enough, she assured herself. And she needed help against them and the man who sent them.
They say, cherie, that there is no free lunch. Best think of this. Why should the god Smoking Mirror help you?
Ninon sighed. I know there will be a price. Believe me, I know. But whatever it costs, I’ll pay.
She had no choice.
Ninon took up the quill and then wrote quickly:
Let no vain hope come now and try,
My courage strong to overthrow;
My age demands that I should die,
What more can I do here below?
This would serve as a farewell. She wished that it was possible to spare her friends grief at her supposed death, but it was time to leave. She could no longer disguise the fact that she was not aging.
And this might be her death in truth, should the lightning fail to revive her. It was her third time to submit herself to its fiery embrace, and each healing had been slower than the last, her heart and brain ever less eager to recover. There could be no long delay of this process either, for she knew how swiftly age could come upon her. In less than a month, her hair would fall out, her joints knot with arthritis, her vision would fail, and her lungs would fill with water. Lifetimes of delayed disease would gnaw on her innards. But she probably would not die.
A part of her wanted to give in and end it all. But was that suicide? If God had not intended for her to live, would he have sent the Dark Man her way? Surely she was intended for some important purpose.
She had lived ninety years, surrounded by the finest philosophical and religious minds, but still had no answer to this question. So, she would put it all in God’s hands. If he willed it, she would live. If not, she would die in the fire.
Ninon laid down her pen and sighed.
Where the carcass is, there shall the eagles be gathered together.
— Matthew 24:28
The greatest potential for control tends to exist at the point where action takes place.
— Ninon de Lenclos
No initiate was welcome if he could not heal—aye, recall to life from apparent death those who, too long neglected, would have died of lethargy.
— H. P. Blavatsky on the cult of St. Germain, from The Secret Doctrine
C HAPTER T HREE
The dirt road she traveled might have been a relic from the days of Cortez, or at least Pancho Villa, and the longer Ninon traveled it, the more she felt that she was driving into the past instead of the future—and she wasn’t at all certain it was where she wanted to go. She also wished that her Buns of Steel DVD had actually given her a solidmetal butt. Along with a cast-iron bladder.
This land was closer to the Bronze Age than any New Age, and the old gods felt closer, too, probably because people still needed them and their call was answered by an artesian upwelling of power that seethed out of soil watered with their sweat and blood. The idea of wanting to be with these gods was alien, but she supposed that there was some comfort to be had in seeing aspects of your gods in their animal totems wandering your backyard. Her own bodiless deity, who only visited churches and cathedrals, felt uncomfortably far away out here in the desert.
In the blinking of a tired eye, the dirt track filled with birds, became a bowling alley of poultry with a deathwish, which was Corazon’s favorite kind of meal and had him meowing excitedly. Not sharing her pet’s desire for a bloody strike, Ninon applied the brakes, forcing the cat to put twenty more holes in both the upholstery and the dashboard where he was leaning. Disgusted at her cowardice, he spat once and then leapt from the car’s open window to fetch his now-fleeing lunch.
“Corazon— merde! The dry crunchies aren’t that bad!” Ninon killed the engine and jumped out after him. She shoved her pistol into the back of her jeans. Possibly there was some law about abandoning a vehicle in the middle of the road, but she was willing to risk it. “Come back here, you black-hearted cat,” she called, but softly. The
They say, cherie, that there is no free lunch. Best think of this. Why should the god Smoking Mirror help you?
Ninon sighed. I know there will be a price. Believe me, I know. But whatever it costs, I’ll pay.
She had no choice.
Ninon took up the quill and then wrote quickly:
Let no vain hope come now and try,
My courage strong to overthrow;
My age demands that I should die,
What more can I do here below?
This would serve as a farewell. She wished that it was possible to spare her friends grief at her supposed death, but it was time to leave. She could no longer disguise the fact that she was not aging.
And this might be her death in truth, should the lightning fail to revive her. It was her third time to submit herself to its fiery embrace, and each healing had been slower than the last, her heart and brain ever less eager to recover. There could be no long delay of this process either, for she knew how swiftly age could come upon her. In less than a month, her hair would fall out, her joints knot with arthritis, her vision would fail, and her lungs would fill with water. Lifetimes of delayed disease would gnaw on her innards. But she probably would not die.
A part of her wanted to give in and end it all. But was that suicide? If God had not intended for her to live, would he have sent the Dark Man her way? Surely she was intended for some important purpose.
She had lived ninety years, surrounded by the finest philosophical and religious minds, but still had no answer to this question. So, she would put it all in God’s hands. If he willed it, she would live. If not, she would die in the fire.
Ninon laid down her pen and sighed.
Where the carcass is, there shall the eagles be gathered together.
— Matthew 24:28
The greatest potential for control tends to exist at the point where action takes place.
— Ninon de Lenclos
No initiate was welcome if he could not heal—aye, recall to life from apparent death those who, too long neglected, would have died of lethargy.
— H. P. Blavatsky on the cult of St. Germain, from The Secret Doctrine
C HAPTER T HREE
The dirt road she traveled might have been a relic from the days of Cortez, or at least Pancho Villa, and the longer Ninon traveled it, the more she felt that she was driving into the past instead of the future—and she wasn’t at all certain it was where she wanted to go. She also wished that her Buns of Steel DVD had actually given her a solidmetal butt. Along with a cast-iron bladder.
This land was closer to the Bronze Age than any New Age, and the old gods felt closer, too, probably because people still needed them and their call was answered by an artesian upwelling of power that seethed out of soil watered with their sweat and blood. The idea of wanting to be with these gods was alien, but she supposed that there was some comfort to be had in seeing aspects of your gods in their animal totems wandering your backyard. Her own bodiless deity, who only visited churches and cathedrals, felt uncomfortably far away out here in the desert.
In the blinking of a tired eye, the dirt track filled with birds, became a bowling alley of poultry with a deathwish, which was Corazon’s favorite kind of meal and had him meowing excitedly. Not sharing her pet’s desire for a bloody strike, Ninon applied the brakes, forcing the cat to put twenty more holes in both the upholstery and the dashboard where he was leaning. Disgusted at her cowardice, he spat once and then leapt from the car’s open window to fetch his now-fleeing lunch.
“Corazon— merde! The dry crunchies aren’t that bad!” Ninon killed the engine and jumped out after him. She shoved her pistol into the back of her jeans. Possibly there was some law about abandoning a vehicle in the middle of the road, but she was willing to risk it. “Come back here, you black-hearted cat,” she called, but softly. The
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