Divine Madness (11 page)

The electric, skimming touch was a strange pleasure, one that crossed the fuzzy border of pain and made her breathe hard and fast. Was this introduction of pain deliberate on Miguel’s part? Did he know what he was doing to her? Or was it just the gathering thunderstorm? The air was highly charged—dangerously so. Soon sheet lightning would appear. Then the much needed St. Elmo’s fire.

Did the god plan to kill his son, too? She suddenly wondered. Everything she had read about this species of vampire said that they were terribly strong but not immortal. Only Smoking Mirror had that gift. Lightning could kill Miguel. Or it might simply force him to bloodlust and madness, so that he killed her before the blood exchange was completed. Ninon looked into his eyes and saw a predator hiding there. It would not take much to push him over the edge.

Careful.

Oui.
The plan was to be made only a little dead, not completely so. She forced herself to retreat a little and to think. She had learned long ago at the hands of Cardinal Richelieu that there was an art to feigning surrender during sex with a dangerous partner, a way to avoid courting extreme risk by directly challenging the predator within by acting as prey. Of course there were always dangers both emotional and physical in making love; in spite of his civilized facade, Man was a killer, a marauder at heart, and sex was very often a substitute for pillage and plunder. After the first time when she had so foolishly given up her deepest feelings to a lover—love certainly, but also pride—Ninon had never again completely surrendered. But this time she would have to let go. Miguel would know if she did not. She had to accept and ride whatever pain—emotional or physical—the animal Miguel inflicted when he changed her. He would probably need access to her soul as well. Everything she had read about the vampiric transformation said that it was the vampire who held his lover’s identity and soul while she crossed over into death and then was born again. Assuming Ninon still had a soul for him to hold.

And it would be far better for Miguel that she enjoy the experience if that were possible. Their minds would bond at the moment of transformation. If she suffered too much he would be tortured as well, and she did not want to make his first time a nightmare. It was the bloody god who demanded this sacrifice and who would revel in it, not Miguel. Before satisfaction, before reward, there had to be pain—some inflicted, some received. That was the minimum price demanded. And Ninon doubted it would be as simple as feeling desperate longing or having physical pleasure denied. The god would likely demand much more from both of them because old gods rarely learned new tricks, and this one was a monster who enjoyed bloodshed.

Yes, she would give him what he wanted—a pound of flesh even—if he gave fair trade. Thanks to the Dark Man’s legacy, she could withstand practically any physical damage short of having her heart ripped from her chest or being decapitated. She would not offer love or worship though—nothing beyond basic human caring for the god’s so-called son, the man made a vampire in what had amounted to rape. This resolution was not made solely in anger at the god, but also for Miguel’s well-being. This would be a life-altering event, but it had nothing to do with love and it would be wrong for either of them to fool themselves. Miguel was vulnerable—she felt it—and he hadn’t her experience in these matters. Romantic delusion most often happened when one person was certain that the lack of something inside could only be filled by someone else. Out of desperation, people went out and sought mates, usually some equally damaged person whose psyche’s ruins matched up nicely with their own. But this was wrong—so wrong! And though she was lonely now and desperately in need of help, Ninon knew it was unwise to mistake this unholy attraction for anything more than what it was. She and Miguel were helping each other out of a tight spot. She knew this and he needed to understand it too.

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 thought 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.”