Legend of Zorro, A Novelization

A Novelization by SCOTT CIENCIN Based on the Screenplay by ROBERTO ORCI & ALEX KURTZMAN Story by ROBERTO ORCI & ALEX KURTZMAN and TED ELLIOTT & TERRY ROSSIO

Contents FROM THE LAIR OF THE FOX Thunder crashes outside the dark labyrinth of Zorro’s secret lair…

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PROLOGUE The tale begins long ago in a land called Franconia.

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CHAPTER 1 A very special bell tolled in the high reaches of…

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CHAPTER 2 The rooftops blurred as Zorro blazed across them, his boots…

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FROM JOAQUIN’S CONFESSIONS Zorro, Zorro, I have seen El Zorro!

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CHAPTER 3 Alejandro’s hand playfully explored the soft, sensuous landscape of Elena’s…

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FROM THE PRIVATE JOURNALS OF ELENA DE LA VEGA Several nights ago, the subject of popular author Edgar Allan…

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FROM A SCROLL FALLEN IN A CORNER IN ALEJANDRO DE LA VEGA’S HIDDEN LAIR Today. Big day. Nearly broke my hand on a bandito’s…

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CHAPTER 4 The next morning, Elena de la Vega knelt in her…

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FROM JOAQUIN’S CONFESSIONS Mama? Papi? They don’t understand. They can’t understand.

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CHAPTER 5 Morning light burned Alejandro’s eyes. Squinting, he stirred from the…

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CHAPTER 6 Hacienda de la Fere perched above the rolling night-enraptured…

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CHAPTER 7 The afternoon sun glared in Elena’s eyes as the carriage…

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FROM “ZORRO VERSUS THE SCALLYWAG” A WORK IN PROGRESS El Zorro leaped back, his boot catching the crumbling edge…

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CHAPTER 8 Fray Felipe frowned as he stared down at the passage…

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CHAPTER 9 The dark crimson hues of dusk seeped in through the… 150 CHAPTER 10 The clock in the Town Square struck twelve times, its…

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FROM THE CONFESSIONS OF JOAQUIN DE LA VEGA I am never changing out of these clothes again so… 192 CHAPTER 11 An ornate chandelier radiating a warm comforting bronze glow peered…

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CHAPTER 12 Alejandro de la Vega was a prisoner. Trapped in a…

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CHAPTER 13 Elena knocked at the front door to Armand’s glorious hacienda…

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CHAPTER 14 The blades pressed in. Elena steadied herself for a desperate…

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FROM THE FOURTH VOLUME OF THE MEMOIRS OF COUNT ARMAND DE LA FERE Her beauty clouds my reason. 256 CHAPTER 15 A knot constricting in her throat, Elena stared with fascinated horror…

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CHAPTER 16 Half a dozen guards attacked as one, like a murderous…

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CHAPTER 17 Joaquin’s chest felt as if it were going to explode…

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FROM THE LAIR OF THE FOX I stand before Zorro in his secret lair, staring deeply…

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About the Author Cover Copyright About the Publisher

From the Lair of the Fox

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Thunder crashes outside the dark labyrinth of Zorro’s secret lair, the sound vying in my ears with the pounding of my own heart. His journals lie open, his secrets stand revealed. I know everything now about those thrilling days when the fate of our country rested with a brave but struggling father and his rebellious son. Or so I believe. Zorro approaches, his eyes revealing a final truth. Were it not for the mysterious depths glimpsed in his dark and searching eyes, I would see only the blaze of his roguish grin, the shimmering sweep of his sword, the flowing black reaches of his cape and costume. I would not see a man; I would see only a legend. As I stand before Zorro, the tip of his blade raised boldly in challenge, I find my voice at last. But what I have to say is not for him to hear. It is for you.

Prologue

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he tale begins long ago in a land called Franconia. It was the Year of Our Lord thirteen hundred and fifty. The crusades had ended and a war destined to last a century raged between England and France. And yet . . . they say there are two histories. The one we read in books . . . and the true history, the one known but never written. As the countries of Europe squabbled like schoolchildren on a playground, a brotherhood of knights, corrupted by power and greed, waged their own Holy War with one ambition: to erect a shadow kingdom, to dominate the world as it was then known. They were the Knights of Aragon. Alexandre Laroche, the most highly regarded knight in this secret circle, plunged through a churning stream foaming with bright crimson blood as hellish fires flickered against the dusk at his back. The amber flames scorched his gleaming steel armor as the clangor of swords and the splitting of shields burst deafeningly around him. Hefting his broadsword, he smashed it down in a mighty arc, dispatching a leather-garbed enemy soldier. Whirling and slashing, the brutal and ferocious Laroche carved a wide gap through the screaming knot of Germanic defenders that had cut him off from his fellow knights.

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“Your masters should have known to bow before their betters!” he roared, killing the final two that had challenged him. Laroche’s gaze shot to his main forces as they sped down toward the unnerved battalions of Germans from either side of the bracing valley, giving up hiding places behind high heavy trees. The Aragonian warriors charged in tight columns, one directly behind another, giving the illusion that their numbers were few so that their enemies would not even consider retreating until it was too late. Raising his sword, Laroche signaled the armored warriors to fan out until they surged into an all-encompassing swarm. Whipping his sword wildly to the right, he commanded his archers to loose hell on their enemies. Whistling arrows sliced the air as the archers broke the ranks of the five hundred Germans trapped here. Endless volleys of deadly shafts stung the sky from both sides of the vale. He started as a hand clawed up from the muddy water below and grasped his leg. “Fiend!” choked a dying warrior. The bloodthirsty Laroche callously shrugged off the German, his eyes narrowing with contempt. His wrought-iron faceplate, crafted to resemble a grotesquely leering demon, provided a glimpse of the unyielding hell his victims would soon be visiting. The mask—identical to those worn by his seven fellow true Knights of Aragon—also served another purpose, one that made Laroche grin even as he waded deeper into the midst of his enemies. Laroche set his sights on the opposition leader as the fighting raced like wildfire to the shore. The knight studied his foe’s snarling face, his pockmarked skin, the rough clutch of his gray receding hair in its tight ringlets, and decided that dispatching this man personally was a point of honor. As he plunged closer to his prey, Laroche kicked aside one of the bodies of the seventy men who had volunteered to draw out the infidels, their corpses bobbing in the shallows of the hissing, lapping stream. Laroche had baited his trap well.

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Other knights rushed to his side as rippling walls of enemy soldiers rose up, anxious to taste his gore-drenched steel. “Have at them,” howled Laroche, gesturing magnanimously to his fellows. “There’s plenty for all of you!” The clang of mail on mail shattered the early evening as Laroche dispatched a few more men then pressed on toward his prize, his thoughts flickering on the arduous journey he and his warriors had taken to reach this place of destiny. They had crested the Alps, sliced their way through the Bohemian Forest, sailed across the Danube, and marched finally to this spot. The country’s leaders had come here to plan their defense, these waters reaching all the way to the western bank of the Rhine. Controlling Franconia—the heart of the Germanic territories, a fertile land of rich, rolling hills braced by high gray mountains—meant controlling the country. Laroche’s brief reverie was ripped asunder by a warrior’s scream of challenge. Ahead, the man Laroche had targeted stood with a handful of his best men, the entire lot bracing for death. Swords raised in a valiant attempt to claim vengeance for their losses, the survivors of the First Guard massed at the center of the swirling maelstrom of death into which they had wandered less than an hour before. All about Laroche, the thunderous sounds of battle ebbed as the dead grew to outnumber the living on the muddy crimson-stained battlefield rising up on either side of the stream. Before this night was done, fully a thousand warriors on both sides of the conflict would perish, and a spectacular prize would be won. Only eight men would live to claim it. Laroche would be one of them. With a bellow of laughter, Laroche attacked. The leatherbound Germans remaining in the stream fought bravely, but they were no match for the mad, possessed knight. Soon only Laroche and the enemy leader stood in this wet, windy stretch as the sky surrendered to deepest night. The German lifted his sword. A trio of broken arrows jutted from his arms and thigh.

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“They say a war leaves a country with three armies,” taunted Laroche in a tongue he felt certain his opponent would understand. “An army of cripples, an army of mourners, and an army of the dead. But they neglect to mention those for whom armies are nothing more than a means to an end. You fought well, my friend. You’ve earned a special fate. I curse you not only with damnation, but also with knowledge. Look to the hills.” The German soldier shifted his uneasy gaze to the steadily climbing hills, where his people hung impaled on huge poles and watchfires crackled among clusters of the dead. But something strange was happening. The victors themselves were falling. The steel-clad horde of armored soldiers careened about wildly, clutching at their throats, their skulls. In a tumult of agonized screams, they dropped writhing to the ground. Soon, only the eight who wore the masks of demons remained. One of them hefted a whipping banner on which a serpent appeared to be circling the globe. “Our food was poisoned,” explained Laroche. “A handful of us had the antidote in our masks.” “Some enemy—” began the German, grinding out the words between clenched teeth. “Hardly,” Laroche said, laughing. “I mixed the deadly blend myself. Our cause does not bend to the will of foolish kings, it does not recognize the boundaries of country or state set by the pathetic, fearful masses. This battle not only hands us the territory we desire, it allows us the chance to rid ourselves of weaker elements who would betray us given time. The world is our dominion, whether it is aware of that fact or not.” The German’s eyes blazed murderously as he glared at Laroche. “You are a demon.” “Perhaps I am.” They raced for each other, swords flashing. * * *

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The stars shivered in the distance as the fog-enfolded river flowed to the east and night gathered the gray chapel’s thick walls and high turrets in its cold embrace. All was dim within, the chapel’s narrow halls leading to somber vaults and dank chambers hidden deep below the ground. A scurrying man gathered his brown robe to keep from tripping on it as he sped to a pair of huge wooden doors at the base of a winding subterranean stairwell. Winded, he caught his breath and gulped in the damp musty air as soldiers pressed their shoulders to the doors, swinging them open wide to allow the priest entry. Shrugging off his monk’s habit to reveal silk finery, the latecomer quickly took his place among a dozen similarly dressed men at the large central table gracing the grand, torch-lit hall. Shadows danced across the elegant stonework as the temple’s grand master, Alexandre Laroche, acknowledged the young bearded knight Tougaine, who stood apart from the other high ranking members of the circle. “With this victory over Franconia, all of Europe lies at our feet!” announced the tall, wiry bearded knight, thumping his hand against the map of the world spread across the west wall. A serpent bounded all the known continents and appeared ready to stretch across any yet to be discovered. “A toast,” cried Laroche, his large, dark, inquisitive eyes gleaming as he raised his goblet from the head of the table. “That the Knights of Aragon shall rule the world for the next thousand years!” The knights banged their goblets together and drank heartily, the swirling red wine soothing their throats, made sore and scratchy by the choking mustiness of this tomb. Laroche grinned with satisfaction, the flickering torchlight stealing across the well-sculpted planes of his handsome face. “Perhaps . . .’’ came an eerie rasping from the darkness at their backs. “Perhaps not.” The knights turned as one. A wizened figure crept for-

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ward from the shadows, his withered hand clutching the bejeweled serpentine head of his gnarled walking cane, his labored breath echoing off the stone walls. Laroche’s hand crept to the scarlet strip of cloth he’d bound about his neck, a lady’s favor paid for in exquisite blood. He scowled at the soothsayer, anxious to hide his bewilderment. “I don’t recall arranging for this amusement, seer.” The seer stepped forward, raising an aged and shaking, spotted hand. “Hear me now, for I have had a vision . . . a nation not yet born threatens to grow so strong, the brotherhood and its dreams may be rendered to dust.” Silence spread upon the room. “Explain,” demanded Laroche. The seer lifted his cane and tapped it on the map, the twisted wood grazing the serpent crest. “Though it does not yet appear on any map, there is land waiting to be discovered. You will have but one chance to strike down its threat.” “Tell me when, so we can prepare . . .’’ urged Laroche. “The burden will fall to your heirs,” added the soothsayer cryptically. “Five hundred years must pass before you can claim the world as your own.” Laroche rose from the table, aware of the uncertain gazes assailing him from his brethren. Whether the old man’s words were true or not, Laroche would be damned if he would allow his position of power amongst these men to be threatened. He approached the soothsayer and spoke in a low growl. “You tell us that a nation we’ve not yet heard of will rise from a land that doesn’t exist—steal from us the destiny that is ours—and there is nothing we can do about it for five hundred years?” The soothsayer nodded. “I cannot will my tongue to lie.” Laroche’s steely gaze narrowed as he considered the soothsayer’s warning. “Indeed, your tongue speaks with such conviction, we’d be fools not to listen. And to insure our heirs do as well . . .’’ Laroche’s words trailed off as he

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signaled to a pair of knights standing near the door, one of great height and fair-haired as a Viking, the other even taller, bald, with mocha flesh, a prince of the Moorish lands. They seized the soothsayer. The old man struggled, but he was too weak to break free. Laroche yanked a dagger from his belt, its handle molded in the familiar shape of a serpent coiled around the globe. The soothsayer squirmed, his eyes wide, as Laroche clutched the seer’s tongue and raised the dagger. Laroche laughed and promised, “We shall pass it down as a reminder of your warning.” The blade swung down, and when the deed was done, Laroche poured a goblet of wine over his red-specked face and through his lustrous wavy black hair. He ordered the whimpering seer taken away and clapped his hands to command the others to resume their festivities. His brethren did so without hesitation. Laroche sank into his chair, his dark eyes troubled. The old man’s blood was easy enough to wash away. If only the same could be said of the uneasiness wrought by his strange and terrifying prophecy. Laroche’s gaze shifted to the map—where blood dripped from a patch of coastal land that had no name so far as he was aware. Had he also been granted the strange sight of the seer, he might have known that this land would one day be known as California, and that the battle spoken of would indeed come to pass. It would be waged by a man wearing quite a different mask. And would, in fact, define Laroche’s bloody legacy—and that of his order. Somewhere in the distance—perhaps over the gulf of the great stretches of time itself—sounded the low echoing of a tolling bell.

Chapter 1

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San Mateo, California. 1850.

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very special bell tolled in the high reaches of Mission Santa Lucia. The bronze bell, cast in Peru and tuned to a strident minor chord, rang so hard that Brother Felipe imagined it swinging clear of its campanario and diving headlong into the swelling mass of visitors thronging the street below. A pair of young wash women giggled as the balding, bleary-eyed Felipe raced past them from his private office, where the brother was known to catch an additional siesta from time to time. He was headed toward a low stairwell on the mission’s ground floor. So was a rush of water from the mouth of a gargoyle which flowed into a trough next to the sweating ladies as they washed the mission’s laundry, spattering their cow-elk hide blankets, aprons and petticoats— along with the slippery bottom stone step. With surprising grace, Felipe danced over the slick step and bolted up the stairs. “Padre, are you not the friend of Señor Zorro, the one to whom the tolling of that bell is entrusted?” the bolder of the women called after him. “Yes, who is ringing it, Felipe?” asked the other.

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Who indeed, wondered the Franciscan missionary as he scurried up the steps. His thoughts fixed on one of the biggest troublemakers he knew. Joaquin, if it is you, it will be your hide I tan next! He reached a landing and rushed through a busy workshop where shoes and children’s toys were being made. A cloud of sawdust flew in Felipe’s face, causing the brother to cough as the rich musk of well-tanned leather reached into his lungs. George Cook, a Native American man whose friends knew him as Laughing Coyote, grinned toothily and hummed El Cantico del Alba as Felipe bustled by. The devotional song about the Virgin Mary was sung every morning once all the people had risen, and everyone knew that was the often sleep-deprived Felipe’s least favorite time in the world. The bell tolled once more. That sound marked Mission life. Prayers, instruction, afternoon siestas, work, meals, and bedtime were all signaled by its ringing. Felipe huffed indignantly and pulled sharply at the fold of his brown wool habit, making the hood resting at the back of his neck scratch him like a spider’s fuzzy leg. He adjusted his cincture as he hurried to another set of stairs, the three knots expertly tied from decades of practice, one to remind him of his vow of poverty, the other two chastity and obedience. His rosary and cross dangled from the cincture as he picked up steam once more, the pouch he carried banging against his side, weighted by his prayer book and personal journal. From the distance sounded the squalling wooden wheels of a carreta—an ox-cart used by hide and tallow traders to transport their wares. Felipe was well aware that although today was indeed a momentous day for the people of California, those same people still had to make a living. The bell tolled again as Felipe mounted the last set of stairs, an orange-striped tabby cat brushing his leg. Cats were as plentiful in the missions as tales of hauntings. They were necessary and so too were the little access doors they

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had in every room. Without them, rats would overrun the place. And with the thought of rats . . . Joaquin, you little scamp, I love you as if you were my own, but if it is you again? thought Felipe, picturing the dark-haired ten-year-old hauling on the rope in the belfry. As he climbed, a little out of breath, his head now hanging low, Felipe nearly stumbled over a young neophyte in a cotton jacket sprawled on a high step, snoring blissfully, oblivious to the ringing bell a dozen feet over his head. A bowl next to the snoozing man sported the remains of an early and austere meal: fruit, soup, milk and bread. Life here was not one of sangrias and fandangos. A few marked playing cards drifted from the sleeping man’s sleeve. As the best card player in the mission, Felipe noted this man’s face well, and vowed never to play a hand against him. Felipe finally cleared the landing—and found himself peering at the wide-eyed, well-scrubbed face of the mission’s youngest and most skittish brother. “Brother Ignacio?” asked Felipe. The young monk spun, the bell rope flying through his twitchy pale fingers as he faced the mission’s curator. Its last toll was now a dull echo. “What are you doing?” questioned Felipe, struggling to keep his tone mild. “Five rings, Fray Felipe,” explained the short, roundfaced Brother Ignacio earnestly. “To summon Zorro in case there’s trouble.” Fray Felipe. Not Brother Felipe, as it might be said in English, the language they had all promised to speak from now on. Ignacio was an educated man, a fresh recruit from Felipe’s alma mater on the Isle of Mallorca. Yet he could be so thick upon occasion. I come to serve, I come to serve, Felipe chanted in his mind, begging the Lord for patience. Releasing his frustration, Felipe gently patted Ignacio’s shoulder. “If I know Zorro . . . he’s already here.”

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Leaning closer to the campanario, Felipe peered into the sea of excited faces below. Many looked up expectantly, as if Felipe might tell them why Zorro was being summoned, if some threat they could not yet see was moving among them. Felipe shooed them back to what they had been doing. His searching gaze scoured the wide street, which swarmed with hundreds who formed long lines to cast their votes today. Red, white and blue flags decorated the plaza. Patriotic buntings flapped in the afternoon breeze near a banner that demanded, “VOTE TODAY!” The orange glow of the waning yet still bright sun told them that the voting would end soon, and the voice of the California people would at last be heard. “Freedom,” Felipe whispered, crossing himself. This time, Brother Ignacio gently patted Felipe’s shoulder. “Freedom.” Felipe turned away. Had he lingered but a moment longer, he might have seen the small, wild-haired, mischievous boy Joaquin racing around below, anxious for a chance to snatch a loaf of bread fresh from the mission’s cone-shaped woodfired oven. He also might have seen an unusual visitor to the voting booths. For beneath a ratty sombrero worn by a seeming peasant, a man with a wily smile and sparkling eyes gazed at the ballot. There were two boxes, two choices: “IN FAVOR OF THE CONSTITUTION” or “IN OPPOSITION TO THE CONSTITUTION.” Rather than marking an “X” in favor of joining the union, this man scrawled a stylish “Z.” Smiling, Zorro adjusted his mask and whipped open the voting booth’s scarlet privacy curtain, dropping his ballot in a basket guarded by red-uniformed soldiers known as Rurales. Brother Felipe knew the disguised hero well—it was to the brother that Zorro told his tales and confided his most cherished secrets. Felipe might have seen the masked man and thought, Well done, Alejandro de la Vega. And God bless us all that you are here.

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Instead, Felipe traced his way back through the mission and was now emerging from the front arcade. He breezed past a mission worker dragging a fierce pair of kicking and spitting curly horned churro sheep on the right and a collection of flashily dressed men playing at the style of the vaquero, or Spanish cowboys on the left. One of the posers leaned against the mission wall, gazing imperiously at the younger women gathered around the voting area. Felipe tapped the gold and emerald studded shoulder of the man’s shiny jacket. Felipe wove further through the milling throng gathered here for Election Day, sharing their excitement. Strong perfume filled Felipe’s lungs as he eased around a clutch of well-dressed women. His world became a pastel swirl of lace and petticoats, and for an instant, Felipe recalled his life before entering the church, the bittersweet memory of standing beneath his sweetheart’s balcony to serenade her on cool summer evenings breezing through his mind. Ah, but that was a long time ago. Returning to the present, he passed by the fine ladies and encountered older, poorer women clutching their threadbare shawls, the sun beating against large combs in their hair tucked beneath their veil-like mantillas. Some of the peasant men smiling at the padre rested their rough hands on the colorful suspenders strung over their homespun shirts and buttoned to their pants, while others tipped their straw hats. The snapping of castanets assailed him from flamenco dancers, while mariachis strummed passionate refrains, filling the air with music, joy and celebration. His heritage called out to him and he thought . . . Fray Felipe. Yes, that is how it should be. Ahead lay a speaker’s corner, a brace of men spouting rhetoric for and against the vote. The gentleman who railed against the pledge of the United States to provide freedoms such as the people of this land had never known was an outsider, thought by many to have been hired by big business

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interests intent on continuing their exploitation of the people. One woman had even suggested that he might be an agent of the Pinkertons, the National Detective Agency whose first—and most notorious triumph—had been during the Homestead Strike, when they were hired as bodyguards to keep strikers and suspected unionists out of their own factories. The Pinkertons had broken up coal, iron and lumber disputes in New York and Illinois, and had become the mustache-twirling villains of choice in dime-store novels these days. The other man perched boldly atop a soapbox was another matter entirely. Crowds of supporters flocked to him as he handed out pamphlets, a few excited men and women nearly edging his opponent from his spot. Guillermo Cortez raised his bearded jaw and cast his fierce, determined gaze on the people. The breeze tousled his short shiny black hair and the fading sunlight added noble highlights to the ridges of his high cheekbones and the bridge of his squareset nose. In his long-sleeve linen work shirt with suspenders, he was a striking figure, a man of the people, a leader who commanded respect. Casting her proud gaze at her beloved husband, Blanca Cortez patted her round and very pregnant stomach. She nodded vigorously when her husband stamped his pointedtoe boots, and, in quieter moments, her hand sometimes trailed to the final heirlooms left to her by her once wealthy family: a turtle-shell comb, a signet ring with her family’s now retired coat of arms. As he neared the end of his speech, the beautiful, voluptuous woman pulled her tattered black lace shawl tight, and smiled to the watching Fray Felipe as her husband’s voice burst above the friendly roar of the crowd. “Vote ‘yes’ to statehood!” cried Cortez. “This is our day of independence! Our day of revolution!” “Libertad!” cried Cortez’s rapt audience. “Viva California! Viva America!”

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Fray Felipe added his booming voice to that of his people. “Freedom!” Standing before the window of a seedy hotel room, looking down at the bustling square where the election was in full swing, a man cast in darkness glared at Cortez and the swelling crowd of voters. The scene below him made him feel as ill as the first time he’d looked into a ship’s hold and met the thousand red eyes of a swarming mass of vermin. You want to be free, you ignorant blight on the face of righteousness? wondered Jacob McGivens. I’ll see that you’re free . . . free to meet the Lord and complain to Him directly about your problems, hombre . . . The watcher thought of himself as an American through and through, and a man dedicated to the Lord. He wore a long black coat and a white shirt with a high collar so that those who came upon him would know that they were dealing with a man sent by God to be their judge. The only company that the strongly built, forty-year-old gunman might have liked even less than that of the greasy peasants below were those now meeting in a cluster at the other side of the room. To show just what he thought of the trio of fat, cowardly millionaires who had just promised him a fortune, Jacob McGivens delivered the greatest insult he knew: He showed them his back. Even if he hadn’t been loading twin Colt revolvers with the most magnificent blue steel barrels and well oiled chambers, he would have been hard-pressed to view these idiots as threats. His thumb moved over the polished dark wood handle of the first gun, which bore a silver plate into which the word “salvation” was inscribed, while “damnation” adorned the silver plate on the handle of its twin. With these guns, McGivens was ready to deliver the mighty voice of the Lord. He just hadn’t yet decided if he would take these jackanapes’ lives along with their money.

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He stared at the mass of people below, his brain suddenly bursting into flames of pure hatred. Filthy scum polluting this land just by being here. Hell, I’d do this job for free, if it came to it! Behind McGivens, one of the self-important “railroad barons” was at it again. McGivens glanced at the group’s reflection in the barrel of his nearest gun. All three men wore brand-new hats without a speck of dust on them and finely tailored dark suits that servants or slaves probably helped them put on. They even smelled the same, having sprinkled perfumed macassar oil on their hair to keep it tidy in the California heat. It was their leader, Cornelius Tweed, who had raised an imploring hand. “If California becomes a state, we lose millions,” murmured Tweed, a white-bearded man wearing an asymmetrically tied cravat. Daniel Marcy, whose starched high white collar rubbed against the bottom of his round heavily whiskered face, tugged on his dark brown velvet waistcoat and made its shining silver buttons glimmer. “Minimum wage, workers’ rights . . .” The last man, Jay Fisk, frowned as he thumbed his golden pocketwatch chain. His drooping, walrus-like mustache quivered as his eyes shot open wide and his hands fluttered up in frustration. “Time was, a Mexican wasn’t worth more’n a shot of tequila!” The men chuckled. All three were highly placed members of New York’s infamous Tammany Hall, and they sought to extend their powerful reach from coast to coast. To McGivens, these puffed-up idjits had no idea about the true meaning of power—and that made them all the easier to manipulate and despise. Then again, Jacob McGivens really didn’t need an excuse to hate his fellow men. He just did what came naturally. “Your service with the railroad’s been exemplary, Mr. McGivens,” said Tweed. He tossed a bag bursting with gold dust onto the table.

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“We’re hoping you can do your part to . . .’’ Marcy faltered, groping for the polite way to get his point across. His eyes fixed on McGivens’s scar, reflected in the full-length mirror in a nearby corner, and the answer came. “Spread the fear of God.” Jacob smiled. His guest had said the magic words. Holstering his weapons, Jacob McGivens turned to leave. The glowering rays of deep orange and amber light filtering in from outside set a flaming aura around his black, flatbrimmed hat and nightmare dark frock coat. He was a preacher ablaze. At that very moment, a shimmer of light reflected off a bronze lamp and landed squarely on the horrifying outline of a crucifix that had been branded into McGivens’s cheek, clear up to his right eye, long ago. He unfurled a serpentine grin. “Pleasure doing business with you gentlemen.” The dark-haired boy stole through the crowd, his gaze narrow and purposeful. Fray Felipe had often said there was a wildness about him, that he was like a colt ready to bolt. His name was Joaquin and today he was on a mission. The bell summoning Zorro had rung, and that meant danger was near. The ten-year-old examined the faces of every man he met because he knew Zorro was hidden somewhere among these everyday people. Joaquin could sense it. And he was ready to do his part to hold back whatever threat his hero might soon face. Yes, at long last, he would see the Fox in the flesh. “Yieee!” howled Joaquin as pain suddenly exploded in his skull. The flesh of his ear had been grabbed and twisted by a powerful hand. Wincing, Joaquin whipped his gaze up to the frowning face of Fray Felipe. “Niño, you should be at school!” scolded Fray Felipe. The boy spread his arms in perfect innocence. “But Padre, what if Zorro comes?” Delivering a scorching look, Fray Felipe said, “I’ll make

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sure he carves a ‘Z’ into your backside, how does that sound?” His breath charged with excitement, the boy cried, “Really?” “Home!” shouted Fray Felipe. The boy dashed off—and quickly looked back. He saw the padre shaking his head as he scooped up the basket filled with votes. Then, prowling ahead, Fray Felipe scanned the area for trouble. Joaquin knew exactly what to make of the padre’s actions: Fray Felipe had no idea what form disaster might take this day, but he was certain it would appear. Joaquin kept mental tabs on the holy man as he sauntered near a fruit cart, his small hand casually closing on an apple before he stole away. No one saw him take it. He wasn’t even hungry. But he knew how inflamed Fray Felipe would be if he found out, so the risk was worth it. Safely away from the fruit stand, Joaquin took a defiant chomp out of the apple. Fray Felipe arrived at the table where the governor’s tabulator was hard at work counting ballots and set down his basket. The thinning reddish-blond ringlets framing the tabulator’s bushy eyebrows, thinly pursed lips and jowly face caught the fading glory of the afternoon sun, providing him with a heroic and passionate gleam that was otherwise missing due to his intentness on his task. Joaquin’s spine stiffened as Fray Felipe suddenly spun and stared right at him. The boy nearly choked on the juicy mouthful of apple he’d just bitten off. Sighing, the holy man shook his head and glanced around, ignoring the boy. The two red-uniformed Rurales standing behind the tabulator, rifles in hand, caught Fray Felipe’s furtive looks, and quickly joined him surveying the crowd. “The final votes, amigo,” Fray Felipe said in a tight voice, absentmindedly placing his hand on the tabulator’s shoulder. A sharp gasp from Joaquin’s right drew his attention from the Franciscan. Blanca Cortez had been returning from a

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chat with two Russians from Fort Ross, which lay north of San Francisco on Bodega Bay. Joaquin had overheard her drumming up sales for her husband, who sold custom mining equipment. The excitement of the large order these two had placed must have been too much for her, because she was sweating in the sun, holding her belly and shuddering as she made her way to a long bench. An oblivious couple hogged the bench, and Joaquin ran at them, waving his arms, scolding them and chasing them off. Guillermo saw his wife’s distress and leaped from his soapbox to help her sit. Joaquin took one arm and helped guide Blanca to the bench. Guillermo nodded his gratitude to Joaquin, and the boy stepped aside. “Are you all right, Mi Amor?” asked Guillermo. His beautiful wife smiled. “The baby’s kicking, that’s all. He’s a fighter, like his father.” “Well, tell him to slow down, I want him to be born an American . . .” Joaquin smiled. It was easy to see the love between them. A hush fell on the gathering as the tabulator finished marking the tally certificate and rose. “A landslide in favor of statehood,” cried the tabulator, his face breaking into a wide, glorious grin of triumph. A roar of approval burst from the crowd. Music swelled, strangers hugged and kissed, and the echoes of laughter reached out to embrace all. Joaquin leaped onto the soapbox, his fist rocketing high as he crowed with satisfaction. A few yards away, Fray Felipe crossed himself, held his beads, and nodded to the heavens. “Let’s hope the rest of California voted the same . . .” Moments later, when the celebrants began to settle down, the tabulator locked the certificate inside a box and handed it to one of the Rurales. “Take this to the governor,” commanded the tabulator as he put on his widebrimmed hat.

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Joaquin’s elation ebbed as he saw Felipe’s probing gaze fall upon the box the Rurale hauled toward a waiting wagon. “Be careful, Hombre,” cautioned Fray Felipe, “you carry our future in your hands.” Joaquin felt something then: a slight shift in the air, a sudden and bitter chill that snaked across the flesh at the nape of his neck. Then, with nightmarish suddenness, a barrage of deafening gunshots exploded above the sounds of the crowd. Time seemed to slow for Joaquin. He watched with horror as three hats whipped into the air, each sporting a smoking black hole ringed with tiny, licking flames. The tabulator and the two soldiers stumbled back, their now bared heads displaying their wildly shorn hair, but they were otherwise unhurt. Two more shots blasted the air, and the great sign urging everyone to vote today swept down from above, its cable supports severed. Screams shot from onlookers in the crowd, and a sudden pressing rush of frightened people surged at Joaquin. He held his ground atop the orator’s box, dimly aware that Cortez’s opponent had already fled. The crowd parted, revealing a grizzled man in a black hat and frock coat riding a dusky Mustang. The man’s face was scarred, and he carried a weapon with a long, shining silver barrel. Trotting forward in a mockery of amiable good manners, he tipped his hat to a lady who promptly fainted in disbelief and regaled the pair of Rurales with a soft, but good-natured laugh even as the lawmen had their rifles raised and pointed toward his head. “I know you,” Fray Felipe said, his gaze set on the gunman’s distinctive scar. Ignoring the padre, the scarred man cast a wicked grin at his gleaming gun. “Latest model in heavy artillery, the Henry Repeater. If God didn’t hurl lightning, he’d carry one of these.” “State your business, Jacob McGivens,” said Fray Felipe. McGivens shrugged. “I haven’t voted yet.”

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“You’re too late, the polls have closed.” Frowning, McGivens shook his head. “Doesn’t seem equitable. I have rights too.” Joaquin leaped out of the way as Cortez suddenly lunged at the gunman. Blanca’s steady hand, her touch gentle, yet powerful, restrained his flight. Snarling, Cortez called, “You talk about rights when you force us off our land?” “Force you?” McGivens laughed. “Railroad pays fair price: two cents an acre.” He thrust his open hand toward the box held by the tabulator, who had picked it up when the Rurale dropped it. “Now, if you’d be kind enough—give me that box, I’ll be on my way.” The tabulator tried being reasonable. “You’d only force the people to vote again.” A dismissive grunt sounded in the back of McGivens’s throat. Joaquin knew the man was mad. A pair of rifles were trained on the scarred man’s head and he acted as if he was in charge. “Well, you remember . . .’’ McGivens’s eyes blazed suddenly and his voice shot ahead of him, a fanatical, theatrical spike of fury. “Babylon was condemned to ashes for extending its empire to inferior races! I come to deliver the Lord’s work against this vote!” The distinctive crackling of muskets cocking from high above arrested Joaquin’s attention. He spun and saw six riflemen on the rooftops, three on each side of the street, their weapons aimed at the frightened mass below. McGivens’s posse had the high ground. The weapons held by the Rurales wavered—then fell. The soldiers could not risk the lives of the innocents who would surely be caught in the crossfire. The tabulator clasped the box to his breast, and Fray Felipe edged beside him, ready to push the man aside and take a bullet himself if need be. Unnoticed by the terrified crowd, Joaquin slipped his

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hand into his back pocket, and slowly withdrew a weapon of his own making. “Time to do the Lord’s work,” cackled McGivens, raising and priming his thick heavy rifle. “Three . . . two . . .’’ Joaquin carefully aimed his weapon at the bandito. An instant before he could act, however, he heard a strange high whistling sound, an object slicing the air. His jaw dropped as a black gaucho rocketed into view, smashing McGivens on the bridge of the nose. The gunman snapped back in his saddle, tumbled off his horse and landed with an angry thud in a sharply rising cloud of dust. In a heartbeat, Joaquin had judged the angle from which the hat had been flung. He whirled and felt the breath catch in his throat at the sight of the tall masked man standing upon the ledge of the mission’s espadaña. El Zorro. Zorro waved to the crowd, his eyes sparkling from behind the mask concealing his roguish features. His shimmering silver medallion swung from a thin chain around his neck, the ruby at its heart glowing with his passion. Bold embroidered patterns struck out across his wide belt while gleaming sunlight raced along the sweeping length of his avenging blade. The people cheered as their hearts swelled with hope. Joaquin beamed with excitement, his throat growing raw as he hollered, “El Zorro! El Zorro!” Zorro’s cape swept the air and rustled like the unfurling of heavy wings as he escaped the barrage of gunfire with a single graceful leap onto the balcony below. Joaquin cheered again. His hero had evaded the lethal onslaught of McGivens’s murderous riflemen. This was even better than a scene from one of his dime novels! A rough scraping caught Joaquin’s attention. He pushed through the frightened onlookers and saw Jacob McGivens dragging himself up off the ground. The Rurales were reaching for their weapons, but they weren’t quick enough. Mc-

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Givens swung the Henry Repeater rifle around, forcing the soldiers to back away from their guns once more. Snarling like a cornered wolf, McGivens whipped the butt of his weapon against the tabulator’s skull. The man fell back into Fray Felipe’s arms, the box he had been clutching was catapulted into the air. McGivens caught it, stabbed his weapon high then fired to clear a path to the waiting wagon. He jumped on board, clearing the rim of the wagon bed and landing firmly in the long wooden driver’s seat. Joaquin primed his weapon and took aim as the gunman tossed the stolen box on the flat bed behind him then spun to grab the reins. Screeching with fury, Joaquin fired! McGivens jumped as a spiraling apple core splattered against the side of his head. Whirling, he fixed his gaze on the grinning Joaquin, who held his slingshot high. The Rurales had their guns now, and were trying to take aim, but the frightened swell of people pressed against them, confounding their attempts to shoot the thief. Joaquin’s effort had bought them more time to take down this rabid dog. The scarred man’s eyes burned with the fury of pure bloody murder, but he had seen the Rurales and knew he had to move fast. Cracking the reins, McGivens blasted away in the stolen wagon, the lock box bouncing and crashing in the open rear bed. The riflemen sprang from the rooftops onto waiting horses, galloping after the wagon as it thundered through the mass of fleeing peasants, heading straight for a frightened little girl. “El Zorro!” cried Joaquin, who was too far away to reach the girl in time. Joaquin spun and searched high for his hero, his soul taking flight as he finally spotted Zorro swinging from the balcony, his black gloved hands catching the dangling corner of a banner whipping over the crowd. Joaquin could hardly believe it—the banner ripped as Zorro descended in a wide,

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sweeping arc, one arm out to catch the innocent child. The hook holding the banner in place burst free of its mooring atop a saddler’s shop, flinging Zorro headlong into the path of the wagon. And yet despite the thundering earth beneath him, the ratcheting wooden wheels which spat stones at him and the galloping team of powerful dark brown horses hurtling a stolen wagon at him, Zorro remained calm. With catlike grace he kicked out his legs and took the ground running. His arm encircled the little girl, her necklace slipping over his hand. The clasp bursting, the jewelry made of donkey teeth, wood and brass beads dropping to the street as the two darting from the path of raging hooves and heavy spinning wheels, the wind biting Zorro’s back, the child safe in his arms and the wagon narrowly blazing beyond them was a sight to behold. Joaquin gazed upon the crushed remains of the necklace, the teeth and beads strewn across a dozen feet of road, and nearly fell to his knees to thank the Lord for gracing their lives with the will of one so strong as El Zorro. Fray Felipe ran up beside Joaquin, clamping a firm, yet loving hand on his shoulder. Together, they watched Zorro deposit the girl in the waiting arms of her terrified mother, then race up the shaft of a nearby cart and leap onto the rooftops to give chase. Something brushed Joaquin’s face. He eased from the padre and saw Zorro’s gaucho clutched tightly in the older man’s callused hand. Felipe tossed the hat to the fleeing figure above. With a robust cry of appreciation, Zorro caught it, slapped it back in place, then leaped for another rooftop and scrambled out of sight. Joaquin surged ahead, chasing the masked man. The boy paid no notice to a pair of odd-looking, darksuited men who emerged from the shadows of a general store half a block away, one tall and built like an ogre, the other shorter, slighter, his hairy paw scratching quickly at his round, stubbly, ratlike cheek. Seemingly intrigued by the

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spectacle they had witnessed, the big man politely gestured for his shorter companion to stroll ahead of him. In moments, they were atop their horses, and just as Joaquin ran abreast of them, they galloped off in the direction of the fleeing McGivens, nearly running the boy down. Stumbling out of the street, his knee sore, ankle aching, Joaquin dropped onto a rocking chair sitting outside the the general store and shook his head. Fray Felipe, who had born witness to the lad’s close scrape, clutched his crucifix and gave a prayer of thanks that Joaquin had not been harmed. Then, spotting the dark figure of Zorro cresting another roof in the distance before dropping down the other side and out of sight, the padre kissed his crucifix and whispered, “Godspeed, Alejandro.”

Chapter 2

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T

he rooftops blurred as Zorro blazed across them, his boots finding nimble purchase on the sliding red tiles so common in San Mateo. Below, the stolen wagon careened through the wide bustling streets escorted by six mounted desperados. Three horsemen had pulled ahead of the wagon, three behind, the slowest lagging because he was also leading McGivens’s lassoed Mustang. These madmen did not care who they trampled upon or what they destroyed in their crazed flight through the outdoor marketplace. Old women clutching red shawls scurried out of their way as they crashed around corners, while young hombres in deerskin jackets and chaps raced to save their well-tanned hides and other wares. The riders burst through the collection of rough, rickety wood stands and cages, sending chickens and hens flying while guavas, plums and papayas burst and splattered onto the dirt road. Sombreros, billowing white blouses and colorful rugs were ripped from their lines, cast into the dusty street and ground into ruin by the hooves of the relentless riders. Zorro judged that he had only one chance of stopping McGivens and his gang before they reached the outskirts of town and bounded forth into California’s wild reaches. From high atop the roof of a millwright, Alejandro de la

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Vega allowed his enemies to slip from his sight. Their wild yelps, the cracking of their whips, and the ceaseless pounding of their horses’ hooves dwindled for a time as he traced a route through San Mateo that would allow him to intercept the gang—if he reached his destination in time. His muscles burned as he ran, his black garb ringing with sweat. He had never felt more alive. Sunlight reached across the rooftops, lengthening Zorro’s shadow. He soon heard the clatter of hooves and the cries of his enemies. It was an hour before sunset. The twisting ball of fire in the sky was brighter now, almost blinding, though rich red streaks were already forming on high as evening with its cool breezes stole nearer. Hawks and sparrows caroused above as a gull glided toward the distant river. Zorro adjusted his mask as he ran. When he wore it, colors were more vibrant, images sharper and clearer than ever. Sounds were bolder, crisper. Every sensation was magnified. When he wore the mask, he was more than a man. He was a legend. The building Zorro sought loomed ahead. He reached the two-story feed and grain store just in time. Golden light glinted off the sharp industrial hook and rope he had remembered hanging outside the open entrance to the upper floor. With it, bags of feed and bales of hay were easily lowered to wagons waiting before the humble store of Señor Suaraz, where the best corn and seed in two counties might be bought. Zorro untethered one end of the device as the trampling hooves of the outlaw envoy approached. A rising wind blew across the shimmering crystal lake facing the store, and coyotes howled from the heavy forest of oak and madrones behind it. Hawks careened over the skeletal reaches of the half-finished aqueduct stretching across the lake a hundred yards up the road, and deer scampered for cover as McGivens approached, driving his team as if to burst their hearts. Now to bait the trap, thought Zorro. Grabbing the hook,

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the masked man leaped to the ground, landing directly in the path of McGivens’s wagon. The scarred gunman was now leading his pack. Zorro tipped his hat, then yawned and pantomimed drawing a watch from his silken waist sash. He shrugged quizzically at the time it was taking for the villain to reach him. The reins cracked and McGivens screamed with anticipation, completely ignoring the heavy hook in Zorro’s hand. The horses rushed at Zorro. Timing his maneuver expertly, he whispered a prayer and dropped between them. The hooves crashed to either side of his head and shoulders, his legs pressed together, arms over his chest. If one of the beasts tripped on the line he held, or snagged it with their sparking hooves, he would be dragged from this safe spot and trampled to death for sure. But luck was with him. The horses sped by and the wagon’s shuddering undercarriage rushed overhead. He whipped his hand up, slipping the hook over the front axle. The wheels spun in a screeching, hammering vibrato that made his teeth ache as the wagon sped on, leaving him looking up at the sky once more. Now he had only the seven racing horses coming up behind McGivens to worry about. Spiraling to the marshy grass to his right, Zorro cleared the coming horde of riders with only inches to spare. He held on to his hat as the pack thundered past, then he whirled and sat up, his gaze flickering first on the rapidly uncoiling rope and then on the wagon, which hitched and hiccuped strangely as the rope pulled taut. Then with a grinding screech, the axle was yanked from the wagon, striking back and to one side at the other riders like an enraged cobra. They scattered, most falling from their horses. The wagon flipped over cleanly, sending McGivens and the lock box rocketing into the air. On his feet and breaking into a run, Zorro raced to the fallen box and snatched it up. The trio of McGivens’s men that had stopped short of the neatly engineered disaster galloped at him, guns raised. Zorro had planned to call on an

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ally unseen until now to spirit him from this place, but his friend could not possibly reach him on time. His plan had failed, what was he to do? He recalled the words of Don Diego, the man who had willed the legend of Zorro to Alejandro. Only a fool relies completely on plans. If one’s wits cannot serve in a crisis, then one has no business wearing that mask. As he ran, Alejandro heard the hiss of a rattler near his boot—and the tremulous cry of a duck skimming over the water’s surface, near the half-built aqueduct. The aqueduct! Zorro burst ahead, looking for any cover he might find between here and the aqueduct. There was none. He heard a trio of rifles cocking, then McGivens’s voice rang out. “I want him alive!” cried the scarred gunman, who was half-kneeling in the mud. “I’m gonna skin that mask clear off his greasy damn face!” Zorro reached the aqueduct. His gaze fixed on the highest planks of the three-tiered scaffolding directly before him. He lunged at the rope ladder and laughed as he scampered to the first high landing and then the second. His enemies cursed as they leaped from their horses and scrambled after him. The scaffolding shuddered and swayed as McGivens’s men spidered up its sides, the hiss of their labored breathing almost lost against the steady rush of the water far below. Drawing his blade, Zorro leaned back against one of the tall oaks used as a main support beam and playfully scratched a tic-tac-toe board into the planks above his head. Instead of “X”s, he sliced “Z”s to counter the zeros. An ugly man with a meaty face and wild yellow hair was the first of McGivens’s hired guns to clear the rigging and scramble onto the plank to face Zorro. “Hold on, hold on, uno momento,” murmured Zorro as he finished his game by carving a final “Z” in the wood above. Whirling, he winked at his waiting opponent. “Okay, now I’m ready!”

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The mercenary’s hand flashed to a nasty length of chain coiled around his middle. Yanking it loose, he whipped it overhead with a violent rattling, the air humming as the chains whooshed. Zorro glanced up, shaking his head and delivering a sympathetic “tsk, tsk” before he sprang forward, his blade whisking through the suspenders holding up the man’s trousers. Yelping as his pants fell, the mercenary stumbled back, the unstoppable momentum of his whirling chains making them whip and coil around his own neck. The startled man choked and chortled as he staggered back, trying to speak. “You sound a little dry, amigo,” said Señor Zorro. “Let me give you some water!” Zorro’s boot sent him stumbling off the plank, and he shrieked as he plummeted into the air. He slapped heavily against the rushing water below and was swept away. The next two sprang onto the landing as Zorro darted to the ladder and climbed still higher, the lock box clamped under one arm. They followed him. The first was a small, lithe man with a mop of curly black hair and a snake tattoo covering half his face. He was climbing with the skill of a Chinese acrobat. With him was a taller man with mocha skin, a Moor whose scarf had come undone about his neck, revealing the heavy scars of a near-lynching. They were on Zorro quickly. Making his way along the top tier, Snakeface slipped on a pair of brass knuckles as the Moor snapped a dangling wood strut from the closest support beam and brought it to bear with a deep otherworldly laugh. Golden light sped across the length of Zorro’s blade as the masked man smiled at his new opponents. “Before we get started, do both of you know how to swim?” The thugs attacked! The tattooed acrobat danced and feinted, diving past Zorro, landing in a roll and quickly springing up on the other side of him. Snakeface’s boot snapped back with a kick aimed at Zorro’s leg that was

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meant to cripple him. Zorro darted forward just in time, but the move drove him squarely into the Moor’s reach. The heavy wood bar swung high, but Zorro ducked beneath it and scrambled around him, the masked man’s blade streaking across the Moor’s cheek to carve a “Z” into his flesh. Now both men rushed in at once, Zorro’s blade attacking furiously, keeping them at bay. A voice called from below. “And I heard, as it were, the voice of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, come and see . . .” McGivens had recovered—and was on his way. Zorro heard crackling and felt the boards beneath him tremble and strain. The sword-strokes employed when he played his little game of tic-tac-toe in the already weathered and weakened wood were about to do their job. The streaking swordsmanship that had sliced through much of the rigging would also help. The bellowing from below resumed: “And I saw, and beheld, a horse that was red: and power given to him that sat thereupon to take peace from the Earth, and that they should kill one another; and there was given to him a great sword!” “He talks a lot,” observed Zorro as he allowed the Moor to close in on him, the giant’s heavy foot smashing down on the weakened planks. Zorro stepped back and nodded in farewell as the wood split beneath the weight of his opponent’s thundering feet, the rear half of the planks breaking away and tilting down sharply toward the second level. Snakeface and the Moor slid back, off balance, finding themselves on a steep diagonal. Screeching in rage, they were spilled off the swaying scaffolding, landing in the churning waters below. Two heavy splashes came as Zorro whirled on the jagged half-walk. Jacob McGivens’s fist crashed into his face, sending him stumbling back to the brink, the lock box loosening from his grasp, and skidding toward the precipice while his sword flew from him and sailed to the ground.

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“Recognize those words, ya damn heathen?” asked McGivens breathlessly. “Book of Revelations, the Apocalypse. Take heed now, y’hear? The end-time’s coming for y’all—” Zorro’s fist whipped out while McGivens danced away with surprising agility. In a single fluid movement, the scarred man whipped the tails of his frockcoat back and drew a gleaming Bowie knife. The weapon had a thick, sharp blade with a curved and probing half-moon edge— perfect for gutting game. With an animal’s bellow, McGivens drove himself at Zorro, their bodies smashing together. They fell, Zorro’s back striking the edge of the planks he had ruined earlier, McGivens’s weight pressing down on him as they grappled. The wood beneath them splintering and shattering, they dropped together. The scaffolding shuddered and flew apart under the attack and both men plummeted off the second tier, dropping like dead weight to the final landing. As both men scrambled to their knees McGivens’s blade swept down from on high, racing at Zorro’s face. Zorro’s hand clamped on McGivens’s wrist, holding back the blade. Debris dropped around them, smashing into the wood expanse with jarring, explosive force. Teeth clenched, Zorro struggled to his feet. McGivens matched him as he pressed the blade closer to the strap securing Zorro’s mask. Alejandro de la Vega, the man beneath the mask, felt the icy chill of fear racing along his spine. If his mask was lost, and his identity exposed, his beloved family would pay the ultimate price. The knife edged closer—and ripped through the strap! Alejandro felt the mask start to slip. Mustering his strength, he threw all his weight into a low punch that doubled McGivens over and sent the surprised, staggering man crashing back. The mask flew from his face and Alejandro grasped for it, but a sudden gust closed over it. The light stretch of fabric

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whipped away and Alejandro heard McGivens rising. The planks creaked beneath Alejandro, pressing so hard against his boots that they nearly lifted him off his feet. Desperation seized Alejandro as he drew his whip and cracked it high, one end striking the tip of the single towering oak support from which much of the ruined scaffolding now dangled. The sound made McGivens start, and Alejandro seized on his distraction, yanking hard on the tethered whip, the momentum hauling him high off his feet. The plank that had pressed against his boots snapped up like a seesaw, smacking into McGivens’s face with a bone crunching snap, the gunman’s teeth spraying into the air as he flew off the scaffold. Alejandro swung down to a spot only a few feet from where he had been, his enemy’s bloody teeth clattering to his feet in a light staccato rain as the man splashed to the harsh water below. He scanned the area for signs of the other three men who’d been with McGivens, but they seemed to have fled. Tearing a shred of black cloth from his sleeve, he drew his dagger across the fabric and sliced eyeholes from the cloth. Tying the makeshift mask in place, Zorro scooped the lock box under his arm, burst into a run and let out a loud whistle. As he raced back to the road, his trusty steed, Tornado, galloped toward him from the dense forest. Recovering his blade, Zorro swung over Tornado’s flank, landing perfectly in the saddle. “Over the hill to the governor’s mansion!” cried Zorro. He lurched forward, expecting a great burst of speed from the powerful horse. The stallion was a statue. Haughty, indignant, immobile. Zorro rustled the reins. “I said, over the hill to the governor’s mansion!” Tornado yawned. Sighing, Zorro repeated the command. This time, in Spanish.

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“Sobre la colina a la mansion del gobernador,” muttered Zorro. Tornado suddenly rocketed ahead, Zorro grabbing his reins and lunging forward in the saddle to avoid being thrown. The masked man grimaced as they galloped on. “We have to work on your English.” Had he lingered but a moment longer, he might have spotted two dark hats rising from the brush. A pair of men in neatly pressed dark suits watched him go, one tall, the other shorter. They exchanged happy smiles as they strode purposefully to the scene of the great Zorro’s latest battle. Zorro rounded the gates to the governor’s mansion, a song of triumph rising in his heart. His spirits soared as he took in the sea of murmuring faces before him. Many had gathered in the hopes of hearing the governor speak the long-coveted words of liberation. Zorro was amazed by the bold diversity reflected in the people gathered here. The rich crowded in with the poor, the young brushed up against the elderly, and men and women of all races beamed at him. He saw elegantly dressed Californios in flashy jackets with tight-fitting trousers split at the knees and expensive sequined shoes standing shoulder-to-shoulder with peasants in drab, homespun clothing. Native Americans in frilly poplinbeaded jackets with colored patchwork stripes crowded in beside Chinese women in salmon-pink silk dresses. Caucasian farmers in worn-out overalls clasped the hands of African-American gentlemen in neatly pressed navy suits. Prim women wearing mantalets drew near peasants in panchos as their hero rode near. “Zorro!” chanted the crowd as they pushed open the gates en masse and stood to either side to let their hero through. “Mira, El Zorro!” Alejandro smiled as he passed through the high wroughtiron gates. Indeed, they should look upon him. The Fox had

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used all his wiles to reach this place and the offering he bore might change all their lives. Ahead lay the governor’s massive thirty-room mansion, a rambling bone-white Victorian sprawl of gables and columned stone archways and eaves with a wide shady front porch for lolling away the afternoons. Streaks of fading sunlight slanted down and bathed the uniformed figures waiting on the front steps. As the people followed him, Zorro fixed his gaze on the shorter of the two men, quickly taking in Bennet Riley’s fancy dress. The white-haired man presented himself proudly, gripping the lapels of his dark blue uniform. His high white collar closed around his throat and the round golden buttons and bright yellow-fringed epaulets glimmered in the sun’s deepening rays. In honor of this momentous day, governor Bennet Riley had worn his Brigadier-General uniform. The governor’s aide was tall, dark-haired and brutally handsome. Zorro had the sense that even though this younger man’s expression was aloof, he was keenly aware of everything around him and stood ready to spring at the slightest hint of danger. The aide’s gaze flickered to Zorro’s sword as the man surveyed the masked stranger for signs of other weapons. Shivers ran down the governor’s back as Zorro drew near, the lock box under one arm. The crowd gathered around the horseman. “What happened?” asked Governor Riley. “Where are my men?” “They were held up, Governor,” said Zorro as he dismounted. “I offered my help.” Zorro held out the lock box. The older man tugged at his sleeves and accepted the masked man’s gift. Riley’s large, strong, callused hands—the hands of a soldier—worked the latch. He withdrew the tally certificate and passed the box to his aide. Zorro felt a band of excitement tighten around his stomach as the governor quickly examined the certificate, his bushy white muttonchops rising with his widening smile.

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“Citizens of San Mateo,” cried the governor brandishing the certificate, “today you have voted to join the Union as a free state!” A deafening roar of cheers exploded from the crowd. “Libertad!” they cried. “Viva California! Viva America!” Zorro’s heart soared as he turned to his people, his hands also raised in victory. “But this is only the beginning,” added the governor with his own triumphant roar. “In three months time, every vote from every pueblo across California will be counted. And it is my hope that we will finally call ourselves . . . Americans!” Joyous cries burst from the people. Sombreros flew high, slapping against bowlers and beaver hats. “El Estado de California!” cried a peasant. “Fraternidad!” responded a Californio. Yes, brotherhood, thought Zorro. Now and always, my friends. Brotherhood for all among the great state of California. “The people owe you their freedom,” said the governor, offering his hand to the masked man. Zorro lowered his gaze and submitted to the other man’s powerful grip. Their gazes locked and Zorro’s eyes shone with pleasure as he declared, “I accept no debts from the people, Governor . . . I’m one of them.” With a gracious bow, Zorro drew away from the governor and leaped onto Tornado’s back. His sword flew from its scabbard and pierced the heavens, his cape billowing behind him. The cheering crowd parted again, and Zorro waved once more as he kicked Tornado’s flanks. Together they blazed toward the gates—and the future. In his heart, the man behind the mask, the keeper of the legend, had only one thought. Elena. Elena, Mi Amor, this is not real—not until I share it with you.

