A part of her was horrified at what she was doing, but it was a small part that didn’t protest.
It was a tough decision, but she chose to shoot the man who had had her right arm first. The dress-ripper was closer, but the other guy had a gun and he was finally groping for it.
Time slowed down. Intellectually, she knew why. The pituitary gland was being stimulated by the hypothalamus. Adrenaline—actually adrenocorticotropin—was washing through her body, helping her muscles prepare to do what they needed to survive. Inside, the vampire virus that Miguel had infected her with had woken up and leapt joyfully into action. The organism’s bloodlust took over immediately, aiding her already prepared muscles into new autonomic reflexive actions. It said prompt, aggressive deeds were called for. It tightened her finger on the trigger before her conscious mind had a chance to weigh options and make any pacifist decisions about running away.
Ninon might have been able to override the monster in her blood, but she chose instead to let its instincts guide her. She had sought precisely this kind of help, and this was no time to be slowed by doubts about what she had done. She sensed its utter ferocity and will to live. It would do whatever was needed to keep her alive. It was a natural killer. She was not.
Thanks to her supernaturally fast reflexes, the second goon was down before the dress-ripper reached her. The noise from her gun was very loud, dangerously so given that Saint Germain was somewhere nearby, but she couldn’t take all four of them in a fistfight. Not yet. Her vampirism was still gathering strength.
A quick glance assured her that the man whose diaphragm she’d torn was still lying on the floor and no threat. That just left the one who had wrecked her lovely dress and bitten her shoulder. She was especially angry with him.
The CD player stopped playing with a loud pop and then a sizzle that suggested some power surge. Ninon looked at her arms and realized that she was glowing, all but setting the room on fire.
Damn. There would be nothing now to mask the sound of guns. That might be all right though, if Saint Germain had continued walking. The walls were thick and would dampen sound. Still, she wouldn’t risk it if there were any other way. There was just the one man left to deal with, and she could break his neck if she could get around behind him.
Her muscles were gathering themselves, preparing for a leap, when on her left a door opened and yet another man, one with a gun, rushed into the room. Blood smeared his lips and chin. More danger. The organism in control of her brain didn’t care. It had calculated and decided that she could take him as well.
The fourth man had her now. Her left hand, the one without the gun, whipped up and shoved hard against the dress-ripper’s nose, pushing it upward into his brain. She pushed off against him, using him as a brace, and launched herself into the air before he even fell over, putting to use an all-but-forgotten karate kick a retired CIA spook had taught her one night when he was very drunk and hoping to get laid. The fifth man, the one with the gun, had no chance to bring it around before she hit him, her right heel serving as a pick that broke through his sternum and drove itself into his heart. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Unfortunately, it took a moment to free her foot and, already off balance, she was dragged down with him. Inside she screamed in frustration at being snared by this corpse. She wrenched violently until the heel snapped off.
Damn it! Damn it! Now she’d wrecked a pair of shoes.
She heard the door to the street open and threw herself around with desperate speed, aiming in that general direction with the pistol she still held in her hand, but she had no chance to do more than catch her breath before someone who looked a lot like Saint Germain pointed a shotgun at her.
“Bonjour, Ninon. Now say good-bye.” It was Saint Germain’s voice, Saint Germain’s eyes.
Her finger tightened on the trigger, but her gun was empty. She opened her mouth to scream at Saint Germain and tried to leap at his weapon to push it away, but the room filled with explosion and a fine mist of shredded blood and tissue catching her midflight knocked her backward.
I think it took Ninon a moment to realize that she hadn’t been shot, that it was Saint Germain’s exploded chest covering her almost naked body in blood, and not her own.
“Miguel?” Her voice was hardly recognizable. I didn’t blame her for asking. Last she had seen me, my face was whole and I wasn’t limping.
“We’ve gotta go. There are ghoulth all over the plathe.” I had developed a lisp. The left side of my face wasn’t working right. Muscles had been severed.
I jumped over Saint Germain—amazingly, he wasn’t dead—and reached out for her. Ninon didn’t recoil, but the look in her eyes gave me pause. Her gaze was fixed on Saint Germain and she was shaking. It wasn’t with fear either. Lightning also danced over skin. That wasn’t sexual arousal, though I think it was lust of another sort. I was facing a wild animal who was nearly beyond control. The vampire had finally woken up in her. I think I understood what she was feeling. I wanted Saint Germain ripped open and to wallow in his blood. I wanted to tear him limb from limb, as the saying went. As his bitterest enemy, her desire had to be even stronger.
However, even if I were inclined to give in, we simply didn’t have the time to indulge the monsters within. There were other ghouls still about.
My eyes finally adapted to the dark and I took in the rest of the slaughter. I was impressed. Five bodies, not counting the twitching Saint Germain who was actually attempting to get to his feet. Ninon had been busy. No wonder her bloodlust was roused. I couldn’t imagine how she had managed not to fall on these creatures and lap at their blood. I shuddered.
