The Legend of Zorro

by Scott Ciencin

  Armand remained behind to confer with Ferroq. He leaned in for a private word, handing his servant the envelope he had retrieved. “This was left for me,” whispered Armand.

  Ferroq opened the envelope. On a piece of paper, a single letter was printed: “Z.”

  “Someone may be feeding information to this…Zorro,” Armand said, his quiet fury darkening his face. “Get word to McGivens: if we have a traitor, I want him found.”

  Ferroq glanced in the direction of the carriage—and Elena. He looked back and took a deep breath before asking, “Sir, what if it’s a woman?”

  Armand’s face flushed, his nostrils flared. His hand closed over Ferroq’s shoulder, squeezing hard enough to make his servant wince. Ferroq’s knees buckled and he nearly cried out under the viselike, punishing grip.

  With a withering stare, Armand delivered a cruel smile and said evenly, “I’ll forgive your inference, because your service to my family has earned you the right to speak freely.”

  Ferroq stumbled back as his master released him. Striding swiftly, Armand quickly caught up with Elena, who took his arm and laughed as they walked to the carriage together.

  Hanging his head, Ferroq moved to join them. Though he said nothing else about it, he watched Elena closely—determined to find out if his instincts about her were true.

  Ever since he was a child, Irvin Harrington loved playing games. His favorite was Hide and Seek because he almost never lost, his thin frame and unremarkable features allowing him to go practically anywhere unnoticed. So it was today, as he threaded through the crowds on the San Francisco streets, following Alejandro de la Vega. Hansoms had proved hard to come by when the don had first emerged from the grounds housing the outdoor music event, and so the man had hurried along several blocks in search of an available ride.

  Harrigan grinned, one hand easing toward a ring on his opposite hand. He caressed the dull black gem rising from the silver band, popping open its false façade to reveal a sharp needle. Surging ahead, he bumped into the don, the needle biting into his victim’s wrist. As expected, de la Vega hadn’t noticed the tiny bite of the needle any more than he might have been troubled by an insect bite.

  “Excuse me,” Harrigan said solicitously before he breezed off into the crowd. He watched from a safe distance as a hansom carriage creaked into view at the corner. De la Vega ran for it, one hand raised to hail the driver.

  “Mission Santa Lucia, hurry!” ordered Alejandro fiercely.

  Harrigan smiled as he saw de la Vega stumble while climbing into the carriage, hesitating a moment before climbing in. Shaking his head, he flung himself into the carriage’s scarlet-lined depths.

  Grinning, Harrigan observed with great pleasure as de la Vega leaned against the window and the hansom snaked into traffic, the don’s eyes fluttering, his head obviously growing light. De la Vega fought the effects of the drug coursing wildly through his system, but the carriage had only traversed a hundred feet before he slumped unconscious in his seat.

  As the coach drew near the spot where Harrigan stood, his companion peered down from the reins and tipped his hat to Harrigan. Forcing back a laugh, Harrigan climbed aboard.

  “Pike, old friend, you do me proud,” Harrigan said.

  The big, brutish man nodded, as if their success had been assured the moment they came up with their plan.

  Which, after all, it had.

  The carriage rambled down the busy street, hiding in plain sight until the city’s hustle and bustle swallowed it whole.

  Fistfuls of proud white clouds gathered against the soft blue of the late afternoon sky as Armand’s ornate carriage creaked to a halt before Hacienda de la Vega. The driver reined in his horses while Ferroq rode beside him, his features set in his perpetual scowl. Armand stepped out, offering his hand to Elena.

  “I had a wonderful time,” she said with a wistful sigh as she took his hand and stepped down from the coach. She caught his unconscious appraising gaze as he took in her home for the first time, a slight flicker of his brows signaling that he was impressed, though he would never admit such a thing. She had not liked the idea of coming here with Armand, but he had insisted on having his driver take her. Armand’s eyes clouded with disappointment as they stood together on the winding walkway to her home. “Unfortunate that it has to end.”

  Elena’s eyebrow arched invitingly. “Does it?”