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As he rode into the sunset, the face of his beloved burned brightly in his thoughts. Dusk spread across the sky in angry bands of fiery orange and bold defiant amethyst as night pressed down on Hacienda de la Vega. Rose trellises stole across the luminous and inviting mustard yellow walls of the two-story-high manse, and towering emerald trees pressed near its elegant balustrades and bold high trim. Alejandro’s home was a great, sprawling place of arched entrances leading to gracious arcades. These outdoor terraces in turn opened to spacious parlors and bedrooms and wide echoing hallways within. Zorro led Tornado through a shallow pond a mile south of the hacienda, his gaze fixed beyond the lush rolling greens of the sumptuous countryside to the rising rooftops of San Francisco and the shimmering sea beyond. One quick brush with the mad low-lying branches of a leaning redwood and they disappeared into a hidden, heavily shadowed crevasse boring down into an unassuming hillock. Descending through the darkness along a well-traveled but twisting and turning path, the pair soon emerged in a shimmering silver grotto. A layer of moss clung to the ceiling, providing the ethereal, otherworldly illumination. The soft glow fell upon Zorro’s weapons cabinet, his dusty library, and the intriguing stretch of stone and wood rises used for training. In the privacy of his lair, Alejandro removed the mask of Zorro—and for an instant the world became a shadow of its former self—and so did Alejandro. Without it, he was only a man, not the cherished legend. He sometimes missed the great city of Los Angeles, where he had first learned to be El Zorro. But in recent years, he had come to understand that although the desire for freedom burned in the hearts of his people throughout all of California, the true revolutionary spark needed to bring about lasting change lived here.

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The moment of reflection passed and he came back to himself. Alejandro closed Tornado in his stall and drew a sugar cube from his pocket. The stallion devoured the treat and stared at him expectantly. When the look achieved nothing, Tornado whinnied for more, adding a breezy sigh and a questioning grunt for good measure. “Eh, eh,” Alejandro put in reproachfully as he scooped up a ripe carrot and fed it to the stallion instead, “your saddle’s getting a little tight, amigo.” Patting his mount’s heaving flank, Alejandro walked away. A whisk of air kissed his ear and he jumped as the carrot sailed past his head and struck the wall. Alejandro might have continued the tomfoolery with the willful Tornado, but a rustling in the shadows seized his attention. He whirled to the doorway, one gloved hand reaching for his blade. A soft tumble of stone heralded the steady sweep of a delicate, sandaled foot that playfully poked its toes into the doorway. A woman followed, her luscious silhouette swaying as she sauntered into view. Alejandro’s breath caught as the light cascaded about the contours of her beautiful face. She was— and always would be—the most beautiful woman alive. He would have said her name, but her loveliness robbed him of voice. Elena de la Vega came to him. He surged toward her, his bold and questing hands blazing across the lush fabric of her stunning peach-colored off-the-shoulder dress and kneading her lean muscled form, then striking upward to caress her long silken black hair which held her favorite flower. The dark smoky reaches of her mahogany eyes captivated him, and he hungrily caressed her smooth bronze skin. Her scarlet lips parted and he hauled her to him roughly, crushing their bodies together, gazing at her for one more tantalizing moment before kissing her deeply. His mind went to another place, all thought and reason lost.

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Finally, Elena drew back. She gently slid one of the flowers from her hair, a cherished romania, inhaled its sweet scent, and presented it as a token of her devotion. Alejandro received it greedily. “Tell me we won . . .’’ urged Elena in a breathy rush. “Tell me we’re free.” The look in her eyes set his blood on fire. All things were possible, all long-denied promises on the trembling brink of fulfillment. “We’re free,” whispered Alejandro. She wrapped her arms around him, her laughter mixing greedily with her tears.

From Joaquin’s Confessions

<

Zorro, Zorro, I have seen El Zorro! It was all I could think about. I ran the whole way home, forgetting about the pain in my ankle and knees, the joy in my heart making me laugh and sing. What’s that you say, Padre? Yes, it is true, I may have stopped once or twice to tell people of my adventure. All right, yes, it was after dark when I reached our hacienda, so maybe it was more like a dozen people I told. But I helped Zorro, you know? Want to see my sling? Its aim is true and— Ah, what apple? That apple, yes? I will pay for it, Padre, and apologize, but . . . I saw Zorro! And when I got home, I saw something almost as amazing. It was Mama and Papi. They were before the fire, Mama in a beautiful dress the color of deepest amethyst with her favorite flowers in her hair, Papi all in black and looking as dashing as Zorro himself! They laughed, they sang, they danced to music only they could hear. I think they had forgotten about me! With Mama, that never happens, believe me. It was wonderful. They must have heard, they must have known that Zorro protected the will of the people, that we had voted and our voice had been heard.

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Libertad! Viva California! Viva America! I heard soft footfalls from further down the hall. It was one of the servants, I think, mi amigo Gregorio. I wanted to run to him, to tell him I had seen El Zorro, but I knew Mama and Papi would hear me, and something inside me told me I would regret it if I interrupted them. This was a perfect moment. I found dinner in the kitchen, then slipped again into the night. As I sought adventure of my own beyond the moonlit land outside our hacienda, I had the strangest thoughts about El Zorro. They say he has been many men . . . that he could be anyone, anyone at all. Does El Zorro have a family? Could one of the boys I go to school with be the son of the Fox? How would that be, to know your father is a hero, to have the blood of a true warrior running through your veins? I dreamed. Though I was awake the whole evening, I dreamed of what it would be like to be the son of the Fox. Yet the image of Mama and Papi laughing and dancing before the fire always intruded, and surprisingly, that reality brought more joy to me than any dream.

Chapter 3

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A

lejandro’s hand playfully explored the soft, sensuous landscape of Elena’s bare back. His fingers traced the everchanging patterns of flickering amber light cast upon her gently writhing form by the crackling, dancing flames of the parlor’s well-stoked fireplace. Elena lay on her belly, a thick wool rug beneath her, murmuring with pleasure as Alejandro’s touch raced and retreated upon her fiery, tingling flesh. “Any more of that and I won’t have the strength to get up and tuck in Joaquin,” said Elena huskily. “He’s a big boy,” responded Alejandro, dragging silk sheets over their cooling bodies to ward off a sudden breeze from the open archways of the gallery. He grinned. “Like his father.” Arching an eyebrow without comment, Elena reached for a plate of fruit. She plucked an emerald square that sat next to the selection of apples, pears, figs, oranges, plums and other favorites. The glistening fruit of the nopal, or prickly pear—the cactus fruit—drifted to her parched lips and disappeared. “I prepared those myself,” boasted Alejandro, his heart skipping with desire as he watched her lavishly consume the moist fruit. “My blade scraped away the thorns, as I always do for you, Mi Amor. The flowers wait in a vase by our bed. If we ever get there . . .”

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Elena smiled dreamily. The food, like so many other items in this room, reminded her of her childhood. Her gaze drifted to a wall hanging dotted with glimmering pieces of precious stones. Upon its reaches the artist had rendered an image of a sparkling pond she visited many times as a girl. Her favorite horse always went there when he ran away, a silly game between them. Her mother’s oval portrait graced another of the expensive rosewood-paneled walls, while a collection of colorful figurines depicting dancers and matadors stretched across the mantle. Silver candelabras rose at either side of the fireplace, and they, like this room’s mahogany chairs and tables, were replicas of the riches with which she had grown up. Those carefree days now seemed like a distant dream. One she would dream again, if she could, one that she would use as a blueprint to transform her waking life. After all these years of struggle, perhaps now such a thing was possible . . . Passion ignited within her. Her gaze fell upon the flowers she had been wearing in her hair when he carried her to this spot; their petals had been strewn about the floor as they had danced . . . and afterward. Shuddering, she reached for the carafe bearing Alejandro’s favorite tequila, dimly aware of banners of soft moonlight striking through the doorway to the outdoor gallery, riffling over her hastily discarded gown and across Alejandro’s carelessly tossed jacket and trousers. Twinkling stars gazed down on their tryst. Shimmering sparkles of silver light refracted upon the rims of the two shot glasses she filled. The whistling breeze licked at their bodies and crickets rose up with a playful serenade. “To statehood,” said Alejandro as he raised his glass. Elena smiled. “To us.” Their glasses gently clinked. “I wish I was there today,” said Elena wistfully. Alejandro stared into the endless depths of her dark, beautiful eyes. He was lost in her—and would be until the end of his days. Reassuringly, he said, “You were.”

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They slung back their shots, the strong drink burning their throats. The tequila filled Alejandro’s mouth with the taste of fiery autumn afternoons spent with his beloved in his arms. Elena set down her glass and nuzzled her husband’s chest. She lightly traced the contours of his dark rugged face. His skin burned where her fingers touched. “What are you thinking about?” asked Elena. He shrugged, attempting to act as if it were nothing. Her relentless gaze held him, and he surrendered with an easy smile. He asked, “Do you remember the night we decided on a name for Joaquin?” “We named him for your brother.” “Yes. My brother’s in my thoughts every day. He raised me after our parents died. All my life, I’ve wanted to be like him, to make him proud . . .” “I’m sure you have,” Elena whispered. “Would he be proud of me now? Pretending to be something that I’m not?” Her lovely brow furrowed in confusion. “How are you pretending?” “Me? A don? Think about it.” Elena frowned. “You’re embarrassed over our success?” “Not embarrassed, no,” he lied. Peering into her husband’s troubled eyes, Elena said, “When we were first married, Don Diego’s money was long gone. Don Montero’s remaining fortune was seized—” “You’re telling me things I already know.” “Clearly, you need a reminder,” explained Elena. “It was your vision that beheld the most fertile land in California when all others laughed. You planted crops everyone said would fail in a single season. I sold nearly all the jewelry I had left so that you could purchase cattle and gain your land grant. It was our one and only chance . . .” “They were right to laugh. I’ve told you many times why I wanted that land.” She smiled. “It looked like the home your brother de-

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scribed to you late at night, when he told you his dreams of a quiet life one day. I love to hear you talk of it.” “It did indeed. That was a risky time . . .” Elena’s eyes filled with happiness. “But we had each other. So we could not fail. And we didn’t.” “Between the cattle trade and land investments, we soon had no worries,” reminisced Alejandro. “Mi Amor,” Elena said proudly. “When our son was born, we lived in a palace.” Alejandro beamed despite himself. “Yes.” They had moved north where the grazing was better, the fertile land here a considerable improvement over the semi-arid desert around Los Angeles. Their cattle thrived, their holdings doubled, then tripled. “And Joaquin?” Elena’s glow faded. Worried, Alejandro asked, “What about him?” “I think sometimes I might be overprotective. It’s just that . . . you and me, Alejandro, we’ve both lost people we loved. I saw two men, both of whom said they were my father, die in a single afternoon. One I hardly got to know . . .” “Don Diego. El Zorro. A great man. A legend.” “And one I spent a lifetime believing I knew, only to learn it was all a lie.” Alejandro’s handsome face darkened. “Montero. A monster.” “Was he?” asked Elena, the firelight flickering in her lovely eyes. “I grew up wanting for nothing.” “Fancy clothes, a fancy house . . . that isn’t love.” “You’re right,” Elena said softly. “None of it would have meant anything if he had been a stranger to me, but he wasn’t. He was there for me. Always. When I had a nightmare, it was no servant or governess who raced to my side, who held me and read me to sleep. It was him. When I fell from my first horse and the doctors said I might never walk again, he stood with me, he would not let me surrender to despair, he taught me to fight. I wanted to ride again, and he never once tried to stop me. Montero. The monster.”

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Alejandro looked away, his lips pressed tight, his anger rising despite his best efforts to chase it away. “I know it pains you to hear this,” said Elena. “It’s simply that . . . Don Diego, my true father—I wonder how he would have raised me. Would he have tried to keep me safe, or would he have told me the truth?” Understanding dawned in Alejandro’s eyes. “You’re talking about our son.” “The moment I understood that Montero had been lying to me, that if not for him my mother would be alive, that he took me from my father’s arms and locked him away . . .” She shuddered. “I’ve never felt so betrayed. Why would he do it? Raise me as his own?” “Vengeance against Don Diego.” “No. More than that.” “Love for your mother. Looking at you, and seeing her.” Elena ran her hand through her silky hair. “Wouldn’t that have been a terrible reminder? Wouldn’t he have just seen her death, the death he had caused, whether he had wanted to or not?” “People . . . they sometimes see what they want to see, and nothing else.” She nodded. “People do that.” “Joaquin is a fine boy. He’s strong. He loves us both.” “And when he finds out that we’ve lied to him?” asked Elena breathlessly. “Just as Montero lied to me, as Don Diego surely would have, and all for the same reason: to protect the ones we love. How will it be when that happens?” Alejandro could not meet her gaze. “There is no reason for him to ever find out.” “I’m sure that is what Montero told himself, as well. What Don Diego would have, had he been given the chance.” Alejandro smiled softly. “You’re forgetting one thing: we’re not them.” Elena knew she should have been comforted by those words.

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She wasn’t. “In any case, it is over now, it is done. I can’t believe it,” Elena excitedly whispered. “We have our lives back. We can finally take Joaquin on that trip to Spain. I can’t imagine how it’s changed.” Alejandro carefully set his glass on a barren stretch of the cool hardwood floor. “Elena . . .” She rose from him and propped herself on one elbow, her silken hair falling playfully over the side of her face. “And New York!” she burst, carelessly caressing his muscular chest. “You should see New York. It’s like the whole world has moved onto one little island—” “Elena,” he repeated. The muscles beneath her hand tensed. Elena looked up sharply. Something in his voice worried her. “I’ve been thinking,” Alejandro said, as casually as he could muster. Her smile nervously flickered. “Never a good sign.” Alejandro leaned back and stretched. As if suppressing a yawn, he pointed out, “California won’t really be a state for another three months . . .” Elena raised a single eyebrow. “Yes?” “And the Federal Marshals may need help keeping things under control until then,” Alejandro added, reaching down and caressing Elena’s flank as if she were a skittish mare. Elena knew that touch. She loathed it, for she knew what it always heralded: the mask of Zorro hanging between them, dividing them. “Look, I know what you’re thinking,” said Alejandro evenly as he put out his hands to measure a minute distance. “But here’s me, here’s quitting,” he explained, waving one hand for himself, the other for the goal. “We’re this far apart—” Elena leaped to her feet, snatching up a blanket and wrapping herself in it. “I can’t believe it,” she howled. “I can’t believe I fell for it!”

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Alejandro’s head sank back and smacked the hardwood floor. He winced and rolled his eyes at his own foolishness. Elena’s expression darkened even more, as if she believed his eye rolling was a comment on her statement. Bad move, he realized. Alejandro fancied himself an excellent card player and an even better salesman. Yet none of his tricks helped when Elena got into one of her moods. He might try charm, reasonableness, bluster or bravado, but the cause was almost always lost. Still, he had to try. “You’re overreacting,” he told her, delivering his most angelic smile as he grasped a sheet, wrapped it around his middle, and stood across from her. “Overreacting!” shouted Elena. “You made a promise! We made a promise!” Alejandro flushed. All this fuss over three little months. What was three months compared to the rest of their lives? Or to all the time they had spent helping California get this close to freedom? Her father—her true father, Don Diego—had entrusted him with the legacy of Zorro and with the sworn duty to keep his only daughter safe. These cherished obligations went hand-in-hand. Why could Elena not see that? He put his hands out as if to hold back the tide of her fury. “I know, but listen—” Elena swept a crystal vase containing more romanias from a table. It shattered with a startling crash as it struck the wooden floor, the flowers ruined. “How could I be so stupid?” Alejandro’s face reddened. His temper rose to match the sudden explosive rage that had seized his beloved, and it took all his discipline and self-control to force it back. “Elena . . .” Pacing angrily, like a great caged panther, Elena growled, “Husband says he’ll quit, gullible wife believes him.” The veins in Alejandro’s temple throbbed. “Elena—”

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She laughed bitterly. “Well it’s not like this is a real marriage! It’s not like you’re missing your son’s entire life!” “I’m not missing anything!” roared Alejandro. Elena whirled to a halt, the blanket sweeping behind her like a cape. She aimed her words as carefully as she might perfectly balanced daggers. “Oh, really? What’s his teacher’s name?” Alejandro restrained a laugh. She thought she had him, did she? “That’s easy,” he began. “Mr.—” She cut him off with a sharp quick shake of her head. Her silken hair cascaded to one side as she grinned in angry triumph. Alejandro flinched as if one of her blades had struck home. He tried again. “Brother—” Her right eyebrow arched. He had been wrong again. “Father!” cried Alejandro. Yes, that was right. “Father Kin?” The name fled from his mind. He clamped his hand over his face and muffled a pretend sneeze as he muttered, “. . . jin . . . hoofer . . .” She glared at him, her point made. How can I possibly win against her? Alejandro considered a lesson learned from Don Diego. He could almost hear the older man’s soothing, hypnotic voice: You feel angry, but you do not wish the emotion to show. The answer is simple: pretend that you are overjoyed. Lose yourself in the bliss of another, better, less complicated time. Do this and soon you will find you are not angry. Your opponent will be disarmed, and when you move in for the kill, you will be in a much better place to enjoy it. The lesson was before him . . . but he could do nothing. A hot wave swept into his belly. “Okay, so I have a bad memory, what’s that prove?” “That you don’t know your own son,” spat Elena. “Even worse, he doesn’t know you!” Alejandro had stumbled into a maze. Groping blindly for

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a way out, he asked, “What would you rather have me do? Live the rest of my life as a wealthy don, order servants around all day?” He saw himself grandly reclining in his favorite chair with a pipe and a paunch, his feet up, a bevy of beautiful handmaids swarming around him, cleaning his slippers, pouring his wine, plumping his pillows. Yes, the desperado crawled up from the dirt and misery of his outlaw days . . . for this? Never! It was the most absurd vision he might think to conjure; Elena would surely laugh at the notion. Wouldn’t she? The flames in her dark eyes crackled, spat. Blinding embers erupted. “Is that all you think I do? Order servants around?” He had just escaped the maze—by falling into a pit below it. “Don’t twist my words!” cried Alejandro, narrowly restraining the desire to begin his command with “woman!” This was not about how she spent her time. He thrust out his chin heroically. “The people need Zorro!” “No, you need Zorro!” shouted Elena, her heart hammering. “Look me in the eyes and tell me that isn’t true!” He glanced about wildly. His hands flung up, open, imploring . . . they sank with his shoulders, his chin. Eyes brimming with frustration and longing, he silently appealed to her. Chest heaving, Elena glared at him for several long seconds—then her shoulders—which had been up around her ears—gracefully swept down. Her hands swung together, her fingertips gliding over the blanket she now clutched. It was warm with his scent. Her face softened. “You remember what you said the day Joaquin was born?” “ ‘Mi familia es mi vida . . .’ ” said Alejandro quietly, his eyes brimming with guilt. “ ‘My family is my life,’ ” she translated. Elena inched toward him. Her probing gaze fixed on him, her touch warming once more with the remembrance of all they had shared

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as her hand cupped the side of his face. “Don’t you know how lucky you are to make it this far alive? That your enemies haven’t discovered who we are?” His nod was barely perceptible. He would do nothing to throw off her gaze. “For ten years you’ve fought to give California its freedom,” said Elena, searching for a message in her husband’s eyes, “why can’t you give us ours?” The sudden resounding clang of the mission church bell clawed the room. The deep sonorous echo stole from wall to wall, vibrating through Alejandro and his beloved, leaving no room for escape. The bell tolled . . . and took its toll. Elena’s spine stiffened, her shoulders squared. Her face lit with bitter triumph. “They’re calling you.” A cold gust tore at Alejandro’s back. A window had not been shut fully . . . perhaps. “It’s who I am, Elena.” She backed away, eyes angrily raking the room. “What happened to the man I married?” “What happened to the woman who used to fight by my side?” demanded Alejandro. Her eyes flared in disbelief. “She had a son!” Alejandro’s lips curled in disgust as he paced, unconsciously circling the door. “So he’ll grow up to be a nice little aristocrat who has no idea where he came from and doesn’t care about anyone but himself, eh?” Elena thrust her pointing finger at the open walkway. “If you walk out that door, take a blanket, because you won’t be sleeping here tonight!” “Maybe I’ll just take a suitcase!” threatened Alejandro. “Fine!” she snorted. Her hand mockingly whisked through the air. “I hope you and Tornado are very happy together!” Eyes one step from madness, Alejandro proudly ground to a halt before her. “Oh, we will be!” She flashed a nasty smile—and he realized her game a

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moment too late. She dove before him and hurled herself through the door, slamming it behind her. She’d left him with the final word, but denied him the final statement. Madre de dios! he thought, quaking furiously before the fire. The woman may have hung up her sword, but she still knows how to fight! Joaquin’s moonlit stroll had taken him miles from his family’s property. Now, as he climbed the twisting sequoia perched like a sentinel alongside their hacienda, dirt from the small cave he had discovered—and imagined to have once been Zorro’s lair—dropped from his boot heels. Grass stains were ground into his breeches, and a small hole peeked through the side of his billowy white topshirt where a branch had poked him during an impromptu duel. Climbing through his bedroom window, he nearly tripped on the wooden toy train he’d carelessly left on the floor. His flailing hand struck out and gripped the edge of his desk, his fingers grazing the collection of dime novels stacked beside his schoolbooks. The books sported flashy covers with images of El Zorro, Pistellero Pete, Riverboat MacReedy and Gamblin’ Joe, the Mysterious Bat, and even Lady Zorro. Steady now, Joaquin found himself staring up at his prize painting of Jack the Giant Killer. His father had presented him with the portrait as a present two winters ago. Jack sported the same wild curly black hair, bushy brows and infectious grin as Joaquin. The giant was a brute that even Zorro might hesitate before. When you are in doubt, look at this painting and remember that you can conquer anything, my son . . . anything at all. Such had been his father’s loving vow the night that painting was delivered. Alejandro de la Vega seemed different that evening. His spine was straighter, his eyes glowed like fiery coals. He appeared another man entirely—but come

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the morning, the intensity was gone, and he was his usual distant, distracted self. Footsteps rang in the hallway, an angry clatter. Raised voices echoed and grew louder. Joaquin gasped. His gaze rocketed to the “sleeping form” lying on his bed. A collection of pillows carefully stuffed beneath the blankets to create the illusion that the boy was still there. Joaquin dove for the bed. Scrambling under the blankets, he pulled the heavy fabric up high and managed a deep rumbling snore as the arguing in the hall abruptly ceased. His bedroom door gently swung open. Joaquin stole a look from the corner of his eye as an orange glow filled the room and two silhouetted figures peered in. The svelte form of Mama drew back and Papi stiffly strode inside, his shoulders up around his ears. Was father angry? Had he heard Joaquin climb inside, or spotted a clump of dirt on the hardwood floor and deduced that the boy had been out having adventures? The mission bell tolled in the night. Señor Zorro was needed. And quiet as a fox himself, Papi padded into the room, perched on the side of Joaquin’s bed and cleared his throat. “Listen, uh . . . I have to go away tonight, just for a little while. You know your mother, how she gets. But I’ll be back soon, okay?” Joaquin was turned from his father. As the bell tolled once more, he felt his father’s lips graze his forehead. “El dulce suena, mi angel,” Father whispered. Sweet dreams, my angel. Alejandro, hesitated. He bent and retrieved Joaquin’s marionette of Tornado, Zorro’s stallion. A strange smile stole across his face, bemused, proud. He carefully hung the marionette on a wall peg next to Joaquin’s jacket and quietly stole from the room, closing the door behind him. As the comforting orange glow from the hall faded, Joaquin felt a chill that had nothing to do with the icy breeze wafting in from the still open window.

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* * * Elena stood on the hacienda’s open gallery, pulling her wrap tight around her shoulders. The cold night air swept over her as she leaned against a great column and stared out at the distance. The heroic outline of the masked rider Zorro galloped off toward the mission and its wretchedly insistent bell. Her heart once rose at the sight of the billowing cape, the strong proud lines of the legendary black costume. This was the legacy of her true father, Don Diego, a tradition kept alive by her beloved husband, a man she considered as brave and true as any alive. It used to fill her with such pride . . . no more. Zorro paused at the top of a hillock, gazing back at her. Come back to me, willed Elena. Come back now, to your son, your family. You have served the legend. Now serve what the legend stands for. The horse and rider hesitated a moment longer—then bolted off in the moonlight. Her head hung sadly, Elena stole away in bitter silence.

From the Private Journals of Elena de la Vega

<

Several nights ago, the subject of popular author Edgar Allan Poe and his devilish frights came up at the dinner table. The conversation spilled into the den and found vibrant life until just before our visitors left. At the door, one of our guests asked if I could name my greatest fear. I said it wasn’t something I gave much thought. I was lying. I can tell you what frightens me most. Losing him. No, not Alejandro. Whenever he puts on that damnable mask, I prepare myself for the morning he will not come home at all. In that, I lose him a little more each day. Joaquin, my son. I try to hold on so tightly, I need him to know that this is real, that the love I have for him means something. I don’t want him looking back on these days as I have done on my early life, wondering what was real and what was a lie. Lies are a prison. Please Lord, I beg of you, let me one day find the key to release us all.

From a Scroll Fallen in a Corner in Alejandro de la Vega’s Hidden Lair

<

Today. Big day. Nearly broke my hand on a bandito’s jaw. Hah! It is good to be Zorro. I wonder what’s for dinner?

Chapter 4

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T

he next morning, Elena de la Vega knelt in her private garden, the lovely cinnamon scent of the romania, her favorite flower, gently tickling her nose. Her fingers brushed one of the petals, and the gentle touch of the lightly swaying flowers whisked her away to other times. She thought of Don Diego, the man who had given her life. He had secured these flowers above her crib when she was an infant. And she recalled the light musical laughter of Don Montero, the man who had raised her as his own. He had also made this rare flower, which only grew in California, a part of her life when he presented her with a bouquet of romanias upon her arrival in this great land. This flower had long been a source of comfort to her. Not today. The breeze suddenly shifted. The romania’s scent turned bitter, conjuring images of events she had either been too young to remember, or had simply not been present to see, though they had been described to her many times: her mother’s violent death, her true father’s decades-long internment in a filthy hole. Gasping, Elena broke free of the dark reverie’s stranglehold and glared at the romania. The flowers needed pruning.

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Elena surveyed the grounds and satisfied herself that no one was watching. Digging among the rose bushes, she found a carefully concealed sword, one of many weapons her husband had stashed about the hacienda in case their enemies ever learned he was Zorro and launched an attack. Elena raised the weapon, gripping it expertly. She familiarized herself with its weight and balance in only two sharp strikes. “Hah!” she cried. The blade swept out in a shimmering silver blur. Stems snapped, flowers streaked into the air, and the basket beside her filled quickly with the spoils of her attack. There was joy in this, she realized, her sword flashing, her anger evaporating as she embraced the discipline of steel. The voice of Don Diego whispered, This is who you are. Do not deny it. Do not fight it. Startled, she gazed at the half-dozen quivering stems still standing in the wake of her attack and dropped the blade. She hid it once more, snatched up the basket and hurried from the garden. I sometimes think we are the same, Alejandro, thought Elena as she fled the battlefield. Our passions are our undoing. I seek to deny them too much; you, too little. Where does that leave our son? The breeze, which had shifted again, bore no answers. Joaquin de la Vega bit back a howl of frustration. His mother was at it again. As he sat with her in the dining room, waiting for breakfast, she put him through the morning ritual of inspection. Her long cool fingers adjusted the sweep of his hair, tugged on his topshirt, and nudged his chin from side to side as she checked to see if he had washed behind his ears and if he had scrubbed his face to her rigid standards of satisfaction. Then, smiling, she grilled him for any little story he might tell of his time at school and at play.

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Zorro, Zorro, Zorro—I have seen Zorro!, he thought. He told her none of what had happened the previous afternoon. She did not share his love for the country’s masked protector—and she often fretted over him as if he were one of her fragile little statues. If she knew what he had faced at the mission, she might never let him leave the hacienda again. So instead he told her of a typical boring day at school and she rewarded him with a warm and loving smile. As the morning pressed on, the servants were all on their best behavior; never a good sign. Gregorio, their most loyal servant and Joaquin’s friend, was unusually tight-lipped. The histrionic explosions generally heard from the kitchen as Monsieur Vioget hollered at the staff did not sound once. Even Manuel, their driver, made a point of never meeting anyone’s gaze as he drove the pair into the city. They all knew something Joaquin did not. It maddened him and his usual façade of cheeriness crumbled even as the salty breezes of San Francisco Bay wafted in through the cracked open window beside him. As they left their carriage, Joaquin gazed at his mother’s beautiful face and wondered what she was thinking. She wanted him to be happy. He could tell that much, at least. But she pursued her desire so fervently that she often made him miserable. Today, her smile was so bright, her attitude so cheerful, he feared she might break in two if she caught even a glimmer of the idea that everyone could see beyond her act to know that something was very wrong. Elegantly crafted clouds drifted high above San Francisco’s bustling harbor, pausing occasionally to gaze with favor upon the exotic collection of stately white English clipper ships, bold crimson-hulled Russian trawlers, and emerald and gold Chinese junks moored in the harbor’s sprawling reaches. The rich blue sky nestled the high fluttering masts and sails, and men sang drunken odes to their mistresses as they scrambled aloft and worked the riggings. Elena and Joaquin crested Telegraph Hill, stepping away

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from the great swarms of people hurrying from hotels and gambling houses to fisheries, office blocks, smiths, or squat wooden houses. Conestoga wagons with curved bottoms jostled alongside oversized stagecoaches, egg-shaped hansoms and lone riders galloping with no regard to people sauntering into the street. Parasols spiraled and patriotic buntings flapped in the breeze of the warm, fair morning. Stout men in pale linen suits tipped their bowlers to the ladies, carefully avoiding soot-faced peddlers with bouquets of flowers nestled under their arms. Telegraph lines reached overhead, while below, pastel colored shells once lovingly gathered from the shore then carelessly discarded crunched against cobblestones beneath rushing feet. Remnants of fireworks gathered in the gutters and a well-dressed man on an adjacent street corner adjusted the chain on his vest and burst into an aria from Don Giovanni in a rich baritone. Elena reached up and delicately replaced a loose lock of her silky raven’s hair that had escaped from her tight bun. She gazed down at the bristling sea of activity surrounding the boats, her heart filled with longing. The water was like glass. Elena imagined that upon it she might be magically transported to some lovely and exotic port of call. She could only dream of the faraway wonders those aboard the strange foreign vessels witnessed. Had one been bound for Persia, for a midnight rendezvous with the prince’s own vessel? Had another sailed to the former pirate haven Madagascar, or traversed clandestine routes once taken by the Phoenicians on their way to Tripoli? Even to sail around the cape and see the shining spires of this country’s New York would be a grand adventure. A sigh escaped her as she patted Joaquin on the back. Her thoughts had come dangerously close to fixing on the day she had first arrived in this land by boat, and her adopted father’s now shattered dream of an independent California. Joaquin trudged along next to her, moody, sullen, suspi-

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cious. He’d been fixed like a hunting hawk on his father’s absence all morning. Elena pointed to the penny arcade in an attempt to distract him. He only shrugged. She tugged on her figure-flattering smoke-colored outing jacket, her hand grazing one of the fancy filigree buttons. Her white silk scarf, tucked over her blouse, caressed her long lean neck, and her black skirt and boots sometimes caused Joaquin to remark that if she wore a black scarf instead—the only color a proper mask should ever be—she would be like Lady Zorro. Elena smiled thinking of the innocent remark and the long ago summer when her real life exploits gave rise to that particular dime-novel legend. Today of course, he said nothing. He simply scratched his neck where his starched white collar grazed his skin and kept finding excuses to unbutton his jacket or kick dirt up on his breeches and polished shoes. A gaggle of well-dressed women burst from a doorway up ahead. Laughing, they spun as a group and nearly collided with Elena and Joaquin. The door to Lady Lily’s French Café slowly swung shut behind them. “Oh, yes,” cried one of the women happily. “Henri Herz is opening at the National Theatre and I simply must attend—” “Doña de la Vega,” whispered the silver-haired, redcheeked lady in the lead. Señora Rodriguez stiffly drew her large cashmere shawl up about her neck. Behind her, a hushed rustling faded as three younger women drew to a sudden stop. Señora Rodriguez was the most smartly attired, her dress the envy of her followers. Elena smiled warmly. Señora Rodriguez was highly interested in politics, as was Elena. In fact, Señora Rodriguez had been instrumental in ensuring that the equal division of property between a married man and woman, a holdover from Mexican law, made it into the charter for statehood. Elena drew a deep breath, rifling through possibilities for heady conversation. Perhaps she should lead with her

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knowledge of arguments over the Town Council ruling that all titles to land made by grants or sales in any form, by any person or persons whatever, other than the legally elected Alcalde or Town Council, were illegal. “Señora Rodriguez, how wonderful to see you,” said Elena brightly, anxious to move beyond the formalities and get to the grit of their conversation. “Of course,” agreed the older woman. Easing her hands onto Joaquin’s shoulders, Elena said, “May I present—” A lacy hand shot out, a fluttering fan snapping open to cast a frantic breeze upon the older woman’s powdered face. “Oh, my dear, I must beg your indulgence for an old woman’s frailties,” droned Señora Rodriguez. “The sun, you see, is quite barbaric today and the heat has simply taken its toll. I do hope you’ll forgive me for running off, but I must get home and into the shade. Another time!” With that, Señora Rodriguez flickered a weak smile at Elena and swept past her. The ladies behind her were hauled along as if by invisible tethers, leaving Elena to nod and smile graciously, despite the anger and disappointment welling inside her. Elena refused to look back at the departing women, though she heard their titters. She had everything in common with them, but they shunned her. She’d heard them talking often enough. They called her the Spanish Queen. The Faraway Princess. The Southern Californian with her “odd ways.” She’d even been accused of being too aloof, too “European” for their small colonial town. Joaquin casually spit on the street in the general direction of the haughtily swaying skirts, and on any other day, Elena might have taken him by the ear for that. Instead, she brushed the back of his head and moved them along. As Elena swept along the bustling street with Joaquin, she could not drive the women from her thoughts. Did these women avoid her because her adopted father’s dark dealings had been exposed, his fortune lost? Looking at all the new

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businesses bursting into existence around her, she knew that many of the wealthiest were thieves: the trick was not getting caught. The money she and Alejandro now enjoyed had been earned, though that might have been another stigma, dirt beneath her nails. It is like you wear many masks, Elena, Verona La Salle, one of the women with Señora Rodriguez today, had once told her. No one knows which of the faces you show is real, and what to make of you. Cursing herself for caring how these women viewed her, Elena drew a deep breath and forced herself to loosen her vice-like grip on Joaquin’s now pale hand and to slow down in her breakneck flight through the city as she desperately sought a means of calming herself. She’d studied ballet as a child. She was unduly demanding of herself, expecting she could instantly attain the absolute and effortless grace and perfection of the older students. Her teacher often told the struggling, frustrated beauty to consider the secret of the swan. The swan glides across the water as if by magic. A slow regal turning of the head when something interesting appears, a delicate subtle shift of the shoulders when easing off in a new direction, the tiniest shudder when reaching what might be a sudden jarring stop. This is all we see above the surface. Were you to peer below the waterline, you would see something quite different. The legs pump and scramble frantically, they claw savagely, desperately at the churning, unpredictable waters. Yes, while all is serenity itself above, a fight for survival rages below. That lesson served her well when she was a girl. Employing it, she could quickly discern the terrible struggles of those she envied or cast her anger upon. With understanding she no longer felt so alone. She now looked to Joaquin and sensed this would not be the case with him. He was already fiery tempered. Sharing all she felt would only add fuel to those flames. For the sake of her beloved son, she would

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have to be a swan, and keep her struggles below the surface, beyond his range of vision. Smiling, Elena rustled Joaquin’s hair as they walked on and spoke of all the places Joaquin had recently enjoyed visiting—and might get to see again, if he played his cards right. She filled him with visions of the scintillating drama at the bull-fighting arena on Vallejo Street, and the amazing stunts performed by gymnasts and even clowns at Rowe’s Olympic Circus. He still looked moody. Had he heard what happened last night? If so, she had to find a way to distract him from all that. Passing a luxurious hotel with a red velvet carpet sprawled outside, Elena laughed, swishing her skirt. She nodded at the hotel. “I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with . . . ‘H.’ ” Ignoring the hotel, Joaquin raised one eyebrow in a questioning slant and fixed her with an accusing stare. “Why wasn’t Papi at breakfast?” Her breath quickened. “I told you, he left early on business.” “He always goes on business,” said Joaquin bitterly. They walked on. Sadly, she sighed, “Yes, he does.” “What’s he do, anyway?” asked Joaquin. A trapdoor opened in her belly. He’d caught her unprepared. “Well, he’s a don,” she said quickly, “he, uh, meets with the other dons, and they . . .’’ Elena could just imagine what the layabouts did. “Discuss land, and investments . . .’’ She rewarded her son with a sharp speedy nod of confidence in what she was about to say—and a smile she did not feel. “And it’s all very important work.” “So,” began Joaquin sourly, “he sits around with friends counting money?” Elena hung her head in defeat. She’d never been much of a swan. “You shouldn’t be so hard on your father,” said Elena. Her words were as much for her own sake as that of her son. It was so easy to be swept away by strong feelings and to for-

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get all that was truly important. “You’re more like him than you think.” His face pinched tight, Joaquin shot a sidelong glance at his mother. No, she thought, of course you don’t believe me. Why would you, when we’ve kept the truth from you for so long? They soon stood before the Alvarado Academy for Children, a bell tolling a warning for children not to be late. Other students rushed up the marble stairs, which lavishly rose to the iron-gated entrance. The building looked like a great beast with a high and wide arched mouth, swallowing unsuspecting little boys and girls who hurried to their fates. Elena attempted to shake off those fanciful thoughts. The academy was the finest—and largest—school in San Francisco. Its design was similar to that of a mission. White adobe brick walls, red roof tiles, curving gables, arched barred windows, and round portals in the upper floors. Welltended gardens led to a walled courtyard, and a lovely old world crest over the gaping main entrance suggested wealth and culture. Yet for all its style and aplomb, it reminded Elena of a prison. Elena knelt before her son. “We’ll talk more about this later, alright?” She kissed his cheek and rustled his hair. “I love you.” Joaquin bit the side of his lips and let out a long breath before he met his mother’s gaze. His eyes were slits, his face a deepening hue of shame. “Hotel,” he said at last. “Starts with the letter ‘H.’ ” Hurrying away, he scampered up the marble steps and disappeared into the school. Elena’s heart swelled with love as she watched him go. He was the one perfect thing she and Alejandro had done together, and she desperately wanted to protect him from the problems she and her husband were facing. She turned and walked away, wondering how long that would be possible.

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* * * Elena first became aware of the strange men in dark suits after she had escaped the tight knot of houses between Telegraph Hill and El Rincon. She was strolling through Portsmouth Plaza, enjoying a better look at the sparkling harbor and its dream-like vessels, when the words of a sourfaced visitor ruined it for her: “We were five days coming a little more than ninety miles, with a drunken captain and an inefficient crew, and continually surrounded by fogs, so that, from the time we started till we stopped we never found out where we were.” Bristling, she went on, passing the adobe building bearing the name Presidio, breezing past the bronze cannons perched outside its doors and the Mexican flag fluttering high above—and suddenly she spotted them. They rose before a crowd gathered to hear a sidewalk orator ranting from the platform before the old Custom’s House. “A paid fire department is needed, yah, sure, you betcha,” cried the gray-bearded ragman standing before the crowd, “the question is who’s going to pay for it? Y’all really think that twenty dollars a month Foreign Miner’s Tax will cover it? Heck, that’s just gonna drive them Chinamen away from prospectin’, that’s all, not give us the money we need!” The men in dark suits were the only ones whose faces were not upturned to the orator. Their gazes fixed on her. One was a brute with a sneering lip plastered upon a meatpie face, the other a rat with dark little eyes and hairy palms. Elena thought them rude, a pair of rogues or scoundrels despite their immaculate and expensive fashions. She turned and strolled off, thinking nothing more of it until she saw them again when she had paused to scrape a rock from her boot before the three-storied El Dorado, the resort of choice for well-monied Mexican gamblers. She and her husband had once dined here with an investor who spent more than ten thousand dollars a month in the hotel’s suites—nevermind the ridiculous amounts he dropped on roulette and

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faro. When she spotted the men half a street away, peering only vaguely in her direction, she felt the cold hand of unease caress her. She vowed to proceed cautiously in the event trouble was brewing, though she still had no real proof that she was being spied upon. After all, why would anyone do such a thing? She was the wife of a don, nothing more. She ignored a pair of sweaty scammers as she swept down the street on her way to Still’s Bookseller and Stationer, where she wished to buy the latest issue of the French newspaper Le Californien, which was actually published here. Gambling fever had swelled in San Francisco. Barkers wandered past her on the graded and planked streets soliciting participants for lotteries in which prime real estate might be won and gambling halls and hotels burnt to the ground twice in the last year during the great fires rose phoenix-like around her, rebuilt practically at will. Rubes flocked to the con artists who promised that gold dust could be found in the very streets. Naturally, they had sprinkled a bit here and there for the foolish would-be prospectors, from whom they extorted two dollars a piece for tin pans. The Brute and the Rat stopped to chat with the scammers and Elena relaxed—then their oily gazes once again drifted to her. Elena briefly took refuge in the Bartlette, a “miniature” café, where she sipped fragrant mocha and scoured the streets for any signs of the dark-suited strangers. When she was sure they had moved on, she emerged and purchased her paper. She stopped before a merchant house, vaguely considering whether to visit one of the gambling halls further down the street—as the company of cool, collected professional gamblers often calmed her—and surveyed the merchant’s window display. Elena peered at a strange contraption bearing a placard identifying the newfangled device she beheld as a “sewing machine” and crediting its creation to one Isaac Merrit Singer. Whoever had written the pithy text on the placard

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cautioned her not to be the last on her street to own one, and pledged that this creation would put her on the front lines of the household chore revolution. Fah! mused Elena. I’ve had enough revolution to last a lifetime, thank you all the same. Elena was about to move off when something in the glass arrested her attention. Squinting, she caught a reflection of the two men in dark suits, one ridiculously tall, the other much shorter. The same two men Elena had spotted earlier were watching her from across the street. Tension gripped Elena. She made a show of breezing away from the shop and casually browsing two more shop windows further down the street. The men appeared in the window reflections each time. The Brute and the Rat were indeed following her. Why? Her heart hammered madly against her chest as she sauntered along the street, forming a plan. She had a feeling that if she simply consulted a constable, the men would vanish long before the law might nab them, and who knew when they might show up again. She wanted to end this now. She passed a man reading a newspaper, the headline mentioning recent earthquake shocks. Elena wagered that her heart’s wild pounding could now match the trembling felt in the streets. Elena continued south, passing three more hotels and well-appointed gambling dens. The streets grew narrow, the shadows upon the street long and formidable. She surveyed several rubbish-strewn alleys, but did not alter her pace until she approached a Chinese restaurant she had visited once with friends. Elena passed it, glanced at the alley next to the restaurant, quickly appraised its virtues—and veered into its damp and pungent reaches. Crouching behind a stack of fruit-stained crates, Elena heard the steady rhythm of shiny black shoes clacking along. The footfalls slowed, stopped. Elena pictured the looks of confusion shared by her pursuers as they wondered

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where their quarry had gone. In the alley ahead stood a skinny Asian youth dumping more trash from the open back door to the restaurant. He cursed and kicked at the bold rats swarming and nipping at his offerings. He spun and disappeared inside the eatery, slamming the door behind him. Elena waited. The men were murmuring now, scratching their heads and considering their options. Good. Once they left the alley, she would follow them and learn what this was all about. A rat scampered over Elena’s foot, an orange rind in its mouth. She kicked it without thinking, and it ran squealing. The scuffing of feet alerted her. One of the men had turned slightly at the sound of the rat. She could guess which one. Damn. With a savage cry that startled the men, Elena burst from cover, her fist crashing into the shorter man’s face. He stumbled back and dropped to the ground, eyes shut as if he was out cold. Good. Elena snatched up a heavy shovel and whirled it around to defend herself against the true threat. The Brute advanced, his massive hands opening menacingly. The giant’s dark suit constrained his movements, but his legs were so long that he would be upon her in two quick strides. Elena struck the ground at his feet with the shovel’s tip, the sharp thwack making him freeze and look down in midfeint was a smashing success. She then swept the shovel up, the wide flat head adding a kind of resistance she had never encountered before in the training sessions she endured on her trip abroad when she first learned Silambam, the staff fighting of a South Indian village called Kalaripayit. The slight hesitation wrought by the shovel’s head gave the Brute enough warning to snap his head back. The shovel only grazed the underside of his jaw, sending his teeth smacking together. His eyes bulged and his bull-like nostrils flared as he grunted with pain—and shrugged off the blow.

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Elena whipped the shovel around again, turning the disadvantage of the heavy shovel head into a benefit as she launched a second sham attack. The shovel head scooped up some dirt from the alley and whipped it into her opponent’s face, blinding and confounding the lummox. He roared and thrust his hands out in an attempt to grab at her—when he should have simply grasped her weapon. Darting close to the Brute, Elena kicked at his unprotected ankle with her steel tipped boot. His height would not help him once he was on his knees. But then his hands caught hold of the shovel and Elena’s kick landed too high. Despite this leverage the giant yowled in pain. Then he doubled over so quickly she barely had time to leap free of his reach. She rallied again, whipping the shovel away just in time. He swung a roundhouse right and she ducked beneath it, slamming the shovel into his gut and withdrawing it in a flash. Her muscles ached as the shovel rounded again. His long ape-like arms came up, blocking several strikes aimed at his head. He snatched up a crate lid to use as a shield but she cut, sliced, stabbed and parried straight through the wood splintering in his hand. He was breathing hard, a glimmer of fear in his eyes, and his face crimson with anger that she made him feel so out of control. Seizing this advantage, she glared into his eyes, gauged his surprise and uncertainty, and fixed him with a look that made it clear the next point in their joust would go to her— and he would be the one on the ground. The telltale whirl of a revolver’s barrel stopped the blow. From the corner of her eye, Elena saw the cold dark muzzle of a handgun. She eased back so that she could see both her opponents clearly. The smaller ferret-faced man had risen and now fixed her with a wide smile—and his gun. “Normally one signals surrender by waving the flag,” said the smiling man. “In your case, dropping that shovel will have to do.”

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Elena loosened her grip and the shovel swiftly fell to the ground. “Who are you?” she demanded. Lowering his gun, the smiling man nodded. “Call me Harrigan. This handsome devil next to me is Pike.” The gargantuan Pike chuckled. “The real question, Señora de la Vega, is who are you?” “The devoted wife of a wealthy don?” suggested Harrigan brightly. “Or an independent woman held captive by her husband’s secrets?” Pike’s cheerful expression belied a blazing streak of cruelty. Both men, in fact, grinned like big gamesmen who had gotten the drop on their prey and were drawing out the final tantalizing moments before the kill. Elena’s eyes took on a hunted look. “What do you want?” Pike’s huge meaty hand searched the air as if it might settle on something that should have been obvious. He shook his head, his brow furrowing, though he never relinquished his nasty smile. “Your help.” Shrugging, he reached into his pocket—and whipped out a familiar length of black fabric. The mask of Zorro unraveled from the Brute’s hand. Elena gasped. These men had the mask her husband had lost at the aqueduct. They knew his secret! It felt as if a legion of half-frozen spiders scampered up her back as she turned her gaze on the smiling men. She was dimly aware that they were alone in this alley, unobserved. That seemed to make the men feel all the more confident . . . that and their pistols. She smiled inwardly at the thought of how easily she might disarm them now that their attitude had made them sloppy. But then what? “Shall we go somewhere to talk?” asked Elena stiffly. “Exactly what I was thinking,” said the beaming Harrigan as he bowed in a mockery of good manners. “And I know just the place . . .”

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* * * Steaming lavender-scented water lapped at Alejandro’s bare chest as he studied his cards. The dealer, one of three fellow dons sharing a luxurious hot bath with Alejandro, flashed his wide beaver-toothed grin as the last rays of twilight stabbed from diamond-shaped openings in the high-domed ceiling and glinted off his bald pate. Don Verdugo stroked his chubby cheeks and brushed his ridiculous heavy mustache, which curled at the corners of his mouth in a perpetual display of disarming and utterly false mirth and charm. Did Don Verdugo’s cards bear images of Chinese royalty or peasantry? Was his hand strong or weak? It almost didn’t matter. Quarreling low-ranking peasants of clashing suits marred Alejandro’s hand rendering it completely worthless. He folded, dumping his cards on the tray before Don Verdugo. Sympathetic noises bubbled up from the hawk-nosed, gray-eyed Don Robau and the ferret-faced, white-haired Don Diaz, though both smiled at Alejandro’s continued losing streak. A towering muscular Asian man massaged tangy smelling olive oil and spices into the sore back of a grunting New England businessman on a nearby slab. Roderick Cooper was his name, and he, like many others from the northern states, had married into wealthy Spanish Californio families and were slowly transforming the laid-back Spanish business philosophy of “mañana, mañana”—tomorrow, tomorrow, we’ll get around to it—into something far more cutthroat. A pair of Russian soldiers lay patiently waiting nearer to the door. Alejandro winced as the masseuse scooped up wood and metal scrapers and scritched them along Cooper’s back to remove the oil. Alejandro had come to the California Gentleman’s Club to relax, and every little distraction annoyed him. He sighed, knowing full well that this was not the true source of his misery. Calm yourself, cautioned Alejandro in the sanctuary of

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his private thoughts, be in the moment, as Don Diego taught you. He opened his senses to his surroundings. The heavy musk of steam, sweat, and burning wax from the collection of candles in high silver candelabras mixed with the sharpness of cinnamon, which Don Diaz rubbed in his wild frizzy hair. A circular dome overlaid with a mosaic of green and blue enameled tiles crowned the sauna’s spacious main chamber. Arches fawned over the tub and several more slabs at the heart of the chamber, and windows made of intricately carved stonework peered out on lush rich green landscaped gardens. The pungent aroma of imported cigars smoked by all four dons accompanied the gray wraithlike cloud drifting over the steaming tub. The light filtering in made the support beams look like gold bricks tall as a man stacked two by two. Such riches, such decadence . . . these men knew nothing of the hard labors suffered daily by good men like Cortez or the wonderful woman he married. Sometimes, it was enough to make Alejandro want to ram his fist into the men’s gloating faces. Yet—he was one of them, and they were his friends. Why else would he have confided his marital troubles to the other dons? Don Verdugo laughed and shook his head. “I tell you, de la Vega, women say they want one thing but what they really want is everything else.” Alejandro sighed deeply. “You don’t know Elena . . .” “You must show her who wears the pantalones in the family,” chided Don Diaz, gesturing down at his shrunken, soaking lower region, “get in touch with your manhood!” “A fine idea,” complimented Alejandro, “if I want my manhood chopped off with a machete.” “Think of this as a vacation from the shackles of matrimony . . .’’ offered Don Robau. Frowning, Alejandro ran his hand through his sweaty scalp. “Isn’t it possible our wives married us because they want to spend time with their husbands?”

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Great gusts of laughter burst from the dons. Alejandro waved away their good-natured ridicule. Don Verdugo’s shoulders fell suddenly. His gaze was forlorn. “My wife hates me.” “Mine too,” Don Robau remarked stoically. Don Diaz thrust a white-knuckled fist in the air. “Mine’s a life-sucking beast who lives only to humiliate me!” Alejandro gripped the tub’s warm side. He hauled himself up, squinting as he scrutinized the faces of his companions. “So let me understand this . . . if I take your advice, I can look forward to spending my days pruning in a tub of naked men?” The dons nodded, smiling sagely. It was little wonder that they had accepted their misery as a necessary evil. Loveless arranged unions had long been the way of maintaining prosperity in their homeland. Most of these men took comfort in the arms of mistresses, even had second families by them whom they regarded more admiringly than their own. He would not sink into the steaming morass that had swallowed up their spirits. He would not share their fate. Alejandro sloshed a fellow don as he climbed out of the tub. “Thanks for the advice.” “Where are you going?” asked Don Verdugo, one eyebrow raised. Alejandro had done enough business with this man to understand his tone. No matter how wonderful a performance Alejandro delivered in his role as a fellow don, he had been unable to completely fool Don Verdugo. Sensing the danger early in their relationship, Alejandro had concocted a tale of modest roots and a conflict between the gentle breeding of his mother and the barefisted call of his soldiering father. A sudden inheritance when he was but a boy explained which side won, but Alejandro maintained that the earth and grit had never fully been cleaned from his boots, thus his desire to make his own fortune. Acceptance by this circle of men was a necessary part of

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his disguise, a way of keeping anyone from suspecting that he was Zorro. But he was always something of the outsider, or so it felt. To hell with whether or not they think I have cajones, he thought. I’ve been led around by my foolish pride—among other things—long enough. Alejandro looked Don Verdugo in the eye. “I’m going to beg Elena’s forgiveness,” stated Alejandro firmly. Don Verdugo offered a dismissive shrug and returned to his game. The other dons followed his lead. Wrapping a towel around his waist, Alejandro spun and smacked into a pinstriped stick with two foggy lenses perched atop and a fistful of matted sweaty brown hair sticking out at all angles. Stepping back, Alejandro frowned at the out-of-place visitor. Why would anyone wear a suit or expensive loafers here? Did he want them to be ruined? Fah! What business was it of his? Alejandro eased to one side of the man, trying to slide past him, and the gentleman swayed and wobbled right into his path as he withdrew his thick, steamed up spectacles, his feet nearly slipping on the floor. Alejandro grabbed the man’s arm and steadied him, accepting a polite and reedy “thank you” for his trouble. The man wiped off his glasses with his tie and squinted as he slipped the round wire-frames back over his ears. The other dons glared at Alejandro and the stranger. “Goodness me,” cried the thin, bespectacled man. “Might one of you be Don Alejandro de la Vega?” His brow furrowing with suspicion, Alejandro said, “Yes?” The newcomer fished about absently for something in his jacket. He tried one breast pocket, then the other. Scowling, he patted his outer pockets, then those in his trousers. “Phineas Gendler, Attorney at Law,” he murmured. “I’m here on behalf of your wife.” Alejandro’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Elena? There must be some mistake. Gendler sighed with relief as he whipped an envelope

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from his back pocket and handed it to Alejandro. Adjusting his glasses, Gendler added, “If you should have any questions, my address is on the letterhead. Good day, sir.” The slight man saw himself out. Alejandro wandered closer to the bath, tearing open the envelope and yanking out a sheet of paper. His face glazed with shock as he took in the official-looking letterhead and read its neatly printed words. He tottered for an instant, standing as if he had just been shot and hadn’t yet had the sense to fall. Instead, the paper slid from his hand and fluttered to the water. The dons leaned in gravely. The first line of the letter read, “ISSUANCE OF PROCEEDINGS FOR DIVORCE.” In seconds the ink began to blur, but the dissolution of the printed text could not take away the pain and heartbreak that nearly brought Alejandro to his knees.

From Joaquin’s Confessions

<

Mama? Papi? They don’t understand. They can’t understand. At school, the others laugh at me because my father doesn’t come home any more. They say he is in the doghouse for good this time. What do they know, we don’t even have a dog! Papi is like a stranger. I guess that is nothing new. He comes around from time to time and pokes his nose in my business. I know he only does it to make himself feel better. And the Padre says I should not be so hard on him! Everyone says this. Maybe I could manage that a little easier if he were not such a baboso all the time. Ah, yes, Padre. One hundred Hail Marys and a promise that I shall never call my Papi a drooling idiot again. I can just hear him scolding me now. Yes, Padre, yes, God be with you, gotta go.

