The night was cold, and fires were lit in the de la Vega hacienda. The wind had been howling, whistling at the windows. Diego reminded himself that he should make himself patrol the pueblo as Zorro, but he hadn't felt strong enough for two months. Riding still tired him and there was no real rush. Zorro's absence had not really impacted the region yet. Word of mouth and gossip had been taking longer than usual.
People were reluctant to believe that Zorro was dead. Holding on to hope, no one spoke out everyone's secret fears. If he couldn't regain his strength and his focus there would be no more Zorro. He longed to visit Victoria as the man she loved and he hungered for her kisses, her warm arms around him. The relationship was deepening a little too much, he realised. The time would come where he would have to tell her the truth or abandon her altogether. The thought of giving up altogether hurt his heart, and he could not sleep.
A strange noise pricked a sense of alarm, but Diego dismissed it just as fast. The wind was tossing so many things around that any noise could be rationally explained. Nevertheless, he couldn't sleep. A tour of the house would not hurt, and he could fetch a book from the de la Vega bookshelves. He would need to purchase some new reading material soon as his reading had become an obsession in the last few weeks.
He didn't need a candle, so grabbed his robe and tucked his feet into warm slippers. He knew the house like everywhere else, like the back of his hand. Mastering the layout of the completely dark hacienda had been easy and he had not stumbled against a piece of furniture for years. He knew how many steps to and from certain locations, and what wooden panel squeaked under his weight, and it was simple to adjust accordingly.
The chance of an intruder lay at the back of his head, but not dwelt upon. The hacienda had seldom been burgled and the few times that it had he had sorted it out before his father was disturbed. All except that one time, that time he had left his father alone in the house. He still felt guilty about that night. Alejandro had been hurt, and treasures had been stolen. If he had been home, his father would have been safe.
Another sound was muffled but it was definitely the sound of glass shattering. That attracted the young man's interest, and he regretted that he had left his candlestick on his bedside table. He could manage hand to hand combat, but robbers tended to be armed. Maybe it was the wind, still causing the problems that it had all day, but now he doubted it. There was a sword on the wall of the library, but it was mainly decorative - not solid like a sabre. Still, it was a sword.
Diego could hear muffled talking, as at least two men went through the house. He didn't know what they were looking for, but nothing would leave the hacienda if he could help it. They wouldn't know what hit them as he came out of the darkness, he thought as his heartbeat raced with determination and concealed excitement. His training had been light since the Gilberto incident, but what were burglars compared to the legendary Zorro?
He thought later that he had been rash, that his own arrogance had led him to make a grave mistake. Pride goes before a fall, so they say. He had assumed their number instead of knowing the field, guessed instead of waiting and weighing the facts. He thought there was only two men, and confronted them directly.
They cowered as expected, retreating before the shadowy shape he resembled in the dark. As they glanced at something behind him, he froze. He had underestimated his prey, something he tried never to do. Something smashed heavily into the back of his head, sending him crashing to the floor.