Miguel took her in his arms and slowly lowered her to the stony ground, which seemed to know why they were there and welcomed them.
“Beautiful. So perfect. I had never imagined…” The beast had been pushed back, at least for a moment. His delight was sincere. Some words were like kisses, sweet and arousing. Ninon sighed in answer, and they paused a moment to savor the feeling of closeness, the last bit of calm before the storm.
People were touchingly naive, she reminded herself. They thought sex brought understanding, while it so seldom did. This was different, though, and they both knew it. This would be more than a meeting of bodies. Once taken, they could never retrace their steps. There would be no time-outs or do-overs. It made them both hesitate, though they knew there was no turning back.
Something hot and dark blew by them. They felt the instant when he entered his son, and both froze with shock at the intrusion. Smoking Mirror shouldn’t have been able to reach into them physically—unless there was an underground stream…?
Ninon looked down and, sure enough, water was welling up around them, a dark artesian broth that was thick like heart blood. It wasn’t enough for the impatient god to appear, but enough to carry his vengeful spirit.
Miguel’s body temperature spiked upward and his skin flushed dark. His eyes went flat black. It was Miguel’s mouth that finally spoke, but the thoughts that issued forth belonged to Smoking Mirror.
“The dry earth was my womb and blood of war the seed that quickened me. Violence of flood and fire marked my mother’s labor, and death came with my birth. I woke hungry and, as a god, it was my right to feed.” These words were not sweet and arousing, and Ninon closed off her mind before he poisoned her.
A tear fell from Miguel’s eye, a golden drop that painted his face with a visible trail. It was not shed in sorrow, though, and it burned when rolled from his chin and struck her lips. She did not look away. To show fear, to attempt to flee was to provoke the predator to strike. Miguel wouldn’t hurt her—wouldn’t want to, but he might not have any choice about his actions. He was being violated, invaded—mentally if not physically—as surely as she was. She would do nothing to provoke the god while he was in his son’s body, nothing that could hurt Miguel.
Try to touch him, cherie. Find the man inside.
Looking into those dark eyes that were so beautiful, though now so far from human, she felt behind the god’s gaze Miguel’s soul-searing pain, a despair so complete that she knew he would not survive whatever the god had planned. It was a long shot, but she hoped against all logic that the god would not actually kill his son or drive him into an act so horrible that he could not live with it after. She had to make the god understand this and back away.
“It’s all right,” Ninon said to the power behind Miguel’s eyes that seemed slightly more understandable, if more despicable, now. Contempt had stifled awe—a monster was a monster was a monster. Anyone who would do this to their son was filth. Her lips still burned and were going numb; in fact, the numbness was spreading over her cheeks and down her throat. The tear was some powerful anesthetic. She used every trick she knew to seduce men and lied: “I know you wish to spare your son my anger at what he must do. You think to take my hatred and aim it at yourself so he won’t suffer. But it isn’t necessary.” It was hard to say necessary—too many ess sounds. Her words were slurring. In another moment she would be unable to speak. “I do not hate Miguel. And I will not hate him. I have known pain and I have sinned. I am not afraid to make this sacrifice. He wants to take me.”
The god blinked. Miguel blinked too. So good to know that she could surprise them. Of course, the god might not believe her. It was a bit far-fetched, the whole kill-me-because-I-deserve-it speech. But the idea of having Miguel betray his own morals would appeal to the son-of-a-bitch god. She was nothing to him, just a tool, a means to an end. Miguel’s suffering was what would please him more.
She went on gently and truthfully, forcing these manufactured thoughts out where the god could easily read them: “I sought this out. I came to you for this. For what happens now—and after—I take full responsibility.” That was good. The drug wanted her to be submissive—a victim—but her nature was not inclined to give in completely. The compromise was perfect, passive but not an out-of-control thrashing that would cause him to strike instinctively.
She waited a moment, and then with tremendous effort, she forced her mouth to move, her vocal chords to function a last time.
“Please let Miguel do this on his own. He’ll be fine, and it’s only right that a god’s son have his own sacrifice.” And he might have to learn how to do this if her plan failed, in which case there was no time like the present. The other thing all the legends agreed on was that once a vampire took his first victim, he had to go on taking them to feed the hunger inside.
Ninon looked hard, searching for Miguel until she found him. She wasn’t sorry to be his first, but she did regret that there had to be any first at all, and wanted to make it a positive experience. At least, as positive as it could be. Committing the act that destroyed one’s soul and damned one in God’s eyes could never be an easy thing. Being forced to do so would take away any possible pleasure, and might actually drive him to suicide.
The god in Miguel’s eyes stared at her for a long moment, and then started to laugh. The sound hurt her ears and inside her skull.
Cherie, he is a god that demands human sacrifice, and frankly he doesn’t seem the type to spare anyone for any reason, her voice whispered.
Ninon knew the voice was right. The god was a heartless bastard—and an arrogant one. She counted on that. They would deal with it. If she could live with what happened, Miguel could too. She just needed to get him to cooperate for a few more minutes—just until she could catch the storm—then she would break the god’s power.