Chapter 5

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M

orning light burned Alejandro’s eyes. Squinting, he stirred from the blissful depths of sleep as something exploded against the door, the sound driving a sharp spike into his skull. He pictured a brace of soldiers smashing a battering ram against the hard wood. “Joaquin,” he mumbled, attempting to rouse his brother, with whom he’d been out thieving the night before. “Joaquin, the Federales, they’ve come for us . . .” His hand clawed the cool sheets for his weapons and came up empty. Heart thundering, he scoured the room with his gaze. Joaquin was not here, and he had no pistol, no sword. The sound came again. His head cleared a little and this time he registered that it was only a slight tapping. He had no idea where he was, but with crushing certainty he recalled that Joaquin, for whom his son was named, was long dead. The realization ground broken glass into his belly. “Señor de la Vega?” a woman called from the other side of the door. “Housekeeping!” He mulled the word over. Housekeeping? Was he in a hotel of some kind? His flickering gaze swept from the dried mud adobe brick walls past the heavy wooden dressers to his bed

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and armoire. He took in the fine linens, silver and clayware, and the spiderweb of heavy wood beams overhead leading to the high thatched roof. Yes, a hotel room, certainly. The lock rattled, the door swung open and a vision in white chemise glided into the room, her flowing chestnut hair trailing her attractive form. Her eyes and smile sparkled as she swept near the bed. Elena! Yes, it was his beloved, they must have put up here for the night and she was playing a little game— Alejandro felt steel scrape along his teeth as the curtains were flung open, their hooks whipping across their rod with an ear-piercing shriek. Far worse than the sound was the cursed light. Alejandro flinched, squinted and screwed up his features in alarm as he raised his hand to shield himself from the blinding rays streaking in from outside. Oddly, his visitor stood serenely beside the window and drew in a pleasant breath as she gazed outside at the swaying trees, flowering succulents and citrus planted in the garden. Lovely shimmers of crimson, amber and blue reached from a nearby stained glass window, stealing along the bare flesh of her beautiful arms. Had Elena taken leave of her senses? Did the searing, blinding light not bother her? Perhaps the woman would be unmindful of the heat if she stood in the heart of the sun! No, Alejandro realized. It’s not her . . . it’s me. My head is a mess. And it’s not Elena who’s come to visit. I recognize this one, now. Alejandro forced a smile as Lupe the chambermaid spun toward him, diminutive, yet buxom, her eyes the color of glittering jade. Other than possessing long dark hair, she looked nothing like his wife. And she was so young. A woman, yes, perhaps even of an age to marry, but a child in the ways of the world, surely. Settling back, Alejandro wondered why he was in this terrible state.

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With a gentle laugh, Lupe crossed to his dresser. She bent over the messy nest of papers sprawled there and sniffed at the mouth of an open wine bottle. Smacking her lips, she playfully winked at the bad, bad boy who’d ignored his work to finish off the drink. Alejandro quickly looked away from the voluptuous sway of her bosom, fixing instead on the ornate gold-plated candelabras and crucifixes lining the pale wall opposite his bed. Bringing a grimy hand to his mouth, he smelled his own breath. Acid snaked up his nostrils. A grenade burst in his skull. “By all the saints and their mothers!” The details came crashing back to him. This was the Edinburough Mission Inn. For three miserable months, this little room and a succession of such bottles had been his life. Ever since the divorce . . . “I’m sorry, señor,” Lupe said softly, “but you told me to make sure you didn’t sleep past two today.” Alejandro grunted appreciatively. A question slowly formed in his addled mind. “What is today?” “Wednesday.” An image sprang in his mind: his laughing son racing toward him, arms outstretched. “Of course, I have to pick up Joaquin,” Alejandro said brightly. “Gracias, Lupe.” Without thinking, he hopped out of bed, onto the cold clay-tiled floor. He was stark naked. Lupe glanced away demurely, but not before her gaze ranged freely over his body. Her tongue flicked across her upper lip and a low throaty rumble of desire escaped her. Alejandro felt a rush of heat rise to his face—and a very cool breeze steal lower. He snatched the first thing he could find to cover himself down there, sheepishly holding the long, tall candlestick before him. It didn’t help particularly. Lupe giggled. “Eh . . . what happened to my clothes?” asked Alejandro. His face had blossomed into a bright crimson.

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Lupe raised an eyebrow and indulged a private smile as she closed on the bed. “I removed them last night,” murmured Lupe as she stripped the pillows from his mattress, “so you wouldn’t catch pneumonia.” Alejandro pivoted as the lovely young woman swept around the bed, the breeze she created whipping across his bared flesh. “You removed them?” he gasped. She bent over the bed, arching her back perhaps more than she needed to, providing Alejandro with a look at how tightly her dressing gown cleaved to her well-rounded backside as she tossed another pillow aside and yanked at the bed’s remaining sheets. “After you returned from the cantina, you . . . went for a swim.” His gaze darted frantically about the room, seeking his trousers, as he willed the fog in his brain to dissipate. It defied him. “In my clothes?” asked Alejandro, his voice strained. Lupe finished with the bed. She spun around and gazed fully at him. Her smile was unapologetic, inviting. “Si, señor.” “But this hotel doesn’t have a pool.” “We have a fountain.” “I see,” said Alejandro. And, unfortunately, so did she. “Thank you, Lupe. Perhaps you could turn around?” “We are all naked before God,” cried a thunderous voice from the hallway. Fray Felipe rushed inside, his gaze locked on Lupe. “I’ll see you at confession, child.” Her face turning a deepening hue of shame, Lupe shrank from the room, closing the door behind her. Alejandro tossed the candlestick away, snatched up his clothes from the floor and dropped heavily to the bed. A mistake. The world spun and his stomach lurched as he bent forward to stab one foot into a pant leg.

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The wrong pant leg. His head was blurry and stupid from drink. He caught Fray Felipe glaring at him disapprovingly. Alejandro rolled his eyes at his visitor as he yanked on his pants. “Don’t look at me like that. I know what you’re gonna say . . .” “I’m here to lift your spirits, not dampen them,” said Fray Felipe, an edge of impatience creeping into his words. Alejandro bounded to his feet and felt his head throb. His tongue was as dry as a cat’s. Fine for a feline, not fine for a fox. “Who says my spirits need lifting?” he asked, his face turning scarlet as he struggled to match the buttons of his topshirt with their eyeholes. Fray Felipe’s open palm smacked a dresser like a disobedient bottom. The thunderclap toppled Alejandro. He sank to the bed and grasped the mattress to keep from sliding off its side. “You’re being a pigheaded fool, Alejandro,” Fray Felipe said hotly. “Just go to Elena and tell her you were wrong!” “Hey, she was the one who wanted me to live a lie—stop being myself!” Alejandro slapped his chest. “As if California could live without me!” Felipe rolled his eyes. “Wake up, Huevon. We haven’t had to ring that bell in three months. You should be rejoicing!” “I am rejoicing!” boomed Alejandro. Wincing, he brought his shaky hands to his aching head. Perhaps he should be rejoicing just a little less. “Alright,” snarled Felipe. “You can’t rot in this room forever. A new vineyard’s opening tonight and you’re coming to the party with me.” “My whole life’s a party,” Alejandro ground out between gritted teeth. “Thank you,” he added with a bullfighter’s final flourish of his hand, “no.” “Be in the lobby at eight, or don’t bother coming to confession,” fumed Fray Felipe, “because I’ll never forgive you!”

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Alejandro blinked with astonishment. “You’d blackmail my soul?” he accused. “Hell, yes!” spat Fray Felipe. Alejandro winced as his friend stomped out of the room, slamming the door. He sat alone, holding his head in his hands, wondering if cursing a holy man, even one whom he loved so dearly, would nudge his soul past the point of redemption. He did it anyway. Joaquin de le Vega’s thoughts had also turned to the tortures endured by doomed souls. Leaning back in his chair at the Alvarado Academy for Children, surveying the tide of frightened faces staring back at the spectacle of Father Quintero once again plunging the cone-shaped “dunce” cap on the head of poor chubby, helpless Ricardo, Joaquin pictured imps with pitchforks dancing about Father Quintero’s robes. It was a happy thought. “Now, would anyone else like to interrupt my lecture by asking to go to the bathroom?” demanded Father Quintero. “No one? Good. Now then . . .” Joaquin felt a cool inviting breeze call to him from a nearby window. He turned his gaze from the rivers of hard wood desks with iron wrought supports, looked beyond the blazing colors of flags pinned on the walls and billowing from metal stands—Mexico, the California Republic, the United States—and gazed at the bustling streets beyond the school’s rear court. Freedom, he thought hazily. Sweet, sweet freedom . . . Joaquin could be a very good student—when the subject interested him. Only ten scant minutes ago, he had listened with rapt attention as a fellow student reported on a subject near to his heart. A small chalkboard perched atop a nearby easel bore a list of events that would have gone very differently had El Zorro not intervened: The rescue of Pio Pico; the secret history of the Gold Rush; the battle of the 20-mule freighters; the alliance with James Beckwourth, Chief of the

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Crow Nation of Indians; the Mexican-American War and the Bear Flag Republic . . . One thing was for certain: no one could accuse Señor Zorro of lazing about during these critical years of California’s fight for freedom . . . unlike Joaquin’s Papi, that is. Rueben Belasco, a tall, grinning fourth-grade devil, passed Joaquin a drawing of a don in fancy dress grinning stupidly and pointing to a small wooden doghouse that bore a crooked sign proclaiming, “Home Sweet Home.” The name “Alejandro de la Vega” hovered above the image of the demented and drooling don. Joaquin crumpled up the drawing and tossed it away. He knew that if he made too much of it, the ridicule would never end. Those measured thoughts did nothing to keep the blazing scarlet from stealing across his neck and spreading to his ears as he clenched his jaw and tapped his quill pen to a mad passionate rhythm only he could hear. At the rear of the classroom, Father Quintero threaded his way among the rows of students, his stick a python ready to strike. It grazed a lock of hair here, brushed the nape of a neck there. Boys and girls shivered as it sliced the air, hissing past them. Though the room was swept through with bracing sunlight, shadows somehow found the Father’s long, thin face and crept into the crevices beneath his sunken and predatory eyes and cheeks. His chin looked sharp enough to slice open envelopes and his raven’s hair was coiled so tightly that even the strong wind gave up hope of rustling it. Father Quintero reached the head of the class. He whirled on the blackboard, his stick thwacking against it. The stick’s tip held there, pointing to a word the teacher had scrawled earlier: Statehood. “Who would like to tell me what this word means?” snapped Father Quintero. His gaze narrowed as hands went up. Good! Some of the little idiots had been listening after all. He waved his stick in the direction of his prize pupil. “Miriam?”

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“It means we’re part of a bigger country now,” announced Miriam, a pleasant-looking blonde with freckles and a pert little nose. Father Quintero nodded sagely. “Very good.” His stick motioned next toward a dark-eyed boy who always put forth his best effort. “Raul?” Raul ran his hand through his black bowl cut hair, which rose higher on the right as if no one had bothered to balance the bowl after it was set on his head. He ventured, “We get to learn the Declaration of Independence?” The teacher nodded with satisfaction. His stick hovered, swaying lazily from one side to the other as Father Quintero surveyed the other students. It leaped in his hand, like a divining rod, driving his attention to a dark-haired boy at the back of the class who wasn’t paying attention. “Joaquin?” called Father Quintero. The boy stared at Ricardo the Dunce. Did he envy the lad’s position? Well, if so, Father Quintero was in a unique position to do something about it. The lad’s head eased around and now he peered out the window. “Joaquin de la Vega,” bellowed Father Quintero. “Perhaps you could tell the class what statehood means to you?” Joaquin dragged his gaze upward—and fixed the teacher with his smoldering eyes. “It means the people can rise up against the flaming poker of injustice!” Father Quintero stiffened with fury. “And how exactly does a flaming poker fit into your little theory?” Sinking low in his chair, Joaquin murmured, “It fits . . . in your butt?” Laughter burst from the other students. Joaquin’s bushy eyebrow raised. What was this now? Had he struck a blow for freedom? Judging by his teacher’s reddening face, it would seem so. His racing thoughts lighted on the stories he loved so much: Zorro vs. the Bandana Gang, in which the masked rider battled a dozen wicked men intent on revenge for the

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“Z”s carved on their foreheads. Or Zorro and the Deadly Day of the Dictator, where a villain using children for slave labor in a secluded hacienda paid the ultimate price for his greed, tumbling head first at story’s end into a bottomless pit, the place he had tossed rebellious or sickly children. Father Quintero was indeed a dictator, and the day was long past when his iron rule should be broken. Father Quintero slapped his stick on Raul’s desk and roared, “Silencio!” The classroom sank into a dark quiet—for a few seconds. Then snickering and titters flickered from row to row, corner to corner, the sounds flittering away an instant before Father Quintero’s angry, searching gaze could seize upon their disobedient owners. A low muffled braying rumbled from Ricardo’s seat. Joaquin gazed at his friend. No, Ricardo. Think of something awful. Don’t— It was too late. Ricardo laughed so hard into his cupped hands that his body quavered and he had to press his legs together tightly to keep from wetting his pants. He had presented the perfect target for Father Quintero’s wrath—far easier prey than Joaquin. Father Quintero whirled on Ricardo, his stick raised. He bellowed, “I’ll give you something to laugh about—” No! thought Joaquin. There would be no further injustices. Joaquin removed his slingshot—and sent a stinging little stone into Father Quintero’s backside! Shrieking with surprise and pain, Father Quintero whirled and froze at the sight of the lad blowing on his slingshot the way a cowboy might a smoking gun. The spindly teacher stormed at the boy, advancing with long, angry strides. Joaquin leaped atop his desk, snatching up a ruler. “Come here, you little demon!” raged Father Quintero. The teacher’s stick whipped down toward Joaquin, but the ruler the boy had taken from another student’s desk deflected the blow with a sharp high crack. Joaquin leaped to

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another desk as Father Quintero’s stick arced through the air again lashing at Joaquin’s fleeing form. The stick hummed, then hissed—it struck at the boy, then missed. Joaquin landed on another desktop, startling a red-haired girl. Dropping to a crouch, he whirled to face the teacher, raising his ruler high. Thwackkk! It struck Father Quintero’s stick. The teacher stumbled, shock and rage boiling over within him. Joaquin grimaced savagely as he ripped the ruler to the right with lightning speed, swept it down in a sharp diagonal, then flashed it right again, emblazoning the air with a “Z” mere inches from Father Quintero’s face. “Hah!” cried Joaquin. With a growl of mindless fury, Father Quintero launched himself at the lad. Joaquin whirled and leaped again, grabbing hold of a dangling chandelier filled with half-worn candles and swung away, narrowly avoiding the teacher’s bony, grasping hands. Joaquin’s boots alighted upon a windowsill. Crouching, he scrambled through the open window and skittered quickly to the right to avoid his teacher’s latest frustrated attempt to snag him. The dictator railed against the escaping rebel. Joaquin scampered across the ledge, evading Father Quintero once more. Wild, passionate cheers resounded from Joaquin’s classroom—and from surrounding classrooms. Cries of delight and encouragement rose, cheers for the hero who had dared to stand against oppression, for the lad whose courage was as great as that of any man or legend. Joaquin loathed leaving the others behind, but he would return soon to free them all. His gaze streaked across the high metal pole, and the whipping flag of California and the means of his deliverance gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. Unmindful of the possibly deadly drop to the courtyard far below, Joaquin leaped! The air had him for a terrifying instant, and he thought he might plummet like a stone. Then his hands closed on the fluttering fabric. The wind sliced

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and bit at his face as he spun around the pole. Releasing the flag, he curled his arms about the pole, spun some more, then shimmied down its length. He dropped to the ground in a heroic flourish. Vive le revolution! A shadow stole over him. Gazing up, Joaquin stared into the partially silhouetted face of Alejandro de le Vega. “Papi?” Joaquin whispered, stunned to see the man at all. Father’s face was rock hard, a single eyebrow raised as if to ask, What, did someone hit you with a stupid stick? But what Don de la Vega said was quite simple, and far more troubling. It was a single word that came out as a low growl from some cavernous place deep within the man. “Joaquin . . .” Alejandro strode hard along the dusty streets of San Francisco. Joaquin struggled to keep up with him. They were within sight of a ramshackle two-story sprawl with a halfdozen stagecoaches parked outside. The charred black skeletal ruins of homes and businesses savaged by recent fires lay further down the street, and ash wafted upon the afternoon breeze, stinging their nostrils, clinging like dust to their hair and clothing. A new site for the stagecoach depot—miraculously untouched by the hungry god of fire—was under construction across the street. Laborers sweated while they worked as a peace officer in a deep blue uniform and bowler hat strode their way for standard inspections. Alejandro attempted to focus his mind on such details, lest the fires burning within him burst out of control. Whirling on his son, Alejandro unleashed a scorching look as he said, “What’s with you, eh? You’re lucky Father Quintero didn’t throw you out for good—” Joaquin shrugged, adjusting the heavy bookbag he had lugged after Papi had made him go back inside and apolo-

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gize to Father Quintero. The boy pleaded with his hands. “No fue mi culpa, Papi—” Alejandro bristled. It’s not my fault, Papi, his son had offered. Alejandro’s frown deepened. “Speak English, we’re about to be Americans—and stop making excuses. Why do you keep picking fights?” Shuddering, Joaquin struggled to find the words that might get through to Papi. “You don’t understand, sometimes you have to fight . . .” Alejandro scowled. “Says who?” Joaquin pointed. “Says him.” Alejandro turned. Slashed on the building before him was the mark of Zorro. In a shock of memory, he was suddenly catapulted back to a frigid evening three years gone. Sam “Velvet Voice” Neeley, a murderer, thief, stagecoach robber and poet from Sydney Town, had killed three men and held a woman at knife point after a robbery at the depot. The grinning madman, an escaped convict from Australia, had holed up in a room above, bragging that he was dedicating his acts that night to Lola Montez, the scandalous “Spider Dancer” of Grass Valley. In the end, Neeley had crashed through a high window alone, his life coming to a close when he landed in this terrible spot and snapped his neck. Zorro had triumphed that night—but Alejandro had taken a blade between the ribs and came within a hair’s breath of never seeing his wife and son again. Mi familia es mi vida. My family is my life. How can I say that and still put on the mask? Alejandro’s expression hardened. “Listen, muchacho, if Zorro were here he’d tell you fighting isn’t always the answer.” “How do you know what he’d say?” asked Joaquin with a nasty snicker. “Trust me, said Alejandro, his mouth tightening into a stubborn line. “I know him a lot better than you think.” Joaquin looked at his father as one might a pair of

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manure-soaked boots. “No you don’t, you’ve never been in a fight in your life—you didn’t even fight to keep Mom!” Alejandro’s large powerful hand shot out and caught Joaquin’s arm. The boy gasped. Papi’s grip was fierce, vicelike. There was no pain—yet there was no going anywhere, either. His father’s eyes blazed like the sun. The man who had been insubstantial as a light breeze seconds earlier now towered as a stone giant, the golden flames of the afternoon at his back, his face dark with fury. Who was this man? It was as if his father had become . . . someone else. A raw breath came from Alejandro’s throat. He forced himself to calm down. “I am your father, Joaquin, don’t talk to me like that. There’s nothing on this earth I wouldn’t do for you or your mother. Understand?” Joaquin drew back as his father’s grip loosened. Alejandro could see that the boy ached with longing. Joaquin wanted to believe; he wanted it more than anything in the world. If the boy knew the truth, perhaps he would believe. If the truth were known . . . “Don Alejandro!” called a voice from over Alejandro’s shoulder. Alejandro tensed—and instantly slipped on yet another mask. It would not do for his friends to see him undone like this. With a wide, gracious smile, he turned to greet Guillermo Cortez and his wife Blanca, who held their newborn son. From the back of their wagon, which also served as their stall in the marketplace, a sign advertised the finest in gold mining equipment. Guillermo set up his stand, eyeing the potential customers flocking to the stagecoaches ahead. The sign standing before a collection of shining fresh shovels, pikes, and lanterns read, “Cortez and Son.” Alejandro stole a fleeting glance at his own son, who appeared unimpressed with his father’s sudden transformation. Joaquin glowered and brooded, lost only to his own con-

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cerns. That had been Alejandro once—before Don Diego found him. “Guillermo, Blanca,” beamed Alejandro as he gestured at the baby, “look at little Jose.” A tiny gold bracelet with a black coral charm in the form of a fist dangled from the baby’s wrist, an Azabache meant to protect one from the Mal de ojo, or evil eye, which sometimes resulted from too much admiration or envy by others. Alejandro winked to Guillermo. “Poor thing, he’s as ugly as his mother.” Blanca laughed at the hidden compliment. She raised her free hand and tossed a loving flourish at the scraggly-haired ten-year-old. “And look at you, Joaquin, growing up so fast!” Flattered, Joaquin accepted her words, marking them with a shrug and a wistful smile. Guillermo clasped Alejandro’s shoulders. “If business keeps up, we’ll be able to pay you back sooner than we thought.” Alejandro laughed warmly and patted Guillermo hard on the back. “I told you, compadre, it was a gift. To celebrate your son’s birth.” The sound of whittling caught everyone’s attention. Alejandro stepped from Guillermo and saw a man in a frock coat testing a finely sharpened Cortez blade. His back was turned, but Alejandro had the sense that he was indeed carving something. Cortez waved to get the man’s attention. “Uh, señor, that knife is only two dollars.” The man spun, still working the blade on a pair of wooden teeth. He finished and popped the false teeth into his mouth. Alejandro’s gaze narrowed, his heart slowing as he recognized Guillermo’s customer: Jacob McGivens. “Give you five hundred,” suggested McGivens. “For that I’ll take the deed to your rancho . . . with the Lord’s gratitude.”

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Guillermo’s hands gathered into fists. Chest heaving, he called, “What do you know about the Lord, McGivens?” Fingering the flesh around the crucifix-shaped scar upon his face, McGivens said, “Just as he sent his only son to endure mortal suffering, my daddy branded me with my own cross to bare.” Blanca hugged Jose to her breast and backed away, her eyes filled with hatred as she stared at the gunman. “Tell your bosses at the railroad we’ll never sell.” McGivens spun the knife, stabbing it into the table. He gestured like a friend giving advice to Cortez and remarked, “Family man like you? Might wanna keep his woman on a shorter leash.” The false smile plummeted from the scarred man’s face as he surged at Guillermo. Alejandro’s left hand stabbed out, his open palm suddenly pressed against the gunman’s chest. McGivens stopped, confusion rippling his brow. “They said, they’re not selling,” warned Alejandro, his tone level, unyielding. McGivens regarded the don curiously. “We met before, sir?” Alejandro shrugged. “I’d remember a man with wooden teeth.” A single eyebrow raised, McGivens sniffed the air near Alejandro’s face, wrinkled his lips in disgust, and added, “And I’d remember a Mex-breed dressed up like a white man.” The muscles in Alejandro’s face and neck tensed. He wanted to take this grinning devil apart, but Joaquin was staring at him intently. The boy wanted him to fight—and that was exactly why Alejandro could not give in to his anger. He had to show Joaquin that there were other ways. McGivens fixed Joaquin with a crooked grin. “Think your pappy’s gonna crow, Little Man?” asked McGivens. “Or’s he gonna cluck?” “Leave him out of this,” warned Alejandro. McGivens hand came up in a blur, slapping Alejandro’s face hard enough to leave a bright red welt. Joaquin lurched

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forward to defend his father, but Alejandro stepped back from McGivens and thrust a warning hand in his son’s direction. Joaquin’s chest heaved, his breath catching and ratcheting unevenly, but he remained where he was. Jaw clenched, Alejandro struggled with the urge to put down the vicious animal before him. “Señor,” said Alejandro, fighting to keep his voice from quaking with fury, “as a gentlemen I’m obliged to teach my son to turn the other chee—” Grinning, McGivens slapped Alejandro’s other cheek, really putting his back into it this time. The blow connected like a thunderclap, snapping Alejandro back and rocking him on his heels. The sharp explosive sting that seared Alejandro’s face spread to his brain, his fury overwhelming him at last. “Y’mean that cheek?” taunted the scarred gunman. Alejandro dug in his heels and lunged for the man, a snarl writhing from his lips. McGivens whipped up his fists in a classic boxer’s stance. Guillermo surged in, seizing both of Alejandro’s arms as an earthy voice called from only a few yards away. “Everything all right, boys?” Alejandro forced the fight to drain out of him as he turned and locked gazes with the tall police officer he had seen earlier at the construction site across the street. Alejandro took the officer’s measure: young, square-jawed, Irish. The man was stiff in the back and shoulders, and his lips curled into a sneer, as if he had something to prove. The Daily Herald had run a piece just last week about green recruits forgetting to bring their weapons to work and running from fights because they didn’t know what else to do. This man was looking for trouble—so he could show everyone how the job should be done. Eyes blazing, Alejandro backed away. “Respects to you, officer,” said McGivens, tipping his hat while flashing his dull wooden grin, “respects, respects.” The policeman drew a sharp breath, his brow furrowing as

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he seemed to debate with himself over making more of this, then he strolled on. When the officer had vanished into a gambling house down the street, McGivens turned to the others and winked. McGivens lept onto his Mustang and jerked the reins. The Mustang’s head flew up and he snorted and chuffed angrily, swinging his body around so violently that his rump smacked against Cortez’s wagon, knocking over the table the craftsman had set up. A cascade of hammers, shovels and pikes crashed and clattered to the ground. Alejandro grasped Cortez’s arm, holding the man in check with a nod to Blanca and Jose. Shuddering, Guillermo nodded and shrugged off his friend’s grip. McGivens playfully mouthed the word, “Oops.” “Think about my offer now . . .’’ McGivens said quietly as the din’s echoes faded, “or I’ll be obliged to do the Lord’s work.” McGivens drove his spurs into the Mustang’s flanks and shouted a wretched curse at the beast. The enraged horse galloped off, McGivens holding his hat and laughing as dirt kicked up around them. Alejandro bent to help Guillermo pick up his tools, but the proud man firmly brushed him aside and set to the task alone. Blanca’s smile was thin and pained as she nodded her thanks at the don. Looking to his son, Alejandro saw only two burning coals, the boy’s dark eyes gleaming with a shameful rage. The sun rose high and defiantly scorched the clouds. A blood red haze swept the sky, its crimson glow moving along the roof of the hansom cab that Alejandro had chartered. The carriage squeaked and ratcheted to a stop in the courtyard of Hacienda de la Vega, while within its oakpaneled depths, Alejandro studied his son. Joaquin averted his gaze as he repacked the schoolbooks that had spilled from his bag on the bumpy ride.

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Alejandro’s hand brushed his son’s hair. “Hey, now, what’s that you have growing from your ear?” With a flourish, Alejandro produced a shining gold coin that he had palmed. The magic trick usually brought a smile to his son’s face. Not this time. Alejandro sheepishly pocketed the coin. “I’ll pick you up again tomorrow, alright?” asked Alejandro brightly, his hands wide in an expansive gesture. “We’ll do something after school.” Joaquin sullenly shrugged. “I’m going fishing with Ricardo.” “Bring him along,” offered Alejandro robustly. “We’ll go to the magic lantern show. You know what that is?” “No . . .” said Joaquin, a flicker of intrigue lighting in his eyes despite himself. Alejandro seized on the opportunity to recapture the boy’s interest. “It’s the newest thing, moving pictures! They project stories onto a screen about heroes and villains and you can imagine you’re anywhere in the world.” Joaquin’s gaze stole toward his father and the corners of his mouth twitched in a brief smile. “Yeah, alright,” Joaquin said skeptically. Joaquin climbed out, the carriage rocking like a ship at sea. Alejandro leaned toward Joaquin, tapping the boy’s shoulder. Turning, Joaquin displayed a flat, guarded expression. “See you tomorrow, eh?” asked Alejandro, smiling though his eyes took on a wounded look. “You and me.” Joaquin’s breath quickened—as if he dared for just an instant to believe it might happen. Then he lowered his gaze and walked along the path to the hacienda without giving an answer. No answer is needed if you think the offer isn’t real, decided Alejandro. He raised his chin determinedly, even as his heart threatened to sink.

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A rustling sounded high above. His gaze whipped to the veranda, where Elena stood watching him. Her shoulders rose suddenly and she whirled away, disappearing within the home they had shared for so long. Alejandro’s palms grew clammy and a sudden stabbing ache lanced his chest. He withdrew into the carriage and nodded to the driver. With a great holler and the cracking of whips, the carriage plunged away from the hacienda, and the reddening sky reached down to cast crimson shards into the tired eyes of the lone passenger. Ah, Felipe, thought Alejandro, if you knew the day I’ve had, would you forgive my skipping the opening tonight? Alejandro laughed quietly as the rickety carriage rocked, its wheels spinning, the horses hauling it into the deepening evening, braying as if even they knew how unlikely that would be.

Chapter 6

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acienda de la Fere perched above the rolling nightenraptured hills north of the city, holding court over the winding valley and its far-reaching vineyards. The hacienda was alive with golden light and sparkling laughter. Music could be heard in the far reaches of its stunning gardens, where its spectacularly attired guests gazed admiringly at its breathtaking arcades, powerful columns, and boldly arched windows. The wealthy had come out in droves for this evening’s wine tasting, well-mannered couples gliding across the rich, manicured lawn or bending to the elegantly arranged banks of flowers. The lush garden hosting the evening’s wine tasting event lent a cultured serenity to the event with its gentle waves of lilacs, violets and roses. The rich strolled leisurely over flagstone walks, sighed brightly in greeting, or retired to the many chairs and tables beneath understated umbrellas. Alejandro de la Vega glared at his surroundings. His skin itched as if he had developed an allergy to the fiber of his custom-tailored black tuxedo with gray pinstriped pants, his black bow-tie rubbing against the nape of his neck. He hated dressing up. Beside him Fray Felipe warned him yet again to stop twitching just as a pair of giggling lovers rushed off to the gazebo in the distance.

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“Ten minutes, then I’m going,” warned Alejandro gruffly. A servant circulated through the crowd, offering tall glasses filled with wine. Fray Felipe scooped a glass from his passing tray, savoring the aroma of the local vintage. The servant—a peasant Alejandro recognized—would not meet his gaze. The wiry man, a vaquero brought low by an injury, made his rounds as if he were unworthy to look those he served in the eye. Alejandro’s stomach knotted. This is why we must fight for freedom. The people must know that no man, no matter what their rank or station, no matter what their nationality, is superior. And they must understand their own worth, even the “lowliest” peasant. As the servant departed, Fray Felipe sipped the wine and swished it on his tongue, breathing in its scent with his welltrained nose. “Ahh . . . effervescent, yet tenacious,” reported Felipe, his face flushed with joy as he smacked his lips. “A mellow bouquet of fruity—” “I thought you were forbidden to drink,” Alejandro put in reproachfully. The padre winked at his good friend. “I need at least one vice to keep in touch with the sinners.” Alejandro rolled his eyes. Turning from his friend, he looked around. Some of the men strolling through the spacious garden wore dazzling uniforms ablaze with finery marking them as dukes, generals or shipping magnates. Formal affairs such as this had never been his forte. True, he could recognize the rich harmonies and passionate melodies rising from the polished instruments of the elegantly dressed string quartet, marking a Mendelssohn nocturne at one turn, a Schubert romance at another. Learning such minutia had been necessary in his efforts to ensure that he appeared a cultured gentleman whom no one would ever suspect of walking the dangerous path of El Zorro. And that he had made the effort to master these refined arts also pleased Elena.

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Alejandro shook his head. His beloved would have adored this place and everything about this night. A dull, empty ache gnawed at his soul as a lump rose in his throat. If only they were still together . . . Shuddering, Alejandro asked, “Who owns this vineyard anyway?” “A count, recently in from France,” Felipe replied as he sipped the wine again. “I’m told he purchased it from Don Gallo’s widow.” Finishing his drink, Fray Felipe turned to a nearby table. He dipped his glass in a pitcher of water meant for rinsing between rounds then surveyed his choices. Delicate calligraphy numbered each of the tasteful white bags hiding the labels of the bottles they contained. He expounded on his knowledge, informing Alejandro that in this way, a group of reds, such as three Zinfandels and three cabernets, could be sampled without prejudice. Or the vineyard’s prize export, a bubbling champagne, could be compared to the products from Limoux or Saumur, France or from Spain—or even a wine of the purest lineage from France’s actual Champagne region. Alejandro watched Felipe sample other wines and was surprised that Felipe had mastered the wine-taster’s art— look, whiff, sip and savor. As strangers drew close, the padre spoke of a particular wine’s nutty or fruity qualities, comparing one to dark chocolate, another to a candied apple. He met with approving nods. Next to him, perched over baskets filled with bread and cheese, an elderly couple discussed Prosper Mérimeé’s Carmen of Seville, his tale of the gypsy woman he met working in a tobacco factory whose voluptuous beauty drove men mad. Ah, thought Alejandro, imagine the tale he might have spun had he met Elena . . . Ahead, moonlight and starlight mixed as guests held their glasses against the bright white linens adorning the long tables bearing endless selections from the vineyard to scruti-

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nize the wine’s color. Alejandro glanced at the great hacienda’s entrance, where a pair of flags rustled proudly—the American flag and the French tri-color. Hmmm. It seemed there was at least one flag missing. The lack of the California or Mexican flags suddenly made him feel a bit less charitable to his unseen French host. A crystal tinkle of ice caught Alejandro’s attention. Felipe offered a glass to Alejandro. He turned it down, then began to casually sort through a table of canapés. “You say a French count owns all this?” asked Alejandro, nudging Felipe with a good-natured chuckle. “He’s probably still in his parlor putting on makeup.” An amused voice put in, “Or his perfume, perhaps.” Alejandro whirled to take in a smiling dark-haired man admiring the lavish spread beside him. This fellow guest was well attired, like everyone here, but he had a down-toearth quality that instantly set Alejandro at ease. “Rumor has it the French invented it to avoid bathing,” Alejandro added with conspiratorial laughter. The party guest joined in Alejandro’s laughter. “And you are?” “De la Vega. Alejandro de la Vega,” Alejandro responded with a graceful bow. “You’re de la Vega?” asked the party guest with a start of surprise. “What an honor, I’ve heard so much about you.” Alejandro’s brow furrowed. “Really? From whom?” “You know, I’d love to continue this conversation, but I’m wanted elsewhere,” the man said as his eyes focused on something behind Alejandro. “Please, excuse me.” He strolled off in the direction of his gaze. Alejandro returned his attention to Felipe who was still engrossed in his wine tasting. “I just met a most charming fellow,” announced Alejandro as he placed a delicate canapé into his mouth. Fray Felipe turned to face his friend. “And who might that be?”

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The two men’s conference was interrupted by the tinkle of a crystal wineglass being gently tapped to call the attention of the party’s guests. Their host was making his presence known from a small stage in the hacienda’s ornate courtyard. Alejandro nearly choked on the canapé he had just stuffed into his mouth. The man holding the crystal glass was the same man he was just talking to at the buffet table. Dios Mio! What had he done? Count Armand Compte de la Fere smiled cordially at his assembled guests as he quietly handed the small knife he’d used to tap the crystal glass to his servant Ferroq. Alejandro felt as if he was seeing the man for the first time. Moonlight crested against the tight black ringlets of Armand’s lustrous hair and shimmered restlessly in his dark soulful eyes, drawing attention to his piercing gaze. His strong proud cheekbones pressed up above his smile, which was at once inviting and merciless, while a glimmer of golden light swept down his aquiline nose to the square of his strong chin. A crimson scarf, something like a lady’s favor, was tucked between the lapels of his long elegant coat. “I’m still not sure why they call it a wine tasting,” Count Armand said as he playfully raised his glass of wine. “After two glasses, you can’t taste anything.” Gales of laughter burst from the crowd at the count’s little joke. Armand graciously waited for the laughter to subside before starting his toast. His eyes shining with pleasure, he raised his glass again. “Welcome friends, Californians . . . as we toast the evening, I can’t help but think how easy it is for us to celebrate tonight. We never go to bed hungry. We never wake up cold. This vineyard represents what I hope will become an industry that depends on the people for its success, instead of exploiting them. That’s what America means to me—the promise of a country by the people, for the people. A country blessed with limitless beauty . . . but none more

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stunning than my escort for the evening.” The count adroitly whirled and thrust out his gloved hand for a woman who elegantly ascended the steps from the courtyard. “Ladies and Gentlemen—Señora Elena de la Vega.” The blood drained from Alejandro’s face as his eyes drank in the magnificent and heart-rending vision that was his beloved. He nearly staggered, but Fray Felipe caught his arm. A sumptuous rich yellow ball gown he had never seen before clung to Elena’s incredible form. He took in the gown’s plunging neckline and delicate black lace trim upon her arms and waist as she swept forward with a relaxed grace Alejandro thought he would never see again. Elena crested the stage, her hand delicately settling into Armand’s waiting grasp. Alejandro’s body went numb, his face stricken, as the count slightly bowed—and kissed his Elena! Her gentle fingers drifted to her raven’s hair and drew forth a white-petaled romania, which she presented to the handsome count in an all-too-familiar, and saddening ritual. It was a token of passion. For a terrible instant, Alejandro was a study of desolation, his face drawn, his eyes etched with sorrow. Then a cold fist closed around his heart. His stomach contracted into a tight ball. His face burned and he quaked with rage as the count took the flower, drawing it through an eyelet in his lapel and setting it in a place of honor for all to see before kissing Elena once more. The crowd exploded with applause and an enormous display of fireworks echoed their joy with thunderous pinwheeling bursts, igniting the night sky, cascading with the colors of the French and American flags. You want to see celebrating? thought Alejandro, his face darkening with fury. Oh—what I will show you tonight! A ravenous appetite had been awakened within Alejandro, but it was not for food. He tossed the plate of remaining canapés to a passing servant who caught it expertly without

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breaking stride. Then he surged forward, hungering for revenge, thirsting for answers. His rage redoubled as he watched Elena and Armand happily receive their guests. Only three short months ago, he had been the one to stand at her side when she greeted the elite like this, and it had been done at his hacienda—where he was no longer welcome. Elena had given no explanation for the split. He had gone over every word they had angrily hurled at one another the night of their “tiff,” when he’d stormed off, and was certain that they would have worked out all of their grievances once their anger cooled—just as they always did. We fight, Elena. That’s what we do. Then we make up . . . But something had gone wrong. Some unexpected element had entered the mix. Alejandro first believed it was some meddling friend of Elena’s, but he soon realized that couldn’t be the case. None of Elena’s friends were even speaking to her. He stared at the handsome count. Yes, hello, if you would, a quick question: How do you see yourself? As an unexpected element perhaps? And if so, would you be at all interested in seeing how far my fist can fit down your lying, devious throat? Grasping his cross, kissing it, then rolling his eyes heavenward in a silent prayer for strength, Fray Felipe chased after him. Snagging Alejandro’s arm, he casually remarked, “Well, I’m pooped. Time to go.” “Go? Why would we go?” asked Alejandro darkly, yanking himself free as his hand closed into a crimson fist. “I’m having so much fun.” The heartbroken don gulped his wine then hurled his empty glass at an innocent rose bush. The wine stung his throat, agitated his nerves. Good. With his heart racing wildly, Alejandro stalked ahead, leaving his frustrated friend behind. He ignored Felipe’s pleas to leave at once—and the padre’s further frustrated de-

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mands that he not act like an ass. The music swelled as Alejandro rudely thrust his way through the crowd, closing in on the warmly smiling raven-haired woman whom he thought he knew better than anyone in the world. Gussied up as she was, adorning the arm of this Armand fellow, she might have very well been a stranger to him, but his rage recognized her. Yes, his anger knew her. Surprise, surprise, Mi Amor, he thought as her eyes fell upon him—and her complexion went pale. Perhaps you should have checked your guest list more closely. “Alejandro!” Elena cried, a rush of heat rising to her face and returning color to her cheeks. A torrent of cruel satisfaction took hold as Alejandro slowly nodded, images of wrongdoers he had confronted in the past rifling through his mind. Each had worn the same startled look that his wife now offered, as if they thought they could do anything at all and never be made to answer for their actions. I am justice on two legs, he thought thickly, the wine numbing his reasoning. And you can bet that you will answer for this. Alejandro’s mouth contorted grotesquely as he snorted, “Elena.” Armand wrapped a protective arm around Elena’s waist and drew her near. He raised his chin imperiously, not taking his gaze off Alejandro. Evenly, he asked, “Elena?” “Armand . . .’’ stammered Elena. “De la Vega.” Armand acknowledged his new acquaintance with a small arrogant nod. A barely perceptible, but clearly weary sigh accompanied his pronouncement. He nodded to his servant, who rushed in and ushered those who had been waiting to greet the happy couple to a table filled with many illustrious guests. Alejandro nodded sharply. “Count.” “You know each other?” blurted Elena as she tried to stop her hands from shaking.

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Armand smiled congenially as he offered his hand to de la Vega. “We shared a giggle at the buffet table.” “Seems that’s not all we’ve shared,” Alejandro said bluntly, ignoring Armand’s hand. Armand’s spine stiffened and he drew back his hand the way one might when faced with a suddenly snapping dog: respectfully, though without displaying a trace of fear. “Allow me to diffuse an awkward situation—Elena’s portrayed you as a man of impeccable character.” “I’m honored to be mentioned at all,” Alejandro growled. “Why, I nearly forgot we were still married only three months ago.” Elena’s eyes narrowed with contempt and Armand lightly chuckled, as if to signal that he would certainly be willing to make certain allowances for the awkwardness of the situation—and for Alejandro’s somewhat inebriated state—but that his patience would have limits that were best not tested. In response, Alejandro delivered a wolf-like grin, tensing as he might an instant before launching into battle. Suddenly, Fray Felipe burst from the crowd. Clamping both hands on Alejandro’s arms, the padre roughly dragged his friend back with unexpected strength. This time, it was Alejandro’s turn to chuckle. “A blessing on your vineyard, Count,” declared Felipe, “thanks so much for having us—” “Don’t be rude, Felipe,” said Alejandro, expertly twisting out of the padre’s grasp as an escape artist might from the stifling confines of a straightjacket. He wobbled, then planted his feet firmly. “I’m just dying to know how the lovebirds met.” Alejandro saw Elena’s gaze nervously flicker to a balcony above, where a pair of dark-suited men—one slight in build, the other a bit broad—glanced their way, then faded into the crowd. Always worried about appearances, eh, darling? Nice to know some things never change.

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Elena placed her hand on Armand’s arm and attempted to urge him ahead. “Another time, we have many guests to greet.” The crowd was suddenly alive with a chorus of murmurs and excited whispering. Alejandro craned his head over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow as a man he—no, Zorro— had met on election day swept toward his host. Governor Bennett Riley beamed at Armand and Elena, his beautiful wife beside him, a silver-haired Southern colonel in fulldress uniform preening at his back. Alejandro allowed Felipe to ease him off to one side, but he refused to go much further. “Ah, Governor Riley, you honor me with your presence,” Armand said with a slight bow. Governor Riley returned the gesture and swept out his hand in a proud flourish. “May I present my wife, Mary.” “Your speech was incredibly moving, Count,” stated Mary as she cooled herself with an expensive French fan purchased just for this event. She was a smiling, rosy-cheeked grande dame who had been the belle of many a ball. “I’m glad you’re not running for office against my husband.” Armand laughed good-naturedly at her flattery. “I wouldn’t dare challenge the man who’s going to lead California into the Union.” “I fear there may not be much of a union left to join, Governor,” grumbled the southern colonel sweeping up beside the governor as he ruefully stroked his neatly trimmed Van Dyke. “Everyone,” announced Armand with a gentle smile, “may I introduce Colonel R.S. Beauregard, of the First Georgia Infantry.” “What brings you here, Colonel?” asked Elena, who fidgeted with her own fan as she kept a baleful eye on the stewing—and stewed—Alejandro. Don’t everyone rush to introduce me at once, he thought darkly. Alejandro saw the governor take notice of him out of

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the corner of his eye, his brow crinkling in confusion over why this Spanish don was being excluded from the conversation. Still, it was the host’s place to address such matters and Armand was in no hurry to do so. “Why am I here?” spat Colonel Beauregard. “The threat of Civil War, my dear, of course. Once California joins the Union, the Confederate States will be outnumbered. My countrymen find that troubling.” Alejandro cleared his throat—catching the colonel’s eye. His scowl was enough to let the man know that he didn’t appreciate the condescending way the man had spoken to Elena. That woman knows more about politics than anyone I know. If anyone’s going to be disrespectful to her tonight, it will be me! Elena rolled her eyes and rubbed her temple, unable to ignore the unspoken war of words between Alejandro and the colonel. He was always doing this . . . “I was just assuring the colonel here that we’re committed to peace,” explained Governor Riley, picking up on the growing tension and attempting to steer the conversation to a less volatile subject. He smiled at the colonel. “In fact, I invite you to be my guest at our statehood ceremony next week.” A woman’s startled cry sprang up from a clutch of elegantly attired partygoers standing to one side of the governor—and what happened next unfolded very quickly. A young, dark-haired swarthy-skinned servant—a droopyeyed boy who appeared only a handful of years older than Joaquin—deftly picked his way around the outer perimeter of the gossipy group, a tray of wine glasses expertly balanced on his palm. A tall, thin, blond-haired man wearing spectacles leaped back without warning, his shoulder smashing into the servant’s arm. A glass of wine the young man was about to offer to Colonel Beauregard was flung from his grasp, its sparkling crimson contents splattering all over the front of the colonel’s pristine uniform.

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Beauregard bellowed in rage, oblivious to the tiny little lizard that scurried about his boots, the very creature that sparked the accident and caused the uproar next to him. “Señor, I beg your apology . . .’’ stammered the fearful servant as he set down his tray with its remaining unspilled drinks. Advancing anxiously with a white towel, the servant frantically swept it toward the growing stain on the colonel’s jacket. His eyes seething, the military man snatched the towel from the servant’s hand and scrubbed the stain himself. Smiling desperately, fear rising off him in waves, the servant whirled and faced Armand. His imploring gaze sought out that of the count—and Armand delivered a quick reassuring smile and a wave indicating he should go about his business. Trembling with gratitude, the young man swiped up his tray and was about to steal off into the crowd when the very people who had caused his mishap waved him over. “We don’t have this sort of problem with our help down in Atlanta,” Colonel Beauregard said with chilling deliberateness, a frightening weight falling on each of his words. Alejandro hated to admit it, but he had been impressed with Armand’s handling of the situation. His eyes narrowed, however, as he faced the southerner. “And why’s that, Colonel?” “Well, sir,” the colonel said savagely, “we own ’em.” Silence fell upon the small ring of people within earshot of the colonel’s nasty little remark. Beauregard beamed smugly, happy that his true feelings were out in the open. The young servant, still within arm’s reach of Armand and his special guests, glanced darkly at Alejandro. The angry don held Beauregard’s gaze and extended a beseeching hand toward the servant. “When you say such things, Colonel, perhaps you should have the courage to look this man in the eye—once California’s a state, he’ll be paying you the same courtesy.” Colonel Beauregard did not blink. “Indeed. ’Til then, however, he’s just the help.”

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A great withering sigh of frustration left Armand. “Colonel, I ask that while you’re in my home, you respect my staff,” demanded Armand, a shocking iron-like will tempering his steady tone. His hand eased in the direction of Alejandro and the servant. “. . . and my guests.” The colonel’s face grew rigid. “Naturally.” His eyes blazed murderously as he glared at Alejandro—then stormed off to another part of the courtyard where the crowd quickly swallowed him up. The governor shrugged. “There’s always one, isn’t there?” A gentle rain of laughter diffused the pulsing tension that had gripped all of them. Alejandro received his overdue introduction to the governor and his lovely wife, and played the part of a gracious guest to a tee, though Felipe continued his attempts to engineer a dignified exit for them both. Alejandro deftly sidestepped all his maneuvers. After a momentary respite, the band struck up a familiar favorite, and laughing couples sprang forward for a cotillion. The governor was in the midst of a genteel ramble about his plans for the statehood celebration when Elena flashed a joyous smile at her companion, playfully seizing Armand’s hand. “Governor, forgive me but . . .” She leaned close to Armand. “Darling, you know how boring I find politics,” Elena murmured invitingly, her hand delicately gliding over Armand’s shoulder, her sensuously parting lips brushing his ear with fiery promise. “Let’s dance.” Alejandro blanched. Not interested in politics? This is muy loco. When you were with me, I couldn’t get you to shut up about it for five minutes! Armand’s dark eyes glinted with pleasure. He could refuse Elena nothing. His hand skimming the white flower she had given him, the token of her undying affection . . . the greatest insult of them all. He murmured, “Excuse us, my friends.”

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The breathtakingly beautiful couple withdrew, expertly navigating the treacherous reaches of a cloying crowd, one socialite after another attempting to draw near and engage them as if proximity might allow one to steal a bit of their starlight, glamour and allure. Alejandro guzzled more wine and reeled unsteadily on his feet. Fray Felipe waved a disparaging hand at his friend. “Perhaps you shouldn’t drink so much on an empty stomach.” Alejandro belched and sneered. “Perhaps you should wear lipstick if you want to act like my mother.” Grinning lopsidedly, Alejandro thought, And it’s not the worse thing in the world for a boy to dance with his mother, now is it? Alejandro’s hands shot out, seizing Felipe’s frock. He lugged his reluctant confidante to the makeshift “dance floor.” “Alejandro, wait!” cried Felipe, unsuccessfully attempting to dig in his own heels. Ahead, all the partners faced each other in two thrumming columns of anticipation. As the music surged, Elena swept into Armand’s arms, her smile radiant. “Say the word and I’ll escort you home,” offered Armand. Elena was stunned. “And leave your guests?” “In a heartbeat,” Armand murmured seductively into her ear. “I care for you too much to subject you to an evening of forced smiles, Elena.” Despite it all, her heart melted at that. She recovered and smiled appreciatively. The couples spun and Elena shifted to her next partner in line, gasping as she found herself staring up into the slightly muzzy face of her angry ex-husband. With pitiless hands, he jerked her close. “Won’t your boyfriend be jealous?” Elena turned her face from the sting of drink filtering from Alejandro’s flaring nostrils to see Armand thrashing

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about in the grasp of a blissfully oblivious woman whose pudgy arms had him pinned to her ample bosom. “I didn’t want you to find out like this,” explained Elena as she and Alejandro twirled in perfect rhythm, despite his inebriation. Alejandro’s lips quirked knowingly. “Ah, so that’s why you refused to see me these last few months, you were sparing my feelings—” “You’re drunk!” cried Elena, her features contorting in disgust as a full blast of his breath assailed her. She tried to pull away but his powerful arms held her fast—a part of her liked the rough feel of it. “You’re the one not acting like yourself,” Alejandro retorted petulantly, slurring his words slightly. “Since when do politics bore you?” Elena tensed. Even in his stupor, Alejandro had cut to the quick of it and might soon stumble onto the truth. She had been right to avoid him these long months. Raising an eyebrow, she laughed haughtily at her ex-husband’s childish behavior. “Since when did you start caring what I think?” Like musical chairs, the dancers shifted partners again, Elena elegantly drifting into Armand’s arms. “If you wish, I’ll have him escorted out,” Armand offered as he pressed close to her, breathing in the tantalizing array of scents from her perfume, soap, and hair oil: jasmine, cinnamon, a blend of Oriental spices. The flower he wore drooped and wilted, having been crushed by the meaty hands of that boorish big-chested lady. Batting her long black eyelashes at Armand, Elena demurely breathed, “I can handle him.” Alejandro and Felipe danced side-by-side, facing their respective partners. “For the love of God, let’s get out of this place!” begged Fray Felipe. His sandaled feet had been stepped on so many times that they screamed for release from a torment which could have been the work of Satan himself.

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Alejandro grinned cruelly. He simply would not hear of it. “I can handle her.” The line of dancers surged again, Elena flowing toward Alejandro. “You must tell me how you met,” said Alejandro in a bright mockery of cordiality, his hands gripping her roughly. Refusing to be baited, Elena said simply, “Years ago, in Spain. We went to finishing school together.” “How nice,” remarked Alejandro as he swept her along, pleasantly surprised that all the wine he’d “tasted” hadn’t generously provided him with two left feet to trip over. “You were reunited, so he could . . . finish.” Elena’s back stiffened. A warning darted from her pursed lips. “Don’t force me to embarrass you.” “Sorry, too late.” Anger flashed in her eyes—and was quickly replaced by intrigue, a hint of amusement, and hint of raw animal pleasure. He recognized her rhythms and understood that they were sparring, using words as weapons. A cue was given and the couples switched again, Alejandro and Armand now finding themselves side-by-side. Alejandro arched one eyebrow. “Tell me, Count, where does your title rank among noblemen? Is it higher than, say, a duke?” “It’s rather common, actually,” said Armand bitingly, “much like a don.” Touché, thought Alejandro, honestly appreciating the man’s perceptiveness. The count had already tipped to the nature and the rules of this particular game, and appeared well equipped to play. Flowing with the music, both men changed partners once more, Alejandro gliding into Elena’s arms. “He’s a delight,” observed Alejandro. “Rich, good looking—and royalty.” Elena faked a broad yawn, then did a double take, as if only now realizing that the foolish lump before her hadn’t

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yet departed. She shrugged, doing her best to seem bored with this little game. “Is there anything I can say that would make you leave?” Face twitching, Alejandro offered, “You could fall to your knees and beg me to take you back.” Tossing her head with a bold silvery laugh, Elena grinned and protested, “I wouldn’t want to ruin my dress.” Now it was his turn to deftly evade her riposte—and deliver one of his own. “It’s just as well, I’m enjoying single life.” “Is that supposed to make me jealous?” asked Elena sharply. Alejandro slyly raised one eyebrow. “Does it?” Her face reddened as if it did. “Never.” “Good, so tell me—who’s been looking after Joaquin while his mother spends her nights out?” Alejandro asked hotly. “I don’t spend my nights out,” she shrieked. Shuddering, she composed herself. “And I haven’t told Joaquin. Now I think you should go.” She sailed from him, but the music crested and his grip was like iron. He spun her back, crushing her against his hot flesh, cruelty dancing in his eyes. “I finally understand why you left me, Elena,” he hissed. Elena wrenched at his hand but could not free herself. “Let go!” Sneering, Alejandro breathed, “It was beneath you to marry a peasant like me in the first place.” Her gaze narrowed. “Now I know you’re drunk.” Laughing, Alejandro chided, “Your step-father would be so proud to see you take your rightful place—” “Keep your voice down!” hissed Elena in warning. “On the arm of royalty. Well congratulations, your highness—” A violent thundercrack split Alejandro’s skull as his cheek throbbed with pain. The don stumbled back, his hand

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protectively covering the beet-red flesh where Elena had slapped him. Hard. Silence fell on the courtyard. The music—and every tittering strain of conversation—had ceased. All heads had turned to the warring couple, scores of darkly excited predatory gazes arrowing in on them. Alejandro could have cared less. He felt no shame, no embarrassment. Let them look. Let them all look. Let them see the true face of betrayal, let them see the unrepentant, selfrighteous fury of the woman who had ripped out his heart. Let her be judged in all her two-timing glory! Trembling, Elena stared at Alejandro for what seemed like an eternity. Then her venomous glare softened as her voice filled with pain. “If you don’t know me better than that . . . then you never knew me at all.” Alejandro stepped back, the blood draining from his face. He’d been in more fights than anyone he knew, suffered every near-deadly wound in the world, but nothing had prepared him for the sheer agony that flayed his every nerve in that moment. Regret pulsed within him, his heart turned to ash. The weight of understanding tumbled down on him, crushing him as he was pounded by waves of savage realization. It was over between them. Truly over. Armand mercifully gestured to the orchestra leader— and the music swelled once more, the sounds signaling the onlookers to speak among themselves once more, though many continued to cast their cruel curious gazes toward the heart-broken man and the exotic beauty who had once been his. Alejandro stiffly bowed to his host. “Thank you for your hospitality, Count,” said Alejandro, his voice a lifeless monotone. For a heart-rending moment, Alejandro turned to Elena and gazed at the love of his life, a dull empty ache gnawing

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at his soul as he wished with all his heart that he might take back his foolish, reckless words. His mute appeal might as well have been delivered to a grand portrait hanging in an art gallery. She gazed at him without emotion, her eyes dark impenetrable mirrors, her soul walled up protectively. Ignoring the stares of the well-dressed spectators, shrugging off the comforting hand of his well-meaning friend Felipe, Alejandro seized a bottle of tequila and stalked from the party into the empty arms of the night. Alejandro stared at the moon, but not because he particularly cared for its beauty. His head just happened to be tilted as far back as it would go, the long neck of his bottle reaching for his open, straining mouth, a fountain of bliss spilling out and stinging his waggling tongue. The strength left Alejandro’s hand and the bottle tumbled to the soft earth of the lush countryside, spilling its remaining contents as it rolled away. A glorious warm silence filled Alejandro as he leaned against a crumbling wall, Tornado leaning just as heavily beneath him. Both were blotto, the tequila boiling their blood, their brains, leaving them practically insensate, two more bits of harmless scenery upon the breathlessly serene landscape. Tornado lapped at the tequila as it flowed down the hill in bubbling rivulets toward a heavy forest. “Hey, cut it out, you had enough,” demanded Alejandro as he stumbled close to the stallion in a drunken wobble. Draping one arm over the horse’s neck for support, Alejandro asked, “Tell me something, amigo. Horse to man . . . have you ever felt the cold stab of love’s betrayal?” Tornado’s sturdy frame rocked as he expelled a loud wrenching belch. “ ‘Count’ Armand, with his fancy wine and that frou-frou accent!” said Alejandro dazedly. “How could Elena choose a man like that eh?! I’ll make her want me back so badly she’ll be weeping with desire! Nobody leaves my tequila worm dangling in the wind!”

