“Hola!” he called, cringing at his own raised voice. He had the urge to speak in a whisper, if at all.
A door in the back of the chapel opened. A small body in a gray robe looked out. “Who is it?”
A shiver crawled up Ricardo’s spine, as if a ghost had stepped through the wall. He peered at the door, squinting, but the man was hidden in shadow.
“I am Captain Ricardo de Avila. Diego Ruiz asked me to come.”
“Ah, yes! He told me of you.” He straightened, shedding the air of suspicion. “Come inside, let us speak,” the friar said, opening the door a little wider. Ricardo went to the back room as the friar indicated.
Like the chapel, this room had no windows. There was a table with a lit candle on it, several chairs, and a small, dirty portrait of the Blessed Virgin. There was a trapdoor in the floor, with a big iron ring to lift it. Ricardo wondered what was in the cellar.
“Take a seat. I have some wine,” the friar said, going to a cabinet in the corner. “Would you like some?”
“Yes, please.” Ricardo sat in the chair closest to the door.
The friar put one pewter cup on the table, poured from an earthenware jug, and indicated that Ricardo should take it. He took a sip; it was weak, sour. But his mouth was dry, and the liquid helped.
The friar didn’t pour a drink for himself. Sitting on the opposite side of the table, he regarded Ricardo as if they were two men in a plaza tavern, not two dusty, weary colonials in a dark room lit by a candle. The man was pale, as if he spent all his time indoors. His hands, resting on the table, were thin, bony. Under his robes, his entire body might have been skeletal. He had dark hair trimmed in a tonsure and a thin beard. He was a stereotype of a friar who had been relegated to the outer edges of the colony for too long.
“I am Fray Juan,” the man said, spreading his hands. “And this is my village.”
Ricardo couldn’t hide confusion. “Forgive me, Fray Juan, but Señor Ruiz told me this was a rich village. I expected to see farmers and shepherds at work. Women in the courtyard, weaving and grinding corn.”
“Oh, but this is a prosperous village. You must take my word that appearances here aren’t everything.” His lips turned in a smile.
“Then what is going on here?” He had started to make guesses: Fray Juan was smuggling something through the village, he’d failed utterly at converting the natives and putting them to useful work and refused to admit it, or everyone had died of disease. But even then there ought to be some evidence. Bodies, graves, something.
Juan studied him with cold eyes, blue and hard as stones. Ricardo wanted to hold the stare, but something made him glance away. His heart was pounding. He wanted to flee.
The friar said, “You rode with Coronado, didn’t you? The expedition to find Cíbola?”
Surviving that trip at all gave one a certain reputation. “Yes, I did. Along with Ruiz.”
“Even if he hadn’t told me I would have guessed. You have that look. A weariness, like nothing will ever surprise you again.”
Ricardo chuckled. “Is that what it is? Something different than the usual cynicism?”
“I see that you are not a youth, but you are also not an old man. Not old enough to have the usual cynicism. Therefore, you’ve lived through something difficult. You’re the right age for it.”
A restless caballero wandering the northern provinces? He supposed there were a few of that kind. “You’ve changed the subject. Where is Ruiz?”
“He will be here,” Frey Juan said, soothing. “Captain, look at me for a moment.” Ricardo did. Those eyes gleamed in the candlelight until they seemed fill the room. The man was all eyes, shining organs in a face of shadows. “Stay here tonight. It’s almost dusk, far too late to start back for Zacatecas. There are no other settlements within an hour’s ride of here. Take the clean bed in the house next door, sleep tonight, and in the morning you’ll see that all here is well.”
They regarded one another, and Ricardo could never recall what passed through his mind during those moments. The Franciscan wouldn’t lie to him, surely. So all must be well, despite his misgivings.
And Frey Juan was right; Ricardo must stay the night in any case. “When will Ruiz return?”
“Rest, Captain. He’ll be at your side when you wake.”
Ricardo found himself lulled by the friar’s voice. The look in his eyes was very calming.
