Immortal Muse (28 page)

He hugged her tightly. She could feel his chest moving, could hear his breath rattling in his lungs as he stroked her hair and shoulder, could feel him pressing the pendant she wore into her skin. She sobbed helplessly, closing her eyes as if she could shut out the sight of Nicolas falling, of the blood flowing from him and pooling underneath. “I thank God you're safe,” Lucio whispered. “He hasn't hurt you, then?”

She shook her head, unable to speak. She clung to him, as if she were afraid he was about to be snatched away from her.

It seemed minutes before the house valet came hurrying back to them. “Signorina,” he said. “You wounded the man, but no more. There is blood on the stones, and I glimpsed Monsignor Ceribelli fleeing toward the rear vineyard. He wouldn't stop when I called after him; though he was moving only with great difficulty. I've sent two of the servants in pursuit, and they should catch him easily; I've sent another man to the cardinal to inform him.”

“He's not dead?” Anna asked. “You're certain?” She remembered Nicolas falling, remembered the blood spilling from him.

“Not unless the dead can walk, Signorina,” the valet told her.

“There, you see,” Lucio told her. “You haven't killed him. They'll catch the man and he'll pay for what he did. It's not as bad as you feared.”

No, it's worse. He was right, then, and he's still out there.
But she didn't say that. Instead, she hugged Lucio more tightly, knowing what she must do now.

 * * * 

The servants didn't find the monsignor, nor did they return to the palazzo that night; instead, they were found dead not far from the low rear wall of the grounds the next morning. Both had strange burn marks on their chests, as if a black and silent lightning had descended from the clouds to spear them even while Anna, Lucio, and the rest of the servants were standing nearby.

A vile sorcery was suspected, especially when it was discovered that there was no Monsignor Ceribelli on the papal staff, despite the letters of reference from the Vatican office he had presented to Cardinal Ruffo. For two weeks, Lucio and Anna remained in the palazzo while the incident was investigated, while urgent messages flew back and forth between Cardinal Ruffo and Rome, while the false Monsignor Ceribelli was hunted but not found.

For those two weeks, Anna refused to come to Lucio's room at night: even though he asked, even though she longed to do exactly that. A slow realization burned inside her, more painful than anything Nicolas could have done.

“This is for the better, Lucio,” she told him at breakfast that day, when he saw that her trunks were packed and stacked near the door of the palazzo. “I'll be leaving this morning.”

“I don't understand,” he said. “What have I done?”

She smiled at him and dared to touch his cheek, though she knew the servants were watching them closely and reporting back to Cardinal Ruffo. “You've done absolutely nothing,” she told him. “It's a beautiful morning, Signor; come, walk with me, would you?”

She glanced pointedly at the servants along the wall. Lucio grunted and rose from his chair. Together, they walked out into the courtyard. The day was warm and sunny, and the smell of jasmine was gone, the flowers closed tightly in the sunlight. They walked slowly, with Anna making certain that she remained a careful hand's breadth from him. “Lucio,” she said softly. “I love you, but you can't be Vivaldi, the famous red priest and composer, while I stay with you. Not anymore.”

“Without you, I won't be Vivaldi either,” he answered, and she wondered if he understood just what she'd done for him over the years, coaxing that great viridescent soul-heart into full flower. She could feel its glow even now, and it made her yearn to stay, to tell him that she'd changed her mind.

But she could not. Out there somewhere was Nicolas, and she knew he would fulfill his threat. He would heal, too quickly, and he would find another identity, and he would come after them, angrier now than before.

“You will always be the famous Vivaldi,” she reassured him. “Your talent remains, whether I'm with you or not. Don't you see? This Ceribelli has given us an opportunity to undo the damage he's done. All you need to do is write a letter to Cardinal Ruffo, repudiating everything Ceribelli said about you and me, and swearing to him that everything you related about the lightness in your chest is true, asserting that your illness is the reason that you don't celebrate Mass. But for that letter to work, it requires a small sacrifice.” She stopped. At her feet were the faint stains of blood on the flagstones, still visible in the cracks of the stone despite the servants' scrubbing. “It requires, Lucio, that I leave you so there can be no question that there's nothing between us,” she finished.

“No,” he said, shaking his head—the same denial she'd given Nicolas on this very spot.

“Yes,” she told him. “It's the only way this can work.”

