"Perhaps," said the other necromancer, holding up his goblet for one of the young runaway girls to fill. " But perhaps Azreal is right. We risk much by staying here."
"And we stand to lose even more by leaving, Balen," Leila replied. She stood and gestured at their surroundings. The underground-chamber of the Catacombs had been transformed with opulent furnishings and Persian carpets, with couches and cushions on the floor and ornately carved tables from which their ensorcelled street urchins served them. Burning braziers provided the illumination and filled the chamber with the scent of incense that masked the musty smell.
"Is this all you really want?" she said. "To hide down here among the bones, quaking in a hole like a pair of frightened rabbits, with your empty-eyed consorts to wait on you hand and foot and provide you with meaningless diversion?"
"And what of your diversions?" Azreal asked her. "After so many years of being imprisoned formless, nothing but spirits without substance, is it so wrong to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh? Pleasures for which you, I might add, seem to have an equal appetite."
"I do not ask that you practice self-denial," Leila said. "But everything I do is with an end in mind. Have we spent so many centuries entombed beneath the earth that it has become our natural habitat? That we are afraid to walk out in the sun, to claim the power that is ours by right of our superiority to these pathetic beings? Do you not hunger for something more than this?" She glanced around the chamber. "It galls me that we must live like this when we could have a palace for our own, with multitudes to serve us instead of these few wretched children."
"We must bide our time, Leila," Balen said. "We must wait until we have grown strong enough to insure that the runestones cannot defeat us."
"How long must we wait?" asked Leila. "You say wait. Azreal says move on. I say the time for us to act is now. The opportunity is here. The power of the runestones is within our grasp, if we are only bold enough to take it! And once the misbegotten spawn of Gorlois is slain and we have absorbed their energy, there will be nothing left to stop us! There are three of them and three of us! One triangle against another, the White against the Dark! And the initiative is ours to take!"
"Exactly," Balen said. "And the time is ours to choose, as well. We must take care to choose it wisely."
"And if we leave now," added Azreal, "it could be months or even years before they could find us once again. Our powers would grow even stronger, so that when we met them for the final conflict—"
"But what if we were not the ones to meet them for the final conflict?" Leila asked. "What if some of the others found the courage that you lack and seized their power for themselves? No, I will not be cheated of it! I will not run when the power of the runestones could be ours!"
"It is a power that could mean our death," said Balen. "Some of the others have already fallen to them. I do not intend to join their number. Not after so many years of waiting for this chance."
"And yet if we don't take it, it is a chance that might not come again," said Leila. "You forget that I alone among us have already faced them and I survived to tell the tale. The avatars are not as fearsome as you think. They are not true immortals, but merely humans, descended from a bastard stock."
"Humans to whom the spirits of the Council of the White have become bonded," Balen said. "And that makes them much more than 'merely' human."
"Yet they can be destroyed," said Leila.
"As we can be destroyed," said Azreal. "I say that we should leave and make a new start elsewhere. Let the others try their luck against the runestones while we hoard and increase our power until we can meet them on more even terms."
"We are on even terms," said Leila. "We are on more than even terms already! We can use our acolytes to serve us while* their white magic prevents them from using others as we do. They care about the foolish humans, while their lives mean nothing to us. That can be used against them."
"When the time is right," said Balen.
"I say it is right now," Leila replied.
"And I say it is not," said Azreal.
She gave him a cold and steady stare. "Would you try your power against mine, Azreal?" she said softly. "Perhaps the both of you would care to test your strength against me. If more power is what you want, mine would more than double yours. If you have the strength to take it."
Azreal stared at her defiantly for a moment, then finally turned and looked away.
"Enough, Leila," Balen said. "This is not the way. If we fall to fighting amongst ourselves, we only serve the interests of our enemies. You are the strongest of the three of us. Neither Azreal nor I dispute that. But you are not yet strong enough to take on the runestones by yourself. The three of us together stand a far better chance. Azreal and I only want to be certain that we have a good chance of succeeding. We have waited for so long, what harm would it do to wait a little while longer?"
