Immortal Muse (45 page)

“Alive . . .” Catherine gasped. “Is it . . . ?”

“Yes,” Emily told her. “Without the potion he gave you, you'd be dead.”

Catherine looked around wildly. “Polidori?”

“Doubtless alive, also,” Emily told her. “Somewhere.”

The streets were beginning to fill with the denizens of St. Giles, some of them with pots and pans in hand to scoop up the pools of porter in the street. She saw police arriving as well. “Come on,” she told Catherine. “We should leave here while we can . . .”

 * * * 

The carriage rocked and swayed as it made its way from the flooded St. Giles district. Emily stayed next to Catherine, her arm around the woman, who alternately sobbed and sighed. She kept looking at her hands, turning them in front of her in the dim light of the carriage's lamp. Emily knew what she was marveling at: the smoothness and elasticity of the skin, the strength that had returned to fingers once stiff with swollen joints. She touched her face with those smooth hands also, as if in disbelief.

“Am I . . . ?” she asked Emily as the carriage turned onto Tottenham Court Road.

“Yes,” Emily told her. “The elixir that Nic . . .” She pressed her lips together. “. . . Mr. Polidori gave you restored your youth.”

“And you?”

“I've taken a similar potion,” Emily admitted.

Catherine's face turned toward Emily. Her eyes searched Emily's face. “How old are you?”

“Older than you could imagine,” Emily told her. “Centuries. But . . .” She bit her upper lip, then said the words. “Catherine, you won't live as long. I'm sorry. Polidori's potion, what he gave you, is flawed. Incomplete. One day . . .” Emily stopped. She remembered her mice: youthful one day, then their age exploding back onto them suddenly, their bodies writhing in agony as they aged and died in minutes. That was Catherine's fate also.

Unless . . .

Outside, she heard the carriage driver call to his horse, heard a newsboy's cry as he sold his papers on a corner. The carriage swayed as they turned left; the sound of the wheels changed underneath them. She took Catherine's hands in her own. “Catherine, the elixir you took removed the burden of your years from you, and it will hold them back—but only for a time. One day, all those years will come rushing back, and many more besides.” She told her then about her failed experiments and the mice. She told her about her own potion, how it had worked when the other had failed, though she didn't tell her why. Catherine's eyes widened with the tale.

“How long?” she asked. “How long will I live?”

“I don't know,” Emily answered, hoping that Catherine couldn't hear the lie in her voice.
Not long. A few years, a decade. Maybe as short as a few months.
“No one can know.”

“Why?” she asked. “Why would he give me this elixir?”

“The potion—either one of them—changes you in other ways, Catherine. It gets into your mind, makes you
need
things. Polidori—he needs pain. He feeds on torment and anguish; it nourishes him. The thought of your eventual agony pleases him, and knowing that he has hurt me by hurting you . . .” Emily shrugged. “I'm afraid that pleases him most of all.”

Catherine pulled her hands away from Emily; she released them reluctantly. “What about you?” Catherine asked. “He said the two of you were alike. What do
you
feed on?”

“The soul-heart,” Emily breathed. “I need creativity, in all its forms. I was doomed to be a muse. A daemon.”

Catherine sunk back into the corner of the carriage as it jounced and turned again. Her hands were pressed against her sodden blouse, over her heart. “And me?”

Emily shrugged. “I don't know what it's done to you. But you'll know. Soon enough.”

“So I'm going to become a monster like Polidori? And I'm going to die a horrible death as well?”

“Am
I
a monster, Catherine?” Emily asked, but Catherine only shook her head without answering. “And as for the other problem,” Emily continued, “there may be a solution for that. You could take
my
elixir. The true one.”

She saw Catherine's face as the woman grasped for this small hope. “That would save me?”

Emily shook her head. “Save you? No. It will change you just as certainly as the other one has; worse, I can't honestly tell you
what
will happen to you, since I don't know anyone who's taken the potion twice, nor have I made such an experiment myself. You'd be stepping into unknown territory. But it might mean that you'll live. Even possibly forever, if that's what you want.”

Catherine blinked. She stared. She cowered against the wall of the carriage.

“I'll send the elixir to you,” Emily told her. “You can choose what you wish to do.”

She didn't seem to hear that or understand it. “Polidori—he'll come after me again. He'll hurt me the way he hurt you.”

