The rest of us. The natives, the settlers, the medicine men, the curanderos and curanderas. All the traditions that had grown up without the rule of vampires lurking beneath them. He was the only vampire in this part of the world. At least he’d thought so.
“The Families are moving into Santa Fe,” Ricardo said. “Is that it? The Santa Fe Trail, the migration from America—it’s opening territory to them that hasn’t been available before.” There hadn’t been enough people in the West, concentrated in enough cities, to support more than a few solitary vampires. That was changing. This man had felt it. Ricardo—he hadn’t wanted to admit it.
“So you do understand,” the medicine man said. “The stories of El Conquistador say you are a monster but that you help people. I thought you’d like some warning of what’s coming. So you can help.”
“Dammit,” Ricardo muttered and scrubbed his scalp, mussing his hair.
“What did he say?” Lucinda asked in Spanish.
“He suspects the whole region is about to be overrun with demons like me, and he expects me to do something about it.”
She thought for a moment, then said, “And will you?”
“I can’t protect my own friends, much less the town, or the whole territory,” Ricardo replied in Spanish, then said the same in Apache.
John seemed unsympathetic. “At least you have some warning now. We didn’t have any warning, the first time you came here.”
“You mean ‘you’ as in ‘you people.’ Not me personally.”
“You’re called El Conquistador for a reason, aren’t you?”
What exactly did the people telling these stories think they knew about him? That first expedition had been an army with swords and arquebuses, totally mundane weapons. No—wholly supernatural to a people who didn’t have forged steel and gunpowder. A troop of vampires might be less frightening. Stopping them wasn’t impossible. Just difficult.
Ricardo gazed skyward. “So what, I need to start teaching everyone how exactly to kill me?” He ought to leave. He was supposed to be riding to Bent’s Fort by now, with Juanito. This wasn’t his responsibility.
John looked out over the courtyard’s low wall. “Someone’s coming.”
Ricardo felt it the next moment: a chill, a tension in the air like lightning about to strike. No, not this, not now. He didn’t want to deal with it. It had been decades since he’d chanced upon another demon like himself, another vampire. New Orleans, back in 1790. There had been far too many vampires in New Orleans, and they had all wanted to see him, to speak with him, as if he was some kind of legend. El Conquistador, who had been in the Americas a century longer than any other of their kind. Ricardo had explained himself as little as possible and then left. Vampires were exhausting.
“They’re here,” he said to John. Then in Spanish, “Lucinda, don’t let anyone in the house. If anyone comes here wanting to be invited in—do not invite them. Not anyone. Keep everyone inside. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but—”
Ricardo went out into the street, tracking the chill that spiked the air.
Imelda’s house was a few streets away from the plaza, but the main road leading to the center of town ran close by, and it was here Ricardo encountered a troop of twelve men on horseback. Five of them were vampires, the rest human, leading packhorses, carrying weapons. They were dusty, sweaty, as if they had been on a long journey.
Standing in the middle of the road, Ricardo waited. They must have sensed him. Would they be surprised? The troop came to a shuffling, disorganized stop. Yes, they were surprised. Hands tightened on reins, touched weapons.
“Who are you?” the leader of the troop called. A woman. One of the other riders had a crossbow in hand, a wooden bolt loaded. Ah yes, he would be careful.
“I am Ricardo de Avila,” he said.
“Ricardo? Dios, you’re still alive?” She dismounted. The woman wore trousers and a buckskin jacket. Her thick hair was tied back in a tail and tucked under a bowler cap.
Ricardo stared. “Elinor?” She was a beautiful woman, and he’d admired her the first time they met. Two hundred years ago was it? That seemed outrageous, but here they were.
“Elinor was alone?” The Abbot interrupted, again. Rick was more than willing to tell his story, but he wanted to get it over with. This was taking much longer than it needed.
“No, she had an entourage, a few younger vampires, lieutenants and such, human servants. People like her are never alone.”
“Anyone of note? Anyone older than her?” he asked, with an urgency that seemed out of place. This had happened almost two hundred years ago. What could it matter now?
“No, no one. At least not that I could tell. They all deferred to her. What are you trying to learn, Sir Abbot? What mystery about me are you trying to solve with these questions?”
“I’m only trying to draw out the complete story—”
“No. Then you would simply let me tell it. This is more. If you just tell me what you need to know—”