Divine Night

by Melanie Jackson

  Once, he would have wept for this man whose body and soul were in peril. But the sensitive youth had eventually grown up and learned that weeping changed nothing. It didn’t alter Fate, or soften evil men’s hearts. It couldn’t raise the dead or cure the sick…It was just that not weeping had once denied something inside of him, and it killed a little bit of his humanity when he denied it, so Alex had cried—cried for his dead son, and his lost friends, and lost ideals.

  Then one day he had woken up in a waterlogged trench somewhere in France with shells falling around him and his companions dead or dying, and there were no more tears. The losses had become too many; any more grief and he would perish.

  Instead of allowing himself to express any sadness for this doomed soul, Alex smiled at the old man and thanked him gently for his service as the tired body trudged back toward the kitchen. Vaya con Dios, he thought. Go with God. That was an odd prayer to say before a meal, but it would suffice.

  The pork smelled good, but he had a sudden craving for shashlik, a dish he had learned to make in Russia. It was too bad that it took so long to prepare. Lamb had to marinate for twenty-four hours in vinegar and chopped onions and was then cooked on skewers over a coal fire. He liked it best with a side of crude bread with rose jam made with cinnamon and honey. When had he last fixed this? Was it at one of his dinners with Hugo, Balzac, and George Sand? Could it truly have been that long ago? The thought shook him. It was why he so rarely allowed himself to think of the past in any context except as material for his highly embellished novels.

  And there wasn’t time to be thinking about these things now. If there were a vampire nearby, he really couldn’t allow these two women—or at least the one called Harmony—to wander into its path. Mexican vampires were not his specialty, but he knew that they were especially drawn to young, fertile women, particularly ones with psychic abilities.

  Saint Germain might well be drawn to her, too. The thought was sobering, though it would make his old nemesis easier to find, if he came out of hiding in order to capture this female.

  Alex wondered if she was at all aware of her abilities. It would be easier if she were. She might sense the evil floating in the air and believe the rather incredible story he had to tell her when he finally got her alone. If she didn’t understand what she was, getting her to accept the danger she was in would be very difficult. That would be unfortunate, because he couldn’t use her as a lure unless she was aware of the danger. That would be unconscionable, and he wasn’t that big a bastard.

  Alex ate with more patience than enthusiasm, watching both Harmony and the bartender, who was flicking glances at the table where Harmony and her friend sat. The barkeep was a brown Chihuahua of a man with many of the stereo-typical short-male idiosyncrasies. He also had an aura streaked with violet-red. Ten to one he beat his wife. If he caught the creature at it, he would hurt him, Alex decided. And if he went after Harmony, he would kill him. Alex abhorred men who were violent with women, children, or animals.

  Alex mustered his patience, calmly and repeatedly making the mental suggestion that Harmony join him and that her companion go away. Finally Ashley got up from the table to go to the bar and began flirting with a sunburned Australian who was going on some sort of nature hike, leaving Alex’s quarry alone and undistracted. When he turned his attention back to Harmony, he was pleased to see her get up and come walking toward his table. He wouldn’t have to go to her after all. It was a small point—a bit of a power play—but he was glad to have it. This woman would be a challenge. It wouldn’t be a bad thing if they began their relationship by establishing which of them would be on top—metaphorically speaking.

  Alex allowed himself to look at her slowly from head to toe as she walked toward him. He couldn’t help but smile at her shoes. They consisted mainly of a few extremely impractical straps of pumpkin-colored leather on heels high enough that it made walking a kind of performance art. And she managed it with grace even while inebriated.

  Her skirt swayed as she walked. It and her blouse were made of an extremely fine woven cotton called Liberty Lawn. It wasn’t something you bought in a department store. The style was old-fashioned, and she could have gotten it at some vintage shop in the U.K., but he was willing to bet that she had made it herself.

  He regretted his own clothing. For this trip he was wearing a dark linen shirt and practical black jeans with cowboy boots—upscale but off-the-rack. Glib and pretentious. He was not fond of clothing that required it be identified by a brand. It was tactless, the announcement of the insecure that they did so have taste but were also uncomfortable with individuality—and he didn’t see any benefit to having an uncomfortable bas-relief of some designer label embedded in his butt. Usually he preferred to wear the linen or lightweight wool suits that were made for him at a small firm on the Rue du Faubourg-St. Honore where, it was rumored, they used handmade Italian loafers to beat the couture-challenged tourists who wandered in off the streets with their rude T-shirts, rubber sandals, and melting pink ice cream and then threw them back out with their dripping gelatos. Though a loyal French Republican and a believer in equality for all people, Alex still approved of this ruthlessness when it came to rude tourists. They were locusts, spreading slovenly thought around the globe.

  Unfortunately, he was playing the role of tourist this trip, and like the chameleon, took on the protective but hated coloring of his role. He hoped Harmony wouldn’t hold this against him.

  “It’s a good thing that looking at girls is free down here, because you would have run up quite a tab by now. And why that is, I cannot imagine,” she said, pulling out the chair across from him and sitting down. Her voice was calm, but he could see the color in her cheeks and the pulsing red at the base of her aura. Before he could reply, she added: “But then, I’ve been looking at you too. I’ve got to tell you, I’ve never seen anyone like you before.”

