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Inquisitioning Minds Want To Know

by Melanie (Shuvcat) Alford, © 2000

On a dark and stormy night in 1909, the Mayor tells Edna Mae exactly how he got to be so evil. Rated R for violence (some of it against children) sadism, immolation, swordfighting, prejudice against gypsies, gratuitous flashbacks, kung fu, sword fu, charred corpse fu, and um, septugenarian cuddling. ;)
For Maribel, with much love and appreciation for her indespensible help on the Spanish aspects of this story (and for supplying the title!) Couldn't have done it without you, girlfriend. :)
As always, Joss and WB own, I just sublet.

"Mother in darkness, hear your son. Accept this humble sacrifice as we open the door on your new empire. Let the arcane laws be rendered naught; let fire freeze and water burn. Let the bodies of the lower beings burst open in fountains of blood in your name. Cleanse this filthy orb and leave us unscathed, your humble servants, willing vessels of your will. On this day of darkness, let the earth be cleansed."

Thunder grumbled ominously. The dark wizard Richard Wilkins, master of black arts, mayor of the small town of Boca del Infierno, California, regarded his book darkly. The Latin incantation scrawled down the page, his own scratchings written in coppery red ink. The spell would have to be worded very precisely; omitting nothing, leaving no loopholes for any nasty critters to crawl through. And the whole thing had to be cleverly disguised to human ears as English, as a speech, an address he would give at some undetermined point in the future. It would have to be perfect.

His deadly serious countenance faded as he made a face, clicked his tongue in deliberation. "D'you think I should mention something about civic pride?" he wondered aloud.

In their large four-poster bed he stood facing, his wife, the former miss Edna Mae Mickelwhite, smiled a weak smile from where she lay. "I think it's lovely as is," she answered softly. "You always did tend to overwrite things."

Mayor Wilkins tilted his head, considered his notes. "Yeah, you're right," he finally decided, flipping the book closed. "Boy, these write-it-yourself spells are murder. And some people would probably think it's a little premature to prepare a speech I don't get to make for the next eighty years." He laughed lightly, reflecting on what the future held, as he set his books down for the night. "But if there's one thing I learned at that Prohibition fiasco, it's that less is more."

The amusement left his face as his attention shifted focus. The Mayor gazed at his wife, taking in her wan appearance. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice turned soft.

Edna Mae shook her head against his concern, drawing her fingers absently across her brow. "I'm not used to so much excitement, I suspect." Her voice, though she tried to make it sound light, held an unmistakable tinge of melancholy. "I'll be fine."

They both knew she was not being truthful. 1909 had been a tough year, what with tuberculosis and the flu going around, not to mention several airborne ills of magical makeup. Every year some two-penny sorcerers took it in their heads to strike down their enemies with magics disguised as the flu, and these things inevitably hit more folks than their intended victims. But Mayor Wilkins had magic, too, and would be pretty lax if he hadn't set up protections against such pennyanny spells. No, Edna's weakness was due to something much more serious.

Edna Mae had become pregnant early that summer. Their second child, really, but since Richard Wilkins II had been bitten to death by a vampire not three days into his life, this new baby would be their number one, their pride and joy. Except neither one of them had been happy to discover the news. Edna Mae, for her part, was depressed and fearfully unnerved because in truth, her first son was not dead. She had sent him away with her sister, fearing for his life in this insane world of demons and vampires, and had lied to Richard about his death. It was dangerous business lying to a warlock. She knew men that had died particularly nasty deaths for doing less. And she did it anyway.

She had told herself it was necessary. The dreams had shown her horrifying things that would happen if her son stayed in that house. She knew full well what her husband was capable of, and not only stayed by his side, his faithful companion, despite this knowledge, but often was his instrumental tool in carrying the deeds out. But what the dreams showed her -- God have mercy -- what they showed happening to her son was ghastly. She had to send him away, it was the best thing. For the boy -- for the earth he might have inherited. She might have averted Armageddon itself.

That was what she told herself, that she was acting in the infant's best interest. But being sick brings with it melancholy, and many of the hours she spent lying in this bed had been passed berating herself; vicisouly, candidly, for abandoning a baby, an unforgivable sin in her own eyes. It didn't matter that her sister Sophie was the best candidate for motherhood she could have asked for. Edna despised herself. Somewhere in the back of her head, during all the sacrifices and bloodlettings and endless parties that ended in death for most of the guests, she had felt that if she ever became a mother, if she could raise her offspring to any sucess at all, it would somehow absolve her of all wrongdoing. It was a foolish hope, and she knew it. And now she didn't even have that to hope for. She would never be a mother.