“How I would love having you as my own!” the god lied. Miguel’s eyes shone with his unholy amusement. “Still, my son has refused his destiny for so long, it would be amusing to watch him have to make this first kill on his own. Perhaps I should ask his dead mother to come as well. She has been prideful of his resistance to me. I would love to see both of them humbled.”
Yeah, that will be fucking hilarious, making your son into a murderer while his mother’s spirit watches. Ninon thought it, but didn’t say it aloud. Inside, though she tried to stifle it, she thought: You better hope that I die today, Smoking Mirror, because if I live, I’ll come back for you. I don’t know when or how, but I will destroy you. My soul is already in peril. I have nothing to lose.
This is still better than Saint Germain? Or do you have a new greatest enemy? her inner voice asked, forcing her to back away from her rage.
No, Saint Germain still tops the hit parade.
Then focus, the voice chided. Let your anger go before he sees it.
Easier said than done. Her fear was controlled, but a divine madness brought on by rage had seized her, and instead of dividing her thoughts, it focused them like the beam from a laser that was ready to burn down her enemies. Saint Germain first—he was the greatest threat. The god was just a petty monster ruling his little kingdom. And he would probably stay that unless Saint Germain helped him become something larger.
The god didn’t know that she had no intention of being his victim or letting Miguel be either, and it was a pleasure to thwart him. Smoking Mirror was not getting her blood or emotions, not her loyalty and certainly not her free will or soul. Not even her life. Nor would he get Miguel’s, if she could prevent it. Miguel would become a full vampire tonight, but he would not truly kill because his victim would not die.
And then she would change him. Give him the power to make his mind safe from this monster who tormented him.
The god was wavering. Which was more fun, the forcible rape of his son’s mind, or watching Miguel betray everything he held dear by committing murder on his own?
Betrayal won. The god began to back away, his control to ebb. Ninon lay still and thoug
ht that she would place flowers on his grave on the day she used his tainted blood to rid the world of Saint Germain. Because she would kill them both. There was no hesitation now. The stakes had been raised. This allegiance could never be allowed. She would do murder because Saint Germain was planning some great evil for the world, and because Smoking Mirror would help him. She would kill for Miguel because Saint Germain would hunt him as well, and because it was wrong to help him escape one monster for it just to be replaced with another. And mostly she would kill because she was tired of hating and fearing the Dark Man’s son.
Hate and fear. Next to love there were no more intimate emotions, and she was weary of feeling them. Day and night, they haunted her. She would never be able to move on with her life as long as she was so troubled. The time had come to finish old business.
I think he hears you. Ninon’s inner voice was suddenly terrified. He knows what you’re planning!
But the voice had to be wrong, because suddenly the god pulled back. He wasn’t gone, but Miguel again looked out of his own eyes and had control of his body.
“You are either the bravest person I have ever met, or the craziest.” He rested on his forearms above her. His dark hair fell around them like a curtain, giving the illusion of privacy. His face was anguished, filled with hate and shame, but he was trying to hide it and also that there was a monster inside him that wanted to hurt her.
“You too. Frankly, I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive,” she answered. The words were mush. Her entire face was paralyzed. That should have frightened her but it didn’t. It wouldn’t last long. Already her body was throwing off the effects of the drugs. Anger was helping.
“Thank you for the kind thought,” he said. “I appreciate it, even if he doesn’t.”
“Make love to me. Lose yourself in my body. Now,” she slurred. “We’ll fit the blood-letting thing in at the end.” Though it was doubtful he could understand her, she added, “Have faith. All will be well.”
Or perhaps he did comprehend, felt her optimism, and believed, although he had to think the situation hopeless.
His head dropped and he began kissing his way down her body where she could still feel. The drug paralyzed but did not block sensation. Her face and head were almost frozen in place but the rest of her could experience and savor. At the moment, that was an excellent thing. The caress at her navel made every muscle in her abdomen contract. Sensing this, he used his lips mercilessly, trying to lose himself in the act.
She moaned. He could probably do push-ups with that tongue. Under any other circumstances, she’d be ecstatic.
Miguel smiled against her skin.
The god’s listening. Miguel’s probably still in your head and passing your thoughts on to him, the voice warned.
Maybe. But he’s just on the surface. Now hush. I’m busy. She wasn’t thrilled with having an audience—especially one that could intrude at any moment—but if the god thought to add to her discomfort by hanging around, he would be disappointed. She did not have performance anxiety.
“Make love to you? Perhaps I can. I feel…energetic,” Miguel said at last with a slight smile. His voice was heavy, drugged, and his eyes glittered. He was giving himself to the animal, letting it do what he could not. The beast was scary, but it was still partly Miguel. “I have to be careful with my sibilants now or I’ll end up stabbing myself.”
He moved back up her body until he was above her. He lifted his tongue and unfolded the stinger on its end. It was no more than three-quarters of an inch long.
I like it better than teeth, she thought at him, willing him to hear. Then, in amazement: Miguel, are you stoned?
