Immortal Muse (60 page)

She ignored the jibe. “You'll do it, then? You'll let her go?”

Brunner seemed to almost sigh. “Once, your offer would have been a delight. Why, even just fifty years ago . . .” He shook his head. The phonograph needle hit the last groove of the record; she could hear the repeated impact of the needle as the turntable continued to turn.
Hiss, thump. Hiss, thump.
“So you haven't given this lover of yours the true elixir? No, you haven't, or you wouldn't look so worried. You wouldn't have come here to beg me for her release.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “Just as with poor Antoine, just as with me, you've been too slow.”

“Nicolas—”

He raised his hand, stopping her protest. He moved from behind the desk and went to the door of his office. She heard him speaking to one of the guards in the next room, and he heard the name “Charlotte Nagler” in Brunner's quick German, then the sound of heels clicking together. Nicolas came back in the room. He went to the desk again, standing behind it and rolling her flasks idly across the blotter with a forefinger. He didn't speak for several seconds, then looked up at her.

“I imagined the moment of finally killing you for so long, Perenelle. Especially after our last time together in Vienna, I've thought how delicious it would be, seeing your head roll from your shoulders and watching the blood pulse from your body, seeing your mouth gaping as if to speak and your eyes finally, finally going empty and dead. Forever dead, the way you wanted it for me.” The tone of his voice made Ana shiver again. She heard the needle of the record—
hiss, thump—
and Nicolas moved to the phonograph and lifted the needle.

“Yet when you had
me
, when you could have killed me and I saw you hesitate, when you agreed to our little ‘truce' . . .” He lifted his shoulders and looked past Ana to the door of his office. “Ah, but here's our little Jewess, and
pregnant,
too . . .”

Ana turned and saw a haggard, frightened Lotte at the door. Brunner gestured, and the guard holding her pushed her into the office and closed the door again behind her. Lotte stumbled, and Ana caught her. They hugged each other tightly. “I thought I'd never see you again, Ana,” Lotte said. “When they came . . .”

Ana kept her gaze on Brunner, but took Lotte's hand. “Shh. Come on. We're leaving.”

“No,” Brunner said. “The door's locked, and I'm afraid I've misled you, Perenelle. Promises mean very little to me. For both of us, our entire lives are snared in lies. Both of us are required to lie to stay alive, aren't we?”

Lotte pulled at Ana's arm, speaking to her softly and desperately. “What does he mean? Why is he calling you Perenelle?”

Ana didn't answer. Brunner started to come around the desk toward them, and Ana put herself in front of Lotte as they retreated, their footsteps hushed in the deep carpet of the suite. “I've had a long time to think about you and me since Vienna,” he said, almost casually, “and you know what I've realized, Perenelle? We both seek out what gives us the most pleasure: you and your artists; me and, well, you know what I enjoy.” Another step; another retreat. “I've been wondering if you and I aren't irrevocably connected; that when we took the elixir, the universe demanded balance. You became what you became, and so I became what I am, in order to maintain equilibrium.” Step and retreat. “I came to realize that what I want isn't your
death
, Perenelle; it's your anguish and your agony, your guilt and your sorrow. And I want it
forever
.”

The last word was a harsh whisper, the very lack of volume deepening the threat.

Another step, and now Lotte's back was to the wall of the room. Ana heard the frame of Klimt's painting rattle on the plaster as Lotte made contact. Brunner was still three steps away from them; as she watched he took another step. “Stay away from me,” she told him. “From us.”

He laughed. “No,” he answered. “I'll never do that entirely, my darling. Fate has brought us together yet again, and who am I to deny fate?”

Ana's mind was in a fury. The small vial of elixir in her shoe seemed to burn underneath her.
If I can stop him, even for a minute, I might have enough time to get the elixir, to make Lotte drink it, and she'd be safer . . .

As Brunner started to take a final step, Anaïs moved away from Lotte and raised her hands, shouting a phrase in Arabic. Blue flames huffed into existence, flying away from her in a hissing, shrieking ball that engulfed Brunner and sent him staggering backward. But though she expected the fire to sear away his uniform and his flesh, to send him crumpling to the floor, she heard him shout in the same language in return; with a wave of his hands, the fire vanished, leaving him untouched. He brushed at a few dark singe marks on the brown uniform.

“That was well played,” he told her. She could see rage pulling at the muscles of his face. “I didn't expect
magic
from you, and you nearly caught me. But you were never very good at magic.” Ana saw him lift the flap of the holster on his wide belt and slide his Luger from its leather nest. “Tell me, do you have magic prepared against this?”