  “Some colleagues of mine will be arriving from Europe this evening,” Armand admitted, the words dropping gloomily from his lips. “Our meeting may run late, perhaps I might see you for breakfast?”

  She nodded, her stomach muscles contracting like a fist. She had to be on hand for that meeting—the lives of her family depended on it.

  Armand shuffled off, his gaze cast downward in disappointment, again looking like an overgrown child.

  “I can’t wait that long,” Elena cried breathlessly, rushing to him. “I…I want to be your wife, Armand.”

  He gasped in surprise. Pulling Elena into his arms, he kissed her passionately, his lips tasting of wine and exotic spices.

  There was a danger in this, Elena knew. Once, she truly had wanted this man. A wave rose in her heart and threatened to crest within her brain, clearing away her reason in its wake. But as their lips slowly, tantalizingly parted, she looked beyond Armand into the dark cold accusing eyes of Ferroq. His icy stare was exactly what she needed to dull her own passions. That…and a few thoughts of Armand’s actions over the past few days.

  Never let yourself forget what he was willing to do, Elena chided herself. Alejandro may be maddening, yes, but Armand would have taken his life and pretended it was all some terrible accident. And there was that thing on the altar. That was no accident, either…

  She looked up and found Armand gazing at her, his entire body trembling like that of a race horse about to burst out of the gate. Drawing aside her scarf, Elena exposed a wide inviting expanse of her long luxurious neck. She heard the breath catch in Armand’s throat and smiled to herself at the control she had over him. “If I’m going to be the lady of the house, I want to start making myself at home.”

  Armand’s neck was crimson, his heart thundering in his chest. His eyes had begun to glaze over in anticipation as they both seemed to understand exactly where this was leading, with each curious to see who would make the next move. It was like a game…or a dance. “I suppose we could have a late supper.”

  Elena took his hand in both of hers and eased it against her soft cheek. She nuzzled it, kissed his fingers, then slowly raised her eyes in a lusty stare and murmured, “I’ll wait for your meeting to end, then…I’ll stay the night.”

  His eyes afire with lust, Armand remained within inches of her, feeling her breath upon his flesh, though for him—in that moment he yearned to draw out to eternity—there was nothing to see, nothing to hear, touch, taste, or feel, except this woman. He kissed her again, his intensity greater than Elena would have expected.

  He wants me, yes, she realized, and in his way…loves me? The thought tantalized and frightened her. She parted from him with effort, their fingertips sliding apart as she squared her shoulders and walked inside, determined not to look back. The promise she had made had been nothing more than a lie, and she didn’t know if she could keep that from him another moment if their eyes met again.

  As Elena went inside, she did not realize that she was being watched. This time it was not the Brute or the Rat keeping tabs on her. Instead, it was her son, who had been leaning over the veranda, drawn by the sound of a carriage and an unfamiliar voice.

  Had she seen the look of utter devastation on his face, the desolation marking the way he slowly turned, one quavering hand still clutching a column for support, she would have known that the time had come to end her ruse no matter the consequences.

  Breaking her son’s heart had never been part of the deal.

  Instead, she headed into the house, her mind buzzing with plans for the evening.

  A savage laugh burs
t from the cracked lips of Jacob McGivens. “Ferroq, old pal, lemme see if I got this straight: You got women troubles?”

  Sebastien-Francois Ferroq perched on a wobbly stool in the noisy smoke-filled tavern, absently tapping down the edges of his perfectly trimmed mustache, which the rough atmosphere of this place had caused to curl. Beside him, Jacob McGivens fondled his whisky glass.

  Unwilling to look the taunting man in the eyes, Ferroq shifted his gaze to his surroundings. The walls inside as well as out were plastered with handbills and newspapers. Big unwashed brown canvas tablecloths were laid crookedly over the unsteady tables. The food was awash in grease doled out onto spotty tin plates. In the corner, a piano player sullenly took requests while a small gaggle of overweight, over-age “painted ladies” lasciviously eyed the well-dressed newcomer.

  Ferroq found it all quite repulsive.