"The longer we remain here, and the longer we delay, the more we play into their hands," said Leila. "How long do you think it will take for them to realize where we are? And once they have deduced that, how long do you think it will take for them to find us? We have waited long enough. The time for us to strike is now, while the advantage is still ours."
"And if we fail?" said Balen.
"I have already escaped from them once, when they pursued Pascal," said Leila. "If need be, I can escape from them again. But I will not run without a fight, not when we have so much to gain."
"Then you have already decided to move on to the final stage," said Azreal. "What of our plan to gain an acolyte among the agents of the Bureau or the I.T.C.?"
"Pascal would have given us that opportunity," she replied, "but Pascal is dead and now that we know the avatars are here, we can afford to waste no time on that. If an opportunity arises, we will take it, but we must move quickly if we are to move at all."
"Then we had best discuss our plans," said Balen. "We must make certain that there is no room for error."
"There will be none," Leila said. "Our acolytes will set the plan in motion and we will channel the power that we gain through them into a spell that will release all the life energy we need. Remember that in order to draw on the full power of the Living Triangle, the avatars must be together to effect the spell. Separately, they can be much more easily defeated."
"Then they would be fools to attempt taking us on separately," said Azreal.
Leila smiled. "True, but they will have no choice," she said. "Remember that they care about the humans and they trust them. And it is the humans who will bring about their downfall."
Max Siegal's studio was crowded with well-wishers who had come to help him celebrate his release from jail. The crowd was liberally sprinkled with the inevitable party crashers, but Max didn't really mind. He was just glad to be out of jail. In spite of the reassurances of his attorneys, he had been convinced the case against him looked so bad that he would be brought to trial and found guilty. When Renaud came to tell him that all the charges had been dropped and he was being released, he had scarcely been able to believe it.
During the time that he had been in jail, the murderer of the Rue Morgue had struck again, leaving no doubt that it was the work of the same man who had killed Joelle Muset and Gabrielle Longet. Renaud had apologized to him on behalf of the police department, asking him to try and understand how they could have drawn the conclusions that they did, given the circumstantial evidence. The detective had gone to great pains to convey the sincerity of his apology. Max had refrained from taking out his anger and frustration on the police inspector, expressing his outrage by displaying the famous Siegal temper. Instead, he simply shook hands with Renaud and told him there were no hard feelings.
The story was carried in all the papers and on TV, as well. All his friends had come to help him celebrate and they saw a new Max Siegal, a man who walked around with a glass of mineral water in his hand instead of brandy or a whiskey, a man who seemed much more relaxed. He had announced that he would never p
aint a nude again, but would devote his talents to impressionism, following in the steps of the old masters he admired.
"But Max," Francois Benet said, "what of your public? You have tried exploring new directions before with no success. The galleries always want the nudes. They are what you are famous for."
"At the moment, I am famous for having been a suspect in a sensational series of murders," Max replied to his old mentor. "And even though the charges have been dropped, there will always be that taint of suspicion, at least until the real killer has been found. That will cause all the galleries to raise their prices. Never fear, Francois. Right now, they will buy anything I paint."
"Hello, Max," said Jacqueline with a smile.
"Jacqueline!" said Max. "You came!" He threw his arms around her in a hug. "Francois," said Max, "allow me to introduce my very dearest friend, the one who stood by me throughout this entire ordeal and was instrumental in my release, Mademoiselle Jacqueline Monet."
"Charmed, mademoiselle," Francois said, bending over her hand and brushing it slightly with his lips. "I have heard much about you, but perhaps we can speak later. Right now, I'm sure that you and Max have a great deal to discuss."
He graciously excused himself.
"I thought you weren't going to come," said Max, holding her hands and gazing at her affectionately.
She smiled. "How could I not come?" she said. "I would have come to see you sooner, but I have been informally assisting the police in investigating this case and I simply couldn't get away."
