“Abbot,” Rick asked. “What’s the most shocking thing you’ve ever done?”
“I am not the one with the blank book that needs filling,” he said. But the man’s gaze went soft for a moment, and he frowned deeply, caught in some dark, distant memory. Rick couldn’t imagine; the possibilities defied imagination.
Clicking steps sounded on the stone aisle, and the somber young woman approached, carrying a tray with three cut-crystal glasses on it. Their contents made them gleam ruby. She reached the screened-off apse.
“Father, you said to bring refreshment.”
“Yes, thank you. Set it on the desk, please.” She set the tray—it was gold, polished to a shine, and likely worth thousands even disregarding any collectible or artistic value—bowed slightly, and went away. “Please, Ricardo. Drink.”
He could not refuse. It wasn’t just that he was hungry, that he needed to feed to stay strong and alert. This involved the most ancient rules of hospitality. When vampires invited one another to their lairs, they must provide sustenance. And the guest must accept.
The Abbot noted the hesitation. “There are mortal families connected with the Order. They voluntarily provide for us. No more than once in a month for each one. I know such details matter to you.”
“Some of our kind seem to enjoy blood that tastes like fear. I never understood that.”
“You prefer your blood to taste of what, generosity?”
“Kindness, I think.” Maybe even love. He’d been fortunate, in those who chose to help him. There had been love.
The Abbot hauled himself from the chair. He was even taller and broader than Rick realized. In his mortal days he might have been a great warrior, swinging an ax on the battlefield, mowing down enemies. Or perhaps he had always been a monk, incongruously large in his libraries and quiet places.
The man brought one of the glasses to the lectern. The Scribe accepted with a nod, tipped the glass to their lips, drank it all down in one go. Licked their lips a
nd took up the quill pen again. The Abbot handed a glass to Rick, then settled back in the chair with his own.
“Ayes hugayean,” he said, glass raised, then drank.
Rick didn’t readily recognize the language, which suggested it was very old indeed. Rick sipped. The blood was still just warm and tasted sweet, tangy. Strong. The person it had come from was healthy. It made him feel a bit better. With gratitude—it might have been a prayer—he let the borrowed strength fill him.
“Better?” the Abbot asked. They all appeared more flush than they had a moment ago. Warmer. Brighter.
“Yes, thank you,” Rick said.
“Now, tell me about Santa Fe.”
“How do you even know about Santa Fe? I only ever passed through there, I rarely stayed—”
“Except for 1848.”
“Well, yes.”
“There is a footnote in the book of Catalina that says only that Elinor saw you in Santa Fe in 1848. But she was in Santa Fe to confront Gaius Albinus. Where did you fit into that affair? She was silent on the matter.”
“By accident, I assure you.”
“But you fled—”
“I did a lot of fleeing, between Zacatecas and Denver.”
“And there is a century of silence around that moment. What happened? You met someone else there, besides Elinor. Didn’t you?”
“Gaius Albinus wasn’t there. I didn’t meet him at all until just last year—”
“1848 in Santa Fe, Ricardo. Tell me. Begin.”
His mouth opened, but he hesitated. This was an interrogation. He would tell the Abbot everything—if he knew what the man wanted to hear. At the time, the chaos of his month in Santa Fe had only seemed like chaos. What did it look like to a man who had context—millennia of history stored in those books against which to judge him?
Ricardo was five hundred years old and still managed to feel like a child much of the time. It didn’t seem fair.