Divine Madness

by Melanie Jackson

  “Maybe, but your magician may figure out who I am and that we are together. He might try tracing you through me. Do you know a stretch of border where there aren’t a lot of guards? In spite of what you’ve said about our bodies’ ability to heal, I’d rather not be shot.”

  “Yes, I hear you. But even if we’re caught, they’ll let us go.”

  “They will? Why? Big bribes?”

  “Not exactly.” Ninon suddenly peeped at him through her eyelashes and gave him the dazzling I-think-you’rebrilliant-and-I-want-to-give-you-a-handjob smile that worked on all heterosexual males age thirteen and up. St. Evremond had watched her use this on some of her enemies in the clergy and told her that he feared for the state of her soul.

  Miguel whistled in admiration, though not in lust.

  “You’re good,” he admitted.

  Ninon laughed, tucking the seductress away.

  “Practice, and you get better,” she said. Then, with a frown: “Really, we need to get going.”

  “I know.” Miguel reached for his belt and threaded it through his jeans. His movements were quick and sure. Usually there were hours of partial paralysis and uncoordinated movement after electrocution. This had to be the vampirism helping him recover. She also felt strong enough to bench-press a car. Two diseases taken together made quite a cocktail.

  “Smoking Mirror has done one good thing,” Miguel said. “There are no drug dealers round here, though they have tried to establish themselves more than once. Look around at a lot of these towns down here and you can see narco-dollars at work, buying guns and destroying lives with addiction. But not here. We won’t have to keep watch for drug runners.”

  “I am the Lord thy dark god and thou shalt have no other god before me,” she murmured. “Some people just don’t like competition.”

  “And this town ain’t big enough for two mass murderers,” Miguel agreed. “And speaking of that…have you thought of a way to kill Smoking Mirror yet? He’s going to be very unhappy about this turn of events.”

  “Not yet. I need to do some reading. I’ve killed zombies and ghouls, fought a demon…Actually, I mostly ran away from the demon, though I have learned how to banish them. But killing an Aztec god is a new one for me.”

  Miguel pulled open the small trapdoor in the roof. Rainwater edged over the lip and pattered on the dark floor below.

  “Well, suffice it unto the day the trouble therein. We’ll take care of this Saint Germain first.” He turned and pulled her closer. His body was hot, pouring off warmth into the cool air. Steam coiled around them.

  Knowing that Miguel was also wondering if Smoking Mirror would send his minions after them, She asked, “How many vampires are here?”

  “I’m not sure. Not many. S.M. keeps the population down. People would probably notice if they were invaded by masses of vampires, and feel moved to do something.”

  “They may know about them anyway. Have you noticed that many of the houses have their window sills and doors painted a peculiar shade of blue? Back in New Orleans, that was called haint blue. It’s used to keep out wandering spirits. Maybe it works on vampires too.”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath. Most of the vamps down here are made near bodies of water. That’s what seems to hold them, a tie to water. They feed on passersby careless enough to be hiking after dark. The only way most would get into town was if there were a flash flood.”

  “That’s good—the water part. It should keep them from coming after us.” Miguel hesitated a moment and she asked: “What?”

  “The one exception seems to be my mother. She’s been able to break free and travel to where I am, as long as it’s over land. She’s never crossed the ocean.”

  “Your mother?” Ninon shook her head. “You still…you still see her? Well, of course you do. Everyone has a mother, even vampires, and you would want to visit.” She added to herself: “Vamps live long lives, too, so she won’t be headed off to the old bloodsuckers home anytime soon. Damn. I think I’ll have to wait to hear this story though. We need to get going. I’m packed, just need to fetch the cat. Where are you staying?”

  “In my Aunt Elena’s old house. It isn’t far from here. I’d like to see her before I go—make sure Smoking Mirror hasn’t hurt her.”

  “Let’s split up then and meet outside the hotel. We should take both vehicles with us when we go.”

  “Okay.”

