If he could have gone inside the consecrated church to hear Mass, he would have. But he could not, so he stood here and hoped it was enough. Every Christmas when the weather was fair and there were no other obstacles, he came to hear the choir and pray to the stars. Perhaps it was a risk. Perhaps one of these years he would be caught outside at dawn, or someone in the town would discover that he was a monster and destroy him. Some years he considered not coming, even when the sky was clear and the road was easy. But then he’d decide that no, it was Christmas, he should go and hear Mass, even if only as a whisper through stone walls. Every time, when he heard the voices converging in such heartfelt praise that his eyes watered with joy and pain, he was glad he came. If he could put those voices in a bottle and carry them with him forever, the world would not seem so ill a place.
He left before the Mass ended, before congregants streamed out of the church. He wouldn’t have to speak to anyone, to explain why he didn’t go inside like a good Christian man. He adjusted his cloak more firmly over his shoulders out of habit, not because he was cold. He was never cold anymore.
He was halfway to the respectable inn—with shutters and substantial curtains over the windows—where he had taken a room for the day, when a prickling feeling on the back of his neck stopped him. This wasn’t cold, it wasn’t fear. It pressed against him from the outside rather than welling up from within. This wasn’t even the feeling you got while walking alone at night, wondering if a thief trailed you.
To add to the strangeness—he had felt this before, an alien presence like a hand on his shoulder. But that had been almost a hundred years ago. Had Fray Juan and his demons returned? Impossible. Ricardo had destroyed them, turned them to dust when he drove stakes through all their hearts. They could not return. He was all that
was left of their evil, and every day he tried to atone, determined toprove that his good true nature still remained. That he still had his soul.
His mind rather than his eyes turned toward the impossible presence he felt, and he moved to face the danger.
A very fine gentleman stepped out of the shadows. He wore brocade slops and doublet in deep blue and gold, an intricate lace collar, and a plumed hat. He smiled through a neatly trimmed beard and mustache and rested his hand on the hilt of a rapier hanging on his belt. With his leg forward and ankle turned, his shoulders straight, he might have been a painting come to life. Ricardo had a sword under his cloak but he didn’t reach for it. It wouldn’t do much good. Now, what did this monster want?
“Buenas noches,” the fine gentleman said.
“Buenas noches,” Ricardo agreed, making a slight bow.
The man’s amusement was a mask. The tension of his body, his hand on the sword, said that he was at least uncertain, if not worried. “I confess, my friend, I did not expect to find one such as you out on this fine night.”
“Nor I you,” Ricardo said. He was not as well dressed as the man—his doublet was only wool, though fine wool, and his boots were worn. But he was home, and that gave him some advantage. He could be at ease and thereby show some little superiority. “Please pardon me, but I am very surprised to see you. I have many questions.”
The gentleman had no heartbeat. The air around him seemed chilled, and he moved with devilish calm. One of the demons for certain.
The demon’s uncertainty grew. “As do I. Señor, you seem gentlemanly, so do not take this the wrong way, but you—you should not be here.”
“This has been my home for a very long time.”
The man’s consternation grew. “I believe that isn’t possible.”
Ricardo chuckled; he couldn’t help it. “As you see, it is. I have said something to upset you—perhaps we should go to some quiet place where we can talk? We can share our stories.”
“I ask again, who are you?” The stranger would draw the sword in a moment.
“I am Don Ricardo de Avila, sir.”
“And what Master do you serve?”
“I—I do not understand.”
“It is a simple question. You do not appear powerful enough to be a Master yourself, you have no offspring you have made attending you. Are you saying that you are here alone?”
Wary, Ricardo recognized the pieces of a puzzle but could not fit them together. “Yes, that is just what I’m saying.”
The gentleman marched forward, and Ricardo used all his will to stand his ground, not to reach for his sword. That chill he felt in the back of his mind was focused now—it was a sixth sense telling what this man was. He knew not to look into the man’s eyes—his gaze held power. He knew, somehow, that the gentleman was not nearly as old as Fray Juan had been. Face to face they stood, studying one another, heedless that others now passed on the street, folk leaving the cathedral and calling greetings to one another.
He merely studied Ricardo and did not strike. His hands relaxed. “Yes, perhaps we should go somewhere to talk. You know a place?”
“You still have not told me who you are.”
“I am Eduardo Montes y Contada of the House Catalina.”
“And what is House Catalina?”
“Do you know nothing?”
“It would seem not.” He did not appreciate being made to feel like a child by this man. But perhaps he was a child among demons.
“Then let us go inside to try to solve this mystery, hm?”