“The same way we found each other tonight. You have so very much to learn, Don Ricardo.”
Yes, that was what he was afraid of.
Henri got up to meet him when Ricardo rode into the estancia some hours before dawn. Holding aloft a lantern, he waited at the front of the courtyard and shouted a greeting. Ricardo waved in reply. Henri was a short, dark-skinned man with unruly black hair and crow’s-feet at his eyes that gave him a perpetual smiling look. Ricardo had known him since he’d been born, had known his parents since they were born. The continuity of it was strange and wonderful. This was the closest Ricardo would ever have to a family of his own, and he valued it.
“Feliz Navidad, sir,” Henri said, taking the animal’s reins as Ricardo dismounted. “How was your trip?”
“Eventful,” Ricardo said. A rock still sat at the pit of his stomach. The world had not shifted yet—but it was about to.
“Oh?”
Ricardo didn’t elaborate. They worked together to untack and feed his horse, rub him down and put him away. Even the animals here had to adjust to a nocturnal schedule, poor things.
When he first arrived here, this place had been a failed mission overseen by the demonic Fray Juan and his bloodthirsty caballeros. They had tried to recruit Ricardo. Failed. He’d stayed and tried to turn the old church and outbuildings into something resembling a working estancia. In exchange for destroying the demons who’d hunted them, a local village helped him. They worked the land, herded sheep—and gave him a public face to protect his nighttime secret. He built onto the church and transformed it into a rather elegant home. Nothing so grand as a palace, but it had a courtyard and garden, a patio, a well, and several fine rooms. He’d filed all appropriate documents with the government—on paper, he was the owner and landlord here. Already he’d twice posed as his own son to ensure he maintained ownership of his lands. It didn’t take much—an embarrassed bow of his head, a careful explanation that yes, he was an unfortunate by-blow, but for lack of other heirs his father had acknowledged him as his own, and here was the paper and will to prove it.
Eternal life required so much planning, those of his countrymen who had searched for the Fountain of Youth had no idea.
Ricardo washed up while Henri stoked the fire in the sitting room’s hearth. Dawn was coming soon—the sky outside was turning gray, and he felt the weight of approaching sunlight in his bones.
“What happened?” Henri asked.
“I met another one. A man like me.”
Henri stilled for a moment, then hung the poker on its hook and came to sit across from Ricardo at the table. “I thought you were the only one, apart from the ones who made you like this.”
“So did I. I . . . it seems this is all much more complicated.”
“What does it mean?” Henri asked.
“I do not know. But I must go to the city to find out.”
“It is too dangerous—”
“If I don’t, they will come here.”
“There . . . there is more than one other?”
“So I gather.” He tapped a hand on his leg and stared at the low flames writhing in the hearth. The warmth on his face felt good, but he had to sleep soon—in the cellar, underground, without windows and danger of sunlight.
“Have you eaten tonight, sir?”
“No, I haven’t.” He hadn’t thought of it, not even when Eduardo assaulted Marie. What he was attributing to anxiety might simply be hunger.
Without further prompting, Henri fetched a cup from the sideboard and drew a knife from the sheath at his belt. He made a quick, shallow cut across his forearm, and blood welled. His movements were practiced, and in a minute or two he’d dripped a good amount of the stuff into the cup. Both his arms had lines and scars from many similar cuts. The arms of many of the people who lived here did. Ricardo was milking these people like cows.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the cup from Henri. He always said thank you, every time.
He thought he could remember the way wine or brandy felt, drinking a whole cupful after coming in out of the cold. The way it hit the belly like fire and flowed through his limbs. The blood felt like that, tasting of comfort, lighting his nerves from within. He closed his eyes, sighed out a breath of pleasure, and yes, he felt better. Perhaps the problem of Eduardo was not so difficult. Perhaps this would all come to nothing.
“Thank you,” he said again. He could never thank Henri and the others enough.
“It is all for the good,” Henri said, and he sounded honest and true. This wasn’t a nicety; he meant it. “We keep you safe because you keep us safe. We are family. A strange family, but still a family.”
Ricardo stood and clasped the man’s shoulder before retreating to his underground chamber.
The journey to Mexico City was some four hundred miles. It would take two weeks at good speed. He and Henri acquired a wagon and horses to pull it, provisions, and imaginary trade business to explain himself. The wagon had no windows. During daylight hours, Ricardo slept in a crate to protect him from sunlight. In this manner, with Henri driving the wagon, they were able to travel by day, which made the journey faster. At night, Ricardo awoke and managed their affairs. They were usually able to find inns and carry on as any other travelers would. A couple of nights, they needed to sleep on the road, but both men had managed without roofs before.
One of Henri’s sons, sixteen-year-old Suerte, came along, both to learn the business of making such a journey and also to bleed for Ricardo. Henri couldn’t sustain him alone for the whole journey, so the two took turns.