Then, as she turned around the other side of la casa mayor, there were cries and the clash of metal on metal; a horse’s panicked whinny. Shouting in Spanish and in English. Saltpeter stung her nose as gun smoke thickened the air.
Every time she heard a gunshot, she ducked, fists clamped over her ears. Visions of dead men from the battlefield flitted behind her eyelids, spilling dread into her belly. Papá and Félix had escaped the battle mostly unscathed, but only tragedy could come of fighting at such close quarters in the dark.
She swallowed hard and kept running. Some men ran past her, from the jacales toward where the fight was thickest, brandishing machetes and the occasional rifle.
A figure on horseback loped near them, brandishing a broad machete for clearing chaparral.
Her heart leaped to her mouth. It couldn’t be. She slowed her run, squinting through the night, praying it was who she thought and not a trick of the darkness.
After a week of riding behind that very figure, she knew exactly who it was.
“Go for the neck!” Néstor cried to the men around him. Then he turned, and spurred his mare into a gallop toward a monster that had a limp vaquero in its arms. A lasso appeared in his left hand, looping as fast as a whip as he bore down on the monster.
He flung the lasso; it sang through the air like a bullet, landing squarely over the head and narrow shoulders of the vampire. Néstor sat back in the saddle and yanked the rope tight.
The vampire reared back on its hind legs with a shrill, surprised cry, dropping the man it held. It pawed at the rope with its claws, but Néstor was already upon it, machete in hand.
He leaned out of the saddle and beheaded the monster in one swift stroke, as if it were no more difficult than clearing a path for cattle in the chaparral.
The vampire turned to ash, dissipating in the night like smoke.
“See?” Néstor roared over his shoulder, turning his mare sharply to avoid trampling the vampire’s victim. “Someone get this man to safety!”
Then he galloped off into the fray, toward where the danger was most immediate. Where he was most likely to be injured, or worse.
The sooner she carried out her plan, the sooner this would all be over.
She inhaled deeply and took off at a run again, dodging the men who headed toward the battle, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
There was a torch lit where Casimiro said he had seen a group of what he thought were men waiting, by the darkness of the tree line. Near the path that led to the springs.
From afar, moving at speed, a quick glance did make it seem as if those forms were men crouched on the ground, waiting for something.
But as she drew closer, as she caught winks of torchlight glinting off metal, she knew she had found her quarry.
She moved off the main path, onto the rocky ground behind a small cluster of old oaks, and considered her strategy.
One Rinche guarded the shackled beasts. His eyes were fixed on the fray, even as he patrolled around the monsters.
Behind them were the trees that shrouded the springs from view. If she went into the trees and came upon the vampires from behind, she could evade him. It would take longer than coming at the vampires head-on. If she wanted speed, she could charge forward from where she was.
Secrecy would cost her time, and she did not know how long her plan would take. But if she charged the vampires head-on, the Rinche could easily see and shoot her.
She flexed her fingers, loosening her grip on the knife. Her heart throbbed against the bones of her chest, rebelling against the idea of approaching the vampires on purpose. She hoped the knife would be enough. That the small bag of salt on her hip was enough. She had to go. Time was wasting.
On the count of three, she would change direction and sprint for the tree line for a more sheltered approach.
One.
The Rinche guarding the vampires started forward toward the fray. He lifted his pistol and aimed.
She traced the line of his sight. His pistol was pointed directly at a vaquero wielding a lasso and a machete on a black mare.
Two.
She passed the knife to her left hand and reached for the pistol at her hip. She hesitated. Was it too far to try and shoot? What if she missed? Néstor was not far—what if her bullet swung wide and harmed him instead?
The Rinche cocked his gun. The click resonated in her bones.
Three.
She seized a rock from near her feet and bolted forward from the oaks. Her skirts swished, her legs pumped as she devoured the distance between her and the man.
“?Oye, Rinche!” she screamed, so loud it ripped her throat. “?Cara de chinche!”
The man’s gun lowered a hair.
Nena dug her heels in, took aim, and flung the rock at him as hard as she could.
It hit his shoulder. He shuddered in surprise, then whirled, gun glinting in the torchlight, searching for who had thrown it. Nena was already on the move. She dived toward the vampires, thighs burning, lungs aching for air.
Her scar flushed with prickling pain as their attention swung toward her. Now she knew why something in their profiles had seemed off, making it look as if they had noses: they were muzzled. Their ankles were tied together with thick ropes; their necks bore the heavy metal collars, locked with padlocks.
That presented a problem.
But it also presented a solution.
With the vampires muzzled, Nena did not hesitate to rush up to the side of the group and duck behind their arched backs and long, lowered necks, using them as a barrier between her and the Rinche.
She heard her own breath. Her pulse in her ears.
The metallic curl of claws into rocky soil. The flutter of thin, batlike ears. The musty smell of skin, of wild beasts. Their soft, wheezing breathing.
If she were to close her eyes, she imagined their breathing would not seem so different from a horse’s.
But she kept her eyes peeled. For she heard solid footsteps coming toward her, accompanied by a metallic jingle.
Did the Rinche have keys? If he was the one in charge of releasing the vampires, his keys would unlock all of their collars, would they not?
The footsteps stopped.
Nena’s fear spiked.
She dared to lean her head forward slightly, to gaze through the long, muscular gray legs and heavy chains.
Torchlight gleamed on the round belly of the gun in the Rinche’s hand.
Over dinner on the road to Matamoros, Félix had told her to avoid the Rinches at all costs: in addition to grudges and an unusually high tolerance for cruelty, he said that they carried pistols with six bullets in their chambers, new inventions called revolvers.
This Rinche had one.
Nena had Néstor’s pistol. It was loaded, but he had the rest of the bullets.
She had one shot.
The metallic ring of keys. A shadow passed over Nena.
She looked up.
The Rinche looked down the barrel of his pistol at her.
He had straw-colored hair and a mustache that matched. It caught her attention; held it, even as her pulse thrummed in her ears, even as every muscle in her body shrieked in panic.
He was aiming directly at her forehead.
She flung herself sideways. A bullet whizzed behind her. A strangled, shrill cry seared the night: the bullet had clipped or struck one of the vampires.
She was on her feet, Néstor’s pistol in her hand, Néstor’s voice soft against her ear. Angle your body away. She cocked the pistol. Inhale, then aim. Exhale and—
The kickback of the gun wrenched her arm and flung her backward.
A man’s scream echoed through her skull as she collided with soft skin, with a bony shoulder. She yelped and shied away from it, disgust metallic in her mouth at the velvety sensation of the vampire’s flesh. When she righted herself, she searched the night for the man.
He was down.
She needed those keys. She needed them now.
She darted around the front of the group of vampires, ignoring how the prickling of interest in her scar filled her with the sick, helpless feeling of being prey.