“Never to see you again? No. That I can't bear.”

“Perhaps it won't be forever,” she told him. “I'll go to Vienna, or perhaps one of the towns nearby. When you come to the court there, we can be together for a few stolen nights if we're very careful. I'll write to you, and you will write me. We won't lose touch with each other. But . . .” She began walking again. “To convince Cardinal Ruffo and for you to continue to work as you have, I can't be with you. I'd only be a constant reminder of all the vile gossip. If I stay, the accusations will become truth in everyone's mind—all the more so because they
are
true.”

“No,” he said again, but the protest was fainter and less emphatic this time, and she knew that it was over.

“We must be apart at least for a time, Lucio. Perhaps we can be together again, later,” she told him.

But she knew they could not. She might be with him now and again, but except for those times, she would take another name in some other place, and she would find another soul-heart to nourish and from which to take her own nourishment, and then another, and another . . .

Because if she didn't, Nicolas would come after Lucio in order to hurt her. She must keep moving so that Nicolas couldn't find her and the ones who nourished her.

Despite the eyes of the servants, she allowed herself to touch Lucio's arm. “Remember this, Lucio,” she told him. “I love you. I always will. Forever.”

“W
E'VE FOUND HIM.” Walters' voice overloaded the receiver, and Camille quickly thumbed down the volume.

“What's his name? Is it Pierce? Where is he?” she responded, feeling a surge of adrenaline at Walters' words.
Now I can make plans. I can take him out of my life and make him pay for all he's done.
She could feel her hands trembling with the surge of emotion, and she clutched at the pendant around her neck to settle them.
This time, it'll be over. Forever.

“Now hold on, young woman,” Walters said on the other end of the connection. “I said we've found him, but I don't know much more past that. The person I hired managed to track the IP address of a man Helen Treadway was exchanging regular e-mails with. You were dead on about hospitals—the address is from Beth Israel. But I need to go there and talk to the hospital IT, so I know that the person at that address is actually the person you're looking for—I need to actually
see
him for that. But it feels good—your name and David's come up in a couple of the e-mails. I'm going there today; if it all pans out, I'll have a name for you and an address. Come by the office tomorrow morning and I'll give you everything I have on him. Meanwhile, you hang tight. And listen, if you want me to come with you when you confront him, I can do that, too.”

“Okay,” Camille said, though she knew she wouldn't take him up on that last offer. When she met Nicolas again, she intended to kill him. “Walters . . .”

“What?”

“Be really careful about this. I mean it. He's a dangerous man.”

She could hear the laugh he suppressed. “Don't worry,” he said. “I'm always careful.”

She had lunch with Mercedes that day at
Annie
's; David was out making the rounds of galleries with his new portfolio; Mercedes worked for an ad agency nearby, writing copy and doing layout for commercial clients.

“You look happy,” Mercedes stated flatly after they'd placed their orders. A smile ghosted over her lips. “That's good.
Bueno
.”

Her tone made Camille tilt her head. “You don't sound as if you entirely mean it.”

Mercedes fiddled with her water glass. “I do, dear. Honestly. It's just . . .”

“Just?”

She brushed back the ebon strands that had escaped from the ponytail into which she'd pulled her hair. “It's not the same for the rest of us anymore. I don't think you know what you meant to me. To
all
of us.” The corner of her mouth lifted again, her lipstick, as always, a fiery red. “Okay,” she said, “let me back up. I don't think you know what you meant to
me
, anyway. I'll let the others speak for themselves, even though I suspect they feel the same way. I miss having the part of you that I had, Camille. I really do. And so does everyone else.”

“You sound like Morris.”

Mercedes nodded, her eyebrows lifting slightly. “Morris
especially
misses you. He still hasn't shown up at the
Bent Calliope
, so I went over to his studio a few days ago to see him. He's bitter about you and David, Camille. Almost angry. Says he hasn't been able to work much at all since the last time the two of you talked. He feels betrayed. He heard that Prudhomme's really hot on David's work and is talking him up like he's the next Steiglitz. He insists that it's all because of you—your influence. Said that kind of stuff always happens around you, and that you've abandoned us and now David's the only one who's going to benefit.”

“Is that what you think?”

Mercedes looked away, not at Camille, as she answered. “I don't know what I think.” Her gaze returned. “But that's the way Morris thinks, and that's all that matters to him.”