  Ninon reluctantly forced herself to the trapdoor and stared down at the ladder. It wasn’t that she felt weak—not at all—but she was filled with a sort of strange, almost sexual lethargy that urged her to linger in this place. It wouldn’t take much to convince her to drag Miguel back down to the floor and have sex with him again. Sighing, she knelt down and grabbed the ladder.

  Miguel followed her down as slowly. His scars had mostly faded. The only thing that gave away his change was the blackness of his eyes—dark before, but now looking completely inhuman. They would have to get contacts for him right away. Until then, he would have to wear sunglasses.

  The world had gone to war. Again. As much as Ninon hated the idea of facing battlefield bloodshed, she knew that she had to, or her conscience would never let her sleep again. The thought of almost-eternal life with no sleep was nothing to be scoffed at.

  And this was different while still the same. Some wars were understandable. They were about food or land taken from those who had by those who did not. Others were fought for intangibles—religion or political ideology, some old and some new. It was a shame that real people got caught in real crossfires as these ambitious generals’ theories were tested at the point of a gun. Montaigne had said that it was putting a high value upon one’s opinion to burn men alive on account of them, but the world had never had a shortage of opinionated men.

  However, Ninon had never intended, in answering the call to aid, that she would end up playing mother to a group of orphans with whom she shared no language. Childhood—hers or anyone else’s—wasn’t a place she ever wanted to revisit. But here they were—the tangible victims of someone’s intangible ideology—looking at her with frightened, exhausted eyes. It has been almost three hundred years since she had helped an infant or cuddled a child, hungry, sick, and scared. And there were some things a woman never forgot, as much as she might try to, and being a mother was among them.

  Ninon dropped to her knees and reached for the children.

  Beauty without grace is a hook without bait.

  —Ninon de Lenclos

  After God made man he repented him. I feel this way about Redmond.

  —Ninon de Lenclos

  “The Queen’s fate approaches,” said St. Germain coldly.

  “Shall we see you again?” asked Countess d’Adhemar.

  “Five times more shall you see me. Do not wish for a sixth.”

  —From the Diaries of the Countess d’Adhemar, Souvenirs de Marie Antoinette

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ninon caught the barest glimpse of a hideous face hovering in the air above her and then something long and white struck at her head, knocking her flat in the hall outside her room. She felt a large mass falling towards her and lashed out with her foot, connecting with some thing that felt like a leather sack filled with rods of steel. She kicked again with her other foot, putting all her newfound strength behind the blow. The creature shrieked and backed away. She thought she heard it hiss: Stay away from my son!

  When her vision cleared to the point that she was only seeing two of everything, she looked around and was delighted to find that she was alone except for the two Corazons who were growling in the depths of their twin cat carriers.

  Ninon rested a moment longer and then tried to stand. And then tried again.

  Because practice makes perfect. And if at first you don’t succeed…

  Six times proved to be the charm. She was up. Not jogging, but able to move if she hugged the wall of the passageway. She picked up the cat carrier, now only one in number but still a bit blurry, and tucked it und
er her left arm. The right she kept free so she could use her pistol. She wasn’t anxious to start her career as monster-assassin of Mexico, but on the other hand, she’d suffered enough assaults for one day.

  Eventually she staggered out onto the street. She had a hand at her temple where a goose egg was forming. No more being nice. The next thing that got in her way was getting shot.

  “So, you’ve met Mamita. I thought I saw her fly by.” Miguel handed over a flask and sunglasses. His expression was sympathetic. “It’s scotch. Drink up. You’ve had a shock. Another shock.”

  “Did you say ‘Mamita’?” Ninon took the flask even though you weren’t supposed to drink with a concussion. If what Miguel had said was true, the alcohol would have almost no effect on her now.

  “Old, ugly, bad breath, violent, levitates?” he paused then and reached for her face. His expression sobered. “Are you hurt?”

  “Not really. I don’t think we’re going to get on, though. She said to stay away from her son.” She took a small step away from Miguel and sipped cautiously. “Was it real? It looked real.”