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Losing his balance, he tumbled from the saddle. Chuffing, Tornado rode off, disappearing around a corner. “Oye!” cried Alejandro. “Aren’t you forgetting something? Estupido!” Annoyed and frustrated, Alejandro yanked a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his muddy face. A surprising gust of wind rose up suddenly, ripping the cloth from his fingers. He turned— And the sun came out at midnight. A silent, blinding flash of white light swept through the forest. Staggering back, Alejandro raised his hand to cover his eyes as the light rocketed over him, a startling explosive blast tearing at his eardrums while an invisible hand drove him from his feet. Branches snapped like bones and a shocking whoosh sounded in the night as Alejandro was tossed high into the air. His back smashed against a heavy stump, his limbs flailed as he gasped for breath and rolled a dozen yards, broiling waves of heat scorching the air above. A brooding, unearthly silence came next, a veil slowly lifted by the low crackle of flames and the trembling pops of thin skeletal branches that sounded like kindling in a fireplace, though they hung overhead. A choking stench filled Alejandro’s mouth and nose even as breath returned to him. Coughing, he waved his hands against the low billows of smoke and—what? Brimstone? Peeling himself off the ground, Alejandro stumbled toward the trees. He traced the path of the blast, tensing as he observed a perimeter of fire ringing a lifeless crater in the forest’s heart. He knew of no force on earth that could pound so deep and so great a hole into the ground, except perhaps a comet fallen from the sky. He suddenly felt very sober. A voice as strange and disturbing as a crush of angry moths hissed, “El Fuego del diablo . . .” Alejandro felt a prickling sensation steal up his spine as he swung around to face a gaunt peasant shuffling toward

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him. The ramshackle man’s breathing was quick and shallow, his clothing scorched. His rheumy eyes were wide and alive with the crackling flames bathing the woods. “What are you talking about?” asked Alejandro, steadying the uneasily swaying man. “It comes at night,” whispered the frightened peasant, his cheekbones pressing unhealthily against skin blanched white by fear. “Always at night. Always a different place.” His features cracking with panic, the peasant pulled loose from Alejandro and stumbled back, casting his gaze high at the endless abyss of the night sky. “The devil is in these woods, señor!” With an unexpected burst, the peasant raced from the clearing, leaving Alejandro standing alone in the blazing ring of fire. In the name of all that’s holy—what could have caused this? Billowing clouds of smoke parted over a ridge of trees, revealing the festively lit reaches of Armand’s hacienda. His face darkening with suspicion, Alejandro thought of the count, the man who had won Elena’s heart—and might one day look upon Joaquin as his own. Armand, if you have anything to do with this, it will not go well for you. This I vow.

Chapter 7

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he afternoon sun glared in Elena’s eyes as the carriage she shared with Armand swept through the city. Shielding her eyes, she looked away from its fiery golden rays toward her handsome companion. Refracted shards of light glinted off a ring gracing Armand’s left hand, the sparkling illumination tracing the unsettling image of an engraved serpent coiled tightly around the globe. “What an unusual ring,” observed Elena curiously, “I hadn’t noticed it before . . .” Armand shrugged evasively. “My family’s coat of arms.” He ventured no further observations or confidences about the ring as their carriage shuddered to a rolling stop, yet his tone—and the faraway look now residing in his dark eyes— told her she had hit a nerve. How odd. He couldn’t be upset because she had noticed the ring. Why wear it if not to invite comment? Perhaps family had once again become a touchy subject for him. When they were friends together at finishing school, he often told her of battles that had flared between him and his father. Though the issues that had sparked conflict often seemed inconsequential to her—such as his insistence on wearing a popular hairstyle his father thought was unbecoming to a gentleman—they left Armand vexed for weeks at a time.

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Once the carriage had come to a full halt Armand sprang out with a gleeful grin, and held open the door as the noisy bustling marketplace beckoned beyond him. Elena graciously accepted his warm hand, smiling as she purred, “Thank you, darling. What a perfect day for a walk.” In the marketplace, vendors hawked their wares in a good-natured plea to separate all comers from their hardearned pesetas, the universal language of haggling raising a chorus that nearly drowned out the lovely sounds of street musicians. Of course, money was not an issue for her or her companion. Elena often purchased items she didn’t need simply to help struggling merchants; charities received those wares as donations afterwards. These were proud people, and she knew that many would not accept help unless extended through gentle subterfuge. The tang of garlic soup pleasantly assailed her nose, while the calls of competing chefs—each with their own particular recipes for paella, a saffron-flavored rice dish— rung in her ears. Food was everywhere. Elena’s eyes crinkled mirthfully as Armand fought back the urge to wrinkle his nose at the aroma of strong spices clashing with the scent of overwhelming sweets. One moment they were easing past the sweet almond dough of mantecados and caramel custards called flans; the next, they were sweeping past flaming jalapenos crackling over sausage and onions. Ducks quacked and pigeons cooed, the fluttering of wings often seen rising over the smoke of fish frying in olive oil. Wooden heels clacked on the cobble walkways as a merchant expertly manipulated a pair of puppets, one a bandit, the other a silly version of El Zorro himself. Children flocked around to see if their hero would catch the bad man. Elena studied her companion’s face and sighed, convinced that something was troubling him. She shot Armand a single raised eyebrow to signal that there would be no true peace between them unless he relented.

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And so he did. “Elena, forgive me, but I must ask—your ex-husband seems a decent man. Why did you leave him?” Elena drew a sharp breath. What could she say? “Sometimes we see the ones we love as we wish them to be . . . but not always as they are.” Nodding, Armand walked with her, considering her words. They came to a homeless peasant sitting under an archway, her empty sombrero perched beside her. She was a beggar. Her white hair was matted and straggly, her wool blanket worm-eaten. Black pustules dotted her jowly face. Her gaze fixed on a far wall, seemed a gateway to a place of utter loneliness, desolation and despair. Armand fished a coin from his pocket and tossed it into her hat. The woman tensed at the sound of the coin landing. She looked up in surprise, her eyes suddenly moist with joy. “God bless you, señor,” “That was kind of you,” said Elena as they walked on. He laughed softly. “I was trying to impress you.” Her face flushed and she smiled invitingly. “If you really want to impress me, have me over for dinner tonight. Cook me something . . . sinful.” Armand swallowed. “Why not dine at your hacienda? I’d really like to meet your son.” Elena looked away and hugged herself. “Please try and understand, darling. He’s not ready for another man in his life just yet.” Without warning, a man sprang up from behind a cart to Elena’s right. His head bounded into her view, his blazing eyes locked in an angry squint. Alejandro. Despite herself, Elena gasped in surprise. “What is it?” asked Armand. He whirled in the direction Elena had been looking—but Alejandro had already ducked behind the cart so as not to be seen. Elena’s frantic gaze raked over the wares at the closest

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stand. Her hand whipped out, seizing a flowery silken eyesore. “Uh—this hat,” said Elena, forcing a smile as she attempted to explain away her outburst. “Is breathtaking.” Armand was intrigued. “Shall I purchase it for you?” Elena flung the hat back to its seller. “On second thought, who needs another hat? But I could use . . .” Desperately scanning the area, she fixed on a tobacconist’s cart. A burly man leaned beside it, lighting a foulsmelling pipe. “A pipe,” she said brightly. Armand loosed a raspy chuckle. “A pipe?” Elena nodded sharply. “A pipe! Yes, like my father used to smoke.” She shrugged. “Tell me I haven’t repulsed you with my un-ladylike habit.” “On the contrary, you fascinate me.” Pointing, Elena said, “Look, there’s a vendor.” Armand nodded gentlemanly. “Wait here, won’t you?” Kissing her hand, Armand sauntered to the tobacconist’s cart as Alejandro burst from cover and bolted to Elena’s side. “What are you doing here?” snapped Elena. Alejandro growled, “Since when did you start smoking a pipe?” “I don’t smoke a pipe!” Elena cried. How could Alejandro be so thickheaded? “I said that to get rid of him so I can get rid of you!” “I have to talk to you about last night—” Alejandro began. Elena raised a hand to cut him off. “I forgive you. Goodbye.” Alejandro winced. “Not that, after. I saw something, in the forest . . .” “What are you talking about?” demanded Elena. “Yes, what are you talking about?” asked a familiar voice. They wheeled about in surprise. Armand stood before them, the package containing Elena’s gift tucked under his arm, a droll look of bemusement caressing his near perfect features.

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“An explosion,” Alejandro admitted sourly. “Close to your chateau, in fact. Like nothing I’ve ever seen.” An explosion near the chateau? Elena wanted to know more, but she could say nothing. Instead, she turned to Armand just in time to see his jaw tighten, the muscles in his face twitch—and his features soften in a blink. The reaction came and went so quickly that she might have thought she imagined seeing it at all, but her instincts told her it was possible he knew something about this. It was equally possible, she reflected, that he believed Alejandro was making this nasty business up in a bid to keep her away from Armand’s home. “I simply wanted to make sure you were both safe,” explained Alejandro. Armand regarded Alejandro with a long appraising look. “As much as you had to drink last night, I’m sure your vision was impaired.” Alejandro’s spine stiffened. “Yet somehow it’s all becoming clear.” “A word of advice, de la Vega,” parried Armand, his lips growing wide in a savage grin, “if you have any respect for the relationship you shared with Elena, let it die with dignity.” Raising a single eyebrow, Alejandro ventured, “I’d have to know I’m losing to a better man.” Armand stared at Alejandro as if he were a cockroach to be crushed underfoot. “Oh, I can assure you of that.” Elena rolled her eyes. “Alright, that’s enough. Alejandro, time to go.” Caressing the edge of Elena’s face, Armand whispered reassuringly, “Elena, please, Alejandro’s come here for peace of mind. I’m obliged to give it to him.” There was an ugly note in Armand’s voice as he turned to Alejandro and said, “Perhaps we can settle this like gentlemen. You do know how to play polo, I take it?” Alejandro drew a sharp breath. He had clearly been

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taken off guard and knew nothing of the game. “Doesn’t everyone?” Slyly, Armand added, “I suggest we play as they do in Slovenia.” “A fine city,” Alejandro agreed. “Country,” corrected Armand, his voice choked with disdain. Alejandro delivered a slight mocking bow. “Naturally.” Elena willed herself to be a statue. Unmoved, above it all, uncaring about the childish displays of machismo driven forth from both men. She didn’t want to feel a thrill over the idea of these men fighting over her. Yet she smiled in a way that no statue ever could. Sunlight sparked against the tall wooden goalposts which stood like sentinels at either side of the emerald grassy clearing, while thickly leafed oak trees formed a copse behind the field, protecting what transpired there from prying eyes. Only six people were present for the impromptu polo match set against the rich blue of the afternoon sky: Armand and Alejandro, who faced each other on opposite sides of the field; the faithful Ferroq who stood tensely to one side as he gripped the reins of his master’s mount; an umpire wearing a black-and-white-striped topshirt who paced worried; Elena, the lone spectator in the otherwise empty rows of chairs; and the young man serving as her attendant. It had rained earlier, but now a cool refreshing breeze wafted over the field as the “game of kings” commenced. Elena breathlessly whipped her binoculars up before her eyes as the umpire whistled then bowled a ball onto the polo field. All right, my champions. Since you are both so determined, why don’t you show me exactly what you’re made of? Heavy rhythmic thunder rose through the soles of Elena’s feet, striking up from the quaking earth as the riders charged across the field like medieval knights jousting to win their lady’s favor. Or so it first appeared. Elena studied Alejandro’s

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face, his features twisted in blind rage, then Armand’s, set in undisguised loathing. As they each raised their mallets and prepared to get to the ball first, understanding seized Elena. Knights? They are hardly that. More like angry bulls using my affection as an excuse to do to each other whatever harm they can—and still consider themselves civilized. “May I bring you something to drink, miss?” asked the young attendant, his upper lip twitching as he tried to draw attention to what he imagined was a manly moustache but was in fact only a bit of light fuzz. “A mint tea, perhaps?” Elena’s face was hard as marble. “Double vodka, straight up.” On the field, Alejandro spurred Tornado on and howled triumphantly as he seized control of the ball from Armand. Galloping astride the sleekly muscled stallion, the rushing wind bracing his grinning face like a refreshing kiss, Alejandro decided that this game wasn’t so difficult after all. Whack the little ball between the sticks while riding your best “horsey.” Child’s play. Armand’s horse closed on him in an angry blur, the count’s mallet swinging far too high to reach the ball. Alejandro’s forehead knotted in confusion. What was the count playing at? He— A giant fist drove itself into Alejandro’s exposed stomach, sending him flying back from the saddle in a startled heap. A surge of agony tore through him, mixing with his shock as he fell hard on his tailbone and tumbled end over end, his momentum ensuring as undignified a landing as possible. The world spun as he heard a sharp crack at the other side of the field. Rolling onto his side, his ribs aching, Alejandro watched helplessly as Armand sent the ball between the goalposts. The umpire whistled, handing a point to the count. Alejandro rose to a trembling crouch, sensing that the greatest injury had been to his pride. He tried to make sense

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of what had happened. The count had struck him in the gut with his mallet. Surely it had been an accident. Still . . . He glanced at Elena, who was on her feet, staring at him with concern—or was it scorn? Tornado returned, blocking Alejandro’s view of the beauty to whom he’d given his heart. The confused stallion greeted him with a sharp shake of his head. Grabbing the horse’s reins, Alejandro hauled himself to his feet. Yes, my friend, I would like to know what is going on as well . . . The sound of hooves pounding the grass reverberated at his back and he turned to face the approaching count. Trotting over to Alejandro, Armand peered down at him haughtily. “Perhaps a game of croquet would be less hazardous to your health?” With a knowing wink, Armand chuckled and thundered off, his mount kicking up small tufts of dirt that smacked against Alejandro’s boots. Alejandro’s eyes smoldered as he climbed back on Tornado. At the edge of the field, Elena slugged back her vodka. The drink set her insides on fire, but her nerves remained frayed. Armand must have struck Alejandro by accident. She thought of her days at school with Armand. He always had a temper, that was true, but he’d never harmed anyone—so far as she knew. Though there had been the incident with Clancy Dubois, a rumor springing up that Armand had surprised and beaten him, despite Clancy’s fevered claims otherwise . . . A sudden low rumble of hooves snapped her out of her reverie. Elena set down her empty glass as the horsemen heaved toward each other across the field. She gasped as Armand tilted his mallet; he meant to repeat his earlier performance, whether that attempt to injure Alejandro had been an accident or not. Alejandro was ready for him. Angling back at the last moment, he evaded the count’s powerful strike and launched

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his own mallet into Armand’s belly. With a startled exhalation of breath, Armand skidded back off his saddle, landing legs splayed in a splashing puddle of mud. Alejandro rode hard, drove the ball to his own goal and scored easily, then trotted back around to regard the filth-stained count with a nasty smile. “Did you drop something, or are you just resting?” asked Alejandro triumphantly. Alejandro rode off high in the saddle, a pruning peacock. Ferroq raced to his master’s side, cleaning him off as best the count would allow before helping the impatient Armand back onto his horse. Elena focused her binoculars and watched in horror as the servant lifted the mallet and snapped off the base with his ferociously powerful hands, cleaving it into a lethal point. He handed it to Armand, who surveyed the weapon and smiled cruelly. Dropping her binoculars, Elena raced across the field, closing on Alejandro as he returned to his starting position. “I think I like this,” reflected Alejandro with a satisfied grin. “To the winner the spoils, eh?” Elena did not share his good mood. She made a show of running one hand through her hair and gesturing wildly with it. “Promise me when you lose, you’ll leave us alone—” He interrupted her with a laugh, his gaze lighting upon the graceful arcs her hand made as she angrily sliced the air with it. The woman might as well have been holding a sword. Magnificent! “What makes you think I’ll lose?” “Woman’s intuition,” Elena said steadily. She had paid close attention when he performed his magic tricks and had learned that misdirection was everything. She held his attention with her furious gaze and the flamboyant movements of one hand—while her other hand steadily and silently loosened his saddle buckle. Alejandro’s smiling face was radiant with confidence as he spurred the great stallion ahead and charged off. Tor-

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nado’s head whipped back suspiciously and Elena’s finger flew to her lips to shush him. With a blustery snort, the stallion turned away, his gallop unbroken. Elena crossed the field and returned to her seat, whispering a low prayer as the game began. The powerful horses whipped by in a blur, sweat flying from their great bodies, muscles tensing, pistoning, their flashing hooves striking gouts of earth into the air. Armand whirled the mallet around, aiming the jagged deadly stake that had been its handle out like a spear. Alejandro overconfidently closed on his opponent, as if daring him to attempt his little trick a third time. The point sought Alejandro’s belly—and would have struck home, had the Spanish horseman’s saddle not snapped free with a sudden angry whipcrack, launching him from his stirrups, sending him beyond the spearpoint’s reach. Alejandro careened wildly like a blinded bird as he struck the ground. Settling in a startled heap, he looked up to see Armand gallop ahead and drive the ball home for a final goal. A whistle rent the air and the count claimed his win, Ferroq shouting wildly, Elena excitedly applauding. Very well, Armand. You may take the glory this time. But just wait until we play a game I actually know . . . Tornado wheeled back to the fallen rider. Alejandro’s limbs were stiff as he stood, his hands closing on the stallion’s saddle. Elena, he thought bitterly, examining her handiwork. No one else had come close enough to loosen the buckle. His face flushed scarlet and the veins in his neck stood out in livid ridges. Armand triumphantly trotted to him, nodding in Elena’s direction. “To the victor go the spoils.” Alejandro heard the soft crush of grass to his side as the stony-faced Elena approached. Armand laughed and rode off, his hand sweeping the air magnanimously—as if the audience Alejandro was about to share with his ex-wife was a gift from the count.

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“Now keep your promise and go,” ordered Elena. He snorted. “You cheated, so I take it back.” Elena shoved past him, spasms of irritation crossing her face. “Goodbye, Alejandro.” He grabbed her arm. She squirmed and flailed, then looked about wildly and seized on the watchful gazes of both Armand and Ferroq. Rolling her eyes, she rocked back and forth, drawing in a deep breath and exhaling before signaling them that all was well. Through it all, Alejandro did not let go. “What do you really know about this man, eh?” Elena’s eyes blazed. “I know that in all the time we were apart, a day hasn’t gone by where I wasn’t first in his thoughts!” In the distance, the loud clang of a church bell split the sky, the sign that Zorro was needed. Nothing had changed. “We were never meant to be together, Alejandro,” Elena said icily as she wrenched free of his softening grip. Alejandro looked back to her, his narrow gaze as piercing as a freshly sharpened sword. “You don’t love him. After ten years of marriage, you can’t hide the truth from me.” Their eyes locked. And though she tried to hide her feelings, Elena’s lie was like a powerful vise squeezing her heart. “Goodbye,” she whispered savagely. Alejandro was rooted to the spot as he watched her go to Armand, the count laughing and lightly caressing her hair, Elena smiling warmly, taking his arm . . . How could she be so blind? Or is that a question I should be asking myself? he wondered. Turning, he ran toward the tolling mission bell.

From “Zorro Versus the Scallywag” A Work in Progress

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El Zorro leaped back, his boot catching the crumbling edge of the high cliff as he narrowly avoided the razor-sharp edge of the Scallywag’s scimitar. His face burnt red and raw by the punishing yellow orb above, his leather pants and boots gleaming, his black-andwhite-striped shirt plastered to his wiry frame by his sweat, the Scallywag relentlessly advanced. The serum that had kept the Scallywag alive for two centuries was tucked behind Zorro’s waistband—and the Scallywag wanted it back. “Give me what is mine,” demanded the Scallywag, his scimitar slicing the air before Zorro’s face, the villain’s curly white hair and beard shimmering as boldly as his hatred. “Or my ship’s cannons will lay waste to your precious city!”

Chapter 8

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ray Felipe frowned as he stared down at the passage he had just written. Would a Scallywag have a fleet of ships to command? Hmmm . . . Resting his quill, Felipe gazed about his small cramped office, wondering if he might have to take another trip to the church archives to conduct further research for this tale. Amber light from the small lamp set on the corner of his cluttered desk washed over mounds of haphazardly stacked papers. His desk was such a model of disorder that no one in their right mind bothered to try and clean it, thus it was easy for him to hide the evidence of these tales in plain sight. An immortal scallywag to challenge the Fox, Felipe reflected. Not like the first stories I penned . . . Felipe preferred to recount Alejandro’s exploits as faithfully as possible, but his publisher assured him that these occasional forays into the fantastic would greatly increase sales of their dime novels. And so they had. But rather than venture into the realms of the mystical, Felipe added touches of scientific adventure instead. The royalties from these tales did much to feed the poor and provide shoes, books and medical care for people who might otherwise go without. On top of that, they were fun to write!

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Of course, Felipe had not begun chronicling Alejandro’s adventures to make money. It had started a year ago. One day, when Felipe saw that Joaquin was bored and just one step away from the temptation to commit mischief, the padre arrested his attention by telling him all about the Fox’s thrilling exploits. Felipe was confident he’d captivate Joaquin’s imagination because he had seen how the boy received any tidbit about Zorro with wide-eyed wonder—and he’d been correct. Joaquin was ravenous for more tales, and Felipe was able to draw on his personal knowledge of the Fox’s adventures making each story more robust than the last. The recounting of these stories was also a way to preserve Alejandro’s legacy for his son, in case anything happened to him during his many harrowing feats. Joaquin took to retelling the stories to his friends, and was doing so one day after school on the bustling streets of San Francisco when an enterprising fellow who had just come into an inheritance he was eager to invest had heard the boy. It wasn’t long before Bartholomew Arbuthnott—who had been something of a rogue, even a conman before fate conspired to make an honest man of him—had learned from Joaquin that the padre was the true source of the tales. Arbuthnott went to Felipe and regaled him with stories of the burgeoning “dime novel” industry, slim thrilling adventures that had sold hundreds of thousands of copies. He proposed reproducing the padre’s tales for profits that would very nicely fill the church’s coffers. How could Felipe possibly turn down such an offer? Gazing beyond his open office door, Felipe looked to the sad figure of Miguel de la Cruz bending behind a pew in the spacious chapel, praying for the lord’s forgiveness. Miguel had committed what he believed to be an unpardonable act of cowardice, for he had learned of a dire threat facing one of his most honored friends hours ago, and it had taken him this long to overcome his fear for his own safety to at last come forward.

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“You could have said nothing at all,” reassured Felipe. “You are here now. That’s what matters.” The man had been inconsolable, convinced that his delay would bring about tragedy. Inwardly, Felipe sensed the man might be correct. Having rung the mission bell five times, Felipe had retreated to his office, immersing himself in one of his tall tales to make his wait for Alejandro pass quickly. At last, the mission door creaked open and urgent footfalls rang out from within the church. Setting down his work, Felipe rushed into the church to greet his friend. “What is it?” demanded Alejandro, his mouth tightened into a stubborn line. Felipe gestured at the peasant. “De la Cruz is the bartender at the tavern down the street. He says he overheard Jacob McGivens gathering his men to see Cortez.” McGivens, thought Alejandro. Blood surged to his fists. He knew exactly why the scarred gunman had returned. While Felipe ushered the penitent barkeep out the door, Alejandro whirled and swept angrily toward the statue of Mother Mary. Her hard gaze arrested his flight. He stood trembling before her, reminded that the mask and the sword of Zorro should not be taken up in anger. Falling to one knee before the statue, Alejandro humbly lowered his gaze. “Holy Mother, absolve me of the sin I am about to commit on behalf of my people,” prayed Alejandro. An image of his son’s livid face burst before him. “And allow Joaquin the compassion to forgive a neglectful father.” Footsteps echoed as the padre returned. Placing a comforting hand on Alejandro’s shoulder, Felipe told Alejandro that it was safe now, no one remained to see what must happen next. Alejandro remained stock-still. “It pains me to see you torture yourself like this,” Felipe admitted. “The Lord’s mercy is infinite, you must know this.” “I’m supposed to pick up Joaquin,” Alejandro murmured. Felipe patted his friend’s shoulder. “I’ll get him,” Felipe

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assured him. “Don’t worry. I know he has problems at the academy, but when it comes to his studies for confirmation, he is more diligent than any boy I’ve seen. We will study together for a time, then I will take him home.” His confirmation . . . My son feels that he must be a man now because I am gone. Alejandro gazed up at the padre with eyes seared by guilt. “He’ll never forgive me.” “Then you must decide,” Felipe counseled him, “if Zorro doesn’t answer his call, can you forgive yourself?” Cortez was marked for death. Alejandro had no doubt of this. There really was no choice. Looking up at Mother Mary, Alejandro crossed himself in penitence, then moved to the back of the statue. He tapped a hidden panel in the wall there and a door opened, revealing a flight of stairs descending into a torchlit chamber. Felipe had readied the chamber for him. Alejandro bolted down the steps, the door swinging tightly shut behind him. The chamber sprawling before him had once been a wine cellar—wine serving as both a necessary part of the Roman Catholic mass and the table beverage of choice for the padres. Now a bigger space was used for storing wine. Alejandro swept past rows of empty wooden barrels and came to his second lair. Tearing off his topshirt, he pulled down his cape and costume from their pegs on the wall. From a nearby niche, Alejandro ripped open a wooden box bearing three black masks and grabbed the first that came to hand. Securing the mask in place, he felt Alejandro slipping away, and the legend taking hold. The gloves covered his hands—Zorro’s hands now. Whipping the cape over his shoulders, he sheathed his sharp sword and turned to Tornado, who had also been summoned by the church bells. “For the lives of our friends, our people,” he whispered, “Zorro rides again.”

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Leaping astride Tornado, Zorro spurred his trusty steed ahead. They thundered through a maze of catacombs, racing through vaulted archways until blinding sunlight burst at them as they charged hellbent-for-leather toward the desert. Joaquin perched on the broad front marble steps of the Alvarado Academy for Children, gnashing his teeth and attempting to make actual waves of heat—or at least fumes—rise from his flesh. He’d read about people who could do exactly that in dime novels and the thought of his father’s face when the man found his son literally blazing would serve him right. Of course, the writers of those stories also spoke of people whose eyes somehow detached from their heads and flew about moving people and objects, which Joaquin found both creepy and somewhat unlikely, so he wasn’t sure if the heat effect was actually possible or not. At the very least he could practice his gnashing, generating sounds that were certain to annoy Papi. Ricardo sprawled next to Joaquin, eyeing the ten-year-old strangely as low masticating sounds emanated from the upset youth. Ricardo made no comment about the odd noises. Joaquin was a hero among the inmates—students— of the academy, a freedom fighter of the highest regard. If he was going to develop eccentricities, so be it. A few other students passed them, whispering in reverent hushes, pointing with amazement, retelling the tale of Joaquin’s battle with Father Quintero in bold mythic broadstrokes. Joaquin hardly seemed interested. “He’ll come,” Ricardo assured his pal. “Your Papi’s a good guy, he’ll show up.” Footsteps echoed from down the street. Joaquin shot to his feet, his anger evaporating, immediately replaced by a forgiving burst of hope. Then he saw the figure on the approach. His heart sinking, Joaquin sighed, and slumped his head.

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He quickly tempered his feelings down to an angry simmering defeat as Felipe huffed and puffed through the front gates. Papi was not coming. For his part, Felipe would have preferred riding into battle alongside Alejandro instead of facing this. Then he thought of something his old teacher would say impatiently whenever Felipe began to feel sorry for himself: Get off the cross. We need the wood. Felipe trudged to the steps, nodding to Ricardo who scurried off. Sitting down beside Joaquin, he put one arm around the upset boy’s shoulders and whispered, “Have I ever told you the one about Zorro and the Chalice of Gold?” Joaquin frowned. He wasn’t some child who could be distracted from his hurt so easily. And yet . . . “Is that the one where Zorro fights ten men on the rigging of a pirate ship?” asked Joaquin, a distant light rising in his eyes. “Oh, no,” Felipe said, hugging the boy. “This one’s much better . . .” The vast cornfield was a sea of mustard yellow. Sunlight shimmered on the sparkling surface of the water within the wooden trough set out for the Cortez horses, while the clucking of chickens and the snorting of pigs rose from an adobe enclosure to the right of the couple’s barn. Blanca set the final skein of yarn that she had been dying onto the hand-cranked blocker and stepped away from the small tubes of brightly colored dyes sitting behind her family’s small clapboard farmhouse. The wind’s invisible fingers lightly rustled her lusterous hair and she was smiling with satisfaction at a job well done when a sound reached out from the house. Was the baby crying? She couldn’t tell. Blanca had been uneasy the first few times her beloved boy was out of her view, her worry constant that he would cram something bad into his mouth. Or that he would fall and hurt

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himself. Or that he would cry and she would not be able to still his tears . . . Pounding and clanking echoed within the barn where her husband was hard at work at his forge. She turned to gaze at him, her racing thoughts suddenly growing languorous as desire moved through her. His shirt clung to his rippling muscles as he hammered away to create the tools they sold to prospectors, red hot metal glowing against his hearth. Pausing to wipe his brow, he caught her inviting smile and nodded to her. Suddenly flush with desire, Blanca wondered if it might not be time for a little break. Her niño would be fine and she had another very big boy who needed her attention. Best to check on my littlest darling first . . . she thought. Grinning, she crossed the yard and threaded her way through the single-room ramshackle cabin that was their home. She considered returning to her husband with some cool fruits and sparkling wine . . . Then Blanca gazed down at the baby in the crib his father had made by hand. He was sleeping soundly, a tiny angel. She returned to the kitchen and hesitated, deciding against the mid-day snack. Better to finish her chores and to let her husband complete his work for the day before worrying about providing her son with a playmate . . . Outside, she wandered back to the yarns she had been dyeing, her gaze fixed on her husband in the barn—and almost shrieked. Jacob McGivens lunged at her, grinning a deathlike wooden grin. Cupping her mouth with his smelly, unwashed hand, the ugly scarred man thrust his Bowie knife against her throat. The cold steel teased her tender skin, sending sudden stabs of terror up her spine. “Hush now,” hissed McGivens. He hauled her to the earthen path before the barn, where seven of his men gathered around them. The heat soaked her quivering form as McGivens snick-

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ered to his posse. This is going to be a fine, fine show, now isn’t it? Blanca hated herself for fearing the gunman so much. Her heart thundered against his restraining arm, her body trembled like a newborn fawn. She wanted him to know that it was rage, not terror, that made her shake so violently, but visions of her son growing up an orphan—or worse, the idea that others of McGivens men might already have their boy— raced through her mind and fueled her anger. “Cortez!” McGivens roared, his lips near Blanca’s ear. She watched helplessly as Guillermo stiffened with alarm, threw down his hammer, and raced from the barn. “The deed,” said McGivens, smiling broadly, a look of rapture creeping across his face at the thought of slitting the woman’s throat. “If you please.” Guillermo hesitated, but only for an instant. He bolted into the house, the sounds of his frantic rummaging and cursing as he hauled the trunk from the foot of the bed bringing laughter and crude remarks from the equally crude men who made up McGivens’s posse. Then came a snarl of triumph, as Guillermo emerged from the house, deed in hand. “Bring it here,” McGivens said, smiling wickedly. “No!” Blanca said fiercely. Fear flickered in her eyes as she felt the edge of the knife bite a fraction of an inch into her flesh with its hungry, ice-cold edge, but her pride gave her strength. “Guillermo, don’t!” His lips pressed tight with suppressed fury, Cortez looked beyond his wife and stared the demon straight in the eye. “Please, señor, this land is all we have.” Voice high and cracking, McGivens shouted, “ ‘And the lord shall expel them before you, and ye shall possess their land!’ ” The gunman snapped his fingers for the deed. Snarling with defiance, Cortez tossed it to the ground. Hurling Blanca to the dirt, McGivens snatched up the paper

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and drew back, allowing his posse to take aim on the helpless couple even as Guillermo helped his wife to her feet. “You talk like a man of God, but you’re the devil!” screamed Cortez, the breath raw from his throat as hatred swelled within him. McGivens stole a glance at his gleaming guns. “My dear friend, I simply offer you a choice: ‘Salvation’ or ‘Damnation’ . . . course you gotta die to find either one.” “How true,” said a familiar voice. Blanca’s eyes widened as she saw the man in black press his sword point against the back of McGivens’s neck. The flesh around the gunman’s scar crinkled as he silently swore. “Drop your guns,” commanded Zorro. “All of you.” Nostrils flaring, heart hammering, McGivens threw down his weapons and nodded to his men. Exchanging angry murmurs, they reluctantly tossed their guns to the dirt. Zorro fixed his gaze on Blanca and Guillermo. “Get in the house.” The couple raced inside, nodding gratefully to their savior. Out of the corner of his eye, Zorro saw McGivens’s men repositioning themselves, fanning out in a wide arc around him. He knew at once what they were planning—and he was ready for them. Driving McGivens forward with his sword, Zorro edged him closer to the oblong water trough. “Tell your men at the railroad, their time is over,” hissed Zorro. “Railroad?” The scarred man laughed mournfully. “You are one blind Mexican. You got no idea what you’re getting yourself into . . .’’ “Neither do you,” Zorro assured him. With a spinning kick, Zorro sent McGivens face first into the trough. Great jolting splatters of water burst from it as the scarred man splashed down, his arms and legs flailing. “Kill that Goddamn Mexican!” the floundering gunman wailed.

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Zorro leaped for the adobe wall, scaling it with ease as he heard McGivens’s men snatching up their weapons in response to their boss’s sputtering command. The frantic chickens and startled pigs within the enclosure scattered as Zorro dropped down among them. Breaking into a run, Zorro heard his pursuers crest the wall and flop down to the muddy earth, cocking their weapons. Racing ahead in a wild zig-zag pattern, Zorro felt his heart leap into his throat as explosives rang out at his back and clumps of dirt flew up on either side of him. Then— Click-click-click. All three riflemen were out of bullets. Whirling, Zorro raised his sword, determined not to give his enemies time to reload. Ahead, at the house, the soaked and still dripping McGivens led four of his hired guns to the rancho’s back porch. His gaze skimmed across their faces. Then he chose the one with the least resolve and nodded to him. With a noticeable quiver, the short, curly-haired man whose only redeeming feature was his creative use of swear words, lifted one boot and showed the sole to the door. Before he could kick it down, a shotgun blast ripped through it, hurtling the shrieking man back, his chest a gaping hole, the ragged edges of his coat crackling with tiny flames. McGivens leaped for cover, quickly gathering his three remaining killers together behind the water trough. Drawing his guns, he loosed a barrage at the porch door, the windows, and the walls. Within the cabin, a relentless hail of bullets tore over Guillermo and Blanca’s heads. The baby was now cradled in Blanca’s arms. Reloading his shotgun, Guillermo propelled his beloved wife and son toward a hatch in the floor. His friend Alejandro had told him that creating such secret hiding places was not necessary in this new, free land, but Guillermo had preferred playing it safe. “Get in!” screamed Guillermo. “Don’t let them hurt you,” begged Blanca.

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He kissed her and caressed his son’s cheek as if he might never see either of them again, bullets buzzing overhead. “I won’t, I promise. Go.” She lowered herself into the crawlspace beneath the house. Their eyes met once more, then he closed and locked the hatch, covering it over with a rug. Cracking open the barrel of his shotgun, he loaded two more shells and prayed that his aim would be true. With no time to reload their weapons, McGivens’s hired men brandished their deadly blades and charged Zorro with a chorus of furious howls. “Three against one,” Zorro mused. “Hardly seems fair— for you.” Zorro raced ahead to a gathering of driftwood stacked high enough to keep the animals penned in. All three men careened after him as he leaped onto the driftwood, the large logs teetering then beginning to roll and falter beneath his boots as he attempted to scramble over them and into the cornfield beyond. Two of the three men advanced clumsily. From the manner in which they brandished their swords, Zorro guessed their weapons were normally regarded as nothing more than overgrown pig-stickers, something to be used against unarmed opponents. A shorter, raven-haired man with what appeared to be dark Italian features leaped out before the other two. He expertly employed a balestra, a great, showy hop followed by a skillful fleche attack. Zorro whirled, his sword sparking as he easily deflected the blow aimed for his chest “Not bad,” Zorro remarked with a roguish grin. The logs slipped and scrambled beneath his feet as the man surged at him once more. Zorro dodged the thrust and kicked his diminutive opponent in the ribs, sending him faltering back onto his cohorts. The logs rolled and piled onto the trio as Zorro leaped off the logs, and ran toward the great rows of corn ahead.

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“I don’t know what McGivens is paying you,” taunted Zorro as he disappeared into the tall stalks. “Whatever it is—it isn’t enough!” Beneath the rancho, Blanca lay on her side in the dust, her eyes wide with fright as she held her beloved son close. Her husband’s shotgun rang out and was chorused by explosive bursts of return fire from the invaders, drowning out her baby’s cries. Squeezing her eyes shut, she turned her head away. Madre de dios—merciful lord, I beg of you, spare your humble servants. Let us live for our child, please! When she opened her eyes once more, a bright flash of light pierced her vision and made her flinch—but before she could look away, she realized that the sudden illumination revealed a clear path stretching from her hideaway to the barn. A sign from above! Crossing herself quickly, she crawled forward and scrambled out from beneath the porch into the breezy open air, which was marred by low drifting clouds bearing the hellish stink of gunpowder. Suppressing the urge to cough, she kept low and raced ahead for the barn’s welcoming doors. She didn’t see McGivens spot her from behind the trough, signaling two of his men to follow. Sunlight refracted off the towering blades of grass and curling husks rustling high above the heads of the angry fighting men. Cries and curses emanated from the narrow maze-like channels where Zorro evaded the pair of less experienced swordsmen following him. The far more formidable opponent he had sparred with earlier was certain to spring up at any moment. Sighing, Zorro dove deeper into the maze, disappearing and reappearing often enough to madden his two loutish pursuers. Once they were frothing, he strode into full view, allowing them to close in on him from either side.

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He held his stance until the tips of their blades were within inches of impaling him, then he burst backward, watching with grim satisfaction as his attackers ran each other through. Shuddering, the dying men clung to one another, eyes wide. They sank as one, drops of their blood glistening on the trembling forest of stalks surrounding them. The true attack came practically without warning. Zorro might have been run through himself had he not seen a darting shadow out of the corner of his eye. He quickly leaped to one side as the Italian appeared, his blade biting through Zorro’s heavy cape and scraping his silver medallion, which had swung to one side. With a sharp, “Hah!” Zorro punched his attacker full in the face and then sprung back. They fought with a flurry of powerful lightning strikes, riposte thrusts and retreats. The Italian expertly executed a coupe, or cutover, a deceptive attack passing his blade over the tip of Zorro’s sword, followed by a clever compound series of bold attacks and feints. Jamming Zorro’s sword high and away from his body, the Italian landed his fist on Zorro’s surprised face. Touché! Retreating a few paces to catch his breath, Zorro gazed deeply into the brooding eyes of his attacker. In the early days when Alejandro wore the mask of Zorro, he often wondered what could possibly drive a man to become a killer for hire, to treat life and death as casually as one might treat the choice of entrée at an all too familiar restaurant. He’d even asked the question once of a man to whom he’d had no choice but to deal a fatal blow. “Some just enjoy it,” the man croaked before gasping his final breath. The Italian swordsman enjoyed killing. Zorro could tell just from the look in his eyes. Zorro planted his feet and allowed his opponent a dozen rapid hits against his blade. All the while, the masked hero

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studied his opponent’s stances and lunges, the precise manner in which he willed his body and his blade to be one. With a few more strikes, Zorro would know precisely how to fell this murderous wretch. But he would not be given that much time. Zorro could see the Cortez barn from here. Blanca was out in the open, running for its shelter, unaware that an evil giant and his cohort loped gleefully behind her. The air hissed. Zorro’s blade flashed, catching the Italian’s sabre in a sudden shower of sparks. The Italian was on him, taking advantage of his distraction, a gleam of sunlight alerting Zorro to the presence of a second, smaller blade now clutched in the Italian’s free hand. Leaping back, Zorro avoided the short blade and trapped the man’s sabre with his own. He lunged at the hand holding the knife, grabbed the man’s wrist. Twisting it brutally, he snapped the bone and shoved him away, unmindful of his sudden shrieking. Turning his back on the fallen man, Zorro bolted for the barn. Blanca entered the barn. With shaking hands she locked the door shut, then shrieked as it exploded inches from her fingers, a bullet ripping through the lock. Whirling, she dove beneath a mound of hay an instant before the door banged open and two men barreled in. The light of the raging sun outside cast their faces partially in silhouette, but Blanca didn’t need to see them clearly to know they were devils. Who or what else would follow a man like McGivens? If he was a man at all, and not the devil in the flesh. She heard her pursuers separate, one moving toward the hearth. It is not a sin to send the devil back to hell, Blanca told herself as she set the baby down—and erupted from beneath the hay and snatched a poker with a glowing crimson tip from the fire. One of the gunmen whirled and with a savage scream, Blanca drove the tip into his chest with a sick-

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ening thuck. He stiffened and coughed, blood bubbling from his chapped lips, his murderous gaze locked on hers as his twitching hand groped for her throat. “Filth,” she snarled, forcing him away. Bellowing, the impaled man stumbled back, flames bursting from his coat as he fell into a bale of hay which ignited with a startling whoosh, sending tongues of hellfire streaming up the walls. A second larger man charged as the raging fire engulfed the barn. He’d abandoned his rifle, sweeping a sword out with his huge hand instead. She could see him plainly now: he was not a demon, just a common man, with drink on his breath and the desire to hurt others blazing in his eyes. Hotly pursued, Blanca scrambled onto a ladder and climbed toward the hayloft, where an open window beckoned. With a cry of frustration, the strapping man vaulted onto the ladder and spidered toward her. Just as she was about to clear the second floor landing, a hot, greasy hand closed over her ankle, and she shrieked as she was hauled back into the empty air. She plummeted a dozen feet down, landing painfully upon her back on the baking earth in a mad tangle of limbs, alongside her groping attacker. Cracking her elbow into his throat, Blanca scrambled free and sprang to her feet, her baby still on the ground. Her opponent was quick, his hand closing over the hilt of his blade in a blur. Snatching it up, he aimed it at the frightened woman’s heart, ready to run her through. The fires spreading across the barn cast an amber glow on his ugly face, and spit gold into his dark evil eyes. A high sharp whistle sounded over the crackling flames. A whip snapped, its tip coiling around the broad man’s arm and violently yanking it back, jerking the weapon from his determined grasp. The blade whisked through the air—and Zorro darted to one side to avoid its sharp and eager point. A startled cry exploded behind the masked man. Zorro craned to look over his shoulder, just in time to witness the wounded Italian from the cornfield sink to his knees and

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collapse as the strapping man’s sabre buried deep in his chest. A sudden wall of flames rose between Blanca and her child. Zorro snatched up the infant and whirled as his opponent then grabbed a huge hammer from Guillermo’s forge, leering as he raised the weapon. Zorro thrust out his free hand for his fallen sword—and snatched it back as the hammer fell, its thunderous blow thumping explosively against the earth, missing his fingers by a mere fraction of an inch. The hammer whirled again, his attacker swinging the weapon hard enough to take Zorro’s head off with a single blow. Stumbling back beyond the weapon’s terrible reach, Zorro crashed into a collection of shovels and pikes. Grabbing one of the shovels, Zorro swung it around, slicing it low in a punishing arc aimed at his opponent’s knees. The big man laughed, leaping high like a gleeful child skipping rope to avoid the shovel’s blade, his hammer sailing down toward Zorro’s skull as the shovel harmlessly flashed beyond him. Landing with a heavy thud, his hammer narrowly missed its target. Sweeping a pile of burning hay up at the face of the surprisingly nimble man, Zorro thrust his free hand into the array of fallen tools at his feet, throwing pikes, plates and whatever came to hand at the seemingly invincible foe, driving him back with a series of thuds and angry groans. The baby wailed in his arms, and he kissed the boy’s forehead and hummed a little tune he used to sing to Joaquin. From all around, the fires rose and boldly licked at them with lascivious desire. Sensing his own peril, the man grunted, his huge hammer thudding to the ground as he drew a great broadsword from beside Guillermo’s forge. Zorro heard a heavy moaning creak from above. Worried that the flaming roof was about to collapse, he looked up and spotted pitchforks, scythes, and a trio of machetes dan-

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gling from a weakening roof beam. A straining rope anchored low and within reach held them in place. The large man’s sword cleaved the thick air, the furious slash of the great broadsword bold and powerful enough to cut a man in two. Zorro dived beneath the crescent arc of the blow. Snatching up his own fallen sword, he struck clean through the rope securing the cache of sharp tools. He heard a snap, a shriek, and a clangor of madly rushing steel raining down from directly above his attacker’s head. The sounds that burst from the man when the steel struck home might have been more at home in a butcher shop—and were mercifully muffled by the roar of flames. The swordsman’s threat was ended—but everywhere Alejandro looked, geysers of crackling flame rose in challenge. They were trapped! Guillermo raised his shotgun, cautiously peering a few inches higher than he had dared mere moments ago, when the seemingly ceaseless barrage from outside had laid ruin to the home he had built for his family. Had Señor Zorro put down the mad dogs that had come for him? Fury tingeing his world a bright crimson, Guillermo sprang to his feet, shotgun ready as he faced the door, almost hoping to see the grinning face of Jacob McGivens—so that he could empty his weapon into it. There was no one. His ears rang as strange sounds echoed outside, and his nostrils flared as he whiffed smoke. Was McGivens setting fire to the house? Blanca! A sickening wave of terror welling up inside him, Guillermo raced to the crawlspace hatch, surprised to see the rug swept to one side, the hatch thrown open, the broken lock laying off to one side. It looked as if it had been kicked open from within. “Blanca?” he called. There was no reply. Still looking down, he saw a shadow

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stretch across the floor as a man silently rose behind him, aiming a gun at his back. McGivens! Inside the barn, Zorro raced to Blanca. She took her son gladly, even as smoke and flames roiled around them. He covered her with his cape and forced her into a crouched position, keeping her face low to prevent the smoke from searing her lungs. But the fires raged in every quarter, the barn a burning tomb with ceiling timbers straining and falling everywhere. Sobbing softly, Blanca whispered the names of her husband and son. Alejandro shuddered, visions of Elena and Joaquin exploding in his thoughts. There was no way out—but Alejandro would not accept that. Zorro would not—could not—accept that. Striving to find a way to save himself, the mother and child, Alejandro gasped as he heard heavy hooves stampeding outside—then Tornado burst through the flames, rounding in front of him and rearing up with a valiant cry. Springing to his feet, Zorro hurled Blanca onto the stallion’s saddle, climbed on after her, and spurred Tornado forward. The stallion needed no urging. Flaming timbers rained down around them as the ceiling collapsed. Tornado charged at the side wall, weakened wood panels cracking and exploding beneath his powerful hooves. The mighty horse’s momentum carried them through the choking wall of smoke and flame into the wide-open vista of clean clear air and rich blue sky. “I take back every nasty thing I ever said about you,” Zorro whispered with a laugh, patting the stallion’s neck while making a mental note to stock the horse’s stall with sugar cubes and tequila. Tornado carried Zorro and Blanca and the baby around to the rear porch of the rancho. Though Blanca was still gasping great lungfuls of air, her chest burning, her throat raw and eyes filled with sharp stinging tears, she cried out with

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relief when she saw her husband stumble from the house. She leaped from Tornado and ran for him— Guillermo crumpled like a rag doll, a hideous patch of crimson blotting his back. Screaming, Blanca raced to her fallen husband and gently turned him over, terrified by the choking sounds he made as he struggled to take another breath. Her husband was the strongest man she had known, but now he was as helpless as their newborn. This is my fault, Blanca thought wildly, my sin brought this on us. I killed a man. Not a devil, a man, and for this— “Mi Amor . . .’’ whispered her husband. Her entire body quavering and heaving with sobs, Blanca set her son down and desperately pressed her hands over the grotesque wound in Guillermo’s back, as if she might staunch the flow of blood, but it was no use. She was dimly aware of Zorro standing nearby, his gaze locking with that of Guillermo. A grateful smile eased across Guillermo’s face as death took him. Blanca buried her head in his chest, her raking sobs wrenched from the depths of her soul. Zorro heard galloping hooves dwindling in the distance and spun to see McGivens riding away down the long dirt road. He wanted nothing more in the world than to call Tornado and chase the killer down, to make him pay in blood for his crimes this day, but some of McGivens’s posse was probably still alive, and he couldn’t risk leaving Blanca alone to face them. I will have you, Alejandro vowed as the flames before him rose to match the fiery anger in his heart. For the murder of my friend, I will see you dead. Votive candles flickered as Alejandro burst into the mission, trailing a gust of wind. He threw his face up at the ceiling of the empty church. “What are you trying to tell me, eh?” cried Alejandro. “No matter what choice I make, it’s the wrong one! I’ve

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failed everyone I ever loved—my wife . . . my son . . . and now the people too? What do you want from me?” His words echoed throughout the church. Silence met them. His rage finally ebbing, Alejandro fell to his knees before the candles. Tortured with regret, he spoke quietly now, desperately. “Help me . . . I have always listened to my heart, and it speaks to me now of a great darkness. I fear Guillermo Cortez was only the beginning, and that Elena’s in great danger. So I beg you: give me the courage . . . the strength . . . to wear this mask a little longer. Allow Zorro one last ride . . . and I will let him go forever. I swear it on my soul.” A wind rushed into the church, whipping about Alejandro like a frigid cloak, its invisible fingers brushing the candle flames and fanning their flames higher before it retreated. Hanging his head, Alejandro lost himself in prayer.

Chapter 9

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he dark crimson hues of dusk seeped in through the open doors of the second floor veranda and stole across the scowling face of Elena de la Vega as she sat alone at her desk, her quill angrily slashing at the small sheet of parchment before her. Her temper flared hotter with every word she wrote: DINNER AT ARMAND’S. EXPECT CONTACT TONIGHT. Setting down the quill, she rolled the note into a small scroll, her hand closing on it as if it were the throat of the wretched little man who would soon be reading it. Controlling herself, she eased the pressure of her grip and rose to stroll to the veranda, where a birdcage swayed in the light evening breeze, its metal chain rattling softly, like a whisper, a sigh . . . Within the cage, a pigeon waited silently, cocking his head one way, then another, as he watched Elena open the metal door and reach in to draw him out. She slipped the scroll through a tiny silver band on his foot and studied the quiet bird that had only recently come to live at Hacienda de la Vega. “Pajarito mio . . .’’ she whispered sadly. “We’re both living in a cage.” Stepping back, she released the pigeon, her fear and rage threatening to consume her.

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She spent the next hour preparing, eating practically a full meal in advance so that she could behave in the manner of the women of Armand’s country and merely pick at the offerings on her plate. Then she dressed, attended to household matters, and gave orders to the staff to keep Joaquin entertained and out of trouble. Night fell upon the land as her carriage traced the arduous route upland to Armand’s hacienda, the driver narrowly skirting ditches and potholes while bouncing over a wealth of heavy cobblestones. The interior of the convenience swayed so greatly that Elena felt as though she were in a child’s cradle, though without a gentle touch. The carriage roiled, tumbled and seethed as a boat might on open seas. Elena had to struggle to keep from becoming reacquainted with her early dinner. A chorus of low, menacing growls burst from nightmarish black hounds chained to the old tree near the front gates as Armand’s servants allowed the carriage inside. Elena studied the beasts as the carriage rode on, her gaze locking on their clearly malevolent eyes. They fell silent—as if marking her. Elena shuddered and quickly shifted her gaze from the beasts. Her driver took her to the main door, where Armand stood with Colonel Beauregard. The men shook hands and shared a quiet laugh as they drew near, Armand holding out his hand to help Elena from the carriage. She smiled and fawned, falling perfectly into character. The performance had never come harder than it did this night, because now when she looked at Armand, all she could see was the frighteningly flat expression he wore seconds before he tried to murder Alejandro earlier today. No, she chided herself. Pretend you’re back in school. Think of that autumn afternoon when it actually seemed possible to fall in love this man—just before his family called him home . . . A great light danced in Armand’s eyes as he gazed upon

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her loveliness. “You arrived just in time, darling. The colonel was about to leave.” “Not on my account, I hope,” Elena said politely. The colonel tipped his hat to Armand’s beautiful guest. “Nothing would please me more than the pleasure of your company, my dear, but I have other pressing matters to tend to.” Elena noted the look Armand and the colonel shared, then cast her gaze on the stars shining down at them. “Goodnight,” Armand said quietly. The colonel said his farewells and departed, his assistant rounding a corner and greeting him with both men’s horses. Armand appeared somewhat moody until the colonel trotted off and was safely out the main gates. “What were you chatting about?” asked Elena. Armand shrugged, clearly hesitant to burden Elena with his concerns. Studying her lovely dusky face, he took in her strength and resolve—and smiled in defeat. “His talk of civil war the other night troubled me . . .’’ Armand conceded, gazing deeply into her eyes. “I counseled him that any lasting union requires patience, nurturing . . .” He took her hand and kissed it gently, his lips warm upon her cool flesh. “And mutual respect.” He led her inside. They strolled along without speaking, their familiarity providing a comfort and ease to their time together. His hacienda was magnificently furnished in the style of the French Empire, rich mahogany chairs, tables and paneling accentuated by bold gilded brass, with occasional flourishes featuring Egyptian, Greek and military motifs. Soon they passed under a Gothic-style archway and up ahead, an ornately decorated door swung open and Ferroq appeared, slipping a telegram into his shirt. He locked the door, then gestured to Armand. “Master, a word?” requested the bald, dark-suited Ferroq, humbly averting his eyes. Armand turned to Elena and gingerly took her hand. “Please excuse me a moment.”

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She delivered her most dazzling smile and playfully brushed him away, letting him know that she had little interest in his boring business dealings. Armand and Ferroq wandered a dozen yards down the hall as Elena turned to a gold-framed mirror and pretended to adjust her hair while discreetly spying on them. After a moment, Armand nodded a quick approval to his servant then bounded back to his beloved. “My apologies,” Armand said suavely, “business never ends.” Elena beamed with wonder as she surveyed her surroundings. “The carving on the archway is beautiful.” She casually nodded toward the passage through which Ferroq had appeared. Innocently, she asked, “What’s through that door?” “A private chapel. Piety is a long-standing tradition in my family,” Armand explained. He waved his hand dismissively, as if brushing aside something unimportant. “I’d show it to you, but dinner’s waiting.” As they strolled on, Elena glanced back at the door, determined to find out what lurked behind it. Dinner was magnificent, the pheasant so expertly prepared that Elena forgot about her upset stomach from the ride and the meal she had previously eaten before departing for Armand’s and devoured every morsel. When she was done, she still had an appetite for more. An image wrenched its way into her thoughts: Alejandro wolfing down one course after another at the dinner table as she teased him about the way he was always eating—though he never put on a pound. She wondered if the stress of leading a double life was responsible for his monstrous appetite and accelerated metabolism. If you ever do give up being Zorro, all those pounds you’ve been cheating will catch up to you and your friends will need a wheelcart to take you around in . . . “That was absolutely delicious,” cried Elena. Armand gestured for a pair of patiently waiting servants to approach. “Yes. And now . . .”

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Two women drew near. Elena smiled warmly at the young Yvette, a pale-skinned, petite, dark-haired beauty so demure it was almost painful to spend time in her presence. Quaking slightly under the watchful eye of the elder, thin-featured and severe Marie, the head housekeeper, Yvette handed Armand a cigar. Marie drew close to Elena, an oak box held low in her cupped hands as if it contained something the housekeeper found repugnant. The scent of tobacco wafted up from the box, tickling Elena’s nose. “I’m sorry, Marie,” refused Elena politely, “I don’t smoke . . .” Armand hesitated, his face awash with confusion as Marie opened the box, revealing the pipe Armand had purchased for her in the market. “Unless it’s my pipe, of course,” said Elena, her smile suddenly breathtaking. “You remembered, how thoughtful.” She slipped the pipe in her pocket. “Though I should let my stomach settle first.” Armand waved his hand, dismissing the servants. Both retreated to the hall, closing the door behind them. “Just as well,” said Armand, “I’ve wanted to tell you something all night.” He hesitated, gathering his courage. In a rush, he went on, “Elena, when I first saw you at the academy, the other boys said you were the most beautiful woman on the Iberian continent. They called you ‘La Flor de Andalusia’ . . . and I thought, I’ll never be lucky enough to share my life with a woman as . . .’’ Suddenly he was lost, his words faltering, his emotions overtaking him. Elena had never seen him look more vulnerable. “This is going on a bit, isn’t it?” he asked, embarrassed. “A little,” she said sweetly. Armand straightened. “I want to ask you something. Something I should’ve asked ten years ago . . .” Her smile faltered. He’s going to propose!