  “No, you haven’t,” he agreed, and felt himself beginning to smile. His mission might be grim, but this woman was utterly delightful. And he’d barely had to push her at all to get her to his table.

  “You’re French?” she asked, clearly surprised. Her slightly elongated vowels and the rhythm of her speech said that she was either from or had spent a lot of time in the regions of the U.S. that bordered Mexico. The slight accent was music to him.

  “Sometimes. I am also a writer.”

  “So am I.” She smiled back. “A writer. Sometimes.”

  A writer—that would explain in part why her mind felt so familiar and was so easy to read. She was used to thinking with words rather than images. Word thoughts were easier for him to hear.

  “I am Alexandre Dumas. But please call me Alex.” He extended his hand. Alex didn’t like this modern custom of shaking ladies’ hands, but he wanted to touch her, to confirm by feel what he suspected.

  “Pére or fils?” she asked without blinking.

  “Pére, of course.”

  “Of course. He was the sexy one. You’re a little paler these days, though, aren’t you?”

  “And thinner. It’s this low-carb diet I’m on.”

  She smiled and finally took his offered hand and frowned slightly as a small shock traveled through her flesh, a bit of psychic sonar he used to know women. He watched her shiver and saw the red of growing desire flare around her. She said with a hint of breathlessness: “I think that I may be a bit drunk. The trouble is, now that we’ve met, I’m not sure if I should stop drinking or just keep going. It isn’t every day that you meet a famous novelist. In Mexico. In a dive.”

  “So true. But don’t underestimate yourself. You’re already quite drunk. More would be pointless and probably even counterproductive.” Reluctantly he released her. She felt good—very good—but he needed to move slowly and carefully and keep his mind clear. That was difficult when they touched. The echoes of her personality reverberated through him in disturbing ways.

  The tiny frown disappeared as she stared at her freed hand. When she looked up
her gaze was quizzical but still approving. He thought—not for the first time—that the eyes of a woman were the best of all mirrors in which to check one’s appearance. Alex didn’t care what was in the pages of GQ; he cared what would please his readers and lovers, who were mostly female and over forty. They wanted romance in their idol, and he gave it to them—watered down from thedays of his youth, but still recognizable to anyone who read. For this reason, he wore his hair long. Older women especially loved this. He was glad that the younger Harmony responded, too.

  “I’m Harmony Nix. The nix is a supernatural creature,” she added helpfully.

  “So is Alexandre Dumas.”

  “Apparently, though you seem more of a pirate to me. It’s the…” She stood suddenly, looking about quickly as though searching for someone who had called her name.

  “Would you come away with me, Harmony Nix, if I invited you?” he asked, looking about the room to see what had disturbed her but seeing no one new. He willed her to return her focus to him.

  “I don’t know. I suppose it would depend on how far away the invitation was for.” Her eyes slowly returned to his face. Her words were distracted, though, and her head was cocked as though she were still listening for a voice.

  “Ah—so it is a matter of meters and kilometers?” he asked, also listening intently but hearing nothing.

  “Perhaps.”

  “I understand. I am a test of your judgment. Please take all the time you need to calculate a safe travel distance.” He listened harder, using all his senses, but still sensed nothing. This didn’t reassure him as much as it should have.

  “Are you waiting for someone?” Alex finally asked. Harmony shook her head, then looked full into his eyes, probing his secrets with her other senses. Fortunately, none of his secrets lay near the surface and she seemed reassured by his calm demeanor.

  “Let’s go for a walk. I need some air that doesn’t require chewing.” She managed to say require, but he saw it was an effort. She really was quite inebriated. “Now. Please.”

  He raised a brow at the suddenly preemptory tone but rose obligingly. If she were sensitive she would feel that the room’s shadows truly were growing fretful and suffocating. And even without any psychic ability, the level of smoke and noise was oppressive, as though the occupants sensed that something hostile was closing in around them, and they sought by force of will to drive the darkness back with chatter and cigarette smoke.

  Harmony looked to the bar. Alex saw Ashley give her concerned friend a thumbs-up, encouraging her to leave with a stranger so that she might do the same. Alex smiled reassuringly at the equally concerned Australian who thought he might be abandoned by his lucky find if the girlfriend left the bar first. Alex waited for the man’s face to relax into bland acceptance, then opened the bullet-ridden door that let out into an eerily dark night.

  A trickle of music followed them into the breathless darkness. There was only a ghost of a moon to light their way, but this didn’t bother Alex, whose eyes were as keen as a cat’s. Harmony seemed comfortable as well. Perhaps because she was using her mind’s eye to find her way.

  He inhaled slowly, checking the air for danger, but everything was calm. And if it became less calm, he had a Sig-Sauer 220 tucked into the back of his jeans. The .45 was very reliable, especially when loaded with silver bullets. He had a second, smaller .22 pistol in his boot. It had only minimal stopping power and no range to speak of, but it was a backup.

