her to the bedroom and laid her on the bed. She smelled blood. Next to her was an unconscious girl, perhaps twenty, very blond, dressed in white suede jeans, boots, a black lace bra.
Ineptly, she went for the girl’s jugular. The girl was wearing strong jasmine perfume, a cheap knockoff scent insistent and sexy.
“Wait. Don’t slash her and waste it all. Be neat.” He leaned over, pressed his mouth to the girl’s neck.
Gretchen lunged.
She thrilled to sink her new bloodsucking organ into the girl’s neck, but discovered it was at the wrong place. Hissing with anger, she broke away and tried a third time. Salty, thick comfort seeped into her body like hot whisky.
In an instant, Gretchen felt Scuroforno slip his finger into her mouth, breaking the suction. She came away giddy with frustration. Scuroforno held her arms, hurting her. The pain was in another universe. She tried to twist away.
“You’re going to kill her,” he warned.
“Who is she?” She shook herself into self control, gazed longingly at the girl, who seemed comatose.
“Nobody. A girl. I take her out now and then. I never take enough blood to harm her. I don’t actually enjoy hurting people.”
“She’s drugged?”
“No, no. I—we have immunity to bacteria and so on, but drugs are bad. I hypnotized her.”
“You hypnotized—she sleeps through all this?”
“She thinks she’s dead drunk. Here, help me get her sweater back on.”
“She thinks you made love to her?”
Scuroforno smiled.
“You did make love to her?”
He busied himself with adjusting the girl’s clothes.
Gretchen lay back against the headboard. “I need more, God, I need more.”
“I know. But you’ll have to find your own from now on.”
“How do I get them to submit?”
Scuroforno yawned. “That’s your problem. Rescuing you was hard work. Now you’ll have to find your own way. You’re cleverer and stronger than humans now. Did you notice your sinus infection is gone?”
“Nick, help.”
He did not look at her. “It would be better if you left town now.”
“But you saved me.”
“You’re my competitor now. Leave before the rage for blood takes you, before we go after the same prey.”
She held the hunger down inside her, remembering human emotions. “It makes no difference that I love you?” And suddenly, she did love him.
“Tomorrow you’ll know what hate is, too.”
On the way out, she noticed he had a new screen saver: red blood cells floating on black, swelling, bursting apart.
On the bus to Seattle, she wept. Yes, she had loved him, and she had learned what hate was, too. She played with a sewing needle, stabbed her fingers. Numb. But her feelings were not numb, not yet. Would that happen? Was Nick emotionally dead?
Would the physical numbness spread? If her body was immortal, why would she need nerves, pain, to warn of danger?
Maybe she would regret the bargain she had made.
The numbness did spread. Her fingers and hands were immune to pain. but she still felt thirst. The cancer metastasized into her tongue and nerves, wanted to be fed.
Her seat-mate was a Mormon missionary, separated from his partner because the bus was crowded. In Chicago, he asked her to change seats, so he could sit with his partner. But she refused. It didn’t fit her plan.
She stroked his cheek, held the back of his neck in a vice grip, all the while smiling, catlike. Scarcely feeling her own skin, but vividly feeling the nourishment under his. He tried to repel her, laughing uneasily, taking it for an erotic game. A forward, sluttish gentile woman. Then he was fighting, uselessly. He twisted her thumb back, childish self-defense. She felt no pain. Then he was weeping, softening, falling into a trance. She kissed his throat with her open mouth. Drank from him. Drank again and again. Had he fought, she could have broken his neck. She was completely changed.
In Seattle, the floor nurse in Pediatrics challenged her. Sniffing phenol and the sweet, sick urine that could never quite be cleaned up, Gretchen glanced at her reflection in a dead computer screen behind the nurse. She did look predatory now. Like a wax mannequin, but also like a cougar. Powerful. Not like anybody’s mother. Two other nurses drifted up, as if sensing trouble
She showed the nurse her driver’s license. They almost believed her, then. Let her go down the hall, to room 409. But still the nurses’ eyes followed her. She had changed.
She opened the door. The floor nurse drifted in behind her.
This balding, emaciated tyke, tangled in tubing, could not be her Ashley.
Ashley had changed, too. From a less benign cancer.
The nurse sniffed. “I’m sorry. She’s gone downhill a lot in the last few weeks.” The nurse clearly did not approve of noncustodial mothers. Maybe still did not believe this quiet, strong woman was the mother.
When Gretchen had been human, she would have been humiliated, would have tried to explain that Ashley had been taken from her by legal tricks. Now, she considered the nurse simply as a convenient beverage container from which, under suitable conditions, she might sip. She smiled, a cat smile, and the nurse could not hold her gaze.
“Ashley,” said Gretchen, when they were alone. She had brought the Jan Pieńkowski book, wrapped in red velvet paper with black cats on it. Ashley liked cats. She would love the scary haunted house pop-ups. They would read them together. Gretchen put the gift on the chair, because first she must tend to more important things. “Ashley, it’s Mommy. Wake up, darling.”
