“This man who chases me—there is no confusion about what he does,” she said softly, ritualistically, hoping Smoking Mirror could understand. “It’s no accident that he is here in your land. Like his father before him, he has called the dead. He still calls the dead—even your dead. And if no one stops him, he will do it again and again until he has raised an army.”
“He would call the dead in the land of Itlachiayaque?” The god used his other name. “Has he no respect of the gods?” Smoking Mirror’s face shifted, for a moment appearing almost feline. Legend said that he could shapeshift into a jaguar, and she wondered if that would be a bad thing. A cat would probably be somewhat smaller and would put less weight on her already heavy chest.
It would still be large enough to rip out a liver.
“He has no respect for my God either,” she said. “He respects nothing. He is a thief.”
“But what are
you,
almost daughter?” Smoking Mirror asked, the black reflection of his eyes showing no reaction to her words.
Almost daughter
—that was either very good or very bad.
Ninon shook her head, not denying but not knowing how to answer. She realized with a sinking heart that this creature was insane. She recognized the signs, and wondered if all long-lived beings were eventually driven mad. How could she get away from him?
“Pale woman, what are you?” The black, bottomless eyes stared into hers, daring her to lie. His gaze pierced her brain. “Why have you really come?”
“I don’t know what I am. I’m not normal—not one with my people. Not anymore.” She told that much truth because she had to. The god appeared to be considering this and she lay very still, trying not to think about the fact that she was stretched out on an obsidian altar, the kind where victims had their living hearts ripped from their bodies. She added, “I came because I need help, strength to fight my enemy. Now your enemy.” She added, “I come as penance for an old sin.”
She couldn’t tell if he believed her. Or even if he understood.
“Why does this magician follow you?” the god’s voice asked, a rumble in her head. The words and feeling were foreign, and the forced emotional and verbal translation actually made her ache.
“Because he covets,” she answered in a whisper, unable to blink. Her eyes began to tear.
“You?” Probing tines slid deeper into her mind. She had to stop him.
“My power. All power.” She told the truth; to have lied would have been to rip her brain in two. It might be torn apart anyway. She added desperately: “He is not content with immortality. He wants to be a god. To do that, he believes he must gather up all the power his father bestowed on others. And he needs something more—just as I need more to fight him.”
She added the last plea, but knew it would do no good. This god did not care to help her.
“So you are a priestess. One who has sinned.” But he wasn’t thinking about her. The god’s mind and face shifted again, and He Who Would Not Be Named By Man paused, perhaps pondering the idea of a rival, someone actually arrogant enough to challenge him. That obviously hadn’t happened for a long time. Perhaps he was thinking it would be most expedient to cut her throat so that Saint Germain would have no chance at transforming himself if he found her. Maybe the god thought he could take her
power for his own use. All Ninon could do was wait for his verdict. She didn’t try to correct his assumption about what she was. One didn’t argue with an insane god.
A shadow fell over the cavern’s small mouth, and she sensed when Miguel joined them in the cave. Her first reaction was relief, but it was followed swiftly by caution. She sensed that the balance of power could be tipped either way, and though she did not want to die, she didn’t want Miguel hurt either.
“Seraphina, I see you’ve met my…father, S.M.—The Source of Discord, Patron of Sorcerers, God of the Smoking Mirror,” Miguel said. She saw that he was breathing hard but trying to control it. “Or perhaps I mean my grandfather, since he at once gave birth to my mother and yet also fathered me into a new life.”
His father?
She felt the god’s attention shift away from her, and some of her mental pain eased.
Patron of sorcerers?
She didn’t like the sound of that. Saint Germain didn’t need a patron. It would be bloody annoying if she’d accidentally led her foe to what he needed to consolidate his powers.
“Relationships are often complicated,” she answered, and felt the moment when He Who Would Not Be Named By Man was finally moved to something other than anger and suspicion. She thought he might actually be amused, though by her words or Miguel’s, she didn’t know. The god shifted back on his knees—if that’s what they were—and the golden bells at his ankles tinkled musically. She finally dared to turn her head and look at Miguel, still unsure if she should be relieved that he was there.