A moment later, he was sitting at the edge of a rope cot in a house so poorly made he could see through the cracks in the walls. He didn’t remember coming here. Had he been sleepwalking? Was he so weary that a trance had taken him? For all his miles of travel, that had never happened before. He hadn’t eaten supper. He wondered how much of the night had passed.
His horse—He didn’t remember caring for his horse; he’d left the animal tacked up near the trough. That jolted him to awareness. It was the first lesson of this vast country, take care of your horse before yourself, because you’d need the animal if you hoped to survive the great distances between settlements.
Rushing outside, he found his bay mare grazing peacefully, chewing grass around its bit while dragging the reins. He caught the reins, removed the saddle and bridle, rubbed the animal down, and picketed it to a sturdy tree that had access to good grazing, since no cut hay or grain seemed available.
Fully awake now, studying the valley under the light of a three quarters moon, Ricardo’s suspicions renewed. This village was dead. He should have questioned the friar more forcefully about what had happened here. Nothing about this place felt right, and Fray Juan’s calm assurances meant nothing.
Ricardo had reason to doubt the word of a man of God. It was a friar, another man of God, who brought back the story of Cíbola, of a land covered in lush pastures and rich fields, of cities with wealth that made the Aztec Empire seem as dust. Coronado had believed those stories. They all had, until they reached the edge of that vast and rocky wasteland to the north. They had whispered to each other, is this it?
Ricardo de Avila would find Diego Ruiz and learn what had happened here.
The wind spoke strangely here, crackling through cottonwoods, skittering sand across the mud-patched walls of the buildings. In the first hut, where he’d been directed to stay, he found a lantern and lit it using his own flint. With the light, he examined the abandoned village.
If disease had struck, he’d have expected to see graves. If there had been an attack, a raid by some of the untamed native tribes in the mountain, he would have seen signs of violence—shattered pottery, interrupted chores. He’d have found bodies and carrion animals. But there was not so much as a drop of blood shed.
The huts were tidy, dirt floors swept and spread with straw, clay pots empty, water skins dry. The hearths were cold, the coals scattered. He found old bread, wrapped and moldy, and signs that mice had gnawed at sacks of musty grain.
In one of the huts, the blankets of a bed—little more than a straw mat in the corner—had been shoved away, the bed torn apart. It was the first sign of violence rather than abandonment. He picked up the blanket, thinking perhaps to find blood, some sure sign that ill had happened.
A cross dropped away from the folds of the cloth. It had been wrapped and hidden away, unable to protect its owner. The thought saddened him.
Perhaps the villagers had fled. He went out a little ways to try to find tracks, to determine what direction the villagers might have gone. Behind the church, he found a narrow path in the grass, like a shepherd might use leading sheep or goats into the hills. Ricardo followed it. He shuttered the lantern and allowed his vision to adjust to moonlight, to better see into the distance.
He was part way across the valley, the village and its church a hundred paces behind him, when he saw a figure sitting at the foot of a juniper. A piece of clothing, the tail of a shirt perhaps, fluttered in the slight breeze that hushed through the valley.
“Hola,” Ricardo called quietly. He got no answer and approached cautiously, hand on his sword
.
The body of a child, a boy, lay against the tree. Telling his age was impossible because it had desiccated. The skin was blackened and stretched over the bones. His face was gaunt, a leathery mask drawn over a skull, and chipped teeth grinned. Dark pits marked the eye sockets. It might have been part of the roots and branches. Ricardo might have walked right by it and not noticed, if not for the piece of rotted cloth that had moved.
The child had dried out, baked in the desert like pottery. It looked like something ancient. Moreover, he could not tell what had killed it. Perhaps only hunger.
But his instincts told him something terrible had happened here. Fray Juan had to know something of what had killed this boy, and the entire village. Ricardo must find out what, then report this to the Governor, then get word to the Bishop in Mexico City. This land and its people must be brought under proper jurisdiction, if for no other reason than to protect them from people like Fray Juan.
He rushed back to the village, went to the church and marched inside, shouting, “Fray Juan! Talk to me! Tell me what’s happened here! Explain yourself!”