“Oh yeah. I took a bit of datura inoxia—jimsonweed. For some reason, I thought maybe I wouldn’t enjoy this.” He chuckled, and Ninon found herself wanting to laugh with him. It was half hysteria and half relief. It was probably the drug that was keeping the beast in check. “I am having the time of my life—isn’t that weird? This isn’t true love though. I just want you to know.”
I know, she thought. And she did know, and was glad he knew. She didn’t believe in true love. It was an illusion that could lead to broken hearts and, worse, marriage when both parties were taken unaware by the rush of first uncontrolled emotion. Even in this day and age, a woman could find herself imprisoned by a wedding ring before the hormone high wore off, and that little finger band could be harder to break away from than any slave’s shackles. And falling back out of love was messy in court.
“I’m not the marrying kind,” Miguel assured her, reading some of her thoughts but seemingly unaware that he did. The drugs had provided his psyche with a strong cushion, which was all to the good. He didn’t need anything else to disturb him. “I might kill you in a blood frenzy, but I’d never force you into marriage.”
Thanks, she thought. And they were both laughing. His high was giving her some kind of contact buzz. This probably puzzled Smoking Mirror.
“So, what do you like? Push-ups? Sit-ups?”
Sex was something more than isometric exercise, though if done right, it could be an excellent workout. She was fit—more than fit—but it was getting harder to participate because it felt as though gravity had doubled around her, making her limbs heavy. Her lungs also began to labor.
She looked down at her body and saw it as Miguel did; pale except for the gold lace of lightning scars. Her breasts were soft, her belly slightly rounded, everything small, delicate, defenseless. It was great camouflage. Less discerning people mistook delicacy for weakness. Delicacy might bring out Miguel’s protective instincts. It might not. In any event, her body would keep him from focusing on her thoughts and feelings. She really didn’t want him in her head right now. She would open up at the very end, but for now needed to gather herself.
O quam misericors est Deus. Her inner voice was wry, but it spoke true. God was miraculous. Her body was a testimony that miracles existed. It hurt and it was hard to breathe, but she needed to have some faith that all would be well. Surely God would grant her strength in the face of this great evil.
She smiled a little at the thought. Neither Miguel nor his father knew of her delicate-looking body’s relentless urge to heal itself—and thank you, bon Dieu, for that. The god merely thought of her a poker chip that could be used to up the ante in the nasty game he played with his son. And as for Miguel…his motivation was harder to understand. Certainly he wanted her, but this wasn’t about sex. At least, not entirely. He could have fled, avoided this confrontation. Maybe it was guilt and an unwillingness to play the coward’s role, but she thought that he also had to want something else very badly if he were finally giving in to his vampiric nature. In time she would discover what that was.
She ran her hands down his back, feeling a series of scars along his spine, unnoticed until she touched them, calling them to life along with the rest of his erectile tissues. The scars were round, too large for a normal needle. These were not from a medical procedure; they were more like bullet holes.
Or stab wounds. And she suddenly knew who had made them. Did Smoking Mirror like spinal fluid? she wondered, repulsed.
Miguel shuddered under her touch. Like her, his pleasure was proving to be very close to pain.
He reached again for her necklace, but she batted his hand away.
“Leave it,” she said. Only it came out more like “Ee-i.” She tried to think her message at him but feared it was too complex. She had to make him understand that if she were struck by St Elmo’s fire, she needed to direct the current to where it would do the most good.
“This is it then,” Miguel whispered. His hair danced about him, lifted by the rising static. His eyes were wild and beautiful, and her soul yearned for him to be part of her at least for a while.
For a moment, they both held their breath and waited. The instant of anticipation surrounded by fear of the unknown on one side and possible death on the other made the moment of hesitation as sweet as the last breath of air for a man con
demned to walk the plank.
A last look into Miguel’s eyes, and then she gave in to her desire and let it blind her, and through the conduit of the god, Miguel. Rationally, she knew that attraction of the magnitude she felt was a form of slavery, at least temporarily, but he wasn’t seducing her into its bonds this time. She had placed herself here—just as she had said to the god—and she took responsibility. It might be stupid, allowing herself to touch him empathetically, to be intimate with his mind. She was allowing herself to be seduced first by his pain, and then by soft hums of pleasure, which were not deliberately enticing—and this was probably because they were not intentional and therefore pure and beautiful and, most rare of all, honest. She simply craved his touch. And to touch him, his black hair as it lay fanned on his strong shoulders, his powerful scarred back and his long muscled legs and, yes, his delightful male parts that reacted so wonderfully to her touch. But above all, she needed to not be alone. Not right now. And not for always. Her soul was cold with fear at the step she took and needed to be warmed at these passionate fires, however brief they might be.
The sex was rough but she found it sweet, and there was a certain wicked pleasure in giving in to the paralysis of Smoking Mirror’s drug and letting Miguel have his way with her, to pound into her with all his strength and not resist. But then came the part where he had to drink from her. He waited until she was lost in ecstasy, but even so she felt the pain of his spike driven into her flesh, piercing muscle and vein. His saliva burned like acid. Agony was a clear signal to her body to heal, and to her mind to clear. Her brain began pouring out endorphins, helping her manage the pain, perhaps even to enjoy it because it meant that she was close to her goal.
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