Beautiful Blood

A clamor of voices, of horses neighing and being steadied, woke him. He lay still for a minute or thereabouts, unable to bring these sounds into focus. His head throbbed and his heart fluttered. A few minutes more elapsed and he sat up. In front of the cantina were a group of brown-skinned men wearing royal livery, perhaps ten or twelve, and an equal number of horses. The villagers crowded around them, all speaking at once. Rosacher swung his legs out of the hammock, blinking against the morning light, and went to the door. The man central to this hubbub was not in the least imposing: he had a pale complexion and was of average height, with neatly trimmed brown hair and a Vandyke. Handsome, but not remarkably so. Clad in a red doublet trimmed with gold and khaki riding trousers. Had it not been for the beard, which was meticulously barbered, a foppish accessory shaved into points along his jaw, Rosacher might not have recognized him; but recognize him he did. This very man had come to the House of Griaule not two years before, in the company of a half-dozen other men, seeking information about a young woman who had been employed there. A cousin, as Rosacher recalled. The man had traveled under an assumed name, but it was evident by the attentiveness of his retinue that this was Carlos. Stunned by the fact that he had previously had dealings with the king, Rosacher retreated into the shade of the longhouse, debating how best to handle the situation, whether to dissemble and hope that Carlos would not recognize him or to put on a bold face and own up to the fact that he and the king had met before. After smoothing down his hair, deciding to trust his instincts on how he should proceed, Rosacher walked out into the light and was quickly pushed forward into the king’s presence by the villagers, who claimed him to be someone with intimate knowledge of the monster.

After making a salutatory bow, Rosacher thought he detected a flicker in the king’s expression and, thinking that this signaled recognition on the king’s part, he said, “It may be presumptuous of me, Your Majesty, but is it possible that we have met before?”

“Carlos,” said the king. “There are no majesties here. Yes, I was thinking the same thing myself.” He studied Rosacher for a moment. “The House of Griaule, was it not? You’re the elusive Mister Mountroyal’s aide de camp. I’m sorry…I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Myree,” said Rosacher. “Arthur Myree. I did serve Mister Mountroyal for a brief period in that capacity, but we parted ways after a disagreement over salary. I am now a trader in exotic birds.”

“So Alonso tells me.” Carlos indicated that Rosacher should enter the cantina. “I have spoken with your companion, Mister Cerruti, about the beast that attacked him, but he was not very forthcoming. I’m eager to hear what you have to tell me.”

“Where is he?” Rosacher asked, as he stepped inside the cantina. “He was suffering from shock and may need medical attention.”

“He’s with another of my party. An artist. I hope he’ll be able to describe what he saw and that my artist is able to capture its likeness. I’ll have my doctor look in on him once he’s done.”

Alonso served Rosacher a plate of beans, rice and fried plantains. As he ate, he told Carlos the story he had earlier told Alonso and, when he had done, the king said, “It would appear that the creature is nocturnal. All the attacks thus far have occurred at night…though one of the three killed in Dulce Nombre occurred near dawn.”

“Three?” Rosacher set down his fork. “I was told only two, a mother and daughter.”

“There were three. A girl sent to fetch water with which to prepare the morning meal. She happened upon the remains of the other two and was killed. A black shape was seen feeding upon her flesh, but the witness was too terrified to remember much detail.”

The acuity that Carlos brought to bear on him as they talked unsettled Rosacher. The king seemed to register his every movement, every change in expression, but Rosacher maintained the demeanor of a man who had been through a frightening experience, yet had mastered himself and was trying to be helpful—he did so, he believed, without error, but he could not be certain as to what Carlos perceived.

Their conversation was interrupted by a middle-aged man whom Carlos introduced as Ramon, who brought with him a large sketchbook that he handed to Carlos. Rosacher asked Carlos, who was leafing through the sketchbook, if he was in the habit of traveling with an artist.

“I am a vain man in many ways,” Carlos said. “Often I am unable to bring home a trophy from my hunts, and thus Ramon travels with me to record my successes and failures.”

He stopped leafing through the book and showed Ramon one of the pages. “This?”

“He swore it was accurate,” Ramon said. “But his memory may have produced an exaggerated image.”