The wolf howl came again, joined by a second, and a third. A chorus that sounded like a battle cry.
“How do we stop them?” Lucinda asked.
“I have an idea—”
Diego said, “The strength of the Lord our God will be enough to save us, if we all pray together—”
They didn’t have time for this. “Padre, yes, the Lord our God is strong, I don’t dispute this. But believe me when I say that it won’t be enough. And I need your help. Will you help?”
“I . . . I . . .”
Ricardo went on. “Some of these demons cannot enter consecrated spaces. Churches are forbidden to them. Can you consecrate as much of the city as you can? You see, a simple thing, it will not taint your soul at all. It is God’s work. Start at the plaza, the church. Work your way out. Protect as much space as you can—but keep some of the streets clear. Here.” He found a stick, a patch of ground, began scratching out a map of the plaza and the surrounding area. “This stretch here.” He pointed out the main road leading out of town, and the branch that led to the plaza in one direction and the western foothills in the other. “Keep this space unconsecrated, profane. Do you understand?”
“Because by keeping this road clear . . . you’ll funnel our enemies to the space you control. A bottleneck.”
“Exactly!”
“This will keep us safe,” he said wonderingly. “But you—”
“Don’t worry about me,” Ricardo said and then explained it all again to John in Apache.
“This won’t stop the wolf men,” John said.
“That’s where I need you and Lucinda to help. Every protection spell you know, every charm and incantation, every talisman and totem. Bring them all. Everyone you know who practices such magic, get their help. Surround the city if you can.” And again in Spanish for Lucinda and the others. He tried to be patient. He was losing words, mixing languages. He had to be clear.
“It’s blasphemy—” the priest started, and Ricardo glared.
“We need all the help we can get—”
“Ricardo! Ricardo de Avila, I need to speak with you! If the mistress of the house won’t invite me in, you must come out here!” Elinor was shouting from outside the courtyard wall.
“If you’ll excuse me a moment,” he said, bowing slightly, and went to the gate to look out. She stood in the street, again surrounded by her entourage. The poor young man she had sent to spy on him was there, looking ruffled.
They smelled of blood, a tangy-sweet aura that clung to them, though their clothing was clean, though they had sucked every drop of it off their teeth. Ricardo’s muscles clenched, his nerves fired. He yearned toward that smell, swayed on his feet for just a second. But that was too much. Showed too much weakness. He was determined to hold himself strong, to stay within the protection of Imelda’s house as he glared out.
“Buenas noches, Elinor,” he said.
“Ricardo. I understand you’ve had a busy night.”
“Indeed, and it keeps getting busier. What do you want?”
“You’ve met the werewolves. They belong to Dux Bellorum. They are only one group of his many minions. They are all converging here. If you stay, you will have to choose to join either him or me. I think you would prefer me.”
“You only say that because you need my help.”
She acknowledged him with a slight nod. “I can certainly use your help, but I will get along without it. You need me, Ricardo.”
“Oh no. I cannot let you have a foothold in the city, Doña Elinor. I am the Master of Santa Fe. I’m declaring myself so right now.”
“You can’t just declare yourself Master of a city, Ricardo,” the Abbot said.
“That’s exactly what Elinor said. And well, I didn’t know that. I’m still not entirely sure what’s involved in becoming Master of a city. I know there’s the whole business of challenging and killing an existing Master and draining his or her blood. But surely there was a first Master of the first city. That would have been what—the Master of Uruk? Was there a Master vampire of Uruk?”
“It’s not generally believed so, no.”
“And there must have been a first Master of every city that has a Master. Who decided? They didn’t spring into existence when the cities all came into existence, did they? I imagine they are made like the cities themselves. Santa Fe used to be little more than a way station for travelers. The same with Denver, El Paso, in all of them there must have been a point where a vampire arrived and decided they liked it enough to call it theirs, and—why are you looking at me like that?”
The Abbot frowned. Drew an obvious breath to be able to speak. “I thought once I met you, your story would become more clear. It has not.”