That sounded impossible. “At all? Ever? In five hundred years of existence?”
“Not one,” Angelo said.
The Master vampires gained power by creating minions and maintaining control over their progeny. Rick—he’d traveled through his five hundred years alone. All his power was his own.
“You have to talk to him,” Angelo said. “You’re the only one he listens to.”
“You’re giving me way too much credit.”
“Please, try,” he said, and pointed down the hallway to the closed door of Rick’s office and living room.
My nerves were on fire as I walked the last few paces to that door. Angelo stayed where he was, slumped against the wall, hugging himself, anguished.
I knocked on the door and called, “Rick? Can I talk to you for a minute?” Tried to sound casual and nonthreatening. The paper bag crinkled in my grip.
Time ticked on. After what happened last night, I wouldn’t blame Rick if he decided never to speak to me again. But finally the door opened, and there he was. I looked up, earnest and hopeful, probably close to the sad little puppy I felt like.
He appeared much as he had at the church, though the jeans and T-shirt were fresh. His dark hair was ruffled, as if he’d been pulling at it. The suave aristocrat in the silk shirt he usually showed to the world was gone.
After regarding me blank-faced for a moment, he turned away, leaving the door open. I took that as an invitation. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at me, just went straight back to his desk at one end of the room. Its drawers were open, and he was putting items into a black canvas duffel bag. Packing, as Angelo had said.
“I brought you a present,” I said, holding up the bag.
“I’m sorry, I’ll probably have to leave it behind. I’m traveling light.”
My throat tightened, and I had to work to talk like nothing was wrong. “Where are you going?”
“Italy,” he said. “Vatican City.” He moved a pair of small, ancient-looking leather-bound books into the bag, then wrapped a chipped clay cup in a scarf and packed it away.
“I thought you said you were going to stay,” I said, pleading.
“I have to tell them what happened to Father Columban.”
“Can’t you call? Write a letter?”
Pausing, he leaned on the desk a moment. A living human would have taken a deep breath, but he gathered his thoughts silently. “I thought it best that I tell them in person.”
“You think you have to replace him in the Order of Saint Lazarus of the Shadows.”
He bowed his head. His hands, resting on the desk, clenched into fists. “I—I would like to
meet the other members of the order. It’s important to me.”
“But you’ll be back?”
The pursed lips, the glance away, were something of an answer.
“Would you like to sit?” He gestured to the sofa on the other side of the room, and he joined me there. I perched on the edge of the cushion, wondering what I could possibly say to change his mind. Surely I could say something.
I just couldn’t think of what.
He radiated the chill of his bloodless, undead vampire nature. It should have felt unnatural, making me nervous, but he was just Rick. He’d always been like that. No heartbeat, no breath. But still human, somehow. He studied his hands, resting on his lap.
He said, “Father Columban told me a very strange thing—the order knew about Fray Juan, the vampire who made me. He used to be one of them, but turned apostate and fled. They assumed he had been destroyed during the Inquisition. Many vampires were. But they never imagined he’d fled to the colonies to start his own empire. Columban actually thanked me for destroying him and preventing that. Because Columban didn’t just know Fray Juan—he was the one who made him a vampire. So Columban was my grand-progenitor. I could have learned so much from him.”
“You and Columban were shut up in there for days. Is that what you did all that time? Talk about history, where you came from?”
“Isn’t it enough?” he said. “We talked, told stories, prayed. Confessed. A lot of sins to confess, after five hundred years. Many acts of contrition to say. It was … good. To feel some sort of absolution.”