Camino del Monte Sol, ch. 1 (with OBTS) -- PG-13
Posted: Thu May 19, 2011 5:50 pm
Author’s Note: This story is a collaboration between OnceBitTwiceShy and myself for Champagne Challenge #128: Reader/Writer II. OBTS provided the idea of Josef visiting Santa Fe in the 1920’s, and running into…well, you’ll have to read the story. The settings are as accurate as I can make them, having been in Santa Fe myself many times, and also using various resources on the City Different, as they call it, and its inhabitants back in the ‘20s. While I could find no record of a hotel located in Sena Plaza, such a place does exist, and who knows? It could have housed a small hotel at one time. The artists’ colony, and their compound on Camino del Monte Sol, are documented. There will be a thread with a set of pictures and links to places, costumes, cars, posted after the story is complete. My thanks to OBTS not only for the idea, but for her encouragement and input as the story progressed. I don’t own Josef, or any of the historical locations and personages mentioned in the story. Any errors or misrepresentations of fact are mine. Anything belonging to a media franchise, isn’t mine either.
Camino del Monte Sol
I. Santa Fe, Arrival, 1923
The sleek red Mercedes hit another hard rut, and Stephen Kostan, as he was calling himself this decade, cursed roundly. The roads from Los Angeles to Albuquerque had been rough enough, but this last stretch from Albuquerque to Santa Fe was preposterously primitive. He supposed most people traveling to the state capital still took the train. He winced every time he hit a rut, though; the Mercedes was showroom new, and didn’t deserve this kind of treatment.
It figured. The three darling pets he’d brought with him—his memories of this part of the world were still vivid enough that he wasn’t going to be caught undead traveling here without ready access to adequate supplies of fresh blood—were doubtless comfortably ensconced in a parlor car while he enjoyed jouncing along this ill-maintained track through a wilderness of scrub, cactus, and mesas. Dorothea, Patrice, and Louise were perfectly well-behaved young ladies, in public, anyway, and a pleasure to travel with, but a vampire needed some time away from humans, and he’d grown impatient with a backseat full of chattering women. So he’d drawn a half-pint from each of them, bottled it, and seen them off on the train, with explicit instructions on how to get from the station to the suite he’d booked for them at an out-of-the-way hotel.
Another rut, another hard bounce, and he heard a faint noise from the back. His precious blood—the bottles safely tucked in a bucket of ice wrapped in blankets and secured inside a wicker hamper—shouldn’t be clinking together, but he supposed the ice had melted somewhat.
He should be in Santa Fe in a couple of hours, though. He’d intended to make the journey at night, but his host in Albuquerque had dissuaded him. There’d apparently been a rash of bandits on the roads, and if he wanted to avoid trouble…He’d stopped himself short of saying, “Wouldn’t be the first time,” and foolishly, he thought in retrospect as he squinted through his tinted driving goggles at the late afternoon glare, changed his plans.
He’d thought that heading northeast in the afternoon would at least put the path of the sun away from him, but glare was glare. And damned unpleasant. He might look a bit old fashioned in his duster, gauntlets, and cap, but at least it gave him some protection from the sun and the dust.
Fifty years might have gone by, but he hadn’t forgotten the dust in this part of the world. One of the many advantages of not breathing was that he couldn’t actually choke on the annoying stuff.
He’d thought the scenery might provide some entertainment, but by now, he thought if he never saw another ocotillo bush or stand of prickly pear, he could live with it.
Off to one side of the road, he could see a village perched up on the edge of a mesa. He thought it must be Laguna Pueblo, if he had the distance figured right. He was glad he didn’t need to stop; the small cluster of mud brick buildings really didn’t look like his kind of town. Some distance from the road on the other side, a group of pronghorn antelope started up at the noise of his engine, bounding away on graceful, slender legs. Stephen felt his fangs shift a little, remembering his early years, when he’d run down deer for sport and the sheer exuberance of power. That was a very long time ago, now.
Mercifully, the sun was dropping behind the dry hills when the red Mercedes rolled into the outskirts of the city. He certainly had no complaints to make of the vehicle. One of his friend Slade Weston’s dry comments had been, “Did you buy the car, Stephen, when you planned the trip, or are you taking the trip to try out the car?” He’d smirked, even if Weston couldn’t see it over the phone line. “What, I can’t buy myself a new automobile?” The truth was somewhere in between, he thought. He’d needed some time away from California, but he wasn’t ready to make a big move yet. It was the same sort of principle as making sure his bite gave his donors a sexual thrill. Just mixing business with as much pleasure as possible.
Pulling up at the southeast corner of Santa Fe’s central plaza, in front of the hotel Weston had recommended, he nodded in approval. “Everything in Santa Fe happens at La Fonda,” Weston had told him. The adobe building was certainly imposing, and looked almost new. He had seen Spanish-influenced adobe in California, so it was not a complete surprise, but the irregularity of the building was more extreme than what he was used to. It rose in varying heights, a balcony here, a bell tower there, sprawling over its corner of the plaza as though it had simply sprung up from the red dirt beneath it.
