Divine Madness (20 page)

I tried hard to see what she was seeing, to grasp what she was trying to say. But I couldn’t.

“Truthfully, I’ve felt trapped,” I said, then added: “Not by you. Just by my life. By disease, I guess. I haven’t wanted to adapt. I’ve wanted it to just go away.”

She nodded. “But you know that everyone is trapped—it’s the human condition. Most people just don’t know it. Because they can download a selection of two hundred ring tones for their cell phones, eat at ten different fastfood joints, or get their iPods in five different colors, they think they have command of their lives. But choice among toys isn’t freedom. It’s nice, it’s fun—but it doesn’t make us free. Not in mind, not in soul. And we know that there are some obligations we cannot avoid if we are to retain any claim on our humanity.”

“I know.”

“Will you miss your work? Your colleagues?” She didn’t ask about friends, probably because she knew full well that I couldn’t afford to have any. I doubt she had any either. I’d had a decade of loneliness and it had eaten at me. How had she survived four centuries?

“Not much. I used to respect my boss, but I think he sold his soul for a time-share in Palm Springs. One of the guys at work said something about seeing it up for auction on eBay along with his mother’s jewelry,” I joked.

Ninon gave me a startled look and then said, “He wouldn’t be the first. We settle so cheaply.”

The first to sell his soul, I think she meant. Heaven knows they sell some weird things on eBay.

Ninon stepped closer and laid her head against my chest, and I could feel the tension in her body. So, she wasn’t as unaffected as she seemed. In a way, this was reassuring. Wonder Woman is great in a fight, but I’ve never been much tempted by her for a girlfriend. I raised a hand to Ninon’s hair, but she was already backing away.

“Ready to go?” she asked. She was dirty, but the smile she turned on me was radiant, a blessing.

“More than,” I answered.

“Thank you, Miguel. I can’t tell you what it means to not be alone this time.” She touched my arm. A small flow of warmth passed between us.

This time.
I knew I wasn’t going to like the rest of her zombie-killing stories when I heard them. Those ghosts of old loss and pain would probably cling to me. Still, I wanted to know. I’m haunted from the inside out. And Ninon was haunted, too—I could see it in her eyes. I just wasn’t sure exactly how. Lost loved ones, lost ideals. In time—if we had that time—I would learn who her ghosts were and whether they needed exorcising.

Shall I tell you what renders love dangerous? It is the sub lime idea which we often appear to have of it.

—
Letter from Ninon de Lenclos to the Marquis de Sévign
é

It is all very well to keep food for another day, but pleasure should be taken as it comes.

—
Ninon de Lenclos

What is the worst of woes that wait on age?

What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?

To view each loved one blotted from life’s page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.

—
Byron, from
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

The sound of distant and disorganized thunder began stuttering toward us as soon as we killed the engines and stepped out of our vehicles in a new town. A hot and nervous breeze skittered by at knee level but did little to shift the honey-thick air that settled on our skin in a clammy blanket. If I were fanciful, I would say the wind had been frightened and doing its best to stay low to the ground as it fled the pueblo. I think Corazon felt it too, because the cat’s fur raised momentarily and his eyes followed something I could not see passing through a hillock of lowgrowing wildflowers the color of prairie fire.

I sympathized with the cat’s ruffled nerves. This time the sound of the approaching rainstorm didn’t make me feel all perky and Gene Kelly-ish, having me wanting to be out singing and dancing in the rain. Usually a summer squall meant a break in the temperatures and would be welcome, but I’m afraid that all storms from here forward would feel sinister. Maybe they were natural, but I couldn’t help suspecting that S.M. was systematically flooding the valley, attempting to find a waterway he
could travel to lead him to us. And even if he failed, having storms everywhere we went was like sending up a flare for Saint Germain:
Yoo-hoo! Over here!
Nothing would make me as happy as looking up and seeing a boring old blue summer sky.

I had thought the only attraction of the town we’d come to was a gas station, but apparently I—and the Michelin Guide—had underestimated its charms. The door of the cantina Ninon had chosen for dinner had more than a few holes, some still occupied by bullets. I was hoping that it was some tasteless decorative desperado theme, or perhaps a drunken sharpshooting bet, but I knew this was too optimistic a hope to indulge. We weren’t doing the four-star tourist circuit of Mexico, and we couldn’t afford to let down our guard. Besides, a few of the buildings in the pueblo we’d burned had looked like this when Ninon and I were done with the zombie eradication. Until I heard otherwise, I’d have to assume the worst—i.e.: the town had been attacked by zombies and would be hostile to all newcomers.

“You know all the garden spots,” I muttered to Ninon, then followed her into the cantina, holding the door open for her cat.

“Have faith.”

It had nothing to do with faith, but I felt better almost immediately. The outside was scary but inside was gastronomic heaven. I sniffed appreciatively at the aroma of roasting pork and chiles that was dense in the air. It wasn’t four-star—it might not even meet health codes—but it smelled heavenly.

