Immortal Muse (53 page)

 * * * 

Mercedes met her
at the door with a plate holding a pizza slice and a look on her face that Camille couldn't quite decipher. The woman's soul-heart was wrapped tightly inside herself, not allowing Camille to fully touch it. Camille was reluctant to try to breach that reserve, as much as she wanted to for the solace it would give her, uncertain of what Mercedes' reaction might be. At least Mercedes' green heart tasted no different—there was no hint of Nicolas' elixir.

“Well, you look like hell,” Mercedes said, handing Camille the plate as she held the door open for her. Camille took it, but set it down again almost immediately on the end table of the couch.

“I can't stay. I have to find David. But I had to . . . needed to . . .” She stopped. The wound in her abdomen burned under the bandages. Mercedes looked as if she wanted to come to Camille, to fold her in her arms and hug her, but she didn't. She seemed closed and almost angry.

Mercedes' apartment was small; her desk sat in one corner of the living room. The pizza box gaped open on the couch; a paper plate and two frowning crusts sat on the corner of the desk. Mercedes locked the door behind Camille and sat at her desk, swiveling around to face Camille. The light of her computer monitor lent her hair an angelic nimbus, and Camille could see Mercedes' novel open on the screen. “How's it going?” she asked. The question seemed silly and irrelevant amidst the roaring in her head.

Mercedes glanced back over her shoulder and shrugged. “Not bad for someone with only a mediocre talent, I suppose,” she said. “Not enough talent to satisfy you all by myself.”

The words chilled the air. Camille blinked, feeling the sting. That explained the closing of her soul-heart.

Her wound should have healed far more than it had; it
would
have done so had she been with David. Even as Mercedes' comment made her hear Nicolas' voice in hers, a lethargy also swaddled her, a weariness that made her want to do little more than sleep and conserve what little energy remained to her. But Mercedes' gaze was searing, and her accusation cut deeper than the knife wound.

“Oh,” Camille said. “You've talked with Morris, then.”

Mercedes didn't answer. Not directly. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“What this Pierce guy is saying about you.”

“Not the way he told Morris it was.”

“Then
how
is it, Camille? You tell me. Make me understand, because what Morris said and what he hinted at . . .” Her lips clamped shut. Her dark eyes smoldered.

“I don't know that I can. I don't know that if I told you that you'd even believe me, or if you'd just think I was crazy. And I don't know if I have
time
. I really need to find David.”

The screen saver on her computer kicked on. Behind Mercedes, a swirling light like the borealis swept across her screen: green, but not the same hue as the heart within her. “Try me,” Mercedes said. “I might believe you more than you think. Have you
seen
Morris in the last few days, how he looks? Or Kevin and Rashawn, for that matter? I might just believe you, no matter what you tell me.”

“Oh, God—Kevin and Rashawn, too?” Camille felt as if an immense weight were pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. “Did Pierce . . . ?”

“
Si
, Pierce,” Mercedes said. “He called me, too, but I blew him off, told him I had to think about things. So—tell me, Camille.
Dígame la verdad
. Tell me the truth, or I'll go to him and let
him
give me the story, however he wants to tell it.”

“It's a long story, and it didn't go so well the last time I told it.”

“I've got all day, and you don't look like you've got the energy to go looking for David anytime soon.”

It was strange: all these centuries, and for the first time, she felt trapped by circumstances, felt that she
had
to tell the truth where lies had always sufficed before.
If you run . . .
the voice inside nagged at her, and she nodded. Yes, if she ran, she could say nothing. If she ran, she could keep all the lies. But if she ran, she would lose everything she had here. “All right,” Camille said. “I'll tell you . . .”

Camille watched Mercedes' face carefully as she spoke, trying to gauge what the woman might be thinking. She saw the flush of disbelief when she started, telling Mercedes that she'd been born in the 14th century, and relating the beginning of Nicolas and Perenelle's story. She gave her an abbreviated account of her journey, of the long war between her and Nicolas. She saw Mercedes wince as she tried to explain why the group that had coalesced around the
Bent Calliope
was important to her, and what she'd felt when she'd met David.