Stephen swung out of the Mercedes, shedding his duster to reveal an immaculate dark suit below. He tossed the duster heedlessly into the back seat, following it with his gloves, goggles, and soft cap. He ran a hand through his short auburn hair to put it in some semblance of order, and frowned at the dust obscuring the scarlet shine of the Mercedes. The car should gleam as brightly as fresh blood, and the film of earth on it offended him. He would have to have that corrected.
The front desk of La Fonda was as ornate and polished as any he’d seen in New York or London, and as he checked in he spared a thought to wonder about how it had been transported to such a remote locale. He was shaken from his reverie by the inquiry of the desk clerk.
“Any firearms to check, Mr. Kostan?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The young man indicated a small sign on the desk. “City ordinance, sir. All firearms must be left at a hotel or saloon while you’re in town.”
Stephen quirked an eyebrow. “Interesting. But beside the point.” He paused, smiling. “I don’t find it necessary to carry a gun.”
The clerk frowned. “If you’re out on the roads much, sir, you might want to reconsider that. It can be dangerous around these parts.”
Stephen’s smile turned frosty. “Trust me, it’s not a problem.”
The clerk shrugged, unimpressed. “As you say, sir.”
Stephen pulled his car key from his pocket, and set it on the counter in a fluid move. “On the other hand, can I get someone to take care of my automobile? It needs gas, washing, and polishing.”
The clerk looked doubtful. “That’s not really one of our services, sir.”
A twenty joined the key on the desk. “I’ll pay.”
The twenty disappeared. “I’ll see to it, sir.”
Stephen tapped the counter twice in approval, and turned away. He was happy to have a chance to establish himself as an outrageously good tipper; it usually ensured that his odder requests, like, say, for the two hundred or so pounds of ice he intended to have delivered to his bathtub in the near future, were fulfilled rapidly and without comment.
He had to admit, on first view at least the lobby was pleasing and welcoming, and as he moved through the building his favorable impression was enhanced. He’d had an idea floating in the back of his head since he’d established a presence on the West Coast, and Santa Fe, even on limited acquaintance, was causing that idea to take more definite form. The dry, cool climate that was so appealing for sufferers from tuberculosis would be perfect for reconstituting favored donors. He was looking forward to driving up into the pine and aspen shaded heights of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains—and how appropriate was that name?—while he was here, in search of the perfect location for what he had in mind. He was starting to think a rambling, expansive adobe compound might be just the ticket to refresh the overtaxed systems of those who nourished the vampires of the West. And the fact that it would be a very profitable business venture for him into the bargain, just made it better.
He checked his gold pocket watch. Enough of that for now. If he wanted to make the contacts he planned, tonight, he needed to get to his room and settle in.
But all in all, so far, he was pleased.
Camino del Monte Sol
I. Santa Fe, Arrival, 1923
The sleek red Mercedes hit another hard rut, and Stephen Kostan, as he was calling himself this decade, cursed roundly. The roads from Los Angeles to Albuquerque had been rough enough, but this last stretch from Albuquerque to Santa Fe was preposterously primitive. He supposed most people traveling to the state capital still took the train. He winced every time he hit a rut, though; the Mercedes was showroom new, and didn’t deserve this kind of treatment.
It figured. The three darling pets he’d brought with him—his memories of this part of the world were still vivid enough that he wasn’t going to be caught undead traveling here without ready access to adequate supplies of fresh blood—were doubtless comfortably ensconced in a parlor car while he enjoyed jouncing along this ill-maintained track through a wilderness of scrub, cactus, and mesas. Dorothea, Patrice, and Louise were perfectly well-behaved young ladies, in public, anyway, and a pleasure to travel with, but a vampire needed some time away from humans, and he’d grown impatient with a backseat full of chattering women. So he’d drawn a half-pint from each of them, bottled it, and seen them off on the train, with explicit instructions on how to get from the station to the suite he’d booked for them at an out-of-the-way hotel.
Another rut, another hard bounce, and he heard a faint noise from the back. His precious blood—the bottles safely tucked in a bucket of ice wrapped in blankets and secured inside a wicker hamper—shouldn’t be clinking together, but he supposed the ice had melted somewhat.
He should be in Santa Fe in a couple of hours, though. He’d intended to make the journey at night, but his host in Albuquerque had dissuaded him. There’d apparently been a rash of bandits on the roads, and if he wanted to avoid trouble…He’d stopped himself short of saying, “Wouldn’t be the first time,” and foolishly, he thought in retrospect as he squinted through his tinted driving goggles at the late afternoon glare, changed his plans.
