THIS PART REMINDS me of nights when I was really little, after I was all tucked into bed. That’s when Grandma used to tell me stories. Fairy tales. Ancient mysteries. Greek myths. Sometimes the stories would blend in with my dreams and things that happened in my life and pretty soon I didn’t know which parts were real and which parts were made up.
That’s how I feel right now. My head is fuzzy from the champagne. I’m really tired. And I’m hearing the kind of story that sounds like it could never be true. Even if it actually is.
“Shiwan Khan is a golden master,” says Lamont, “descended from Genghis Khan himself. Direct line. The legend says that Genghis died when he was struck by lightning. His followers kept his battle spear, which was supposed to hold his spirit. After a while, they built a monastery to keep his spirit alive. When Shiwan’s parents died, the monks in the monastery took him in. They protected him. They taught him. They trained him. They passed on all their secrets. But Shiwan had powers even the monks couldn’t understand.”
I’m snuggled tight in Margo’s lap. She’s rubbing my head gently. It feels good, but it’s making me even sleepier. I’m drifting in and out. But still listening.
“We ran into Khan back in the 1930s,” says Margo, “when he was building his own private army. Lamont tracked him down and discovered his stockpile of weapons.”
“Khan tried to escape in one of his experimental planes,” said Lamont. “The plane crashed in the river. I thought he was dead.”
“But…he wasn’t?” I say.
“No,” says Lamont. “He survived. Or maybe he was never in the plane in the first place. Maybe it was all some kind of illusion. Anyway, that’s when he came back to poison me and Margo.”
“Luckily,” says Margo, “Lamont had a plan to keep us around.”
“I’m glad you’re both still here,” I say.
Or maybe I just mumble it.
Right before I fall asleep.