Saint Germain reached for me, grabbing at my sore leg. Since the time for silence was long past, I took the handgun from Ninon, an old revolver, and loaded it with the ammo in my pocket. I turned and emptied all the bullets into Saint Germain’s head. I shoved the empty gun into my pocket when I was done. Then I got Jackie Gleason’s gun and emptied it too. Small-caliber weapons, museum pieces really—they didn’t even have magazines but required the loading of individual bullets—and they didn’t do as much damage as I would have liked.
To the best of my recollection, I didn’t think once about the fact that I had just performed an execution-style shooting. All I can recall thinking was that we were out of ammo now. I had taken the carbine and the rest of the ammunition out to the Jeep before doubling back for Ninon. It wasn’t until I was back in town that I had seen the other men—ghouls—and Saint Germain. I’d considered going back for the carbine but then the shooting had started.
It took several long seconds for the bullets to do their work, but Saint Germain finally fell back to the floor. His head was pretty much gone and he looked real dead, but I didn’t for one second believe it. I was filled with supernatural dread and no longer expected natural law to prevail. He would rise again. Whatever was animating him, it wasn’t just in his brain. Call it irrational fear, but I didn’t think we were getting rid of him so easily. This was no zombie to be put down with a bullet. And evil—real evil—doesn’t retreat that effortlessly. It was the second thing in this world that was eternal.
A second look at Ninon showed me that she actually was wounded. My shot had gone through Saint Germain and into her. But just as she had assured me, the wounds weren’t lethal. I watched as she dug out the spent shot with her fingers. Her skin returned to normal and she began to shiver. More than anything else, I was unhappy with the look in her eyes. Terminal horror can leave the eyes looking permanently harrowed. I didn’t think she was there yet, but we needed to get away from this horror show as soon as possible. Too much more and she’d never be able to pass for human again. It might already be too late for me.
I knew I’d probably feel really bad about this later, but at that moment, I didn’t let myself care. We were both breathing and able to run—that was good enough.
“That’s not Saint Germain,” she whispered finally, pressing a hand to the small wounds in
her chest. She was beginning to look sick, her skin turning a faint shade of green that made her lipstick look like an old wound. I felt for her; the downside of an adrenaline high was awful. She would be recognizing just what she had let the bloodlust do. Even if you don’t feel guilt, ever after you have a fear of the monster within because you know what it can do. Also, she probably hurt. I knew we would mend quickly, but for a while, my face had been very painful. I guess our gifts didn’t include an escape from pain.
“Miguel—cher! This is not Saint Germain.”
Her words registered, both the endearment and the bad news.
“What? But it hath to be.” I looked at the body. His face was pretty smashed, but he looked like the man I had seen from the roof. I thought the clothes were the same. Of course, a white shirt and jeans was pretty standard.
“No.”
I began to doubt. Perhaps it was that he was almost disintegrated, but I didn’t feel the same psychic pull toward him.
Ninon insisted: “That’s not him. It looks like him but…maybe it’s a clone or a doppelganger or something.”
A clone—his evil doubled. Before I could digest this horrible idea, we heard an ominous combination of hissing and growling fill the air. It was coming from the south, the square where the aborted fiesta had taken place.
“Come on! Thith way.” I grabbed her arm and pulled toward the back of the building. She stumbled over one of the bodies but I held her up. “The ghoulth have found uth. We need to run. Fatht.”
Ninon didn’t need to be told twice.
We raced through the gunroom and out into the back street. We were both hobbled. My calf was damaged and she had broken a heel; still, I think we would have qualified at any Olympic track speed trial. Funny. Having a pack of ghouls racing after you and no more ammunition for your empty guns can put wings on you feet.
I am in terror. I have seen my man in black! The man with the red tablets bearing my name and the dozen bottles of elixir—the one who appeared before me seventy years ago. And I heard him say he has a son who will be called St. Germain.
—From the letters of Ninon de Lenclos
If we are to judge of love by its consequences, it more nearly resembles hatred than friendship.
—François de la Rochefoucauld
A woman who is through with a man will give him up for anything—except another woman.
—“Lesson in Love” by Ninon de Lenclos
Your heart needs occupation
—Letter from Ninon de Lenclos to the Marquis de Sévigné
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I’d been fixating on the weird mix of weaponry that we’d found in that town, probably because it was better than thinking about other things. Maybe I was being influenced by American cinema, but I had always thought of modern drug dealers as being more high-tech. Had many fled at the first sign of trouble, taking their newer guns with them? And if some had departed on an urgent mission, why leave those other unpleasant specimens behind?
These trivial thoughts were soon displaced. Thirty yards away, it became apparent that in our absence my SUV had suffered an engine extraction and extensive remodeling of its exterior by King Kong or a tribe of cudgelwielding freaks. A closer inspection showed that Corazon also appeared to be missing.
Ninon was understandably upset. But not for long. That cat has more than nine lives, I swear, and as soon as Ninon called he reappeared, wet from doing God knew what and dragging another limp-necked rodent that looked severely withered. He seemed unharmed but a little dazed. I didn’t blame him. My run-in with a ghoul had produced a similar effect.
