Divine Madness (29 page)

Things went as planned. We opened the copper door, took a look at the piles of napping ghouls, and made use of the grenade. It was a first for me, killing the undead so easily, and I have to admit I enjoyed it.

We felt the concussion on the stairs, to which we’d run. It was painful enough on the eardrums that we both gasped. We fetched a can of gasoline and went back down to the basement. I didn’t care for the way the plaster was falling and how the ceiling beams groaned. We opened the copper door, now rather bent, and looked inside. It was full of bodies, but bodies that were still moving.

I’m going to blame our hesitation to enter on architectural instability. We should have gone in to see if we could find Saint Germain, but neither of us could make ourselves wade into the filth of exploded ghouls. Instead we opened a can of gas and tossed it at one of the small fires smoldering on the timbered walls. We waited for the whoosh of ignition and then slammed the door shut again.

The second bang was smaller, or maybe our ears were too damaged to hear.

We staggered out and back up into the church, covered in slime and smudged with smoke, heading for the other gas cans on shaky legs. Probably we could leave the church to burn on its own, but we were taking no chances. There was that lab downstairs and it might be put to use again.

I knelt down, reaching for one of the red cans, when a trio of creatures flew at us out of the dark beams overhead, two of them grey fleshy nightmares that were all teeth and tearing claws, the third something more recognizably human. There was no time for the mind to translate the eyes’ revolted warnings into words of alarm, and no time for me to aim my shotgun before they were on top of us. Fortunately, the lead monster blew past and headed for another danger we hadn’t sensed.

My stomach muscles contracted as I braced myself for a blow. I knew with certain dread that I was being slow—too slow—and I was lucky when the second creature passed me by. Ninon wasn’t as stunned as I. Her body moved seemingly without effort, dropping her flashlight and bringing her gun to bear first on the blond man who had entered the church, and then on the second vampire who deviated from its course and came at her with claws extended. Too close to me to risk the shot, she dropped her rifle and seized its arm. Using the thing’s own momentum, she flung it into the remains of the vestry with skull-crushing force that broke both its withered body and chipped the adobe of the wall. A shower of falling plaster burst like a popping vacuum cleaner bag, but before it settled on the floor Ninon had spun about, picked up her rifle and re-aimed it at the man. Saint Germain.

The third vampire turned from its attack on Saint Germain and reached out for Ninon. As I had promised, I did not hesitate. I grabbed the creature by its bald head, and also using the hurtling body’s own momentum, I let it reach the end of its tether and then efficiently snapped its neck the way you would crack a whip. I swung about in a
small circle and then threw the dead creature into Saint Germain’s path.

My timing could have been better. The final vampire, a mass of hissing fangs and ripping claws, was dropping down on Saint Germain, and the live and dead vampires collided. The sound of crunching bones was loud as the monsters smashed together, but it was soon replaced with an even more disturbing high-pitched hissing as the live vampire did its best to both rid itself of its dead companion and tear off Saint Germain’s head.

Ninon stood with the rifle ready, but she did not shoot. It took a long minute but the vampire succeeded in decapitating its victim. Yet not without cost. Saint Germain managed to punch through its body and rip out its heart. Apparently a stake wasn’t needed to kill a vampire, just the removal of its heart. The pair collapsed seconds later, both falling to the floor, one missing its head, the other the seat of its spirit that Saint Germain clutched in his dead hand.

Ninon and I stood in silence, our attention fixed on Saint Germain’s corpse. Both of us expected it to rise, but it didn’t move.

I eventually became aware that the leprous skin of the second vampire’s face was clinging to my hand, where it had peeled off the creature’s skull like a surgeon’s latex glove. I made a sound of disgust, shaking my fingers to be rid of it.

“Are they vampires?” Ninon asked, glancing nervously at the three bodies and then up at the darkness overhead. Nothing moved, but she wasn’t reassured. She kept the rifle ready.