But no one answered. The chapel echoed, and no doors cracked open even a little to greet him. Softly now, he went through the strange decrepit chapel with no cross. The door to the friar’s chamber was unlocked, but the room was empty. Not even a lamp lit. The whole place seemed abandoned. He tried the trapdoor, lifting the iron ring—the door didn’t move. Locked from the other side. He pounded on the door with his boot heel, a useless gesture. So, Fray Juan was hiding. No matter. He’d report to the Governor, and Ricardo would return with a squad to burn the place to the ground to flush the man out. He wouldn’t even wait until daylight to set out. He didn’t want to sleep out the night in this haunted valley.
When he went to retrieve his horse, a man stood in his way.
In the moonlight, he was a shadow, but Ricardo could see the smile on his face: Diego Ruiz.
“Amigo,” he called, his voice light, amused. “You came. I wasn’t sure you would.”
“Diego, what’s happened here? What’s this about?”
“I told you, Ricardo. This land is rich. We are looking for men to help us reap those riches.”
“I see nothing here but a wasted village,” Ricardo said.
A new voice spoke, “You need to see with different eyes.”
Ricardo turned, for the voice had come from behind him. He had not heard the man approach—he must have been hiding in one of the huts. Two more came with him, so that together the four circled Ricardo. He could not flee without confronting them. He turned, looking back and forth, trying to keep them all in view, unwilling to turn his back on any of them.
The four were very much like Ricardo—young men with pure Spanish features, wearing the clothing of gentlemen. Others who had swarmed to New Spain seeking fortunes, failing, and turning dissolute.
Ricardo drew his sword. One of them he could fight. But not four. Not when they had every advantage. How had they taken him by surprise? He should have heard them coming. “You’ve turned bandit. You think to recruit more to run wild with you? No, Diego. I have no reason to join you.”
“You do not have a choice, amigo. I brought you here because we can use a man like you. Someone with connections.”
Ricardo smiled wryly. “No one will pay my ransom.”
They laughed, four caballeros in high spirits. “He thinks we’ll ask for ransom,” another said.
Ricardo swallowed back panic and remained calm. Whatever they planned for him, he would not make it easy. He’d fight.
“Señor, be at ease,” spoke a third. “We won’t hold you for ransom. We have a gift for you.”
Ricardo chuckled. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, yes. We’ll bring you to serve our Master. It’s a great honor.”
“I will not. You all are evil.”
The men did not argue.
They began to circle him, jackals moving close for a kill. They watched him, and their eyes were fire. He had to run, grab his horse and fly from here, warn to the Governor of this madness.
It was madness, for Diego lunged at him, weaponless, with nothing but outstretched arms and a wild leer. Ricardo held out his sword, blade level and unwavering, and Diego skewered himself on the point, through the gut. Ricardo expected him to cry out and fall. He expected to have to fight off the others for killing one of their own. But the other three laughed, and Diego kept smiling.
Ricardo held fast to the grip out of habit. Diego stood, arms spread, displaying what he’d done. No blood ran from the wound.
Ricardo pulled the sword back just as Diego wrenched himself off the blade. Still, the man didn’t make a sound of pain. Didn’t fall. Wasn’t bothered at all. Ricardo resisted an urge to make the sign of the cross. Holy God, what was this?
“This is why we follow Fray Juan,” Diego breathed. “Now, will you join us?”
Ricardo cried out a denial and charged again. These were demons, and he must flee. He crouched, grabbed a handful of dirt with his left hand. If he could not cut them, perhaps he could blind them. He flung it at the man behind him, who must be moving to attack. In the same motion he whirled, slashing with his blade, keeping some distance around him, enough to clear a space so he might reach his horse. He did not wait to see what happened, did not even think. Only acted. Like those old days of battle, fighting the natives with Coronado’s company. That had been a strange, alien world. Like this.
He’d have sworn that his sword met flesh several times, but the men stood firm, unflinching. Ricardo might as well have been a child throwing a tantrum. They closed on him without effort.
