siege. Especially beware her voice, which can enslave, and also her eyes that are like an invading horde sacking one’s brain and demolishing one’s will. For where her voice and gaze fall, there even wise men are made captive, and their hearts and minds are made to burn until they are but ash which her smiling lips may blow away. She is slow to rouse, but where she finally attacks, she gives no quarter.
— Letter from the Dark Man to his son, Comte Saint Germain
So his father had also attempted a seduction and failed. This was not surprising because she was lovely as well as a vessel of power. But if she could not be had one way, then he would find another. This was dangerous, perhaps even stupid, but faint hearts did not kill fair ladies.
The beautiful magician stepped into the moonlight and raised his right arm on high. In his left hand he held a silver blade.
“I call thee, Evil Spirit, Cruel Spirit, Merciless Spirit: I call thee who sittest in the cemetery and takest away the healing of man and eatest his soul. Go and place a mark on the one called Ninon de Lenclos. Put a knot in her brain, in her eyes, in her mouth, in her tongue, in her windpipe, and put poisoned water in her belly. I call thee and those six knots that you go quickly to her and kill and bring me her soul, because I wish it. Here is payment of my blood. Amen, Amen, Amen.”
The one called Saint Germain smiled as he slashed his wrist and watched his black blood spill onto the frozen ground.
Ninon, now called Ana St. Cyr, boarded the train at Gare du Nord in an uneasy frame of mind. Standing under the metal-vaulted canopy in the cathedral of modern transportation, she had her first small frisson of disquiet. Foolishly, she did not obey the intuitive tug on her skirt that told her to return home. There was no sensible reason for her to abandon her luggage or forestall her visit to London where she had heard Lord Byron was presently staying.
She paused at the top of the steps. There were others on the train, all swaddled in scarves and buried in winter coats, but not so many as normal because the unseasonablyharsh weather and illness had kept them at home. There were also few porters about, and few vendors trying to hawk their wares. An eerie quiet surrounded them.
Ninon walked along the dim corridor, the back of her neck and palms tingling in an increasingly unpleasant manner. She drew near her assigned compartment, feeling steadily more alarmed though she could perceive no peril in the deserted car.
The car shifted as though buffeted by a strong wind. The hair on her nape began to rise and something tickled at the back of her throat, a bit of poisoned air perhaps. Ozone was gathering, a lightning storm.
But that was impossible. Not inside the train station.
Danger. She couldn’t ignore it any more. Something bad was close by. Perhaps a ghost. Perhaps something worse.
Ninon stopped. She took a deep breath, allowing her eyes to focus on the curtained glass of the door across from her. Glass, mirrors, still pools all induced in her a hypnagogic state where she could access other senses. She stared into the glass, looking past her reflection.
Something moved inside. Something man-sized, but not man-shaped. And dark. A vague scent of rot and sulfur floated toward her.
Dippel? Could it be him? Or one of his sick creations? But why? And why here?
The train began to move, pulling her off balance in her tiny heeled slippers. She put a hand to the wall and turned her head slowly in the dark shape’s direction. There! At the end of the corridor, someone waited behind an opened door. Someone very large with black shoes and dark woolen pants.
The feet moved, rocking forward slyly, and she saw that it wasn’t shoes at all. She was looking at hooves. And the thing wasn’t wearing trousers, it had knotted legs covered in fur. As she watched in frozen horror, a long snout eased around the corner of the door, drool running down the long tusks that
— Letter from the Dark Man to his son, Comte Saint Germain
So his father had also attempted a seduction and failed. This was not surprising because she was lovely as well as a vessel of power. But if she could not be had one way, then he would find another. This was dangerous, perhaps even stupid, but faint hearts did not kill fair ladies.
The beautiful magician stepped into the moonlight and raised his right arm on high. In his left hand he held a silver blade.
“I call thee, Evil Spirit, Cruel Spirit, Merciless Spirit: I call thee who sittest in the cemetery and takest away the healing of man and eatest his soul. Go and place a mark on the one called Ninon de Lenclos. Put a knot in her brain, in her eyes, in her mouth, in her tongue, in her windpipe, and put poisoned water in her belly. I call thee and those six knots that you go quickly to her and kill and bring me her soul, because I wish it. Here is payment of my blood. Amen, Amen, Amen.”
The one called Saint Germain smiled as he slashed his wrist and watched his black blood spill onto the frozen ground.
Ninon, now called Ana St. Cyr, boarded the train at Gare du Nord in an uneasy frame of mind. Standing under the metal-vaulted canopy in the cathedral of modern transportation, she had her first small frisson of disquiet. Foolishly, she did not obey the intuitive tug on her skirt that told her to return home. There was no sensible reason for her to abandon her luggage or forestall her visit to London where she had heard Lord Byron was presently staying.
She paused at the top of the steps. There were others on the train, all swaddled in scarves and buried in winter coats, but not so many as normal because the unseasonablyharsh weather and illness had kept them at home. There were also few porters about, and few vendors trying to hawk their wares. An eerie quiet surrounded them.
Ninon walked along the dim corridor, the back of her neck and palms tingling in an increasingly unpleasant manner. She drew near her assigned compartment, feeling steadily more alarmed though she could perceive no peril in the deserted car.
The car shifted as though buffeted by a strong wind. The hair on her nape began to rise and something tickled at the back of her throat, a bit of poisoned air perhaps. Ozone was gathering, a lightning storm.
But that was impossible. Not inside the train station.
Danger. She couldn’t ignore it any more. Something bad was close by. Perhaps a ghost. Perhaps something worse.
Ninon stopped. She took a deep breath, allowing her eyes to focus on the curtained glass of the door across from her. Glass, mirrors, still pools all induced in her a hypnagogic state where she could access other senses. She stared into the glass, looking past her reflection.
Something moved inside. Something man-sized, but not man-shaped. And dark. A vague scent of rot and sulfur floated toward her.
Dippel? Could it be him? Or one of his sick creations? But why? And why here?
The train began to move, pulling her off balance in her tiny heeled slippers. She put a hand to the wall and turned her head slowly in the dark shape’s direction. There! At the end of the corridor, someone waited behind an opened door. Someone very large with black shoes and dark woolen pants.
The feet moved, rocking forward slyly, and she saw that it wasn’t shoes at all. She was looking at hooves. And the thing wasn’t wearing trousers, it had knotted legs covered in fur. As she watched in frozen horror, a long snout eased around the corner of the door, drool running down the long tusks that
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