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“Before you do, my love, answer me one question,” begged Elena quickly. Armand was lost in her eyes. Huskily, he said, “Of course, whatever your heart desires . . .” “Where’s the bathroom?” Elena asked quickly. Armand’s brow furrowed in surprise. She turned away, smiling demurely. “All your flattery’s making me blush, I’d like to powder my cheeks.” “Of course,” Armand said graciously, one hand indicating the door. “It’s down the hall.” Smiling, Elena brushed his cheek with her hand and swept toward the door, the reflection of her befuddled paramour staring back at her from a mirror hung on the wall. In moments she was in the hallway alone. Elena crept down the corridor, careful to ensure that she was unobserved. She threaded her way to the chapel door, her hand sliding into her hair to withdraw a silver hairpin. Her lustrous tendrils fell in sumptuous waves and she whipped her head to one side as she bent before the lock, working the pin into its steely depths. She heard tumblers fall, felt the resistance of the locked door gradually give—then started as a floorboard down the hall suddenly creaked. Her heart leaping into her throat, Elena palmed the hairpin and spun to her feet as Ferroq rounded the corner, his walrus-like mustache twitching as he glared at her. Elena batted her eyelashes and broadly fanned her bosom with her fluttering gloved hand. “Oh, I’m so glad I ran into you. I’m terribly lost.” She smiled disarmingly. “Would you show me back to the dining room, please?” Ferroq hesitated, not bothering to conceal his loathing. “This way.” “Thank you so much,” said Elena graciously. “I can see how indispensable you are to Armand.” “I am his devoted servant,” Ferroq reminded her as they padded back to the dining room. “And would give my life to protect him from any man—or woman—who seeks to betray him.”

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Elena was well aware of Ferroq’s suspicions. He treated her as if she were Madame Verdulak, a social climbing predator with whom Elena had “crossed swords” long before coming to America. The dining room now in sight, Elena no longer needed a guide. She smiled inwardly as inspiration struck. He’s worried that I’m some greedy, money-grubbing witch? Good. Let him think that of me. It is far better than the truth. Drawing on the vast reserves of anger welling within her, Elena spun on Ferroq, her smoldering eyes scouring his face as she pressed herself so close to the startled man that she barely had to speak above a whisper. “Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you,” hissed Elena, “I may soon be the lady of this house. So start exercising some respect when you talk to me, is that clear?” With a nasty, superior smile, she turned her back on Armand’s servant and strutted to the dining room. She didn’t need eyes in the back of her head to feel Ferroq’s dark gaze boring down upon her, threatening to incinerate her in the flames of his fury. Zorro gently drew up Tornado’s reins as a patch of moonlight spilled across the damp grass of the front courtyard outside Armand’s well-lit hacienda. Determined to remain hidden, he silently dismounted from the stallion, avoiding the light at all costs. Patting Tornado’s flank, he whispered a command, then turned away as he heard the stallion quietly trace a path to a deeply shadowed spot beneath an old and towering redwood. So, Count Armand, we shall see what we shall see . . . thought Zorro as he crept across the grounds. He drew close to a low window gleaming with warm amber firelight. Peering inside, he spied a well-appointed parlor in which Ferroq—Armand’s watch dog—gestured Jacob McGivens to an antique chair. Zorro excitedly rubbed his hands together. I knew it!

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McGivens had hinted that he served a power far greater than the association of railroad barons. Armand must also be mixed up in this business. Armand, if I learn you had a hand in the death of my friend, then you will suffer the same fate as your scarred lunatic hired hand . . . If not worse. Reaching for the window, Zorro tried to raise it a crack, but it wouldn’t budge. Locked. If he remained here, he would hear none of what transpired between these men— and he wanted to hear every damning word that was spoken. A side door beckoned. Springing from his place of hiding, Zorro darted back as the grass hissed with the crushing sounds of heavy running paws and the air suddenly came alive with the sound of maddened breathing. Two monstrous faces twisted in murderous frenzy leaped into the slants of golden light streaking from the window behind the masked man. Spittle flew from maws crammed with razor sharp teeth. Crimson eyes gleamed insanely with the desire to maul, tear, rend— The mastiffs yelped as the chains attached to their collars pulled taut at their coiled muscles, savagely yanking them back and away from Zorro, whose sword now gleamed in the moonlight. Zorro lowered his weapon, relief flooding him as he eased around the growling beasts. “I’m sure you were cute as puppies,” Zorro mused, stealing back to the shadows to find another way into the hacienda before the sounds of the watchdogs brought unwanted company. Elena strolled into the dining room, Ferroq a dozen paces behind her. A tray bearing a selection of sinful desserts was perched at the far end of the long dark wood table, Armand’s gaze stealing toward them as he fingered a tiny fork. Marie was bent low behind Armand, whispering something in his ear. Annoyance flared upon his handsome face as he took in her message. Marie withdrew, wringing her hands.

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Rising, Armand held out his arms to Elena. “I’m sorry, something’s come up,” Armand told her, exasperated. Elena’s eyes gleamed with patience and understanding. “Take your time.” Armand stalked out of the room, signaling Ferroq to follow him. Casting a final sneer at Elena, the bald man spun on his heels and strode after his master. Elena drifted to the end of the table, making a show of examining the dessert tray, while Marie muttered something snippy about the imminent demise of Elena’s svelte form if she indulged in such treats. “From the lips to the hips,” Marie said as she bustled away. “Like your husband?” Elena asked casually. “Or are you not that fortunate?” Her spine suddenly ramrod straight, Marie chirped with fury and catapulted out of the room. Elena smiled. The exchange had been calculated, of course, not merely to put Marie in her place, but also to make Marie angry enough to forswear her duty to periodically check up on Elena while the men were away. Confident that she was on her own, Elena stole through the door and checked the hall. Keeping an even closer watch than before, Elena navigated the château’s reaches and came once more to the chapel. Withdrawing a hairpin, she expertly manipulated the lock and soon heard the telltale click as her efforts paid off. The door creaked open and Elena darted through it, diving full on into darkness. Her eyes adjusted quickly as she stole along a narrow hallway into a chamber that may well have once been a sanctified chapel, but no longer served that purpose. Perhaps thirty or forty pews had resided here before Armand moved in and renovated. Now they were gone, the bare floor lighter and less scuffed where they had formerly been bolted to the ground. The ceiling was low, the air thick, unmoving. A candlelit altar stood directly ahead, but it was the huge hanging

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tapestry covering the rear wall that immediately arrested her attention and drew her near. The insignia she had glimpsed on Armand’s ring cried out from the tapestry: an angry serpent coiled around the globe. She peered down at the altar now, surprised to find a glass jar perched there. Elena lifted the jar high, allowing the candlelight to pierce its murky depths, and within she spotted a severed human tongue wagging lazily at her. Tiny silk filaments sewn to the sharply cut base made it look as if the tongue were naturally thrusting out from a vile little throne fashioned from velvet. Shuddering with revulsion, Elena carefully set the jar back down and darted back from it. No, this was not some simple jar. The item within it clearly held significance for those who worshipped here. It was a religious reliquary. My God, Armand, thought Elena, what madness is this? What have you involved yourself in? The darkness—and the crushing cool air of the desecrated chapel—closed in on her. Zorro quickly climbed a rose trellis beside the parlor window and lightly scampered onto the roof. The hounds had settled down, no one bothering to see why they’d been barking. He squinted in the pale moonlight, quickly spotting a chimney. Shaking his head as if he knew that he was out of his mind, but wasn’t about to let that slow him any, Zorro climbed into the chimney and carefully shimmied down its length. Light reached up from below, the source a lantern somewhere in the room beyond the chimney, the fireplace beneath his heels thankfully unlit. As he came within a few feet of the piled up kindling, he withdrew a small mirror, lowered it and angled it into the periphery of the open fireplace façade. Satisfied that this room was unoccupied, he slipped the rest of the way down the chimney and out of the fireplace in a single sleek bound.

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The room appeared to be a study. Zorro spotted a roll front desk and rifled through it quickly and expertly, leaving no trace that he had been here. He also found no trace of anything that would suggest what Armand was truly planning. He looked behind paintings, along bookshelves, and even checked the floor for signs of a crawlspace or other niches where evidence might be hidden. Sighing with frustration, he caught sight of himself in a silver gilt mirror hanging across the room. Soot circled around his nose and cheeks. Drawing near, spitting on his hand and cleaning himself off, he noticed that the mirror hung slightly askew. In fact, it was hinged outward, like a small door. Drawing closer, Zorro lightly pressed on the mirror’s cool edge, smiling as it sprang open at his touch. Behind the mirror lay a map of America. The trajectory of the country’s rail lines had been traced over in red ink, along with a new path of train track rocketing from California’s central line directly to Armand’s property. “He’s building a track to the vineyard,” whispered Zorro. Footsteps rang from the hall, accompanied by a burst of angry muttering in a low throaty voice that Zorro knew all too well. Gliding the mirror back into place, Zorro raced across the room and scrambled up the chimney just as the door swung open. Using his mirror, Zorro saw Armand burst into the room with McGivens, the faithful Ferroq trailing behind them. Good, thought Zorro. Now I won’t have to go looking for you. Within the study, Armand glared at the gunman. “I presume you have the deed, since you’ve deemed it necessary to interrupt my dinner.” McGivens drew Cortez’s deed from his frock coat and slapped it on the table. “Right here. But we had a fly in the ointment—or should I say, a fox . . . Zorro.” In the dim reaches of his hiding place, his mask weighing heavily upon him, though it was little more than a strip of

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silk, Alejandro shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut. He prayed for courage and strength, fighting the overwhelming desire to burst in on these men and mete out justice here and now. A good man was dead because of them, and God only knew how many others would follow if they were not stopped. But . . . This is not about the wants and desires of Alejandro de la Vega. He first donned the mask of Zorro to gain vengeance for his slain brother. Now he is the keeper of the legend, a symbol of justice. Will he let his selfish desires get in the way of the greater good? Don Diego’s words from long ago. Alejandro nodded in the near darkness. He was following a trail of clues. Until he knew the full nature of the conspiracy before him and how many others were involved, he dared not act—unless he was given no other choice. In the small room, Armand fixed his visitor with a frigid stare. He shrugged. “I’ve heard the name among the locals,” admitted Armand. McGivens nodded gravely. “He’s a peasant masquerading as a folk hero.” “Men like that usually find their way to the guillotine.” Armand’s face flushed with happiness at the delightful thought. McGivens ground his wooden teeth. “It’d be my pleasure.” “Your vendetta can wait,” commanded Armand. “I’ve been informed one of my shipping vessels is arriving tomorrow. It’ll anchor off Maderas Cove. The cargo must be brought here safely.” Armand snatched a pack of matches from his desk and struck one, the small flame lighting the recesses of his dark hollow eyes. “I want no mistakes.” Zorro tensed as the lit match flickered into the fireplace, the kindling beneath him igniting with a furious roar and a great surging plume of flames.

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* * * Elena desperately wanted to flee from Armand’s private “chapel” the moment she glimpsed the horrible thing resting upon its altar, but a sense that there was more to be discovered here nagged at her. She felt the walls for hidden niches or panels that might lead to clandestine passageways, stopping suddenly as a strange clicking echoed behind her. Were those footsteps? Was she about to be discovered? Elena searched for a hiding place, but only the altar afforded some small protection from prying eyes. Quelling her fear, she focused on the sound. It was rhythmic, relentless, machinelike. Not footsteps at all. What was that sound? Listening for a moment longer, Elena pinpointed the source of the odd sound. She pulled aside the lower edge of the wall hanging, revealing a small machine similar to one she had seen before, at the post office: a telegraph receiver. A message was being spit out. Elena bent low and read the text. “ ‘Received word of successful explosive test. Stop. Will arrive tomorrow for final meeting. Stop. Orbis Unum.’ ” Elena looked up gravely. “ ‘Stop.’ ” Alejandro had not been seeing things the other night after all when he spoke of a white hot burst leaving a crater ringed by fire in the woods—and all his worst fears about Armand had proved reasonable beyond measure. Looking about quickly to be sure no one was coming, Elena removed a compact mirror from her pocket. Opening it, she slid back the makeup tray to reveal a palette of black graphite powder underneath. Producing a handkerchief, she tapped some of the carbon powder onto its silk surface, carefully placed the teletype ribbon on top of the fabric, and etched the message onto the handkerchief’s surface. Zorro climbed slightly higher within the chimney, the cloying smoke billowing from the crackling flames thickening about him, the walls flaring hot as a furnace. Red-faced, he

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struggled to keep himself from coughing as he spotted a grate that opened beneath his frantic urging and pressed himself near it, drawing clean fresh air from the room beyond. Through the grate’s heavy slats, he peered into the study to see Armand pacing angrily, McGivens and Ferroq observing him closely. “Now that we have the ranch, will the track be completed on time?” asked Armand, exchanging glances with Ferroq. “It’ll take my boys two days to cover the quarter mile,” McGivens assured him. Armand glowered at the scarred man. “I’ll hold you to that, Mr. McGivens. Or you get nothing.” McGivens flinched, his gaze narrowing as he advanced on Armand with a low, menacing growl. “Get this straight, you backwards-ass frog: you hedge on my payment, you won’t even see me coming.” Moving with blinding speed, Armand seized the scruff of McGivens’s hair and slammed his face down hard on the table. The count’s free hand jammed into his own coat and whipped free clutching a dagger bearing the insignia of a serpent coiling around the globe on its hilt. Light gleamed along its hungry edge. Armand’s soulless smile was terrifying as he bent low and stared into his victim’s eyes. “This dagger, Mr. McGivens— Jake—has been in my family for generations.” Armand forced McGivens’s tongue from his mouth and traced the blade along its trembling pink ridge. “If you ever speak to me like that again, I’ll cut out your tongue and feed it to my dogs,” promised Armand. “Understood?” Armand released McGivens. The wide-eyed gunman recoiled, clamping his hand to his mouth, stunned by the force of Armand’s grip. “Your men have two days, Mr. McGivens,” pledged Armand, “then the future begins.” Armand turned to Ferroq and passed along the deed. “Put this in the safe, would you, Ferroq?”

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Nodding, Ferroq left the room. A safe, eh? thought Zorro. Now that I would like to see. Besides, it’s getting a bit too hot in here for one with my delicate constitution. Grinning, Zorro climbed high to freedom. Within the strange chapel, Elena finished etching the message. Footsteps rang out from the corridor and she whirled, drawing a breath and holding it until the hurried footfalls passed by. Realizing that her luck could not hold out much longer, Elena pocketed the compact and handkerchief, then quickly pulled the hanging back over the telegraph. She went to the door, listened until she was certain the hallway was clear, and stole away from the chapel. She had barely edged along a dozen yards before the echoing sound of heavy footfalls returned. The reflection of a dark-suited figure took shape in a mirror facing the nearest adjacent corridor. Ferroq. Elena drew open the closest window and scrambled onto the ledge outside, the cool night winds bracing her. Clutching a rose trellis writhing up beside the window, she held on and remained stock-still as she heard Ferroq halt curiously before the open window. Don’t look out, she urged. Damn you, damn every bit of you, don’t look out! The window moaned as it slid shut. Elena exhaled a sigh of relief—and tensed again quickly, realizing she would have to find another way back inside. She traced the ledge, heading in what she hoped was the direction from which she had come. The amount of time she had spent away from the dining room had been considerable, and she had no idea what excuse she would give for her absence if she were caught out. A balcony soon beckoned, just as Elena thought she heard the scrambling of a rat high above. Her lips curled in disgust

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at the image of such vermin leaping out and tangling in her hair, a nightmare she’d had many times as a child. Cursing inwardly, Elena vaulted to the balcony—just as a figure wrapped in a billowing black cape whipped down from the roof and landed beside her. A pair of startled eyes peered at her from behind the mask of Zorro and Elena shook her head, almost laughing with her mixture of relief and vexation. She’d found her rat—and he looked a great deal like her ex-husband. “Alejandro!” she shrieked. “For God’s sake, why can’t you leave me alone?” He sprang toward her, his hands gently grasping her arms. “Elena, I was right! Armand’s not who you think he is!” Elena rolled her eyes and pulled away from him. The man was forever underestimating her. “You have no idea who I think he is!” “Well I think I know who you think he is!” snapped Alejandro. Elena flicked her finger against her husband’s thick skull. “No you don’t, because you don’t think. Now get out of here before someone sees you!” Quaking with rage, Alejandro seized her wrist. Shaking her sharply, he snarled, “Listen to me.” Elena drew back, Alejandro releasing her at once. Yet a rare and sudden darkness had come into Alejandro’s eyes, and that was even more startling than his hands upon her. “Guillermo Cortez is dead,” hissed Alejandro, “shot down like an animal. I couldn’t stop it.” Elena’s breath caught in her throat. “Blanca?” asked Elena, wringing her hands with worry. “The boy?” Alejandro assured her that they were all right. He had met with his fellow dons and arranged protection for both of them, armed rancheros and vaqueros quickly rallying to the cause. Elena drew a breath and nodded. Guillermo had been a good man, a kind man. His wife was now a widow, his son fatherless.

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Cortez’s fate was exactly the one Elena feared Alejandro would one day suffer. She could feel her ex-husband’s grief, his need for comfort, assurance . . . she shook her head. It was too much. “Armand needed his land to build a railroad!” roared the wild-eyed Alejandro. “He’s planning something!” Elena raised her chin, her interest piqued. “How do you know this?” “Oh no, no,” Alejandro chided. “I won’t tell you what I know ’til you tell me what you know. ’Cause if you wanna know what I know, I need to know why the hell you’re living in sin with an evil count!” Before Elena could say anything, a distant rustling caught her attention. Armand was returning. She shot her former husband a panicked look—Alejandro merely grinned, then burst into motion. “Elena?” called the count from the hallway. By the time he arrived, all there was for him to see was Elena standing alone on the balcony, her back to him. “There you are,” said Armand, his smile beaming, his arms open to embrace her. She turned, the smoking pipe gripped in her smooth hand. “Forgive me, darling,” she said huskily, “I felt the sudden urge to step out for a puff.” She inhaled—and felt a dragon’s fiery breath sting her lungs. Her heart seared her chest and a battery of rusty nails slid down her throat. Eyes bulging, she loosed a hacking cough. Armand raced to her side, clutching her arm, his eyes transfixed with horror. “Elena, are you alright?” “Fine,” she assured him with a choking gasp as she forced a quick smile and slipped from his grasp. His breath quickening, he pressed close and studied her face. “Dear God, you’re turning green!” “Your presence . . .” she croaked, her free hand stealing into her pocket and clawing loose her handkerchief, “takes my breath away.”

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Elena whipped the handkerchief high, the flapping fabric causing Armand to retreat a few steps as she dabbed at her tearing eyes. As her blurred vision cleared, the message etched on the cloth came into focus. Luckily, it faced away from Armand. Tossing her long, lustrous hair to distract her paramour, Elena jammed the handkerchief back in her pocket and chanced another drag on the pipe. This time she was careful not to inhale. Armand smiled. “I have a little something for you.” His gloved hands darted to his coat and retrieved a rectangular mahogany box. His dark eyes revealing a surprising vulnerability, he gazed at her as his nimble fingers cracked open the box’s lid. Elena gasped. A stunning pearl necklace glittered and gleamed from within the box’s red velvet confines. “A customary Spanish offering . . .’’ Armand said, his voice thick with desire. “When a man asks a woman . . . for her hand in marriage.” He took a trembling breath, then squared his shoulders as he began to gracefully lower himself before her. “Let me do this properly, on one knee, so I can look up into your eyes—” “No, no!” cried Elena shrilly in mid-inhale. “Don’t look up!” Her mouth fuming, her lips tasting of bitter ash, Elena threw an arm around Armand and crushed him to her with a deep, sensual kiss. His body tensed, then relaxed, his tongue reaching toward hers, his hands greedily groping her back while small animal sounds rose from deep in his throat. Elena’s eyes were open—her gaze thrown high to the rafters where Alejandro hung above them, peering down with a maddened jealous stare. Take the hint and get out of here, blast you! thought Elena as she tossed the pipe over her shoulder, only to hear it land beneath the balcony. A horse’s snigger sounded from below: Tornado. Unable to stand Armand’s pawing any longer, Elena

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wrenched herself free of the count. Shuddering, they both exhaled the puff of smoke she had just consumed. Her chest heaving, Elena studied the man, wondering how such ugliness could reside within someone so handsome. Don’t be fooled. The devil wears a pleasing form. Evil is charming and considerate . . . insidious in all its ways. With eyes half-lidded with lust, Armand asked as if in a dream, “Is that a yes?” Elena’s eyes sparkled with promise. “It’s a definite maybe.” Ardently, he caressed her hair. “I know it’s sudden given what you’ve just been through, but I want to give you everything your ex-husband couldn’t.” Elena risked a glance up at Alejandro. He was shaking with rage. She whirled from Armand to keep his attention fully focused on her, cocking her head invitingly to one side, sweeping her hair away to expose a lovely expanse of her neck. Armand breezed in behind her, looping the necklace around her tender flesh, relishing the chance to press himself close once more. “I don’t expect you to answer now. Whatever you decide, the necklace is yours.” She struggled to remain composed as the clasp snapped closed with a petite click that sounded to Elena like a prison door slamming shut. She shuddered as his hands went to the bare flesh of her neck, then inspiration struck. Slipping away, she left him lurching awkwardly after her as she pretended to glance at her watch. “Oh my goodness,” Elena said breathlessly, “I lose track of time being with you. I should put Joaquin to bed.” Armand plastered a smile into place as he ran one trembling hand through his hair. His face was flushed. “Of course, children require”—a hint of bitterness crept into his voice—“attention.” Elena led Armand back inside, her arm shooting out behind the count, signaling Alejandro to go!

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Deftly as a fox, he dropped onto the balcony behind them, his eyes burning with rage. He wanted to draw his sword, to challenge this man here and now—but a quick backward glance from Elena stilled the frenzy rising in his heart. Anger simmered in her eyes—tempered by concern. Whether that worry was for her precious count or for Alejandro himself, the masked man could not tell, but it was enough to calm him. Turning his back on the couple, he leaped from the balcony, landing squarely in Tornado’s saddle. A nasty trail of smoke threaded its way back to Alejandro and he started at the sight of the pipe dangling from Tornado’s fluttery lips, its red embers ablaze. He snatched it away and resisted the urge to give the stallion’s thick skull a good thumping. “How many times have I told you? Smoking will make you hoarse.” The stallion chuffed and blustered, but Alejandro tossed the pipe away and spurred his heels into Tornado’s flanks. The stallion galloped off, Alejandro staring at the moon and the stars, wondering—wondering—if that look of Elena’s just might have been meant for him. Despite his pain at seeing her with another man, his heart leaped at the thought.

Chapter 10

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he clock in the Town Square struck twelve times, its echoes ringing along the moonlit cobblestones of Stockton Street in San Francisco, where Elena cautiously prowled. This was the only stretch in which the Chinese had been allowed to rent rooms in the city when their migration began. She passed a Chinese couple who eyed her suspiciously, and saw the golden gleam of lanterns dim in windows as she hurried by. She knew that to many of those living here, she was fan kwai—a foreign devil—and might be seen as an agent of the hated police who brutalized and oppressed them in their homeland, simply because she was not Chinese. The street emptied into Portsmouth Square, where Elena crossed purposefully, colorful and exotic architecture springing into view. Large red pagoda-style arches and bronze lion statues breezed past as she hurried on. These building façades had been shipped section-by-section from the residents’ homeland transforming this area into what many called “Little China” or simply “Chinatown.” A rickshaw passed Elena, but it was not the one that had taken her this far. She always thought it best to be dropped off several blocks away from her true destination as a precaution; she had been followed before, after all. A ceremonial wreath adorned the door of a newly opened restaurant,

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a gift meant to wish the owners good fortune and prosperity. Attempting to steady her frayed nerves, Elena made a note to frequent the place in better times. She stopped before a curio shop, tapping lightly at the door. A wizened Chinese man with a single wisp of curling ghost-white hair greeted her, his black silk robe rustling like a dove’s wings—even though it bore the pattern of a fearsome jade dragon. His bare feet curled in the cool night air. “We’re closed,” hissed the merchant. “I was hoping to buy a gift for my ailing grandmother,” Elena announced, her skin growing clammy as her heart fluttered in her chest. She had to do this now, while her passions were high. But the merchant only stared at her impassively. She held firm a moment longer. Then his expression softened and he opened the door for her to enter. Good. They were here. The merchant—who did not give his name—led her through the darkened reaches of his shop. The ethereal tang of jasmine rose in the air and flickering candles cast yellowwhite light upon shelves overflowing with exotic curios. The light caressed the fat belly of a white porcelain laughing Buddha and leaped up the sides of a green and yellow enameled Hu shaped vase before settling comfortably upon its lion mask handles. The eyes of an Arita dragon peered at her from a center dish in a nearby display, while crowded between oil jars and ivory candle lamps, snuff and Cizhou bottles, wineglasses, vases, and silver spoons, stood the imperious form of Zhenwu, the Daoist God of the North. He was protector of the Ming Dynasty’s household, a god known as the Perfected Warrior who sported the attributes of both the turtle and the snake. Elena regarded the tiny statue with a sharp quick nod of respect, a gesture that was not lost on the elderly shopkeeper. He whispered an ancient prayer for her safety as he lifted a curtain to reveal the shop’s back room.

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Harrigan and Pike glanced up from their game of Mahjong and beamed broad false smiles at her as the old shopkeeper withdrew. “I’d offer you my chair, but I assume you’d find it patronizing,” Harrigan said in his reedy, ratlike voice. Harrigan chimed in with a nasty laugh and a condescending snort. She could smell the brute’s breath from halfway across the room. He was liquored up some, but nowhere near falling down drunk. Determined to remain businesslike, Elena strode to the table briskly, pulled out the handkerchief she carried, and deposited it on the table. “Armand received this tonight.” Slowly rubbing his hand over his meaty face, Pike stared down at the offering for a moment, as if contemplating how to best draw out the anticipation. Then he snatched it up, shook it out, and surveyed the etching. The muscles on one side of his face twitched and he handed it to his partner with a grave expression. Pike read it, his gaze narrowing as he looked back to Elena. “Who sent it?” Crossing her arms over her chest, Elena admitted, “I have no idea, but I think the colonel’s involved as well.” Harrigan nodded absently then waved one of his huge paws at her. “You’ll find a way to infiltrate the meeting tomorrow. At all costs.” Elena reeled with astonishment and gaped at her blackmailers. She’d hoped to buy her way out of her deal with these wretched men, not find herself in even deeper. She angrily waved her hand before Pike’s ugly face. “And how exactly am I supposed to do that—serve them tea?” With a raspy chuckle, Pike leaned back in his chair and rocked a bit, regaling Elena with a toothy grin. “You’re a resourceful woman, you’ll think of something.” Elena’s face blanched and her body went rigid as she realized that Pike was serious. “You have to let me tell Alejandro the truth.”

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Pike’s round face flushed with amusement. “Why on earth would we do that?” Harrigan blinked with incredulity. “He’s uncontrollable.” “He can help,” pleaded Elena. “I need his help. This is what he does.” Harrigan and Pike exchanged guarded looks, then shrugged and went back to their game, no longer interested in the woman standing before them. When Elena did not leave, Harrigan chided, “Oh, are you now defending the very virtues that were destroying your marriage?” “Or have you forgotten how unhappy you were?” Pike put in dryly. “Remember, we watched you for months before we recruited you.” Trembling with fury, Elena whipped her hand, sweeping the Mahjong pieces off the table, smashing them against the nearby wall. Harrigan snickered. “Now, now Elena, are we cross?” “He’s my husband!” she screamed. “You tore my family apart!” Exchanging bemused glances, the pair scooped up the scattered tiles and began replacing them on the board. “Well now, that’s a very sad story, señora,” Pike commiserated. Elena whirled and flung herself at the door. “Go to hell!” Clearing his throat, Harrigan added, “Here’s another: once there was a man who wore a black mask . . .” Elena froze, the breath catching in her throat. “He had many enemies,” continued Harrigan. “And one day, two handsome fellows . . .” He nodded at his partner. “Why, one of them looked like you.” “And the other like you,” Pike added with an appreciative wink. “They . . .’’—Harrigan drew quotations in the air with his thin fingers, revealing his hairy palms—“ ‘accidentally’ let

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it slip to the enemies of the masked man, that his real name was de la Vega.” “And that he had a son,” Pike put in helpfully. Elena’s face grew hot. She dug her nails into her palms and felt the veins in her neck pulse and swell dangerously. She begged God’s forgiveness for her overwhelming desire to slit the throats of these squealing pigs. “Of course, the story doesn’t have to end that way,” Harrigan offered off-handedly. “Report to us after the meeting, Elena,” ordered Pike, his attention drifting back to the game. “All our futures depend on it.” Elena’s tormentors did not look at her again. With a heavy heart, she left the back room, nodding once more at the temple idol and the sad merchant as she left the shop. A California flag whipped high above the barren desert in the warm breeze, the blistering sun beating down upon its rusting flagpole and the bright silver train tracks beside it. The gleaming tracks reached out boastfully, stretching far and wide until they vanished into the wavering horizon. Five heavy wagons creaked to a stop near the flag, Father Quintero disembarking from the first to lead an exodus of cranky, hot and tired students from their stifling reaches. The group gathered around the base of the flag, Joaquin nudging the pudgy arm of his pal Ricardo as he nodded toward the shady cover of a well. Once they were seated in the shadows, Joaquin quickly withdrew parchment and pencil. Using his books as a makeshift desk, the boy began a sketch of their know-it-all teacher waving his stick around, the man’s nose almost as long as the twisted cane. “Welcome to Bear Point, children,” said Father Quintero, flashing a superior grin. “It was on this desolate spot that our state flag was raised for the first time. Two days from now, our governor will be hosting a celebration here to honor California’s statehood—”

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Father Quintero broke off suddenly. Joaquin didn’t have to look up to know that his teacher had fixed on him. The older man’s gaze was a hot heavy weight that had suddenly been laid upon his shoulders, adding to the afternoon swelter. “Joaquin de la Vega,” snapped Father Quintero, “are you paying attention?” Tensing, Joaquin flashed his teacher a winning smile. “Bear Point,” Joaquin said quickly, scratching away with his pencil as he pretended to take notes. “Celebration. Got it.” Father Quintero spun on his heels, no easy task in the desert sand. Joaquin rolled his eyes to Ricardo as if to comment on their teacher’s meaningless bluster. The Bear Flag Revolt was a very minor skirmish in which the Californios killed two Americans. It was rumored that John C. Fremont, the noted adventurer, may have been on a secret mission for President Polk, who some believe wanted to provoke a war with Mexico to get and win California for the United States, like what had been done with Texas. Joaquin had learned more about history from reading the latest issue of Boys’ and Girls’ Magazine and Fireside Companion than he thought he ever would from listening to his teacher’s boring lectures. This field trip was a complete waste of time . . . Or was it? Joaquin’s brow suddenly furrowed as he stared deeply into the desert. Rolling clouds of sand blossomed in the distance, heralding the arrival of yet another horse-drawn wagon. Instinct, or perhaps simply boredom, drove Joaquin to study the wagon as it approached, his hand absently applying crosshatching to his sketch to keep up the illusion of note taking. There was nothing remarkable to note about the wagon—at first. But when it came close enough to cross the tracks and head toward the well, Joaquin bristled with sudden fury, snapping his pencil in two as he recognized the driver.

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Jacob McGivens. Cracking the reins, the scarred man drew the wagon up close to the well, his men hooting and hollering as they hopped off to fill their canteens. McGivens joined them, roughly shoving his way past the others to plunge his canteen into the bracing well water. Joaquin ignored the rough splashes that spit in his face. He glared at the murderer of Guillermo Cortez—or so everyone around town was saying—an outlaw with a price on his head, taking in the dark marvel of the man’s boldness and contempt. Father Quintero droned on. The other students barely showed any interest. Did no one else here recognize this man? How many gunslingers with wooden teeth and a cross seared into his skull happened about these parts every day? McGivens caught Joaquin’s look and nodded at the boys. “Scorcher of a day, ain’t it, kids?” Nodding, Joaquin shot him a disinterested smile. Though they had met before, Joaquin’s slingshot nearly costing the scarred man his chance to escape on Election Day, McGivens did not seem to recognize him. What should I do? wondered Joaquin as he battled his desperate desire to challenge the killer. Señor Zorro would never just plunge headfirst into something so serious. He would always have a plan—and then another plan and another in case something went wrong. I don’t have a single one . . . Father Quintero cleared his throat and called to the wagon men’s leader. “Is there something we can help you with, señor?” Tipping his hat, McGivens said, “Don’t let me interrupt the lesson, Father. Just on my way to do the Lord’s work.” A shudder ripped through Joaquin and his gaze narrowed at the sound of those words. McGivens was up to something.

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If only there was some way to figure out exactly what that was . . . Father Quintero nodded and continued his lecture, drawing the attention of all his other students while McGivens and his cutthroats laughed and growled nasty little jokes to each other. “That there Mexican in his dress is what I call a snorter,” McGivens declared with a throaty chuckle. Great gusts of laughter burst from his companions. Joaquin hated himself for agreeing with the gunman, but it was true. Father Quintero was like an easily agitated or excited horse. The man certainly brayed enough. Then it came to him: Now’s my chance. I can find out what these men are doing, where they are going, and give some helpful information to the padre for Señor Zorro . . . Silently, Joaquin crept to the gunman’s wagon and scurried beneath it. Studying the undercarriage, he quickly found hand and footholds. He secured himself to the frame just as the scarred man dunked his canteen in the water for the last time and mounted back up with his men. The wagon dipped lower to the ground with the weight of its passengers, pressing the back of Joaquin’s head against the sand. Adjusting his hold, Joaquin gasped as he heard the reins crack and felt the wagon bustle forward. As his back scraped the desert, he hauled himself higher into the underframe, turning his head to avoid the clouds of dust and stone that kicked up from a nearby wheel. He saw Ricardo looking around frantically, his gaze suddenly fixing right on him! Hanging by one arm, Joaquin pressed a finger to his lips and signaled his friend to keep quiet. Ricardo sat there frozen, only budging when Father Quintero led the other children away. The wagon rolled on, its undercarriage bouncing and creaking. The steady rhythm lulled Joaquin after a time

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and made him feel sleepy, the scorching heat rising from the desert floor enveloping him like a warm blanket. Joaquin knew that he would tumble to the ground if he relaxed his grip and that McGivens or one of his men would certainly spot him scrambling on the otherwise empty stretch behind the wagon—provided he wasn’t first ground to a pulp beneath one of the heavy churning wooden wheels. Struggling to clear his head, Joaquin focused beyond the racket of the wagon wheels and listened for any sounds that might give clues to the route McGivens was taking. In one of the many tales of Zorro the padre had told Joaquin, the masked man was captured and taken to an enemy’s secret stronghold for questioning. The sounds he’d heard while locked in a chest strapped atop a rocking wagon allowed him to deduce exactly where they had gone, so when the opportunity presented itself for the hero to send a message for help, he’d been able to give his exact location. Joaquin heard a banging. Some thumps. More banging. Eventually he heard the distinctive caw of a seagull, and noticed that the heat was drying up, the ground beneath them hardening. A steady roar sounded in the distance, the gentle and rhythmic rise and fall of waves. They were heading for the shore. Another wagon approached. Joaquin heard the ricketyclack-rickety-clack of its wheels. Raised voices burst from above. “Say now, preacher!” called McGivens in a shrill mocking voice. “Save any souls today? Make yourself some money? The Lord wouldn’t want you and your boy there going without, now would he? Gotta keep your strength up, stay well fed, make your clothing nice and fine as an inspiration to others, yes! Something the lowly masses can aspire to, don’t you know.” He laughed. “My daddy was a preacher man. He done taught me everything I needed to know about

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the mysteries of the Almighty. You do the same for that boy of yours, maybe someday he’ll reward you same way I did my pappy.” McGivens released a hailstorm of mad cackles, which his men dutifully and promptly echoed. Through it all, the pair on the other wagon remained dead quiet. Smart choice, thought Joaquin. For some reason, McGivens had been looking for a fight, as if the preacher’s wagon had been set in his path to test him. Another man, this one with a drawl thick as molasses muttered, “So—did ya get your pappy a present?” There was nothing but silence from above. Joaquin pictured McGivens’s men exchanging cold cruel looks. A jarring thwap jolted the quiet, McGivens slapping his companion on the back. “Well, Horatio, that there’s a tale, and it’s got itself a lesson at the end, a moral if you will,” expounded McGivens. “Like a sermon. You mind if I sermonize with you a moment?” “Sure, boss,” Horatio said brightly. Joaquin listened carefully as the scarred, wooden-teethed madman settled into his story. “I suppose you’ve noticed this here scar of mine,” said Jacob McGivens. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t born this way. This mark is my cross to bear for the rest of my days, have no doubt. But it wasn’t the Lord who gave it to me. Like so many things, I have my pappy to thank for it. He made damn sure that I wouldn’t be able to look into a mirror without thinking of him. “What was my sin, you ask? I did what was asked of me, what the Lord meant for me to do. I just did it a little too well, that’s all . . . “Like I said, daddy was a preacher man. Fire and brimstone. The End of Days. I must have been the only young’n in history to have the four horsemen rocking my little crib at night. I worshipped my pappy. What son doesn’t? I watched

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him in the pulpit, the veins about to pop out of his head as he preached, white knuckles on his fists . . . why, you’d think he’d caught evil incarnate in his grasp and was choking the life from it the way he carried on. “It wasn’t enough for me to just watch my pappy. I wanted to be just like him. I had the face of an angel in those days. You wouldn’t believe it, but it’s true, I swear it on the same stack o’ Bibles I’d stick under your feet ’fore I kicked ’em loose and hung you dead. Can I get an amen?” “Amen!” his men shouted. “Good. Keep that up. I knew the sermons and I shouted them from the sidelines. It wasn’t long before the people started noticing me, and started listening more to me than to my pappy. He thought it was right funny, at first. But I made him proud and we both knew it. That was all I wanted, all that mattered to me. Hell, I don’t even know if I believed in the Almighty in those days, my pappy, he was God enough, far as I was concerned. His face was the mountain, his the glory. “When he dressed me up right and put me in front of the pulpit, our congregation grew. People flocked from all around to hear me. In the space of six months, we’d gone from livin’ in a shack to rentin’ the finest house on the highest hill in town. “That was right about when my pappy started drinkin’. He told me, ‘I’m gonna take your act’—that’s what he called it—‘on the road! We’ll let people far and wide glory in the way the Lord has touched you.’ I wanted to be happy about that, but there was anger in his eyes, what I now understand was jealousy. “We traveled for years. I saw wonders. I also saw tragedies that done broke my heart. I so wanted to lay my hands on the hurts of all them poor sufferin’ people and heal them with a simple prayer. I told my pappy that, and a strange light came into his eyes. ‘Well, son, that there is an idea,’ he said. ‘Maybe we should try that.’

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“At our next revival, he brought a cripple to the stage and said, ‘Jacob, pray for this poor lost soul. Put your hands on him and let the light of the Lord flow into him.’ I did—and he walked. At the next town I healed a blind man. After that, it was just a blur. But on my tenth birthday, my pappy brought out the dead man. I hadn’t thought much about this laying on of hands. It pleased my pappa and that was enough. But when I stepped up to that corpse, I was scared as scared could be. I’d seen my share of bodies. You can’t travel this land without runnin’ afoul of ’em, you just can’t. But pappy wanted me to touch this one and try to place the spark of life in his cold form. I knew that to be a blasphemy. “I didn’t weep or nothin’. I just looked at my pappy and he looked at me. ‘Go on, now,’ he told me. I did what he wanted. And the dead man rose. It happened again in the next town, again in the next state. The Lord had touched me with the power to truly work miracles in His name and my pappy, watching the way the people lined up, puttin’ down their money whether they could afford to or not, he just got angrier, meaner . . . “One night, just before a sermon was about to begin, I realized that I’d left my lucky cross behind. Fellas, you might recognize it if you saw it, you’ve seen its shape many times . . . “I went to fetch it, and walked in on my daddy playin’ gin rummy with a corpse. Well, he looked like a corpse. His skin was pale, he had dark hollows under his eyes . . . his skin had little flecks of ice on it. I thought about that cooler we carried around for meats and stuff, and realized all someone had to do was sit in it a few minutes and their skin would feel like a dead man’s. “My world ended in that moment. Everything I had believed in was a lie. By God how I hated my pappy then. He had betrayed me, he’d made a damned fool of me by turning my belief in God into his own little joke, and worse of all he

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made me question if any of my beliefs could possibly be true. And fool that I was, I told him so. There was still some of the old fire and brimstone left in him, I’ve got to say, ’cause he fought like a dog, a lantern got kicked over, and unholy hellfire burst up around us. My cross got in his hand somehow, and he held me down while he dangled it in those flames, and when it was glowing as crimson bright as the devil’s eyes, he branded me with it. “Don’t ask me how I escaped. Let’s just say it was by the grace of the Lord. “I wandered far and wide in the days that followed. Some people took pity on me. Others shrank at the sight on my ugly face. I didn’t much care what any of ’em did. Nothin’ mattered much to me, not life, not death. I knew my pappy was alive out there somewhere, but I didn’t even care about that, or so I told myself. It wasn’t until I was twenty years old, standing before the majesty that is Niagara Falls, that I witnessed somethin’ that made me live again. “It was ole Sam Patch—a crazy man, if ya think about it—what they call a daredevil. He saddled up and leaped clean over the falls and lived to tell the tale. I’m here to tell ya that no one, less’n he was touched by God his own self, could do a thing like that. I reckoned in that moment that I was at a crossroads. I’d spent ten years of my life believin’ in the Almighty, and ten years believin’ in nothing at all. I thought about what Sam must have felt in that moment when he made his jump and knew he must’a come as close to heaven as any man ever had, and I made my choice. “The rapture of the Lord moved through me like it never had before. From that day on, I lived each day as if I could not fail. I knew He was guidin’ my hand. How else could you explain the way I found my pappy again so easy after all those years? In just a matter of weeks I had tricked that sorry bastard into meeting me by the falls. He didn’t know it was me that had sent a message to him and he thought there was

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money in it. I hadn’t become a vindictive man, no sir. I promised my pappy a reward and I delivered. “I gave him a gift. I let him experience the pure heaven that Sam Patch had felt on his glorious day. ’Course, he had to experience it after I’d tossed him off the platform. And he was screamin’ so loud the whole way down, that I can only hope that gift was received in the spirit in which it was meant. The moral of the tale, my dear friends? That naturally, life is a precious gift. Death can be one, too. It just depends on whether on not you’re the one metin’ it out . . .” An explosive roar rocked the wagon. The horses whinnied and Joaquin saw something fall next to the wheels and roll aside. One of McGivens’s men. Horatio. “What’d you expect, askin’ a damn fool question like that?” McGivens asked, just before bursting into another bellow of obscene laughter. Beneath the wagon, Joaquin shuddered. His idea of evil came from his childish images of pirates and smugglers. He could see now that he hadn’t had a clue before about the true nature of evil. The wagon came to a jarring halt. Joaquin held on, his muscles burning, his head throbbing, his mouth sore and raw. None of that would have mattered to Señor Zorro, and so Joaquin told himself that these minor discomforts should mean nothing to him. He was having an adventure! Waiting until McGivens and all his men disembarked and walked ahead, Joaquin dropped to the ground. He rolled and scrambled out behind the wagon, peering up cautiously from its rear to take in his surroundings. To one side, the twisting road hugged the high hills, tracing a low path around them, while on the other it plunged down a sheer cliff wall toward a terrifying watery abyss. Joaquin could see the rippling foam of the ocean from here. McGivens and his posse gathered near the cliff’s edge, where two more men stood next to a gigantic wooden crane.

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The entire group peered down at something that stoned them into silence. Joaquin raced up a small bank and climbed to a crop of rocks looming above, his vantage now high enough to allow him a glimpse of what had so enthralled the scarred preacher man and his mercenaries. He gasped as he beheld a secret cove knotted into the beach, high stone ridges reaching around its shallow waters like the protective arms of a craggy gray Goliath. Men from small rowboats carried crates to the base of the cliff, others signaling to those aboard a three-sailed shipping vessel anchored off the shore. “Let’s go,” growled McGivens to his entourage. The fiery hand of the sun reached down and clasped the flesh at the back of Joaquin’s neck as he settled back among the sheltering stones and tried to get comfortable. The heat seared the tips of his ears red while he watched the men go about their business. Sighing, he wished he’d worn a hat. His fear filtered out of him gradually as tedium took over. McGivens and his crew set about the task of hauling their crates up the cliff with the same soulless and drab exchanges that often accompanied any such operation, legitimate or not. Perhaps after McGivens’s story—and the fate of poor Horatio—everyone was simply afraid to open their mouths when it wasn’t completely necessary. Time stretched slowly, and soon McGivens was below, supervising with his Henry Repeater in hand as a load of crates were hauled up the cliff. Leaning his rifle against a rock, he wiped his brow and swigged some water. The last of the rowboats drifted back to the great ship, which was now hauling anchor. Joaquin dug his hand into his shirt pocket, his fingers closing around a handful of hard candies he had snatched from the kitchen this morning. He wanted something to do, and eating, even when he wasn’t particularly hungry, would at least help pass the time. Popping a sloppy handful of the candies into his mouth,

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Joaquin watched as below, two men at the top of the cliff strained to operate the hand-cranked wooden crane, the mechanism’s central cable looped over a pulley at the top. He saw a fleck of emerald out of the corner of his eye and gasped as a scaly iguana sprang onto his hand, drawn by the sweetness he held. Shaking the lizard off, Joaquin whipped the remaining candies high into the air. One smacked the crane’s heavy hand-crank, and the workers whirled even as he scrambled low behind the stones for cover. He waited, sweat soaking his eyes, his arms blossoming with goosebumps despite the heat, then cautiously peered out again. Strange. Now only one man was operating the hand crack. A low growl that sounded as threatening as a mountain coyote rumbled behind Joaquin. He spun—and a huge filthy hand closed over his face. Another hand hooked around his suspenders and suddenly he was hauled into the open, the first hand retreated then returned, and with it, the flashing edge of a blade settling in against his throat. He squirmed anyway as he was dragged down the bank and pitched onto the ground in front of the second machine operator. Joaquin stared up at a pair of men possessing identical sneers, though the muscle-bound thug who had grabbed him also sported a bushy black beard, while his companion had a silver goatee. “What’re you doin’ here, kid?” demanded old bushy face. Joaquin’s hands closed over fistfuls of dirt as he defiantly glared at the duo. “Lookin’ at two of the ugliest guys I ever saw.” The bushy-faced man hauled Joaquin off the ground, his white-knuckled fist reeling back to deliver a blow certain to take the boy’s head off. Before the punch could be thrown, Joaquin’s hands whipped out, clouds of dirt flying from them, sailing like angry hornets into both men’s eyes. As they lurched and staggered back, Joaquin head-butted one and smacked his elbow into the other’s neck. Falling free, he hit the ground and scrambled away, but

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his frantic motions only gained him a few scant yards toward the cliff’s edge before the loud angry scrape of steel on steel sang grotesquely behind him. He shot a panicked look over his shoulder and was frozen by the horrible sight of the bushy-faced man charging after him, drawing his deadly sabre. The weapon’s steel length glinted in the sun as the howling man closed the distance between them and raised the weapon to strike a killing blow. There must be a way to stop him, thought Joaquin. What would Señor Zorro do? A high sharp creaking arrested the mercenary’s attention just as his companion caught up with him. Grunting, both men spun, their spines stiffening in surprise. Joaquin heard a fluttering like giant wings, a bold whipping of air, and saw a black shape unfurl beyond his assailants. A heavy boot caught the heads of both men, the blow hurling them over Joaquin—to tumble off the top of the cliff. El Zorro swung in from the crane cable and landed before the boy with a grin as the screams of the falling men echoed from below. Joaquin and his hero cut quick looks over the cliff’s edge as the bodies crashed onto the beach next to the startled McGivens. With a great moan, the dangling platform began to fall—then it snapped into place and swung like a pendulum, held fast by the crane’s emergency braking system. Smiling down at McGivens, Zorro took a bow. “Guard the crates!” bellowed the startled McGivens who frantically tossed up his hands to signal the lazy dogs he’d employed to climb the rocky cliff with him. “Omigod,” Joaquin cried, “you’re Z—” Zorro cut him off with a high sharp whistle. The brush rustled and Tornado galloped toward them as Joaquin stumbled back in awe. Zorro crossed to the stallion. Low and in Spanish—a concession he was willing to make considering the urgency at hand—he commanded, “Take him over the hill and wait for me there.”

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Amazingly, Tornado knelt down, allowing Zorro to lift the startled, yet elated Joaquin into the saddle. There was so much Joaquin wanted to say to his hero, but words failed him. He clung to the stallion’s neck as Tornado galloped off. Leaping onto the cable, Zorro effortlessly slid down its length and gracefully landed on the beach behind the guards. He tapped them on the shoulders, balled his hands into fists, and knocked both out cold as they turned to face him. Adjusting his mask, Alejandro stared down at the fallen men. You have no idea how close you came to meeting the point of my sword. If anything at all had happened to my boy . . . Blanca Cortez’s cries as she cradled her husband’s lifeless body suddenly echoed in his thoughts. How many more grieving widows would there be if he did not learn exactly what was going on? Moving fast to a crate, Zorro caught sight of a strange brand emblazoned on the lid: a blazing-eyed serpent murderously coiled around the globe. Though he’d never encountered the odd symbol before, the sight of it filled him with uneasiness. Reminded of the many harbingers of El Diablo that his brother had warned him against when he was a boy, Zorro decided that he had to know what would be contained in a box bearing such a brand. Prying open the crate, he reached inside and felt row after row of tightly packed rectangular objects. Yanking one free, he hauled it out and examined at his prize. Resting in his gloved hand was a bar of soap. He sniffed it, utterly baffled. It smelled ordinary enough. “Soap . . .” whispered the astonished Zorro. Frowning, he slipped the bar in his pouch, then whirled at a glint of harsh sunlight on silver. He grinned. McGivens had left his Henry Repeater propped up against a nearby rock. A plan instantly forming in his mind, he snatched it up, picturing McGivens’s ugly face when the man realized what was going on. “You

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shouldn’t leave your toys lying around. You never know what might happen . . .” A few minutes later, McGivens and his men breathlessly crested the top of the cliff and stumbled near the edge where they peered down at the pair of spread-eagle guards Zorro had laid out on the beach. Zorro waved at them once more, laughing as McGivens hurled his hat to the ground and stomped it underfoot. Zorro moved to the cover of low brush while the men were distracted, effectively vanishing from their view. He carefully made his way up the hill without being seen—as the mercenaries skidded and slid down it. Once they had traded places again, Zorro made himself comfortable and watched his enemy. McGivens ignored the fallen men, clearly not caring if they were alive or dead, his attention rooted to the heavy crates. He trudged toward them, exhausted and frustrated, and did not see the taut rope Zorro had strung like a tripwire until his boot struck it. McGivens yelped in surprise and stumbled as an explosion roared, the barrels of his Henry Repeater—wedged between a pair of heavy rocks—burning brightly as the rope squeezed the weapons’ triggers. The blast severed the emergency cable holding the hovering platform in place. The scarred gunman hurled himself out of the way of the howling rain of explosive debris as the platform crashed down, flattening the rest of the shipment with the crackling report of heavy thunder. But two of his men were not so lucky, the machinery smashed down on them, crushing them like flies. Zorro whistled as the trembling McGivens drew himself up from the sand and craned his head upward. Peering down at the killer, Zorro raised his hat in a mocking salute and strolled off, grinning at the thought of the murderous glare McGivens was surely sending his way. He quickly reached the rendezvous, the humid wind rustling amidst the bluffs as he crested the hill and found

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Joaquin sitting beneath the shelter of a towering tree, wincing at a small cut on his arm while Tornado stood vigil beside him. Spotting a fallen twig, Zorro snapped it under his boot. The boy whirled and Zorro nodded to him without breaking stride. He strode to the stallion, flipped open a pouch on Tornado’s saddle, and placed the bar of soap inside. Removing a flask and a patch of bandaging gauze, he turned to face his son. “I—I can’t believe it’s you!” Joaquin stammered excitedly. “You’re really Zorro!” Alejandro tended to his son’s arm, flinching when the boy flinched, the fabric of his mask burning against his skin. His heart ached with yearning. He wanted to tell Joaquin that he was Zorro more than he wanted anything else—but it was a selfish desire. “M-hmmm,” Zorro grumbled. If he said too much, his son might recognize his voice. “I mean—whoa!” Joaquin cried as Zorro cleaned his wounded then wrapped the bandage tight. Zorro stepped away from the boy, his ministrations at an end. He went to Tornado and placed the flask and the gauze he had not used in the saddle pouch. When he looked back, Joaquin was studying him expectantly. “You gonna say something, or what?” the lad asked, disappointment creeping into his tone. You don’t know how much I want to, thought Alejandro. Then it came to him. What was Joaquin doing here, anyway? Alejandro’s hand rose and brushed against the mask of Zorro. He was the keeper of a great legacy, one he could not betray that had been born in spirit in his homeland of Spain. Wait, yes . . . Spain! Proudly, Zorro whirled and proclaimed in his native tongue, “Let’s speak Spanish, the language of our fathers.” Joaquin stared at him—and saw only the legend. Only Zorro. Alejandro never spoke Spanish around his son. It was the perfect cover, the ideal solution.

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“My mom won’t believe it,” he said, his wide eyes brimming with excitement and pride. Alejandro felt as if a dagger hewn from ice had slipped between his ribs. “It would be better if you didn’t tell your mother about this.” Joaquin’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why not?” “I’m the one asking the questions,” said Zorro, his smile beaming with confidence. “Now, why aren’t you at school?” “The man with the scar on his face, I knew he was up to something,” Joaquin revealed. In moments, he had told the entire story. Eyes sparkling, Joaquin yelped, “You really showed that sonofabitch—” Zorro lightly slapped Joaquin’s arm. “Watch your mouth, eh? This isn’t a game, your father would have a heart attack if he saw what happened here.” Joaquin frowned. “No he wouldn’t, he doesn’t care . . . yesterday he forgot about me.” Alejandro froze, wondering if his guilt shone through his mask. “I don’t think he forgot, niño . . . what you have to understand is—” Joaquin bolted to his feet and rushed to Zorro, waiting desperately for an answer. “Nothing,” Alejandro relented. “Your father should’ve been there. Next time he will be.” “How do you know?” asked Joaquin. “I know,” Alejandro assured him powerfully. “I know. I promise.” Joaquin surged ahead, wrapping his arms around Zorro’s back, hugging him as tightly as he could. “Gracias, Zorro,” murmured Joaquin. Alejandro’s hands wavered over his son’s head, his back—then closed over the boy. In that moment, Alejandro’s heart soared. He felt as if his spirit had been borne aloft by this simple gesture and he was dizzy, invigorated with happiness. Joaquin’s love was his at last. A sudden lancing pain burned within him.

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No, thought Alejandro, it is Señor Zorro he loves. If only I could tell him the truth! Joaquin tensed and began to pull away, as if he knew that something had changed. Alejandro’s arms tightened around Joaquin’s small frame as he crushed the boy close, unwilling to let this moment end so quickly. A day will come, Alejandro vowed, when I will never have to let go again. For now, that would be enough.

From the Confessions of Joaquin de la Vega

<

I am never changing out of these clothes again so long as I live. That’s it. What’s that you say, padre? Bathing? No, bathing’s not likely. Food? Sleep? Ha-ha, you’re very funny. You have to understand: I rode on Tornado. I fought side-by-side with Señor Zorro. Okay, okay, don’t look at me like that. I was about to get my butt whipped and he saved me. But there was a fight and I was there, so it counts for something. Maybe I am muy loco, but what does that matter? Señor Zorro, he came for me. He remembered my courage on Election Day, and now, he watches over me. And maybe if I can show him how much good I can do, he’ll bring me a mask of my own before long! Ah . . . If only I could talk to my mama about this. But she never seems to want to hear anything about Señor Zorro. It makes no sense to me. And she is gone so much lately, I’m just left off by myself . . . Yes, you’re right, I spend a lot of time with Ricardo and my other friends, it’s not all mama’s fault. What? Go right home, wait for her, find something we can talk about, just

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spend some time together? I suppose that is a smart idea, especially before she hears from Father Quintero that I ran off during the class trip. That’s not going to make her happy at first, and I am sorry about that, but I know she’ll be proud of me in the end for helping Señor Zorro . . . I mean—what boy doesn’t want to make his mama happy, eh? Gotta run, padre!