Now she would have to find a way to abandon this baby too. She didn't know if she could accomplish it a second time, and her husband was already suspecting something -- or so she thought. "We're expecting," she'd told him that first day in June.

He'd been joking over something or other, but his smile had dropped off his face and he became even paler than normal. "It can't be," he'd whispered, as if denying it. "Not now."

Edna's pale curved forehead had wrinkled, confused. "I thought you'd be happy." I thought one of us would be happy, anyway, she thought to herself.

Richard Wilkins had regarded his dear wife miserably. He had a secret, too: in the past few months, he had sensed his lifeforce waning. While he appeared well-kept at middleage, he was, in trth, hudnreds of years old. He had kept himself alive for the past few centuries by devouring the souls of young women, one after the other, leaving a long trail in his wake.

She would have been next. Edna Mae was a prize above all, because she had some magic in her, some deep indelible power, that would make it so he'd never need to feast off another girl again. He'd seen it in her that first day, in the park. One of the Chosen. One of them -- the small group of heirs to a blood legacy older than he was, old as time itself. There, he thought, was yet more proof that luck, fate, God or whatnot was a cruel, fickle administration. If he hadn't caught her in the sunlight....if one of the vampire vermin roaming his town had found her first... if she'd discovered her true calling... if her family had never moved to California.....it was perfect. Predestined, almost. All he had to do was win her trust, and her power -- her soul -- would be his for the devouring. He would liquefy her like a spider does a fly, and he would be truly immortal, unaging and undying, forever.

Except...he loved her.

He really did. Two hundred years of diligently annihilating all human feeling in his heart had come down to a fat load of nothing. It didn't matter that she was his moral opposite in every way, didn't matter that he was her senior by nearly a century and a half. He loved her madly. In the beginning he loved her shy reserve, the practiced manners and morals that he would soon strip from her like tattered lace, layer by layer, revealing how beautifully black her heart could be. He loved her humanity -- the very thing he sought to squelch in himself, he loved in her. It made her so cute and naive, and it meant hecould teach her all sorts of tricks. But even as the years passed and she became ever more adept at evil, she somehow transcended all the dreck, keeping a purity that made her almost angelic; goddesslike in his eyes. And he absolutely loved what he'd changed her into -- strong, fearless, the perfect evil queen for his empire. She looked royal; during her pregnancy her normally petite features had fleshed out adorably and she'd resembled the Queen of Clubs in a card deck -- sorrowed and iconic and full of strength. He loved her strength.

And, inevitably, he began bleeding her strength. He literally couldn't stop himself, when the time came. A slow, inexorable draining of her lifeforce, little by little, night by night. It was a torturing process... for her. He physically had never felt better. And spiritually, he had never felt worse. Again, a big fat lot of good selling his soul had done him. No more emotions, the demons had promised. Wasn't the first time they'd been wrong. But he was a magician, and he knew tricks, and he planned to save her. He would give it all back, with interest. Somehow. He would find a way, before he shriveled her to a husk. The pressure was on, but he'd had it under control. And now this.

She miscarried the baby. Strong as she was, even she couldn't sustain three lives. The town doctor hadn't expected her to live at all -- women didn't generally survive miscarriages in that day and age. But she had pulled through; the same inherent power that he coveted had brought her back from death's door. Pale, weak, barely able to lift her hands, fragile as glass. When she'd been laying in the best hospital his small western town had to offer, still going when any other woman would have long since expired, he'd sat by her bed for three days straight, clutching her hand, feeling the odd spikes in her lifeforce -- the supernatural birthright she didn't even know she had. "You're the strongest woman I've ever known," he had whispered aloud, marveling. And it brought a smile to her face.

He had been literally sickened by that smile. It used to be a favorite game of his, building up a woman's confidence and faith, watching her bloom under his attentions, seeing how brightly he could get them to glow before he snuffed out their light, adding it to his own. It was usually such rapturizing, painfully pleasant fun. But this was his Edna. And suddenly it wasn't funny anymore. Like having a mess of beetles crawl out of the roast duck you were about to eat. Or worse... having the duck turn its head and look up at you with the sweetest little smile....

Now on this dark and stormy night she lay, looking like a tiny rag doll in their huge bed, her black hair fanned around her pale face, and she gazed at him with more love and devotion than he deserved, more than he'd seen anyone direct at him. Ever since....