Camille shook her head; it would do no good to talk about Morris. Not anymore. Even if she somehow lost David, there were a hundred people with soul-hearts as glowing as Morris' or Mercedes' here in New York City alone, and there were still the others in the group she had collected around herself. If Morris was angry, then let him be angry. She had liked him but had never loved him; they had only used each other.
Self-absorbed, again . . .
“What about you?” Camille asked, trying to shift the topic. “How's the novel going?”

A shrug. “
Ay, puñeta!
Slow. I'm in the middle, and there's always a point there where I think I've totally lost my way, and everything I write just seems to suck.” She spread her arms wide. “Guess I'll be keeping the day job for now.”

“Would you like me to read the new material you have? I'd be happy to do that. Why don't you e-mail me the section you're working on? Maybe a set of fresh eyes on it could give you an idea of what you need to do. It's the least I can do.”

“Sure.” There was little enthusiasm in her voice.

“Mercedes, you have the talent to sell your novel,” Camille told her. It was the truth; Mercedes's green heart was limited; it wasn't a massive radiance like David's or like others that she'd known in her life. Yet she possessed talent, and more important than that, she had the dedication and necessary passion for her art. Camille knew all too well that someone who plumbed the depth of her talent to its final essence might be more important to her discipline than someone with greater potential who never utilized that talent to full extent. Camille had helped Mercedes find all the pathways within that green heart, but the woman had done the rest herself, and the drive that Mercedes possessed was something no muse could provide. “You need to keep believing in yourself.”

Mercedes favored her with a dim smile again. “Thanks,” she said. “I try. And I am happy for you. David's a lucky guy. I hope he knows it.”

“I'll try to remind him.”

Their conversation trailed off into small talk about the group and about the small triumphs and failures they'd all seen: the jazz band Kevin had put together to play his original work; Rashawn selling a painting; Joe's play closing after a disappointing week and bad reviews; James finishing the book based on his dissertation. As Mercedes was checking her cell phone to see if it was time to get back to the office, Camille asked the waitress to bring their check.

“Oh,” the woman said. “There's no check. A gentleman paid it for you.”

“Who?” Camille asked. She could feel the pendant around her neck as if it were made of lead. She glanced at Mercedes, who shrugged.

“He's already left,” the waitress said. “But he said to give you this.” She placed a napkin on the table. On it, in smeared ink, was drawn a crude image of a guillotine. Seeing it, Camille's breath was snared in her throat.

“What did he look like?” Camille persisted. “Was he short?”

The waitress nodded. “Yeah. Shorter than average, anyway. Light brown hair, kinda long. A nice smile. About your age. Not bad looking; had a little bit of an accent, maybe. You know him?”

“Yes,” Camille said. She found that she could barely breathe. “I think I might.”

“Camille?” she heard Mercedes saying as she stared at the napkin. “What's the matter? Does that mean something to you?”

Camille finally drew in a long, shuddering breath. “I'm sorry,” she told Mercedes. “It's really nothing.” She crumpled the napkin in her hand, crushing it tightly as if she could somehow squeeze the life from the hand that had drawn it. “It's a poor attempt at a joke from a former lover. It just . . .” She forced a smile to her lips. “It startled me. I didn't know he lived around here. And, hey, at least we get a free lunch from the bastard, right?”

The laugh she gave was mirthless. The sound hung in the air, weighted and unconvincing.

Outside, she looked around carefully, searching for Nicolas, for anyone whose features were somewhat familiar, anyone who appeared to be watching her. She saw no one; the crowds on the sidewalk passed by without a second glance, and she noticed nobody loitering or pretending to be looking into a shop window while really watching her. She hugged Mercedes and walked with her to the corner where they separated.

She stood there, turning slowly. No, no one appeared to be observing her or taking notice. The napkin was still balled in her hand.
Nicolas. It
has
to be Nicolas. He wants me to know that he's found me first. That he's hunting me, too.

“You bastard!” she shouted suddenly against the clamor of traffic. “You coward! Show yourself! C'mon, you sadistic son of a bitch! Let's have it out between us right now, right here! Let's finish it!”

A taxicab honked as it changed lanes; the person the driver had cut off laid on his own horn. The people nearest glanced at her strangely, then—in proper New York fashion—ignored the crazy person's outburst entirely. Otherwise, there was no answer.