“Yes.” I already knew what I would find, but I knelt by Saint Germain and turned the final vampire over. It had an abdominal scar right where its appendix used to be. Ninon came over and knelt beside me.

“Is it your mother?” Her voice was a whisper.

“Yes. That’s Mamita.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

And I knew that she was. Mamita had been a vampire, had attached her, but the monster was still my mother, and Ninon—compassionate creature that she is—was sorry for my loss. I think I was too. “She died saving you.”

“Again.”

Yes, she’d died saving me, while her friends had tried to kill Ninon. How was I supposed to feel about that?

“Miguel?” Ninon cleared her throat. She got to her feet, gun again ready. “We might have a problem.”

“You don’t think this one is Saint Germain either?” I asked, coming to my feet as well. My confused feelings would have to wait.

“I can’t be sure but…No. I don’t believe it’s him. He doesn’t feel old enough, evil enough. I think he’s another clone.”

Clones. Great. The evil asshole had a Xerox machine.

“We burn the town anyway,” I guessed.

Ninon nodded. “Oh yes. To the ground.”

Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, then for a few close friends, and then for money.

—
Molière

In the arithmetic of love, one plus one equals everything. Two minus one equals nothing.

—
Ninon de Lenclos

Grammar knows how to control even kings.

—
Molière

Today a new sun rises for me; everything lives, everything is animated, everything seems to speak to me of my passion, everything invites me to cherish it.

—
Ninon de Lenclos

Smoke billowed into the sky in ugly black cyclones, marking the end of Lara Vieja. Ninon turned her back on the smoldering church and smiled at me. Her face was filthy but radiant. Had mere mortals been hanging about they would have fallen to their knees and shielded their eyes. As it was, I hoped the old gods weren’t watching, because from all I’d read they were a jealous lot who didn’t want humans to be too beautiful.

“The ghouls are all gone. We didn’t get Saint Germain but we can leave this place.”

I wanted to share her happiness, to believe her, but hope was a temporarily forgotten emotion.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes. I don’t think even Saint Germain would have more than one ghoul pack. And I’m thinking that he has probably retreated across the border, out of reach of S.M.”

“I hope you’re right. I’m tired of being the public defender against the undead in Mexico.”

Corazon appeared suddenly on the hood of the Jeep, carrying another withered mouse.

“The prodigal returns,” I said. “Did you have a nice lunch, cat, while we were killing monsters?”

The cat tossed his lunch away and licked his lips slowly. A tiny bit of what looked like bone flickered in the sun.

Ninon gasped just a bit ahead of me and had Corazon up in arms before I could say a word. She held him in front of her at face level. The eye contact between them was intense and unblinking.

“His tongue…! S.M. must have gotten to him somehow,” I said. A vampire cat? As ever, just when I thought I’d seen it all, something else came along to demonstrate my ignorance.

“Or one of those vampires.”

“No. Only S.M. can make vampires. It had to be him.”

“
Merde!
So he
was
here.”

“Yes, and content to wait and see if we managed to kill Saint Germain.”

Ninon nodded but was clearly distracted.

“Mon chat,”
Ninon said, shaking the beast gently. “I am not angry that you are a vampire, but we must have some rules,
non?
You cannot go about simply sucking everything. Next we will have an army of undead mice.”

Corazon did his best to look limp and helpless, but it was hard when he clearly thought she was being hysterical. Of course he had rules! What did she think he was—some brainless canine who would forget himself the first time he became excited?

“I don’t think this happened today,” I said slowly. “He’s been sucking rats and mice for a few days now. He’s been careful too.”

I didn’t say this just to reassure Ninon. The cat did seem to have rules, or at least a routine. I had twice seen him with dead rodents. Thinking back, I realized that he had obviously drained their blood and then broken their necks. Even supposing that he was contagious—did his being male make him a carrier even if he were a cat?—his prey would not be resurrecting. A whole spine was
needed to make a new vampire. Even if he somehow figured out how to inject venom into the tiny spines, with a broken neck they would not revive.