The Mayor of Boca del Infierno closed his eyes, turning his head. He didn't want to think about that.

"You look so sad all of a sudden," came her voice.

The Mayor smiled, opening his eyes. "And you sound surprised," he neatly served back, coming over to the bedside. He sat down on the quilts, in the perfect hollow created by the lump she made in the bed. She'd been battling a fever, so the bed was unusually warm, her body radiating heat even through the thick feather quilts.

Edna Mae shrugged, pushing herself up with much exertion, so she could speak better. "I don't believe I've ever seen you sad before," she said. Shocked, yes, when she'd told them their son was no more. Startled, fired into a rage -- not rage directed at her, but rage nonetheless -- but she had come to believe sadness was something he was blessed without. She was the sad one -- he was her jester, always ready to cheer her up when she got too moody, too dramatic, too melancholy. Sadness didn't seem part of his nature. "I fear I'm rubing off unfavorably on you."

"Now that's just silly." He was smiling now, that curving jester smile, whatever darkness that had ambushed him for a moment there now gone. "You've been nothing but good for me. You have!" She closed her eyes, smiling in quiet disbelief. Her eyelids were a slightly darker shade of grey than the rest of her face, and shiny. For the umpteenth time he wondered why he should feel so deeply toward her, how he could say that in nearly two centuries she was the only person ever to..... Edna Mae snickered sharply, breaking his train of thought. "I'll never fathom why you married me, Richard," she said, echoing his own thoughts. Her pretty face was dark. "I failed at being pious, I failed at being lapsed.....I can't even spawn a proper demon heir." She chuckled bitterly, disgusted by her uselessness. "There are not many souls who manage to fall short of Hell's grace, I'm sure." "Now what kind of talk is that?" he chided, linking her fragile hand in his. "You haven't failed me." He looked down at her hand, studying her fingers intently. His voice was suddenly grim. "No, sir. You haven't failed me in the least." He almost seemed reluctant to look at her. Edna frowned, wondering at this statement. Wilkins cleared his throat, looked up suddenly, the smile back. "Anyway... let's not talk about that. I slogged through three dedications, a hearing on saddle laws and a pretty darn annoying Vishnu demon attack about halfway through lunch, just so I could come home and offer you my humble services." He bowed his head to her, like Aladdin's genie.

That brought a genuine smile from her this time. "Don't I feel special!" she brightened. "Let me think of something for you to do, then."

"Anything, my dear."

Edna tilted her head, thinking, looking around the room as if for ideas. "Let's see.... I want you...to..." She focused her weary smile on him. "Tell me a bedtime story."

Wilkins chuckled. "A bedtime story? Why that, pray tell?"

Edna shrugged playfully. "Because you are evil and wicked, and I like making you do silly things."

"And you're the only one I'll do them for!" he assured her. "All right then. A story it is. What kind of story would you like to hear?"

"I want. To hear." She lifted a painfully bony arm and drew her thin fingers over her brow, thinking. "How you lost your soul," she decided finally.

"Ah." He sat back, clearing his throat. "Well, I was in New York City and this round little man in a devil's suit came up to me--"

"Not....that one." Edna Mae broke into a grin. Even the growing lines around her eyes and mouth couldn't detract from her beauty. "The real story, now. You've never told me....how you came to be so despicably evil." She was joking.

But she couldn't have picked a worse topic. Wilkins' smile faded, looking down at his other hand resting on his knee. "Well, there's a very good reason for that," he said after a long pause. "It's not exactly the kind of thing you tell in mixed company." He plucked a stray bit of lint off his pantleg. "Much less to a lady as sick as you've been."

"You know I don't mind." Edna Mae was serious now. "By now I've heard worse. By now I've done worse." She snickered weakly. "Come now, let's have it. All the gory, shocking details. You may even make some up if you want."

The Mayor uttered a laugh that was oddly humorless. "You're certainly in a morbid mood this evening," he muttered.

"It suits the occasion, doesn't it?" Edna pouted. "Dickie....you know, this might be my dying request. I could very well die any day, and--"

She was only kidding. The way his head suddenly jerked up caused her to stop dead. "What's the matter?" she asked, concerned.

He just stared at her, his face relaxing but still not happy, coming to a conclusion. "Okay," he conceded, as if she'd just passed her own judgement. "A grim fairy tale, then."