Emily started to pat Catherine's hand, but she drew back, placing her hand at her side where Emily couldn't reach it. “No, he won't,” she told him. “He won't because I'm leaving London, Catherine. I'm going elsewhere, taking another name, becoming another person. It's me he truly wants, not you. When I'm gone, he'll leave also.”

Emily wasn't certain she was telling Catherine the truth. She didn't know that Nicolas would indeed leave the Blakes in peace after she left. He might still try to hurt them, figuring that the news would in turn upset her. But she didn't
know
that. In her mind, there was a good chance that “Emily's” disappearance would give them a respite from Nicolas' machinations, and in any case, her saying that would at least give the Blakes hope that the terror was over.

She would have to hope herself that it was the truth.

The carriage lurched, and they heard the driver call “Whoa now!” to his horse, then the driver opened the flap at the top of the carriage. “23 Hercules Road,” he called down to them. Emily looked out. The door to the Blake house was open; she could see William outlined against the lamplight inside, peering out. “You should go,” Emily told Catherine. “He's waiting for you.”

“What am I going to tell William?” The question was a mere breath, nearly inaudible.

“Tell him that the angels have touched you,” Emily told her. “He'll believe that.”

“Emily . . .”

“Go on,” Emily told her. “Don't make him wait.”

Catherine nodded. She reached over and opened the door of the carriage and stepped out. She ran toward the house without looking back.

Emily would return to her own rooms and pack. She would leave London that same evening, but not before she sent a small package to the Blake house.

She never knew whether Catherine used it or not.

G
INA PALENTO, her detective's badge draped over the breast pocket of her suit, was waiting for them as Camille and David walked out of the Customs area at LaGuardia. Camille saw the woman detach herself from a wall and stride toward them as she and David started
t
o roll their luggage toward the escalator to the public transportation area. “Miss Kenny,” she called out, stopping several paces away from them. To their right, Camille saw a man in a dark suit station himself near the head of the escalator: Palento's partner, she was certain, cutting off any possible escape. “Did you have a good time in Mexico?”

Camille glanced at David. “Give me a minute,” she said. “Watch the luggage.” She went over to Palento, who favored her with a slight smile as she approached. “Now, it could be that we just took the long way home, via Paris,” she said to the detective.

“Uh-huh. And I'm just here picking up my Aunt Sally. But I'm not worried about why you went to France instead of Mexico, like you told me and your friends. You gave Bob Walters ten thousand dollars a few days before he was killed. Why?”

“Have you caught his killer yet? Or Helen's?”

Gina shook her head. “Uh-uh. That isn't how this works. I ask the questions; you give me answers. Ten thousand dollars? That's a lot of money—especially for someone who doesn't seem to actually have a job.”

Palento was staring at her, the woman's gaze unblinking and hard, and Camille struggled not to show the thrill of fear she felt.
I should have never allowed myself to become involved with David. It's happening again. I'm going to have to become someone else before all the lies fall apart completely, and when I do that, I'll lose David, too.

She glanced over to David, tried to give him a smile as if her conversation with Palento was entirely casual. “I have a trust fund, Detective,” Camille answered. “That's how we could afford to go to France. We told everyone—including you, and I'm sorry about that—we were going to Mexico because I didn't want my stalker to be able to follow us. And as for the ten thousand, which also came out of that same trust fund—Mr. Walters said he needed the money to get some information. I had the sense that what he was going to do wasn't exactly legal.”

“Must be a big trust fund.” Palento continued to stare and Camille forced herself to lock eyes with the woman. After a few breaths, Palento seemed to shrug. “All right, play it that way if you want, Ms. Kenny. For what it's worth, here's what I think. I've seen the pictures you gave Bob, and I know Bob believed Dr. Pierce was your stalker. Bob kept excellent, if rather cryptic, notes about what he was doing with all his clients. For your information, he paid nearly all of that ten thousand to someone else. When we talked to that guy and leaned on him a bit, we found out that he'd hacked into Helen's ISP and her computer, and then into Beth Israel's ISP and specifically Pierce's computer. That's what Bob was going to tell you, anyway. Strange coincidence, isn't it, that both you and Pierce are now bound up in the same two separate cases?”

“I didn't kill Mr. Walters, and I didn't kill Helen, either. I wasn't responsible for either of those two murders.”

A shrug. “Maybe not. I'll grant you even probably not. But I also think you know Dr. Pierce better than you've told either me or Bob—I took your advice and looked into his background, and Pierce isn't the guy's name, and I'll bet he's not actually a doctor, either. So what
is
his name, Ms. Kenny?”

