I confess that for the first time in quite a long while, I feel a purpose for my existence. The girl has given me that. My revered ability to predict future events aside, I am convinced it is possible—no, a near certainty—that Celestine can alter the mortals’ inexorable path toward destruction, and I rejoice in the fact that I played perhaps the most important role. However, I also foresee an illicit event that may very well destroy her before she can even truly begin.
I pace a circle as I reconsider this vision. I pray God it is among the handful of inaccuracies I have misforecast in centuries past. But I have called upon Him before, have I not? Called upon is a rather unimpassioned description; I pleaded until blue in the face as days became nights and nights became sleepless expeditions in time.
Oh! Will He hear me now?
The loathing toward my own immortality I owe to the brutal realization that many of my premonitions (the French Revolution, the rise of Hitler, and the assassination of America’s beloved John Fitzgerald Kennedy) did come to fruition. I had always assumed I would be dust beneath the ground long before the atrocities occurred—my soul safeguarded from all things grievous and heartbreaking—and blissfully unaware of the cataclysms.
I push these harrowing remembrances aside as she floats in my direction. Her face is still aglow and her eyes, too, retain the shimmer of unrequited passion, and I curse Tristan for his unsolicited visit. Now is not the time for distraction. But I sense her overwhelming gratitude, and I exhale a sigh, relieved that she has finally embraced her destiny.
“Because I am your Maker, I cannot teach you the ability to read another’s thoughts,” I say. She nods, which comes as no surprise. Perhaps she has acquired this fact from time spent with the Toroks, but I suspect this is purely intuition. From the start, I was aware of her intelligence, but more than that, her advanced instinct that will only serve to enhance all that I have given her. I clear my throat, and I am most grateful she will always be unaware of my thoughts and I of hers—shrouding my latest vision from the others has proven quite arduous. I am convinced that one (undoubtedly Socrates) would seek the Omniscients’ counsel should they discover my secret. Moreover, it is my belief that upon hearing this confession—premonition or not—the Omniscients might very well call for Celestine’s destruction. I shudder at this possibility. In truth, I have become quite fond of the girl.
“Therefore,” I continue, “I propose I introduce you to the ability to transform oneself into something decidedly different.”
“Shapeshifting?” she offers and cocks her head toward a shoulder.
“A most rudimentary term for something that is anything but simple, though accurate, I suppose.” My eyes meet hers and I hold her complete attention. “Prepare yourself for disappointment, Celestine. Not a one of us accomplished this feat straightaway. Simply put, envision that which you wish to become, and it shall be. I have given you the power.”
The glow has left her face, and in her eyes I see not the remnants of rapture but presumed defeat. I needn’t the power of telepathy to know she hasn’t the slightest idea how best to achieve this objective. Leave it to the others to task me with the impossible, as I am unable to guide her telepathically.
“Let us begin with something familiar, with someone you know as well as yourself. Perhaps your brother, Nicholas. Close your eyes and see him there, feel his presence, then merely replicate what is in your mind’s eye.”
Judging from her clenched jaw and pinched eyelids, she is most determined to succeed. I wait patiently, with words of encouragement and consolation at the ready. Wait! I lurch closer still so that I might observe her more closely. Is that a hair blemishing her sculpted chin? Now two? Now three? My breath catches when a goatee sprouts and her breasts flatten beneath her blouse. My hands fly to my mouth, and I smother exaltation when her long golden hair shrinks before my eyes, and she readjusts her trousers to accommodate newly acquired manhood.
“You have done it, mademoiselle!” I say as she swaggers into my open arms.