“Saint Germain? Like the alchemist Comte Saint Germain?”
“Yes.” That was exactly who he meant. “And the Saint Germain who has the free clinics all over Africa and South America—and the CEO of the Johann Dippel Corporation.”
“Dippel? Like the Dark Man Dippel you mentioned?” She blinked. Alex didn’t blame her. Most people thought of Saint Germain as a philanthropist, a savior of the poor. Harmony had probably even donated money to his foundation and written it off on her taxes.
“So you would say that this Saint Germain is actually diabolical?” This wasn’t really a question, merely the logical mind’s desire to have a hard fact reiterated before it accepted a bitter truth. He understood. He hadn’t been able to accept things all at once either.
“Without a doubt. He is a villain dyed the deepest shade of black. But far worse than that, he is an accomplished seducer. I don’t mean that in the sexual sense—though he is certainly the most beautiful creature I have seen.” Alex said this coolly, but wasn’t surprised when Harmony raised a brow at this admission. “No, ma chérie, I mean that he is a seducer of the mind—like Hitler, or Rasputin. And he has political ties in many countries that keep him supplied with blood money. Those clinics didn’t build themselves in the war zones of the world. He had the blessing of many corrupt leaders.”
Harmony exhaled and then nodded twice, looking more troubled than ever. He decided not to bring up Saint Germain’s connection with the Nazis. She had managed to accept genetic monsters caused by a designer disease and the political corruption of a renowned philanthropist; he wouldn’t strain her credulity by bringing up the matter of Saint Germain’s—and his own—quasi immortality. They’d tackle one impossibility at a time.
She said: “Don’t take this the wrong way, and after what I’ve seen I’m not doubting you at all. But this story is a bit hard to believe. I mean, it’s the twenty-first century. We have CNN and cell phones and the Internet. I believe in monsters—no one can watch TV and not know they are real. But they’re human monsters. Every one of them. And everyone knows that there’s no such things as vampires and ghouls. We don’t have the kind of technology that can graft an ostrich’s legs onto a human. We can barely manage pig valves in the human heart. We can’t…” She trailed off. “Well, maybe the military can, but the rest of us don’t know how. Anyone we tell about mutant vampires and ghouls will think we’re crazy. And I can’t go back to my people and tell them that Saint Germain, savior of the third world, is making genetic monsters—not without solid proof. As far as everyone else knows, he’s so clean he squeaks. They’ll just tell me to see a shrink.”
Alex spoke carefully. He didn’t want to lose her now.
“Yes, it’s the wise and wonderful twenty-first century, but that doesn’t mean the same thing here—or in the rest of the third world—that it does in a place like the United States.” He stopped in a clump of oleander outside the hotel and scanned the parking lot. He wondered how to explain that they wouldn’t be contacting any authorities. “Not a decade ago I was in places in Africa where they still believed in magic. The locals wore T-shirts and had phones on their belts. But cell phones or not, I was in one village where a man forgot to pay homage at his dead chieftain’s grave on his way home from a hunt. He died ten days later without saying a word. I asked what was wrong, why this healthy man just lay down and died, and they told me that he died because it was holy law. He died because of his true belief, which was so strong that it caused his healthy body to die.”
“But that’s something he did to himself.”
“True, but it was an outside influence—a powerful one—that planted this belief in his mind. If faith can do that, what else might it do? Some ideas are plagues, highly contagious. Especially if the carrier is religion. Think what the Church did to the Jews.”
“The Nazis—”
“Yes. And people here have believed in vampires for centuries.” He saw her lips part and went on before she could object. “Who knows why? Probably there was an ancient sub-population of humans with strange characteristics that lived off the villagers in some way.”
“There are conditions that cause people to drink blood,” Harmony agreed slowly. “And eat human flesh. Many cultures have practiced cannibalism. That could be what happened here.”
And these humans ate flesh and drank blood—but not spinal fluid and brains. He didn’t add this thought out loud, though.
“This is true. Now, show a superstitious population something like these creatures of Saint Germain’s. Tell them they are the old gods returned, and the ancient faith or old beliefs can reignite.” He shook his head and moved toward the empty parking lot. The sight of the lighted but now silent cantina should have been cheering, but succeeded only in seeming sinister. “In light of this, I don’t think it would be wise to tell anyone that we killed off the local demigod’s handmaidens. They would have only our word that it was self-defense.”
“I know.”
“Your State Department wouldn’t like it, nor would the local authorities who might see this as a religious murder. And then there’s the media. We don’t want to be exposed in the press.”
“Wait. Did you say handmaidens? Those things were women?” He didn’t think it was possible, but she sounded more appalled at this news than anything else he had told her.
“Yes, once upon a time. Before Saint Germain got to them and altered them.” Alex took a risk. “You won’t believe me, but I accept as true that there is a surviving cult of priestesses worshiping an Aztecan god called Smoking Mirror. He was a shape-shifter, magician, storm-bringer, general scourge of the sinning masses.” Alex paused. “Legend says they live by the local watering holes and lure men to their lairs on nights of the full moon. The rest of the time they spend underground worshiping their god. Such a phenomenon would attract Saint Germain. He would have wanted them for his experiments.”