The report of the pistol was loud and sudden, and Ana screamed as the bullet tore into her knee, ripping at bone, cartilage, and muscle and sending the other spells she had prepared flying away in her mind. Ana collapsed to the floor, blood pouring from the wound, writhing on the carpet, the pain blocking out everything else. She saw Lotte rushing toward her, but Brunner pointed his Luger at her and Lotte backed away to the wall again, hands cradling her stomach as if she could protect the baby inside. Lotte was sobbing and moaning, sinking down the wall to the carpet herself. Brunner walked up calmly to where Ana lay. She looked up at him, at the tendrils of smoke still trailing from the muzzle of his Luger.

“Let me tell you what will happen now, Perenelle. I'm going to watch you die. Again—because I know the torment that coming back will cost you.” The weapon barked and jumped twice more, the bullets this time tearing through her stomach and abdomen. Ana shrieked in pain, in concert with a wail of terror from Lotte. She felt Brunner's hand unbuttoning her blouse; his fingers lifted the pendant on its chain. He laughed at that and dropped the pendant again. The muzzle of the Luger pressed hot and hard against her left breast. “Stay awake,
ma petite colombe
. Listen to me so you know what happens next. I've a new promise for you: I will make certain that your Charlotte gets very special treatment.”

She heard him speaking through the roar of blood and the pain, but her vision had gone red and she could no longer see him clearly. Lotte cried in the background.

“There will be no forced labor for her,” he continued. “No, no. Instead, I'll make certain that she learns firsthand what Auschwitz does best. Remember that, Perenelle, when you come back; your failures killed her. And here's another promise: next time I'll have you watch your lover die first before I take care of you. Won't that be exquisite? There's something for you to look forward to in your next life. It won't be soon—maybe thirty years, or fifty, or another century entirely. But I'll find you again, because you have a weakness I don't have,
ma cherie
. You actually care about people, and I don't. Now . . . say good-bye for a time.”

Ana heard Lotte scream, then the report of the Luger against her chest, then nothing at all.

I
T
WOULD TAKE HER over a month to fully recover—physically, if not mentally—from what Nicolas did to her that day. She saw him only once after that: Nicolas visited her the day after their encounter to tell her, smugly, how he'd personally enjoyed Charlotte, how after he'd finished with her, he'd sent Charlotte and Alexander on to Drancy with orders for both to be shipped eastward to Auschwitz.

By the time Ana was well enough to leave the hospital, Brunner had left Nice and returned to Germany, his work done.

In early October, Lotte and Alexander had been transported to Auschwitz, where the two had been separated. As a pregnant woman, Charlotte had been sent to the gas chambers immediately; Ana would learn, later, that Alexander had survived forced labor until early 1944, when he, too, succumbed.

“Alois Brunner” vanished in April of 1945, during the Allied invasion of Germany. She was hardly surprised; Nicolas had long practice at becoming someone else at need. From that time on, they were engaged in a mutual hunt: he to torment her; she to end the torment forever.

She couldn't allow him to escape again. She could have no mercy, no compassion for him. Not if she still was to live in this world.

“Next time I'll have you watch your lover die first before I take care of you.”
That's what Nicolas had told her, and now he had David. She had no way to know where Nicolas had taken him, no way to find them. She called Morris with no expectation that he'd help her, afraid that he wouldn't answer when he saw it was her cell calling. But he was the only person she knew who had actual contact with Pierce, who might have be able to offer her a clue. His phone rang four times, then she heard the click of the connection and his low voice. “What the fuck d'you want, Camille? Can't you take a goddamn hint?”

“It's Pierce,” she said in a rush over Morris' profanity-laced complaints. “He's taken David, and he's going to kill him. I have to find them, and I don't know where to start looking. You have to help me, Morris. Please.”

She could hear the desperation in her own voice, and, worse, she knew Morris could hear it as well. She was certain he wasn't going to answer, that she'd hear the click of his disconnection in the long silence that followed. She heard him breathing, then a clearing of his throat.

“You're thinking I'm gonna help
you
? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I don't believe you want David to die, Morris, no matter how you feel about me.”

“Yeah?” he answered, and she thought that she might as well hang up when his voice softened slightly. “Look, Camille, I don't know where Pierce is,” he said. “I haven't seen him since . . . well, since he told me about you. He always came here to my studio; I never went to him and he certainly never told me where he's staying now. And now, with the fucking cops watching my place, he ain't likely to show up here again, either.” He gave a short, mocking laugh.

She felt her shoulders sag. “Pierce hasn't picked up the sculpture? He didn't have you send it somewhere?”

