Imelda stepped forward. She looked like she was offering him communion. The thought horrified him.
She said, “When you would not eat, I asked Juan what you like. I thought I could make you something special that would tempt you. Then he told us all what you need. And so . . .” She held out the cup.
“It’s none of your concern, Imelda,” Ricardo said, biting the words sharply. “I told him I would take care of it—”
“Juan said if we all gave just a little, it would be enough, and no one would be hurt by it. So we did. This is from all of us.” Imelda offered the cup, one of her delicate teacups with roses painted around the edge. The blood was still warm, smelled rich and lovely. Ricardo’s throat closed; he wanted to cry.
“Lucinda, in your condition you cannot spare—”
/> “Oh yes I can.” She glared. “Don’t you dare coddle me.”
“John—”
The Navajo man said, “I don’t like it. But if it works?”
“Even you, Padre?”
Father Diego’s voice trembled a little but he stood firm when he said, “Juan said . . . he said if you were strong, you really could protect the city. That you have done it before.”
They would none of them back down. And besides, the blood was already given. They knew he wouldn’t be so rude as to waste it once it had been spilled.
He bowed his head. Tried to smile. “This is one of the kindest things anyone has done for me. I have no words.”
“Whatever it is that is happening—stop it,” Imelda said.
“Win this battle, Conquistador,” said John.
Reconciled, he took the cup from Imelda, his chill hand brushing her warm skin, raised the cup in a toast, and drank. After several days without feeding, the blood hit him hard, like whiskey set on fire. His nerves had been growing sluggish, his muscles stiffening. Now they blazed, and the heat grew. His skin flushed with the borrowed blood.
They tasted of fear, all of them. But not the immediate animal fear of prey. This was more uncertain, and with it came fortitude. Power. The will to stand. And there was magic—a spice, a charge like this blood had been touched by lightning. If he had had to guess which of them this spark had come from, he wouldn’t have been able to. They all had it. They were all holy, all magical, all powerful.
There must have been something fraught in his gaze when he looked up, because their eyes widened. Diego crossed himself.
Ricardo finished off the last of the blood, then wiped his finger around the inside of the cup and sucked the finger, then sucked every drop from his teeth and tongue. He wouldn’t waste a drop of the gift. “Amigos, we have much work to do.”
There was declaring himself Master of the city, and then there was making it real. If he only had a bit more time . . . The thought made him laugh. Until now he had had so much more time than he should have. At the moment he had allies, which was just as good.
Father Diego had silver at the church. Chalices, candlesticks, decorations, all of them holy. Ricardo didn’t know if that would make them more powerful, but it couldn’t hurt. He felt guilty asking the priest to cut up the items, to wake up a metalsmith to melt and mold them into spear points. But he was already damned with his curse, so let the blame fall on him.
John went with Diego. The pair would summon every priest, monk, medicine man, and healer from every church, abbey, mission, and tribal house they could reach, all of them blessing everything they could along the way.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Father Diego muttered, just before Ricardo saw them off. “‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me.’ All my own blessings will be undone by the others.”
“No, Padre,” Ricardo said. “They will be doubled. I’m sure of it.”
“And am I to listen to a demon who drinks blood?”
“I’m a Catholic like you, Father. Perhaps not so good a one. But I believe all prayers offered by good people in good faith are strong. Don’t you?”
John listened to the conversation politely, then looked to Ricardo to explain. In Apache the vampire said, “Padre Diego doubts any magic but his own.”
The Navajo smiled thinly. “So do I. But between all of us, one of our prayers ought to work.”
“What did he say?” Diego demanded.
“The more prayers are offered, the more likely one is to work.”
The priest’s brow furrowed. “That almost makes sense.”