The man groaned in agony, his back arched, reaching for the wound, which trailed black threads through his skin, from his neck across his face. Poison, the silver was poison to them. A moment later he fell still.
Enraged, the wolf came at Ricardo again. Ricardo stood, feet apart, ready for him. He should have been terrified, facing down a charging monster. But he knew he was stronger. And the wolf wasn’t thinking clearly. The open jaws came for his throat, and Ricardo stepped aside at the last moment, grabbed the creature by the head, and wrenched until he heard the crack of bone and the wolf’s body went limp. He let it fall to the ground, waited a moment.
The wolf whined. Amber eyes blinked back at him, furious and afraid. So, the creatures could be injured. This would heal, in time. Ricardo looked around for the silver knife. The wolf jerked, trying to stand.
“I am sorry,” Ricardo said. “But this is war and I have people to protect.”
He dug through fur to stab the wolf’s throat, while the wolf struggled to let out a choked howl. And then he was still. Ricardo watched a moment, and the wolf transformed in death. The fur vanished, the limbs melted, re-formed, until a human man lay at Ricardo’s feet, naked and limp. Too young, with brown skin and dark hair, the start of a beard. And how had such a one come to this? Ricardo whispered a prayer, commending the boy’s soul to God.
Wiping the silver with a handkerchief, he went in search of the next enemy.
At the edge of town, he found a trio of vampires harassing a troop of guards on a trading caravan. The vampires were looking to feed and seemed the kind who played with their food, herding them against a wall, knocking their heads, and retreating to shadow while their victims lay stunned. Ricardo didn’t know which side these vampires were on, Elinor’s or her enemies, but he didn’t much care. He came up behind and plunged wooden stakes through their backs, one after the other, before any of them knew what attacked.
These vampires were not old. The old ones turned to ash when they died, the decay of centuries falling on them at once. These merely fell into desiccated corpses, the rot of a couple of decades at most. He didn’t say prayers for them.
As he stood over them, their victims gaped, cringing back even as they reached for weapons.
“Buenas noches, señores,” he said and ran. The men said later that a ghost had saved them, the spirit of one of the old conquistadors returned to defend the road.
Approaching the plaza, Ricardo went down one street and had to stop abruptly. A force pressed him back, something smoky and distasteful. He tried to continue forward, and the dread building in him made it impossible. It was the same feeling he got when he tried to enter a church; the threshold of it might as well have been a wall.
This ground had been consecrated. Entire streets made holy. Father Diego had been here.
“Thanks be to God,” Ricardo murmured and turned back the way he came.
At another street he heard singing, the chanting and drumming of a group of Apache men, a holy song. Ricardo smiled.
On yet another street he found a pair of women lighting little candles in paper lanterns, lining the whole street with them, one every few feet. He arrived in time to see a shadow pacing them, stalking them. Ricardo raced ahead, got between the vampire and his prey, and stabbed him with his stake. The vampire was the young man Ricardo had confronted earlier that night, Elinor’s henchman. He looked at Ricardo reproachfully before sliding to the ground, his skin turning gray, dry, and dying.
“I told you to look out for each other,” Ricardo said when he returned to Imelda and Lucinda.
“We killed the other one of them who came for us,” Lucinda said. “This one was a lot quieter.”
“How goes it?” Ricardo asked.
Imelda beamed. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but will it stop them?”
Lucinda’s smile was wicked. “Every single one has a prayer. This will work.”
“Bueno. I must be off.”
He ran, tracking more trails of cold, of ill will. He killed four more werewolves and another three vampires, using speed, stealth. Using the fact that none of them seemed to be expecting opposition. At least not opposition like him, a desperate assassin. They had come ready to face an army. He didn’t see Elinor and wondered what would happen if he tried to kill her. She might be the one vampire here who was older than he was. Stronger. He didn’t know if he could kill her. Perhaps if he left her with no allies, she would negotiate.
This city was his, he was Master here. This was how Masters were made.
Soon, he was running out of places he could travel. Holy lights lit whole sections of streets. Father Diego’s prayers protected others. The plaza was awash in prayers and spells of protection. All of it raised Ricardo’s spirits. He came to an unprotected section and waited, testing the air, listening. Waiting for more opponents to reveal themselves.
But there was nothing. The air was clear, empty, smelling of pine trees and sage, and the heady smell of candles burning. Maybe it was done, over. Maybe they had won.
Then, a lone figure approached, walking in the middle of the street. He appeared Anglo, of average height, clean shaven, a fine-boned face. He was dressed in a duster over a dark wool waistcoat and starched shirt, tailored trousers, polished boots. Neat, finely made. Almost luxurious for all that he seemed straightforward. Ricardo felt grubby by comparison, but then he’d had a rough evening. He only now noticed the spatters of blood across his shirt in addition to the blood from the bullet wound. He waited for the man’s approach. The stranger stopped, still some distance away. Close enough to be heard. Close enough to shoot in the eye with a pistol.
“You’re Dux Bellorum, of course,” Ricardo stated, unsure of himself but faking arrogance.
“No,” the man said. “I’m not.” He spoke Spanish with a perfect Castilian accent, much like Ricardo’s own.
“You are not a vampire. Who are you?”