The barman was so weathered he might have come from central casting, and he gestured us to a table that we took without any of the usual chitchat—not that I had been expecting sparkling dialogue from our greasecovered host. No menus were offered and none requested. My appetite was back and I wanted whatever was on the fire, healthy or not. After all, according to Ninon, nothing
but decapitation could hurt me now. What was a case of trichinosis?

Not ready to abandon all caution, I glanced toward the kitchen as we walked past and saw a pair of women working there. Their days as beauty pageant contestants were long over, but they looked reassuringly human. Even if they hadn’t, I might have still stayed to dine. The smell was that alluring.

“You’re all but drooling,” Ninon remarked with the small smile I found so intriguing. She petted Corazon, who had jumped into her lap. His sharp claws began kneading her jean-covered leg, and I could hear his rusty purr over the other diners’ soft conversations.

“My appetite has returned and wants a fatted calf, pronto.”

“I hope fatted pig will do.” She smiled, but her eyes were busy scanning the room. She wasn’t nervous precisely, but neither was she entirely at ease.

Both of us spoke softly in Spanish, doing our best to blend in. This wasn’t a ghost town like the others we’d been through, but it looked like the kind of place visited only by the most die-hard of tourists. The ones who would shop for souvenirs in Hell. Or else crazy American quasiconservationist backpackers who would go anywhere to see anything—even cactus, if it were rare enough. We were certainly dusty enough to make that last story believable. We might have hiked all the way from the border, sleeping rough along the way.

The last option for cover was drug-dealing, but I didn’t think Ninon had the look about her. Besides, that was still considered a man’s profession, at least down here. And besides, I didn’t want anyone trying to buy product from us. It might piss off the local man of business, and we had enough headaches without angering the local drug traffickers.

The afternoon was waning and the room, with its small windows, was far from bright. Still, neither of us removed
our sunglasses. Ninon’s eyes had been too irritated by zombie smoke to tolerate contact lenses and I hadn’t gotten any yet. Once it was full dark, no one would notice our unnerving eyes, but until then we needed to be careful. We couldn’t possibly pass for locals. In this town, everyone would know everyone, so we were definitely outsiders. Our Spanish was very good, and we could probably convince most anyone that we were longtime residents somewhere south of the forty-eight contiguous states. But, then again, maybe not.

We had enough problems without having the villagers deciding we were foreign
brujos
come to hex the town. Does this sound like an odd thought? I suppose it was, but I had it all the same. Blame it on the last forty-eight hours filled with vampires and zombies.

The barman brought us plates of roasted pork and two bottles of Tecate. I guess we looked like beer drinkers—the kind that sip from bottles. Or maybe Monday nights were barman’s choice and he got a kickback from Tecate. I didn’t complain. Glass bottle, glass—what difference?

“He’s like a well-mannered child,” I said of the cat once the first pangs of hunger were assuaged. Corazon had taken the chair beside Ninon and was looking out the window while we dined. He didn’t beg, didn’t even give our plates a longing glance.

“Yes, and that’s a bit odd. Usually he would ask for a bit of what we’re having. I hope he’s not getting sick.” Her brows knit briefly.

“Well, he did have that tasty rat earlier,” I said, tucking back into the pork with my bent fork.

“I suppose.” Ninon ate more delicately but with equal relish.

“What? Your nose is wrinkling.”

“It’s just…children…I’m sorry, Miguel, if you wanted a family. I should have said that before. It’s just…I don’t think I have a proper biological clock,” Ninon finally said, staring at the cat as she stretched the
kinks out of her own back. I needed to move, too. We had put in some hard miles—if not as many as I would have liked—and the heavy food was making us sleepy. “Or maybe my batteries have shorted out in all the lightning. I have become a cat person. I find them good company—restful, fastidious, and not disturbed by my nocturnal ramblings. They are also great zombie detectors,” she added with a laugh.

“Aren’t they a bit self-centered?” I asked. Corazon walked over, leaned against my leg, and sneered up at me. He didn’t waste any energy purring. He hadn’t spoken to me again, and so I had to wonder if I hadn’t imagined our communication earlier. I added pointedly, “Dogs are more loyal, and people are better conversationalists.”

“Completely self-centered,” she agreed. “But, unlike with a lover, I don’t take the emotional neglect personally. Also, you don’t need to raise them in a two-parent family. In fact, cats prefer having only one human in the home. Another would take time away from them—valuable time that could be spent dangling string or steaming fresh shrimp for their dinners.”

Her tone was fond, and I swear the damn cat smiled. The animal was unnerving. I also didn’t care for the trend of this conversation.

“I hope he won’t mind me hanging around,” I said, with what I think was admirable evenness.

“I shouldn’t think that he would. Aleister—I mean, Corazon—is a very confident cat.”

“Aleister? Your cat has an alias too?” I don’t know why this startled me, but it did.

“Of course. Cats have nine lives and therefore need nine names. Also, while it seems unlikely that Saint Germain would know the name of my cat, there’s no telling what he might know—and names have power. By the way, Aleister is not naturally dark-haired. We’ve both been resorting to artifice.” She turned to me and smiled slowly. It was pretty close to the hand-job smile, but I sensed this
one was sincere. “Do you think you’ll like me as a blonde?”

