“I think you should come with us.” This was spoken with the inflection of a threat. It seemed Ricardo’s reputation made him a challenge. A trophy.
“I will not.”
The leader of the wolf men drew and fired the pistol from his belt in almost the same motion.
The impact hit Ricardo’s right shoulder, and he stumbled back.
The wolves sprang next, from both sides.
Pain seared through his shoulder, but Ricardo put that aside for now and moved with all the speed
and power of his cursed existence. The wolves were supernatural as well, stronger and faster than they looked. But not like him. He became shadow. Time slowed, and his attackers became sluggish to his eyes. He expected them, knew where they would be, could step around them as easily as moving around furniture. To them, he would have become a blur. They’d lose sight of him. The darker one came at him first, from his right. Before they could track his movements, Ricardo pivoted, then again, getting behind the dark wolf, grabbing him under a foreleg, hauling up—and throwing.
The other had likely hoped to flank him, pen him in while the other pinned him and mauled. Then their master would come and drain his blood, taking all those centuries of power for himself. This did not happen.
Ricardo slammed the first wolf to the ground. The second yelped and scrambled back to get out of his partner’s way, but Ricardo had already moved again, so fast the air felt warm against his skin, and he grabbed this second wolf by the scruff of his neck. No more difficult than taking hold of a large puppy. Baring his teeth, Ricardo reveled in the power. He yanked back the wolf’s head, pulling his front half off the ground, immobilizing him. Ricardo could break his neck with a twist. Probably wouldn’t kill him, but it would stop him for a while. The wolf’s rib cage pressed against Ricardo’s arms, and the creature gasped for breath. The other had got back on his feet and stood growling but kept his distance. He slammed the second wolf to the ground as well. Yelping, he backed away. Ricardo rubbed his shoulder where the bullet had hit him. Blood spattered the white fabric, but not a lot.
The horses before him shifted, blew out nervous breaths, expressing their riders’ anxiety. All the men had gone still, staring at him. They had not expected this.
Ricardo said, “You might ask yourself how a vampire survives alone for as long as I have before thinking you can destroy him so easily.”
If he had been alone, he could have fought them all. Moved fast as wind, pulled them all from their horses and slammed them to the ground, broken their necks. They were supernatural; this alone might not have killed them. But they’d certainly have been surprised. But Ricardo was not alone, and Juanito was dying in a house a few streets away. Others with Juanito were vulnerable. They were Ricardo’s primary concern. And so he fled. There was shouting as the horses spooked. A wolf howled; Ricardo heard their claws scraping in the dirt as they followed, but he quickly lost them. He took a roundabout route, running along a tangled path of streets and plazas, circling back, ensuring he was not followed, until he approached Imelda’s house. He waited some time, testing the air, making sure he was alone. And he was.
They would likely tell stories about him. More stories.
The waxing moon had not moved all that far across the sky. The adventures with Elinor and the pack of wolf men had not taken more than half an hour. John was still in the courtyard, sitting on the bench, his hands cupped around a mug of steaming drink.
“Is everyone all right?” Ricardo asked urgently. “Has anyone come to the house?”
“Do you know you’ve been shot?” he asked, nodding at the hole in his shirt, spotted with red.
“Yes. Answer my question.”
“A woman came,” John said. “Young, good-looking. She asked to come in and I said no.”
“Good. You were right—the war has already come to Santa Fe. Where is Lucinda?”
“She’s gone to see your friend. He’s not doing well.”
Ricardo nodded and went straight in. When he reached Juanito’s room, he nearly collapsed next to the bed. His vision swam until he paused, collected himself, and focused on his friend.
“What’s that on your shirt?” Lucinda asked. She sat on the other side of the bed, kettle in one hand and cup of steaming infusion in the other. Father Diego sat in the back chair, a wood bead rosary laced around his fingers. Imelda stood at this side, clasping her own rosary tightly.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“You’ve been shot!”
“Everyone says that as if I don’t already know,” Ricardo said, his voice low, threatening. A rage was building in him.
Juanito knew immediately what was wrong. “You’re weak. I told you.” His voice was barely a whisper, and he could no longer raise his head from the pillow. “You need to drink.”
Ricardo had done too much, used too much of his strength. He had already gone several nights without feeding. He was strong, yes, but his power needed blood. His power was hungry.
“Santa Fe has become interesting, you might say,” Ricardo said.
“Oh no,” the ill man sighed.
“What’s wrong?” Lucinda asked. They all looked at Ricardo expectantly.