The Mills of the Gods by Tim Powers

Author:Tim Powers [Powers, Tim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy, Contemporary, Dark Fantasy, Historical
ISBN: 9781964856438
Google: _PViEQAAQBAJ
Publisher: Baen Books
Published: 2025-12-02T04:00:00+00:00

PART THREE:

Cybele in the

Underworld

CHAPTER ELEVEN:

Speak of the Devil

“My money was left at the temple in my cap,” Vivi said as the cab clopped away behind them. Her voice was hoarse, but willfully steady.

“Lucky I was able to peel off a couple of bills.” Nolan carefully tucked the rest of his sodden bankroll back into his pocket.

The cab had dropped them off on the street just north of Gertrude Stein’s studio on the Rue de Fleurus, and Vivi and Nolan now made their way down a shadowed walk between two buildings to the alley behind Stein’s studio. Nolan had tucked the flashlight behind his belt, wishing it was his lost pistol instead.

“Around the Luxembourg Gardens,” whispered Vivi, “down Boul’ Raspail to Boul’ Montparnasse—the catacombs are right under us.”

Nolan resisted an impulse to stamp on the pavement. “I want to ask her about this word Shaydim,” he said quietly. “The old man in the belfry said they’ve broken out of . . . salt walls of . . . ?”

“‘Of sauteur making.’ Yes.” Vivi paused to cough. “Picasso’s devils in les carriéres.”

She and Nolan edged around Gertrude Stein’s automobile and walked up to the back door of her flat. Nolan exhaled and knocked on it.

A moment later it was swung open, releasing a puff of warm air that carried the aroma of chicken chow mein. Nolan recognized Alice Toklas’s silhouette in the doorway.

“Well, speak of the devil,” she said. “Come in, fugitives.”

They shuffled into a hall with a closed door on either side, and as Toklas pulled the back door shut behind them they walked into the big studio room.

Gertrude Stein was sitting on the couch below her portrait, and Ernest Hemingway was getting to his feet. Nolan thought he looked startled, and not happy with these intruders in an ongoing conversation. He was wearing the same tan sweater that he’d had on yesterday, and in the glare of the several electric lamps his firm jaw and moustache made him look older than he had then. Plates and glasses stood on a couple of nearby tables.

“Good God, child,” said Toklas from behind them, “what’s happened to you now?” She took Vivi’s elbow and steered her to a chair.

“She knocked her head,” said Nolan, and when Toklas had pushed Vivi into the chair, he presumed to sit down in the one next to it. He set the flashlight on the floor, and noticed spots of dried blood on the carpet from when Vivi had sat there the night before.

Toklas was carefully unwinding the blood-spotted cloth from around Vivi’s head. “Who was it that thought this was an adequate bandage?”

“Thibaud Cadieux,” said Vivi. Nolan tensed, ready to whistle the Scriabin notes, but Vivi’s expression didn’t change.

Toklas nodded, clearly humoring her, and Hemingway and Stein only looked concerned. “Check for concussion,” Hemingway said.

“Of course,” said Toklas, tipping Vivi’s chin back to look into her eyes.

“When did the injury happen?” asked Hemingway.

Vivi couldn’t readily open her mouth, so Nolan said, “Maybe three hours ago.”

Hemingway gave him a sharp look. “And where were you?”

Nolan leaned back and rubbed his eyes.

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