He’d thought that heading northeast in the afternoon would at least put the path of the sun away from him, but glare was glare. And damned unpleasant. He might look a bit old fashioned in his duster, gauntlets, and cap, but at least it gave him some protection from the sun and the dust.
Fifty years might have gone by, but he hadn’t forgotten the dust in this part of the world. One of the many advantages of not breathing was that he couldn’t actually choke on the annoying stuff.
He’d thought the scenery might provide some entertainment, but by now, he thought if he never saw another ocotillo bush or stand of prickly pear, he could live with it.
Off to one side of the road, he could see a village perched up on the edge of a mesa. He thought it must be Laguna Pueblo, if he had the distance figured right. He was glad he didn’t need to stop; the small cluster of mud brick buildings really didn’t look like his kind of town. Some distance from the road on the other side, a group of pronghorn antelope started up at the noise of his engine, bounding away on graceful, slender legs. Stephen felt his fangs shift a little, remembering his early years, when he’d run down deer for sport and the sheer exuberance of power. That was a very long time ago, now.
Mercifully, the sun was dropping behind the dry hills when the red Mercedes rolled into the outskirts of the city. He certainly had no complaints to make of the vehicle. One of his friend Slade Weston’s dry comments had been, “Did you buy the car, Stephen, when you planned the trip, or are you taking the trip to try out the car?” He’d smirked, even if Weston couldn’t see it over the phone line. “What, I can’t buy myself a new automobile?” The truth was somewhere in between, he thought. He’d needed some time away from California, but he wasn’t ready to make a big move yet. It was the same sort of principle as making sure his bite gave his donors a sexual thrill. Just mixing business with as much pleasure as possible.
Pulling up at the southeast corner of Santa Fe’s central plaza, in front of the hotel Weston had recommended, he nodded in approval. “Everything in Santa Fe happens at La Fonda,” Weston had told him. The adobe building was certainly imposing, and looked almost new. He had seen Spanish-influenced adobe in California, so it was not a complete surprise, but the irregularity of the building was more extreme than what he was used to. It rose in varying heights, a balcony here, a bell tower there, sprawling over its corner of the plaza as though it had simply sprung up from the red dirt beneath it.
Stephen swung out of the Mercedes, shedding his duster to reveal an immaculate dark suit below. He tossed the duster heedlessly into the back seat, following it with his gloves, goggles, and soft cap. He ran a hand through his short auburn hair to put it in some semblance of order, and frowned at the dust obscuring the scarlet shine of the Mercedes. The car should gleam as brightly as fresh blood, and the film of earth on it offended him. He would have to have that corrected.
The front desk of La Fonda was as ornate and polished as any he’d seen in New York or London, and as he checked in he spared a thought to wonder about how it had been transported to such a remote locale. He was shaken from his reverie by the inquiry of the desk clerk.
“Any firearms to check, Mr. Kostan?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The young man indicated a small sign on the desk. “City ordinance, sir. All firearms must be left at a hotel or saloon while you’re in town.”
Stephen quirked an eyebrow. “Interesting. But beside the point.” He paused, smiling. “I don’t find it necessary to carry a gun.”
The clerk frowned. “If you’re out on the roads much, sir, you might want to reconsider that. It can be dangerous around these parts.”
Stephen’s smile turned frosty. “Trust me, it’s not a problem.”
The clerk shrugged, unimpressed. “As you say, sir.”
Stephen pulled his car key from his pocket, and set it on the counter in a fluid move. “On the other hand, can I get someone to take care of my automobile? It needs gas, washing, and polishing.”
The clerk looked doubtful. “That’s not really one of our services, sir.”
A twenty joined the key on the desk. “I’ll pay.”
The twenty disappeared. “I’ll see to it, sir.”
Stephen tapped the counter twice in approval, and turned away. He was happy to have a chance to establish himself as an outrageously good tipper; it usually ensured that his odder requests, like, say, for the two hundred or so pounds of ice he intended to have delivered to his bathtub in the near future, were fulfilled rapidly and without comment.
He had to admit, on first view at least the lobby was pleasing and welcoming, and as he moved through the building his favorable impression was enhanced. He’d had an idea floating in the back of his head since he’d established a presence on the West Coast, and Santa Fe, even on limited acquaintance, was causing that idea to take more definite form. The dry, cool climate that was so appealing for sufferers from tuberculosis would be perfect for reconstituting favored donors. He was looking forward to driving up into the pine and aspen shaded heights of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains—and how appropriate was that name?—while he was here, in search of the perfect location for what he had in mind. He was starting to think a rambling, expansive adobe compound might be just the ticket to refresh the overtaxed systems of those who nourished the vampires of the West. And the fact that it would be a very profitable business venture for him into the bargain, just made it better.
He checked his gold pocket watch. Enough of that for now. If he wanted to make the contacts he planned, tonight, he needed to get to his room and settle in.
But all in all, so far, he was pleased.
This sounds like it is going to be a great story! Looking forward to more.
