The Immortal Conquistador

by Carrie Vaughn

  The man, a stony look in his dark eyes, dark hair curling around his ears, had a wooden stake. From a distance the long pole carried at his side looked like a rapier blade, but it was made to kill vampires. He was stealthy, quiet. He kept to the same shape as the shadows around him. But he was not as old or as strong as Ricardo.

  Ricardo had heard stories that vampires could disappear, travel as mist, turn into bats, appear out of thin air. In truth, he simply moved very, very quickly, and so silently that no hunting dog would sense him. He didn’t go far—he wanted his tracker to stay where he was, to think he still had Ricardo in his sights. At the house next door, Ricardo found what he was looking for in a pile of firewood. A broken stick, with enough of a sharp end to be a threat. He wouldn’t have to make noise by breaking it. Moving like the night air itself, he slipped out of the house’s yard, up the street, and put the man in his sights.

  Elinor should have known better, sending just one man against him. He paused, searched again, sensing for that particular chill in the air, and yes, it was just the one man. Elinor and the others had moved away. With his target squarely in sight, Ricardo rushed from the wall to the stand of trees where the man waited, slipping behind him before he recognized the danger. He planted the sharp end of the stake at his back and murmured close to his ear.

  “Does Elinor think so little of me that she only sent you, or does she think so little of you that she would sacrifice you?”

  The man flinched and stiffened, as if the stake had already gone through him. Ricardo only held it there, so if the man tried to move he would impale himself.

  “I swear I was only sent to watch you, to see where you went and who you spoke with. I swear!”

  “Your weapon is in your hand as if you mean to use it.”

  “It’s dangerous here!”

  “Indeed.”

  “Please señor, I was only sent to watch, I promise.”

  “And perhaps kill me if you saw the opportunity?” The man might have whimpered a little. “Tell Elinor to leave me alone. Understand?” He poked the stick a little harder. Not enough to break through the wool of his jacket. But enough to make him nervous.

  “Yes . . . yes, señor.”

  “Good.” Ricardo stepped back, let the man turn to face him. He was young, handsome. Just a boy. He probably thought he was so strong, so powerful. “You should go back to Elinor. Don’t follow me, yes?”

  He nodded quickly. Licked his lips. “Is . . . is it true that you rode with Coronado? That you were the first vampire in all of Mexico?”

  Ricardo sighed, looked heavenward. “Yes, I rode with Coronado. No, I was not the first. I killed the first. Remember that.”

  He shoved him, and the man ran but pulled up short. He had sensed what Ricardo had in the same moment, a new presence approaching. This was different than the vampires’ chill; it was dark and carried the charge of violence. Ricardo didn’t recognize it.

  “What is that?” Ricardo said.

  The man’s gaze went wide, trembling. His body seemed like it might break with tension. “Dux Bellorum, he is here!”

  “No, this isn’t a vampire, it’s different. Listen!” Ricardo jogged out to the middle of the street to see.

  A streak of movement caught his eye, something low and fast. He narrowed his gaze, focused, but it was gone. Then came another following the first, a low, furry creature running across the road some distance ahead. Ricardo got a decent look when it stopped and glanced back at him: a wolf, huge, bulky, gray-and-black fur bristling all over. Its open mouth showed large, yellowing teeth. Their gazes met, just for a moment, before the creature dashed off.

  “Wolf men,” his erstwhile companion said. Still afraid. “Dux Bellorum’s army. I must go warn Doña Elinor.” He vanished in speed and shadow, leaving Ricardo with whatever approached.

  Wolf men?

  “This was the first time you’d encountered werewolves, then?” the Abbot asked.

  “European-derived werewolves, yes. The native peoples have magicians, shape-shifters, skin-walkers, other sorts of wolf folk and creatures. They’re not the same things.”

  “Are the European sort more or less dangerous?”

  “Yes,” Rick said, his smile sly. “May I continue?”

  “Please.”

  Ricardo had left his pistol back at the inn. Not that he was sure it would do him any good. What were these wolf men? More important, what stopped them?

  The two wolves were the advance guard for a gang of horsemen who followed. The road under his feet shook with the approaching thunder of hoofbeats, a disconcerting sound in the middle of the night, especially since it was the second such encounter. Ricardo waited.

  Eight horses crowded in, wearing saddlebags packed for a journey, and eight riders done up with hats, dusters, boots, pistols and rifles, for a long ride where they might find trouble. The horses were nervous, tossing their heads, their ears pinned back. All of them unhappy and showing it, stamping and dancing, doing small battle with their riders at every step, and the riders yanking on the reins and sitting back hard, trying to ride through it. The horses were sweating, spooked. Horses and wolves generally didn’t get along, and these were being forced to. That was what it looked like to Ricardo.

  The lead rider spotted him, reined his horse back, and his company followed suit. A quiet standoff ensued as they regarded each other. Ricardo hadn’t even put his coat on when he left the house. He was in shirtsleeves, in the same trousers he’d been wearing all week. At least he had his boots on. He tried to stand at ease, wearing a friendly smile, as if he greeted friends. Trusted that he’d be able to dodge if they tried to kill him.