The sight of him caused her a small pang. In the dim light he looked a lot like Louis de Mornay, the man who had so long ago fathered her son. The memory of her last meeting with her lover passed through her mind, leaving sadness in its wake. The god probably felt this. She hoped he would think her feelings were for Miguel.
Miguel’s eyes stayed on the god. He was clearly wary,
son or no son. He went on, speaking to her: “The thing about us—my people—is that we feed on emotion. Any emotion, good or bad. As long as you feel anything, it’s enough to interest us. And our capacity to absorb is endless, our appetite unquenchable.” Miguel’s eyes were somber, a warning. All trace of his Scottish accent was gone. Ninon realized then that her original role of ditz was also on a long bathroom break, perhaps trying on lip gloss, maybe swallowing some tranquilizers while her logical mind dealt with this monster.
She forced herself to nod again.
“I’m trying hard to be unfeeling—really I am.”
Miguel smiled a little, but she sensed his fear for her. And maybe of her. Well, fair enough. She was afraid of him and for him too. She was in this horrible place only because she had wanted to spare him from involvement in her troubles.
“You want her, my only son?” the god asked. His jaws cracked open and Ninon could finally see clearly the long scorpion tail at the end of his tongue. “Shall you be the one to bring her to us? If I let her live this morning, will you take her offering yourself?”
“Yes,” Miguel said. His eyes flicked over her. He swallowed something bitter and added, “I will”
Somehow, she knew this wasn’t good. Miguel seemed a better choice, at least on the surface, but there was some power struggle going on between him and Smoking Mirror.
And Ninon really didn’t like the word “offering.” She had always suspected that she would probably have to die someday. Especially in order to become a vampire. But she hadn’t planned on it being today, right now. In a cave, on an altar, at the hands of a death god’s reluctant son while his sadistic father looked on?
“Then do it,” the god commanded. He looked pleased—way too pleased. “Take her as your first, and I shall have the sorcerer for myself.”
Neither Miguel nor Ninon reacted openly, but Ninon
was appalled at this command—though Miguel was clearly the lesser of two evils. Whatever he might have in his mouth and pants, it had to be better than a stinger the size of an ice pick and a leech-like penis that could function as a third arm. And if she survived, there might still be time for her to get to Saint Germain before the god did—because she
had
to now. In spite of his arrogant words, she could sense that the Patron of Sorcerers couldn’t be trusted to kill Saint Germain. Smoking Mirror would be too intrigued. He would try talking to Saint Germain, and the Dark Man’s son was the Scheherazade of magicians. The world could not afford having that monster gifted with any more life or power from some godly but psychotic patron.
Merde!
There were times when she wished desperately that she could trade superior wits for superior strength. She’d break the god’s neck right then and there if she could, even if it meant she went insane the next time she renewed.
“N-now?” she asked the god. Then, thinking urgently of ways to delay: “But I haven’t been cleansed or anointed. And there is no storm. We need lightning. That is how I am reborn. That is my way to new life when I cross over. I would not wish to be a less than perfect offering.”
Would he believe this drivel? He thought her a priestess, so maybe…
Miguel looked at her like she was insane. She knew what he was thinking—that those whom gods wished to destroy they first made mad—but his father considered her words.
Ninon kept her face meek and her thoughts corralled. In this way, if no other, the god was at a disadvantage. Smoking Mirror had not kept abreast of the times. In his world, women were for sex, having babies, and were—in a pinch—a second-rate sacrifice only marginally brighter than a chicken or sheep, even if they were priestesses. It
was inconceivable to him that she could be anything more that that.
He wasn’t the first to make that mistake.
“You wish to be reborn in the sky-fire?” he asked. “That is how you would make your offering?”
“Yes.”
“And you believe that you can be born again that way?” That sounded like skepticism, but she wasn’t sure.
“Yes.” She was very sincere.
“Very well. Go and prepare. Tonight there shall be a storm. You will have your chance at rebirth in the sky-fire.”