But the little girl only opened her eyes, huge and bruised in the pinched face, and sobbed feebly.
Gretchen lowered the rail on the bed and slid her arm under Ashley. The child was frighteningly light.
Gretchen felt the warmth of her feverish child, smelled the antiseptic of the room, the sweet girl-smell of her daughter’s skin. But those were all at a distance. Gretchen was being subsumed by something immortal.
We are very territorial. Isn’t that what Nick had said? It’s not an emotional numbness; it’s physical. And the memory of him jabbing the pen into his arm, the needle into his vein, her own numb fingers, how everything, even her daughter’s warmth and the smell of the child and the room were all receding, distant. Immortal. Numb. Strong beyond human strength. Alone.
She touched her new, predatory mouth to her child’s throat. Would Ashley thank her for this?
Now she must decide.
Conquistador de la Noche
Carrie Vaughn
Carrie Vaughn is the best-selling author of the Kitty series, about a werewolf who hosts a talk radio advice show for the supernaturally disadvantaged. “Conquistador de la Noche” tells the story of how a friend of Kitty’s—Rick, the vampire master of Denver in “our” day and age—became a vampire. Set in sixteenth century New Spain, “Conquistador” demonstrates how vampiric immortality can allow an imaginative writer to take the reader into a different era and culture.
Vaughn’s also written for young adults (Voices of Dragons, Steel), has two stand-alone novels (Discord’s Apple, After the Golden Age), and many short stories. She lives in Colorado. Find out more at www.carrievaughn.com.
His life was becoming a trail of blood.
Ricardo de Avila fired his crossbow at the crowd of natives. The bolt struck the chest of a Zuni warrior, a man no older than his own nineteen years. The native fell back, the dark of his blood splashing, along with dozens of others. The army’s few arquebuses fired, the sulfur stink clouding the air. The horses danced, tearing up the grass and raising walls of dust. Between keeping control of his horse and trying to breathe, Ricardo could not winch back his crossbow for another shot.
Not that he needed to fire again. The general was already calling for a cease fire, and the few remaining Zuni, running hard and shouting in their own language, were fleeing back to their city.
City. Rather, a few baked buildings clustered on the hillside. The expedition had become a farce. Cíbola did not exist—at least, not as it did in the stories the first hapless explorers had brought back. So many leagues of travel, wasted. Dead men and horses, wasted. The land itself was not even worth much. It had little water and was cut through with unforgiving mountains and canyons. The Spanish should turn around and leave it to the natives.
But the friars who traveled with Coronado were adamant. Even if they found no sign of treasure, it was their duty as Christians to save the souls of these poor heathens.
They had believed that Coronado would be a new Cortés, opening new lands and treasures for the glory of Spain. The New World was more vast than any in Europe had comprehended. Naturally they assumed the entire continent held the same great riches Spain had found in Mexico. As quickly as Spain was eating through that treasure, it would need to find more.
Coronado tried to keep up a good face for his men. His armor remained brightly polished, gleaming in the harsh sun, and he sat a tall figure in his horse. But with the lack of good food, his face had become sunken, and when he looked across the despoblado, the bleak lands they would have to cross to reach the rumored Cities of Gold, the shine in his eyes revealed despair.
This expedition should have made the fortune of a third son of a minor nobleman like Ricardo. Now, though, he was thirsty, near to starving, and had just killed a boy who had come at him with nothing but a stone club. His dark beard had grown unkempt, his hair long and ratted. Sand had marred the finish of his helmet and cuirass. No amount of wealth seemed worth the price of this journey. Rather, the price he was paying had become so steep, it would have taken streets paved with gold in truth to restore the balance. What was left, then? When you had already paid too much in return for nothing?
Ricardo had sold himself for a mouthful of dust.
Ten years passed.
It was dark when Ricardo rode into the main plaza at Zacatecas. Lamps hung outside the church and Governor’s buildings, and the last of the market vendors had departed. A small caravan of a dozen horses and mules from the mine was picketed, awaiting stabling. The place was hot and dusty, though a cool wind from the mountains brought some refreshment. Ricardo stopped to water his horse and stretch his legs before making his way to the fort.
At the corner of the garrison road, a man stepped from the shadows to block his path. His horse snorted and planted its feet. Ricardo’s night vision was good, but he had trouble making out the figure.
“Don Ricardo? I was told you were due to return today,” the man said.
Ricardo recognized the voice, though it had been a long time since he’d heard it. “Diego?”
“Ah, you do remember!”
He’d met Diego in Mexico City, where they’d both listened to the stories of Cíbola and joined Coronado’s expedition. Side by side they’d ridden those thousands of miles. They’d both grown skinny and shaggy, and, on their return, Diego had broken away from the party early to seek his own fortune. Ricardo hadn’t seen him since.
“Where have you been? Come into the light, let me look at you!”