“No. It's been cast and I've been going over to supervise the final construction of the pieces, but Pierce hasn't told me where he wants it shipped yet. All I know is that he said it'd be local.” Again, there was a pause. “Camille, look, I don't have anything more to tell you. I hope you find David, okay? If I hear from Pierce again, maybe I'll see what I can find out.” He sounded sincere.

“Thanks,” she told him. There was nothing else to say. She had nothing more to go on than she had before. “I appreciate it.”

He didn't answer that at all. She heard the click as he disconnected the call. She sat with the phone in her hand until she heard the recording telling her to hang up.

She waited, because she had no choice though it tore her apart to do so. A long afternoon faded slowly into a damp and dark evening. She pulled out her scrolls and began memorizing the spells and hexes there, trying to cram them into her memory. She went to the display of chemicals on their shelves and mixed several pungent and odoriferous vials. She laid out the Tarot cards on the table next to her laptop and scanned their familiar, scuffed, and faded faces, hating what the array told her:
danger, trouble, despair.

At the center of the array stood the Tower card, to Camille the most frightening card of the Tarot, signifying sudden cataclysmic changes and a drastic upheaval. She went back to the chemicals and made more preparations, then finally fell asleep in a chair, exhausted and worried.

Verdette, purring on Camille's lap, leaped up in annoyance as Camille's computer chimed, announcing that she had e-mail. Camille pulled the laptop toward her and clicked on the Mail icon as Verdette fled the room; she didn't recognize the sender's name or the address in the inbox, but the subject line made her stomach lurch.
David
, it said simply.

Taking a long, slow breath, she clicked on the message.

She was greeted with a grainy image of David, seated in a battered old wooden chair with his hands duct-taped to the chair arms and his legs also taped together. He was staring at the camera with an expression of bewilderment on his face. Below the image, there were a few words: an address near the East River, and a warning in French—
Come alone or he dies immediately.
The message itself was unsigned, but it needed no signature.

She put her hands in the pocket of her jeans; her fingers touched a piece of cardboard there: Detective Palento's business card. She pulled out the card and stared at it for a long time before dialing the number. It rang once, then went to voicemail; she listened to the short recording and Gina Palento's gruff voice. At the beep, she nearly hung up, but gathered herself.

“Detective Palento, this is Camille Kenny. Pierce . . . he has David. He says he's going to kill him if I don't come to where he's holding him, but I have to come alone. I want you to know, just in case . . .” She stopped. She could hear her breath ragged in the speaker. “Here's the address, but please, don't send any squad cars or Pierce will kill David. By the time you get there, it'll probably be over, one way or another.” She gave the address, then ended the call.

Camille made certain that the Ladysmith was loaded and in her purse along with her several test tubes. She took the katana from its stand in her bedroom and wrapped it in a tablecloth. She picked up her cell phone again and dialed another number in its memory. The call went to voicemail. “Mercedes,” Camille said at the beep. “If you're there, please pick up. I . . . I really could use your help.” She waited; after a few breaths, she started to press the End Call button when she heard a click and Mercedes' cautious voice.

“Camille? What's going on? You sound really upset.”

Camille told her quickly about Pierce's abduction of David and the e-mail. “I'm at David's now and I know I don't deserve any help from you. I was going to just call a cab, but I thought . . . I hoped . . .”

Mercedes didn't let her finish. “I'll be there in a few minutes. Just let me get dressed and I'll drive over. I'll honk when I'm outside.”

“Mercedes, thank you. You don't know what this means.”

“Shut up, girl,” Mercedes answered. “You're wasting time. Get yourself ready to go.”

Camille found Verdette and spent the time stroking her, wondering if she would see the cat again, wondering if David was still alive. He couldn't be dead, she told herself; not yet. She would somehow know if that were the case. Nicolas
wanted
her to come, after all. He wanted her to witness David's death; Nicolas would keep him alive until she was there.

When she heard the horn blare on the street outside, she hugged Verdette again, who mewled in protest. She grabbed for her purse and the katana.

“I'll see you soon, Verdette,” she said. She hoped that wasn't a lie.

 * * * 

“Oka
y, I
really
don't like this,” Mercedes said.

She also hadn't liked the fact that Camille had entered the car bearing weapons. She'd given Camille a severely raised eyebrow when she learned that the long, thin bundle was a sword, and the other eyebrow had gone up when Camille admitted that she had a gun in her purse.

The address was an old building on East 10th Street near Avenue D. The front was boarded up, and as Mercedes slowed her ancient Volvo to a stop across the street she shook her head, glaring at the building as if she could demolish it with her scowl. “This isn't good, Camille,” she said. “This looks like the place where someone finds a decomposing body six months after the murder, or that's crawling with crack addicts who would kill you for the change in your pockets. You're
sure
this is where Pierce said you were to meet him?”