She had a sudden instinct that he was lying. Perfidious bastard. He didn’t want her to be reborn—he planned that she would die at Miguel’s hands and, failing that, in the lightning storm. This angered and frustrated her but she kept her defiant thoughts locked up. She used stolen fire from the gods, took life from heaven itself—she would steal his power too if she got the chance.
Miguel said nothing.
The god backed away and Ninon sat up slowly, getting a good look at the god’s body. Panicked thoughts filled with revulsion skittered through her brain as he changed form into that of a cat, but she kept them suppressed so the god wouldn’t sense them. As far as he was concerned, she was an awed worshipper.
“You have until moonset,” he said to Miguel. “I’ve waited long enough.”
As she and Miguel watched, the god backed into the river and disappeared in its murky depths, becoming one with the dark water. The last of the pressure eased from her brain. Ninon sagged with relief at the lifting oppression, but still felt overloaded by rage, and a bit drugged. These days she got high only on meditation; a yoga buzz wasn’t adequate preparation for having her brain invaded by a god of death.
“What sky-fire? Or was that just bullshit to keep from
getting killed this instant? Not that I blame you, if you lied.” Miguel helped her from the altar. They backed toward the mouth of the cave, keeping a watch on the underground river. Apparently Miguel had trust issues with his father too.
“It’s a long story.”
“I think you had better start telling me. I don’t like the sound of this man chasing you. S.M. seems unhealthily excited by him. And trust me—anything that gets him excited is bad for you and me. In fact, we are in what is commonly referred to as deep shit.” Miguel usually looked vibrant. Right now he was just vibrating. The aftermath of terror took some people that way.
Ninon exhaled slowly, trying not to cough. It took some effort to keep her surface thoughts calm while she spoke of other things. Having both the god and Saint Germain trying to eavesdrop on her was annoying. The god would hear some of her conversation with Miguel—she was almost certain of this—which was why she couldn’t tell him anything of her real plans. She needed the god’s power now more than ever. Saint Germain could not—absolutely could not—be allowed to join forces with Smoking Mirror.
“You’re right—and I’m sorry about this. I had hoped to keep you out of this…this affair.”
“I doubt that is or ever was possible.”
“I’m beginning to doubt it too. But maybe this is for the best.” She shook her head. “The first thing you should know is that I am not Seraphina Sandoval from California. I was—am—Ninon de Lenclos of Paris.”
Miguel stopped moving. This news would likely mean nothing to the god, but it did to Miguel.
“
The
Ninon de Lenclos? The woman who taught Frenchmen of the seventeenth century how to make love? Who edited Molière’s plays, advised Cardinal Richelieu, educated Voltaire, and fought for women’s rights—and was the love of the philosopher Saint Evremond’s life?”
“Yes.
C’est moi.
”
“Holy shit.” And then he started laughing. He took her arm again and urged her out of the cavern. Electricity danced over her skin where he touched her, but it did nothing to warm her.
“Want to hear the really funny part?” she asked, not sharing his laughter.
“Hell, yes. I can always use a good laugh. Especially when we’re about to die.”
She ignored that.
“The man chasing me—the one your father wants to meet—that’s the Comte Saint Germain. And
his
father was the man you know as Dr. Frankenstein.” She paused. When a stunned Miguel said nothing, she added: “His real name was Johann Dippel. He
made
me. I am one of his…creations. He fed me drugs and then electrocuted me during a lightning storm. And I have lived for centuries because of it.”
They backed into the purifying sunlight. Miguel was no longer laughing.
“That makes what I have to say rather anticlimactic,” he complained. “And I suspect you already know the truth, and that’s why you’re here.”
“Yes, but say it anyway. I think we’d best have all our cards on the table.” They turned and faced each other, letting the sun bathe them in purifying rays. They were both about three shades paler than they should be.
Miguel said slowly: “I’m the son of a death god who made my mother a vampire along with the corpses of many other women who died in childbirth. I’ve resisted making the change so far, because he hasn’t completed the ritual—I think because of how powerful I might become when he does. But unless we can think of a way out of it—like a high-speed jet to the north pole or a mutual suicide pact—you’re going to be my first. S.M. wasn’t kidding about tonight being the night. Believe me, death would be better than letting me near you.”