A lamp shone over the doorway on the brick building on the corner. Ricardo touched Diego’s shoulder and urged him over. His old compatriot turned, but didn’t move from the spot. Ricardo squinted to see him better. Diego had not changed much in the last decade. If anything, he seemed more robust. He had a brightness to him, a sly smile, as if he had come into some fortune, discovering what the rest of them had failed to attain. His clothing, a leather doublet, breeches, and sturdy boots, were worn but well made. His hair and beard were well kept. He wore a gold ring in one ear and must have seemed dashing.
“You look very well, Diego,” Ricardo said finally.
“And you look tired, my friend.”
“Only because I have ridden fifteen miles today over hard country.”
Diego grimaced. “Yes, playing courier for the garrisons along the road to Mexico City. How do you come to do such hard labor? It’s not fit for one of your station.”
Typical hidalgo attitude. Ricardo was used to the reaction. Smiling, he ducked his gaze. “The work suits me, and it won’t be forever.”
“Hoping to earn your way to a land grant? A silver mine of your very own, with a fine estancia and a well-bred girl from Spain to marry and give you many sons? So you can return to Spain a made man?” Diego spoke with a mocking edge.
“Isn’t that the dream of us all?” Ricardo said, spreading his arms and making a joke of it. He really was that transparent, he supposed. Not dignified enough to lead the life of dissolute nobility like so many others of his class. Too proud and restless to wait for his fortune to find him. But the secret that he told no one was that he didn’t want to leave and take his fortune back to Spain. He had come to love this land, the wide desert spaces, hot sun and cold nights, green valleys ringed by brown mountains. He wanted to be at home here.
Diego stepped close and put a hand on Ricardo’s arm. “I have a better idea. A great opportunity. I was hoping to find you, because I know no one as honest and deserving as you.”
The schemes to easy wealth were as common in this country as cactus and mountains. Ricardo sounded skeptical. “You have found some secret silver lode, is that it? You need someone in the government to push through the claim, and you’ll give me a percentage.”
Diego’s smile thinned. “There is a village a day’s ride away, deep in the western hills. The land is rich, and the natives are agreeable. A Franciscan has started a church there, but he needs men to lead. To make their mark upon the land.” He pressed a folded square of paper into Ricardo’s hand. A map, directions. “You are a good, honest man, Ricardo. Come and help us make a respectable town out of this place. And reap the rewards for doing so.”
Such a village should have fallen under the Governor of Zacatecas’ jurisdiction. Ricardo would have heard of a priest in that region. Something wasn’t right.
“I still dream of gold, Ricardo,” Diego said. “Do you?”
“The Cities of Gold never existed.”
“Not as a place. But as a symbol—this whole continent is a Cíbola, waiting for us to claim it.”
“Just as we did the last time?” Ricardo said, scowling.
“But you’ll come to this village. I’ll wait for you.”
Diego patted Ricardo on the shoulder, then slipped back into shadows. Ricardo didn’t even hear him go. Thoughtful, worried, Ricardo made his way to the fort for the evening.
Ricardo followed Diego’s map into the hills, not because he was lured by the promise of easy wealt
h, but because he wanted to discover what was wrong with the story.
The day was hot, and he traveled slowly, keeping to shade when he could and resting his horse by dismounting and climbing up steep hills alongside it. He followed the ridge of mountains and hoped he had not lost the way.
Then he climbed a rise that opened into a valley, as Diego had described. A large pond, probably filled by a spring, provided water, and fruit trees grew thickly. A meadow covered the valley floor, and Ricardo could imagine sheep or goats grazing here, or crops growing. Much could be done with land like this.
A small village sat a hundred yards or so from the pond. The Franciscan’s church was little more than a square cottage made of adobe brick, with a narrow tower. Wood and grass-thatched huts gathered around a dusty square.
No people were visible, no hearth fires burned. Not so much as a chicken scratched in the dirt. Four horses grazed in the meadow beyond the village. They glanced at Ricardo, then continued grazing. Riding into the village, he shouted a hail, which fell flat, as if the empty settlement absorbed sound. Dismounting, he left his horse by a trough that was dry.
A smarter man might have traveled with a troop of guards, or at least servants to ease his way. He had thought it easier to travel alone, learn what he could, and return as quickly as possible to report this to the Governor. Now, the skin of his neck crawled, and he wondered if he might need a squad of soldiers before the day was through. He kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, slung on his belt.
He went into the chapel.
The place might have been new. A few benches lined up before a simple altar. The wood was freshly cut, but they seemed to have been poorly built: rickety legs slotted into flat boards. Those seated would have to be careful if they didn’t want to tumble to the dirt floor.
In front, the wood altar was bare, without even a cloth to cover it. No cross hung on the wall. The place had the sickly beeswax candle smell that imbued churches everywhere. At least that much was familiar. Nothing else was. He almost hoped to find signs of violence, because then he’d have some idea of what had happened here. But this . . . nothing . . . was inexplicable.
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