Chapter 11

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A

n ornate chandelier radiating a warm comforting bronze glow peered down at the mission library’s long central table where the excited Felipe poured over tome after tome written in Latin, while Alejandro rummaged among the stacks for any volume that might contain the strange symbol he had glimpsed. Felipe’s long fingers scratched an itch upon his belly. Alejandro smiled, well aware that it was the tattered scarlet silk sash wound about the padre’s waist beneath his habit that was once again irritating his skin. Felipe was, after all, a “Mexican Franciscan” who’d been born in the saddle. It wasn’t that long ago that he went out on moonlit rides with the younger men of the mission, lassoing grizzlies and chasing deer across the plains. The sash was a reminder of those exuberant days. Gazing about the copper-gilded room, Alejandro was always amazed at how cluttered and untidy Felipe kept this place. High teetering stacks of books reached from floor to ceiling next to the overflowing shelves, while slow moving clouds of dust drifted through the air and sluggishly attempted to creep down his throat whenever he drew a breath. The rot of old pulp was cloying, and spiders nested near the ceiling. All that aside, this chamber was a mystery, because while

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it showed all the outward signs of neglect, the stacks always displayed different titles, and the scrolls moved from table to table . . . It was as if a scholar or scribe used this place for an engrossing, ongoing research project but wanted few to be aware of his efforts. Ah, well, Alejandro mused, gazing at Felipe. You have kept my secrets, Padre. You’re certainly entitled to a few of your own. With a cry of triumph, Felipe jumped up from the table. He grasped a heavy tome and hauled it from a high shelf. Whipping it around, he slammed it on the closest table, kicking up even more dust. Alejandro lowered his candle close to the book’s cover and read its title: “Enemies of the Church.” “And they are many,” said Felipe gravely. “Now let us see if we can find the right one.” Pulling up a chair, Felipe perched before the volume and flipped it open. He rifled through the pages, growling in frustration at how long it was taking him to find the symbol Alejandro had described. “I haven’t read this since my seminary training . . .’’ Felipe admitted sheepishly. Tensing, he flattened the book open to reveal a yellow crinkled page marred by a blood red rendering of a serpent twisting about the globe. Alejandro glanced at the page and nodded at the ornate engraving. “That’s it.” While Felipe skimmed the text below the drawing, Alejandro paced behind him, contemplating the bar of soap he had stolen from McGivens. “It makes no sense—the explosion was like hell on earth. I thought the shipment would explain why, and all I find is this.” Fray Felipe urgently tapped the page with the bizarre and disturbing marking. “You’re sure this was the symbol on the crate?” Nodding, Alejandro read over the padre’s shoulder. “ ‘Orbis Unum’?”

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Felipe sighed with frustration. “Latin. It means ‘One World.’ It represents the Knights of Aragon, an ancient brotherhood who ruled over Europe in secrecy since the crusades.” Alejandro started in surprise. “You are telling me . . . that Armand is a knight?” Felipe sifted through the pages, studying drawings of fearsome men wearing grotesque masks over their armor as they committed wholesale slaughter amidst blazing battlefields. Some wore the crosses of crusaders. “More than a knight,” Felipe explained. His eyes fixed in a squint, he read on. “They’re a brotherhood of assassins responsible for overthrowing and controlling some of the most powerful kingdoms in Europe.” He set his expression gravely. “If they’ve come to America, they’re here for one reason only . . . to destroy it.” Silence ominously stretched between them. Both men exchanged confused glances. Together they cried, “With soap?” Golden sunlight danced along the symphony conductor’s baton as the musicians seated on the boardwalk before him triumphantly exploded with Schumann’s Fantasie in A minor for Piano and Orchestra. Clarinets and flutes, timpani, cymbals and violins accompanied the passionate performance of the wild-haired Austrian pianist whose lightning-quick hands ravaged the keys, bringing excited gasps from the dozens of women seated in the audience— and low chortles of delight from the gentlemen accompanying them. Children played under rows of hanging lanterns, a few chasing one another past a sign that read, “Symphony by the Sea—A Free Concert for the People.” A row of open tents looked out from the rear of the crowd, the highest-ranking members of Californian society seated here to enjoy the

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shade as well as the cool sea breezes as the symphony played on. The rear façades of hotels and other businesses stood on a right angle to the tents. Many of their occupants peered down at the concert from second floor vantages. “When you invited me to the symphony, you didn’t tell me you were sponsoring it,” Elena said, clasping her hands together excitedly from her seat within the most wellappointed tent of them all. “I’m impressed.” Sitting beside her, Armand attempted to shrug off the compliment, but his generous smile revealed that he was pleased. “In Europe, the fine arts are enjoyed by everyone, regardless of means.” He gestured at the pianist. “Leopold de Meyer. Magnificent, wouldn’t you say? He carries notices from critics no less esteemed than Longfellow himself, who said, ‘The lion-pianist from Vienna, who when he plays, seems to be dipping his hands into liquid music, and shaking the notes off the ends of his fingers like drops of water.’ Who am I to disagree with such an appraisal?” Elena’s smile grew even brighter. “Speaking of great poets, I also wanted to thank you for your letter to Emerson. If he could extend his lecture tour and speak here—seeing what is happening in California during his stay—I know it would help the cause of my people.” “Then it is equally important to me.” He took her hand in both of his. A glint of light flashed across her face. Squinting, she looked up for the source and spotted it immediately: a nearby hotel window had just been cracked open, the blazing sunlight reflecting off the glass. Elena’s breath quickened. Harrigan and Pike peered down from the open hotel window. At precisely the same moment, they smiled and tipped their hats to Elena. Wretches, she thought, anger overcoming her surprise. She composed herself instantly and looked away from her watchers, refusing to let Armand observe her distress. For-

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tunately, an attendant in a burgundy jacket chose that moment to enter the tent and lean in close to Armand. “Señor, a message has been left for you at the harbor kiosk,” announced the attendant. The faint worry lines creasing Armand’s rugged cheeks deepened. He shrugged in confusion, then rose as he nodded to his beloved. “Forgive me, darling, I won’t be a moment.” The minute he had gone, Elena shot a look at the hotel window. Harrigan and Pike hadn’t moved, though their false smiles had faded. The tent flap behind Elena rustled. Tensing, Elena slid her hand down, reaching for a thin silver dagger strapped to her thigh. She’d seen the way Ferroq had been staring at her this morning, and had no intention of allowing him to threaten her without consequence. “Don’t turn around,” demanded a familiar voice. Elena’s eyes widened suddenly, her hand darting back from her weapon. Alejandro was here—and her “handlers” could see it all. “Get out of here, Alejandro.” A low growl of frustration rumbled behind her. “Listen to me,” Alejandro pleaded, “there’s no time, you’re in danger if you stay with Armand.” “I’m in danger if I don’t,” explained Elena. “So are you, now go!” He did not leave. “There’s a reason you’re not talking to me, what is it?” The veins in her neck stood out in livid ridges. “I’m telling you to go now!” But even as she said it, she knew he would not budge. She gazed in the distance, wondering what Armand was doing—and how long she had before he returned. This had better be important, thought Armand as he stalked toward the white paneled kiosk sporting the banner that read, “Hospitality.” Two young men barely old enough to shave stood within it, one grinning at an attractive young

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Spanish woman with a red rose in her hair. The other, an olive-skinned youth with long hair framing his face and a mariachi guitar resting next to him, immediately snapped to attention, handing Armand an envelope. “Thank you,” said Armand. He tore open the envelope and withdrew a card. His face went dark as he stared at it, then shifted his gaze back to the young man who had delivered the envelope. “Who gave this to you?” “A man,” the youth murmured, suddenly alarmed by the intensity burning in his guest’s eyes. “Tall, dark-haired, well-dressed.” “You didn’t recognize him?” Shaking his head, the youth said, “Honestly, he could have been anyone . . . Anyone at all.” “What are you involved in?” demanded Alejandro. Elena’s temple suddenly throbbed. Sighing, she allowed her long fingers to caress the area, but the gesture did little to relieve the unbelievable pressure thrusting down on her. “Trust me, I’m begging you—” Alejandro gripped her shoulder. “Whatever Armand’s making in that vineyard, it isn’t wine. If we don’t find out what it is tonight, it’ll be too late—” Elena’s hands balled into fists as she craned her neck and peered over her shoulder at him. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” He recoiled as if he had been shot, his eyebrows flying up, his look of astonishment quickly replaced by a look of frustration, as if he were talking to a stubborn child, not an equal. A scowl played across Elena’s darkly beautiful face. Of course you believe you know exactly what is best for everyone. You always do. Alejandro jerked back his hand, as if stung by the venom in her gaze. “Oh yes I do, I’m going to the vineyard—with or without you.”

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Applause suddenly swelled from the audience as the symphony’s final notes were played. Elena looked around and her back arched as she sensed her companion approaching. Her nerves suddenly screaming, she hissed, “Armand’s coming back! Go!” She heard Alejandro mutter a curse in Spanish, then whip away into the shadows. The tent’s flap rustled moments later and Armand appeared, his eyes dark with frustration. Elena’s heart skipped a beat. Had he seen Alejandro? She smiled up at him with a calm she did not feel. “Is everything all right?” asked Elena, her dark eyes suddenly filled with concern. “You look upset.” Armand hesitated—then delivered a forced smile along with a gentlemanly flourish of his hands. “Disappointed. That I missed the finale.” Ferroq appeared behind him. “The carriage is waiting,” Ferroq said flatly. “After you, my dear,” urged Armand. Smiling, Elena glanced up to the window where Harrigan and Pike had stood seconds ago, but nothing remained of them. Her heart in her throat, Elena left the tent. Armand remained behind to confer with Ferroq. He leaned in for a private word, handing his servant the envelope he had retrieved. “This was left for me,” whispered Armand. Ferroq opened the envelope. On a piece of paper, a single letter was printed: “Z.” “Someone may be feeding information to this . . . Zorro,” Armand said, his quiet fury darkening his face. “Get word to McGivens: if we have a traitor, I want him found.” Ferroq glanced in the direction of the carriage—and Elena. He looked back and took a deep breath before asking, “Sir, what if it’s a woman?” Armand’s face flushed, his nostrils flared. His hand closed over Ferroq’s shoulder, squeezing hard enough to

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make his servant wince. Ferroq’s knees buckled and he nearly cried out under the viselike, punishing grip. With a withering stare, Armand delivered a cruel smile and said evenly, “I’ll forgive your inference, because your service to my family has earned you the right to speak freely.” Ferroq stumbled back as his master released him. Striding swiftly, Armand quickly caught up with Elena, who took his arm and laughed as they walked to the carriage together. Hanging his head, Ferroq moved to join them. Though he said nothing else about it, he watched Elena closely—determined to find out if his instincts about her were true. Ever since he was a child, Irvin Harrington loved playing games. His favorite was Hide and Seek because he almost never lost, his thin frame and unremarkable features allowing him to go practically anywhere unnoticed. So it was today, as he threaded through the crowds on the San Francisco streets, following Alejandro de la Vega. Hansoms had proved hard to come by when the don had first emerged from the grounds housing the outdoor music event, and so the man had hurried along several blocks in search of an available ride. Harrigan grinned, one hand easing toward a ring on his opposite hand. He caressed the dull black gem rising from the silver band, popping open its false façade to reveal a sharp needle. Surging ahead, he bumped into the don, the needle biting into his victim’s wrist. As expected, de la Vega hadn’t noticed the tiny bite of the needle any more than he might have been troubled by an insect bite. “Excuse me,” Harrigan said solicitously before he breezed off into the crowd. He watched from a safe distance as a hansom carriage creaked into view at the corner. De la Vega ran for it, one hand raised to hail the driver. “Mission Santa Lucia, hurry!” ordered Alejandro fiercely. Harrigan smiled as he saw de la Vega stumble while

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climbing into the carriage, hesitating a moment before climbing in. Shaking his head, he flung himself into the carriage’s scarlet-lined depths. Grinning, Harrigan observed with great pleasure as de la Vega leaned against the window and the hansom snaked into traffic, the don’s eyes fluttering, his head obviously growing light. De la Vega fought the effects of the drug coursing wildly through his system, but the carriage had only traversed a hundred feet before he slumped unconscious in his seat. As the coach drew near the spot where Harrigan stood, his companion peered down from the reins and tipped his hat to Harrigan. Forcing back a laugh, Harrigan climbed aboard. “Pike, old friend, you do me proud,” Harrigan said. The big, brutish man nodded, as if their success had been assured the moment they came up with their plan. Which, after all, it had. The carriage rambled down the busy street, hiding in plain sight until the city’s hustle and bustle swallowed it whole. Fistfuls of proud white clouds gathered against the soft blue of the late afternoon sky as Armand’s ornate carriage creaked to a halt before Hacienda de la Vega. The driver reined in his horses while Ferroq rode beside him, his features set in his perpetual scowl. Armand stepped out, offering his hand to Elena. “I had a wonderful time,” she said with a wistful sigh as she took his hand and stepped down from the coach. She caught his unconscious appraising gaze as he took in her home for the first time, a slight flicker of his brows signaling that he was impressed, though he would never admit such a thing. She had not liked the idea of coming here with Armand, but he had insisted on having his driver take her. Armand’s eyes clouded with disappointment as they stood

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together on the winding walkway to her home. “Unfortunate that it has to end.” Elena’s eyebrow arched invitingly. “Does it?” “Some colleagues of mine will be arriving from Europe this evening,” Armand admitted, the words dropping gloomily from his lips. “Our meeting may run late, perhaps I might see you for breakfast?” She nodded, her stomach muscles contracting like a fist. She had to be on hand for that meeting—the lives of her family depended on it. Armand shuffled off, his gaze cast downward in disappointment, again looking like an overgrown child. “I can’t wait that long,” Elena cried breathlessly, rushing to him. “I . . . I want to be your wife, Armand.” He gasped in surprise. Pulling Elena into his arms, he kissed her passionately, his lips tasting of wine and exotic spices. There was a danger in this, Elena knew. Once, she truly had wanted this man. A wave rose in her heart and threatened to crest within her brain, clearing away her reason in its wake. But as their lips slowly, tantalizingly parted, she looked beyond Armand into the dark cold accusing eyes of Ferroq. His icy stare was exactly what she needed to dull her own passions. That . . . and a few thoughts of Armand’s actions over the past few days. Never let yourself forget what he was willing to do, Elena chided herself. Alejandro may be maddening, yes, but Armand would have taken his life and pretended it was all some terrible accident. And there was that thing on the altar. That was no accident, either . . . She looked up and found Armand gazing at her, his entire body trembling like that of a race horse about to burst out of the gate. Drawing aside her scarf, Elena exposed a wide inviting expanse of her long luxurious neck. She heard the breath catch in Armand’s throat and smiled to herself at the

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control she had over him. “If I’m going to be the lady of the house, I want to start making myself at home.” Armand’s neck was crimson, his heart thundering in his chest. His eyes had begun to glaze over in anticipation as they both seemed to understand exactly where this was leading, with each curious to see who would make the next move. It was like a game . . . or a dance. “I suppose we could have a late supper.” Elena took his hand in both of hers and eased it against her soft cheek. She nuzzled it, kissed his fingers, then slowly raised her eyes in a lusty stare and murmured, “I’ll wait for your meeting to end, then . . . I’ll stay the night.” His eyes afire with lust, Armand remained within inches of her, feeling her breath upon his flesh, though for him—in that moment he yearned to draw out to eternity—there was nothing to see, nothing to hear, touch, taste, or feel, except this woman. He kissed her again, his intensity greater than Elena would have expected. He wants me, yes, she realized, and in his way . . . loves me? The thought tantalized and frightened her. She parted from him with effort, their fingertips sliding apart as she squared her shoulders and walked inside, determined not to look back. The promise she had made had been nothing more than a lie, and she didn’t know if she could keep that from him another moment if their eyes met again. As Elena went inside, she did not realize that she was being watched. This time it was not the Brute or the Rat keeping tabs on her. Instead, it was her son, who had been leaning over the veranda, drawn by the sound of a carriage and an unfamiliar voice. Had she seen the look of utter devastation on his face, the desolation marking the way he slowly turned, one quavering hand still clutching a column for support, she would have known that the time had come to end her ruse no matter the consequences. Breaking her son’s heart had never been part of the deal.

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Instead, she headed into the house, her mind buzzing with plans for the evening. A savage laugh burst from the cracked lips of Jacob McGivens. “Ferroq, old pal, lemme see if I got this straight: You got women troubles?” Sebastien-Francois Ferroq perched on a wobbly stool in the noisy smoke-filled tavern, absently tapping down the edges of his perfectly trimmed mustache, which the rough atmosphere of this place had caused to curl. Beside him, Jacob McGivens fondled his whisky glass. Unwilling to look the taunting man in the eyes, Ferroq shifted his gaze to his surroundings. The walls inside as well as out were plastered with handbills and newspapers. Big unwashed brown canvas tablecloths were laid crookedly over the unsteady tables. The food was awash in grease doled out onto spotty tin plates. In the corner, a piano player sullenly took requests while a small gaggle of overweight, over-age “painted ladies” lasciviously eyed the well-dressed newcomer. Ferroq found it all quite repulsive. McGivens, on the other hand, was in his element. He smacked down his glass and grinned. “Here I woulda thought it was your employer’s bein’ in business with them there goober grabbers that had you troubled.” Ferroq’s upper lip curled at the derogatory term. Colonel Beauregard was far more than a peanut farmer. “My master’s alliance with the Confederacy is of no concern to either of us.” “Whatever you say, hoss. I guess I’ve just had some bad experiences with fellas from Georgia.” McGivens raised his glass. “So what is it you want me to do with the de la Vega woman? Pay her a visit and leave her cold as a wagon wheel?” “We cannot kill her,” asserted Ferroq. McGivens shrugged. “You sure about that? Seems to me this here lady’s done piled on the agony with you.”

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Ferroq felt a rusty blade drawing across his throat each and every time he saw his master with that woman. Recalling how they behaved this afternoon—smiling, laughing, taking in the grand performance by the sea—Ferroq could think only of murder. “My master has strong feelings for her. Though it is not my place to question his actions under normal circumstances—” “That’s not what these are,” commiserated McGivens. “Exactly so.” “Barkeep!” cried McGivens, motioning to an elderly Spaniard at the other end of the bar. “Pass me down some more of this fine tarantula juice you’re hockin’. There’s a mighty fine fella.” Ferroq shook with loathing as the gunman’s whiskey glass was refilled. The drink was an ugly habit for an ugly man. “My understanding is that through your men, you’ve been developing a network for information gathering.” “You could call it that,” agreed McGivens. “Me, I like to think of it as common sense. Ain’t no one’s gonna get your back in this world less’n you either pay ’em better than anyone else can, or you got something on ’em.” “I want to know if Señora de la Vega has been seen in the company of any suspicious or mysterious individuals. She’s a . . . striking woman. I doubt that her presence would go unnoticed in most of the places your people frequent.” McGivens bobbed his head, thinking it over. Then he grinned. “My daddy was a preacher man,” confided Jacob McGivens. “Tell you what. You do a favor for me, and just maybe, I’ll do you one back.” “What do you want?” “Your confession.” Ferroq stared at him blankly. “My what?” “I’m curious about you. How is it in this enlightened day and age that a . . . well, how do I say—man bereft of color— refers to another man of a similar hue as ‘master.’ ” “I hold a high ranking position in the count’s household.”

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McGivens shook his head. “We both know it’s more than that.” Bristling, Ferroq turned and was suddenly staring into the eyes of a smirking crimson-haired lady of the night. Something in his eyes made her blanch and move off without saying a word. “See, now, that’s what I mean,” laughed McGivens. “You got yourself a way with the ladies. I just don’t see why you need help with this one.” Ferroq rose from the stool. “Fine. If you cannot help me—” “I can,” snapped McGivens, his hand suddenly locked around Ferroq’s arm. “I told you my price. Remember now, I’m a man of the Lord. Anything you tell me stays between us. And you know what they say: confession’s good for the soul.” Ferroq thought of the de la Vega woman. She would be the death of him, he was certain. One could only contain this much rage, this much bile, this great a desire to take one’s blade and unzip another person from throat to groin for so long before it did them in. At the concert, he had stood to one side, alone and forgotten. He had listened to the music, but the only sounds that truly would have soothed him would come when he was allowed to luxuriate in the symphony of this woman’s screams. “I . . . I do not begrudge the count his dalliances,” revealed Ferroq. “In fact, I am usually responsible for arranging such entertainment for both of us—and have become quite skilled in disposing of unwanted paramours when their presence is no longer desired. This one—damn her—is clever. She is also a betrayer. How can anyone trust a woman who would divorce her husband and publicly take up with another man only a few months later? I allow that my master was infatuated with her when they were both much younger, but that only suggests to me that she is a seasoned liar, having led him on successfully in the past.” “You think she wants somethin’ from him?” asked Mc-

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Givens, enrapt in the tale. “His money, one would wager. Inn’t that always the way?” Ferroq shook his head. “She has wealth of her own. It must be something else.” Ferroq’s request to have her surveilled shortly after Armand conveniently ran into her post divorce had led to a shocking and wholly unexpected thrashing. Ferroq had explained that confidence men in this barbaric territory frequently seduced women of “character” to serve as their shills and the bored, foolish, aging doves often leaped at the chance for some excitement. “Elena is beyond reproach,” Armand said fiercely, administering the final lash of his whip. “You would do well to remember that.” Ferroq, owing all that he had, all that he was, his very life to the count, said no more. But his eyes were open, his hearing acute. One day this Elena would make a mistake and he would be ready . . . just as he had been the day Armand had found him in the desolate, filthy slums of Paris. “Come on, now,” urged McGivens. “You and the count. What gives?” Hesitantly, Ferroq told the tale. He revealed how the young count had risked his life to save Ferroq—then merely a scrawny half-dead youth—from a trio of knife-wielding thugs who had mistaken him for a witness to one of their recent street assassinations. Armand had leaped into the fray with a great laugh and made short work of Ferroq’s attackers. “You have a choice,” Armand had advised, his features glistening with the blood of his victims, looking to some like a demon, but to Ferroq an avenging angel. “Give yourself to me, devote yourself to my service as has been the custom with members of your family throughout the centuries and I will see that you want for nothing. Education, diversions, training so that you never need fear filth like this . . .” Armand gestured at the bodies of the fallen knife-wielders. Ferroq had been confused. He was an orphan. But he did

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not hesitate—he accepted and Armand became his master. Later, Ferroq learned that Armand had gone to great pains to find him because of references Armand discovered in the de la Fere histories to Ferroq’s ancestors, many of whom had given their lives to protect the de la Feres. Armand believed Ferroq was destined to remain loyal to him no matter what trials came their way—and that belief had been born out on many occasions since. Leaning back on his stool, McGivens said, “It has something to do with that mark on the count’s fancy ring, now doesn’t it?” “I believe so,” admitted Ferroq, unwilling to say any more. In truth, he felt unburdened, confession indeed proving good for his soul. The feeling quickly faded as he thought of that woman, murder in his eyes. She was poisoning his master. Plans were already in the works for Armand to live his days with her at his side while Ferroq remained in this God-forsaken place to oversee labors that any of a dozen lowly servants might undertake. Thoughts of the power this woman wielded over his lord kept Ferroq up at night, prompting him to indulge in the only pastime that calmed him in such troubled times. He would slip out, find some street person who reminded him of his own days rooting around in the gutters for scraps— and beat that pitiful creature to death. “To thine own self be true,” Armand had said simply one day when he caught Ferroq engaging in his private passion. A slight smile had passed between them and nothing else had been said. He longed for a return to those days. And by heaven, somehow he would have it. Ferroq followed his master and the woman, waiting patiently—and watching. Always watching. Now he needed the help of another set of eyes. Two men approached McGivens, checking Ferroq out warily.

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“Don’t worry, you can trust him,” said the scarred man. “We’re all one in the eyes of the Lord, now aren’t we?” True to his promise, McGivens soon coaxed information from his people that would benefit Ferroq as well as himself before this day was through.

Chapter 12

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lejandro de la Vega was a prisoner. Trapped in a black room, shackled to a cold stone floor, he tried to free himself but whenever he moved he felt liquid fire rip through his veins, razors flay his flesh, and salt sting his nerves. Sounds rose from the darkness, a deafening roar grasped his skull threatening to crush it in a relentlessly powerful grip. Merciful gaps of blessed silence stole between the pounding, punishing cacophony, making the return of sound even more torturous. Moaning, Alejandro rolled to one side and realized he wasn’t shackled at all, he had simply mistaken his body’s reticence to respond for physical restraints. Nor was the darkness before him absolute. Slowly, a searing gray patch transformed into a blinding glare, burning his half-closed eyes. Grunting, he scrambled back, his shoulder striking a cold hard wall. The deafening noise continued, but now he could also make out the sound of human speech and devilish laughter. Gaining his bearings slowly, Alejandro gazed around identifying his surroundings as a jail cell. Two men in finely tailored dark suits stood on the other side of the bars, one short and ratlike, the other a tall ugly brute. The mask of Zorro dangled tauntingly from the hand of the Rat.

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“The drug will wear off soon, Mr. de la Vega,” swore the well-dressed brute. The rat-faced man swished the mask from side-to-side, as if it were a tasty treat that he was holding out to a hungry cat, and laughed. “Or would you prefer . . . Zorro?” Alejandro rubbed his throbbing temples, vainly attempting to force the racket in his mind to quiet. These men knew his secret. How was that possible? “The day California was voted into the union?” the brute said dryly, seemingly picking up on the question in Alejandro’s eyes. “We followed you to the aqueduct.” The smaller man swung the mask before Alejandro once more and grinned. “I believe this belongs to you?” “Who are you?” demanded Alejandro, his head spinning. His disorientation worsened as the brute took out his wallet, opened it—and displayed a badge. “I’m Agent Pike,” said the brute, his badge gleaming from its leather confines, “this is Agent Harrigan. We’re the Pinkertons: operatives of the United States government.” Alejandro blinked the dark suited men into focus. “You’re the good guys?” “We’re living in perilous times, Mr. de la Vega,” Pike said, suddenly all business. “America’s gates have swung wide open to people from foreign lands. Which is why, on occasion, we require certain individuals to aid in our country’s defense . . . people like your ex-wife.” Alejandro was stunned. “Elena works for you? As a spy?” Harrigan nodded matter-of-factly. “Until California’s statehood becomes official, we don’t have jurisdiction to serve Armand with a search warrant . . . so we needed someone who could gain his trust.” Pike’s ugly face split into a grin. “And who more suited to the task than the woman he could never forget?” Alejandro’s flesh burned with sudden fire, his face glistening with a sheen of sweat. “The divorce was your idea, wasn’t it? So Elena would be free to lure in the count . . .’’

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“In return, we promised to keep the true name of Zorro secret from his enemies,” explained Harrigan. “You sonofabitch!” snarled Alejandro, launching himself at the bars. The men laughed mildly, keeping well out of his reach. Sighing, Pike was unmoved by Alejandro’s outburst. “Before his arrival here, we intercepted a telegram Armand dispatched to his associates throughout Europe. In that telegram, he claimed he was on the verge of producing a new weapon.” “A weapon that would bring about . . .’’ Harrigan searched for the right way to communicate the threat. “Mass destruction.” “With a single target in mind,” added Pike. Harrigan rubbed his callused hands together. “The United States of America.” Alejandro struggled to make sense of this. He saw no point in denying what these men had proved so easily. “How?” “Your ex-wife will answer that very question for us tonight,” Pike said thoughtfully. “We have militia forces ready to intercept the package, but only she can tell us where it’s headed.” The blood drained from Alejandro’s face. “If Armand finds out, he’ll kill her!” Harrigan rolled his eyes and laughed. “I think you underestimate the count’s feelings for Elena.” Alejandro’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the bars. His eyes blazed with rage, the blood pounding in his throat. Suddenly, the fight drained out of him. His hands fell from the bars, his head dropped low. “Okay,” Alejandro murmured in defeat. “I know something that might help you.” He beckoned them closer—and the dark suited men edged near, taking the bait. In a whiplash of fury, Alejandro’s hand shot out, closing around the necks of his enemies,

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and he yanked his hands back with all his strength, slamming the Pinkertons’ skulls against the bars with a pair of thunderous cracks. “I’ll send you both to hell for this!” vowed the enraged Alejandro. He pressed his advantage against his stunned opponents, smacking their heads against the steel as they grunted, a mad burst of energy seizing him as he realized he might kill them— Alejandro thrust the Pinkertons away, shaking violently as he watched them tumble to the floor, blood streaking into Pike’s right eye and spewing from Harrigan’s bruised lips where a loose tooth dangled. Imbécil, Alejandro cursed himself. They may have had the keys in their pockets! Pike’s hands trembled as he climbed to his feet, straightening his tie and brushed back a few locks of displaced hair. Harrigan seethed beside him, wobbling upright. “Our country must be protected, de la Vega,” retorted Harrigan. “Without apology.” “By blackmailing your own people?” asked Alejandro. “You call that a democracy?” Pike brushed off his suit. “When national security’s at stake, we can’t afford to be democratic.” Harrigan spat blood at Alejandro’s feet. “Zorro’s a relic of the past.” He snatched up the fallen mask and dangled it before him once more. “This belongs in a museum. So do you.” With a pair of well-rehearsed looks of contempt, the pair turned their backs on Alejandro and sauntered out the door. Alejandro stared at them from wolf-like eyes, his blood rising with his murderous rage. Within the sumptuous bedroom which Elena had until recently shared with Alejandro, the lovely spy sat before her silver mirror, unable to look herself in the eye—the same problem she had suffered ever since the divorce had become

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final. Elena peered at her hands, feeling naked without the comfort of her wedding band. Angry crimson streaks slanted in from the balcony as dusk engulfed the horizon. She gazed at the red hues washing over her flesh as if they foretold of the actual blood that might be on her hands if she did not follow the Pinkertons’ instructions. Turning from the mirror, Elena selected an emerald and black dress she was certain would entice Armand. The corset was so tight she would be able to feel its whalebone ribbing digging into her skin the entire evening. The neckline plunged, her arms shone through an alluring sheer mesh. She had planned to wear this dress the night California was officially declared a state, celebrating freedom for her people—and her family. Now it had been reduced to another calculated tool of manipulation. She winced, sadness stabbing at her soul. Gazing down at her jewelry, Elena wondered why she had allowed material objects like her dress and the scattering of keepsakes before her to hold such power. The memories held in her head and her heart, her dreams, the hopes she still nurtured—weren’t these infinitely more important? Was she really a shallow princess, a silly little fool so enrapt in her fantasies that she would passively accept her lot in life, allowing herself to be caged by her expectations and wants, so long as the cage was sufficiently gilded? No. She was stronger than that. She was fighting for her life, for her family. And the objects before her were reminders of that, talismans of power that boosted her resolve to reclaim all she had lost. Her hand traced the outline of a diamond studded silver butterfly broach, a gift from Alejandro on their first wedding anniversary. She recalled how her heart had skipped a beat when she first beheld his gift, the fire rising within her when she turned from it to set her loving eyes on his. They say the butterfly signifies the soul, Mi Amor, he had murmured, touching her hair in that certain way that only he

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could. When this is near you, know that I have given you my soul along with my heart, now and forever . . . Elena trembled, her head suddenly light. It was magnificent! Her emotions so overwhelmed her that all she could think to do—so that she might regain some measure of control—was to buy some time by teasing him with a few words that were clearly the opposite of how she truly felt. Ah, what am I to do with you, my foolish love? I can see just how this came into existence. You pass a butterfly on the way to work, and visit that jeweler whose daughter you saved from kidnappers. Did he spin you this yarn to tell me about your heart and soul? Of course not, Alejandro said, doing his best to force back his broad smile as he recognized the silly little game she was playing. He was already imagining the passionate conclusion to which it would inevitably lead. You have my brother to thank for that. He instructed me well in the ways to melt a woman’s heart and land her in my bed, even if she’s not the prettiest I might find. Miss Right Now, not Miss Right, if you catch my meaning . . . Hold on, let me see if my wife is coming! Swine, she laughed heartily. And did you not know that silver is for the twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, diamond the thirtieth? He deftly drew the broach away from her, using his magician’s lightning quick touch. You’re right. I’ll hold onto this in the meantime, then. A single protest and moments later all pretense and playfulness was gone. Her emotions overcame her and she nearly wept with joy at the beauty of his gift as she covered his face with kisses. Then she was wearing the broach on a thin gleaming chain . . . the broach and nothing else. When they’d made love that night, he’d whispered in her ear about a single crib he’d considered carving, one to sit beside Joaquin’s . . . she’d cried, allowing him to believe they were tears of joy, of ecstasy as their bodies had crashed to-

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gether. In truth, she had been reminded of the secret she was keeping from him, the words of their doctor after Joaquin’s difficult birth, sadly informing her that she was not likely to ever become pregnant again. Her fingers withdrew from the icy surface of the broach as if they had been burned. Then, trembling, she caressed its surface once more, before choosing other jewelry to wear this night. Anger flared in her dark eyes as she thought of what Alejandro had said the night before. How could he have made such accusations? Even if he didn’t believe the things he was saying and had only wished to hurt her, how could the man she loved have become so cruel? She peered at her own reflection. You know who’s to blame. Elena rose and glided to the balcony, where the bird given to her by the Pinkertons waited in its gently swaying cage. The pigeon cocked his head from side to side. Elena had considered naming him, then thought better of it. She had no intention of becoming complacent in her captivity. She had to view her current circumstances as temporary—or else she might go quite mad. Elena carefully removed the pigeon from its cage and attached her message to its foot. She carried the little gray bird to the open window, releasing it with a flash of hope. The pigeon fluttered off, quickly disappearing into the distance. “Soon, we’ll both be free . . .’’ she whispered. Turning away from the window, she was greeted was a deafening silence. When had her home become so deathly quiet? She knew the answer to that, as well. It was the day she told Joaquin that she was divorcing his father. The urge to see her son one last time before departing for Armand’s hacienda overwhelmed her. She burst from the room and stole down the hall. Her son’s door was open and Elena peered in to see Joaquin sitting at his desk, pouring over a black leather-bound volume Fray Felipe had loaned

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him. He was studying for confirmation, the one subject that truly seemed to interest him these days . . . other than Zorro, of course. “I’ll be back soon—” she began, smiling and trying her best to sound as if all were right with the world. Joaquin cut her off savagely. “Bye.” Elena was stung by his callous tone, but she knew it was the power of the very young to wound their parents with a mere look or sharp quip—and have no idea that they were doing it. He’s brooding again because he doesn’t like when I leave him alone, she decided. All this will be over soon, and then I can tell him the truth. A deep, troubling voice from her past rose up in her thoughts. The man who had raised her as his own asked, The truth, dear Elena? And what is that? Will you tell him that his father is Zorro? That you lied to him for so long? Elena forced such thoughts away. She would do what was best for her family when the time came. She shuddered. If only she could believe that. “Adios, Mi Amor,” whispered Elena. With a heavy heart she closed the door and set off on her mission. Within his room, Joaquin prepared for a mission of his own. He waited until the carriage sent by the count to round up his mother had departed, then he listened by his door for the heavy tread of the servants as they made their nightly rounds. He’d propped the door open so that anyone who thought to check on him would see exactly what his mother had seen: Joaquin hard at work as he studied for his confirmation. The expected footfalls arrived moments later, accompanied by a low, deep rumble of approval, then his door was pulled shut again by his watchers. Safe! Joaquin leaped to his feet and bounded for the window. Easing it open, he slid onto the branches of the great twist-

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ing tree beyond and skittered down its familiar reaches. He navigated the darkness outside the hacienda and quickly arrived at the stables, where his trusty steed waited. Calming his bold, heroic partner in adventure, he straddled his mount and kicked its flanks. And waited. “Come on come on come on,” begged Joaquin, “we have to go!” The burro beneath him snorted, unimpressed, and remained stock-still. Joaquin couldn’t understand this. He and the donkey were friends, weren’t they? Couldn’t the animal sense the urgency of his mood? Tornado had responded to Zorro as if the two were one. Of course, Tornado was a magnificent stallion. Not a— “Stupid ass!” bellowed Joaquin. “Move!” The donkey sneezed and looked around in confusion. It eyed the open stable doors in wonderment, the inviting patch of moonlight communicating something that wasn’t quite clear . . . Joaquin sighed and patted the donkey’s flank. “Okay, you’re not a stupid ass . . . how ’bout I give you a name. From now on, you are the great . . . The Great Burrito! Okay, okay, not burrito. Uh . . . Earthquake! Diablo!” Joaquin sputtered helplessly, “Lightning!” The burro brayed its approval and rocked excitedly. “Lightning?” Joaquin asked encouragingly. “Okay! Go, Lightning!” Happily clip-clopping onward, Lightning cleared the stables, the cool evening breezes brushing his flanks and lightly rustling Joaquin’s hair. As Joaquin’s mount slowly shambled and shuffled ahead, the lad pictured the two of them framed against the heavy moon—knowing then the image paled in comparison to the vision of Zorro and Tornado that had danced in his dreams. “All right,” Joaquin said, patting Lightning’s flank. “So this may take a while. I’ll tell you what, we’ll play a little

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game. I will recited for you the speech I have prepared for the vile usurping count, the one I will deliver to him this very night. I am the man of the house now, after all—it is my duty!” Lightning snorted and slowed just a bit. Sighing, Joaquin spurred him on, shouting, “CountWhatever-Your-Name-Is, you have insulted my family’s honor! You have bewitched my fair mama and sought to claim all we have as your own. You care nothing for honor, else you would have come to me seeking permission to ask my mother’s hand. Now you must redress this insult. I challenge you to a duel, brigand!” Joaquin whipped out his slingshot. “With the weapon of my choice.” He pictured the count quaking before him, sinking to his knees and weeping hysterically. Yes, that is exactly how it would be. The count would go away and never return! As they lazily trundled on through a barren field, Joaquin asked, “Lightning, what do you know about this count fellow, eh? His accent sounds French to me and—” Joaquin gasped. The pieces of a puzzle that had been before him for weeks suddenly fell into place, forming a picture that struck raw terror in his mind. He’d heard two of the servants gossiping about a “mystery man” who had swept into town from a foreign land, determined to secure “the most beautiful light in all the heavens” and “return with her to his palace in his homeland,” where he held “great title.” This count was not only going to marry his mother, but he planned to pack up his conquest and take her home to live like royalty—and mama had said yes. “He will want me to become a ‘gentleman,’ ” Joaquin gasped, “a member of the aristocracy, the ruling class . . . an oppressor!” It was of course quite true that Joaquin already was, like it or not, a member of the Spanish aristocracy. He was a caballero, son of a member of the Spanish ruling class in California, but he did not think of himself in such terms, and

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with California becoming a state, such considerations would soon be meaningless. Clutching his trusty slingshot, Joaquin trembled with fear. He had no doubt that he could face this man down and turn him into a quivering mound of jelly with his manly fierceness. But going against his mama . . . only one man had ever done that before and won. The man in question was one he would just as soon have nothing to do with, but there was no choice. “Lightning, please! We have to find Papi!” The burro nodded glumly and plodded along. Joaquin glumly gazed at the road in the distance, calculating how long it would take to reach the heart of the city on foot. Maybe he would just walk the distance. The sky folded its wings over the high windows of the Peckinpah Hotel, dusk lending a fine shadow to the clouds. Irvin Harrigan stood near the open window of the room he shared with his partner and chewed his nails. A vulgar habit, he knew, but he was a vulgar man, and he had made peace with that fact a long time ago. His partner, Theonius Pike, was annoyingly relaxed, sitting on his chair with his feet propped up on a little table, a book helping him to pass the time. Harrigan’s nerves were getting the best of him. He ran his fingers through his hair. He was all sweaty and would soon have to bathe again for the third time today. He hated temperate climates like this. “Why are you so worried?” asked Pike. “We have to make this work,” Harrigan replied. “The count, Elena, all of it. You know why.” “I do indeed,” answered Pike, burying himself in his story once again. Harrigan turned his gaze on the city beyond his window. What a wretched, backwards place. He longed to go back to England. The Cambridge and Oxford rivalry between Pike

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and himself had been something of a stumbling block to their working relationship in the beginning—each having been knee deep in the underworld betting on the rugby teams during their brief flings with higher education. The Brits had a civilized culture, one with history. Harrigan and his partner had history, too. Truth is, the pair had been on thin ice with their superiors when this assignment came up. If it hadn’t been for Phil Rollins’ suicide note confessing how he had stolen from the treasury all three of them had been assigned to protect, the pair surely would never have seen this place, and the investigation for the missing money would have led straight back to them. Rollins’ confession had been an elegant work of fiction— and forgery. The man’s death had been murder, neatly disguised. Now a small fortune awaited the pair in a foreign bank account, and all they had to do to get it was keep their heads and maintain an exemplary record with the Pinkertons for a few more years. Then they could quietly retire from the service and take up new careers as “foreign travel writers.” Once they were sure no one was looking at them any more, they could collect their hard-earned money. A passing bird rocked Harrigan from his dreams of a carefree future. Elena’s pigeon winged into view above the gray sprawl of rooftops, sailing straight for their open window. Harrigan leaped back with a startled cry as it headed straight at him, then wheeled and banked to land gently on the windowsill. Pike was already on his feet, reaching past the surprisingly skittish Harrigan. He snatched a message from the silver band on the pigeon’s foot and thrust out his hand to ease the bird off the ledge, into midair. It dropped, then swiftly caught itself with a flutter of wings before flying off. “Tried to bite me last time,” Harrigan muttered. Pike ignored him and read the note aloud. “Searching vineyard tonight. Will make contact.” He shrugged and plopped down on the closest of two single beds, where he

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might keep an eye on his anxious partner wherever he paced. “She’s going to the vineyard,” Pike announced smoothly. “We can post men near the gate, in case we have to pull her out.” Harrigan considered this, then slowly shook his head. “If she’s compromised, she’ll be of no further use. Consider it an acceptable loss.” Pike nodded, impressed by his partner’s sudden burst of decisiveness. What neither had said was the simple truth of the matter: better to have Señora de la Vega die at the hands of the count and be silenced, then they could simply wash their hands of things and never have to worry about explaining the unorthodox measures they took in securing her cooperation. He went to the window and slammed it shut. He had no idea that far below, a mustached “bird-watcher” was staring up at them from the seat of a black leather saddle. Ferroq dismounted as twilight blended the shadows around him. He withdrew a strange weapon and triggered a mechanism on its handle. Ching! A pair of large crescentshaped blades fanned out like scissors, crimson shadows sleekly gliding across their perfectly sharpened edges. Already imagining the coppery scent of blood, he hauled open the hotel’s side door and vanished within.

Chapter 13

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lena knocked at the front door to Armand’s glorious hacienda, her carriage arcing away into the magnificent sunset. Struggling to control her nerves, she waited for a reply. After a few moments, the unhurried footsteps of Marie, who ran the household, echoed from within. Taking a deep breath, Elena forced down her anger. Being left on the front steps of a manor like this was a terrible insult. Servants would surely have heard the creaking of the carriage wheels and Marie should have been at the door, waiting graciously, before Elena even disembarked. The door opened and Marie greeted her with a false smile and a flutter of her darkly painted eyelashes. Oh. It’s you. “Bon soir, Marie,” Elena intoned. “Armand’s expecting me.” “You’re early, Madame,” Marie said haughtily, guarding the doorway, “the count is still indisposed.” Elena shrugged, unwilling to allow Marie to see her frustration at this shoddy treatment. “Perhaps I could wait in the parlor?” Nodding, Marie opened the door and allowed Elena inside. They shared a handful of meaningless pleasantries as

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Marie led Elena to the well-appointed parlor, then retreated momentarily. Elena bristled at the mere thought of the disapproving looks Marie had casually dispensed. In fact, the thin ravenlike woman had rankled Elena from the moment they had first met—and the reason why was only now becoming clear. She reminds me of Señora Rodriguez, thought Elena as she settled into a lovely French “gondole” chair, so named because of the shape of its back. The last time Elena had seen the matriarch of San Franciscan society had been two days ago, when they had bumped into one another at Still’s Bookseller and Stationer, where Elena had sought out instructional pamphlets on the care and feeding of one’s— well . . . carrier pigeon. A spark of rebellion shone in the creature’s eyes the last time she had tried to feed it, and though Elena was dependent on the bird for carrying messages, she wondered if she might not find a way to turn that spark into a full-fledge inferno. Please take a peck out of those wretches any chance you get, would you? Elena had asked kindly. There’s a good birdie . . . Señora Rodriguez was flanked by two of her latest acolytes. With a toss of her stiff hair, the older woman had spun to show her back to Elena and snatched up a novel that had all the country buzzing. “The Scarlet Letter,” announced Señora Rodriguez to her small flock. “The tale of a woman who commits adultery and must wear a large letter ‘A’ for all to see as penance. A story of shame. Alas, it is merely fiction. Too many women these days do not know the meaning of the word. They still seek the social status and acceptance that might well have been mere inches from their grasp, had they behaved properly.” She sighed, fanning herself. “Alas, alas . . .” Scorn radiated from Señora Rodriguez’s followers as they brazenly shot scathing looks at Elena who received them with mournful eyes.

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If Elena could only believe that Señora Rodriguez was a spiteful, narrow-minded witch, she could easily shrug off the woman’s remarks and not care in the least what she or anyone thought of her. But Señora Rodriguez had achieved great things for women in the city, and had proven herself to be possessed of an agile, fair and forgiving mind. Elena was no adulteress. She had refused to allow her path to cross that of Armand’s until a few days after the divorce papers were final, a process rushed along by the vile, calculating Pinkertons. Yet she knew how traditional Spanish people viewed divorce. Many had wanted her banned from the church, and though Felipe vowed to fight any such expulsion—even at the cost of his own position—she had chosen to quietly stay away instead. She had lost so very much . . . Shuddering, Elena broke free of her preoccupation and scanned the table next to her. A folded copy of the French newspaper Le Californien sat within reach. The lead story, not surprisingly, concerned the issue of California as a free state. Some parties urged that despite the vote already taken to enter the Union without the stigma of slavery, legal measures could be taken to ratify the state’s position. But slavery was not just loathsome and repellent on a personal and cultural level to the Spanish Californians, “white” settlers looked at it as bad business too. “One man comes to stake his claim with only his two hands to help him,” said a prospector. “Another comes with twenty slaves to do the work. The individual cannot compete.” Elena shook her head. Such issues should be about ideals, not economy. Her father’s legend spoke to this. Perhaps more needed to hear it. Then why did you want Alejandro to give up the mask of Zorro? Why do you keep the truth of his heritage from your son? Elena knew she should not be distracted by any such thoughts right now. She swiftly immersed herself in another

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of the newspaper’s fascinating tales when Marie returned, placing a cup of tea before her. Elena smiled. “Thank you so much.” Nodding, Marie left the room. Elena leaped to her feet and crossed to the window. She was about to open it when she heard the familiar squeak of Marie’s shoes on the wood floor. Elena darted to the bookshelves just in time. A volume of poetry was in her hands as Marie returned and eyed her carefully. “Perhaps Madame would like an amuse bouche to tide her over until dinner?” suggested Marie. “That’ll be all, Marie,” Elena said sternly, determined to be rid of this woman. “In fact, I’d like a little quiet before Armand returns.” Stiffening, Marie trembled with displeasure, then forced a smile and curtseyed. “As you wish, Madame.” Marie padded out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her. Elena reshelved the book and raced back to the window. Hauling it open, she climbed out into the night. Alejandro paced the length of his cell like a caged tiger. He grabbed the window bars and shook them, but it was no use. What is it you think you can do, anyway? Bend steel in your bare hands? You may be Zorro, but you’re still just a man . . . Hanging his head in defeat, he heard a noise from the alley outside his window. A squeaky back door swung open from the bar next door and a bald Spaniard with a drooping black mustache tossed a short man out on his ear. “Now git, ya little mongrel!” the saloon owner growled in his native tongue. “Come back when ya got hair on your chest!” The door slammed and Alejandro seethed. He loathed seeing the strong victimize the weak. The ousted patron wobbled into the light and Alejandro gasped. It was Joaquin!

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The ten-year-old shook his small fist in the moonlight, his lips pulled back in a ferocious snarl. “Suck an egg, Flatfoot!” Alejandro couldn’t believe his eyes. “Joaquin?” he cried. “Joaquin!” The boy froze at the sound of his father’s voice. With a slowly deliberate turning of his entire body, Joaquin stood face to face, eyes wide in disbelief, with his father. “Here!” Alejandro called, thrusting his hands out through the bars and waving his son closer. Joaquin cautiously approached, stunned. “Dad?” Joaquin asked, still not entirely certain that this was actually happening. “What are you doing in a bar?” blurted Alejandro. Joaquin frowned as anger crept over him. Of course this was his father. Who else would ask a question like that at a time like this? His voice broke as he squealed, “What are you doing in jail?” Good question. Alejandro looked away and bit his lip. “I asked you first.” “I was looking everywhere for you,” Joaquin explained, “it’s about mom . . .” Alejandro straightened up instantly. “Is she okay?” “No!” cried Joaquin. “I mean, yes, but no . . . a man came to the house. He asked her to marry him. She said okay.” Joaquin’s eyes brightened. “I know you still love her. You said you’d do anything for her . . .” Alejandro slowly shook his head. “Joaquin . . .” “You can’t be in jail,” muttered Joaquin, “how can you be in jail? You gotta stop her . . .” “Joaquin, listen to me!” shouted Alejandro. Tears streamed down the young boy’s face as Alejandro grasped Joaquin’s hands through the bars and gave him the richest, warmest smile his son could ever hope to see. “Help me out of here and I’ll get your mother back,” vowed Alejandro. “We’ll be a family again, I promise.”

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Joaquin looked up at his father, gathering enough courage to perform one of the bravest acts of his young life. He decided to trust his father. Joaquin crept to the jail’s front door and was stunned to find it unlocked. Turning the knob, he pushed the door open and looked inside. Flickering amber light washed over him from within—as did the rumble of raised voices. Inside, a slight man with carrot-red hair tugged on the tail of his pinstripe suit with one hand while holding up a metal contraption with the other. He faced a tall, deeply tanned guard wearing an equally disinterested expression. The guard dusted off his brown frockcoat and absently polished his dull badge while angrily eyeing a vacant seat at a small table where a card game had been interrupted by a traveling salesman. “Mister Vivas—Rafael, if I may—you have a sworn duty to keep your prisoners from flying the coop, yes, you do!” the salesman declared fiercely, his Louisiana twang alighting upon his every word. “You are the head jailer here, and that means you have a great responsibility to the people of this fair city.” Vivas growled and ran his hand through his mop of wild black curls. “How do I say this so you understand?” He eyed the ceiling, as if inspiration might be found there. Suddenly, he struck a balled fist into his waiting hand. “I know—go away or I shoot you!” Another jailer, this one portly with ghost gray eyes, busied himself spooning slop into bowls for the prisoners. He grinned at his boss’s tactful stratagem. “The facts are the facts and you should listen up,” said the persistent salesman. “A prison like this just inn’t safe and secure, y’should know that. There’s these Committees of Vigilance croppin’ up in all the frontier towns, nothin’ but vigilantes lookin’ tah lynch whoever they don’t much like. Then there’s all the jailbreaks from right under yer noses . . .”

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Joaquin took advantage of the jailers’ distraction to slip inside and ease behind a vacant desk. He drew his slingshot and carefully loaded the weapon with pebbles he kept in his pocket. “See, what you need is these new ‘Double-Acting Cam and Lever Locks’ put on your cell doors,” the salesman went on. “It just so happens I represent—” Vivas cut him off sharply by whipping back the flaps of his dusters and looking down in alarm. “Oh, look, no guns, only a big sharp sword. What do you think of that, eh?” Sighing, the salesman drew out a card, slapped it on the desk in front of Joaquin, and stormed out. Vivas took his seat at the gambling table, picking up his cards and examining them cautiously, as if he might spot suspicious smudges from his partner’s hands upon the cards he had set down when the salesman so rudely distracted them. Joaquin waited until the big man carrying the tray of steaming, foul-smelling bowls was in range, then he aimed his slingshot and fired. The fat guard yelped and lurched forward as something stung his buttocks. Hot soup splattered all over the startled Vivas, who threw down his cards, and shoved the bigger man. “Clumsy fool!” Vivas charged, edging closer, thrusting a pair of empty palms at the bigger man’s barrel chest again. His frockcoat was ruined. Eyes bulging, the fat red-faced man tossed away the empty tray and pushed Vivas back. “Something bit me!” Vivas looked away, as if to collect himself—then Joaquin struck again, firing a second round, this time at Vivas’ chest. Stung, Vivas looked angry as if he’d been struck by his companion. “Bit you, eh?” spat the head jailor. “I’ll do worse than that!” A brawl broke out and the third guard, a wiry gray-haired man, scooped up the evening’s stake. Assured that everyone

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was duly distracted, Joaquin emerged from his cover, and darted toward the corridor where the cells were located—the slingshot rising from his hand. The guard getting away with the winnings gawked in disbelief first at his brawling buddies, then at the child who started all this mayhem and the weapon he used to do so! Flashing a superior grin, Joaquin delivered the rudest gesture he knew, then dashed away. The hissing guard scrambled after him as his distracted colleagues still duked it out. But as he whirled around the corner, he tripped hard over Joaquin, who was crouched down into a ball. He flew into the air, then smacked the floor hard, skidding headfirst against the wall and settling into an unconscious heap. Joaquin advanced on him warily and seized his keys. Creeping away from the unconscious guard, Joaquin peeked into the jail’s large receiving room, drew a sharp breath, and gingerly snuck past the arguing men, advancing into the long cellblock. Moving past steel doors beyond which smelly drunkards slept, he stopped at the last one, drove the key home, and turned it in the lock. Click-click. The door swung open and his father emerged, gathering the boy into a great hug. “You’re a genius, Joaquin,” Alejandro said, meaning every word of it, “but I never want to catch you breaking anyone out of jail again, alright?” Joaquin snickered, and suddenly he thought of all Señor Zorro had said about Alejandro de la Vega. It hadn’t occurred to him before now that Zorro and his father might have met. He wanted to ask his Papi about this, but a flurry of noise distracted him. “There are guards up front,” warned Joaquin. Alejandro nodded sharply, his brain buzzing with stratagems for defeating his opponents. He gasped, feeling himself falling into the role of Zorro—one he knew so well. No, he thought, it is the role of father that you must mas-

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ter now. He rustled his son’s hair and smiled at him. “We’ll sneak out the back.” Carefully, they threaded their way to the rear door. Alejandro was about to open it when the knob turned from the other side. He drew back, gently shoving Joaquin behind him, as a grinning man with a bruise on the side of his head and a raised sword greeted them. The guard laid out by Joaquin earlier had recovered. Alejandro whirled and found two more guards cutting off his retreat, their swords angling menacingly in his direction. Thinking fast, Alejandro hooked an arm around Joaquin’s neck, pretending to hold him hostage. “Ah-ah!” snarled Alejandro, his eyes as crazed and fierce as he could make them. “Stay back or I’ll break the kid’s neck!” “Help me!” yelped the quaking Joaquin, catching on instantly. “I’m too young to die! I’ve got my whole life ahead of me!” The jailer stared at the pair with a raised eyebrow and a sour expression, taking a moment to digest this tidbit of information. He shrugged and gestured for his men to take care of this little problem for him. “Kill ’em.” The men charged, but Alejandro was ready for them. In a blur, his fist whipped out to knuckle-stab the first guard’s windpipe. The man gurgled and dropped to his knees, his sword clattering to the floor as a second guard lurched forward in a clumsy attack. Alejandro ducked and crouched, easily avoiding both the man’s sword and his other fist which was bearing a heavy silver bludgeon. Centering all his weight on one leg, he kicked with the other, sweeping the second guard’s feet out from under him. Diving ahead to avoid his opponent’s falling form, Alejandro heard a whoosh of air as the jailer’s sword whisked past him, lantern light streaking across its well-polished length. As a retort to this clumsy strike, Alejandro doubled over the jailer with a merciless punch to the solar plexus. The sword sprang from his open hand and Alejandro caught it as the jailer fell.