Camille nodded; she glanced down at the scrap of paper in her hand, then at the address spray-painted on the facade and visible in the gleam of the streetlamp. “Yeah. This is it. Drive on past—park somewhere farther up where Pierce can't look out and see you.”

Mercedes drove to the middle of the next block and pulled over. “We should call the cops,” Mercedes persisted. That had been her plea through most of the short drive to the location. “You can't just go in there.”

“I left a message with the detective who's handling Helen's murder,” Camille said, a bit wearily. “But if Pierce sees cops, he'll just kill David immediately and he'll get away again. Mercedes, you have no idea what the man can do. No idea. This is something I have to do myself.”

“No, you don't. I'll come in with you.” She didn't sound quite so certain of that, but Camille smiled for a moment hearing her say it, even as she shook her head.

“He said ‘alone.' That's the way I have to do it. All I'm asking is for you to drop me off. That's it. I don't want to expose you to anything more.”

Mercedes scowled. “Well, I'm not a taxi and I'm not just dropping you off and leaving you,” she told Camille. “I'm staying parked here until you come back out—and if you're not out fast enough, I really don't give a damn what you say; I'm calling 911.”

“Don't get involved in this, Mercedes. I don't want you to get hurt, too.”

Mercedes sniffed. “Then why the hell did you call me? I'm already involved, or haven't you noticed? You think your detective won't check your phone records and see that you called me? You think she wouldn't ask me what that call was about; you think the garage won't tell them that right afterward I took my car out? Look, if you don't want me to go in with you because you think that's dangerous for David, then fine. But I'm staying here; you just need to tell me how long to wait before I call for the cavalry, because that's what I'm going to do.”

Camille took a long breath, considering her options. If she failed, if Nicolas killed both David and her, at least there might be a chance that the police would catch Nicolas. A chance, though not much of one . . . “Twenty minutes,” she said. “That should be enough. And Mercedes . . .” Camille fumbled in her purse and pulled out a cork-topped test tube the length of her forefinger. In the faint light of the instrument panel, a thick, dark liquid moved sluggishly at the bottom. She took a pencil from the glove compartment and scribbled quickly on the address paper, handing it to Mercedes. “Can you say these words:
alnar aldhahabia
?”

Mercedes glanced at the paper, shrugged and repeated the phrase. Her pronunciation was poor, but the words were vaguely recognizable; Camille decided that it would have to do. “What language is this?” Mercedes asked.

“Arabic,” Camille answered. She handed Mercedes the vial. “If you see Pierce, if he starts to come toward you, throw this at his feet hard enough that the glass breaks, then speak those words while striking the fingers of your right hand in your left palm like you're striking a rock with a piece of flint, and then run.” Camille showed Mercedes the hand motion. “Just run and don't look back. Do you understand that?”

Mercedes took the vial gingerly, watching the liquid slosh inside. “Alnar aldhahabia,” she said again, and moved her hands in imitation of Camille. “Umm, nothing happened,” she said.

“Nothing
will
happen until the stuff in that tube is exposed to air,” Camille told her. “Your pronunciation was rough, but I think it'll still work.”

“You
think
it'll work . . .” Mercedes repeated, skeptically. “Do I want to know what's supposed to happen?”

“I don't think you'd believe me,” Camille answered. “Just remember those words and the gesture—the stuff inside won't do anything without them.”

“This is some of your . . . magic?” She said the last word as if she were tasting a rotten lemon. “Camille, I don't believe in magic—at least, not this kind.”

Camille allowed herself a small smile. “Do you believe in science?”

Mercedes nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then think of it as a science experiment that requires an incantational component, because that's what it actually is. If Pierce comes after you, you'll be glad you have it.” Camille hoped she was telling the truth; she was doubtful that Mercedes could successfully work the spell words and gesture without a lot of practice, but she couldn't give her the Ladysmith. Mercedes gripped the test tube a little tighter. She nodded. “All right, I'm going now,” Camille said. “Twenty minutes?”

“Twenty minutes,” Mercedes repeated. “Good luck. And please be careful, Camille.”

“I'll try.” Camille opened the door and stood in the cool night air. There was no one nearby on the street, though she saw people moving a few blocks up. She unwrapped the katana from the tablecloth and untied the strings of the
saya
from the weapon, placing the sheath under the belt of her jeans at her left side and shoving the strings into her pocket. She took the Ladysmith and attached the holster at the back of her right hip, then slung her purse around her shoulder so that it also lay on her right. She stared at the building; she spoke a small charm, and felt a tingling that told her, yes, Nicolas was nearby. Nicolas would certainly feel her coming as well. She crossed the street at a jog, then entered the alleyway behind the building.