Ninon relaxed and pulled the cat close. Corazon closed his eyes and began to purr. He did his best to look cuddly and adorable, no monsters hiding in there. You’d never know that his new favorite hobby was drinking blood and sucking mouse brains.

“I’m sorry,
mon cher
. I should have protected you.”

I didn’t say anything then, but I strongly suspect that Corazon isn’t unhappy with events. He has no moral dilemmas to plague him, and now he’s very, very strong and will live an even longer life.

We burned all of the pueblo. It was probably overkill, but why take any chances? Lara Vieja is really and truly gone. Nothing remains, not even the ghosts.

When we were done with that last bit of arson, we went back to town and collected my money from the bank and its sorrowful manager. The hotel there was tempting, offering food and showers, but I still didn’t like it. So we traveled a few more miles west before renting a room at a cheap motel. We didn’t stay the night, just paused long enough to change and bathe. We drove on to Tijuana. Ninon arranged a new passport for me there. As the joke goes, she has low friends in high places who are happy to do things for money.

We found a quiet place on the outskirts of town to grab a bite to eat where there were only a few tourists and the beer wasn’t too flat. It wasn’t yet cocktail hour and we were able to perch almost alone on the tall swivel chairs that faced a long, fly-spattered mirror that showed us the only entrance into the building. The single sound to mar the quiet conversation was the occasional laughter from a pair of college kids who were high on pot and the exhilaration of being someplace where they felt free to be as naughty as they liked. They reminded me a bit of myself,
all those years ago, and I sent up a small prayer that they have a safe journey home.

We did a little shopping after dinner, splitting up for a half hour or so while we hunted up clothing—neither of us could stand the smell of the rubber decals on the last T-shirts we’d bought. The area didn’t run to department stores and American brands, so that rather left us with local goods. For me that meant mostly linen smocks that had too much embroidery for the tastes of the average American male. They were loud, but I forced myself to buy one anyway.

Ninon brought me another present that night, a guitar. It’s a thing of beauty. The wood gleams like a golden sunrise and it’s inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

“For when you’re ready,” she said.

I held it for a while, admiring the craftsmanship. I don’t know if I’ll ever play it. My hands are healing more every day. I think that eventually I will be physically capable of the motor control needed to play flamenco guitar. It’s my will that’s lacking. I am not sure I have music in me anymore.

“Where would you like to go now that this is all over?” I asked her that night in our room, propped up against the headboard and watching the local news. It wasn’t all over, but we were pretending it was because our souls needed a vacation. That meant crossing the border back into the States and trying to recapture something that looked like a normal life while we decided what to do about Saint Germain.

“First to a waffle house where I can get lingonberry syrup. Then—briefly—to New Orleans. I have a home in the French Quarter and haven’t been back since the hurricane. The caretakers say all is well there, but…”

“New Orleans? Is that wise? I mean, haven’t you had enough of haunted places? Turning out haunts is practically a cottage industry there.” There was also the matter of Saint Germain’s spies.

“Yes, I know. But I am more than half-ghost myself anymore. Anyway, we won’t stay long. I just want to see it again. It is more my spiritual home these days than Paris and I miss it. I’d like to show the city to you someday, when the rebuilding is done.” She looked at me and I felt relief. I hadn’t really thought that she would want to split up once we were in the States, but she hadn’t said anything one way or the other. “Do you want to go to California?” she asked.

I did, but I shook my head. It was too soon to risk it. Miguel Stuart needed a while to drop off the government’s radar.

“Later. Maybe. Have you ever seen the wine country? There’s nothing like it in the fall. It’s the only time of year when death is beautiful. I went to a grape-stomp there three years ago. It was wonderful. Messy but lots of fun.”

It was her turn to shake her head. “I would love that. I haven’t seen a grape harvest since I left France.”