He laid her hand gently on the cover and got up, walking around to the other side of the bed. Edna Mae shifted in the covers, getting comfy. She secretly adored listening to her husband talk, about anything, even dull things. He had a soothing voice, and she wanted to hear anything soothing now, even a bloodgutting story would sound like a lullaby coming from him. Her eyes sparkled dimly as he settled down on top of the warm quilts she was lying under, sinking the mattress. He curled up in a fetal position by her side, propping his cheek on one fist, taking up her hand with the other and heaving a sigh. "Okay.... let's see....once upon a time, or so legend in Spain has it, there was a beautiful little girl."

"You're right, that's ghastly." Edna smiled.

He looked up at her with a do-y'wanna-hear-this-or-not expression. Edna bit down a smile. "Sorry. Continue, please."

.

*****************************

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A long time ago in the then-smal province of Santiago there lived a little girl named Panfila with her brother, orator, man-at-arms, and defender of his Faith, Ricardo Dosantos. Ricardo was a swordsman -- an expert, even at his young age, renowned for his speed and agility -- and made his small livling joining up with the soldiers of a new movement in Spain, one that would rid the country of all evil and heresy, a movement that would eventually become known to the world as the Spanish Inquisition. Isabella and Ferdinand were spearheading a movement to rid their country of all evil. It was a noble goal, and Ricardo was honored to fight for it. He spoke regualrly in the village square, stirring the villagers' civic pride and moral sense, inspiring many young men to followhim into the ranks of the growing army, which was commanded by Ricardo's childhood friend Dominic Delas and which was sandction by the elder of the local branch of the holy Catholic church, one Padre Hernando Madras. The fight for righteousness didn't take up all of Ricardo's time of course. He spent his spare hours practicing his swordfight on the hill outside their house, and his number one admirer was his tiny sister Panfila. A fiery girl with rabbity brown hair and sparkling eyes, Pan loved adventure and dreamed someday of being a horsewoman, even though such things were not heard of then. She also loved a good story, and her favorite was the tale about Tonino the hunchback and the night he met the fairies of the valley, and watched their dance with their chant of the days of the week; "Lunes y Martes y Miércoles tres; Jueves y Viernes y Sábado sies" -- Monday Tuesday Wednesday three, Thursday Friday Saturday six. It was Tonino who kindly taught the fairies the second verse of their song, and in gratitude they removed the hump from his back and gave him a sack of gold. Ricardo would always act out the story, limping around with a make-believe "hump" while Panfila danced madly around him, playing the role of the fairies. "But his friend Pedro, who was also a hunchback, and greedy and lazy besides, wanted his hump removed too," said Ricardo, telling the tale for the hundreth time that day. Panfila loved this part of the story. "And he went to spy on the fairies as they danced!" she shouted, spinning in circles as her brother hunched down behind a tree, pretending to spy. "And instead of waiting and listening to the rhythm of their song," said Ricardo, "the fool Pedro leaped out into the open and shouted '--y Domingo siete -- and Sunday seven!!'" Pan whirled around, rabbity hair flying. "Who dares interrupt our singing?" she squeaked, feigning fairy indignance. "What mortal dares mention that bane of all fairies -- a holy day?!" She jumped at her brother's lanky frame, throwing him to the ground. "And the fairies dragged out Tonino's hump from some hidden place--" "Oh no, not that!!" howled Ricardo, playing along. Pan laughed like a loon, crawling onto her brother's back. "And they fixed it to the other hump, and he was forced to carry two humps for the rest of his days!" she shouted, laughing as Ricardo carried her piggyback around the field, an eight year old giggling "hump". They were filthy from rolling around in the dirt, but good Christians need never fear honest dirt. There came a day when a pack of gypsies came to camp in the valley over the hill. There was strange chanting and fires, and Ricardo and Panfila would sneak to the hill at night and watch the strange rituals. "They're brujas -- witches!" exclaimed Panfila, a wicked excitement sparkling in her eyes.

"Hush, Pan," he whispered. "If they are witches they're what I'm going to be fighting, and if I'm fighting them we'd do well not to let them know we're here."

"But they're not bad witches," said Pan. "I met them the other day when I was out hunting for berries. They came and played with me. They showed me magic tricks."

Ricardo wasn't too thrilled with this. But instead of reporting the strange people to the church, he waited for others to discover the gypsies precence in their valley. Ricardo had formed a close bond with the commandant of the Spanish soldiers, and worried about not telling this.

