His chalky white eyes regarded us from eons away.
Aliena hunched against me, squeezing my hand in a crushing grip.
Mouth still moving, the priest faced the woman in the box. The other monks formed a half-circle behind him. Everyone in the crowd shrank back, moving as far away from the robed figures as possible, and staying well clear of the space between the Apollo Ring and the condemned prisoner. Carl stood at my shoulder, nearly as close as Aliena. I resisted an urge to put my other arm around the diminutive vampire.
The dark overhanging trees formed the walls of a living cathedral.
Raising the ring to his mouth, the Head Priest kissed the central jewel before sliding it onto his finger. He hissed as the metal came into contact with his flesh. The shining band left a red stripe in its wake. With a soft grunt, the priest’s milky eyes closed, jaw muscles tightened to strained marble cords.
As soon as the ring was in place, a luminous blue light radiated from the central jewel. The glade filled with a low, unpleasant thrumming sound. The diamond stone now glowed white-hot. The priest grunted and a spasm twisted his ashen features.
My scalp twitched with static and I instinctively pulled Aliena back a few steps. Carl moved with us. We bumped into a couple of women and they immediately gave ground without protest. My heartbeat accelerated and a thrill coursed my body.
Late one afternoon in 1653, I had been standing in a field during a storm when a sizzling bolt of lightning struck the ground next to me. The electricity rippled across the earth instantly, spiking through me and giving me a mighty jolt that knocked me down, dead. When I regained consciousness and sat up, stunned, the air stank of ozone, my hair and scalp had burned, and my eyes remained imprinted with a silver slash, leaving me half blind.
The power emanating from the ring felt as enormous as that bolt from heaven had.
Aliena put both arms around my waist.
Carmen’s eyes pleaded, large and terrified. Dark blood tears rolled down her cheeks, sizzling to tiny red clouds when they reached the glowing band.
Lifting his arm and pointing the ring at her, the bald monk shouted an invocation in Latin, his voice laced with pain. A brilliant white bolt of dazzling light leaped from the stone. Sputtering with energy, it flashed through the air and pierced the heart-shaped hole in the execution chest.
The onlookers gave a surprised “Ahhhhh.” A small cry came from Aliena and I bit back an exclamation.
Carl moaned, “Carmen, oh Jesus, no.”
Carmen’s head snapped up, eyes scrunched. A silver shaft of light crawled along her neck. The hair on top of her head gave a jerk, as if her body had disappeared below the neck. Animation left her face. The rays raced swiftly up her cheeks and over her head.
With a sound like heavy wind through a gap in a door, Carmen disappeared. A rustle echoed in the box and a puff of dust billowed through the heart-shaped opening. The odor of burned meat wafted over us.
The glow from the ring died, turning the clearing suddenly dark. When the throbbing note ceased, the air filled with muffled sobs.
The priest fell to his knees clutching his hand against his chest, head bowed. The ring pulsed, filling the glade with heat. The shoulders of the man’s heavy robe trembled and small grunts of agony came from him.
Mutters and groans sprang up around the hollow. A distressed sound came from Aliena’s throat. She shuddered. I pressed my nose into her honey hair and kissed her above the ear.
Two of the acolytes strode forward to the killing box. They touched the golden bands, which floated to the ground. The doors of the coffin opened.
Crumpled at the bottom were Carmen’s clothes, covered in fine ash. The men gathered the garments and shook the rest of the powder out, forming a small pile. They put the clothes in a separate chest, then closed and locked the booth. The golden hoops rose and settled into place.
The head priest struggled to his feet. Stepping to the pillar with the brittle gait of a severely arthritic man, he removed the ring with a low whimper, placing it back in the small box on the stand. Hands shaking, he pulled up his hood.
An icy sprinkle began to fall, causing the fires to sizzle. I eyed the bauble warily, my pulse loud in my ears for the second time tonight.