Camille shook her head. “Honestly, I don't know. He's used lots of names in the time I've known him—that's why I wanted Mr. Walters' help finding him. You've found and arrested him?” she asked hopefully, but saw the answer in Palento's face immediately.

“We'll arrest him when we find him,” she answered, and that told Camille that Nicolas had most likely shed the Pierce identity and gone underground again. But he was still here in New York. She was certain of that. Now that he'd found her, now that he had flushed her out, he wouldn't leave. Not yet.

“Do you think Pierce killed both Mr. Walters and Helen? Do you think Helen's murder wasn't just a robbery?”

That netted Camille another shrug from Palento. “I'd say that we're questioning whether the robbery was meant to cover up something else. What do you think, Ms. Kenny? You were talking to Pierce at Mrs. Treadway's visitation. Was he your stalker or not? And what was he talking to you about?” Palento tilted her head as she looked at Camille. Her stare never wavered; the radiance of her soul-heart was as cold and steady as her gaze.

“Yes, he's my stalker,” Camille told her. “When you heard us talking, I was telling him to stay away from me. As to whether he's Mr. Walters' murderer or if he had anything to do with Helen's death . . . Yes, I think he's involved.” Palento's eyes narrowed at that, and Camille hurried to add: “I just don't know why.”
Liar. Look at how she's looking at you. She knows you're holding back the truth.

“You might not, but
we'll
know. Soon. I promise you that,” Palento said, then her gaze flicked away from Camille toward David. “Your boyfriend's looking anxious,” she said. “I suppose he wants to get home.”

“I do, too,” Camille said. “We're both tired and jet-lagged.”

The detective lifted her chin: half a nod. “Yeah, I hate long flights myself. Go home, take a shower. I hope you don't have any more trips planned?”

Camille shook her head.

“Good,” Palento said. “I'd advise you to keep it that way for the time being. Have a good day, Ms. Kenny.” The detective gave David a wave and Camille a final nod, and walked away. Camille watched her leave, the man at the escalator hurrying over to join her. She heard David approach from behind her.

“Isn't that the detective who's handling Helen's case? What'd she want?”

“It wasn't about Helen,” Camille answered. “It was about my stalker. She thinks . . .” Camille hesitated, not certain she wanted to say it.
He'll know eventually; you'll have to tell him anyway.
“She thinks that Pierce was also my stalker.”

“Pierce?” For a moment, he just gaped at her. She felt the tendrils of his soul-heart pulse, lifting from her momentarily before embracing her again. “That's just too weird, Camille.”

“That's what Detective Palento thinks also. And I don't blame her.” She took David's arm. “I'm too tired to think about the whole mess right now,” she said. “Let's go home. I need to rescue poor Mercedes from Verdette at least.”

 * * * 

As Camille walked into
Annie
's, she heard a loud and plaintive yowl: Verdette, in her carrier, which was sitting on the tabletop in the nearest booth, with Mercedes alongside it. Camille waved to Mercedes and slid into the booth. Camille set down her handbag on the tabletop next to Verdette's carrier; it made a muffled but heavy noise. Mercedes glanced at the purse as Camille slide onto the bench seat across from her. “Jesus, what've you got in there? A brick?”

Verdette yowled again, and pawed at the wires of the cage's door. Camille stroked the paw, which was withdrawn and replaced by Verdette's muzzle. The cat's raspy tongue scraped at Camille's fingers. “Thanks for taking care of her while we were gone. I really appreciate it. Did she behave for you?”

Mercedes laughed and held out her hands to Camille, palms down. Camille could see scratch marks on both, and she grimaced. “I'm sorry. She's really a one-person cat. I really appreciate you looking after her.”

“That's what friends do.” Mercedes pulled her hands back.

“That may be, but lunch is definitely on me, and more.” She noticed that there was coffee in front of Mercedes, and an iced tea near the carrier. “Have you ordered yet?”

“I have, and I've ordered your usual.” Mercedes slid the iced tea in front of Camille. “That okay?”

“Absolutely. Thanks.” Verdette had stopped licking Camille's finger and settled down in the carrier where she could see Camille. Her purring was audible. Mercedes shook her head.

“That's one weird cat. Okay, let me get this straight. You told us that you and David were going to Acapulco, but you went to Paris instead? Is that what I'm hearing?”

Camille glanced at her in surprise. “Who told you that?”

“Is it the truth?” Mercedes shook her unruly mane of black hair and sipped at her coffee, looking at Camille from under her lashes.