“You have to understand, Mercedes,” she said, desperately. “What I feel in the soul-hearts . . . it doesn't mean anything about how well you'll succeed or what you'll be able to do, or whether people will love your work or not. I've seen people with huge potential who were never known or never became famous at all despite producing incredible work, and people with what I thought were small hearts who became famous and successful in their time. What I can do—well, it has little to do with fame or money.”

“Now you're trying to placate me,” Mercedes said. “You know what, that sucks. Just say it. What you're really trying to tell me is that you don't think I have enough talent for you.” She glanced back at the computer again. Camille saw Mercedes bite her lower lip and squeeze her eyes shut once before turning back to her. “So that's what Pierce, or Nicolas or whoever the hell he is, offered to Morris and the others: the elixir. The chance to be like you.”

Camille shook her head. “No. I'm sure that's what he told them, but it's a lie, and it's vital that you understand that. The elixir will do nothing but shorten their lives and result in them dying in agony. Please, you have to believe this, Mercedes. If Nicolas offers you the elixir, you have to refuse it. For your own sake. For mine. He wants your pain and your death—that's what
he
feeds on.”

“I think you should leave, Camille. Please.”

“Mercedes, don't do this. I don't want to hurt you. I never, ever wanted to hurt you. You especially. You're my friend, my lover, someone I care deeply about. Of all of the
Bent Calliope
Group, you . . .” She stepped toward Mercedes, arms open, and the woman backed away.

“Stop it,” Mercedes barked. Her eyes narrowed, glaring. “Just . . . Stop it.”

“All right,” Camille said. “I'll go. Mercedes, I hope . . .” Her voice caught in a sob. “I hope you can forgive me. You mean so much to . . .” She couldn't go on. She sniffed hard, trying to force back the tears, but she couldn't. With Morris, she'd simply been furious and frightened; with Mercedes, she felt as if she'd been ripped open as surely as with the knife. She hugged herself, her hands folded under her breasts. Mercedes wouldn't look at her, staring instead somewhere past her.

Camille went to the door. She picked up her handbag from the table, feeling its weight as she slung the strap over her shoulder. “Camille,” Mercedes said behind her, and Camille turned, hoping to hear her ask her to come back, to try to mend the rift between them.

“I don't think you should come back to the
Bent Calliope
again,” Mercedes' clear voice said. “You won't be welcome there anymore.”

Camille nodded. “Mercedes, I'm telling you: if Nicolas comes to you, don't listen to him. He'll lie. He'll say anything he thinks you want to hear, but it's all to hurt you. To hurt me through your pain. Please believe me. I've told you only the truth.”

Mercedes didn't answer. She swiveled her chair around to face the computer once more and moved the mouse. The screen saver vanished. The words of her novel burned on the screen.

 * * * 

The buzzer woke Camille from a troubled, restless nap on the couch in David's apartment. She'd spent the day well into the evening searching for David: calling on acquaintances; going into shops he tended to frequent; checking her own apartment, just in case he'd gone there; aimlessly walking around the East Side near their apartments until her feet and leg muscles ached.

The buzzer sounded again before she fully awakened. Verdette growled angrily and jumped from Camille's chest, where she'd been sleeping. Camille felt a sudden thrill of adrenaline—
David?
—but she couldn't feel his soul-heart, and she was certain that even from the distance to the front door of the building she'd be able to feel him, though there was a green heart there, fainter and less defined than David's. Rubbing her eyes, she staggered to the door and the panel set there, leaning heavily against the wall as she pushed the button.

“Yes?”

“Ms. Kenny, this is Detective Palento. Do you have a moment to talk?”