Unfortunately, Ninon couldn’t call my engine back as easily as the cat. It continued to lie in the flattened cactus by the road, its torn engine mounts facing skyward as it played at the automotive version of roadkill. I didn’t want to think about what could be strong enough to rip an engine out of an SUV, but I had to admit a graphic image or two crossed my mind before I shut down my imagination and remembered to breathe.
“I’m glad this car wasn’t a phallic symbol for me or anything,” I muttered.
That got a small smile.
“Actually, I see this as a good news–bad news sort of thing,” I went on. I had stopped lisping. Amazingly, my cheek was already beginning to heal, the skin and muscle knitting back together. I had known that, as a vampire, I was supposed to have good recuperative abilities, and Ninon assured me that our little divine fire trick would make them even better, but I had never been tempted to test the theory before. Not that I was feeling smug and immortal, but it was a very small silver lining in an otherwise stressful day.
“I can see the bad,” she said, picking up a punctured gas can. Only a small amount of fuel sloshed around the bottom. Shrugging, she went to the back of the Jeep and pulled out fresh clothing and some wet-wipes. The hole in her chest had scabbed over and she looked fairly healthy when she wiped the blood away. “But the good?”
“Well, eventually the SUV will be found and traced back to me. If I want to disappear, to fake my death, this should do it. Especially if I leave some blood behind for dramatic color.” I picked up some of my clothes that had been flung about in the cactus. Not all of it was shredded. That was good, because my current selection was looking less than haute couture.
I was also relieved to find my portable computer, safe inside its very expensive case. I made a note to never complain about the cost of computer bags again.
“No blood,” Ninon said immediately, and I felt like smacking my head. Of course no blood. I didn’t want them trying to match my DNA and getting too interested in the anomalies. “The rest is good though—especially if we burn it. The last time I had to disappear I went missing in the Bermuda Triangle. That always felt a bit cliché. A car accident in the wilds of Mexico is much better.”
That was my Ninon, ever calm, always thinking. We both began to clean up and then dress. Though we didn’t say anything, we were sniffing the air at regular intervals, checking that we were alone.
“If you have any money stashed away under your real name, you’d best arrange to collect it. Once you ‘die,’ you need to stay dead,” she said suddenly.
I nodded.
“If we do a transfer and large withdrawal at a nearby town, they will probably assume that you were followed by thieves and killed in a roadside robbery. I guess that’s more good news. And you won’t have to pay any more taxes this year.”
I shivered a bit. Too many geese walking on my grave all at once. One thing though, the ghouls scared me more than the IRS.
“Is there a nearby town? I mean, one large enough to have a bank?” I asked.
“Yes. At least, there was. I don’t think we can take anything for granted from here on out. Saint Germain has gotten unbelievably bold.”
“How long can a ghoul live?” I asked. “What about zombies?” In other words, how long could these things chase us? Or force us to chase them?
“In this heat a zombie, assuming it was in prime condition when it was raised, would last no more than five years—three is more likely. A ghoul? I don’t know. Not much longer. Even if they avoid the sun, the heat and other organisms will continue to eat away at their flesh. Of course, if Saint Germain keeps replacing failing body parts…I don’t know. The zombies I’m less worried about. If we can kill Saint Germain, they’ll wander about their own locales until they rot. The ghouls, though—they’ll follow us. And failing that, they’ll move into populated areas looking for prey. We’re going to have to kill them.” She finished dressing and then tucked her pistol into her belt. I noticed that she had also retrieved her trench spike.
“With a shotgun, a carbine rifle, a nine-millimeter handgun, and an antique revolver for which we have little ammunition? I forgot the trench spike—those work really well,” I added.
She nodded. “Yes. Until we can find something better. Maybe…” She broke off, spinning about with reflexes that would make Corazon proud. She snatched up her trench spike and continu
ed her pivot so that she was facing the body when it hurtled out of the sky.
Her spike landed dead center in its chest. Ninon grabbed the thing’s right arm and flipped the creature onto the ground. She cracked it like a whip, dislocating the thing’s shoulder. The noise it made when it hit the ground was shrill enough to pierce the eardrums. Without thought, without any conscious instruction, I grabbed up my own spike and drove it into the creature’s head. It bucked twice, then stilled.
It was only then that I realized that we hadn’t been attacked by a ghoul.
Ninon realized this at the same moment, and backed away hastily. As I watched, every last bit of color drained from her face.
“Miguel.” Her voice was barely recognizable. I wondered for a moment if she was going to faint. “Please tell me that isn’t your mother.”
My mother? I looked back down at the withered thing with leprous skin and talons. Its mouth was open and I could see the pick on the end of its tongue. It was definitely a vampire. Could that be Mamita? My eyes ran over it repeatedly, unable to take in what lay before us. Finally, I focused on its abdomen.
“No,” I said at last, finding myself oddly relieved. “There’s no appendectomy scar. Anyway, this poor thing has eczema or something.”
“Not eczema—sunburn, I think,” Ninon said, slumping against the Jeep. She drew a couple of slow breaths and color began to return to her face. “She’s been out in the sun for a while. Maybe she wrecked the SUV and not the ghouls.”
It was possible, but I didn’t think so. Vampires tended to get mad at people, not things that couldn’t bleed.
Divine Madness Page 24
