City of Night

more obvious monster of me.”
    “The tattoo?”
    “Well-intended but inadequate disguise. Most of my life, I’ve spent in freakshows, in carnivals and their equivalent, where almost everyone is an outcast of one kind or another. But before coming to New Orleans, I was some years in a Tibetan monastery. A friend there, a monk, worked his art on my face before I left.”
    After a slow sip of his bitter brew, the white-haired priest said, “How primitive?”
    Deucalion hesitated to reveal his origins, but then realized that his unusual size, the periodic pulse of something like heat lightning in his eyes, and the cruel condition of his face were sufficient to identify him. “More than two hundred years ago. I am his first.”
    “Then it’s true,” Duchaine said, a greater bleakness darkening his eyes. “If you’re the first and yet have lived so long, we may last a thousand years, and this earth is our hell.”
    “Perhaps, but perhaps not. I lived centuries not because he knew in those days how to design immortality into me. My longevity and much else came to me on the lightning that brought me to life. He thinks I’m long dead… and does not suspect I have a destiny.”
    “What do you mean… on the lightning?”
    Deucalion drank coffee. After he returned the mug to the table, he sat for a while in silence before he said, “Lightning is only a meteorological phenomenon, yet I refer not just to a thundercloud when I say the bolt that animated me came from a higher realm.”
    As Father Duchaine considered this revelation, some color rose in his previously pale face. “ ‘Longevity and much else’ came on the lightning. Much else… and a destiny?” He leaned forward in his chair. “Are you telling me… you were given a soul?”
    “I don’t know. To claim one might be an act of pride too great to be forgivable in one whose origins are as miserable as mine. All I can say with certainty is that I was given to know things, blessed with a certain understanding of nature and its ways, knowledge that even Victor will never acquire, nor anyone else this side of death.”
    “Then,” said the priest, “there sits before me a Presence,” and the mug between his hands rattled against the table as he trembled.
    Deucalion said, “If you have come to wonder if there is any truth in the faith you preach—and I suspect that in spite of your programming, you have at least wondered—then you have entertained the possibility that there is always, at every hour, a Presence with you.”
    Nearly knocking over his chair as he got to his feet, Duchaine said, “I’m afraid I need something more than coffee.” He went to the pantry and returned with two bottles of brandy. “With our metabolism, it takes a quantity to blur the mind.”
    “None for me,” Deucalion said. “I prefer clarity.”
    The priest filled half his empty mug with coffee, the other half with spirits. He sat. Drank. And said, “You spoke of a destiny, and I can think of only one that would bring you to New Orleans two hundred years later.”
    “It is my fate to stop him,” Deucalion revealed. “To kill him.”
    The color that had come into the priest’s cheeks now drained away. “Neither of us can raise our hands against him. Your broken face is proof of that.”
    “We can’t. But others can. Those who are of man and woman born owe him no allegiance… and no mercy.”
    The priest took more brandy-spiked coffee. “But we’re forbidden to reveal him, forbidden to conspire against him. Those commands are wired into us. We have no capacity to disobey.”
    “Those proscriptions were not installed in me,” Deucalion said. “They no doubt came to him as an afterthought, perhaps on his wedding day two hundred years ago… when I murdered his wife.”
    When Father Duchaine added brandy to his brew, the neck of the bottle rattled against the rim of the mug. “No matter who your god is, life is a vale of tears.”
    “Victor is no god,” Deucalion pressed. “He is not even as little as a false god, nor half as much as a man. With his perverse science and his reckless will, he has made of himself less than he was born, has diminished himself as not even the lowliest beast in nature could abase and degrade itself.”
    Increasingly agitated in spite of the brandy, Duchaine said, “But there’s nothing you can ask of me that I could do, assuming even that I might wish to do it. I cannot conspire .”
    Deucalion finished his coffee. As it