Camille sighed and nodded. “It didn't have anything to do with you guys,” Camille told her. “There was someone that we wanted to keep our location from, and I was afraid that he might come asking the group where I'd gone—so I made up a little white lie. You're not angry, are you?”

Mercedes shrugged but said nothing, which told Camille more. “‘He.' So it's a guy you're trying to avoid, huh?” Mercedes said, rather than answering Camille's question. “Are you talking about Morris?”

“No, not Morris. But, yeah, it's someone Morris knows. So who told you that David and I were in Paris?”

Mercedes gave a lift of her shoulders. “Morris came to the
Bent Calliope
once while you were away. He told us that the benefactor who was funding his last sculpture had vanished all of a sudden, though he's still working on the piece. He asked about you, too. Seemed disappointed that you weren't around. And, yeah, he said that he'd heard you two hadn't gone to Acapulco, but France, though he didn't tell us how he knew that.” Mercedes raised an eyebrow. “That what you wanted to know?”

“Some of it. I was just wondering.” So Morris was still working on the sculpture that Pierce/Nicolas had sponsored. She doubted that Morris would be continuing with something that would be so expensive to cast without one of two possibilities being true: that he truly felt the work would be so compelling that some other collector would purchase it, or if Nicolas were
still
funding the project and funneling money to him, even though “Pierce” had vanished.

And if it
was
the second of those possibilities, as she suspected, then Morris might know how to find Nicolas. Thinking of that, she nearly missed Mercedes' comment.

“Damn, woman, we've been lovers and friends for how long now? Doesn't that give me the right to the juicy gossip?—because I can tell,
mai
, that there is some. I promise you, I won't talk about it to anyone else, though”—she grinned at Camille—“if it's
really
good, I won't promise not to put it in a book sometime. Properly fictionalized, of course.”

“You have the right, Mercedes, more than anyone I can think of besides David, but . . . I can't. I really can't. Maybe later.”

“I'm a writer, so let's use the right word. It's not that you
can't
, it's that you
won't,
” she said. Mercedes' hand, lined with scratch marks, snaked across the tabletop to touch Camille's. Verdette, in her carrier, growled at the touch. “Look, now that you have David, you don't have as much need for the old gang, all of us revolving around you like you're the sun that gives us all light. Am I right?” Her half-smile took some, but not all, of the sting from the words.

“That's not fair.”

“Didn't say it was fair.” Mercedes gave a scoffing laugh. “The right word, remember? Fair isn't a synonym for true.” Mercedes continued to look at her; Verdette continued her low growl.

“David hasn't changed how I feel about the group.”

That earned her another sigh. “Girl, you need to learn how to tell the truth. Really, you do. I love you dearly, I do, but you aren't very good at being honest and open with people who genuinely care about you. You and I both know that David gave you in one person what you were trying to get from all of us. I don't quite know what that something was, but it's obvious how
everything
changed for you and the group once you found David. Morris knows that, too—and so does the rest of the group.”

That was another truth Camille couldn't admit. Not openly. She would need the nourishment of David's soul-heart, and perhaps those of the others, if she were going to take on Nicolas.

Mercedes was still holding her hand, and now Camille trapped it with her free one. Mercedes looked down at their entangled fingers as Verdette growled again. “Do you want to go to my apartment and talk more there? You could read the new chapters in my novel and tell me what you think.” She paused. Smiled. “I don't have any etchings.”

“I'd like to.”

“But . . . ?”

Camille inclined her head toward the cat carrier. “I should get Verdette home, and David's expecting me. I could come over this evening, maybe . . .” She stopped. “But reading the novel and talking is all we'd be doing. Would that be enough?”

The waitress, with a tray and stand, was approaching their table. Mercedes pulled her hands back as the waitress opened the stand and set the tray alongside their booth.

“Guess it's gonna have to be,” Mercedes said. She sat back against the booth's cushions. “So, tell me all about Paris, why don't you?”

 * * * 

Camille felt Morris' energy long before she saw him. She stood in the hallway outside his studio for several minutes, leaning back against the wall and just tasting the emanations of his green heart and gazing at its colors. A wash of aggressive, driving hip-hop music filled her ears, the bass line causing the plasterboard wall to vibrate with every beat.

Nicolas was still involved with Morris; she was certain of it. She could taste it in the new bitterness of his energy, in the paleness of it, in the way it wanted to coil around her like a noose.

Yes, Nicolas was still in contact with him.