Rick leaned back against the screen, stretched out his legs. He felt drunk. He felt amazing. He pointed at the Abbot. “You’re telling me I stood on the crossroads with the Devil, who offered to make me a deal. What does the Devil trade in? What would I sell to take his offer?”
“Your soul.”
He slapped the stone floor. “Which means I still have one. I still have my soul, and God still listens to me. My prayers are still good. For centuries everyone has tried to tell me I have no soul, that being made a vampire destroyed my soul. And yet the Devil stood there trying to buy it.” He laughed again. “I have my soul!”
The Abbot stared. “Then you told him no?”
Rick sighed. He’d been gasping, to take in enough air for that laugh. He was wrung out and high, all at the same time. “Yes, Abbot. I told him no. Praise be to God.”
Ricardo could give away himself to save Juanito—and Juanito would not thank him for it. Juanito would never speak to him again, in fact. Perhaps . . . perhaps he should leave his friend’s fate to God. Maybe a better life really did await him.
“No,” Ricardo said softly.
“No?” De Luz stared at him. “No? Just like that?”
“Just like that. I know better than anyone that death is not the end. Adios, Señor de Luz. I have things I must attend to.”
“You’re just one man,” de Luz said. Ricardo kept walking. “Someone else will use you as a pawn. Someday you won’t be able to walk away!”
Ricardo waved over his shoulder and turned the corner. Not sure where else he ought to go, he headed back to Imelda’s house. In fact, this was the only way he could go. The whole city was protected, its streets consecrated with burning incense, tin milagros nailed on doors and gates, Zuni fetish carvings, paintings made with sand, a dozen other various totems and charms from a dozen different traditions. Voices in several languages were singing in the plaza, clashing with one another but at this distance sounding like a dream. No sounds of battle at all.
Elinor was waiting at the gate to the courtyard, leaning on the wall, her arms crossed, a wry look on her face. Like she had no opinion on the matter of the night’s events.
“I was wondering when I’d see you again,” Ricardo said. “How are you?”
“I can’t get into Santa Fe. I don’t know what you did, but it worked.”
“I told you, I am Master here.” He winked. “If it’s any consolation, your enemy cannot enter the town either.”
“I suppose it’ll have to be. What did you do?”
“I asked for help. Elinor—” He didn’t know quite how to warn her. With the sky turning gray, the light of dawn tugging at him, he wasn’t sure the encounter had even happened. “I don’t know anything about this Dux Bellorum, and I hope not to. But you should know that he isn’t alone. There are other powers around him. I don’t like it.”
“Well, one villain at a time, I think. Goodbye, Ricardo. I must go report what happened here. One way or another . . .”
“What will you tell your Mistress about me?”
She shook her head wryly. “I will not tell anyone anything. They will not believe me. But at least now you will stay in one place for a while, and I will know where to find you.”
Ricardo wasn’t sure about that. He could call himself Master, but . . . he wasn’t sure that Santa Fe needed one, not after tonight. His travels beckoned. “I don’t know. I have stopped trying to predict anything.”
“You could be a king. Do you realize how much power you’ve gathered?”
He did not. He did not want to know. “The kings all seem to have so much to worry about.”
“Good night.” She tossed a haphazard bow, took a step—and then ran, with a burst of speed that turned her into shadow. She was gone. He went into the house, to Juanito’s room.
They were all there—Imelda, Lucinda, John, and Father Diego—each praying in his or her own way, hands clasped and heads bent. And Juanito lay on the bed, too still, too cold. Ricardo was too late; he’d missed it. Dead, the man looked twenty years older, his flesh hanging in folds, gray and lifeless. His hair seemed to have become translucent. Sleeping eyes had movement to them, the hint of dreaming. But he was so, so still. Sunken into the blankets. Dead.
De Luz. De Luz had killed him, when Ricardo refused his offer—
No. This had been coming for days. Slowly, he came to the side of the bed, knelt down, and rested his elbows on the mattress, put his face in his hands. I’m sorry
, I’m sorry, Juan. I cannot save anyone.
A hand touched his shoulder, a gentle pressure. Imelda. Ricardo clasped it, grateful for the contact. Her skin was burning compared to his, as cold as Juan’s. As dead as he was.
“His passing was easy,” she said softly. “He went to sleep and sighed, and God carried him away.”