The Immortal Conquistador - carrie vaughn Page 0,1

door for him.

“The Abbot. The head of the Order of Saint Lazarus of the Shadows?” he asked. This was the thread that had brought him here. “Who is he?”

“You’ll meet him.”

“You’re with the Order?”

“May I ask how you heard of us?”

“A vampire priest found me. Father Columban,” he said. “I didn’t believe him at first, when he told of an order of vampire monks. Then, I did. Did you know him?”

“Yes,” she said after a moment. “Not well. He traveled much, and I stay here and help run the abbey.”

“He was killed. I wanted to tell you—the Order—in person.” Rick still wasn’t sure what he was doing. Meeting the man had upended much of what he believed about the world, and about what he was. “He wanted to recruit me. But I’m still not sure I understand.”

“You have a lot of questions. You’ll have to ask the Abbot.”

“And you are?”

She gazed at him coolly. “I am Portia.”

A simple and elegant name to go with her look and manner. Also a Roman name. Could she be fifteen hundred years old or more? Could be.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said. His own accent was as cultivated as hers, but pure, flat American. It made other vampires underestimate him—they assumed he was younger than he was.

“The night is wearing on,” she said and gestured him into the car.

If Rick had still had a mortal heart, it would have been pounding. He should not be here, he should not have come. He ought to be home, he ought to be protecting his people in Denver—but he needed answers. A larger battle waited to be fought. Five hundred years he’d managed to keep out of the mess and tangle of vampire politics. Now here he was, walking into the middle of it. But he had information, which he hoped to trade for answers to questions of his own.

The vehicle’s driver was not a vampire but had the smell of vampires all over him. A longtime servant, then. A loyal source of sustenance. These people would have an army of such servants, some of them tucked away in government, law enforcement. In the Church, even? Portia sat in the passenger seat, glanced back at him now and then, but otherwise left him alone to stare out the window.

They entered the city, and the road took them to a vista, a hundred lights set on ruins, cathedrals, ancient walls, the Colosseum, crammed together with a mix of other structures from across two thousand years. He’d never seen anything like it. If he’d still needed to breathe, his breath would have caught. He inhaled so he could speak.

“Wait. Can we pull over here? Can I look, just for a minute?”

Portia nodded to the driver, who pulled over at a likely spot, where a few trees framed the view. Rick immediately climbed out and just stood, looking. This was the weight of years made physical.

After a moment, Portia joined him. She looked at him, not the view. “Most of us who’ve been around as long as you have are more jaded than this.”

He’d never been jaded, not once. He never tired of a good view. “This is my first time in Rome.”

“As old as you are, and you’ve never been to Rome?” Portia said, laughing, a lilting sound, quickly cut off, as if she had not expected to make it. “What about Paris?”

“No.”

“London? Cairo? Beijing? Anywhere? How is that possible?”

He shrugged. “Just never made the time.” Which seemed a ridiculous thing for one who was theoretically immortal to say. His fists closed. Yes, perhaps he should have made time. He should have come to see Rome, Paris. Should have traveled the world, even if he could only see such monuments lit up at night.

“Portia. Do you believe that vampires have souls?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Saint Lazarus of the Shadows claims to be a holy order of vampires, which suggests that you all believe in God and the Church and the rest, which suggests that you believe we still have souls worth saving and protecting . . . and yet, I have met so many of our kind who are sure that we are damned. Who embrace being damned. So I wondered . . . is this order a religious order in truth, or a mask for something else? Are we all soulless monsters trying to repent, or children of God doing His will? Or something else entirely?”

“What does it matter?”

He had stayed alone, mostly, in out-of-the-way places, and