First kill? First victim? First meal?
Ninon didn’t ask.
“My initiation,” he explained softly, guessing her thoughts. “But here’s the punch line. If you’re thinking of some movie vampire’s smooth seduction, forget it. We don’t have nifty little teeth for biting necks. That’s not how we…drink. You’re a smart woman, and I know you have to be in dire trouble to come here, but trust me—you don’t want to be one of Smoking Mirror’s priestess sacrifices. Mine, either.”
She stared at the twin cuts that had reappeared on his face, and guessed how he had received them. It was all she could do not to shudder at the thought of the god’s tongue piercing his flesh, cutting it open. Miguel was right. She didn’t want to be Smoking Mirror’s sacrifice. However, she was out of options. Every other lead had gone cold. There was no one else.
“Not his, but I want to be
yours
,” she said.
As long as you don’t suck out my brains
, she added to herself.
Do you have that much control?
His eyes widened and he licked his lips. His expression was part fear and part desire. He might resist the monster growing within, but it was there, alive, and it hungered.
“I
am
good, but the sex won’t be worth the cost,” he managed to say.
“I’m sure it would be,” she argued. “But I do want to avoid the dying horribly part. Look, you can’t have a…a stinger like your father, and I think that gives me better odds, don’t you?” There was nowhere to hide a stinger, except maybe in his pants.
“Yes. His is impressive, being right there on the tip of his tongue. Mine is to scale. It cuts, though, deep enough to reach arterial blood. And other things. Not that you have to worry,” he assured her. “I would never do that to you.”
But she did worry. “Other things” meant brains. His faith in his restraint was touching, but he had never been tested.
“Does it hurt?” she asked with a show of reluctance, in
case the god was listening. It would be natural for her to be nervous.
“I imagine so. His hurt me,” Miguel said. “But I think my initiation was meant to be painful. It was revenge. He thought I was dead when he called my mother over to the dark. He wanted no male children from his women because there’s some legend that basically says there will be some father-son rivalry that can’t be worked out peacefully. One of us has to die. I haven’t figured it all out from the stone tablets I’ve salvaged, but it boils down to this: Conflicting amino acids on our genome preclude a quiet ending.”
“But you’re still alive. There must be a reason he hasn’t killed you.” That also suggested Miguel was strong—which was good. He would need to be very strong.
“Alive? Sort of,” he agreed. “I’ve never known why he let me live. Maybe he thought I would suffer more, having my humanity drained gradually. He’s into suffering—as long as it isn’t his own, of course.”
“Of course. Perversity. It’s a god’s privilege.” She forced herself to breathe slowly. Panting only made her chest pain worse. Damn. She hoped the god was sincere at least about bringing a storm. She had to renew herself. The weakness and pain grew stronger with every passing hour. And her self-control diminished accordingly. Now when she coughed, evil red flowers bloomed on her handkerchief.
Miguel glanced at her, perhaps wondering why she was being flip. She laid a finger to her lips, cupped her ear, and then shook her head. She mouthed
“Later.”
“You’re very calm,” Miguel said, giving a small nod of acknowledgment that he understood her warning that they would be overheard.
“If I thought hysterics would help, I’d have them,” she assured him.
“I’m still considering them. I really wish we’d had a chance to talk before now. Maybe we could have avoided Smoking Mirror.”
Could
this have been avoided? she wondered. Maybe, though she doubted that anyone except Smoking Mirror could have forced Miguel’s cooperation, given his obvious resistance to giving in to his vampire side. So in the end she would have still needed to confront the god.
Poor Miguel. There was so much she needed to tell him. And she was certain that there was a lot that he could tell her about his power that would help her fight Saint Germain.
“We need to plan,” she said finally. “We’ll keep our options open from here on. Remember, the nice part is that it’s never too late to panic.”
Miguel shook his head at her at what he thought was her levity.
“You just don’t understand,” he said.
But Ninon looked into his fevered eyes and was sure she did. Her heart ached for him.
“Look,” he said. “You have to know that I…I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone. But I don’t know if I can do this to you.” She just stared at him, and eventually he went on, saying what she knew he must. “Of course, if I don’t, S.M. will…”
She nodded, connecting with the hunger lurking in his eyes, in his heart. He couldn’t hold out much longer. Poor, innocent Miguel. It might cost him his soul, but he could do this. He
wanted
to do it.