“I think I’ll like you fine when you’ve had a bath. Neither of us is exactly as fresh as spring rain.” It was all I could do not to say something really stupid, like I’d love her as a Martian with six arms and green teeth. Even dusty and exhausted, I found her something more than merely beautiful. Of course, this attraction was as much emotional as aesthetic, which wasn’t what she was talking about. I had a feeling we were a long way from any conversations of that nature. I don’t know where her head was at, but seeing her reaction to the mention of kids and the snippets of thought about marriage when S.M. was in my head, I was betting that it wasn’t in the rosy happily-ever-after. Not yet anyway. She wanted me physically and as an ally in this time of trouble. Beyond that, she would not look.

I reminded myself that passion—real passion—can be a ruthless taskmaster. If it needs to it can make you stupid, make you brave. But above all, it can make you blind. Ninon was right to stay focused. I’d have to watch myself too. It would be even dumber to confuse lust and need for love. After all, lovers come and lovers go, but evil goes on forever. It’s about priorities.

Anyway, why chase love? It’s an addiction. And Cupid’s darts did a lot of damage. Not so much on entry—that hole was small. It was the exit wounds that did you in. Somehow, love has always been larger in its leaving than in coming. At least for me. Did I want to try that again? And with a woman who was commitment-phobic and had a bossy cat?

When we stepped outside an hour later, night had fallen and the air was full of invisible particles of pulverized rock. The gusting wind drove the microscopic knives into our exposed flesh. Corazon wisely went in through a window and didn’t wait for us to open the Jeep.

“So, do we follow the lightning, or try to make the lightning
follow us?” I asked, opening the door of the vehicle and sheltering behind it as Ninon climbed in. I didn’t think there was much hope of the storm ignoring us. “Or can we avoid it all together?”

“Let’s see if it will follow. I can’t imagine that Saint Germain would want a showdown anywhere that there were witnesses. But on the other hand…”

“On the other hand, he’s a psychopath,” I finished. I debated trotting out my theory about S.M. trying to follow us by creating seasonal rivers and decided against it. It sounded a mite paranoid.

“Exactly. We’ll head for the next village. There is a small hotel there—or was. I haven’t been there in a long while. If it looks safe, we’ll stay the night.”

“Okay.” I might have discussed this longer, but that wind was vicious and I wanted out of it.

Ninon had been generous with her use of the word
hotel
. It was a place that rented beds with slightly more legroom than the Jeep, and had indoor plumbing, but that was about all you could say for it. It didn’t take a genius to spot the fact that there was a definite theme to the towns we visited. If they were not dead and abandoned, they were in extremis, were villages whose aging hearts had almost given out. This Saint Germain had an affinity for all things dead. Of course, so did Smoking Mirror. These poor bastards didn’t have much chance.

That was our last normal—well, normal by our standards—night in Mexico. The last moments of quasiinnocence—at least for me—before Saint Germain chose to attack. I think back on this time like a fever dream—vivid but surreal, ugly but beautiful. Perhaps it was my heightened senses, but those days were Technicolor, with a heat that burned the brain like Hell everlasting, and every blessed sunset took me by surprise when the Hell did actually end. Then, only moments later it seemed, came the freezing night, where the world drained of color.
If anything, my senses during the night became more acute. Hearing, smell, taste, sight, touch—and something else—were acute enough to be called painful, so sharp they cut the nerves like glass. Ninon had promised that I would adapt, but I knew she was worried because she also was suffering from heightened stimulation.

Burning day and night both seemed unending as we lived through them, and we wore them like a hair shirt. I could almost imagine that we had been transported to some parallel universe, a place where the twentieth and twenty-first centuries had never happened and magic ruled the planet. I knew that there were towns and cities fairly close by where the modern world went on at its normal frantic pace, but we never went near them. Saint Germain’s evil was old and thus flourished in old places. Until he was dead, this would be our domain.

We registered as man and wife—the Garcias, I think—and went to our room. We didn’t touch, though we were finally alone. This not because of coyness, or a pretense of modesty on her part, nor the need of a shower. Ninon doesn’t do contrived modesty. Nor would she feign a headache if she wasn’t in the mood.

“It’s matter of energy,” she said. “I think I’ve hit a wall. It isn’t so much my body as…well, my senses.”

“I know,” I said. The constant stimulation was exhausting.

Whether we eventually made love or not, we would share the sagging double mattress and the twin misshapen pillows in yellowed linens that looked uncomfortably like the shrouded corpses of two dead sheep. Unless…

I looked at Ninon.

“Yeah. I’ll get the sleeping bags,” I volunteered. And the guns. I had a definite itch that would be calmed only by the presence of firearms.

Ninon nodded, her nose wrinkling. I sympathized. I didn’t want to sleep on anything that reminded me of
corpses. As it was, we were probably in for some weird dreams.

Still, this felt safer than sleeping in the Jeep or my SUV. I could all too easily imagine water from the storm creeping around us while we slept, and waking up to an enraged S.M. ripping off the door and then our heads.