And how the hell had Saint Germain managed that feat, anyway? Alex wondered for the second time. In his experience, vampires were fast and strong, if not very bright. In a group, they should have been able to resist him. And why would he do it anyway? Was he in a struggle for power with Smoking Mirror? Maybe trying to steal his power as well?
Or had they formed an alliance? It wasn’t something Alex wanted to think about, not when he was still somewhat connected to Harmony and the direction of his thoughts might alarm her.
“A cult for an underground death god?” she asked weakly. “That sounds crazy. They were very pale, though—almost albinos. Living underground would explain it.”
“Yes, worshipers of a death god. A creature—an ancient one—that locals have worshiped for centuries, in spite of the Catholic missionaries doing their best to stamp out the old religions. There are statues of him in the museum in Mexico City. They even have the stinger on his tongue.”
“But you think it’s more than that. You think he’s still actually alive?” she guessed unhappily.
“Yes. Or some facsimile of him—a clone maybe. I don’t know, though. Perhaps not. People don’t need living gods to inspire worship.” Discussing religion always made him uncomfortable, especially with people born in the twentieth century. They were too rational to concede the existence of anything they couldn’t see with a telescope or microscope. God—any god—was a conceptual matter for them.
Alex pulled open the jeep’s rear door and reached for the gasoline and flares he had on the floor. He’d brought only one can. He wanted the bodies burned, all trace of them gone and the church decontaminated, but he didn’t want to burn the town to the ground. Not just yet.
“Was that voice a ghost?” Harmony asked.
“I think it was. Maybe one of Saint Germain’s victims. Or maybe it was one of those creatures trying to warn us. They could be psychic.”
Or it could be someone else. It could be someone Alex knew. Perhaps he was being haunted by more than guilt.
Harmony looked down, clearly doing some hard thinking. Alex t
ook it as a good sign that she wasn’t arguing about the possible existence of either ghosts or psychics. Apparently, these things didn’t raise the same mental objections that ghouls and vampires did.
“We need an escape plan, and quick. Will your friend believe you if you write a note and say you’ve gone off with me for a romantic vacation in Acapulco?” Alex asked. He set down the gas can and began reloading his pistol.
Harmony eyed him, trying to make out his expression in the dark.
“Probably. She isn’t…” Harmony paused.
“Diabolically astute?” he suggested. He handed her the rifle. As he had anticipated, she handled it confidently, immediately checking to see if it was loaded.
“Let’s say she won’t be that surprised, because it’s something she might do.” Harmony was a reasonably loyal friend, and Alex sensed her reluctance to add that Ashley didn’t want men to be rocket scientists. In fact, all brain functions beyond those needed to create a hard-on were actually more bother than they were worth. Alex understood this. Stupid women were often easier to deal with as well.
Harmony cleared her throat. “But am I going with you? You don’t look ready to start a vacation. And if you’re not…I thought you wanted me away from you and the battle zone. And given what happens to women around here, I think I’m inclined to agree that leaving Mexico would be wise. And there are other ways to track this man down—ways I’m good at. What we need to do is follow the money trail.” Her voice warmed a bit.
“I’m not doing anything about Saint Germain until I have more information—not unless I’m cornered. And I really think it would be best if you left with me tonight. Stay close, at least until we find somewhere for you to wait in safety. We can split up then if we need to.” But only if they needed to. He didn’t know why Fate had brought her to him, and until he did, he wasn’t letting her out of his sight. She might actually have the nerve to try to investigate Saint Germain on her own.
She nodded once, acknowledging that she had heard him but not that she necessarily agreed. Then she asked again, “Are you really Alexandre Dumas?”
So, she had guessed at some of what he’d left unsaid. Or perhaps she just meant, was he really the author pretending to be Alexandre Dumas. He couldn’t ask just then. Either way, the answer was the same.
“I really am. Check my author photo.”
She nodded again.
“Are we really going to Acapulco?”
“No, we’re not. We need to be a whole lot further away than that while I try to find some people who may know how to help me.”
“And Ashley will be okay? She’s with that nice Australian tonight, and tomorrow they’ll leave for their tour.” Harmony was clearly trying to reassure herself that she was doing the right thing.
“Saint Germain has no reason to want her.” That was as much as he could promise. There was no knowing what Saint Germain was planning. They might all be in a great deal of danger.
“And she wouldn’t believe us if we tried to tell her about what happened and attempted to get her to leave.”
“No, she wouldn’t. But others at the hotel might if she mentioned this. Even if they weren’t actually in on the creature’s creation, the locals have to have had some suspicion about what was going on in that church. They have probably taken bribes.” But not monetary ones. Saint Germain would be offering—forcing—something else.
“And that would be bad for us.”
“Very bad. I don’t think they would let us leave. I’d fight, of course. But…”
“Then I guess I’d better write a convincing note.”
“Thank you.” He wasn’t thanking her for an epistolary effort, but for trusting him.
She nodded.