  The two large wolves settled on the side of the street, a bit behind him—he had to turn his head to get a good look at them. The creatures glared, hackles stiff.

  Ricardo looked each of the men over. A couple of gringos, the others of indeterminate mixed race. The white man who rode in front dressed finely, with a burgundy vest and long duster, a thick ring on the hand that rested on his thigh. He must have been the leader.

  “Buenas noches, señores,” Ricardo said.

  The leader laughed, but the sound was forced, uncertain. “Who are you?” His English was flat American.

  “Just a traveler passing through. I’m not looking for trouble.” In those days, he spoke English with a thick Spanish accent. The language tasted awkward to him.

  “Pete, he’s a vampire,” one of the other riders hissed.

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “He’s not one of ours!”

  “Shut up!”

  Amused, Ricardo said, “This is an unusual company to be traveling through this region.”

  “Is it, now? Might say the same for you.”

  “I expect so.”

  “Boss’ll want to talk to him,” the chatty one said.

  “Quiet!”

  “Pete, is it?” Ricardo said. “What is it you mean to do here in Santa Fe?”

  “Stick around, you’ll find out.”

  “And where is this . . . boss of yours?” Was this who Elinor warned him about? Dux Bellorum?

  “Come with us. We’ll take you to him.” The leer on his face was wolfish.

  “No. If he wants to speak with me, he’ll come find me.”

  Pete narrowed his gaze, considering. “You’re El Conquistador, aren’t you? Heard stories.”

  Why was it everyone had heard these stories but him? “That’s very flattering.”

  “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.

  “Santa Fe is at a crossroads,” he sighed. “But that isn’t important right now. How are you?” He put a hand on his friend’s arm.

  “I’m dying.”

  Ricardo bowed his head, almost so his chin touched his chest. “I wish you wouldn’t say that.”

  “But it’s true. You can’t help me. But all these people? Whatever is happening in this town? Help them.”

  He supposed he could take it as the man’s dying wish.

  Ever since he’d been cursed, he’d known the world was filled with strangeness and terrors. He had tried to live a good life despite it all. Not let the power overcome him. And certainly not let anyone who desired such power use him. Now the battle had come to him.

  He had an idea.

  “I will need all your help,” he said to the others in the room. “Let us go out to the courtyard to talk. Juanito, I’ll be back soon.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Imelda, Lucinda, and Father Diego followed him to the courtyard, where John was standing, looking out over the wall. The priest clutched his beads even more tightly; his hands were shaking.

  “Señor,” Diego said. “You have been shot, you should lie down, the señora should tend your wound—”

  “You see, Padre, I’m no longer even bleeding.” Ricardo tugged at the ruined corner of his shirt, the single hole only marked with a spattering of blood. He should have been drenched, but he no longer even felt pain.

  “¡Dios!” Diego quickly backed away, crossed himself so fast his hand seemed to tangle with itself. He ran into the courtyard wall.

  “You see, there are worse things than healer women,” Ricardo murmured.

  “What are you?” the priest cried out.

  John seemed amused and looked the priest up and down as if he found the man wanting. “He’s called El Conquistador. He’s lived three hundred years. A monster of the dark. But he has many friends, so who’s to say what he is?”

  They were all staring at Ricardo now. One thing to say he was some indeterminate and perhaps inconsequential demon. Another thing to have it laid out so clearly.

  “He pays the rent in advance,” Imelda said, shrugging, as if the practical consideration stood for all.

  “Shh,” the Navajo man said. “Hear that?”

  A howling voice filled the night—the piercing, drawn-out call of a wolf. Then another, and another. All from different directions, as if they surrounded the plaza.

  “Wolves in the city?” Father Diego said. “I’ve never heard them so close.”

  “They’re not wolves, not really,” Ricardo said.

  “What is happening?” Lucinda demanded, her hands laced over her belly.

  “The demons have come to Santa Fe, Father. All those stories that the priests frightened us with when we were children—they’re all of them true.”

  “And you’re one of them! If demons are in Santa Fe, it’s because you have brought them!”

  “Oh, there’s so much worse than I in the world,” Ricardo said. “Men who are wolves, women who drink blood, beings who can’t be killed, who come out at night—they are here in Santa Fe and preparing to do battle.” And what awful timing for Ricardo to be here in the middle of it. He sometimes felt he had spent most of his three hundred years fleeing from these battles, and now they were catching up to him.<
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  Imelda was praying audibly now. Lucinda was also praying, words that flowed like a chant, and she sprinkled herbs from a pocket in her dress all around the courtyard.

  “And you would save us from these monsters?” Diego said, voice edging to panic. “You cannot! You are cursed! You have no soul, you are damned!”

  “Yes. Probably. My soul was taken from me through no fault of my own. What of that? What of God’s forgiveness, then? If I have no soul, if I am already damned, then what is left to me but my choices? So I choose to do good and hope for salvation no matter how hopeless it seems. Would you have me do otherwise, Father Diego? Would you hear my confession now and take it as I offer it, in earnest?” If a demon repents, does one believe it? Ricardo didn’t need Diego to trust him. Just . . . not interfere.

  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?”