"I know," said Max. "Renaud told me. He said that you were trying to convince him of my innocence right from the beginning."
"If he had only listened sooner—"
Max put his fingers up to her lips. "Let's not talk about that now," he said. "Renaud is a good man. He was only trying to do his job and the circumstantial evidence made things look very bad for me, indeed. It was my own fault. I never should have gone back to see Suzanne Muset. It was a stupid thing to do."
"Yes, but it was just like you to try and square things with her," said Jacqueline.
"And now I have to square them with you," said Max. "How can I ever repay you for all you've done?"
"Friends don't have to repay one another, Max," she said.
"Well, at least we can finally have a chance to spend some time together," Max said.
Jacqueline sighed. "I'm sorry, Max. I'm afraid I can't stay."
"What do you mean? Why can't you stay?"
"I only stopped in to see how you were doing. When this is over, then maybe we can spend some time together, but—"
"When this is over? I don't understand. The charges against me have been dropped. I thought that it was all . . . wait a minute. It's this murder case, isn't it? Renaud said something about you helping the police in their investigation. You mean to tell me that you're still involved?"
"Yes, Max, that's what it is. And we're getting close to the real killer. In fact, I really should be leaving."
"But why?" asked Max. "Haven't you already done enough? Jacqueline, this could be very dangerous. Whoever the killer is, he's a sadistic, brutal psychopath. Why should you risk getting involved? Let the police handle it."
She touched his cheek. "Max, if I'd done that from the start, you'd still be in jail."
He sighed. "I suppose you're right. But I can't help being worried."
"I can take care of myself, Max. Relax. I won't be in any danger. Renaud would never allow it. I'm simply assisting them with contacts and information, that's all. But you're right about the killer. And he must be stopped before he can claim anymore innocent victims. You understand that, don't you?"
Max nodded. "Yes, I understand. But it's been so long since I've had a chance to see you. We haven't even had a chance to talk."
"There will be time for that," she said. "But right now, I really have to leave. Go on. Your friends are waiting for you."
She leaned forward and gave him a soft kiss on the lips.
"Let me go with you," he said. "Maybe I can help."
"No, Max," she said. "This has to do with a part of my life that you really know nothing about. And believe me, you'd be better off not knowing. We have always understood that about each other, haven't we? You have your own life and I have mine. The time we spend together is for us, but the time we spend away from one another is a separate thing and there are a lot of reasons why it should remain that way. "
"You've never told me what those reasons are," he said.
"You've never insisted on hearing them before."
"Well, I'm insisting now."
"And I can't tell you."
"Can't? Or won't?"
"Both," she said. "We have always respected one another's privacy before, Max. Don't start becoming possessive now. It would never work. When this is over, we can talk and maybe I'll think about telling you my reasons, but not now. In the meantime, you have a party in your honor to attend. And I have work to do."
She kissed him again and left.
He stared after her for a long moment, torn between respecting her wishes and wanting to follow her, to insist that she come back and drop this crazy idea of assisting the police in their investigation. Suddenly, he had the inexplicable feeling that if he didn't go after her and bring her back, he might not be seeing her again.
"Max, darling!" A woman came up to him and put her arms around him, giving him a kiss. She started to say something to him, but he quickly disengaged himself and hurried toward the door. He bolted through it and started running down die stairs, but on the way down, he encountered Stefan Rienzi coming up.
Rienzi grabbed him as he tried to get by and spun him around on the landing, throwing him up against the wall. His eyes were wild.
"Where is she?" he shouted, holding Max by his shirt-front. "What have you done with her?"
At first, Max didn't recognize him. "What? Let me go! Who—"
"Murderer! What have you done with Suzanne?"
Recognition dawned. "Rienzi!"
Rienzi slammed him back against the wall. "You bastard! What have you done with her?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Max. "Let me go, I have to—"
Rienzi drove his fist hard into Max's stomach and Max doubled over, the wind knocked out of him. Rienzi hit him again, twice more, then shoved him down onto the floor of the landing. Max fell, fighting for breath. Rienzi reached into his jacket pocket, took out a small pistol and aimed it at Max.