Camille thought of saying no, but that would only lead to more conversation. She touched the pendant under her sweatshirt from long habit, then, without answering, she pressed the buzzer to open the front door. She turned, still leaning against the wall, and surveyed the apartment with bleary eyes: she hadn't cleaned since the conversation with David. Her clothes were strewn about; dirty dishes from a hasty dinner sat on the coffee table in front of the couch. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the opposite wall: dressed in rumpled sweats and socks, her hair a sleep-mussed horror. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to make it halfway presentable as she heard footsteps in the hallway, then a knock on the door. She unlatched the chain as Verdette hissed and fled into the kitchen, and opened the door. Gina Palento stood outside, dressed impeccably as usual; behind her lurked her partner, dressed in a well-used dark suit; older than Palento by a good decade or more, Camille guessed, his face lined and somewhat sallow, his dark hair retreating from his forehead, though thin strands of it still clung to his scalp.

“Ms. Kenny,” Palento said. If Camille's appearance startled her at all, it didn't show on her face, which remained noncommittal and serious. “You remember my partner, Roger Compton?”

Camille nodded. “I've seen him around. Come in—sorry, the place is a wreck. I was just . . . napping.”

“Don't worry about it,” Palento said as she passed Camille, who could see her gaze traveling quickly around the room. “This looks like
Good Housekeeping
compared to some of the places we normally see. Right, Roger?”

“Yep,” Compton agreed. “Seen lots worse.” Camille caught a whiff of stale cigarettes and coffee as he entered. She shut the door behind the duo, running her fingers through her hair again.

“I'm going to make some coffee,” she said. “Would either of you like a cup?”

They shook their heads in unison. Neither of them was looking at her, but rather at the apartment. Camille was aware of the Tarot deck laid out on the small table in the kitchen area, visible from the front room, and of the shelves of labeled chemicals behind the table, of her half-finished paintings stacked against the wall leading to the upstairs studio, of her purse sitting on the couch with the Ladysmith revolver inside.

“Sit wherever you like,” she told them. “Just move stuff aside.” She went into the kitchen, half-surprised when neither of them stopped her. She grabbed a coffee filter from the cabinet over the sink and spooned coffee into it, then rinsed the carafe, filled it with water, and poured it into the coffeemaker. She pressed the button, listening to the gurgling and hissing as it dripped water onto the grounds. She grabbed a mug from the shelf and held it, staring at the coffee rising slowly in the carafe. Her hands were trembling.

“I'm afraid we haven't found Pierce yet,” she heard Palento say, and half-turned to see her at the table, staring down at the Tarot array, one fingertip extended and nearly touching the cards. Her soul-heart pulsed and Camille nearly allowed her mind to reach out to caress it. Almost as if in response to the impulse, Palento turned her head to look at Camille, her blue eyes more gray in the light in the room. “He seems to have vanished pretty effectively. You wouldn't know some way we could get in contact with him? Have you heard from him? You went to see Morris Johnson today . . .”

“I did,” Camille said. “And Pierce had been there a few days before me.”

Her eyebrows arched, her forehead wrinkled. “You're sure about that?”

“That's what Morris told me. You guys missed him.” Camille could have told her why, as well—remembering Paris and London:
because he can change his face for a short time if he needs to. He knew you'd be watching the studio.

“That's not possible,” Palento said, then scowled. “Okay, it's
possible
, but we've had Johnson's studio under surveillance since we knew that Pierce was giving him money for a sculpture. You're sure?”

Camille nodded.
Yes, and Morris is going to die as a result.
Again, she held the words. The coffeemaker hissed as the last of the water left the pump. Camille poured herself a mug, lifting it toward Palento. “Sure you don't want any?”

The woman shook her head. “What happened there?” She gestured to Camille's midriff. Camille glanced down; her sweater had risen up when she'd reached for the coffee filter, exposing the bloodstained bandage. She pulled the sweater back down.

“An accident,” she said. “I caught myself on a piece of jagged metal. It's nothing important.”

Palento's gaze held her for a long moment, then she glanced down again at the Tarot, then into the front room where her partner stood holding Camille's purse, looking at the two of them. Some sort of unspoken signal seemed to pass between the two detectives. Palento nodded, but whether to Camille's answer or to her partner, she couldn't tell. “Is Pierce going to try to come at you now?”