  McGivens, on the other hand, was in his element. He smacked down his glass and grinned. “Here I would a thought it was your employer’s bein’ in business with them there goober grabbers that had you troubled.”

  Ferroq’s upper lip curled at the derogatory term. Colonel Beauregard was far more than a peanut farmer. “My master’s alliance with the Confederacy is of no concern to either of us.”

  “Whatever you say, hoss. I guess I’ve just had some bad experiences with fellas from Georgia.” McGivens raised his glass. “So what is it you want me to do with the de la Vega woman? Pay her a visit and leave her cold as a wagon wheel?”

  “We cannot kill her,” asserted Ferroq.

  McGivens shrugged. “You sure about that? Seems to me this here lady’s done piled on the agony with you.”

  Ferroq felt a rusty blade drawing across his throat each and every time he saw his master with that woman. Recalling how they behaved this afternoon—smiling, laughing, taking in the grand performance by the sea—Ferroq could think only of murder. “My master has strong feelings for her. Though it is not my place to question his actions under normal circumstances—”

  “That’s not what these are,” commiserated McGivens.

  “Exactly so.”

  “Barkeep!” cried McGivens, motioning to an elderly Spaniard at the other end of the bar. “Pass me down some more of this fine tarantula juice you’re hockin’. There’s a mighty fine fella.”

  Ferroq shook with loathing as the gunman’s whiskey glass was refilled. The drink was an ugly habit for an ugly man. “My understanding is that through your men, you’ve been developing a network for information gathering.”

  “You could call it that,” agreed McGivens. “Me, I like to think of it as common sense. Ain’t no one’s gonna get your back in this world less’n you either pay ’em better than anyone else can, or you got something on ’em.”

  “I want to know if Señora de la Vega has been seen in the company of any suspicious or mysterious individuals. She’s a…striking woman. I doubt that her presence would go unnoticed in most of the places your people frequent.”

  McGivens bobbed his head, thinking it over. Then he grinned. “My daddy was a preacher man,” confided Jacob McGivens. “Tell you what. You do a favor for me, and just maybe, I’ll do you one back.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Your confession.”

  Ferroq stared at him blankly. “My what?”

  “I’m curious about you. How is it in this enlightened day and age that a…well, how do I say—man bereft of color—refers to another man of a similar hue as ‘master.’ ”

  “I hold a high ranking position in the count’s household.”

  McGivens shook his head. “We both know it’s more than that.”

  Bristling, Ferroq turned and was suddenly staring into the eyes of a smirking crimson-haired lady of the night. Something in his eyes made her blanch and move off without saying a word.

  “See, now, that’s what I mean,” laughed McGivens. “You got yourself a way with the ladies. I just don’t see why you need help with this one.”

  Ferroq rose from the stool. “Fine. If you cannot help me—”

  “I can,” snapped McGivens, his hand suddenly locked around Ferroq’s arm. “I told you my price. Remember now, I’m a man of the Lord. Anything you tell me stays between us. And you know what they say: confession’s good for the soul.”

  Ferroq thought of the de la Vega woman. She would be the death of him, he was certain. One could only contain this much rage, this much bile, this great a desire to take one’s blade and unzip another person from throat to groin for so long before it did them in. At the concert, he had stood to one side, alone and forgotten. He had listened to the music, but the only sounds that truly would have soothed him would come when he was allowed to luxuriate in the symphony of this woman’s screams.

  “I…I do not begrudge the count his dalliances,” revealed Ferroq. “In fact, I am usually responsible for arranging such entertainment for both of us—and have become quite skilled in disposing of unwanted paramours when their presence is no longer desired. This one—damn her—is clever. She is also a betrayer. How can anyone trust a woman who would divorce her husband and publicly take up with another man only a few months later? I allow that my master was infatuated with her when they were both much younger, but that only suggests to me that she is a seasoned liar, having led him on successfully in the past.”

  “You think she wants somethin’ from him?” asked Mc-Givens, enrapt in the tale. “His money, one would wager. Inn’t that always the way?”