Conversation between Ricardo and the Spanish commandant: the commander has an enemy that he sends a message to, that reveals a major weakness in plans. Ricardo goes, "Are you sure that's wise? Now they know your weakness," and the commander goes, "Always have one fatal flaw that your enemy knows everything about. Then when they think they've defeated you...rise up and destroy them." This is where he adopts his "fear" of germs. It's a red herring.

One night he went into the valley himself to find out who the gypsies were and what they were about. The gypsies were witches, all right, but they weren't practicing black magic. They were totally harmless, even had good aims. They had come to the valley to offer their services against the real evil, a brewing evil that indeed was present. They also knew the church wouldn't have anything to do with them, and had camped here on purpose, believing Ricardo might help them in speaking to the elders.

Panfila wanted to help, was thrilled to pieces. She had a bit of second sight, she could sense things, a brilliant little girl, and during his time with the gypsies Ricardo began learning his first rudimentary attempts at magic. He was enchanted with the idea of using the earth's power to change things. The more he practiced, the stronger he became. He found he had a natural talent for conjuring, and they began to think that little Panfila's imaginary friends might be something more like spirit guides, since she was talking about certain things before they happened. The two siblings were still deeply religious and commited to God and the church, but came to believe their powers were completely wholesome, and not produced by the devil, as the church would have claimed.

"But why did they have to practice witchcraft?" asked Edna astutely. "They knew, they weren't stupid. I should talk...but why did they feel the need to do that?"

The Mayor, briefly distracted from his tale, shrugged noncommitally. "Why does the Catholic church feel the need to put gargoyles around their steeples?" he asked. "Why did the Quakers put hex signs on their barns? Why do otherwise God-fearing parents send their good little girls and boys out on Halloween dressed as the devil?"

Edna Mae twisted her mouth. "All right, all right," she conceded. "The state rests. What happened next?"

The gypsy leader told Ricardo one day that Panfila was not, as they believed, psychic after all. She was just playing with imaginary friends, like so many children do. Pan was in love with the idea of being psychic, and both me knew it would break the girl's heart to be told otherwise. "Are you going to tell her?" asked the gypsy.

Ricardo shook his head. "No...it's a blessing to her confidence. I can't see what hurt it will do for her to keep on believing in her visions."

The time came, inevitably, when the Church discovered the gypsies and began railing against them. Terrible things happened, plagues and accidents and terrible storms, and the gypsies were naturally blamed. When the church elders found that Ricardo had been protecting the gypsies, he was blacklisted and became a desperado. Their house was burned, the valley was overrun with soldiers slaughtering the heathen gypsies, hanging them, burning them, impaling them.

Ricardo and Panfila ran away, as far away as they could get, but the soldiers caught up with them. Ricardo fought as many as he could, and killed a few of the men he'd hoped to fight side by side with. He was injured and captured, and his beloved Pan was forced to stand trial as a witch.

The hooded elders glared darkly at the little girl in the burned, frayed frock. "You stand accused of the most heinous crime of witchcraft," said the High Priest, "and of blashpehming the name of the Holy Father. How do you answer these charges?"

"We have no malice toward the Father or the church," Ricardo called from the cell.

The Elder didn't bother to answer this. Instead he turned his attention on Panfila. "I will ask you a series of questions," he told the girl. "If you do not answer you will be tortured until you do answer. If you lie you will also be tortured. Be assured we will know if you lie, child." He looked to the witch-finder, whose eyes were cold and narrow, and who held no sentiment for children of any kind. "Are you a witch, girl?"

"No," answered Pan.

"She doesn't know what a witch is," Ricardo whispered to Marcus.

It was impossible to tell if the Elder was satisfied by that answer or not. "Have you ever used your powers to fly, to strike down your neighbor, to--"

"This is madness!" Ricardo shouted, furious. "She doesn't have any power of the kind! She's a girl, she's never harmed anyone in her life!"

"Silence the heathen," snapped the Elder. "The next words from your mouth will speed the girl's judgement. It will not be pleasant." He turned his glare down on the girl. "Do you hear voices, child?"

"No," moaned Ricardo. "Pan, in God's name, don't--"

"Yes, Padre," answered Pan brightly.

Ricardo's head dropped witha miserable bang on the iron bars.

All five of the elders looked upon the girl with new, sinister interest. "Do you ever converse with familiars of the devil?" asked the High Priest. "Do you speak to the evil minions of the dark prince?"

"They aren't evil," Pan said. "They're my friends. They show me pictures of what will happen in the future. They give me presents and tell me I'm going to be a horsewoman someday. They go with me everywhere, they protect me from the bigger boys in the village."