There was a trash can on the corner. Camille tossed the napkin toward it. It bounced once on the rim and fell back onto the street. Sighing, Camille picked it up again.

She put it in her pocket.

 * * * 

“Hello?” Camil
le called into Walters' office. There was, as usual, no one in the small reception room, but the door to his office was closed—which was unusual, and through the speckled, translucent glass of the door, she could see a figure moving around, though she heard no conversation.

The figure in the office moved toward the door: a splash of blue pants and a yellow shirt, far too thin to be Walters. The doorknob turned and Camille saw a woman standing there. She looked to be in her early-to-mid-twenties, with curly, dirty blonde hair cut short. It was her eyes that caught Camille the most: her mascara was smudged and ruined, and there were tracks on her cheeks from tears. The woman ran a hand over her face as she glanced at Camille. “Can I help you?”

“I'm looking for Mr. Walters. I'm one of his clients, and we had an appointment to talk this morning.” The woman looked as if she were about to cry once more. She pressed her lips tightly together. Camille remembered Walters mentioning a granddaughter—
about your age
—and she felt a sudden quick stab of fear. “Are you Beth? His granddaughter?” she asked. “Is everything all right?”

The young woman shook her head wordlessly. “Grandpa . . .” the word came out choked and solitary. “He's . . .” She couldn't say more. The tears came then, unbidden and full. Camille went to her, taking her hands and leading her to the receptionist's chair. Beth's shoulders shook with her sobs as Camille crouched down in front of her, still holding her hands and feeling tears well up in her own eyes in sympathy.

“I'm sorry,” Beth said after a few moments, taking in a long shuddering breath. Her fingers pressed Camille's fingers. “This is hard . . . We got the news late last night. Grandpa's dead.” It was all she could say. She bit at her lower lip, closing her eyes.

Camille felt the shock hit her: a fist of cold air. She gasped, a hand going involuntarily to her mouth.
Be really careful about this . . .
Those had been nearly her last words to Walters. And now . . . “What happened?” she asked Beth.

A sniff. Beth plucked a Kleenex from the box on the table and dabbed at her eyes. “No one's really sure. They found him in an alley. He'd been . . .” She stopped. Took a breath. “. . . burned really badly,” she continued, “but they told me it wasn't like he'd been set on fire, more like he'd been struck by bolts of lightning—but there wasn't a storm or any clouds last night.” Camille shuddered at that.
Nicolas. This has to be Nicolas.
“They're thinking it may be the same person that killed all the other people, the Black Fire murders, but . . .” Her eyes found Camille's, stricken. “The detectives all remember Grandpa. They said they won't stop until they find the person who did this. Gina Palento—she was one of Grandpa's friends in the department, and was his partner just before he retired—anyway, she's coming over this morning to look into Grandpa's case files. I thought I'd try to straighten some things up . . . thought maybe it would help . . .”

The tears came again, and Camille waited them out, holding Beth's hands. “Can I get you something,” she asked. “I could make some coffee, or get you a glass of water?”

“I'm fine,” Beth said. “Gina, I mean Detective Palento, should be here in a few minutes, though. She might want to talk to you since Grandpa was working on something for you.”

The thought caused the coffee she'd had that morning to rise to her throat, burning. Camille swallowed hard. “Sure,” she told Beth. “If you think that might help. Look, why don't I make some coffee? Detectives always drink coffee, don't they?” She laughed shakily at the poor attempt at a joke, which garnered the barest of smiles from Beth but allowed Camille to rise and walk over to the cheap Mr. Coffee machine on the side table. She busied herself finding what she needed, putting in the filter, measuring the coffee, getting water, all the time thinking about how she might answer the questions this Palento might ask. What she didn't need was the NYPD looking into this case and her background—Walters might not have cared that she was using a dead child's name and social security number; the cops definitely would.

“I think I may have dropped something outside,” she told Beth. “I'll be right back. The coffee should be ready in a few minutes.”

Camille opened the office door, closing it again behind her as she stepped out on the little porch. She went down the battered concrete steps to the sidewalk. She stood there, caught in uncertainty.
If you leave, that detective's going to be even more suspicious, and then you may never find out what Walters discovered. If you leave, you're also leaving David, because you'll have to change your identity once more, have to leave the city, have to run. You'll lose this chance to take care of Nicolas, too.