All the vampires stared at the ring with glowing red eyes. Many bared their fangs in a grimace of fright. Groups huddled together—I saw no one standing alone. I looked for the woman to whom Darius had spoken. She stood next to Natasha and the twins, part of a group of eight.
The two women behind us remained pressed against our backs though there was room to move away. For once, I didn’t mind strange vampires squashed against me, indeed took comfort from it, driven as we all are by racial memories of safety in numbers.
As soon as he sealed the ring in the golden case, the head priest ascended with it. When he broke through the branches at the top, three monks surrounded him like an escort, Darius among them. The remaining acolytes hoisted the Apollo Ring’s killing cabinet and followed their brothers.
The pressure at my back disappeared. Carl gave me the briefest nod before he vanished. The rest of the crowd melted away silently, dissolving into the dark forest, leaving Aliena and me alone with the sputtering bonfires.
The small pile of ashes trembled on the ground. We watched as the steady ocean breeze pulled the mound apart and scattered Carmen’s remains along the forest floor.
Chapter 4
Friday, February 13, 10:18 p.m.
“Let’s go home,” I said.
Aliena and I wrapped our arms around each other and she lifted us off the ground, guiding us through the upper boughs. We sailed through the sprinkling black sky, returning to my home in ten seconds. Aliena set down on the patio.
I pressed my hand against the security plate on the wall and it lit up, scanning my palm. The glass doors slid open and we walked inside. Aliena moved close and put her arms around me. I smoothed hair off her forehead, kissed the tip of her nose.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Have you ever seen that ring before?”
“No.”
“Did you know Carmen?”
“A little.”
“Was she guilty of killing two vampires?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she have a reason for killing them?”
“I’m not sure.” She shivered. “Did you see her face when that last band covered her mouth?”
I brushed my lips across hers, pulled her closer. Her arms wound around my neck and her mouth parted. I kissed her soft skin, pulled her lower lip into my mouth, teased her tongue with mine. She murmured, pressed against me. I slid my hand down the small of her back, inside the waistband of her jeans, and over her bountiful backside. My passion was rising when she broke the kiss and leaned back.
“I’m going out for a snack,” she said.
“You could eat in.”
“I want to hunt.”
Knowing she would hold someone else, even if he was a meal, still hurt after all these years.
She ran her hand through my hair. “Will you take me to Bar Sinister after?”
“I would be delighted.”
She kissed my nose. “Thank you. I’ll be back by eleven-thirty.” She removed an antique gold bracelet and handed it to me. “Please put this in the safe.”
I took the gleaming band, gave her a quizzical look as I pocketed it.
“Dinner could get rough tonight,” she explained.
I followed her onto the patio. I hoped she would tell me where she was going and what she planned to do. She didn’t. I knew not to press her.
She kissed me and began rising into the air.
“See you soon.”
In a blink she was gone, an indistinguishable piece of black against the night sky.
I went back inside, knelt before the fireplace and touched one of the bricks. The front of a brick over the flue slid back, revealing a panel with numbers. After punching in the co
de, a small section of the fireplace opened, revealing a lighted cavity.
I stored Aliena’s bracelet, setting it next to an old black leather coin purse. I picked up the tiny satchel and opened it. Thirteen Spanish Excelentes gleamed in the dark recess. They were the gold coins I had given Karina, my first wife, for our wedding day . . .
In 1468, King Ferdinand II of Aragon and Queen Isabella made official the powers of the Inquisition in Spain. The horror this body of men left in their wake marked the extreme cruelty of their doctrine. On the subject of religion, my beloved Spain still wallowed in the Dark Ages while the rest of the civilized world basked in the Renaissance.
The events leading to my first marriage began in the spring of 1480, the year I turned two hundred and six. My grandniece Sophia (she was actually a seventh-generation niece, but by that age, I called all the children grandkids) was visiting the Diego family in Barcelona when the Inquisition charged her with witchcraft. According to my sources, the woman who accused her wanted to marry the same man to whom Sophia had become engaged.