The elders were nearly falling off their seats listening. "You call on these creatures to strike down your enemies?" the Elder asked, eyes gleaming. "You see visions of the future? You accept gifts from the hand of the devil?"

"That isn't what happened!" Marcus had taken up the shout now.

"Silence!!" The Elder glared at the prisioners. "Stop using your minions to speak for you, Ricardo!" he warned, pointing a bony finger at him. "Your trial as a witch shall come soon enough, for now, take him to the dungeons!"

The iron door was opened, several soldiers dragged Ricardo and Marcus out. "The council has found the child guilty of witchcraft," intoned the Elder. "She will be executed at once. Take her to the bonfires."

"NO!!" Ricardo shoved at the men who were holding him, horror and fury magnifying his strength. He fought through the soldiers, punching and ducking wildly, frantic to save his sister, who was being dragged like a sack over the floor toward the doors. "She's not a witch! She's not even a seer, she's just playing make believe!! You can't do this, you can't execute her for just being a child!!" He screamed the words at the Elder, voice hoarse.

Something hot and painful exploded on the crown of his head. The room sank and went black.

When he woke up, he was in a dark dungeon, and Marcus was telling him that they had burned poor Panfila at the stake.

The matter-of-fact way in which the Mayor described little Panfila's horrible death only served to belie his pain. Edna could hear it in his voice, and his eyes were glistening slightly, rage and hurt intermingled, forced down, and drowned under a sea of black magic and years of discipline. Her husband looked up at her suddenly, the gentleness coming back and a wistful smile brightening his eyes. "And you said you weren't going to cry," he chided her. He reached out and caressed her face, drawing his thumb over her damp cheek.

Edna couldn't help it. Her black eyebrows were upraised in grief. So many lost babies. "That's the most terrible thing I've ever heard," she whispered softly. "That poor little girl. Those horrid soldiers." You poor man, she almost added. But that would have broken the protective barrier he'd set between himself and his story, and she drew away from this wall out of respect. "No wonder you -- I mean, no wonder--"

She couldn't even finish that thought. She sniffled, brought uncomfortably back to the world of her sickness. "It isn't all that way," she struggled. "Not all people are like that. Not all Christians are like that."

"No, of course not."

He sounded uncompromisingly sarcastic. Edna Mae swallowed. "The church was corrupt," she tried again. "That doesn't mean the faith is. If that elder hadn't been in charge--"

"--the church would still have hunted down all the magicians in Spain and burned them to death," the Mayor pointed out darkly. "It's called a witchhunt, my dear. It's not supposed to be sane. The only way to fix it is to be the one controlling it. Turn the tide. Focus the blame somewhere else, hopefully on someone more deserving, more often than not on whoever happens to be unlucky and foolish enough to be there at the time. It's not fair. But then life isn't exactly fair, is it?" His voice was bitter, and he drew a deep breath. "I suppose you'd rather hear the rest of this at another time, then."

Edna Mae looked startled. "Goodness, no! You must tell me what happened next, how did he get away? What did he do after?" She did want to know. She smiled encouragingly, her fingers reaching out to brush his brow, as if he were the one with a 101 fever. "Tell me. I want to hear."

He smiled. The look in his eyes was almost grateful. He kissed her hand, as if thanking her for letting him tell these things. "Okay," he said, heaving another sigh.

.

*****************************

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Ricardo escaped over the hills, starving and hunted. He revoked God and decided power was the only real truth, whoever held the most power won, and he resolved to become so powerful that this kind of thing would never happen again. He went back and killed all the soldiers, including the elder he'd put his faith in, and retrieved his sister's body, then went to look for what was left of the gypsies, hoping they could restore her with their magic. But they refused, telling him he had been marked as evil. Revoked even by these people he'd come to for help, he slaughtered them and buried Pan, sticking his sword upside down in the dirt over her grave, as a cross, not because he believed but because she would have liked it. The sun shone happily down on the grave and he glared at it, wishing to black it out of the sky for daring to shine on his dead sister.

 He went to the coast, taking a ship by means of his magic. He sailed across the seas, looking for some way to master death, add to his power, become ever more a sorcerer than he'd ever dreamed. He slaughtered and pillaged, and--"

"--to cries turned deaf ear," Edna suddenly joined in. Her eyes were wide. "'Till his name were a god to be feared and revered'." He was looking at her funny, and Edna rushed to explain. "I know that poem! Papa... my father used to make me recite it for my diction! Ricardo the scourge of....." She couldn't finish. She just stared at him, startled and somewhat awed by the realization that she was sharing her bed with an honest-to-God seventeenth century pirate.