Two grabbed his arms, bracing them straight out, holding him still. A third wrenched his sword from him. His captors bent back his arms until his back strained, and presented him to Diego.
Ricardo struggled on principle, with no hope. His boots kicked at the dirt.
Diego regarded him with a look of amusement. He ran a gloved hand along Ricardo’s chin, scraping his rough beard. Ricardo flinched back, but his captors held him steady. “You should know that you never had a chance against us. Perhaps you might take comfort in that fact.”
“I take no comfort,” Ricardo said, his words spitting.
“Good. You will have none.” He opened his mouth. They all opened their mouths and came at him. They had the teeth of wild dogs. Of lions. Sharp teeth meant to rend flesh.
And they began to rend his.
He couldn’t move. He’d been on a very long journey, and his limbs had turned to iron, chilled iron, that had been left out on a winter’s night and was now rimed with frost. That image of himself—stiff flesh mounted on a skeleton of frosted iron, a red body fringed with white—struck him as oddly beautiful. It was an image of death, sunk into his bones. Memory recalled the ambush, arms clinging to him, breath leaving him, and the teeth. Demonic teeth, puncturing his flesh, draining his blood, his life. So he had died.
His next thought: what had he done to find himself relegated to hell? What else could this be? Like Dante’s ninth circle, where the damned lay frozen solid in a lake, he was left to feel his body turning to frost, piece by piece. He tried to cry out, but he had no breath.
A hand rested on his forehead. If possible, it felt even colder, burning against Ricardo’s skin like ice.
“Ricardo de Avila,” the Devil said. “You hear me, yes?”
Nothing would melt his body; he could not even nod. Struggling to speak, he felt his lips move, but nothing else.
“I will tell you what your life is now. You will never again see the daylight. To touch the sun is to burn. You are no longer a son of the Church. The holy cross and baptismal water are poison to you. From now on you are a creature of darkness. But these small sacrifices are nothing to the reward: from now on might be a very long time. You belong to me. You are my son. With your brothers you will rule the night.”
Ricardo choked on a breath that tasted stale, as if he had not drawn breath in a very
long time. His mouth tasted sour. He said, “Is this hell?”
The Devil sounded wry. “Not necessarily. In this life, you make or escape your own hell.”
“Who are you?”
“You know me, Ricardo. I am Fray Juan, and I am your Master.”
He shook his head. It wasn’t that the numbness was fading. Rather, he was getting used to the cold. This body made of iron could move. “The Governor . . . the King . . . I am loyal . . . ”
“You are beyond them now. Open your eyes.”
His lids creaked and cracked, like the skin was breaking, but he opened them.
He lay on a bed in a dark room. A few lanterns hung from hooks on the walls, casting circles of light and flickering shadows. Fray Juan sat at the edge of the bed. Arrayed elsewhere stood four men, fierce-looking. The demons.
He felt trapped by the shadows that had invaded his dreams. They would destroy him. In a panic, he waited for the jolt of blood, the racing heartbeat that would drive him from the bed, allow him some chance of fighting and escaping. But he felt nothing. He put his hand around his neck and felt . . . nothing. No pulse. He wanted to sigh—but he had not drawn breath. He had only taken in enough air to speak. Now, the panic rose. This could not be, this was impossible, dead and yet not—
This was hell, and the demon with Frey Juan’s shape was lying to him.
“Diego, bring the chalice,” Juan said, not with the voice of a sympathetic confessor, but with the edge of a commander.
A figure moved at the far end of the room. Even as Ricardo prayed, his ears strained to learn what was happening, his muscles tensed to defend himself.
“Hold him,” Juan said, and hands took him, hauled him into a sitting position, and wrenched back his arms so he could not struggle. Another set of hands pinned his legs.
His eyes opened wide. Three of the caballeros braced him in a sitting position. The fourth—Diego, his old comrade Diego—brought forward a Eucharistic chalice made of pewter. He balanced it in a way that suggested it was full of liquid.
Vampires: The Recent Undead Page 31