“Neither of us has much choice, Miguel,” she said.
He looked away, part in shame and part in excitement. Her words, though kind, clearly didn’t console him. Why should they? A part of him had to know that sating lust—even this one—would never compensate for one’s fall from grace.
“Better you than the alternative,
non?
” She turned away, not wanting him to see the sudden sheen of tears in her eyes.
Please,
bon Dieu,
this is not his sin. It’s mine. Do not punish Miguel for this.
Upon entering the tiny village of Gentilly we inquired after the dwelling of the celebrated necromancer known to us in Paris as Perditor. A guide soon presented himself and conducted us thither under a watchful eye. Presently we arrived in front of a yawning cavern surrounded by deep ditches. Our guide made a signal and immediately a man dressed all in red livery appeared on the opposite side of the ditches and asked us what we wanted.
“I wish for the philter,” I replied, “which will make my beauty last the full length of my life.” I did not wish to admit in front of the count that I felt unwell and needed a cure for my lungs which grew heavier every month.
“And I,” said the count, “wish to see the Devil.”
“You shall both be satisfied,” the man said calmly, as if we had asked for the most natural things. Then he lowered a sort of drawbridge over the ditch, and once he had crossed, he admitted us to the cavern, where we found ourselves in almost complete darkness. In spite of this, I felt not a bit nervous. We had yet to come into the presence of evil.
“Do not be afraid,” the count said to me, “I have my sword with me, a dagger, and two pistols. With them I can defy all the sorcerers in the world.”
I nodded, but wondered if a sword and pistols would scare the Devil should he actually appear.
After proceeding for several minutes along underground galleries and passages we found ourselves in a sort of circular chamber hewn from solid rock. Some resin torches cast a gloomy glare up at the vaulted roof. At one end of this hall, upon a platform draped in black, was seated a personage in the garb of a magician who appeared to be waiting for us.
“That is the Master!” said solemnly the man in red. And he left us alone in the other’s presence.
“Approach!” cried Perditor, addressing us in a terrible voice that made the hall vibrate. “What do you wish?”
“I wish,” murmured I, in a trembling voice that was quite unlike my own, “a philter to preserve to me my youth and beauty all of my life.”
“Forty crowns—pay me first.”
Taking out my purse, I laid down five louis, appalled at his tone and also reconsidering the wisdom of this act. No normal man of business would be so bold.
The count did not wait for man’s question.
“For my part, Sir Necromancer,” he said, “I am only interested in seeing the Devil. How much do you want to show him to me?”
“One hundred livres.”
The count was sly. “At that price, what gifts you must be able to bestow.”
But the lord of the cavern made no reply. He took the money from the count with a large and dirty hand, and he put it in a big purse hanging at his side, along with my louis. Then he laid his fingers upon a bell, which sounded as loud as the strokes of the Notre Dame tower. At this signal, which nearly deafened us, two nymphlike young women, fairly pretty though not too thin, dressed in white and crowned with flowers, rose from the ground nearby. Perditor pointed me out to them with a dirty finger, then handed them an empty crystal phial. Again he struck the fearful bell that vibrated in my skull. I gathered that they had gone to mix my potion.
“And now,” continued the necromancer, turning. “You are both decided that you will see the Devil?”
“Very decided,” said the count.
I did not answer, for I was not certain that I wanted to witness Satan firsthand.
“Your name?”
“Is it necessary to give it to you, sir?” I stammered.
“It is indispensable.”
“It is Anne de Lenclos—called Ninon,” I admitted reluctantly.
“And,” added my companion, “I am called Georges de Sandrelles, Comte de Lude.”
“You swear never to reveal that which is about to take place before your eyes?”
“We swear it.” The count answered for us. Again, I did not speak.
“You promise not to be afraid, and not to invoke Heaven or the saints?”
“We promise.” Georges smiled insolently. The notion that he would be frightened of anything amused him.
The magician rose. He took a long wand of ebony, approached us, and traced a large circle in the dust, inscribing it with a number of cabalistic figures. Then he said to us—
“You can still go away—are you not at all afraid?”
I wanted to answer in the affirmative, but the count mocked. “Afraid of the Devil? For shame! What do you take us for? Get on with it.”