He rolled his eyes, very non-pirately, in bemused disgust. "Good God... they're still printing that song?!"

"Yes." Her voice was dazed. "The man who wrote it... now what was his name, he was a pirate too-- he was hanged, I think--"

"He certainly was." The Mayor looked unabashedly, devilishly happy. "Made one funny looking bellweight, too. One thing I can't stand, it's a bad songwriter." He uttered a happy chuckle, remembering. "Where was I?"

His ship wrecked on the coast of what would become California and he found himself on a shore, confronted by hideous, hunchbacked, magical creatures.... not unlike Panfila's fairies.

The grotesque things danced before his eyes for a time, as he slipped in and out of consciousness there on the sand. When next he woke, he found himself staring up at a woman. A pleasant, cheery-faced woman with hair so blonde it was nearly white, looking every bit like someone's kindly mother, except for the fact that her eyes were blood red.

This apparition greeted him with a friendly, worried smile. "Are you the unfortunate traveler?" she asked.

Ricardo struggled to sit up on the sand, propping his head in his hands. Every part of him ached. "A traveler," he muttered. "Woman, I guess you could have told that easily enough from my dress. As for unfortunate, well...." He glared out at the sea. "...that's one very inadequate word for it."

The strange woman shook her head sympathetically. "Have a peach, dear."

Where she'd been able to pluck a peach on this barren shore, he couldn't guess, but he took it gratefully, munching into it with zeal. "You must be quite the seamstress," he said offhandedly, "to have strained your eyes so."

The woman uttered a pleasant laugh. It was echoed by a thousand grating, scraping voices out there along the beach. "Oh-ho, Ricardo," she giggled, "don't you know who I am?!"

He really couldn't say that he did, so she answered, "I am the one you've been seeking. I'm the Mother of all Discontent."

"Then you must be exhausted," Ricardo replied tartly.

The creature -- she looked vaguely inhuman at times, blurring as though the wet air were smudging her,like a painting in oil -- clicked her tongue in a very human way. "So you agree, there is much discontent in the world?"

"Nothing but," he answered. "There's no justice...no goodness, anywhere. It's nothing but evil." His voice was bitter. "And I'm the worst of it."

The woman smiled. "Well, speaking as an authority, I can tell you...at present... you are not. But you could be. Dust yourself off, you're filthy."

She got up from where she'd been sitting -- Ricardo had thought she was seated on a piece of driftwood but as she walked away he couldn't see any such thing on the ground at all -- but he did as she asked and followed her, nonetheless.

They walked down the beach, followed by odd slushy noises out there in the water. "This was not an accident, your wrecking here," she said. "We've been waiting a very long time for you. I've been waiting. You're the Ascender."

Ricardo didn't quite understand, and to buy time, he fell back on his one defense: flippancy. "I'm the Red Wolf, actually," he quipped.

She turned around suddenly. Her eyes were black as death, like being sucked into a whirlpool. "You want power." Her voice had suddenly turned cold. "Absolute power. The kind of power that destroys all that oppose you. The power over life and death."

"And you can give me that, no doubt." He sounded skeptical.

The woman's eyes burned. "I can do more than this. You are carrying a great pain. Sadness weighs your heart like the anchor weighs a ship." Had she had a tail, it would have been flicking. "I... can set you free."

The conquistador stood there, for once unable to make any remark, as the small woman continued. "You will remember all that has passed. There will be no tricks on your memory. But these memories will become as harmless as air, as meaningless as... well...." She smiled. "Name one thing that has meaning in this world. You will suffer no more, Ricardo. You will remember and you will not care. All you need do in return is...one favor."

Ricardo had already quite figured out who it was he was standing here talking to. "My soul? Done. Where do I sign?"

The woman smiled a very un-womanly, triumphant smile. "You must raise an altar to me. A temple of sacrifice. A home for my children to feed and find safe harbor." Her eyes gleamed. "You must do unpleasant deeds. Are you prepared?"

"Unpleasant deeds are somehing I've grown quite adept at," he agreed.

"Bloodshed, yes." The woman's eyes were hungry. "I care nothing for blood, despite what you may have heard. It's the death of the soul I require. You must deliver as many souls to me as possible. Unbloodied souls. The reward I will give you is dependant on your cleanliness. You must never shed blood."