  “The levitation? Yes and no. I think a lot of it is about the power of the mind. She believes that she levitates and her belief is so strong that she affects the minds of those around her.” He paused. “Or maybe she levitates. I don’t know. I can’t do it.”

  Ninon drank again. Corazon growled some more.

  “Your mother…It isn’t fair,” she complained. “My parents are dead. I have nothing to inflict on you.”

  “Just your cat.” Miguel peered into the carrier. “He looks angry.”

  “He doesn’t like Mamita either.”

  “Then it’s unanimous. Should we write bylaws and form a club?”

  “Have you thought about killing her?” Ninon asked before thinking. “Merde! Sorry, Miguel—chock it up to blood loss. What a thing to say to you.”

  Miguel studied her for a moment and then reached for Corazon’s carrier. “As a matter of fact,” he answered, “I have.”

  Ninon looked at his back as he walked toward the Jeep. Miguel continued to surprise her.

  She decided that maybe they should try the last few moments over again and said so.

  “Okay. As long as you pretend my mother didn’t attack you. I’m afraid that makes me angry.”

  “Done. I mean, there but for the grace of God…It could still be us one day.”

  “You’re kind.”

  “Not really. I had a mother too. She was just more of an emotional vampire.” Miguel turned around and she smiled at him. Unable to help himself, he smiled back.

  “Hello, beautiful,” she said.

  Louis de Mornay looked up at her and then back down at the locket in his veined hands. The sun glinted in his thinning silvered hair. He had forgotten to put on a wig.

  “You haven’t changed at all,” he whispered, his voice a mix of awe and fear. “You haven’t aged a day.”

  “If you could see my heart you would know otherwise,” she answered, understanding now that it had been a mistake to seek him out. Her presence would not comfort him for the loss of their son. She added aloud, “I’m just a dream, Louis. Only a dream. And I’ll leave now that I’ve said my good-byes.”

  “Ninon!” he cried, but didn’t reach for her, didn’t look up from his locket. She saw each tear as it fell from his eyes and landed on the cold marble of their son’s grave.

  Men enjoy a thousand privileges that women do not enjoy. Therefore I shall make myself into a man.

  —Ninon de Lenclos

  More genius is needed to make love than to command armies.

  —From a letter by Ninon de Lenclos

  “N’avez pas peur, je m’en charge.”

  Have no fear, I am in charge.

  —Ninon de Lenclos

  Life is too short, according to my ideas, to read all kinds of books and to load our memories with an endless number of things at the cost of our judgment. I do not attach myself to the observations of scientific men to acquire science; but to the most rational, that I may strengthen my reason. Sometimes, I seek for more delicate minds, that my taste may imbibe their delicacy; sometimes, for the gayer, that I may enrich my genius with their gaiety; and, although I constantly read, I make it less my occupation than my pleasure.

  —Self-portrait by philosopher, Saint Evremond, lifelong friend of Ninon de Lenclos

  Miguel: MY STORY

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Let’s abandon all pretense, shall we? My real name is Miguel Stuart, though that isn’t the name you know me by. I’ve been writing Ninon’s story because she won’t do it. She maintains that I’m the novelist, and since everyone is going to think this is complete fiction anyway, the telling of the story is my project. Fair enough, but I’m going to do it my way from here on in, because I don’t really know what Ninon has been thinking since our mental connection was broken, and I have a feeling that any thoughts I attribute to her will be pale shadows of what is really on her mind. My own feelings I understand—at least in part—so I’ll work with them.

  You bought this thinking it was a romance, and it is. In a good story, especially a romance, you begin with a secret or mystery or an exciting revelation about the hero or heroine that will cause conflict and drive their actions for the remainder of the story. You’ve got one revelation now—this isn’t a work of fiction at all. And the hero is actually a thwarted monster, and the heroine believes she’s damned. Naturally they’ll have issues. I can also promise that the hero and heroine will have some great adventures, brushes with the bad guy, mind-blowing sex, and then a thrilling final conflict. At some point, the villain, often like Scrooge, should have a change of heart and repent his evil ways and from there you move on to an exciting and morally improving finish where the boy gets the girl and they live happily ever after.