  “So what do you do, Harmony Nix, when you aren’t being a writer?” he asked, tucking her hand into the curve of his arm. It was an old-fashioned gesture, one that he knew wouldn’t alarm her but allowed him to touch. They began to stroll down the paved path lined with palm trees that led toward the Iglesia de San Jose. The church was the tallest structure in town and a natural destination. He allowed himself to slip more deeply into her mind. He had used to think of this trick as brain-visiting, but he had run into a term in a science-fiction book that he liked better—a mind-jack. He was plugging himself into her thoughts, jacking into her feelings.

  “You wouldn’t believe me. Even the people who know me don’t believe me.”

  Her answer surprised him. Was she about to confess being psychic?

  “You would be astonished at the things I can believe.” This wasn’t a lie. He had never told anyone about his gift—not after the night his father died. His mother had been terrified by his story of seeing his father’s ghost, and had worried that he would be called a witch. Later, there had been other reasons for hiding his abilities. He was doubtful that the seat of his mental powers could be discovered with a scalpel, but he wouldn’t put it past some eager-beaver Nazi scientist with government funding to try finding it anyway. Nothing much had changed since Hitler’s day. Governments were not inherently evil, but they often gave refuge to evil men. Some of those were scientists. He had no intention of ending up as someone’s guinea pig.

  Harmony hesitated, her aura spiking green as she tried to clear her head. She was groping her way toward sobriety, but the tequila still had the upper hand. Alex pushed her to answer, and was glad when the emerald barbs paled back into complacency.

  “Is this heat normal this time of year? Do you think it would be cooler on the roof of the church? We could go there. Maybe there would be a breeze,” she suggested, plucking at the thin cotton of her blouse as she turned toward the church. It wasn’t physical discomfort that annoyed her, though. It was their conversation, which she had to sense he was guiding. And perhaps their proximity. He felt her like static electricity on his skin and was sure she felt something too.

  “Only if you jumped off and enjoyed the wind of free fall as you plummeted toward the ground. It hardly seems worth the broken bones for only seconds of relief.”

  She smiled at this playful answer and began to relax. He did too. Something about her made him feel light, like a helium balloon that evaded gravity both physically and emotionally. Surely his earlier premonition of danger had been wrong. There couldn’t be any real peril here.

  “You want to know about me?” she asked.

  “Definitely.”

  She seemed to think hard about this and then gave a mental shrug.

  “Okay. What if I said that I’m a sort of cat burglar? A criminal? Though I am considered a folk hero in environmental circles. They sometimes call me The Spider. Maybe you’ve read about me. Certain papers absolutely adore writing about my exploits.” She didn’t sound defiant, but he sensed her sudden indignation as she recalled her press coverage. “Go ahead. Tell me that I’m mental, that The Spider can’t be a woman. After all, all the newspapers have me pegged as a male because of the computer angle. Like you have to be able to bench press a truck in order to be smart enough to break into a computer network.”

  Alex laughed softly and quoted from memory the latest piece he had read on her: “ ‘The forces of law and order have proved no match for the master criminal who, with preeminent artistry and dexterous hands, has left behind a wake of dismantled alarm systems, empty safes and—most distressing for the victims—missing computer hard drives whose contents have shown up in the hands of “sensation-seeking reporters” and “the environmental lunatic fringe that make up the political arm of the radical new environmental movement.” An enormous reward is being offered for any information about the identity of The Spider, but so far, law enforcement and the heads of corporate security remain baffled by this criminal who seems to have escaped from the covers of a comic book.’”

  “Stopping global warming and preserving our forests—yeah, that’s lunatic fringe all right.” She added: “Was that the piece in the Weekly World News? They exaggerate a little.”

  “Perhaps, but the world needs heroes, and we have so few of them these days. You can’t blame the press for trying to find one.”

  She blushed a lovely rosy color that only he and perhaps a few night creatures could see. The smell of sweet musk and vanilla grew. The scent was heady.

  “
Thank you. But it’s not heroic,” she said modestly, and with surprising truthfulness. “Usually, all I really do is get a job as a secretary or a cleaning lady in whatever business we’ve targeted. Then, when I know my way around and have learned some passwords, I copy files to my own machine, or else take their hard drives to a friend who can crack the security codes and open the files. Then we go public with the truth about who is taking bribes or getting kickbacks for evading governmental regulations and poisoning the world with illegal toxic dumps and stuff. It’s really all about being patient and not losing your nerve.”

  Alex felt himself blink with surprise.

  “But this is brilliant. You have no idea how delighted I am to hear this.” And he was. The Spider had come to The Chameleon. This woman sounded as if she might be a female version of his younger self—brave, idealistic, and willing to take risks. Could it be an accident that she had come into his life just now? No, it had to be planned. She was the other eagle in his dream. She was the sign that things were about to change.

  Out of nowhere, a shiver took him and he felt his heart begin to pound. It beat hard enough to shake his body. He was flooded with sudden hope and intense physical desire, a giddy combination that was new to him.

  Harmony looked up at him, smiling slightly at his response. Her inner senses were probably telling her that he was sincere in his admiration. He just hoped it didn’t also tell her how very much he wanted her. His eavesdropping had led him to think that this sort of naked desire in men seemed to be an issue with her.