“Let me make you a different offer. I can offer you life. Make you human again.”
Ricardo froze. The thought rattled in his skull a moment. Life. Warmth. To make his own blood, his own heat. To see the sun again. To have the life that had been stolen . . . Could de Luz turn back time? Could he send young Ricardo de Avila back to Spain, with everything he knew now so that he could choose differently?
And would he really choose differently? To forget all that he had seen. Everyone that he had met. God has a plan for me, he used to tell himself. God has meant for this to happen. Inadequate comfort, and these days he was fairly c
ertain God didn’t concern himself with the lives of lone naive Spaniards.
“Don Ricardo?” de Luz prompted.
“Who are you that you would have such power? I’ve never met anyone who could do this thing.”
He shrugged. “I’m just someone who makes deals.”
“And what price do you ask for this astonishing thing you offer?”
“I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement.”
Chuckling, Ricardo said, “Oh no, this is the same deal as the first. I become yours, for you to do with as you see fit. We’re back where we started, señor. That life is no life at all. Buenas noches.” He started to walk away.
The man called after him. “One last offer, and this is the last. Your friend, Juan. Juanito. He is dying. I can offer him life. Without the price that you have paid. That’s why you haven’t offered to turn him yourself, yes? You could walk into that house right now and save your best friend’s life. But you don’t.”
“This isn’t life, it’s a curse.”
“Be that as it may. But there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, as they say.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“I can offer your friend life. I can heal him.”
Ricardo would take nothing for himself. But for Juanito? He clenched his fist. He would give himself to this man to save Juanito. It would be easy.
“What did you tell him?” the Abbot said. “Did you accept his offer? It’s very, very important. Did you accept?”
“Why is this so important?” Rick was growing angry.
“Who do you think this man was, Ricardo? What did you think of him, standing there in Santa Fe almost two hundred years ago?”
“I thought he was a trickster. A magician. A con man. He liked theatrics. Maybe he could really help Juanito, maybe he couldn’t, but I didn’t trust him.”
“And what did you say to him, when he made you this offer?”
“Abbot. Who was de Luz?” Ricardo demanded. “Who is Lightman?”
The Abbot’s gaze turned to the Scribe. Rick implored the figure at the lectern, who nodded and recited from a work that was not as old as Rick but still told an ancient story, “‘. . . what time his pride had cast him out from heav’n, with all his host of rebel angels, by whose aid aspiring to set himself in glory above his peers, he trusted to have equaled the Most High . . .’”
Ricardo blinked. “You can’t be serious.”
“The War in Heaven never ended,” the Abbot said. “We fight it still. So you must tell me by all that is holy on earth and in every realm beyond, when the Devil stood before you at the crossroad and made you an offer, did you accept?”
For just a moment, the bottom dropped out of Ricardo’s world. The ground tipped, his head swam. It was like learning years later that the ship you were supposed to have been on but weren’t sank, killing all on board. Like leaving San Francisco right before the earthquake. He had not known the danger. If he had, it would have destroyed him on the spot.
Then, he laughed. He laughed so hard he doubled over a cramping stomach and fell out of the chair. He settled on the floor, wiping tears streaming from his eyes. And then he lifted his gaze to the soaring ceiling and gave thanks to God.
“What’s so funny?” the Abbot asked. “This is serious.” The Scribe stared, even through the blindfold. The pen was still.
“Abbot. Don’t you understand what this means? This . . . this is wonderful.”
“I don’t understand.”