"You and your rich friends!" he said, his voice trembling with emotion. "You think you can do anything you please! You even think you're above the law!"
"Rienzi, don't. . . ." Max gasped.
"Go on! Beg! Beg for your life like your victims must have begged for theirs! You lousy son of a bitch! You killed her, didn't you? The moment they let you out of jail, you went back to finish what you started!"
"Rienzi, please, listen to me. ... I didn't—"
"You're not going to get away with it this time!" shouted Rienzi. "I don't care how much money you and your rich friends have! It isn't going to save you! I don't care what happens to me, I—"
Upstairs, on the landing above them, a woman screamed. "He's got a gun!"
Someone behind her shouted, "Help! Call the police!"
Rienzi brought his hand up and left off a wild shot at the people on the floor above them, who had heard the commotion and come out to see what was going on. There was shouting and screaming and a rush to get back out of the way. Rienzi fired again.
"Get back!" he shouted. "Get back, all of you!"
Max struck out with his feet and knocked Rienzi down. As Rienzi fell, Max threw himself on top of him. They struggled for the gun. It went off once again, the shot striking the wall, and then the gun fell from Rienzi's grasp as he fought against the larger, heavier man, his desperation lending him strength. He rolled over on top of Max and got his hands around his throat. He started squeezing. There was the sound of footsteps coming quickly down the stairs, an
d then Francois and several other men were pulling Rienzi off him. Two of them held the struggling young writer while Francois punched him in the stomach, once, twice, three times. Rienzi sagged down and then Max found his voice and cried out, "Don't! Stop it! Leave him alone!"
Someone helped him to his feet and held him up, supporting him as he coughed and drew deep, rasping breaths, holding his throat where Rienzi had tried to choke him.
"Max!" said Francois. "Are you all right? What happened? Who is this man?"
"Somebody call the police!"
"They've already been called. They're on their way."
"Max. . . ."
"I'm all right," said Max, rubbing his throat. Rienzi was on the floor, holding his stomach as several of the men stood over him.
"Has anybody seen the gun?" asked Francois.
"It's right here," said one of Max's young artist friends, handing him the weapon. "He dropped it."
"You shouldn't have touched it, " someone else said. "The fingerprints—"
"To hell with the fingerprints," said someone else. "We all saw what he did! He tried to kill Max!"
"Watch him! Don't let him get up!"
"Where the hell are the police?"
Max made his way over to where Rienzi sat slumped against the wall. The man was crying.
"Rienzi," Max said, crouching down beside him. "Rienzi, listen to me. . . ."
He tried to take the writer's arm, but Rienzi shook him off. "Don't touch me! Murderer! I'll kill you for what you've done! I swear, I'll kill you!"
"You all heard that!" someone said. "You're all witnesses! You all heard what he said!"
"Be quiet!" said Max. "Rienzi, please, listen to me. Please. I didn't kill Joelle. And I didn't kill Gabrielle, either. I swear to God, I haven't killed anyone. I was in jail when the last murder occurred. I couldn't have done it. That's why the police released me."
"You paid them off!" Rienzi said. "You and your rich friends and your high-priced lawyers—"
"Nobody was paid off, Stefan," Max said, finally remembering the man's first name. "Please, let me explain. The night Joelle was killed, I was right here, in my studio, drunk. She was here, that's true. I was going to paint her, but she expected something else. She started coming on to me. I've had affairs with some of my models, I admit it, but I don't have sex with underage girls. I rejected her advances and we argued. Actually, we didn't even argue, she mainly shouted at me and I just sat there, waiting 'til she ran out of steam. And then she left and I got angry and smashed the painting over the easel and proceeded to get drunk. And the next morning, the police came to arrest me and that was the first I heard of Joelle's murder."
[Wizard of 4th Street 04] - The Wizard of Rue Morgue Page 16