Immortal Muse

by Stephen Leigh

  A grin. “Oui, I did. He’s a very old-fashioned man, the cardinal, and very firm in his faith. He was most terribly distressed to learn about the sinful behavior of the composer he’d hired.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “A priest who won’t celebrate mass, and who plows the field between the legs of his favorite singer and housekeeper, and probably that of her sister as well.”

  “Bastard!” she hissed. “Murderer!”

  He spread his hands wide. “Did I lie to the cardinal? Did I tell an untruth? I think not.” His smile collapsed and his eyes narrowed. “We will live forever, Perenelle, and the one thing that will make my long life a pleasant one will be if yours is a misery. You can’t believe how sweet your torment tastes to me. You’re like a fine dinner: not something I want every night, but for those special occasions.”

  “Why? Why can’t you simply leave me alone? Go live your life, and let me live mine.”

  He shrugged. “We both have to pay for what’s been given us,” he answered. “I know what your payment has been: I know that you need these artists that you find. And me … Well, I have my own needs, my own requirements for the gift of life. Should I tell you what your elixir has given me as my need, or have you already guessed? Being in the church for many of my lives has allowed me to fill my own hunger most excellently. Ah, the Inquisition …” He paused, then his lips curled momentarily. “It’s your fault, Perenelle, your fault. Your fault for having created the elixir, for tempting me after I saw you run from me as a young woman again. If I’m a monster, then I am of your own creation.” He took a breath.

  “What do you want, Nicolas?”

  “Why, I’ve already told you,” he said. “Why don’t you sit? I’ve a rather long tale to tell, one I think you’ll find interesting.” When she didn’t move, he shrugged. “As you wish. Stand, then. Do you miss your old notebook, Perenelle? I know you’ve been trying to recreate the potion, and I know that so far you’ve not been able to do so. You were always the best of us with alchemy, as I was the better with magic.” He lifted his hands as if he were about to cast a spell, and she stiffened, ready to fire the pistol. But his hands dropped again. “Yet I have something you don’t. I have your notes, all nicely written down and detailed. Every step of the process. Not that it’s done me much good. Those mice you kept: they all died, didn’t they? Age caught up to them, in a single moment, and they died in agony. I know, because I replicated your experiment after you left: first with mice, then …” He paused. “… with people. You should know, by the way, that it’s a truly horrible death for a person. I can’t imagine the pain they must experience, but I can hear it in their shrieks and see it in the terror fixed on their faces after they die.” He smiled. “And I can taste their pain, also. It’s wonderful. Still, your elixir is a failure, Perenelle.”

  “But it does work,” she protested. “Look at me. Look at you.”

  He shook his head. “There was something different with that version of the formula, some change you made but didn’t write down, or perhaps it was only an accident—something introduced to the potion that you didn’t notice. When I finally decided that if I didn’t take the elixir I was going to die myself, it was your potion I took—what was left in the vial from that day that you took it and changed before my eyes. That one worked for me as it did for you.”

  She was already shaking her head. “That one was the same as all the rest. I did nothing differently.”

  Nicolas shook his head. “You’re wrong. It was different. I’ve followed your notes exactly.”

  “Then give me the notebook,” she told him. “Let me try. You’ve missed something. As you’ve noted, you were always best at spells, Nicolas; I was your superior in the laboratory. I can find what’s wrong with the formula.”

  He laughed. “Handing you the notebooks would give you what you want, and I’ve no intention of allowing you that much satisfaction. You’d give the potion to this red priest of yours, wouldn’t you? You’d keep him with you forever. No, no, no. I intend to keep the notebook—your misery at watching everyone you love inevitably age and die is part of my pleasure.”

  He took a step toward her; she retreated the same distance, removing the pistol from her cloak and showing him the weapon. He chuckled dryly. “Is this a jest? You can’t kill me with that.”

  The barrel trembled with his words. “You can’t know that.”

  “Ah, but I do. Remember your face, my dear wife? We both heal very well. I know: three times now I’ve sustained wounds that would have killed a normal person, including being shot by a firearm. That won’t kill me. I do know that much.”

  “We’re alchemists, Nicolas. We believe in what we learn. Maybe you’re right, but it’s an experiment I’m willing to try. After all, you sent a man with a sword after me.”

  He scoffed. “My little friend at the opera? He was just a reminder, as I said. I told him that if he didn’t kill you, then I’d kill his lovely wife—she was already dead, of course; he just didn’t know that. He couldn’t have killed you. I haven’t figured out quite how to do that yet, though I will, I will. In the meantime, I’ve taken that woman you called a sister as the first step. For the second—well, you actually are fond of that fool of a musician Vivaldi, aren’t you?”

  “You leave him alone, Nicolas,” she grunted. The pistol quivered in her hand as her finger tightened on the trigger. “You’ve done enough damage already to him.”

  He was watching her intently, studying her. “Ah, you are in love with him. That’s so delicious. Well, let me make a deal with you then. I’ll leave him alone—if you do the same.”

  “No.”

  “So quick an answer; it says so much. I warn you, Perenelle, if you don’t do as I tell you, I’ll make you regret it. I might not be able to permanently hurt you, but your Signor Vivaldi isn’t immune, is he? And there’s so much gossip I can spread, too. I wonder which would be the most painful for him and you: to destroy his career, or destroy him physically as I did to Paolina—that was her name, wasn’t it? Or maybe I should do both, and have the pleasure of his death and of tasting your grief.”

  “I’m warning you, Nicolas.”

  He shook his head. “You’ve nothing with which to bargain, Perenelle. I’ve told you what I want—and I’ll have it, one way or another.”

  “No!” The word was a shout; with it, her finger convulsed on the trigger. There was a click, the flint struck metal and sparked, and the powder in the pan flashed. The pistol bucked in her hand and with a cry, Nicolas spun around, blood blooming from a sudden hole in his chest, his priestly robes going dark and wet as he collapsed to the ground, sprawled awkwardly on the courtyard’s path. His breath gurgled in his throat, and a line of blood flowed from his mouth.

  She dropped the pistol. Nicolas still didn’t move, lying on the flagstones of the courtyard.

  “What’s this commotion!” She heard the cry from the palazzo. She saw Lucio at his balcony, staring down at her. “Anna! What’s happened?” She heard footsteps from the house as Lucio disappeared from his balcony. She ran toward the house, meeting the house valet on the way out.

  “I was attacked,” she told them. “There’s a man in the courtyard. I had to shoot him …”

  The servant stared, then moved past her, waving at the other servants gathering, gape-mouthed, in the area. She could hear Lucio lumbering down the stairs, puffing like a great bear and shouting for her. She went to him, embracing him hard. “Oh, Lucio! It’s so dreadful. I had to kill him, I had to. He’s the one who killed poor Paolina …”

  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.”

  5:

  CLIO

  Camille Kenny

  Today

  “WE’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?”