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All three men were down, moaning. Kicking their weapons out of their reach, Alejandro whirled on his son. Joaquin stared at him in awestruck silence. The last time his son looked at him that way he had been wearing the mask of Zorro. “Where’d you learn to do that?” Joaquin asked incredulously. Alejandro’s gaze narrowed philosophically. “Prison changes a man, son.” He gestured ahead. “Let’s go!” Elena stole through the night, stealthily maneuvering her way across the grounds outside Armand’s hacienda. Pushing through the grapevines, she peered down the road and witnessed a long line of carriages drawing toward the vineyard. A brace of guards stood as still as statues before the entrance. Servants exited the carriages first, their lanterns held high as they opened the doors for their masters, a group of extremely expensively dressed men who gave off the aura of possessing great wealth and power. Elena cautiously emerged from the shadows as the men filed into the vineyards. The men clasped hands, some exchanging greetings like old friends who had not seen one another in years, others expressing polite tolerance as if long-standing grudges still lurked, but were being overlooked due to their current, extraordinary circumstances. The servants exchanged defensive glares, as if marking one another for a time they would meet without the auspices of their host. Who were these strange night visitors? Elena had to know. She looked around, anxious to find some way into the vineyards and the sprawling winery. Alejandro booted open the door to the old chapel. He rushed in with Joaquin, even as Fray Felipe, alerted by the noise, catapulted from his study to greet them. “What are we doing here?” asked Joaquin, raising his chin suspiciously.

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Alejandro exchanged concerned looks with Felipe, then bent on one knee before Joaquin and looked his son in the eye. “Listen, niño, I have to go alone—” Joaquin’s face creased with fury. “What? I got you out of jail! What if he wants to fight?” “I’m not going there to fight,” Alejandro said evenly. “I’m going to reason with him.” “You can’t reason with him!” Alejandro spoke quietly. “Look, Joaquin . . . the world’s a little more complicated than you think.” “No it isn’t!” Joaquin protested. “There’s right and there’s wrong!” A dead weight settled within Alejandro. He shook his head and announced, “I don’t have time to argue with you, son. I’m sorry.” Alejandro nodded to Felipe, who ushered the boy away. “Come, niño,” said Felipe. Joaquin spun savagely and leveled an accusing finger at his father. Eyes wide, face red with rage, he screamed, “You don’t deserve mom!” Alejandro stood silently, watching his son glare at him as Felipe led the boy to his study. You’re probably right, Joaquin. Heartbroken, Alejandro waited until the study door shut firmly, then he slipped behind the virgin’s statue, opened the doorway to Zorro’s lair, and quickly made his way down the darkened steps. Within minutes, Zorro and Tornado raced from the church garden and sped through the night. Elena crept into the winery through the loading dock, watching as the men were led by a guard past massive, but empty, wine vats. Hugging the darkened walls of the corridor, she peered out curiously as the men were brought to a wall of stacked barrels. The guard touched one at its center and the

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barrels swung open revealing a secret door. The men threaded through the door swiftly, the guard drawing his sword and remaining behind as it closed. Elena scanned the area for other guards and she spotted three more stationed by the main entrance. Ducking into the shadows, she looked about for anything she might use as a distraction. A dull emerald gleam caught her eye and she snatched up an empty wine bottle. Finding a heavy wooden paddle to use as a weapon, Elena rolled the bottle across the corridor and darted back into the darkness as it tinked against the far wall. The guard by the barrels came to investigate. Brow furrowed, he moved around another vat and looked down at the wobbly wine bottle. Elena burst from cover, her sharp high cry making the guard spin to face her. Swinging the paddle, she smashed the guard’s face an instant before he could raise his blade. He grunted, tumbling back and dropping his sword as he crashed against a stack of metal buckets. She snatched up the fallen man’s sword and leaped onto the lid of the vat just as two other guards approached. One lightly slapped the face of his fallen comrade to rouse him, the other cursed under his breath as he looked about for an intruder. Elena was perched high on the lid with the downed guard’s sword gleaming in her hand, when she cleared her throat. The men whirled and raised their blades. She leaped down at them as they charged. Elena’s blade sang as it sliced the air. Her motions were joyous, her heart thrilling at the feel of cold, deadly steel in her hand. At last the shackles had been thrown off, she was free to fight out in the open. A saber swept before her face, snapping loose a few of her wild hairs, which she blew away deftly with a single breath. Now listen Elena, whispered the voice of Enrique De Leon, the blademaster who trained her, a short, perpetually youthful man who never left home without a smile. Do not

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let appearances fool you. You have no idea the level of skill your opponent may possess. Two opponents, she thought. Attack au Fer. Her stratagem selected, she gave herself to “the dance” as her teacher had called it. The blades before her, biting the air like stinging insects, conveniently approached from either side of her field of vision. The swordsmen stood within arm’s reach of each other, their features scrunched up tight in concentration. Elena parried, deflecting one blade then the other, her sword ringing out angrily, defiantly, as it slapped the opposing blades alternately, traveling barely a foot apart to deliver each expert riposte. A flicker of surprise and confusion passed between the men. Who was this lady? Who would have dared teach her how to fight? You should get out more, thought Elena, backing away then turning, luring them deeper into her trap. They pressed ahead, confident that she was on the brink of being overwhelmed, all the time unconsciously drawing closer and closer to each other as each vied to gain the center point of her attention. As she planned, they slammed into each other, startled as if they had forgotten the other swordsman even existed. Their attacks faltered. Lunging ahead, Elena swept her sword across both of their bellies, then readied it for another strike even as their shrill cries filled the hall. With grace and fortitude she drew back, whirled in an extravagant, triumphant circle, and struck a pose with her sword raised. X marks the spot, she thought, looking at the crimson slashes she had made on the two bewildered men quaking before her. A creak of well-polished boots sounded behind her, causing her to spin on her heels. A third saber snapped at her. She parried, yet another guard engaging her. Darting back to keep the wall behind her, she fended off his thrusts—until suddenly she faced a brutal three-point onslaught from the

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newcomer and the pair of guards she had wounded thus far. Treating her with the respect one offers a proper threat, they fanned out, one attacking from directly before her, the others at either side. With only one blade and a single pair of eyes, Elena knew she could not win this battle.

Chapter 14

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he blades pressed in. Elena steadied herself for a desperate last stand—when the air was split with a bold, mocking whistle. All heads turned as Zorro leaped into the fray. The entire trio of guards raced to meet the masked interloper, turning their backs on Elena. “Now I’m insulted,” she said kicking the closest in the backside, sending him reeling toward one of his compatriots with a surprised cry. They fell in heap, Zorro dashing out of the way of the mad bulls. The remaining guard attacked the masked man, determined to claim the legendary fighter’s head as a trophy. Zorro’s blade flashed, sabers sparked and scraped. “So you thought the little woman needed saving?” Elena called reproachfully. “Of course not,” replied Zorro gleefully. “But why should you have all the fun, eh?” Elena’s two opponents recovered and launched into yet another furious assault. Zorro edged near her and within moments, they stood back-to-back. Elena cut down one man quickly. Seizing his sword, she turned and whacked Zorro out of the way with a wild swing of her hips. As the hero stumbled, his confused cry distracted the two remaining men. With all her might and in a lightning strike, Elena

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drove her blades through their hearts in a lightning strike, yanked the weapons back, and cleaned them off on the jackets of her prey all in an instant before the bodies dropped. Heady with victory, Alejandro sheathed his sword. He looked to Elena, taking in the glistening sweat on her fiery flesh, and was lost in the wild promise of her eyes. Overwhelmed, they rushed together, colliding in their passion. Elena’s hands seized his back, furiously crushing him to her sleek body. Desire radiated from them as their ravenous lips met. Sharing a dazzling kiss between them, Elena’s lovely fingers played with Alejandro’s sensual hair, while his mouth joined so tightly with hers it was as if he sought to taste her soul. She pulled back suddenly and gestured to the doorway. “Armand went through there, we have to hurry—” “I know about the Pinkertons,” Alejandro said in a rush. Shuddering, Elena asked, “How?” “It doesn’t matter, they told me everything.” Elena expression softened and she brushed a stray hair from his eyes. “It’s alright, my darling. I forgive you.” Wincing, Alejandro drew back. “You forgive me? I forgive you!” Her expression hardening, Elena cried, “For what?” Alejandro’s hands rose with his incredulity. “For everything you put me through!” Her smile grew rigid as she raked her blade across the floor, the gesture subtle but menacing. “Everything I put you through . . .” Alejandro felt the coming tide of her fury. He didn’t care. Elena’s eyes burst into fiery suns. “I wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d kept your mask on!” Laughing bitterly, he pointed at the gleaming bauble around her supple throat. “Really? Then why are you still wearing his necklace?” Her free hand whipped to the jewelry in surprise, as if she

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had forgotten it was there. “I’m undercover!” Her mouth quirked cruelly. “Besides, these are pearls. You never gave me pearls.” Alejandro shrugged. “You said you didn’t care about things like that!” Elena’s sword whipped before her, slicing the air before her ex-husband’s face. He jerked back, as she knew he would, and seized her wrist. His hand was hot. She grinned. “I lied! Every woman in the world wants pearls!” He crept close enough to hiss in her face. “Well now you have them, Princess!” Shaking violently, she eased closer to him and laughed. “When I said we were never meant to be together, I meant it!” Inching nearer to his beloved, Alejandro spat, “Finally, we agree on something!” Exchanging scorching looks, their brains grown feverish with desire, Alejandro and Elena grabbed for each other, their bodies crashing together. Their lips and tongues and hands sought to consume every sensation, every instant of pleasure stolen from them. Writhing in delight, murmuring with lust, they kissed until their hearts thundered as one. Flushed and shaking, they pulled away from one another, their breath ragged with desire, blood set to boil. “This changes nothing,” Elena warned. Alejandro nodded reasonably. “Absolutely not.” “Follow me,” Elena commanded as she slipped toward the darkened doorway through which Armand had disappeared. “You bet,” said Alejandro, barely masking his smile. Not surprisingly, Armand’s trail led them deeper into the mazelike winery. They slipped through old stone buildings smelling of crushed grapes and quickly caught up with their preening, sauntering prey. Armand entered a private courtyard. Alejandro gestured

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to an antique couch sitting adjacent to a barred window. Silver moonlight engulfed the couple as they worked together to quietly slide the couch into place directly below the window, each taking a small private pleasure in how easily they worked together in this, a simple but important task. They climbed upon it and peered into the courtyard, where Armand had taken these precious moments to prepare. Armand’s guests were seated in straight-backed wooden chairs around a brightly painted crest of the Knights of Aragon, a viscous serpent encircling a globe, threatening to squeeze the life from it. Armand stood before them, a small table to his side on which rested a wooden box carefully protecting a glass vial. “Orbis Unum,” called Armand. Responding quickly, the group chanted, “Orbis Unum.” Colonel Beauregard crept from the shadows and took his place behind Armand. “Fellow Knights of Aragon,” said Armand as he slowly walked around the circle of knights, “today we face a rival prophesied by our ancestors. Soon the power of the United States will be so great, it will overshadow us. But . . . America has one weakness: its people. They are divided by North and South. A civil war is inevitable. The only question is, who will claim victory?” He paused as Colonel Beauregard brought him a lacquered wooden box. Handing over the box as if it held something sacred, the colonel nodded and dutifully retreated. Opening the offering with his customary charming smile, Armand said, “We will determine the outcome—with this.” His hand thrust up and pierced a high pool of moonlight. Clutched tightly in his powerful fingers was a pale gleaming rectangular object, its edges sanded down and slightly rounded. It was . . . “An average bar of soap,” announced Armand, smiling indulgently. “Quite harmless in its current form. But science has shown us how to extract the glycerin and transform it

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into a compound thirteen times more powerful than gunpowder.” Armand placed the soap back in the box, then carefully removed a second object from its confines: an ampule filled with clear liquid. He clasped it gingerly, like an egg. “Nitroglycerin,” revealed Armand with a bold look of triumph. “For months, this vineyard has been a cover for its manufacture.” The knights leaned in, exchanging amazed and incredulous looks. The ampule raised, Armand mesmerized the group once more, meeting the gazes of his fellows one by one. “Tomorrow, a shipment of nitro will depart by train. It will be met at the state line by Colonel Beauregard, who will take possession of the shipment and distribute it throughout the Confederate army. As we speak, they are preparing to launch a preemptive strike against Washington, forever tearing this country apart.” Colonel Beauregard nodded, his eyes ablaze with anticipation. Though his first allegiance was clearly to the Knights of Aragon, he clearly relished the notion of pounding the northern states into the annals of forgotten history. “Gentlemen,” said Armand, “brothers. As Knights of Aragon, we will soon be restored to our former glory as we stand in the shadows and watch America destroy itself.” A mad burst of hearty applause rose from all the gathered knights. All but one. Armand’s piercing gaze fell upon the lone dissenter. Lord Dillingham, a proper British gentleman, stroked his meticulously sculpted beard and frowned. “I’ve seen enough,” said Lord Dillingham as he rose. “Brothers, you know my spirit is with you, but we risk antagonizing a sleeping giant if we fail . . .’’ Shaking his head, he abandoned the table. “I’ll see myself out.” Lord Dillingham had taken only a few steps when Armand raised a solicitous hand. The silver-haired man waited.

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Armand’s smile grew rigid. “Lord Dillingham, would a demonstration put your mind at ease?” Sighing, Lord Dillingham said, “Perhaps.” Armand shrugged. “Very well . . .” The ampule suddenly flashed in the air, tumbling end over end as it flew from Armand’s hand. The British lord gasped and frantically tossed up his hands to shield himself, but nothing on earth could have protected him from the explosive power of the erupting chemicals. From their place of hiding, Alejandro and Elena took cover as a blinding white flash threatened to sear their eyes and a blast of heat rocketed toward them, the explosion that decimated Lord Dillingham sending billows of smoke roiling through the bars over their heads. Alejandro heard cries of alarm, coughs, and furious curses while bits of stone from a chair caught in the blast dropped from on high. When Alejandro dared to look at the secret courtyard once more, he saw a blackened silhouette shaped like a cringing man burnt into the cobbles, while tatters of torn and soot-encrusted clothing gently wafted downward from above. A small crater was all that was left of where Armand’s victim had stood. Most of the knights were on their feet, pressed together in a tight group as Armand and the colonel stood off to one side, eyeing the others with contempt. “Any further objections?” Armand asked calmly. When he was certain there would be no further foolishness, he gestured for all of his fellows to come with him. “Good, now if you’d be kind enough to follow me . . .” Armand glided to a cobblestone containing the serpent’s eye and tapped it three times. He stepped away just as the great circular crest rotated, the cobbles clearly a clever cover for a large metal iris that spun and sank back, to reveal a spiraling staircase leading underground. Alejandro and Elena exchanged wide startled glances, then scrambled from the couch to the door, flinging them-

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selves into the courtyard. They followed the strange knights down into the darkness just as the iris whipped closed and clanked shut behind them. Thunder crashed against the door to Mission Santa Lucia’s chapel, the sound echoing through the rafters and summoning the annoyed Fray Felipe. His forehead creased with his vexation as he saw the locked door buckle beneath the rain of angry blows delivered from the other side. Unless Felipe had missed his guess, the groundlessly proud Fiorentino Duval was in his cups once again and at his doorstep. Yes, Duval had probably come to complain about Felipe counseling his wife to take a good job that had been offered to her so that someone in their family would be earning enough money to feed their children. Felipe gruffly reached for the door when suddenly it flew open, the lock snapping apart, bits of wood and steel biting into the brother’s quickly upraised hands. Jacob McGivens strolled into the chapel, smiling his awful, wooden-toothed grin. His posse burst in behind him, immediately fanning out and surveying the place to see if the padre was alone. Felipe’s eyes were hooded and dark as he gazed at the gunman. “Unless you’ve come to confess, you have no business here, McGivens.” McGivens snorted then fixed Felipe with a twisted smile. “Funny you should mention confession, Padre . . . since you’re obliged to keep the secrets of your flock, that is.” Joaquin appeared at the study door and two of McGivens’s men eased toward him. Felipe tensed at the sight of the boy. For once, Joaquin, why couldn’t you have stayed put? His features set to brook no argument, Felipe commanded, “Go back inside, niño.” The boy stood rock still, his angry stare boring into the back of McGivens’s skull. He didn’t seem to care about the men slowly closing on him—or about Felipe’s demand.

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McGivens ignored the lad. He drew closer, his foul breath preceding him. “Padre . . . who . . . is . . . Zorro?” Fray Felipe raised his chin and smiled roguishly. “You know Zorro . . . he could be anyone at all.” McGivens motioned to his men, and they spread out through the chapel, poking around and knocking over candlesticks, shoving at the altar and posing comically with the statue of the sainted mother, their rough laughter echoing to the rafters. The scarred man sauntered near, his hand reaching out and settling on the crucifix necklace dangling beneath Felipe’s throat. Felipe tensed, prepared for the gunman to yank it from him. Then a strange light came into McGivens’s cruel dark eyes. The gunman reached into his own coat—and withdrew a similar crucifix necklace. “See now, Padre?” said McGivens, his expression softening as he glanced down reverently at the crucifixes, though the fanatical gleam remained. “We’re both men of God. You can tell me . . .” Felipe was speechless. McGivens meant what he said. The lunatic honestly believed himself to be a man of the lord. A tall man with the crimson scarf cleared his raspy throat. “Hey, boss!” McGivens turned to see one of his men holding up the bar of soap stolen by Zorro. He looked back to Felipe, chuckling sorrowfully. “The Lord hates a liar.” Felipe thought of the bar of soap and the open book sitting upon his desk. When these men find the annals detailing the enemies of the church, with the serpent-globe brand in plain sight, the time for games would be over. “Alright,” Felipe said with a sigh of defeat. “I’ll tell you.” McGivens grinned and nodded, glancing back at his men as if to say, See? Now that’s the way to handle this here kind a situation— His hand quick as lightning, Felipe upended a candelabra

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and smashed it against McGivens’s head. McGivens staggered back, clutching at his ringing skull, as Felipe frantically motioned to Joaquin. “Run!” shouted Felipe. Joaquin bolted for the door. A trio of men darted for him, but the bulky forms of the attackers now rushing for Felipe blocked the padre’s view. McGivens’s thugs were unmindful of the weapon clutched tightly in the padre’s hands, oblivious to the expert fighting stance the man of God had slipped into instinctively, knees slightly bent, weight expertly distributed, his focus on the shoulders of the charging pair. By observing the tilt of the shoulders, he could gage what direction his opponents would move in and get an idea of what specific attack they might use. The men were younger than Felipe, hard and grizzled and full of bluster and the belief in their own immortality. Wild straggly brown hair flowed past the shoulders of the first, a chunky mountain man. The other was taller, thinner, more refined, his moustache neatly trimmed, his face unshaven: a dandy in disgrace. The men didn’t draw their guns. Nor did they produce knives, brass knuckles, or any forms of weaponry. They thought they could subdue the padre without breaking a sweat. Half-crouching, one hand raised before him in what might have seemed a plea for the thugs to keep their distance— were it not for the steely glare the holy man sported—Felipe anchored the candlestick behind him, then whirled in a wide arc. Completing a full circle that doubled his momentum, he whipped the candlestick out, allowing it to strike like a hungry viper. Whack! It smashed against the chin of the closest man— the dandy in his tired gray suit and scuffed shoes. The blow buckled him back, sending him staggering on his heels, lifting him partly from his feet, before landing in a heap on the ground.

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The mountain man was a blur of colors as he charged, his heavy wool coat sporting a crazy quilt of green, red and yellow stitching. Despite the look of surprise in the burly man’s eyes, the padre knew he could not arrest his awkward bearlike lunge. With another half-circle, Felipe darted past him, his elbow cocked and ready, catching the grizzled man hard on the base of his skull. Grunting, expelling air as he tumbled, the mountain man struck his head on the edge of a pew and fell. Trembling with rage, the dandy reached into his pocket for a single-shot gun—abandoning his plan as the candlestick whipped in his direction once more. He put his arm up just in time to block the blow, exactly as Felipe thought he would. Abruptly shifting his center of gravity, Felipe spun in the opposite direction, bringing his knee up into the dandy’s stomach, folding him over with a startled cry. Shoving the half-fallen man away Felipe surged ahead, desperate to help Joaquin. Thunder exploded within the chapel. Felipe froze, eyes wide, rocking unsteadily on his heels as he stared at the barrel of McGivens’s smoking gun. He’d felt something punch into his chest, but there had been no pain, just a thud of impact. Peering down slowly, he gazed into a flaming hole in the center of his frock. “Oh,” he said, surprised at his own matter-of-fact tone. Then, in the short time left to him, he shifted his gaze upward. “God . . .” Felipe sank to his knees—then sprawled on the floor, his eyes wide and staring. Near the door, Joaquin stood frozen, the blood draining from his face. As a pair of men tried to snatch him up he shook off his paralysis, evading them easily as he scrambled toward McGivens. “Felipe-you-killed-Felipe!” screamed Joaquin in a mad frenzy. Not one of the padre’s lessons about love and for-

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giveness meant a damned thing to Joaquin now. His heart had hardened—and he’d found the desire to do bloody murder. The gunman laughed at the sight of the raging child. He looked . . . cute. McGivens calmly holstered his smoking weapon with the contempt that came with having all the time in the world to deal with a threat that wasn’t really much of a threat at all. Joaquin barreled at him, a flailing mass of clawlike hands and animal snarls. Cackling, McGivens reached out to grab the boy. With a savage scream, Joaquin bit the scarred man’s hand, sinking his strong teeth deep enough into the gunman’s hand to draw blood. Howling, McGivens recoiled in pain and shook the feral child loose. In the red haze clouding his mind, Joaquin vaguely hoped that McGivens would never be able to fire a gun again with that hand. Then he heard angry curses, shouts, and saw other grasping grubby hands flying his way as McGivens’s pack of mercenaries closed on him. A bald man yanked on Joaquin’s coat then snarled in surprise as the boy shrugged it off. Joaquin dove between the pews and heard a high brittle crack as another two men raced for him from either direction, smacked heads, then fell in an angry tussle. Bounding to his feet, Joaquin reached the wide aisle near the padre’s office and ran as if the devil were chasing him. But McGivens’s men shepherded him further from the door, closing on him. Think, lunkhead! Joaquin chided himself. What would Zorro do? Joaquin guessed that his hero might make some funny remark to disarm his opponents, but all Joaquin could think of was the body of his friend lying near the angry gunman. Surprising even himself, Joaquin held his ground as the man with the scarlet scarf rushed at him—and Joaquin kicked him squarely in the knee. The big man howled in pain and rage as another thug, this one tall with flowing golden hair,

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made a grab for Joaquin. Whirling, Joaquin ducked and slid low between the wide, heavily planted legs of the Viking, bursting free beyond him. Using the pews for cover, Joaquin targeted the door and rolled between the rows of seats, the cool evening breezes growing stronger with his flight. He spun from the farthest pew and glimpsed the beckoning starlight beyond the open door. Only a few yards now stood between him and freedom. Suddenly, a dark shape dropped down on him, and rough hands plucked him off the floor. Kicking and screaming, Joaquin peered into McGivens’s blazing eyes. “Now you really pissed me off,” snarled McGivens. He hurled Joaquin out the open door and stormed into the night after the sprawled lad, his men following. No one paid any attention to the holy man lying motionless behind them. Flickering torchlight stole ahead of Armand as he led the knights to the bottom of the spiraling staircase. The count patiently waited until every man had descended to the ground floor, including Archduke Wilhelm and Colonel Beauregard. Armand heard grunts of frustration and confusion from some of the men as a thick layer of steam settled over them, lightly charring their lungs while obscuring their view of the magnificence that lay ahead. Guiding them through the roiling, billowing fog of water vapor, Armand reached the spot he had selected earlier in the day. Clouds of steam wreathing his gleeful form, he spread his arms in triumph. “My fellow knights, I give you . . . the future.” Stepping aside, Armand gestured to the billowing gusts of gray white smoke. The superheated steam dissipated as if on command to reveal the monstrous iron rises of a munitions factory. Technicians dressed in long, white coats oversaw Bunsen burners by the thousands heating bars of soap. Armed guards surrounded the entire factory floor, ensuring the constant speed and diligence of the workers.

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Gasps rose from his knights and Armand chuckled inwardly. Nothing wrong with a little showmanship, is there? He had timed his presentation to the second, precisely aware of when the venting mechanisms would be engaged. “Very impressive, Armand,” coughed Archduke Wilhelm, struggling to catch his breath. “But what does all this do?” Grinning, Armand delivered a gracious bow before summoning the head technician to explain the procedure. A little man with squinting eyes, a steam-burned face, and no eyebrows scurried over in response to the count’s summons, his long gray hair as unkempt as his clothes—which appeared to have been slept in more than once. “Gentlemen,” sniffled the head technician in a reedy voice, “what we have here is the process of ‘saponification,’ at its simplest, where by the glycerin from the soap is extracted and diluted into an aqueous layer of liquid. This liquid is then mixed with other chemicals to create raw nitroglycerin . . .” Armand’s back stiffened as a yawn escaped Colonel Beauregard. Enough, thought Armand icily, I didn’t summon this pitiful little weasel to put my men to sleep. He dropped a powerful hand onto the technician’s shoulder and the man started, the breath seizing in his throat, as if death itself had arrived with a private message. “That’s enough, Henri, return to your duties,” commanded Armand as he steered the scientist back toward the banks of Bunsen burners. “What Henri meant to say is that we are producing mass quantities of explosive of amazing power, and we have a transportation system in place to safely move our product to wherever it is needed in this country.” Crouching behind a row of empty wine crates, Zorro and Elena exchanged grave looks. Then, cocking his head to one side, Zorro grinned and said, “Hard to believe this is the same man you’ve been kissing all this time, eh?”

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Elena grunted—and accidentally stubbed his toe beneath her heel as they scrambled out from cover to follow Armand’s continuing tour. “Even harder to believe I could be so clumsy, eh?” she said acidly. Limping slightly for the next dozen yards, Zorro kept the rest of his thoughts to himself. Below, Armand swept his hand at what first appeared to be a mass of independently bobbing and swaying bamboo-colored saucer hats. Then hands and sleeves thrust into view and the function of the frantic bursts of activity became clear: workers were siphoning the nitro into a steam-powered assembly line of wine bottles. Elena nudged Zorro’s arm and together they spied an approaching worker. “I would say he’s wearing this season’s most enticing fashion accessory,” Elena mused, nodding at his wide brimmed hard hat. “Well, I wouldn’t want you telling your friends that I never got you anything,” groused Zorro with a matching grin. The man reached up for a crate on the top of a stack—and never knew what hit him, though he couldn’t miss identifying where, as Zorro kicked him in a place no man could easily shake off an injury. Wincing in pain, the worker dropped to his knees. Zorro snatched the man’s hat as he fell and quickly donned the strange chapeau. “It’s you,” Elena said quickly, delivering a second kick that sent the moaning worker into the waiting arms of unconsciousness. Zorro nodded—not sure if he had just been complimented or not. Below, Armand led his knights through the area where the bottles of nitro were being carefully loaded into wine crates. The crates were then placed onto a rolling flatbed and set on

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rails, which pushed them through a large door leading outside. “Beyond that door, the crates are loaded onto a six car munitions train on the newly constructed railway line. These tracks will allow for a continuous supply of nitro to the southern battlefront,” said Armand proudly. “Although I’ll be returning to Europe shortly, Ferroq will remain to oversee the operation.” A light flurry of applause rose from the onlookers—as none wished to startle these particular workers in the midst of their dangerous operation. Armand stopped a passing worker carrying a wine crate and drew a bottle for the others to inspect. “The nitro’s been concealed within these bottles to circumvent any prying northern patrols.” “God help them if they want a taste . . .’’ joked Archduke Wilhelm. Nodding, Armand joined in the bemused, but subdued laughter that eased from the knights as he snaked the bottle back into the crate. The worker nodded without meeting his eyes and moved off steadily. Armand paid no attention as the man with the crate shadowed him, remaining just close enough to clearly make out every word he said. Nor did he see the worker tilt up the brim of his saucer hat to adjust his black silk mask. Strident footsteps rang out along the steel struts of a metal walkway. Armand whirled as Ferroq furiously came at him, chest heaving. “An urgent matter requires your attention at the hacienda, master,” whispered Ferroq into his master’s ear. Armand used all his powers of restraint to keep his face steely. “Gentlemen, the colonel will lead you through the rest of the facility. If you’ll excuse me?” Beauregard beamed with pride and gestured for the knights to follow him as Armand and Ferroq strolled toward

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a door in the distance. I so hope our chef hasn’t been at the cooking sherry again; I simply cannot afford that kind of embarrassment today. He toyed with the idea of having the man shot, then thought better of it. No one he’d been able to find could make a rum cheesecake anywhere near as delectable as those he’d been served lately. Fuming with annoyance, Armand and Ferroq swept past the disguised Zorro and disappeared beyond the archway. The masked man returned to Elena, and urgently whispered, “He’s going back to the hacienda.” Elena’s eyes widened with panic. “I have to get back before he does.” Zorro gently touched her shoulder. “I’ll keep the train from leaving,” Zorro assured her, “Go!” She took his hand in both of hers and held it against her cheek for a moment. He ran his fingers through her silky black hair. Rising with a shudder, she bit her lip and gazed at him—there was so much left unsaid between them. He smiled, as if to tell her, There will be time, Mi Amor . . . all the time in the world. Nodding sharply, Elena turned and raced away, her skirts hiked up and bunched in her hands. Alejandro’s heart ached as he watched her go. Then he followed the colonel to the train station, a new determination burning in his eyes. He would honor his unspoken promise to his beloved—or die trying. Colonel Beauregard guided the knights outside, the cool night air a bracing relief after being pawed by the headfogging, superheated clutches of the factory. The knights of Aragon casually observed as workers lifted the wine crates from the rolling flatbed and carried them into the cargo car. “The carriage has been retrofitted to insure the nitro won’t detonate prematurely . . .’’ reported Beauregard as the crates

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were placed on suspended platforms rigged to pneumatic pipes. The colonel moved forward, directing the knights to the track that had been laid to connect the factory with the current railroad line. As they walked on, a tired worker approached the end of the cargo car and pushed it further down the track. In the darkness, he did not see the man in black lying on the track beneath the car. Moving with catlike grace, Zorro carefully climbed into the nitro car. Once inside, he carefully pried open a crate and gingerly removed a bottle filled with the explosive liquid. Grabbing a roll of fuse cord, he opened a maintenance door on the floor of the car and slipped down onto the icy track. Zorro constructed a simple bomb, slinging one end of the fuse cord over a pipe, then tying it around the tip of the nitro bottle. Carefully letting go, the bottle hung there. Zorro unspooled the fuse. He peered out to make sure no one was watching, then nimbly sped along the side of the train to set his trap. All he would have to do is ignite the cord from a safe distance. Once the cord burned away, the bottle would fall and explode. And then, he thought with a satisfied smile, there will be a very, VERY big boom! The moon peered down brightly as Elena raced through endless rows of grapevines. Skeletal branches reached for her, their sharp claws threatening to slice at her dress or leave telltale scratches on her hands and face. Her palms grew clammy as ice trickled down her spine. I have to get back, if Armand finds I’m gone . . . A tangle of vines closed on her ankle and yanked her down. In a moment of frenzy, she yelped, thumping hard to the ground. Trembling, she examined herself. No cuts or bruises, her dress was unmarred. Miraculous. Hauling herself to her feet, she made ready to scramble

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off again—then froze. A low growl rumbled from behind a clutch of trembling vines. Two pairs of crimson eyes loped into view atop nightmare black slabs of murderously coiled muscle and eerily white gleaming sharp teeth and rolling, panting tongues. The mastiffs were off their chains.

From the Fourth Volume of the Memoirs of Count Armand de la Fere

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Her beauty clouds my reason. She is the unattainable. In my life, I have wanted for nothing. All that I have ever desired has been mine in the fullness of time; everything but her. Long ago, when we were both so young and at school together, Father forbid me to pursue her. She was of common stock, he claimed. This made no sense to me, I responded. Elena was a creature of the finest lineage and breeding. I now understand the source of Father’s claims. He led the Knights of Aragon before me. The Knights have been a powerful force behind dark dealings all across the world for many centuries. Power is often gained through knowledge. The Knights make it a point to uncover all the dirty little secrets of any man of wealth or influence that might one day prove useful. Don Montero had kept the secret that Elena was Diego’s daughter from her until the day he died, but the Knights gained this information much earlier, when Elena was but a few years old. Don Montero was not a Knight, he

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was simply one of the Knights’ many pawns, and the best way to control such a pawn was to learn all their dirty little secrets and blackmail them. Montero had many soldiers with him the night he accidentally slew Elena’s mother, sent Don Diego to a horrid prison, and took the child as his own. He sent assassins after most of these men later on, but there was one he trusted enough not to talk. Unfortunately his trust in his own man was misplaced. For a tidy sum which got him out of a nasty gambling debt, the soldier who was supposedly loyal to Montero revealed the secret of Elena’s true lineage to the Knights. Even after I learned the truth, I cared not a whit. I was— I am—besotted with her. Elena knew in those days when we were young and at school together that Father and I frequently argued; she never knew that she was the cause of the strife. Father finally took the extreme measure of removing me from school so that I would not be around her any longer. But in the years that followed, violent arguments would erupt between Father and myself at a moment’s notice when the slightest thing reminded me of her. The silken black hair of a woman on the street. A flash of emerald reminiscent of her eyes. A sudden brightness to the day that made me think of her smile. Did Elena have feelings for me then? You would have to ask her. My belief is that she did. She may have only considered me a dear friend at first, but before I parted from her, I had a sense that she was on the path to falling in love with me. For all the years following my separation from Elena, I thought Father a cruel man. A sadistic beast. Even after the day I had Ferroq kill him in the street, making it look as if a pack of thieves attacked all three of us, I believed he denied my requests to pursue Elena, simply because my suffering had given him pleasure. Then I learned, but ten years ago, that Elena had married a common man. I was inflamed. Married or not, I desired to

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woo her, to take her from the arms of this de la Vega who was so wretchedly beneath her. I was determined to win Elena back. I spent much time setting events into motion so that I would attain glory for the Knights and be near her as well, until finally four months ago I arrived in this country. My thoughts again turn to Father. My beliefs about his pointless cruelty in keeping Elena and myself apart for so long were not true. I know that now. He understood that a man who desires nothing is not a man at all. I came to this dusty backward country to serve the interests of my order and myself. The vineyard—or whatever beard might have best obfuscated the true purpose of my activities—could have been established anywhere. And the task at hand certainly would have been expedited had our product not had to be transported the entire width and breadth of this country. I wanted to be near her. Elena’s falling out with de la Vega was yet another gift of Divine Providence. Had it not come, I would have had Ferroq trick the man into following him into a darkened alley, where he would be gutted. Then I would have appeared to Elena in her days of mourning, a sudden shining reminder of better days. I would have comforted her and soon enough had what I desired. There is an emptiness in being so close to achieving my desires, an element of disappointment that confounds me, driving me to the brink of a murderous frenzy. Once you achieve the unattainable, what else is there? Forgive me, Father. I now see your wisdom. But I am helpless against my desire for this woman, just as you were when Mother first caught your eye. I will have this woman. What happens next? We will soon see . . .

Chapter 15

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knot constricting in her throat, Elena stared with fascinated horror as the beasts slowly advanced—then she bolted, her legs pistoning wildly, her heart fit to burst, as the animals barked and vaulted after her. The creatures crashed through the vineyards, barking, growling, snapping as Elena flew the rest of the way toward the hacienda. She prayed for deliverance in the near darkness, aware that if she stumbled, she died. The beasts would tear her limb from limb simply for sport. The warm glow from the hacienda’s windows intensified as she closed in on it. She ran wildly, liquid fire coursing through her limbs while shallow breaths were choked from her lungs. The parlor window jutted into view and she saw Armand enter. The dogs snapped at her heels—then yelped and fell silent, scrambling to a frightened halt. Ferroq stood near the hacienda’s door, looking about suspiciously. Elena fought every mad instinct within her to throw herself down before he could spy her, but the labored panting of the mastiffs curled about her ears. She pressed on, begging the lord for the strength to reach the house before the wretched man’s scouring line of sight crossed to her— Scrambling through a bed of gravel, she launched herself

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into a niche beneath an open window and pressed herself against a hard stone wall. He hadn’t seen her. Suddenly, the dogs launched themselves her way. Ferroq had gone. She scrambled to the parlor’s window, climbed inside, and slammed the window closed. The mastiffs flung themselves against the glass, their nails scratching its surface, as Elena composed herself, smoothed out her dress, and drew her fan just instants before the door burst open. Turning, she feigned a great yawn as Armand and Ferroq strode in, their expressions dark, unreadable. “Goodness, I must’ve dozed off when the dogs startled me,” said Elena, opening her fan to conceal a second, even more robust yawn. She smiled, inwardly wondering if either man could smell the stink of fresh sweat on her. Armand’s face was like marble. “Perhaps they thought you were someone you’re not.” His hand whipped toward the maddened hounds at the window. Whimpering, they drew back and departed. Elena gasped at the power he held. “I’m told you arrived early,” Armand reported as he strolled over to her, lifted her chin in his hands and cast his piercing gaze deeply into her, scrutinizing her the way one might a precious object up for auction, deciding whether or not to make a bid. Ferroq dispassionately observed the display. Slowly batting her eyes, Elena murmured breathlessly, “I couldn’t wait.” Armand stared down at her, “I’m having a special meal prepared. I hope you’re hungry.” “Famished,” she said, not missing a beat. “Absolutely famished . . .” In the dining room, Elena carefully placed her napkin in her lap as Marie set a silver tray before her. With a dutifully pleasant smile, the older woman lifted off the glinting silver

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dome, revealing an steaming array of perfectly prepared poultry and sumptuous-smelling fruits and garnishes. Marie sliced off a serving and delicately delivered it to Elena’s plate, along with white rice and garlic flavored shrimp. Elena breathed in the tantalizing aroma of the feast, noting that Armand’s plate was still bare. Someone’s been given a talking to, it seems, thought Elena. With an imperious nod, Elena bid Marie to continue serving. “Thank you, Marie.” With a slight smile, Marie turned and swept from the room. Surprised, Elena turned to her companion. “Aren’t you hungry?” Armand twitched. It might have been a shake of the head. Elena decided that his distraction must have stemmed from thoughts of the blustering Colonel Beauregard addressing his fellow knights on this important evening—while he was trapped here, a prisoner of his own private desires. She tasted the fowl. It was quite delicious. Her brain buzzed with ideas for extricating herself from this awkward situation. Perhaps she could claim the meat was underdone and had made her ill. Armand’s lack of appetite would help with— His voice rang out sharply. “Have I ever told you the story of how my parents fell in love?” The question hung in the air like a challenge as he sipped his wine. “Not that I recall . . .” Armand’s eyes were darker still as his somberly spoken words carried them to another time and place. “My father was a soldier in the peninsular campaigns. When he was sent to capture Lisbon, he became enamored of a local maiden who, of course, wanted nothing to do with a conquering soldier. So my father took her to his estate and locked her in a room . . . for three years.” Elena flinched, setting down her silverware and casting

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her full attention on her companion. Armand’s eyes flickered with happy malice coupled with grim acceptance, as if something monstrous that he could never before comprehend finally made sense to him. “For three years. And when he finally let my mother out . . . she was desperate to accept his hand in marriage.” Elena lowered her gaze in an attempt to conceal her rapidly growing fear. “How romantic . . .” “We all carry the burden of our history, Elena,” Armand said with authority. “Try as we might, we can never forget where we come from. Don’t you agree?” In spite of her fear, the sentiment resonated with her. “Yes.” I have never seen this man before, Elena realized. Not up close. This is the killer who would have gladly stabbed Alejandro through the heart and called it an accident during the polo challenge. This is the man who just destroyed another human being then discarded his ashes. Nervously, she took a bite of her food, determined not to allow her repulsion to show. “Tasty, is it?” queried Armand. “It’s . . . unusual. Is it quail?” Armand steepled his fingers, assuming a judicial expression. “Pigeon, as a matter of fact.” Elena’s gaze rocketed to the silver carrier band curved around the bird’s charred leg. He knows! She bolted from her chair as if the hounds had just crashed through the window and sprang for her throat. Armand tittered like an amused child as she yanked open a hardwood door and flung herself into the empty kitchen. Where was the chef, his helpers? A cold dull knife of realization slipped between her ribs: they were sent away the moment their services were no longer required, just like Marie. Her hands closed on every doorknob in the enormous

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kitchen as she searched wildly for a way out. All were locked—except one. Elena flung open the final door—and shrieked as a blast of cold air brutally exploded in her face. Butchered carcasses swung on creaking hooks to greet her, including two that were frightfully familiar: Agents Harrigan and Pike stared at her with unseeing eyes and slack jaws as they dangled amidst the other slabs of cold dead meat. Armand sprang up next to her, smiling gleefully. “Not hungry? Dinner not to your liking? Or was it something I said . . .” Elena ran from him, whirling and bolting through another door that was now open. She caught a glimpse of a long wooden corridor, a pale spill of light from the main parlor spreading hope of escape to her heart. Then a huge form bulleted from the darkness next to her, an inhumanly strong hand seizing her throat and thrusting her from her feet. She smacked into a wall, choking, her fingers closing over the vise-like hand of Ferroq while Armand strolled near, smiling and shaking his head as if the sad duty of disciplining a foolish child had just been set upon him . . . a duty he perversely enjoyed. “As you said, Elena: we see the people we love as we want them to be,” Armand admitted, gesturing casually for Ferroq to unhand her, “not as who they are.” The breath ratcheting in his throat, murder boiling over in his eyes, the bald man shoved her away, leaving Elena slumped on her knees as she clawed at her neck, where a crimson handprint still remained. Armand crouched before his “beloved,” his soft warm hand cautiously drawing near her face, as if she might plunge her teeth into it. She tensed as he caressed the side of her face, trembling like a frightened fawn. By God, how he enjoyed that! Unable to restrain his fury any longer, Armand whipped his hand down and ripped the pearl necklace from her throat,

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sending the pearls flying like shrapnel against the wood floor. She scrambled away from him. “Did you actually think I’d be swept off my feet by a sadistic coward like you?” shouted Elena, her eyes brimming with hate. Armand shrugged, his menacing smile a mockery of charm. “I thought you were a woman of vision.” “I can barely stomach the sight of you, Armand!” screamed Elena. “The only way I could stand your touch was by imagining you were Alejandro!” Armand’s lips pursed grotesquely, his eyes bulged, veins stood out on his temples and muscles in his face grew so taut they threatened to snap. He sprang back and away from her, one hand smashing into the wall as he fought his killer instincts. Then he towered over her, his fists white with fury, as he pronounced, “Your stepfather would be ashamed to see you’ve become nothing more than a common woman, devoted to a common man.” “I take that as a compliment,” Elena replied evenly. Before Armand could say anything else, footsteps rang out from around the corner. High spirited scuffling and muffled cries accompanied deep throaty curses as McGivens burst into view—dragging Joaquin with him. Elena gasped, what little order remained in her life had now vanished in a heartbeat, her soul split open wide at the sight of her son—the very reason she had succumbed to living in the hands of this madman. With a frantic burst of energy, Joaquin tore free from the gunman and flew into his mother’s arms. She pulled him close, holding onto him for dear life. “The padre’s dead, the kid’s a witness,” announced McGivens with a frown. He sounded annoyed. Joaquin crushed himself near to his mother. “I’m sorry—” “Shhh, no, it’s okay, Mi Amor, not your fault . . .” Elena stroked his hair and pulled her son closer, looking past him

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toward Armand with the ferocious glare of a lioness ready to lay down her life to protect her cub. Moonlight shimmered on the tracks as Zorro unspooled the fuse trailing back to his makeshift bomb. He sliced off the tip, grinning as he imagined the unholy devastation he would bring about this night. You would destroy the dream of freedom not just for my people, but for everyone who lives in this country. See what you get? He sliced off the fuse’s tip with a sharp vengeful tug of his blade, then put his fingers to his mouth, summoning Tornado with a high whistle. The black stallion galloped in from a tree-lined ridge, anxious to spirit his master away from the strange smells and sounds of the factory. Striking a match, Zorro lit the fuse and leaped onto his saddle, Tornado’s powerful muscles driving them high along the ridge and into the looming vineyards above. Time to get Elena, he knew. A flickering glow from down the road stopped him. His brow furrowed as he saw the light grow brighter and heard the jostling wheels of an approaching carriage. Driving Tornado deeper into cover, Zorro made out Ferroq at the reins of the carriage, McGivens riding alongside. Not a good sign. Zorro’s gaze narrowed as the conveyance entered the winery, Armand leaping out first, followed by two fighting figures dragged kicking and screaming to the ground by the smiling Ferroq: Elena and Joaquin. Shaking his head in wild horror, Zorro hissed, “Nonononononono—” McGivens joined Ferroq and together they roughly shepherded mother and son into the winery. The train was headed straight for the winery. Zorro’s breath quickened at the thought of the rocketing explosion

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that would soon light up the sky—taking his beloved and his son with it. He whipped Tornado into frantic motion, blazing a path back the way they had come, images of the spitting fuse searing into his brain. Within the moonlit courtyard, Armand strode boldly ahead, Ferroq and McGivens propelling Elena and Joaquin after him. The count’s hand closed on the trigger to the secret entrance. “Pity I’ve attracted the attention of Federal Agents,” said Armand wistfully, “we’ll be forced to take our leave for Europe sooner than expected.” “What makes you think we’re going with you?” demanded Elena. Armand smiled and gently touched her face—before hurling her down the underground staircase. “What makes you think you have a choice?” From the hills above, Zorro came racing down, Tornado bursting into a mad gallop. The fuse had crackled and burned along the train near the locomotive and was now firing its way toward the factory. Surging forward on Tornado, his face taut with effort, Zorro deftly calculated how much time he would need to arrest the fuse’s progress—and knew it would be all right. He was about to haul on Tornado’s reins when a sudden shift in the cool night air alerted him. He heard a biting whistling sound— Solid steel smashed into his chest and he was catapulted back from his saddle, landing hard on the chilled earth. A stocky man gripping a shovel in his enormous hands came at him out of the darkness as Tornado wheeled around and galloped back toward the bank. Zorro scrambled up from the ground and yelled to his horse, “Estupido! Get back here!” Sizing up the masked man, the stoker—for that was surely his vocation, his body reeking with the acrid scent of coal— tossed the shovel aside, leveling his fists at his opponent. Zorro shook his head. “Trust me, this is a very bad time.”

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The sizzling fuse shot past the men. Zorro dove for it— but the stoker’s huge foot stomped on his spine, thumping him down. A heavy fist smashed into the base of Zorro’s skull, a blinding flash of white light searing his sight as pain and rage roared within him. With an animal laugh, the stoker removed his boot from the masked man’s back and flopped Zorro over, grabbing him up by a handful of his costume and savagely leering at him. “Killing you will make me famous,” he growled. Zorro blinked, a half-dozen images of the stoker swimming in front of his face as his brain struggled to right itself, a twisted version of a child’s kaleidoscope. Whack! His head snapped back as a relentless rain of heavy-fisted blows hammered him. Unsparing uppercuts, jolting jabs, leaden left hooks—the man had been trained as a boxer. His punishing barrage drove Zorro back, even as the lit fuse hissed toward the heavy bottle of nitroglycerine. Fists raised, bobbing and weaving, the stoker laughed, “This is too easy.” Zorro’s boot sliced up between the stoker’s legs, connecting with a satisfying crunch. Emitting an agonizing whine, the stoker dropped to his knees. “I was thinking the same thing,” snapped the masked man, spinning and racing for the angry fuse. Zorro reached for it— And a sandbag fell on him, smashing him down. A sandbag smelling of soot. The stoker! “Always . . . wear . . . padding,” grunted the big man as he pinned Zorro to the ground. Zorro’s gaze shot ahead. The fuse flew forward, there was no chance of stopping it now. God forgive me . . . my love, my son, I will see you— He sniffed the air—and saw a puddle of water from where the stoker or some other pig had relieved himself. The fuse sped for it, reached it, and fizzled out.

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Madre di Dios! The guy really is full of piss and vinegar. Wriggling out of the stoker’s grip, his heart rising with relief, Zorro kicked him in the head and scrambled to get to his feet. In the fleeting instants it took Zorro to regain his footing, the stoker had snatched a torch from a brazier near the wall. With a howling cry, he swung it wildly at Zorro’s face. The masked man easily deflected the torch, smacking it from the stoker’s grip. The fiery torch toppled end over end—and dropped onto the fuse, reigniting it! A sudden jangling of steel chains caused Zorro to whirl toward the stoker—who slammed a pulley and chain dangling from a steel girder into his masked opponent’s face. Staggering back, Zorro could offer no resistance as the stoker noosed the chain around his neck and yanked it tight. “Time for a lynchin’!” yelled the stoker. Choking, his eyes popping, Zorro clawed desperately for his sword as the fuse snaked near the hanging bottle under the nitro car. His trembling gloved hand closed on the hilt. Seconds passed like years until finally he thrust the sword handle backward into the stoker’s gut. The stoker doubled over with a stunned wheeze, his grip on the chain loosening. The cold steel around Zorro’s throat uncoiled and the masked man dropped to the ground. Lashing out again with his sword he severed the chain, sending the steel pulley plunging onto the stoker’s head with a sharp crack that knocked him out cold. Zorro bounded toward the nitro car, the fuse relentlessly closing on its target soon to blow everything Zorro cared about in this life to bloody pieces. Elsewhere near the tracks, Armand stood with Beauregard and said, “We’ll rendezvous at Clanton’s Pass, you and your men can assume control of the train there.” The colonel smiled. “I’ll have a carriage waiting to take you to the docks.” Exchanging quick formal nods, they parted, Armand striding on toward the train. He stopped by the passenger car

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to bow to his fellow knights. McGivens and Ferroq held Elena and Joaquin a dozen paces off from the group. With a pale flourish of his hand, Armand forced a smile and said, “Until we meet again in Europe, gentlemen—au revoir.” A fluttering of fabric alerted Armand. He spun as Zorro leaped into view, bounding for a particular car. Seeing his hero, Joaquin cheered, “Zorro!” McGivens drew his pistol to fire on the masked marauder, but Joaquin’s foot whipped up, brutally snapping into the gunman’s knee. The bullet went wide, pinging as it ricocheted off the locomotive. Joaquin bolted toward Zorro— while McGivens cheerfully took aim at the back of the boy’s head. Elena screamed, “NO!” Salvation was at hand. The pistol with that word carved in its grip exploded as Zorro dove for Joaquin, knocking him out of the way. Zorro felt a tug against his sleeve as the bullet ripped through it, grazing his arm. He tumbled to the ground, snapping back to his feet and racing wildly away as the fuse he had set reached the hanging bottle. The glass bottle fell, the hard ground reaching up, ready to shatter it. Zorro’s hands arced beneath it, catching the bottle like a father gently catching a baby—with only inches to spare. He took in a deep breath of the cool night air, tainted with the acrid smell of burned cord, and glanced down with relief at the bottle of nitro in his hands. He edged back into view, Armand and all the others staring at him. They knew damn well what he held in his hands. Armand gestured—and a guard snatched the still shaken Joaquin. The count shrugged. Now they each knew what the other held. Strolling toward Zorro, Armand bent down and held out his hands for the bottle. “If you please?” asked Armand. Zorro’s face was a dark mask of fury, his eyes gleaming with the desire to draw his sword and cut Armand to pieces.

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But he knew he was beaten—at least for now. The guard could snap Joaquin’s neck at any moment, and Ferroq gleefully pressed his curving scissor-like crescent blades to Elena’s throat. Eyes fierce, trapped, Zorro rose and handed the bottle to Armand. “Merci,” mused Armand, gently setting his burden on a crate. His smile was that of a cat that had drunk all the milk in the house and didn’t care who knew it. “And your sword.” Zorro tossed it to the ground with an echoing clank. Armand signaled McGivens, who snickered as he slugged Zorro in the gut, folding him over and dropping him to his knees. The masked man grimaced as his arms were bound behind his back, the rope tied so tightly his hands went numb in seconds. Appraising his captive with casual arrogance, as if he were in the midst of hosting another wine tasting, Armand peered down at Zorro. “Yes, and remove his mask.” Alejandro glared up from behind his mask, his gaze locking with that of Elena. His heart sank as he took in the look of mute appeal in her tear-stained eyes, then his gaze traveled to his son, whose eyes burned with defiance—and fear. The masked man looked up as Jacob McGivens towered over him, the scarred man’s hand striking with the speed of a cobra, tearing the silken cloth from his face. The former preacher gasped and whispered, “You . . .” Armand tossed his head back, his laughter rifling the stillness that had settled upon them. “What a splendid jest— what a perfect going away gift. Really, de la Vega, you astound me. I couldn’t have asked for more!” Joaquin’s chest was heaving, his eyes huge pools of confusion, his world suddenly rocked to its very foundations by this shocking revelation. Shaking like a colt, he whispered, “Papi?” A cold hand of mourning closed on Alejandro’s heart. “It’s alright, niño . . .’’

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Joaquin stared back, reeling. His father was Zorro. His father had just saved his life . . . Armand leaned close to Alejandro. In a friendly, man-toman conspiratorial hush, laced with cruel bemusement, he said, “You’ve lost it all. Your wife, your son . . . and for what?” Armand took the mask and wiggled it before Alejandro’s eyes. “For this?” Fixing the count with a monstrous glare, Alejandro snarled through gritted teeth, “No matter where you go, Armand . . . whatever you do . . . the world isn’t big enough to hide from me.” In a mocking whisper, Armand hissed, “Thank you for your concern, but I don’t think it’s going to be an issue.” Armand nodded to Ferroq, who dragged the struggling Elena close. Armand’s hand delicately caressed Elena’s cheek—ignoring the way she recoiled—as he distractedly murmured, “Goodbye, de la Vega.” Ignoring Alejandro’s searing gaze, Armand nodded to McGivens. Chortling with delight, the scarred man drew his savage bowie knife. Standing behind Alejandro, McGivens pressed it against his victim’s throat—and held it there. “Papi!” screamed Joaquin. “Come along quietly now,” urged Armand evenly. “Armand . . .” begged Elena, her eyes pleading for mercy. Studying the boy’s face, Armand frowned and calculated just how much harder it would be to condition this brat to become his rightful heir one day if the image of his father’s death were indelibly stamped upon his memories. He nodded. “Resist me no further.” She cast her gaze downward in acquiescence and placed her feet upon the steps to board the train. The moment she was no longer in view, he mouthed to McGivens, “As soon as we’re gone . . .’’ The gunman grinned and tipped his hat. With pleasure. Armand urged the soldier holding Joaquin to bring him forth. The guard withdrew and Armand placed one hand on

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Joaquin’s shoulder, the other on the sensuous curve of Elena’s lower back. Yes, far better that the condemned man see that his precious sweetheart and son will be well taken care of . . . Alejandro shouted after her, “Elena!” Elena spun, her eyes already brimming with grief for the love of her life and father of her child. Speaking slowly, clearly, his words ripped directly from his heart, Alejandro said, “Mi familia es mi vida!” Elena nodded, her eyes welling with tears. Armand roughly thrust her into the steadily humming train before her constricted throat might utter a sound. Joaquin flung himself from Armand, but Ferroq caught him before he could clear more than a few yards toward his father. The bald man hauled the kicking and screaming ten-year-old into the train, the whistle blasting as the train slowly jostled down the tracks. Through the window of the passenger car, Alejandro met his wife and son’s anguished gazes for the last time. His soul was rended by the longing and regret in Elena’s eyes. Joaquin was beside her, his fists crashing desperately against the window while tears streamed down his cheeks. Their faces were swept away into the night as the train chugged ahead, then picked up speed and sped away. A fist lashed across Alejandro’s chin, toppling the bound man to one side, forcing him to stare up into the scarred face of Jacob McGivens, to whose tender ministrations he had been delivered. The former preacher circled, his wooden teeth gleaming in the moonlight as he waved his blade high. “ ‘I send you out a sheep amongst the wolves . . .’ ” Worried that his one-man flock wasn’t paying attention, McGivens stabbed his knee into Alejandro’s chest, forcing the air from his victim’s lungs while pinning him to the ground. A murmur of approval rose from the tangle of guards who had arrived to see the train off while satisfied laughter burst from the fistful of robed men further down the tracks.

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Alejandro desperately drew a few shallow breaths. Glad to give all of you your money’s worth . . . McGivens grinned. “Shame about your friend, the padre. He died with God’s name on his lips . . . and a bullet in his heart.” He raised his Bowie knife. “You’re about to join him.” Gritting his teeth, Alejandro rocketed a knee into McGivens’s crotch, tossing the surprised—and pained—gunman from him. “You first!” Alejandro sprung off the floor. A blade swept out from the hand of a startled guard. With a wry smile, Alejandro thrust his bound hands up to meet the weapon—laughing as the blade bit through the ropes binding him. Whirling, he aimed a powerful kick at the man’s ribs, reveling in the jarring impact that stole up his opponent’s leg and in the crackle he heard as the man staggered back, his blade soaring high. Plucking the weapon from mid-air, Zorro drove the tip at the ground and flicked his mask up, catching it with his free hand. Quickly tying on the black silk, he whirled to face an angry brace of guards. “Now,” invited Zorro as he raised the tip of his blade once more, “shall we try that again?”