"That'll be a clever trick," he said.

"You'll think of something." The woman's eyes were back to red.

They welcomed him, told him he was one of the Ascenders, and struck a deal: They would grant him all the power he wanted if he would raise a town here and allow their kind to feed off it. He would give them his soul and feel no more pain, no more human emotions, and they would give him absolute power. He agreed on the spot and founded a settlement, Boca Del Infierno. The city had been dedicated in 1899 and here he had remained ever since.

Edna Mae lay silent, watching his eyes as he ended his tale. She had always been fascinated by how his eyes changed; sometimes luminous, sometimes dark and fearful, and sometimes, just for her, kind and sparkling. Now they looked very, very old; as if they were seeing every sight that the age-old soul before her had experienced. She hated to see him sad like this. He was supposed to be strong, cheerful, the one who would cheer her up. She herself was no good at cheering people up. Honestly, there was only one thing she could think of to take the pain away. "Come here," she said.

She opened her arms and gathered her husband's large frame close to her, resting his head on the soft pillow of her breast. Her skeletal fingers brushed his hair, his temples; a dark queen comforting her wicked court wizard. "One thing about infinity," she tried to cheer him, "It means there is always time to start anew."

He couldn't argue with that. "Except one can only start over so many times," he offered.

"Now who's being gloomy?" She smiled, looking down into his eyes. A pirate, a conqueror, a demon, a murderer. A soldier who only wanted to stop fighting, she thought, resting at his lady love's side. She felt very motherly and powerful, and she leaned over and kissed him.

It had to be her imagination that he was freezing up, almost trying not to touch her as she leaned against him, fingers clutching his arm as they kissed. "Come to bed," she whispered against his lips.

The Mayor kicked off his shoes even as he told himself no, he wouldn't do it, not tonight, not after she'd made him relive all those old memories. She was too good for him, listening to all that and then loving him anyway, especially when he was bleeding her of her soul without her even knowing it. He didn't deserve her, and she didn't deserve this, being decieved and pushed to the edge of death. "You're not up for this," he tried to discourage her.

Edna Mae didn't even bother listening. It took most of her strength to pull the quilts up over them as he slid down beside her, and she didn't care. She was a liar, a heathen, and would probably be a terrible mother, but she could at least try. "I'm going to give you a son if it kills me," she told him with a smile.

God, did she have to say it like that. "It might very well, at that," he muttered. His hands moved over the ruffles of her nightdress.

"Now who's being morbid?" Edna snuggled up next to her husband, ignoring the aching weakness that seemed to follow where his warm hand graced her hip. "It's okay," she assured him. "I have a feeling...this time we'll keep him." She meant it. No more shipping away her children, no more games. The next son was going to grow up in this house, part of this family. She felt happy, hopeful, about the future for the first time in quite a while.

Mayor Wilkins, one hundred and ten years old, alive only by virtue of a thousand dead girls, gazed into his latest victim's weak, black eyes, and he tried to reassure himself. She wouldn't die...she wouldn't. It was going to be all right. "Next time," he agreed miserably.

.

End

He makes references to having a soft heart, he considers it a weakness. He and Pan know practicing witchcraft is wrong, however they suspect the elers of doing it too, and belive since they are using it to defeat evil, God will not punish them. He had leaned the secrets of immortality when he was a young buck of twenty-seven. The demons warned him he would need to keep careful track of when his "battery" would begin to fade; he would have to make arrangements, find youthful souls to devour. A really young girl with all her life before her was good for about thirty years; the younger the girl, the more life was granted to him. The longer he let this chore go, the more rapidly his mounting years would start showing, and there was no remedying that. One close call had come in 1814, and it had cost him; he aged to his mid forties in the three days before he was able to catch a soul and stop the effects. Lost half his hair, but it hadn't mattered much. He might have ended up far worse. And Edna Mae, bless her heart, didn't seem to mind much.

He tells a story about a small Spanish girl named Panfila and her older brother Ricardo. Ricardo was a expert swordfighter, a popular orator, and hoped to join a movement by the church to rid Spain and the rest of the earth of the devil's influence -- a movment that would soon be known worldwide as the Inquisition. He would practice swordfighting on the hill outside his house, but he always made time to play with his sister, who loved watching her brother practice and loved a good story better than anything. Her favorite was the tale about the Tonino the hunchback and the fairies, and Ricardo would act out the parts while he was telling the story, limping around with a make-believe hump as Panfila gleefully danced around him, playing the role of the vengeful fairies.