And at that same instant we heard a thunderous peal—the voice of the magician barely heard above the uproar. He gesticulated, shouted, and spoke in some unknown tongue in a violent flow of diabolic invocations as he raised his arms toward the heavens. It made my hair stand up all over my body and revulsion seized me. I clung to the count’s arm, and implored him to leave that fearsome place.
“The time is past for it!” cried the sorcerer. “Do not cross the circle of protection or you are dead.”
Suddenly, to the noise of thunder, there was added a sound like the rattling of chains being dragged along the depths of the cavern. Then we heard a miserable howling. The necromancer’s contortions continued, and his cries redoubled. He uttered barbaric words and appeared to enter into a frenzy. In the blink of an eye, we were enveloped in a circle of flames.
“Look!” cried Perditor.
A cry of terror broke from me as I saw in the midst of the wild tempest of fire a black goat, bound with glowing red chain. The howling grew more fearful, the flames burning with appalling intensity, and a troop of repulsive imps began to dance around the animal, waving torches and making angry noises in a tongue I did not know. The goat reared on its hind legs.
“Ah, for God’s sake!” cried de Lude, “The comedy is well-played, I own; but I am curious to see the stage and to examine the costumes of the actors closer. Come with me, Anne!”
He grasped his pistols and made as if he were going to step over the circle, but at a shout from the magician, the blaze was extinguished, and the chained goat and demons disappeared. We were plunged once more into deep gloom. Before my eyes could comprehend the change, strong arms seized us, and we were dragged hurriedly along the passages and flung outside the caverns.
I was only too glad for the end to our adventure, and did not ask to go back for my philter, willing to leave the magician my five louis.
The count was not at all happy. He insisted on piercing to the enigma and unmasking the pretend Devil. We had been the victims of a hateful charlatan, he insisted. But I did not feel as convinced of this as he, and the grotesque display we had witnessed would not leave my imagination. For the rest of that day and the following night, I saw nothing but imps dancing among flames and howling at thunder.
—
An account of seeing the Devil the day before her eighteenth birthday, from the diary of Ninon de Lenclos
It is not the essence of things that causes indecency. It is not the words, or even the ideas; it is the intent of him who utters them, and the depravity of him who listens.
—
Letter from Ninon de Lenclos
Our worst fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light and not our darkness that frightens us.
—
Nelson Mandela’s inauguration speech
Many women prepared for a date with a hot guy by putting condoms in their purse. Ninon was practical and carried epinephrine. Just in case she saw more than metaphorical fireworks and her heart actually stopped during the proceedings. She also dressed for the shotgun wedding, or perhaps funeral, like it was a real ceremony—which it would be. Though she was the only one who knew there would probably be a second part to this wedding where the bride liberated her bridegroom. Corazon growled.
“I know,” Ninon replied. “I feel stupid primping.”
On the one hand, what was happening was impossible—at least it would appear so to anyone whose definition of reality was handed down to them by twenty-first century science-trained westerners stuck in a very limited definition of reality. But she had already seen and participated in the impossible, and didn’t doubt the situation was real and dangerous. It wasn’t a hallucination, a bad dream, or a drug trip, and she could die tonight. She could also end up killing Miguel, either in self defense if he attacked her,
or possibly if she talked him into her newly formed and dangerous plan.
At least the god had kept his word. There would be a lightning storm to backdrop their ceremony. It had come on like a psycho’s rage, which wasn’t surprising given who was causing it. The sudden heat and humidity lay on her skin as mercilessly as a hair shirt, but she didn’t mind as long as the static kept Saint Germain from reading her mind. Wiser men than she had advised against trying to fight a war on more than one front. Smoking Mirror was challenge enough for one day.
She took a last look at the gathering clouds and then closed her shutter. The wind driving the storm was warm and fetid like a coyote’s breath, and it loped steadily in her direction. Ninon was willing to bet that if they changed locations, the storm would too. Miguel was presently the focus of his mad father’s tempest. That would change.
She also suspected that, in spite of the local gale providing white noise, Saint Germain’s antennae would twitch at the moment she gave herself over to Miguel. Certainly he would know if she were struck by lightning and resurrected. And that was fine as long as he didn’t know her exact location. She wanted him to come to her in a rush, unorganized and maybe blinded with anger. Her best chance of catching him out would be if he made a mistake.