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alf a dozen guards attacked as one, like a murderous beast lunging toward Zorro with flashing razor-sharp claws. A flurry of angry faces glared at the masked man from behind. Zorro burst into their ranks, a whirling dervish swiping at them with sizzling hot steel, leaving ragged crimson gashes on otherwise pristine uniforms, spilling blood from shallow wounds onto perfectly polished buckles and boots. Grinning, exhilarated by the fight, Zorro thought, Is this the best they have to offer? I’ve had better fights with Tornado! While the battle raged, McGivens slowly dragged himself off the ground, struggling to overcome the blinding pain racing through him with his every motion. His trembling hand sought Salvation, found it, and aimed the gun at the caped fighter. “Don’t worry, you miserable godless heathen,” whispered the scarred man as he carefully took aim, forcing his quivering hand into rigidity. “A couple of shots to make you manageable, then you better buckle up, ’cause I’m gonna bring back the Spanish Inquisition!” A rough sound at his back made the gunman spin, his finger closing on the trigger—

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He froze, his heart skipping a beat, his blood turned to ice. The sound had been a man clearing his throat. No, not a man. A demon in a holy man’s habit. I killed you. With a shout of rage, Fray Felipe leaped at McGivens, driving the haunted man to the ground, sending his loathsome gun flying. His fists descending in a hailstorm of fury, the padre’s lips pulled back in a horrifying, gruesome grin as he pounded the scarred man until his knuckles were raw and bleeding. Hauling the former preacher to his feet, Felipe hurled McGivens against a wall. “You call yourself a man of God?” snarled Felipe. “You’ll soon be able to talk to Him about that!” A high sharp whistle caused the padre to back away, his fist still coiled to strike. As McGivens bounded back from the wall, a blade snapped forward to meet him—slicing a stinging “Z” into his cheek! “That was for Guillermo Cortez,” spat Zorro through gritted teeth. Shuddering in confusion, McGivens dabbed a finger to his stinging, flayed cheek and stared at it in shock. “Blood of the lamb . . .” Zorro and the padre exchanged arched eyebrows. Aren’t you supposed to be singing with the angels? Have you ever heard me sing? Believe me, it is better I suffer here on earth . . . The cadre of guards were recovering from the thrashing Zorro had given them and racing ahead once more. Trading places like experienced dance partners, Zorro and Felipe took on one another’s enemies, the masked man grappling with the insane former preacher, Felipe wading into the guards. At their backs, the assembled Knights of Aragon fled in a mad, frightened tangle. Zorro sheathed his sword and brought his fists to bear against the murderer. His thoughts were not of justice as he battered McGivens’s face. Instead, he found himself revel-

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ing in McGivens’s agony as he savagely, ruthlessly folded him over, drove him to the ground, then hauled him up and whaled on him some more. “You can beat on me all night if you want,” chided McGivens, “and that train with your whore and her whelp’ll just get further away.” He laughed. “All things considered, you sure that boy’s even yours?” Zorro pummeled him harder, McGivens’s wooden teeth cracking in the darkness. Zorro knew exactly what McGivens was doing—he was attempting to make him angry enough so that he’d slip up and provide the gunman an opening. Yet the killer had a point. He had to end this quickly . . . “You gonna kill me in cold blood, hoss?” hissed McGivens, reading the signals in the masked man’s dark eyes. “What kind of example does that set? Zorro’s a hero, now inn’t he?” “Good point,” Alejandro snapped as he slapped the mask to the ground. McGivens’s face fell—and kept falling as Alejandro drove him back, his punishing fists pounding the breath from the scarred killer. From a dozen paces off, crashes, moans, and the patter of fleeing men screaming, “Diablo, Diablo!” told Zorro that Felipe had indeed fought like a demon and decimated the rest of the guards with his fighting arts. He caught the padre’s gaze—and Felipe nodded grimly. With a scream of unholy revenge, Alejandro hurled McGivens into a stash of railway machinery, trapping him in the gear mechanism. He watched with grim satisfaction as a single drop of nitro slowly slid down a metal strut toward McGivens’s terrified face. The drop fell, landing dead center on the cross branded onto his cheekbone—and the roar of a fiery explosion engulfed the gunfighter’s scream. When the smoke cleared, only the smell of burnt flesh hanging in the air remained as a testament to the life—and terrible death—of Jacob McGivens. Alejandro picked up the mask. His heart swelling, he

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turned and pounced on Fray Felipe. The padre gurgled in surprise, his breath nearly driven from him by the embrace of his longtime friend, his own relief fueling his tired limbs as he returned the bearhug. Alejandro pulled back, his quavering hands sliding from his friend. His gaze swept over the man, as if he simply couldn’t believe his eyes. Was McGivens really that bad a shot? Or had the padre been wounded? No, the padre seemed fine. Shaking with relief, Alejandro exclaimed, “Thank God you’re alive!” Felipe nodded sharply. “Believe me, I already have.” From under his frock, Felipe drew forth his crucifix necklace. Jutting up from the twisted metal was McGivens’s flattened bullet. Alejandro closed his eyes and rested his forehead against that of his friend. The moment he heard that Felipe was dead, he had prayed it was a lie. Felipe’s own words brushed through his thoughts: God hears and answers all prayers. But sometimes the answer is “no.” Alejandro smiled. And sometimes it is “yes.” Alejandro replaced the mask of Zorro around his face and leaped into Tornado’s saddle. “Listen, get to the Marshal’s office, tell them what Armand’s doing here.” “Where are you going?” demanded Felipe. With a devilish glint in his eyes, Zorro delivered his best roguish grin. “To catch a train.” With a spur to Tornado’s hide, he galloped off down the track. Dawn’s early light scorched the rugged landscape as Armand’s train blasted down the tracks, an unstoppable behemoth belching clouds of smoke from its stack. Within the boxcar bearing his personal arsenal of nitroglycerin wine— it packs quite a kick, wouldn’t you say, my dear fellows—Armand casually inspected the crates gently rocking on

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platforms suspended from the ceiling. He felt the rough vibrations of the countryside track through the wooden floorboards of the boxcar. There is nothing quite like effortless victory to put a spring in one’s step. Strolling ahead, he completed his inspections and returned to the passenger car, casually glancing at the pocket watch he had “inherited” from his father. There was plenty of time before the big event. A sudden prickly heat alerted him to the eyes boring holes in his back. Turning, he smiled graciously to Elena, who sat quietly, her arms wound tightly around her son, her seething glare bright enough to light up the horizon were the sun to suddenly fail. He allowed himself a pleasant rush of anticipation as he considered exactly when he would take what he desired from her. Sitting across from the hate-filled mother and her cub, Ferroq kept a careful eye on both of them. “Can I get you something to drink?” Armand offered politely, sweeping forward to extend a hand toward a collection of crystal decanters set on an elegantly carved wooden cabinet. A high sharp tinkling rose up as they trembled with the train’s vibrations. Elena regarded him as she might a venomous viper slithered up from the fiery depths of hell. “Understand something: you can lock me in a tower until hell freezes over and I will never stop hating you.” Armand strutted over to his future wife and adopted son. Leaning in close to the alluring arch of her neck, he breathed in her exotic smell of flowers and spices. Her slight shudder was intoxicating, promising a rare passion between the sheets. He stepped back, his hand suddenly driving forward at Joaquin’s face, his powerful fingers springing open like a spider’s limbs. The boy tensed—and Armand cupped his chin with a light, delicate touch. Mus-

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cles twitched in the boy’s cheeks, veins throbbed in his temples. Good, thought Armand. I can make something of the fire that burns within you. “You may feel differently when you see how much Joaquin enjoys the life of an aristocrat,” ventured the count. He ruffled the boy’s hair and stepped back, easing into a leather-bound seat across from them. His upper lip trembling with loathing, Joaquin leaned in close to his mother, whispering in Spanish. Smirking, she nodded conspiratorially to her son. Armand glared at the boy. “Don’t speak Spanish, it’s the language of peasants.” His eyes twinkling courageously, Joaquin cast a feral grin at the count and spat, “I said, I can’t wait ’til my dad kicks your ass.” Armand sighed dismissively. Turning to a shaded window, he pulled at its string. It snapped up, revealing a careening blur of countryside— And the sneering masked face of the man called Zorro, who galloped upon his steed at full speed alongside the train. Armand’s brow creased. He had time only to wonder if the lack of sleep had driven delusions into his mind before Zorro’s fist crashed through the glass, sending him careening back against the wall of the passenger car and down to the floor. Elena laughed out loud. Her heart swelled with relief because she knew—even before seeing the masked rider—that her husband was still alive. No one else had a punch like that. Thank God! Launching himself from his mother’s arms, Joaquin dashed to the window next to the pane of broken glass, hauled it open, and thrust himself into the roaring wind. Lifting his arms to the heavens he loosed a cheer of victory as Zorro galloped alongside the train, urging Tornado to another burst of speed.

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He opened his mouth, flickering winds teasing his lips, desperate to call out to his father— And a powerful, claw-like hand dug into his scalp, whipping Joaquin back into the car by his wild mane. The boy thudded into another seat, pain lancing into his skull. Steeling himself, he hurled his vengeful gaze toward his attacker. Ferroq gave him the gift of a graveyard smile. “Take your hands off of him!” screeched Elena as she flew to defend her son. Ferroq struck her across the mouth, blunting her momentum, and snapped his claw blade before her eyes. Jamming it lower, he allowed its cold steel to tickle her neck—the threat of death stilling her at once. Armand staggered up from the floor. He looked affronted. A door slid open, a pair of guards charging in. Gesturing one of them near, he tore the man’s sword belt from him and lashed it around his own waist, readying himself to fight for what was his. Elena was glaring at him once more. “This changes nothing,” Armand promised his conquest. “Except that now, the boy will see his father’s head taken from his body.” Snorting, Elena whispered mockingly, “Armand . . . you always say the sweetest things.” Quaking with fury, he turned from her, wondering where the wretched de la Vega would strike first. Zorro charged alongside the black train, the powerful engine just ahead. The enginemaster stood imperiously over a stoker who tossed wood into glowing furnaces, brushing soot from his new uniform. Zorro fell back to the tender car where the stoker gathered more wood to keep the everdemanding engine alive. This new man, a strapping, curlyhaired Greek whose muscles appeared to be piled one on top of the other, saw the masked man and hurled a chunk of

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wood at him. Zorro ducked, easily evading the attack, then gasped as a barrage began. He snatched a spiraling half-cut log from the air even as the stoker hauled another log over his head—ignoring a loaded rifle set on pegs mounted to the shuddering wall beside him. The stoker’s lips curled back, his perfectly white teeth gleaming in the bright morning sunlight, as he readied himself to toss the log that would surely drive Zorro from his saddle. As if driving a javelin through the air, Zorro whipped the smaller log at the man’s skull. It connected with a hollow thwock so loud it could be heard above the thundercrack of the roaring train as it sparked down the tracks. Eyes rolling up into their sockets, the stoker stumbled back, dropping the heavy log he carried. The log crashed down first on the enginemaster’s skull, then on the levers controlling the train’s speed. Suddenly the locomotive’s huge cylinders began furiously cycling up and down, gaining momentum, propelling the train forward at great speed. Zorro raced beside the train, his eyes widening as the tottering stoker fell off the tender car and slapped to the ground—right before Tornado’s hooves. With a sudden leap the stallion avoided trampling the man. Zorro spurred Tornado on—fear lancing his heart as he realized they would not be able to keep up with the careening train for long. Inside the passenger car, Armand desperately fought for balance as the train pitched and swayed. Joaquin, Elena and Ferroq all struggled to steady themselves—the bald man forced to ease his weapon away from Elena’s throat for fear he might kill her and incur his master’s wrath. Armand seized the lapels of a guard’s uniform. “What the blazes is going on?” The man stared at him with wide confused eyes. “Well go and find out,” Armand shouted. “Go!”

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Armand heard a light snicker—and turned to catch Elena’s nasty little grin. They both knew just what was going on—chaos like this could only have a single cause: Zorro. Tornado galloped on, bringing Zorro within inches of a handle along the side of the train. His eager fingers started to close on it when a sudden surge of speed wrenched the handle from the masked man’s grasp. Zorro lurched back in the saddle and eyed the train with rage. It was moving too fast now. Zorro heard a whinny and looked up to see what had startled Tornado: a sudden incline just ahead. In seconds there would be no way to shadow the bustling train. There’s always a way, thought Zorro as he spurred Tornado straight up the incline. He looked back over his shoulder and saw guards appear on the passenger car’s rear platform, rifles at the ready. Spitting sparks, the weapons exploded in a crackle of deadly fireworks. Zorro thrust himself down low on the saddle, ducking his head against Tornado’s mane, the thundering vibrations of the stallion’s relentlessly driving muscles and the pounding of his hooves beating in rhythm with his own heart. The incline broke off into a plunging cliff. His gloved hand patting the neck of his madly driving stallion, Zorro squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could fire his thoughts into the brain of this noble beast—for no amount of shouting could ever be heard over the raging wind and gunfire. Old friend, I can see only one way to save Elena and Joaquin. Please be with me now, even if it means our deaths . . . As if the stallion understood, Tornado launched himself toward the cliff’s edge even before Zorro cracked his reins. Sharing a look of intense determination, horse and rider leaped straight off the cliff.

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For several heart-stopping moments they arced through the air, free as perhaps only the daredevil Sam Patch had been when diving over Niagara. Then the silver tracks of the train snaked into view and the ratcheting cars shuddered and thrust beneath them. The pair landed perfectly on the roof of the speeding train. Armand craned his head as footfalls thumped and clattered above him. This one’s as hard to kill as a cockroach. Tearing open an antique wooden cabinet, he ripped a pistol free of its ornate holster and aimed it at the roof. “No!” screamed Joaquin. Ignoring the boy, Armand squeezed the trigger and felt the satisfying report of the blast tearing down his arm. Laughing over the child’s screams, he took aim and shot again and again. Bullets tore through the passenger car’s roof barely missing its skylight, holes blazing up inches from Tornado’s hooves. Zorro’s hand closed on Tornado’s reigns. Don’t panic, don’t panic— As he spied the train’s path—it would soon take a hairpin turn then plunge deeply into a tunnel—he wondered if it was the horse or himself that he had to worry about. Another bullet blasted up from below leaving Zorro no choice but to pivot Tornado toward the cattle car and kick his spurs. Tornado bolted ahead like lightning, galloping against the train’s startling forward momentum, leaping free of the passenger car and the torrent of bullets aimed at them. Leaping from boxcar to boxcar, they narrowly escaped the great gaping maw of the mountain which was swallowing one boxcar after another, its ravenous appetite relentless, inevitable. Keep going, almost there— With a strained whistle, Tornado leaped for the skylight

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on the only boxcar covered in canvas. With the canvas shredding under their weight, horse and rider vanished, crashing onto the floor of an empty cattle car, thankful there were no cows to land on! Remarkably, Tornado remained on all fours, his body vibrating with the sudden shock of halting after so much manic exertion. Zorro looked around, trying to get his bearings. Tornado chuffed, swinging his massive head around, casting dark glowering eyes at his master as he snorted with anger. Zorro shrugged casually. “What?” A dull scrambling from just outside drew the tension back into Zorro’s body. He peered through a window to see a pair of guards with rifles slung over their shoulders climbing onto the roof. “I’m sorry to do this, amigo,” said Zorro wistfully, “but I need a boost.” Zorro leaped into the saddle and spurred Tornado—the horse bucked, flipping him through the skylight and back onto the roof. The violent chugging of the train screamed in Zorro’s ears as he tried to maintain his balance. But his cape caught a sudden gust of wind and he was plucked over the side. Despite the dizzying rush of the landscape before him, he snagged a handhold against the side of the car and steadied himself as the guards slowly climbed onto the roof. He stole a look over the top, watching the guards wobble about in confusion as they peered down at a very angry Tornado beneath the skylight’s shredded canvas. “How’d he get down there?” demanded the first guard of his sullen companion. The second guard scratched his head. “I don’t know!” Flinging himself back onto the roof, Zorro called out to the guards, “He must be a very brave man.” “Who must be?” questioned the not very bright guards as they turned to face Zorro. Their eyes widened—and were shut seconds later by his pounding fists. The unconscious

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men reeled back, dropping through the ripped skylight to the cattle car below, skidding beneath Tornado’s rearing hooves. “Me, of course!” replied Zorro, hands on his hips. He grinned at the stallion. “You keep an eye on them for me, okay?” Laughing, he spun and raced along the rooftops toward Armand’s carriage. Armand paced in the passenger car like a caged beast. His head throbbed, raw fiery fury threatening to incinerate rationale thought. Forcing himself to breathe slowly, focusing his rage, he told himself to ignore the pain from the dark blue bruise on his forehead and concentrate on the problem at hand. He had sent guards to find out what was happening and the miscreants hadn’t returned. Should he send Ferroq? A low humming made his spine stiffen. He whirled on Elena, who was pleasantly delivering a popular little ditty to her boy, mocking Armand with sidelong glances and wicked nasty little grins . . . Shaking with anger, Armand burst toward the boy and seized Joaquin from his seat. “Let’s find out how much your father truly loves you—” The madness taking hold, the world bathed in blood, the fires of hell coursing through his veins, Armand jammed his newly reloaded pistol against Joaquin’s head, cocked the hammer, curled his finger around the trigger— “No!” Elena screamed, reaching for her son even as Ferroq grabbed her, driving his blade against the tender flesh of her throat once more. The skylight above suddenly exploded, shards of jagged glass showering down as Zorro plunged into the car. Armand’s hand tightened on the boy, but he whipped the gun around, taking aim at the intruder— Zorro’s boot snapped ahead, kicking the weapon from Armand’s grasp, sending it flying out the window. Joaquin broke free and raced toward his mother as the count and the

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masked don skidded across the floor, grappling like street fighters, each ready to choke the life from the other. “Master,” hissed the suddenly distracted Ferroq, his grip on Elena loosening. She writhed free of him, her hand flying back openpalmed to crack Ferroq’s windpipe and send him staggering. His knife hand flew to one side in a sweeping arc that Elena ducked to avoid. She pivoted sharply, kicking him in the gut. Springing ahead, she knocked him back with a flurry of punches, blackening one eye, cracking a rib, smashing his bald pate against the floor as she drove him back and landing a final blow to his throat—keeping him down, at least for a while. Chest heaving, a sheen of sweat beading on her skin, she searched for her son. Mouth agape, Joaquin bolted toward her, beaming in amazement. “Way to go, mom!” Grabbing her son’s hand, Elena yanked him along the length of the car to a rickety far door which she forced open and dragged him through. He cast one last worried glance back to his father and the count, who rolled one way then the other upon the floor, their hands locked around each other’s throats, then he was gone, dragged into the roaring wind. Moaning, Ferroq rose slowly. He stumbled toward Armand and the masked man, whipping out his crescent scissor blades— Armand kneed Zorro in the gut to drive him off. Scrambling to his knees, Armand snarled, “Get the boy!” Obedient as an automaton, Ferroq spun and raced after Elena and Joaquin. Armand rose to face Zorro. The corners of Armand’s mouth curled as he stared into de la Vega’s glowing eyes. Beams of pure white sunlight struck the don’s face, transforming de la Vega into a vengeful wraith. Overconfident fool, thought Armand. A light just like that shone in father’s smiling face instants before Ferroq ambushed him.

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They drew their swords, the blades gleaming with death’s solemn promise. “I’ve already asked God’s forgiveness for killing you,” said Zorro, his voice as cold and hard as tempered steel. Armand grinned confidently. “When you see him, tell him you spoke too soon.” They crashed together in a fury of sparking blades.

Chapter 17

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oaquin’s chest felt as if it were going to explode as he raced behind his mother from car to car, stopping suddenly when they reached the one loaded with crates of nitroglycerin. How did Zorro—no, scratch that—how did Papi stay so calm when people were trying to kill him? Joaquin’s hands were covered in sweat and he could barely think straight. He watched as mama hurled open the back door, dragging him into the howling wind once more and onto the divider platform linking one car to the next. The wind smacked him in the face like a cold fist. The frantic uneven clacking of the train assaulted his ears. The countryside hobbled and bounced by in a crazy blur. The train would surely jump its tracks if it didn’t slow down! Elena gestured onward to the next car, shouting against the wind, “I want you to keep going!” “What are you doing?” howled Joaquin. “When the cars stop, get off the train and follow the tracks back to town!” Elena instructed her son carefully. “I’m scared!” cried Joaquin as he clutched hold of the door. Despite his words, there was a tremor of excitement rising within him, a thrill that only came with looking death itself in the eye—and not flinching. Her brave, brave boy . . .

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Elena knelt so that she met her son’s eyes. You are so much like your father, she thought warmly. Absently brushing a hair from his face, the love she felt for him crackling and alive in her every look, every gesture, she told him, “You’re the son of Zorro. You can do this.” The muscles in his handsome face twitched as if he recognized the words she had spoken, but could not quite grab hold of their meaning. This was a dream come true for him . . . wasn’t it? She kissed him fiercely. “Go!” Elena urged him fully onto the platform, then reached for the cool steel linchpin connecting the cars. With a look that said they might never see each other again—except in their dreams, except in their hearts—she yanked it free. The further car jerked back, bounded and shuddered as it rocked from one side to the other, Joaquin screeching as he grasped at a handhold and held on for dear life. Then the separated car settled, and Elena’s gaze locked with that of her son as he was swept away from her. She had extended her arm out as if she might close the terrible distance between them, when the train took a sharp turn. Suddenly she was the one holding on, desperate not to be thrown to the ground where her body might be shattered. When she looked up again, she could barely see her son’s car through the cloud of dust that had kicked up around it. Ripping open the door to the barreling car he’d just boarded, Joaquin backed inside. Gulping great mouthfuls of air, he sank to his trembling knees and thought, Mama, Papi, no . . . please don’t leave me... A familiar whinny accompanied by a warm gust of breath blew at his back. He spun, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise as Tornado’s enormous black head filled his vision. A second blustery snort sounded and a foul blast of air knocked Joaquin to his backside, his tension suddenly broken by laughter. Driving himself forward, he hugged the stallion’s head, stroking his mane.

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“How’d you get in here?” chortled the disheveled tenyear-old. A low moan rose from the back of the car. Joaquin drew back as he saw a pair of guards struggling to their feet behind the stallion. With a savage backward kick of both hooves, Tornado smacked the men against the back wall again, where they slowly dropped face first onto thin beds of hay. Joaquin shifted his gaze from the unconscious men to the mess that had been made of the canvas that should have been covering the roof. Terrible destruction, bruised and broken bodies, hmmm. His eyes lit up like firecrackers as he put enough of the puzzle together to happily satisfy his curiosity. Papi’s been here! A pair of angry blades careened and crashed in the ruin of the passenger car, Zorro and Armand attacking in a wild cyclone of bold and daring thrusts and ripostes, furious slashes and frantic sweeping arcs. They leaped over seats, drove one another against cabinets, and shattered windows. The last time Alejandro had faced a swordsman who wielded his weapon with such skill and confidence had been those first days when Don Diego fought circles around him, the older man’s sabre striking as if it were a storm of swords, not a single blade. Zorro advanced, thrusting his blade toward what he thought was his enemy’s lone area of vulnerability—only to retreat as he realized that Armand was simply leading him into another trap. Steel blades flashed and sparked while steely gazes locked. Each firmly planting themselves, they drove their swords at one another, Zorro driving off double-slashes to the head, Armand turning away his enemy’s blade as it nipped at his wrists, his throat, his ankles— Fire coursed through Armand’s belly. Wincing, he looked down to see that Zorro’s blade had torn open his shirt and

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slashed his chest, a bloody stinging “Z” peering out from his flesh. “So the devil will know who sent you!” cried Zorro savagely. Within Armand—something snapped. His face flushed, veins stood out on his temple and throat, and his eyes filled with madness, reflecting what little remained of his soul. He charged at the Californio, driving the man back with one combination of blows after another, many truncated, the fighting forms mixed about, the moves impossible to predict, even for him. You would dare speak to me of the devil? thought Armand wildly. Who do you think you’re fighting! With a brutal kick, he sent the masked man tumbling out onto the coupling linking the passenger car to the tender car, Zorro’s head cracking horribly against the linchpin. A deafening roar boxed Zorro’s ears, his body absorbing the shuddering vibrations of the train, the ground racing by at frightening speed below his head. Above, light sizzled along steel. Zorro’s eyes widened as Armand’s sword rammed straight down at him, eager to impale the masked man’s skull. With a feral growl, Zorro whirled his blade about and parried, sparks crashing, but he could do nothing more as Armand contemptuously seized on the advantage and kicked his sword from his grasp, a clanking atop the tender car telling him where it had landed. Clamping a boot on Zorro’s arm, Armand raised his sword for the kill, his eyes glinting with cruel delight. “Au revoir, de la Vega!” Zorro wrestled a steel pin off the coupling—and smashed it across Armand’s foot. Howling, Armand plunged back into the passenger car as Zorro darted onto the tender car and snatched up his sword. With a scream of rage, Armand raced after him. Ferroq’s search had been fruitless. He had gone from car to car, turning up no trace of that woman or her wolf-like off-

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spring. He stood just outside the shuddering boxcar containing his master’s precious shipment. It was almost too dark to see anything. That bitch and her brat turned down the lanterns! He entered the darkness cautiously, scissor-blades at the ready. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he listened intently for any sound of movement. Creeping ahead a few more feet, he halted abruptly, his senses suddenly tingling and alive. He heard the shuffle of a light shoe pivoting and turned— A steel shovel smashed into his face, sending him crashing backwards onto the boxcar’s dusty floor. Forcing his ringing head to clear, Ferroq gazed up at the snarling face of the de la Vega woman as she swung the shovel again. His arm flew up, taking the worst of the blow. When it descended again, he was ready. He reached up and hooked the handle with his claw-like scissor-blade, yanked savagely, hurling her over his head, and sending her smack into the wall. Ferroq and Elena scrambled up from the floor, circling each other warily. With a grin, Ferroq snapped the scissoredblades together like the maws of a ravenous beast. “A matched set,” observed Elena, “how nice for you.” “The boy?” “Gone where you can’t touch him.” Ferroq roared—and launched himself at her, his weapon slicing the air in lethal silver streaks. Elena tumbled down and away from Ferroq’s blades just as they sliced into one of the wooden crates, splitting it open to reveal the shuddering and clinking nitroglycerin-filled bottles. In his fury he whipped his scissor-like-knives about once more, a fistful of sparks snapping high as they razored through a chain on the platform designed to keep the bottles stable, severing it as he might Elena’s head from her neck. The platform teetered and the explosive-filled crates

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glided toward the edge. At the last second, they pulled taut, held in place by a second set of chains. All right, thought Joaquin, squinting as he stared out at the broiling sands of the featureless desert, so this is what they mean by the middle of nowhere. Sheesh, I wouldn’t want to be caught on either side of it! The cattle car slowly ground to screeching stop. Joaquin worked the latch to the wide rear cargo doors easily enough, having first opened the doors to discard the sleeping guards a mile or so back. He climbed out carefully, leading Tornado. Together, they sadly watched the rest of the train shrink into the distance. Joaquin’s handsome features fell as he kicked at the sand. “This sucks.” Tornado whinnied his agreement. Tossing up his hands in frustration, he paced about. “ ‘Follow the tracks to town’ she says . . . ‘You’re the son of Zorro,’ she says . . .’’ A low rumbling sounded from the stallion as he trotted forward, stopping Joaquin in his path. Tornado’s eyes held Joaquin’s as the mighty horse shook his mane, then proudly raised his head up high. Joaquin’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Wait a minute . . . I’m the son of Zorro.” Every story he had ever read about his hero suddenly came alive in his mind—and he knew they weren’t just stories. He’d seen Zorro—seen his Papi—risk his life time and again to protect those he cared about, to do what was right for the people. Can I do any less? Joaquin raced to Tornado—who had taken up pacing while he waited for the boy to put two and two together—and put his fingers to his mouth, whistling just as he’d heard his father whistle to summon the proud stallion many times before.

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Tornado’s head whirled and he chuffed, as if to say, I’m right here, for Heaven’s sake, you’re the one holding up the works! The stallion lowered himself so that the excited Joaquin could climb into his saddle, then he bolted ahead, Joaquin holding on and screaming with abandon as they chased the lone train car headed for town at full gallop. Armand’s sword struck out from the wood tender, crackling orange flames alighting on its sharp surface. Perched on the locomotive’s rooftop, Zorro easily parried the powerful strike. He leaped—flipping over Armand’s head—and landed on the woodpile behind him. A stray plank spun from where Zorro had landed, knocking Armand off the tender, crashing him down to the floor of the locomotive cab. The breath knocked out him, Armand gasped and trembled as he struggled to his feet—and Zorro greeted him with a swift kick to the head. Sparks spitting in front of his eyes, pain wracking his skull, Armand pinwheeled back, flopping to the floor. He landed with an ungracious thud next to the unconscious engineer. But this time the fall was to Armand’s advantage—because within reach of the engineer’s still form was a rifle. Dropping his sword, he scrambled to the weapon, snatched it up, and whirled toward the masked man. Zorro was gone. Coward, thought Armand, thrusting the rifle before him. He swung it at the first of the flatbed’s two windows, then the second, waiting patiently, recalling hunting trips he’d taken as a child with his father . . . A black-masked face darted before the closest window and Armand fired, the recoil sending him staggering back. He drew closer to the window and peered out. Zorro was gone! Ferroq slammed Elena against the wall, his horrible breath and demonic leer overwhelming her as he locked her

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bunched wrists over her head with one hand while slowly dragging the scissor-blades across her cheek, drawing a trace of light scarlet blood. “My master wants you alive,” he hissed, his smile dripping with menace. “But accidents happen . . .” Rearing back for the kill, Ferroq treated himself to a high shrill burst of laughter, sounding like a ten year-old girl. His moment of indulge gave Elena time enough to duck as his blade hand thrust with incredible force, slashing through one of the pneumatic pipes behind her. Compressed steam exploded out of the pipes, scalding his face. Elena felt the steam rush against her upflung arms, burning the gauzy fabric of her gown as she whipped her arms down, free of the screaming Ferroq, who recoiled in rage and unyielding agony. Elena darted into the swirling mist as steam filled the compartment. Zorro hung from the guardrail off the side of the train by one arm, his boots dangling inches above the engine’s massive steel cylinders as they struck with a mad murderous frenzy, relentlessly pumping up and down. The rifle blast had ricocheted off a support strut near his face, the sudden shock of being fired upon combined with the spitting of shrapnel driving him into the open air. His gloved hand had caught the guardrail an instant before he could be dragged down under the hungry steel wheels of the train. Straining to look high, Alejandro thought the climb back upward impossible—he might as well scale a frigid mountain completely naked. Don’t you dare feel sorry for yourself! He drove his son’s face before him, and suddenly felt the strength return to his aching limbs. Struggling, he hauled himself up inch by inch, but the pummeling wind smacked him around as if he were just a child’s toy—one it wished to play with for a time before tossing to its destruction.

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Come on, at least give me a chance, will you? The wind only howled with laughter, enjoying the jest as it calculated how best to pay the masked man back. Perhaps a quick death would do after all. The wind whipped and clawed at the masked man. Yes, perhaps it would . . . At Clanton’s Pass, Colonel Beauregard kicked the sand, marring the polish of his boots, and really not caring any more. He was a man of the Order, yes, no sense denying that, but he had only joined up with the heathen clan to gain powerful allies and exploit their resources in his true crusade against the northern states. It said in the Bible, plain and simple, that it was the Divine Will that men own slaves, and those who questioned His law would suffer His righteous wrath, burning an eternity in hellfire. And besides, those uppity Northerners strutted around like they were better than everyone else with their stupid degrees and foreign imported culture and such. Well, wouldn’t they be shown a thing or two? And when the Great War was ended, the Confederacy would just decide then and there how much a taste of the spoils the Knights got after all . . . Beauregard stalked to the waiting stagecoach and poured himself a strong drink from the sandblasted whiskey decanter. His lips curled up in anticipation, his tongue eagerly wriggling ahead anxious for his first sip of the sizzling amber liquor—when the train he’d been waiting for blasted into his line of sight—Zorro dangling off the side. The glass of whiskey slipped from his gloved hand and fell onto the sand as Beauregard seized his sword from its scabbard and screamed to his men. “Move your sorry asses!” he bellowed. “By God, we’ve got trouble!” Elena darted away through the dense mist. Her back pressed up against a wall and her hand extended into an open crate,

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her fingers curling around one of the bottles filled with the deadly explosive Armand was manufacturing. Thrusting the wine bottle before her like a shield, she cast her gaze frantically about, scouring every inch of the car that she could see beyond the mist. She needed a plan, she would sooner die than let this man have her— Snarling, Ferroq exploded through the steam, his red face blistered and raw—like that of a demon. His eyes burned with his desire to lop off Elena’s pretty little head once he had her in his grasp, his scissor-like crescent blade whipping tauntingly before him. Then he froze. There was something in her hands. What . . . Elena flung the bottle at him and roared, “Catch!” With a terrified gasp, Ferroq realized what she had done and tossed his hands before him to catch the bottle. It sank into his grasp— And a crippling explosion of pain rang out from between his legs. His red face miraculously turning ash-white, he doubled over, the bottle dropping from his insensate fingers. Elena caught the falling bottle with the grace of a trained dancer. Darting behind him as if it were all part of a carefully choreographed dance, she watched him cringe with pain—and stuffed the nitro-filled bottle down the back of his pants. Flashing a triumphant grin, Elena hissed, “Drinks are on me.” Stepping back for leverage, she kicked Ferroq out the cargo door. Colonel Beauregard gawked in disbelief as the screeching form of Armand’s bald, black-suited, dark-mustached servant whipped from the madly advancing train and barreled right at him. Ferroq’s blistered and burned body couldn’t have seemed more like that of a devil wrenched from hell.

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The way he flew was just like the way Lucifer’s winged lackeys soared in the colonel’s darkest dreams. Somehow, he knew. Though he couldn’t see the bottle of nitro tucked in Ferroq’s waistband, Beauregard was altogether certain that his time was at hand. Um . . . Lord, is this your way of sayin’ we got it wrong? Ferroq struck the colonel—and the stagecoach and all that surrounded it exploded in a fiery burst of wood sharps, super-hot metal, shattered wheels and twisted axles. The force of the explosion rocked the train, nearly driving three boxcars from the track. Before they had settled, a still-twitching severed arm sporting a mangled crescent blade smacked against a steel track divider a hundred yards off, jostling it forward. The tracks shifted, sending the train veering to a new and very deadly rendezvous. Within the rear car, Elena grasped a handrail, steadying herself as she felt the train change directions. All around her, like trees caught in a strong wind, the suspended bottles of nitro perilously swayed. Governor Riley stood glistening in the early morning sun on the creaking wood planks of the stationary caboose platform. The official state flag of California proudly waved high over the heads of the spectators who’d come to Bear Point to witness history in the making. The Statehood Ceremony would soon be under way . . . “Is my cravat straight?” asked Governor Riley, his back to the crowd as he fiddled with the black silk at his throat. The young well-dressed congressman standing beside him stroked his neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He was a tall sprout, an absolute stick of a man, but a serene intelligence burned in his eyes. He nodded politely. The governor sighed with relief. “Well, that’s good. I swear, son, you’re possibly the first man I’ve met in politics I trust not to tell a lie.”

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The congressman opened his mouth to reply—then stepped back, moving out of the way as the governor’s aide and several other functionaries rushed in to swamp the man with last minute concerns. Riley hardly needed them. As he gazed out at the huge crowd that had gathered for the statehood celebration, his memory was rocked by the violence that erupted on Election Day. He shook his head, cursing himself for thinking like a frightened old woman. If Mary were here, she’d laugh in your face, he chided himself, picturing his wife rolling her eyes at his skittishness. But she was resting in their compartment of the train that sat idling on the tracks. Dozens of guards had been stationed at all points around the proceedings and multiple escape routes had been designated in the event of a disturbance. There was nothing to worry about. The governor held out his hands to the crowd—and the people of California fell into a reverent hush. “My fellow Californians,” cried the governor, his eyes brimmed with pleasure, “we have gathered here at historic Bear Point to make official our entrance into the United States of America . . .” The people cheered, their faces beaming with pride, their eyes wild with joy. Their day had finally come. Peasants filled with excitement cried out, their voices joined by those of wealthy dons, Chinese immigrants, Native Americans, and free Africans. “Libertad!” they cried. “Viva California! Viva America!” As the sun rose higher in the morning sky, guards kept a watchful eye on the horizon. Though they performed their jobs with the diligence of trained soldiers, every one of them harbored a similar thought in the backs of their heads: How could anything possibly go wrong on a day like today? * * *

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On a sandy hilltop high above the tracks, Joaquin brought Tornado to a halt. Together they watched the spiraling plumes of smoke coiling high from the obscenity that was Armand’s train of death. He felt his heart hammering and his mouth tighten in determination. Fear nearly caused him to bolt out of the saddle as he whipped his gaze around to see that the statehood celebration—already well under way—was seated on the same track as Armand’s train. He saw it clearly for one horrifying moment. The blinding whoosh of the flaming supernova sweeping high into the sky as the trains collided, claiming the lives of his parents and countless other innocents. I have to warn them. No, wait, there isn’t any time—I have to stop this! Desperately scouring the landscape, Joaquin gasped as he took in the only means available to prevent the tragedy he’d foreseen—if only he could reach it in time. Spurring Tornado ahead, horse and rider bulleted into the horizon. Zorro staggered to his feet at the lumber car, the glowing furnace of the engine now in sight. If we can stop the train— A high deadly whistling stirred in his ear, the harbinger of a streaking silver blade behind him. Zorro spun, leaping back as Armand came at him in a rush, his sabre snapping wildly ahead, his bold, well-rehearsed moves desperately discarded as he charged with nothing but hatred in his heart. The tip of Armand’s blade was like an enraged serpent— its bite eager to bring death. Zorro’s back smacked against a rail. He had nowhere to go! Governor Riley slammed his fist into his open hand. “Until this day, history has cast the common man—and woman—

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as nothing more than servants of their government. With the ratification of this document before our honored congressman from Washington, the government will now be made to serve the people!” Wild applause rang from the people huddled beneath their new state flag as the governor leaned in to sign the state ratification document. His pen had barely scratched the parchment before him when a sudden shaking began, a rumbling frenzy of vibrations quickly rising from the tracks shaking the entire stage. Clinging to the podium, Riley whirled to face a guard standing beside the train. “What’s going on?” The guard shook his head and signaled several of his junior officers to investigate. But it wasn’t necessary. The guards and the common people who had come here to see the dream they had long been chasing finally become reality peered ahead to witness an out-of-control train racing right for them. “Oh my God,” whispered the governor. The train sped on as Armand’s blade grazed just over Zorro’s head. Ducking and weaving, Zorro positioned himself to land a savage blow with his open palm to the underside of the overconfident count’s jaw. Armand snapped back, arms splayed, defenseless at last. You really need to work on your left, my friend . . . Grabbing Armand’s head, Zorro smashed it against the smokestack, then hurled the moaning count against the guardrail. With a sharp clatter, Armand’s sword tumbled from his weakened fingers and bounded off the train, snapping in two as it struck the dusty reaches and was whisked under the train’s grinding wheels. Zorro thought he heard screams in the far distance—and his moment of distraction cost him. The count rallied—driving his skull against Zorro’s. The masked man stumbled back into the locomotive, his hands driving up just in time to close over Armand’s throat as the madman leaped at him.

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They held each other in a chokehold, faces inches apart, eyes glaring utter hatred. In that moment, Zorro knew that the interests of justice and vengeance were one. Because whatever the count could not control, he would destroy. Including Elena. A panic had broken out at Bear Point. There wasn’t a chance in hell of getting the governor’s train moving in time to avoid a collision. Even if there had been a way of driving it far enough along the tracks to clear this makeshift station and perhaps spare the lives of the spectators, the blur racing toward them from less than a mile away would catch up in a heartbeat. There were switching stations, but none that could be reached in the splintering seconds remaining. The people ran in all directions, many falling and crying out as others trampled them. “Get those people out of here safely!” hollered the governor to his men. Then he turned to the boxcar where his wife was resting. “Evacuate the train! Do it now!” Mary, he thought madly. Please, not her— Then he could contain his terror no longer. “Mary!” he screamed, crying her name again and again until his throat was raw. But death thundered down the tracks, unmindful of his pleas. Upon the hillside, Joaquin reared Tornado to a halt in front of a small maintenance shack, beside which jutted another track divider. Leaping from the saddle, Joaquin landed in the sand and raced for the steel lever. He yanked at the rusted machinery with all his might— but it wasn’t enough. The cool steel was locked in place. Onboard the charging locomotive, Armand accepted a rain of blows from his opponent, allowing the masked man to

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exhaust himself. He stared into Zorro’s fiery eyes and thought, We are two men touched by destiny. I see that now. Without worthy opposition, what good is a conqueror’s victory, yes? To die well is the best you can hope for, de la Vega. Smiling as one of Zorro’s strikes went wild, Armand raged against him, his fists smacking satisfyingly against his enemy’s face. Hope all you want. I will see you die like a dog. Armand’s focus was as sharp and precise as the edge of a sword. Only Zorro’s gaze fell upon the long gleaming expanse of the governor’s stationary train—and the crush of frightened, fleeing peasants up ahead. Joaquin’s brain was fit to burst—and so were his straining muscles. No matter how hard he gripped the track divider, no matter how hard he hauled at the burning steel lever, it stubbornly refused to budge. His hands suddenly slick with sweat, Joaquin wailed as he pulled one last time—and was sent sprawling back into the desert’s dust, his grip lost. No! I won’t let it end like this! Frantically casting his gaze over the shed, he seized a hammer from it, scrambled back to the lever, and raised the hammer high in a furious two-fisted clench. Steel rang out on steel, an angry clang that echoed for miles. Joaquin’s muscles were raw, agony coursing up his limbs as he struck again and again— Until, with a horrible crackling, the hammer’s wooden handle splintered and broke off. Joaquin stood over the track divider, his body quaking, his mind refusing to believe he was out of options. Whirling at the sound of Armand’s monstrous creation barreling toward the governor’s train, Joaquin shuddered helplessly, his gaze fixed on the hundreds of innocents scrambling for cover. But there was nowhere to hide, and only a few frightful yards separating the trains. Only a miracle could save them now.

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With a bold whinny, Tornado reared up on his hind hooves—and kicked at the divider. His front hooves drove the divider forward, the tracks switching just in time. A hailstorm of sparks skidded into the air as Armand’s train veered off, lurching precariously to one side, before thrusting ahead and beyond the terrified crowd. Eyes wide open, Joaquin yelped with delight. He sprang up onto the stallion, wrapping his arms around Tornado’s huge chuffing head, tears of relief streaming down his face. The train rocketed ahead, a primordial fury bellowing with rage, trembling in anticipation of delivering its fiery song of death. At its head, Armand desperately grasped at a knife he had slipped into his boot. It was the same blade he had pressed against McGivens’s tongue the night before, threatening to silence him forever . . . the same blade wielded by his ancestor against the heretic prophet whose words may well have damned them all. Fingers closing over the hilt, which bore the mark of Aragon—the serpent coiling over the globe—he yanked it out and thrust it at Zorro’s face. The masked man reared back, one arm sweeping up to smack the blade aside. Grinning, eyes blazing like those of El Diablo himself, Armand flung himself at Zorro, knocking the off-balance man back, driving the blade at his enemy’s heart. The tip jabbed down and down, raking Zorro’s shirt, pressing against his flesh and drawing forth stinging drops of blood as it broke the skin, and would soon cleave deeper, plunging toward the only conclusion this fight could really have— Heels clacked at Armand’s back, and a pale hand thrust into his line of sight, gripping his wrist and wrenching his blade arm back. He rocked on his heels, his face whipping over his shoulder. Who would DARE— His world became dark as a heavy hunk of wood smacked hard against his skull, sending him staggering away from

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Zorro. Startled, disoriented, the wind bashing him about his face, he realized that his foot had just closed over nothing. As he toppled over the front of the locomotive, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Elena’s grim smile. Then he heard a churning roar, the deadly clatter of wheels streaking and sparking on the rails, as his head struck something more . . . and he knew nothing at all. On the train, Elena’s hands closed over her husband’s arm and she helped him to his feet. Together, they looked ahead—and gasped at the sight of a wall of steel rocketing toward them. A dead-end depot. “End of the line,” whispered Elena. “Joaquin?” “He’s safe.” Nodding sharply, Zorro stepped from her, uncoiling his whip. A look sparked between them. Do you trust me? With all my heart. As a water tower raced into reach, Zorro cracked the whip, coiling it around the tower’s heavy lower supports. Sweeping a very obliging Elena into his arms, he leaped into the air— And the couple swung to safety as the train bulleted ahead at breakneck speed toward its brutal end. On that train, pressed with his back against the iron teeth of the cow catcher, Armand shuddered, his eyes flying open wide. This can’t be happening, not to me, NOT TO ME— He barely had time to scream before the train smashed head-on into the dead-end depot, the hatred that was his inner fire lost and extinguished for good. He died in the conflagration that erupted as the boxcars exploded one by one. Blinding light flashed against the desert basin, a firestorm gripping the sands in angry, godlike fists. Roiling clouds of steel and smoke flattened down upon the horizon, shaking the earth, pulverizing all they encountered in a fit of rolling thunder.

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Silence swept eerily over the frightened spectators of the statehood ceremony—until they realized they were safely out of harm’s way. Trembling men and woman gazed at each other, realizing with sudden shock that they were safe. Cries of joy split the sky—and a lone whistling gust of wind cut low, striking the state ratification document from the caboose landing. The parchment glided through the air, skipping like a stone upon the ground, only to stop against a pair of weather-beaten black boots. Zorro snatched up the document, pausing a moment to regale it with a reverent look before handing it back to Governor Riley. Then Zorro cast out his gloved hand with a proud flourish. “Your people are waiting, Governor.” Moments later, at the rear platform of the California governor’s train, Bennett Riley scrawled his name on the most important document he’d ever beheld in his life—whipping the pen with a dramatic flair meant to make even Zorro proud. And it did. The masked man laughed with joy as the governor slid the paper across to the young bearded congressman, who stamped it with a congressional seal. “Welcome to the union, Governor,” said the congressman, his voice deep, rumbling and impressive, like the engine of a powerful locomotive. The people exploded with cheers as the American flag was hoisted high beside the flag of California. The celebration that would begin here would last an eternity in the hearts of all that cherished freedom. The smiling congressman strolled over to Zorro. In his booming voice, he said, “It would appear a grave disaster’s been narrowly avoided.” Zorro nodded. “America has many enemies. We’re a young country, and we’ll make mistakes . . .” With joy in his eyes, he surveyed the crowd. Elena’s lov-

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ing face shone brightly among the people, her arms wrapped tightly about Joaquin. Flocks of people crowded on the pair, welcoming them back to their good graces, including the elderly, pinched-face Señora Rodriguez—who broke down and cried with gratitude, sobbing into the bosom of one of her acolytes as her trembling hand sought that of Elena de la Vega. The startled Elena took it gently, hardly prepared for the crush of former friends who now sought her forgiveness. Yes, many had made mistakes . . . “But they’ll be our mistakes,” declared the man behind the mask, the keeper of the legend, in words of strength for his people—and words of apology to the woman who had stolen his heart for all eternity. “And we’ll be stronger for them.” Elena’s luminous smile widened—and Alejandro’s heart soared. She forgave him. He could feel it. The congressman shook his head with wonder at the day’s events. “I assume you’re to thank for our good fortune?” he asked kindly. Zorro removed his black hat with humility. “Not me . . .” He whipped his hat over the heads of the crowd—and it found the small hand for which it was meant. His eyes sparkling, Joaquin grinned from ear to ear as he held one of the cherished symbols of his father—his hero— high for all to see. Laughing, Elena snatched it from him, plopping it down to cover half his face! You see? I always told you that your father had a big head! He almost giggled. The comforting darkness of his hero’s oversized hat smelled of Papi’s sweat. With a wink to her dearest heart, Elena tipped up the brim so that Joaquin could see again. And what a sight he beheld. The congressman laughed and nodded, waving his thanks to the boy.

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On the podium, Zorro bowed slightly to him. “I wish you a safe trip back to Washington, Congressman.” “No need to be so formal,” the congressman assured him. “The name’s Lincoln . . . Abraham Lincoln.” The congressman warmly jabbed his hand forward—and Zorro took it, shaking it gladly. Libertad! Viva California! Viva America! The soft warm light of early afternoon poured into the parlor from the veranda and struck the fidgeting hands of Alejandro de la Vega as they moved over his son’s crooked tie. Alejandro’s shoulders tensed from the confines of what he called “my God-forsaken monkey suit.” Shaking his head, he gazed fully into the silver-gilded mirror before him, studying the portrait of father and son decked out in their finest personally tailored suits, hair slicked back, faces cleaned and in Alejandro’s instance neatly shaved. He was home and that was all that really mattered. The only true enemy he faced today was his own case of nerves—and the nefarious resistance of Joaquin’s rebellious tie . . . “Look at you,” said Alejandro proudly. “A real heartbreaker, huh?” A smile flickered on Joaquin’s face—and quickly faded as he studied first his father’s reflection, then his own. You’re the son of Zorro, Joaquin de la Vega. Ask what you need to know. “Dad?” Joaquin whispered. He drew a deep breath and his next words tumbled from him in a breathy rush. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me who you are?” Alejandro sighed, his powerful hands slowly falling away from the boy, his head hanging sadly, his face etched with sorrow. Uh-oh, thought Joaquin, staring at the mirror with a look of mute appeal. What have I done? Alejandro’s face warmed and he met his son’s worried

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gaze with the softest of smiles. “The day you were born, mijo, I vowed I would give my life to keep you safe. I thought I could protect you by hiding the truth.” A lump grew in his throat as he looked back ruefully on that promise. “But your mother was right, it wasn’t my secret to keep . . . it belongs to all of us.” He gently clasped his son’s shoulders. “So I promise I’ll never lie to you again.” His heart soaring, Joaquin whirled and burst into his father’s arms, his eyes brimming with forgiveness. Alejandro crushed the boy to his breast. They held each other so tightly they could barely breathe, but it didn’t matter, their love sustained them, its fire burning so brightly that all their fears melted away. At long last they eased away from each other, Alejandro’s face flushed with happiness, Joaquin raising a solitary eyebrow while flashing a broad grin. “But you’re still gonna be Zorro, right?” asked Joaquin breathlessly. Alejandro shrugged—then smiled roguishly. “It seems to be my destiny, for a little while longer. But Zorro has been many men. I won’t be the last.” Silence breathed easily between them. “I wonder,” began Joaquin with a sly smile, “who will take your place?” Alejandro reached out a comforting hand to his son. You know the answer to that, niño. One who is worthy will wear the mask. But were that decision to fall to me today, I would surely say that my successor was with me now. “You know Zorro,” murmured Alejandro knowingly. “He could be . . . anyone at all.” Grinning, father and son left the parlor hand in hand. A sudden blinding flash filled Joaquin’s vision. Blinking in the bright sunlight of the courtyard, he turned from the photographer and fixed his gaze on the sumptuous kiss his parents were, well . . . still sharing at the flower-strewn altar, even though the slightly embarrassed Fray Felipe had de-

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clared them man and wife again some time ago. Their marriage consecrated before a crowd of cheering well wishers, Alejandro and Elena finally broke their embrace at the insistence of Felipe’s cleared throat and a gentle kick from Joaquin, their ring-bearer. This was a special day. It was the first day of a new life for this family whose struggles and hardships had been overcome by love, and whose reward was a second chance at life, at happiness. Music from the small orchestra seated to one side of the altar swelled—and the crowd rushed in to congratulate the happy family. So long as he lived, Joaquin would never forget this day. Felipe cleared his throat. “And when two people join in the fullness of time, in holy matrimony for all eternity . . .” The low urgent tones of the church bell rang out, summoning Zorro. Everyone froze . . . except Felipe. “Nay, seekest tolerance when easily provoked . . .” droned on the padre. The bell struck again. Alejandro raised a worried eyebrow. Felipe’s voice rose in passionate delivery. “Endureth all things, for love keeps no score of wrongs . . .” The bold sound of the bell rang out once more. Joaquin cast his gaze about in alarm. Felipe cast his hand to the heavens. “Minute by minute, second by second—” “Padre,” cautioned Elena. All eyes turned to the beautiful bride. “Can you hurry it up?” asked Elena. “The people are calling.” Alejandro turned to his beloved, surprised and happy. She beamed back at him with a smile that might melt the sun. “It’s who we are,” she said tenderly. Felipe gestured excitedly at Alejandro. “Okay, then: You want her back?” Alejandro nodded hurriedly. “Yeah, yeah, of course . . .”

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The padre expansively opened his hands to Elena. “And you’ll take him?” With a wry grin, Elena shrugged. “If I must.” “Terrific, you may kiss the bride . . .” Felipe scratched his head. “Again.” Alejandro drew his wife toward him. He drank in the sumptuous darkness of her eyes, breathed the heady scent of her long supple neck and lowered his lips to hers. Their kiss was the stuff of legends. “Don’t wait up,” he whispered huskily. She regaled him with a sexy smile. He would find her waiting, there could be no doubt. “Never.” Joaquin smiled proudly as Papi winked at him—and raced from the wedding. Mama rushed to Joaquin, took his hand, and laughed as she dragged him inside. In moments they stood on the veranda, Mama’s arms around him, as they watched Zorro streak across the countryside. Their smiles could not have been wider. The pride they felt was enough to light up a starless night. Zorro stopped on the top of the hill and reared up on Tornado. Dusk swept in around him like a cloak and the bold silver of the rising moon framed him against the horizon. This was a hero. A true hero in every sense. A husband, a father, a friend to all. And most of all . . . a man. Zorro rode off, the path to adventure stretching boldly, endlessly, ahead of him.

From the Lair of the Fox

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I stand before Zorro in his secret lair, staring deeply into his blazing eyes. I came here in search of answers . . . and I have found them. The words I have shared with you will remain with me always, branded in searing white-hot characters indelibly upon my soul. The tip of Zorro’s blade is raised high. As is mine. When his gaze narrows, mine follows suit. When his sword slowly and tantalizingly cleaves the air, mine does as well . . . I stand before a mirror, you see. The mask of Zorro, though cool, burns my flesh with excitement. The gloves are tight on my hands, the sash winding round my waist is a comforting band, the silver medallion sits upon my chest with a gold authority and peerless direction. The cape whips about me with righteousness. Any doubts I might have about my worthiness to uphold the tradition of my father—and his father, at least in spirit, before him—have vanished, a now-forgotten tide wiped out upon a sea of distant memory. Joy seizes me, and a desire for justice above all things lights my way through the darkness. The mission bell tolls. Zorro is needed. Though I am but a man of twenty, I am the

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inheritor of a destiny, the keeper of a legend . . . at least for a time. My name is Joaquin de la Vega. It is a plain, ordinary name. And it has helped me to appear invisible . . . hidden behind the mask worn, in spirit, by both my parents . . . whose steady love has been a compass, pointing me toward my destiny. Tornado comes when I call, and soon we burst together from the lair near the hacienda of my Papi and Mama. They stand together on the veranda watching me, their loving arms wrapped around each other, their faces beaming with happiness. And though I know danger calls and justice must be dealt with all speed, I rear up on the powerful stallion, my sword held high, the image we cast a grand silhouette against the sun’s spectral glow. Their pride, their love, is a scorching heat that no inferno made by man or God could hope to match. It rises in my heart and I take it with me as I ride on to do honor to the legend entrusted to my care. The legend of Zorro.

About the Author Scott Ciencin is a New York Times bestselling author of adult and children’s fiction. He has more than sixty novels and many short stories and comic book scripts in a wide range of genres to his credit. His latest novel is the swashbuckling adult hardcover adventure The Rogue’s Hour (launching the EverQuest novel line). Scott has also penned the novelization of Jurassic Park III and a series of original Jurassic Park adventures in addition to books on such varied properties as Star Wars, Konami’s Silent Hill, Star Trek, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Batman, The Mask, Godzilla, Dinotopia, Kim Possible, Forgotten Realms, R.A. Salvatore’s DemonWars and many more. Don’t miss the next book by your favorite author. Sign up now for AuthorTracker by visiting www.AuthorTracker.com.

Copyright This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. THE LEGEND OF ZORRO.

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