Divine Madness

by Melanie Jackson

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

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  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 a
sked, 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.

  Editorial Note:

  This is a last message supposedly in the hand of Ninon de Lenclos, left in the book after much debate.

  Byron, mon cher, I have let Miguel tell this story for me. His words are so colorful and he paints a flattering portrait, oui? But I must add this postscript in my own hand so you know that it is true. We have seen nothing of Saint Germain since returning to the States, but I do not believe that our troubles are over. Whoever it was who died that day in Lara Vieja, it was not our nemesis. I know the Dark Man’s son, and this doppelgänger was not he. So write soon and we will make a plan. Miguel has an e-mail address under his nom de plume: melaniejaxn@hotmail.com. We will check it often.

  Adieu, Ninon

  Yes, Marquis, I will keep my word with you, and upon all occasions shall speak the truth, though I sometimes tell it at my own expense. I have more firmness of mind than perhaps you may imagine, and ’tis very probable that in the course of this correspondence, you will think I push this quality too far, even to severity. But then, please to remember that I have only the outside of a woman, and that my heart and mind are wholly masculine…

  Shall I tell you what makes love so dangerous? ’Tis the too high idea we are apt to form of it. But to speak the truth, love, considered as passion, is merely a blind instinct, that we should rate accordingly. It is an appetite, which inclines us to one object, rather than another, without our being able to account for our taste. Considered as a bond of friendship, where reason presides, it is no longer a passion and loses the very name of love. It becomes esteem which is indeed a very pleasing appetite, but too tranquil and therefore incapable of rousing you from your present lethargy.

  If you madly trace the footsteps of our ancient heroes of romance, adopting their extravagant sentiments, you will soon experience, that such false chivalry metamorphoses this charming passion into a melancholy folly nay, often a tragical one: a perfect frenzy! But divest it of all the borrowed pomp and opinion, and you will then perceive how much it will contribute both to your happiness and pleasure. Be assured that if either reason or knight errantry should be permitted to form the union of our hearts, love would become a state of apathy and madness.

  The only way to avoid these extremes, is to pursue the course I pointed out to you. At present you have no occasion for anything more than mere amusement, and believe me, you will not meet it except among women of the character I speak of. Your heart wants occupation; and they are framed to supply the void. At least give my prescription a fair trial, and I will be answerable for the success.

  I promised to reason with you, and I think I have kept my word. Farewell.

  Tomorrow the Abbé Châteauneuf and perhaps Molière are to be with me. We are to read over the Tartuffe together, in order to make some necessary alterations. Depend upon it, Marquis, that whoever denies the maxims I have here laid down, partakes a little of that character in his play.

  —A letter from Ninon de Lenclos to the Marquis de Sévigné

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Welcome to the second book of what I call my Not-sodead Poet Society stories. Let’s talk a bit, if you have time. Come closer, so my computer-weary eyes can see you. My battered fingers are reaching the end of their endurance, but I want to share a few more things with you before you go.

  First of all, let me thank you again for climbing aboard my runaway literary train and taking a wild journey with me. I hope you enjoyed this visit to the modern Ninon’s world—this Dangerous Liaisons of the Underworld where she lives, at least in my imagination. I pray her shade is comfortable with what I have done in her name. If you meet her in dreams some night, please say a kind word for me.

  The historic Ninon de Lenclos has always fascinated me, not simpl
y because she was one of the great minds of the seventeenth century, but because of her lifelong moral convictions about the rights of women in an era when they were still burning uppity females at the stake for disagreeing with the clergy or king.

  Some may find the notion of Ninon as being moral an odd one. After all, she rejected the standards of her time that equated all female virtue with chastity, which was to be traded in for a husband. But one must recall that she had been raised as a man, trained to think and reason as men did in that era—and believe me, the nobles of seventeenth-century France weren’t saving themselves for marriage. They were not looking at any mathematical or philosophical equation that said nobility or virtue in a male equaled virginity. Ninon likewise scorned the idea that penetration by a man was the same as moral ruin. The generic penis simply did not have that much power over her.

  She also saw that once a woman was sold into marriage, her property, her fortune, her body—and those of all children she bore—were owned by the man who purchased her with an “I do.” Men of the upper classes—probably the lower ones too—were faithless and often cruel, and women had almost no legal recourse for any abuse perpetrated on them. Ninon refused this churchsanctioned slavery, though her mother’s simple and sincere faith moved her. Faith was not what she quarreled with; It was the liars and scoundrels (like Cardinal Richelieu) who used the Church to pursue political and personal power agendas.

  But though rejecting the institution of marriage, and clear in her own mind that the first rush of romantic love could not last, she nevertheless knew that one could die of loneliness if one never loved. So she chose lovers and friends. And not indiscriminately. Indeed, not even rank, fortune, fame, or beauty were passports to her bed or drawing room. She gave her favors only where she found pleasure and joy, and for only so long as pleasure and joy lasted. This is all very clear in her letters, which are a genuine version of the novel, Dangerous Liaisons (a side fact, the seducer Valmont in Dangerous Liaisons is based on a real person, the Duc de Richelieu).