  Ferroq shook his head. “She has wealth of her own. It must be something else.” Ferroq’s request to have her surveilled shortly after Armand conveniently ran into her post divorce had led to a shocking and wholly unexpected thrashing. Ferroq had explained that confidence men in this barbaric territory frequently seduced women of “character” to serve as their shills and the bored, foolish, aging doves often leaped at the chance for some excitement.

  “Elena is beyond reproach,” Armand said fiercely, administering the final lash of his whip. “You would do well to remember that.”

  Ferroq, owing all that he had, all that he was, his very life to the count, said no more. But his eyes were open, his hearing acute. One day this Elena would make a mistake and he would be ready…just as he had been the day Armand had found him in the desolate, filthy slums of Paris.

  “Come on, now,” urged McGivens. “You and the count. What gives?”

  Hesitantly, Ferroq told the tale. He revealed how the young count had risked his life to save Ferroq—then merely a scrawny half-dead youth—from a trio of knife-wielding thugs who had mistaken him for a witness to one of their recent street assassinations.

  Armand had leaped into the fray with a great laugh and made short work of Ferroq’s attackers. “You have a choice,” Armand had advised, his features glistening with the blood of his victims, looking to some like a demon, but to Ferroq an avenging angel. “Give yourself to me, devote yourself to my service as has been the custom with members of your family throughout the centuries and I will see that you want for nothing. Education, diversions, training so that you never need fear filth like this…” Armand gestured at the bodies of the fallen knife-wielders.

  Ferroq had been confused. He was an orphan. But he did not hesitate—he accepted and Armand became his master. Later, Ferroq learned that Armand had gone to great pains to find him because of references Armand discovered in the de la Fere histories to Ferroq’s ancestors, many of whom had given their lives to protect the de la Feres. Armand believed Ferroq was destined to remain loyal to him no matter what trials came their way—and that belief had been born out on many occasions since.

  Leaning back on his stool, McGivens said, “It has something to do with that mark on the count’s fancy ring, now doesn’t it?”

  “I believe so,” admitted Ferroq, unwilling to say any more. In truth, he felt unburdened, confession indeed proving good for his soul. The feeling quickly faded as he thought of that woman, murder in his eyes. She was poisoning his master. Plan
s were already in the works for Armand to live his days with her at his side while Ferroq remained in this God-forsaken place to oversee labors that any of a dozen lowly servants might undertake.

  Thoughts of the power this woman wielded over his lord kept Ferroq up at night, prompting him to indulge in the only pastime that calmed him in such troubled times. He would slip out, find some street person who reminded him of his own days rooting around in the gutters for scraps—and beat that pitiful creature to death.

  “To thine own self be true,” Armand had said simply one day when he caught Ferroq engaging in his private passion. A slight smile had passed between them and nothing else had been said.

  He longed for a return to those days. And by heaven, somehow he would have it.

  Ferroq followed his master and the woman, waiting patiently—and watching.

  Always watching.

  Now he needed the help of another set of eyes. Two men approached McGivens, checking Ferroq out warily.

  “Don’t worry, you can trust him,” said the scarred man. “We’re all one in the eyes of the Lord, now aren’t we?”

  True to his promise, McGivens soon coaxed information from his people that would benefit Ferroq as well as himself before this day was through.

  Chapter 12

  Alejandro de la Vega was a prisoner. Trapped in a black room, shackled to a cold stone floor, he tried to free himself but whenever he moved he felt liquid fire rip through his veins, razors flay his flesh, and salt sting his nerves. Sounds rose from the darkness, a deafening roar grasped his skull threatening to crush it in a relentlessly powerful grip. Merciful gaps of blessed silence stole between the pounding, punishing cacophony, making the return of sound even more torturous.

  Moaning, Alejandro rolled to one side and realized he wasn’t shackled at all, he had simply mistaken his body’s reticence to respond for physical restraints. Nor was the darkness before him absolute. Slowly, a searing gray patch transformed into a blinding glare, burning his half-closed eyes. Grunting, he scrambled back, his shoulder striking a cold hard wall. The deafening noise continued, but now he could also make out the sound of human speech and devilish laughter.