The Immortal Conquistador (Kitty Norville 15)

“It does, doesn’t it? I often find that the case where magic and demons are concerned. Go, look after each other, and be careful.”

The pair went into the night. Lucinda and Imelda were next.

“I do not like sending you out into the dark,” Ricardo said, sighing at the pair of them.

“Stop being all chivalrous,” Lucinda said. “We’ll be fine.”

Imelda nodded. “We know Santa Fe very well, Don Ricardo. We know just what to do.”

“Thank you both so much.” He gripped both their hands, overwhelmed. How had he come to be so fortunate in his friends?

“Until we meet again,” Lucinda said. Shawls wrapped tightly over their heads and around their shoulders, they quickly went out into the street arm in arm, both of them clinging to the large basket of herbs and talismans that the curandera had provided.

He had one more meeting before he went out to do his own work. Back in the house, he sat by the bed in the sickroom. The chair creaked, and the eyes of the man in the bed cracked open.

“Still here?” Juanito said softly, his breath failing him.

“I’m afraid I’ve done something foolish,” Ricardo said.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You remember the story of why I never travel south of El Paso?”

“You angered the demons who live in Ciudad de México. You promised to keep away from them.”

“Yes. Well. One of them has come here. And I . . .”

Juanito chuckled. “This is another fight that you didn’t start but you plan to finish, yes?”

“Just so.”

“I . . . I cannot help you this time, my friend.”

“I know. Except for all the times you already have. What would I do without you, Juanito?” Ricardo said, then wished he hadn’t. He would go on. And on, and on.

“You have many friends. They will always help you, if you let them,” Juanito said, reaching out a shaking hand. Ricardo squeezed it tightly. “Warm,” Juanito said, chuckling. “You let them feed you, then. Good.”

“I need it, with what I’m about to do.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

Juanito nodded. His eyes closed. Ricardo watched the worn shirt, waiting for the rise and fall of breathing. And yes, it came, though shallowly. Ricardo must win this battle so that his friend could die in peace, if nothing else.

He found a spear leaning by the courtyard gate, what looked like the handle of a broom with a rough blade of beaten silver strapped to one end. John had already delivered the first of the weapons.

He was no longer exhausted. In fact, he thought he might be able to fly. Spread his arms like wings and let himself float away . . . he had heard stories that some vampires could fly. Perhaps he had to age a few more centuries before gaining that power. Right now, though, he could run. He could taste currents of air around him, the ancient stone mountains to the west, the desert heat from the east, and the hint of blood from the thousands of souls living in the town. If he was very still, he could hear their hearts,follow the pounding of each living drum to his prey—

Now those were not his prey. He watched, listened, tasted the air, and found the musky, distinctive scent of the wolf men. Half skin, half fur; steel and wild. Howls with the hint of human words behind them, or words that might turn into howling. They were all through the city, running and hunting.

He found two of them approaching the plaza. One walked as a man, one as a wolf. The man carried a pistol and a wooden spear. Ricardo held back, admiring the striking image the pair made: a hardened gunman with his oversized wolf companion, who nevertheless gazed with knowing eyes. The wolf was the lookout, ears up, tail straight out, nose working hard. Likely, he could smell vampire. Ricardo stayed downwind. When the pair paused at the intersection between one street and the next, he ran fast.

They might have heard a whistle in the air before they saw him, the wind of his passage, racing faster than anyone ought to be able to. He struck the man first, coming from behind, not really caring about honor and fair fights, not on a night like this. A thin strip of bare neck, white skin, shone between the collar of his coat and the fringe of his hair. Ricardo stabbed here with the silver; his unworldly strength drove the makeshift blade through skin. Blood sprayed. The man cried out and fell to his knees, which surprised Ricardo;

the wound wasn’t deep. He’d meant to go for the front of his throat, not the back.

The wolf was on Ricardo in the next moment, leaping, jaws closing over the wrist that held his weapon. Teeth tore into his skin; he dropped the silver. Growling, slavering, the wolf used all his weight and claws to shove Ricardo to the ground. Ricardo dug his hands into the creature’s fur and heaved. Drawing on all the considerable strength of his borrowed blood, he managed to throw the creature back. The wolf let out a whimper, scuttled back to his feet.