I started for Barcelona the moment I heard the news.
Before I arrived, Don Alejandro Diego had negotiated her release. The Diegos and Monteros were old friends, and related by marriage, but the man had placed himself in a perilous position by defending a woman accused of witchcraft. Such action could lead to one’s own death.
Because he had taken such a risk, I owed him a great debt. Seven years after saving Sophia, he requested I join him at his home as he wished to consult me on an urgent matter.
I packed at once. The next morning, my servants loaded a wagon with my effects and presents for Don Alejandro’s family. I parted from my vineyards in Tarragona and began the three-day trip early, the evening’s dew turning to mist as the rays of the rising sun warmed the ground. My party included a hand-picked group of twenty mounted and armed men to discourage bandits.
By sunset the second day, only a half day’s ride to the Diego estate remained. My men showed signs of fatigue. Sometimes I didn’t notice their weariness, since I never tired. I billeted us in a crowded hotel that night, one with down beds. My men and I had a boisterous, drunken dinner. Six women served the meal. A comely group, each of them escorted one of the men upstairs by night’s end.
A group of locals joined us in celebration when I declared I would pay for all drinks.
I stood near the fireplace when one of these men introduced himself.
“Alex Ramirez.”
“Well met, Señor Ramirez. Sebastian Montero.”
After we had exchanged pleasantries, he asked, “Are you attending the wedding?”
“Sorry? Is there to be a wedding?”
“Yes, in three weeks.” Ramirez was taller than I, with sharp blue eyes and a rapier-thin mustache. “I mention it because we overheard you are visiting the family of the bride, Don Alejandro.”
“Who is to be wed?”
“Alejandro’s granddaughter, Karina Cruz.”
There was some muttering among the local men, angry and low. A round man with a matted beard holding a goblet half-filled with brandy laughed, but the mirth had a grim sound to it.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
Alex scratched his crotch. “Excuse us, please, señor. Karina is to marry Count Nicholas Santella.”
“What?” I knew Santella. Though we had never been formally introduced, I had seen the Count several times, and knew he was a corpulent man with a reputation for cruelty. That triggered a memory.
My army had fought for the Isabelist army under Ferdinand II at the Battle of Toro eleven years earlier. Count Nicholas and his men fought with us on the left wing, commanded by the Duke of Alba. While there, our forces occupied the city of Zamora on the banks of the Duero River. The evening before we left, a young girl was beaten to death. The Count was never implicated, though a rumor circulated that he paid fifty gold ducats to one of the local families to account for their loss.
I had also heard the Count’s wife died a month ago. “How old is Nicholas?”
“Fifty-seven, I think.”
“And the señorita?”
“Karina is fifteen.”
“I seem to recall Santella’s wife died recently.”
The round man spoke up. “She did not die. The Count murdered her.”
I gave the man a frown. “That is a very serious charge.”
“We all know—”
Alex laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Easy, Ricardo.”
Ricardo opened his mouth. He took a long drink from his goblet instead of speaking.
I waited for them to pass the gossip.
“He likes to punch women when he has sex,” Alex said. “One of the tavern girls who went with him a few weeks ago nearly died from the beating he gave her. She was not the first. The Mother told him never to come back.”
“Why is Karina marrying him?”
“A betrothal, I believe. She was promised to the Count when she was very young.”
“I see. Does she know the trouble she is in?”
“I don’t know. Señor Santella’s behavior is no secret.” He lowered his voice. “Apparently, he can’t even perform unless the girl is frightened.”
“So he hurts them.” As an experienced soldier, Santella would know when the girl was truly terrified. To put terror into anyone by striking them, the blow must cause agony.
“I pray for Karina.”
The drinking continued until early morning. Long after everyone had staggered off to bed, I sat alone at the great table and quaffed brandy, meditating on the reddish-gold imps dancing in the fireplace, wondering why Alejandro had summoned me.