“We’ll do it then. Maybe next year.”

She shifted over and leaned back into my arms. It had been only a few days between us, but already she seemed to belong there.

Ninon turned her face up and our eyes met. I wondered what she saw there. I wasn’t entirely sure of what was there for her to see.

She touched my cheek.

Do I love you?
her eyes asked, more of herself than of me.

Couldn’t you love me as a possibility? As a hope for the future?
my eyes asked back.

I…I don’t know. You? Can you love?

I don’t know either. Sometime I think that neither of us would recognize love if it walked up and kissed us on the lips.

“Perhaps. If I loved you…” She stopped.

“If.” I waited. My heart made its presence known with a small thud that knocked against my breastbone.

“If I loved you, I would say stay with you…If you loved me too,” she added.

I smiled a little and my heart settled. “If I loved you, I would go…If you didn’t love me too.”

“If.”

I nodded. “If.”

“I am not good at relationships. At least, not ones with lovers. And I have always been opposed to marriage. You know that.”

“I do. And I have always left a Do Not Resuscitate order on my relationships too,” I said. “When they were over, they were over. But this could never be anything so simple.”

“
Oui.
I think we’re both past that now. We are, after all, resuscitated for good and all.” She looked away, her tone becoming brisk when she spoke of our plans. The conversation about emotions was over, but I still felt happy with the start. “You know what we must do now? We need to find Byron—Lord Byron, the poet—and warn him about Saint Germain. He is the one who killed Dippel, and he and his wife are probably in as much danger as we are.”

“How do we find Lord Byron?” I asked, only mildly surprised by her announcement that the famous man still lived. Perhaps she had mentioned it before, somewhere in my dreams. Every day we did more and more talking with our minds.

She smiled at me, knowing that the idea that we were not alone, that there were others like us was very reassuring.

“We’ll take out ads in all the major U.S. newspapers, especially
The Times Picayune,
since he will be searching for us there.”

“Why?”

“Because he knows I lived there once. He has also lived there before.”

“Okay. What exactly would this ad say?”

“Oh, perhaps something like
Lord Byron, phone home.
Except, we will use an e-mail address. That will be harder to trace.” She smiled a little, that small Mona Lisa smile that said she knew something that I didn’t. “And we will use his most recent name, Damien Ruthven, of course.”

“Damian Ruthven—the book critic?” I recalled when he had disappeared. It had caused quite a stir until Hurricane Katrina came along and distracted everyone from the mystery. “Well, well. Then there’s something else we can do to get his attention. I just need a little time for cleanup first.” I pointed at my portable computer. I’d been lucky that it was spared when the SUV was wrecked.

“Your story?” she asked. “
Bon!
That is a brilliant idea.”

“I rather think so. He’d be sure to pick up any book about Ninon de Lenclos and Saint Germain.”

“
Oui.
And read it cover to cover.”

“I’ll start work as soon as we’re back in the States. It won’t take long. It’s all there and just needs some polishing.”

“Bon.”
She reached for the phone. “I think I would like some champagne.”

And so this part of our story closes. I’ll send this manuscript off to my editor when we settle in…well, someplace. It’s the final book in my contract. There probably won’t be another for a while. I can’t risk contact with anyone from my old life. Chris will probably manhandle the book quite a bit—he may even edit me out of it in an effort to protect my pen name—but enough of it will remain to get our story into the hands of anyone who knows what’s going on with Dippel’s dark children, and that’s all that matters.

Yes, much has happened and much is still happening. We haven’t heard from S.M. again, which was truly worrisome. However, Ninon
and I have begun to accept what feelings we have for each other—and what else can you ask for in a romance? I warned you in the middle. I can think no more perfect ending for this book than Ninon and I to walk off into a spectacular sunrise and whatever will be the rest of our—we hope—long lives. But this isn’t an ending. Far from it.

Still, every sunrise is spectacular now, and east seems as good a direction to travel as any.