A short while later, Ninon stepped into the clearing where she and Miguel had agreed to meet. It was a safe distance from the town and also any body of water that might harbor Smoking Mirror or any of his priestesses. Supposedly the female vampires and their god needed water to travel, but Ninon kept a wary eye out just the same. Smoking Mirror had already surprised her more than once that day.
“Hello,” she said softly when Miguel appeared. He looked wonderful, with wind whipping around him, making his hair fly. Ninon realized she was relearning the lost
art of the genuine smile. She smelled the storm on his body and knew he’d been outside for a while.
Miguel’s gaze probed as he walked toward her, and this time she let it draw through her. She let him
see
. Not everything, but she wanted him to know what she was feeling—because she did need and want him, and she knew that he would need this encouragement to do what must be done.
There were surprises waiting for her too. Though she had feared the sensual part of her might have died in the years of loneliness and solitude, she had not after all forgotten what desire was, and even under these circumstances she was glad to have rediscovered it. Passion made everything more bearable—a little sugar to help the medicine go down—and so she shared it with Miguel, for the first time ever, willingly opening her mind to another.
“Your mouth,” he said at last.
She nodded. She knew what he meant. She had worn no makeup and her unglossed lips were smooth, unlined, pink like peach or melon, the mouth of a girl too young to have been kissed or to have worn anything except an innocent smile. Her face was also very young when she forgot her makeup. This was normal for her. She had been changed, frozen in time, when she was little more than a child.
Except for her eyes. Those were ancient and knowing.
Miguel didn’t try to speak again. His hand’s first tentative touch on her cheek asked if she was certain. Her body answered affirmatively. The removal of clothing was a quick negotiation. Ladies first, but she had on less so near nakedness was accomplished before she ever reached for his shirt.
Around them, the wind cycloned, drawing ever closer, and Ninon wondered if Smoking Mirror was actually going to allow the condemned a last chance for the happiness of sex. From her reading, she knew that it wasn’t part of the original sacrifice ritual, but Smoking Mirror might
let it happen because it would make what he foresaw as the inevitable betrayal all the more awful.
She knew that she shouldn’t get drawn too deep into the emotional waters, but didn’t want to close her mind to Miguel. Unfortunately, the lifeline ran both ways and she felt his desire as if it was her own. When she touched Miguel’s bare chest with hands and lips she was as awed as if she were touching the moon. The muscles were hard but the skin was velvet—only better, because it was vibrant, warm, alive. She could feel the muscles shift, spring-loaded like a gymnast about to take to the mat. And he wanted her to the point of insanity; it was in his eyes. There might be reluctance behind the wildness—fears, doubts, and questions about what they were doing—but carnal desire was there too. His attraction fueled her need. It was a poor time to get distracted from her goal, to let down her guard but…men could be beautiful in their own hard way and she had always loved the male body—their greater size, the hard muscle under soft skin, the tease of crisp hair on their broad chests so different from her own. Miguel was especially beautiful, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, because though not entirely human he was still humane. Unlike Saint Germain, he had not forsaken his soul. And she frankly physically adored the muscles that roped his body and made his belly hard and firm. He appealed to her mind, yes; but even more, he appealed to her senses.
And she loved his penis. She was not shy about letting him know this. She let him read all of it as she ran a hand down him in a slow stroke and then reached around to cup, to lift him up. Ah! She loved the way he gasped when she pleased him. It would be so easy to lose herself in his pleasure, to forget everything else and be in the moment with him.
But that would be foolish, because they were not alone. She could feel eyes upon her. They were hot and greedy and gloating.
Perhaps unaware of the witness, Miguel in turn ran a finger down the midline of her body, his touch subtly electric—especially on the pendant that covered her chest. It was an old-fashioned piece, too heavy for today’s tastes, and only women who worked out five days a week at the gym could wear it without neck strain. Most people would be distracted by the enormous jewels in the necklace and never notice the steel prongs on the back of what was actually a chest-plate, prongs that could be driven into the flesh right above the heart. But not Miguel. He saw and his touch moved around it, calling her golden scars to life. His hand was gentle on her, though she suspected now that this went against his basic nature. Miguel was lustful and preferred things rough and wild. It was in his blood—unwanted perhaps because he had been raised a civilized man, but there all the same. And the wildness was rising. The beast had been called to feast, and long denied, it hungered. She would have to somehow persuade him to set it free, because she did not doubt that if Miguel balked at the last moment and refused to make her a sacrifice, that Smoking Mirror would do it instead.