“Sebastian Montero,” Don Alejandro said, his arms wide. “La benvinguda a casa meva.”
“Gràcies, amic meu. Em sento honrat.
It was the next morning and a servant had just admitted me to the Diego manse. Alejandro wore a doublet and hose, leather shoes with silver buckles, and a brocaded jacket of the finest lightweight wool. I was dressed similarly, but with a cape over my left shoulder and a big hat with a feather. His clothes were brown and red; mine were shades of blue and gray, with diamonds along the edge of my dark gray jacket. On my left hip hung a rapier.
The servant took my cape and hat.
Alejandro and I embraced in the open courtyard leading to the house. My host was small and as thin as a priest, with a narrow face and a black mustache flecked with gray. A successful merchant who had prospered in olive oil, creating an enterprise known for the distinctive taste and quality of its products, he had become a wealthy civic leader in Barcelona. Most people addressed Alejandro with the honorific of Don as a sign of respect for his importance to the community.
He led me inside where a man and woman waited. The fellow was dressed in a blue tunic belted over a brown shirt with high collar and billowing sleeves. The woman at his side wore a red-and-black dress.
“Sebastian, this is Juan Cruz, Karina’s father,” Alejandro said.
“Señor,” I said. “An honor.”
“And this is his wife Cassandra, my daughter,” Alejandro said.
Cruz poured four glasses of red wine. He appeared to be in his middle thirties, a good-looking man of average height, well fed, with a big nose and black hair. When he brought my drink, he walked with the slightest limp, his left leg stiff.
“My horse threw me six years ago, startled by a serpiente,” he explained. “The lower half of my leg shattered when I hit the ground.”
As a boy, I had fallen out of an apple tree and broken my leg. The snap of bone was more than painful—it was a shock to the senses, dismaying. My father had carried me home, but long before we arrived, the break had repaired itself. As Cruz hobbled to his wife, I thought about the injuries I had sustained in my lifetime—and that I bore no trace of them.
What must it be like to endure damage that did not heal? Though I had seen hundreds of men and women challenged by lifelong injuries, the concept baffled. Recently, however, I
had sustained injuries from which my body could not immediately recover. The sense of loneliness was equal to the magnitude of the pain. When one sees the approach of one’s death, it becomes clear how precious life is. Anyone’s life.
Don Alejandro stood near me, peering intently at my face. “It is remarkable how like your father you are.”
He had only seen me as the “son” once before, on the occasion of Sophia’s release. Sixteen years before that, I posed as the “father.” With careful planning, I disappeared for six months, created the story of my death, and returned as the son my father had talked about for so many years.
When I had been Sebastian Sr., I wore a beard for the last two decades. Now I was clean-shaven.
“Everyone in the family said there was a strong resemblance,” I told him.
“The first time I saw you, I thought you were his twin.”
“I have heard that before,” I said politely.
“Your father was so young.”
“Yes.”
“A terrible tragedy.”
I gazed at the old man fondly. Brown spots covered his face. Gray dominated his thick hair, but he did not look old. He was losing his sight, however, and had been for twenty years. Because of this, he had become a close talker. Though I have never liked people to stand near me, Don Alejandro’s proximity charmed, his aura a soothing presence.
A gentlemanly soul with strict ethics, Alejandro had been one of my closest confidants when I was Sebastian Sr. It was important not to confuse my earlier memories of our encounters when I was the father, lest I give away that I was both men.
He led the way to a veranda overlooking one of his gardens. The four of us sat at a small table. Alejandro stayed next to me, moving his chair close. He and Cruz looked mildly uncomfortable as we exchanged pleasantries about my journey and prophesied how the weather was going to affect our crops in the coming months. I was sure I knew what they wanted to discuss, but it was clear they didn’t know how to segue into it. When there was a lull in our conversation, I made it easier by providing them with an opening.
Ghosts of Atlantis (Immortal Montero Book 3) Page 3