“I just hope that you really do know someone who can help us start the search for this monster, because right now, unless you can get me into his computer system, I am all out of ideas.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Does one still remember, in the world where you now are, the things of this world of ours, or does eternal life live only in the human imagination made childlike by its fear of no longer existing? That is something we never discussed in the days we lived together, nor do I think that you ever worried your head with metaphysical speculation…For close on a quarter of a century you have been sleeping peacefully under the great trees of Villers-Cotterets between your mother, who served as your model for all the good women you portrayed, and your father, who inspired all those heroes to whom you gave the gift of life…The world moves fast. Soon we shall meet again.
—Letter from Dumas fils to his deceased father, Dumas père
They drove through the night, much of which she missed. It surprised Harmony that she actually slept. Her unconscious must have decided that it trusted Alex to keep her safe from the monsters, because she curled up in her seat almost at once and went to sleep. She had a vague sense that Alex was standing guard over her dreams. Whether that was true or just a wish, no nightmares wriggled into or out of her subconscious to trouble her.
The touch of sunrise through the glass finally roused her and she sat up, feeling stiff but surprisingly fit otherwise. The horror of the previous evening seemed very far away. Perhaps she was in shock.
“Where are we?” she asked, rubbing a smudge from her window. The glass was warm, though the air-conditioning made the temperature in the jeep bearable. With temperatures like these, she wondered how anyone could deny the phenomenon of global warming. The scenery that stuttered by in sharp, bone-jarring jolts looked an awful lot like what she had seen before giving in to sleep. Only a whole lot brighter.
“We’re headed for San Pedro. I know someone who knows someone who might be able to help us.” Alex smiled at her. He didn’t look at all weary. “We’ll get breakfast there.”
“Good. I can hardly believe it, but I’m starved.” She reached for the radio. “Any news about Curatos Cienegas?” Like, if their church fire had burned up something other than monsters. They hadn’t stayed around to toast weenies and marshmallows at the monster roast and so didn’t know if their act of arson had spread beyond the vault.
“I don’t know.” He hesitated, then added: “The radio isn’t working.”
“Maybe it’s just poor reception.”
“Maybe.” Harmony got the impression that Alex thought it was something else. She tried to tune in a station—any station—but could only get a high-pitched squeal that hurt her ears.
“That sounds like a fax machine.”
Alex nodded.
They passed a few villages, really hardly more than wide spots in the road where a few lonely houses huddled together. Though there was little to see, Alex watched carefully as they passed through each one, searching for some sign that things weren’t normal. There was nothing obviously wrong, but Harmony found herself feeling increasingly ill at ease, and also watching the road and buildings for signs of…something.
They reached the small town of San Pedro about twenty minutes later. Admittedly, Harmony had only been in tourist areas of the country, and she had heard that mornings down here tended to be drowsy affairs where one slowly recovered from the festivities dictated by a nocturnal lifestyle. The day that followed would move even slower. This was simple self-defense in a climate where a body’s passage would seem to push the air before it and leave a roiling, shimmering wake behind. Still, even by these standards, the towns they were driving through felt unusually lifeless. Dead, even.
Harmony felt a frown pull itself together on her forehead. These weren’t abandoned ghost towns; there were some vehicles about, and the buildings were in repair. But there should have been children, animals—an old lady out sweeping the veranda of the hotel, chasing off the ghosts of debauchery and any evidence of the previous night’s accumulations of wind-borne dust before the sun became unbearable. Instead the inhabitants seemed to be hiding indoors behind shuttered windows that stared out on the empty streets with glassy eyes blinded by their wooden cataracts.
/> Alex pulled up just beyond a cantina where a small table and two aged chairs sat in the dirt street to the right of an open door and the first unshuttered window that Harmony had seen. They got down from the jeep and walked slowly, even warily, toward the blank opening of the door that felt vaguely like a bully’s taunt at the rest of the sleeping village. Though there was no overt threat, Harmony found herself reaching for the small pistol she had in her purse. She didn’t draw it, but she felt better with her hand curled around the butt of the gun.
The dark doorway grew larger and more ominous, but before they could cross the threshold into the gloom, the expected old woman finally appeared, bearing not a broom but instead an old-fashioned, dusty slate that proclaimed in smudged chalk letters that they had soup and tortillas for lunch. She was thin to the point of emaciation, and her skin hung in pale folds around her neck that reminded Harmony a little too much of the creatures they had confronted the night before. The old lady walked with jerky movements, as though being pulled by the strings of an impatient puppet master. She didn’t say anything or even smile as they seated themselves at a small table the unpleasant color of an old smoker’s teeth, merely nodding when Alex said in what sounded like the local dialect that soup would be fine and did she have beer in a bottle? Her eyes remained completely blank and unfocused as she nodded again and then retreated inside.
Harmony ran a finger over the table. It was dusty. It had been her experience that the people of Mexico, however poor, were scrupulously clean. This sort of slovenliness was rare, and suggested that something had disrupted the normal routine. Perhaps there had been a windstorm last night that shorted out the power? Certainly there had been weird weather events in Cuatros Cienegas.
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