  Sadly, I don’t think you’re getting all that in this tale—not if I tell the truth. Call me pessimistic, but I’m betting our villain just won’t repent. We’re going to have to kill the son-of-a-bitch. And I don’t really know if happily-ever-after is an option for people with our kinds of problems. But I am getting ahead of myself.

  So, where to begin this autobiography? Perhaps with the moment Ninon entered my life? Or should I begin at the beginning of my life, even if I don’t know all the details from those long-ago days? Yes, maybe it’s best to follow tradition and start here if I can sort it out in my own head. I mean, what am I?

  What I know for sure is that I was born for the third time in the summer of 2006. Each time I’ve been born and died it’s been in Mexico. (Which, since it is always painful, is a good argument for never going there again.)

  Birth is always excruciating, and so is the life that follows—at least some of the time. I’m the only person I know who has two quasi-mothers and two fathers. Do I have to tell you that holidays are impossible? Filling out the family tree in the front of the Bible is out of the question, and my DNA would baffle the world’s best genealogists. Not that I bother with these things, but sometimes it bugs me that I was stripped of options for a normal life before I was old enough to understand what I was losing.

  Other things you should know but may not have gathered from the start of this story—women adore me but I don’t have a girlfriend or even someone I see regularly. There’s just too much guilt when affairs go wrong. Many people have relationships that end badly, but mine have the potential to be catastrophic. That’s the trouble with having a mother who’s a vampire with poor impulse control and a genetic stepfather—grandfather (I’ll explain)—who’s an Aztec death god. His name is Smoking Mirror but I call him S.M.—which is short for sadistic murderer, though he doesn’t know that. Anyhow, with these unwanted connections, it isn’t healthy for people to hang around me. One close call with a female grad student was enough to drive this lesson home. No male-pattern dimness here. She lived to see the dawn after our third date, but still has nightmares about the experience. Her therapy would advance, I’m sure, if I co
uld tell her that she didn’t really hallucinate the experience, but of course that isn’t an option.

  I used to only have one father: Cormac Stuart. He was a geologist. Back in those prenatal days I only had one mother too. Cormac met her in Mexico. It must have been nice—Mom, Dad, and soon-to-be baby makes three…Too bad I can’t remember it. It would have been nice to know my mother before she became a brain-sucking fiend. Fate—that bloody bitch—had other plans.

  Mamita went into premature labor while on a hike to see her excited husband’s discovery, an igneous intrusion near Cuatro Cienegas. At the first gush of blood, Mamita lay down by the side of small poza and waited while Dad—Cormac—ran to get the Jeep. He was fast but Mamita hemorrhaged massively and miscarried before he got back. The smell of blood in the water attracted the local death god, who specializes in women dying in childbirth, and while she was bleeding her life away, he dragged her into the water, gave her a vampire spinal tap and a lobotomy. Lucky thing for me, he didn’t notice that I was still—barely—alive, or it would have been the end of yours truly. As it was, I was left on the bank for whatever predator would find me.

  Poor Cormac came back with the Jeep and…well, I’m just imagining this part. He would never talk about it. He loaded up an unconscious and maybe drowned Mamita and his silent son—he did notice I was still breathing—and rushed us to the local doctor.

  Cormac’s grasp of Spanish was poor and his travel dictionary didn’t cover the kind of phrases the panicked medico was laying on him. Look it up. You won’t find “curse of the Aztec death god” in any conversational Spanish book. Still, Dad must have known the doc had something bad on his mind what with all the crucifixes being waved around and the doctor’s refusal to do anything for his wife who wasn’t dying in spite of massive blood loss and sucking water into her lungs. Dad decided to leave me with the doctor—I was having trouble breathing—while he took a dazed Mamita to her sister’s home and tried to nurse her back to health and coherence.