Immortal Muse (62 page)

He lifted the sword again, and Perenelle did scream: a hoarse, wordless, throat-tearing denial. She forced her legs to push her up as the sword—clumsy in Nicolas' untrained hands—rushed down, interposing herself between Nicolas and David as the sword threatened. She felt the blade slice into her side under her upraised arms, felt the steel catch on her ribs and turn, heard the crack of bone and the ring of iron. The intense pain followed an instant later, a searing blue tsunami that took her breath so that she couldn't shout or cry out. Nicolas yanked the blade from her body, and she mewled with the agony, hot blood pouring down her side.

“You were always the one for useless gestures, Perenelle,” Nicolas said. “Now what did that gain you but more pain? It certainly won't save him, will it?” He brought the sword up again—she could see her blood bright on the steel, heavy droplets flying away in seeming slow motion. She tried to rise once more but her body wouldn't cooperate. As she tried to hold herself upright, she saw the blade begin its descent.

Shadows moved in the smoky room. She heard the pop of gunfire: three quick shots, and she saw Nicolas' body jerk with the impacts. That was followed by the bright sound of breaking glass at Nicolas' feet, and a voice calling two words—“Alnar aldhahabia!”—as Nicolas started to respond, too slowly. Camille threw herself over David's prone body: as heat exploded at Nicolas' feet and along her own side, flames as bright as molten gold climbing over his body.

Nicolas screamed. It was an ugly sound, a demon's shriek. Perenelle screamed with him, the golden fire touching her as well, the heat of it spilling over her as her body shielded David. Nicolas dropped the sword; his hands waving as if he were trying to conjure up a new spell to extinguish the fire, but the flames choked him. He breathed them in and exhaled them again as his clothing fell from him in shreds of sparks, as his skin blackened under the relentless, pitiless chemical fire.

Nicolas collapsed to his knees, his mouth open and working soundlessly. He slid sideways to the floor as the golden flames guttered and went out.

Camille picked up the sword in hands that shook, her skin blackened and blistered. “No,” she heard someone say—Palento's voice. “Drop the sword, Ms. Kenny.”

She paid no attention. “You goddamn son of bitch,” she said, standing over Nicolas. She brought the blade up, and sliced downward as hard as she could.

Then, finally, she let herself fall.

 * * * 

There was a voice in the darkness, speaking words that slid through the filter of pain like shards of broken glass.

“We need a couple buses and the fire department to East 10th and D. The place is about to go up. Make it quick.”

Her first breath was a gasping horror, and the rattling, terrible cough that followed was worse. “
Madre de Dios
, she's alive,” she heard Mercedes exclaim, and fingers moved through her hair and brushed her cheek.

“David . . .” she managed to say.

“I have ambulances coming for both of you,” Palento replied, “but we gotta get out of here—the building's on fire.”

Camille shook her head. She blinked, trying to will the room into focus. The walls were lurching around her, the light was erratic and the room too hot, and she couldn't decide if her vision was blurred or if it was the smoke. She could see Mercedes kneeling next to her, and Detective Palento standing nearby. She was untying David from the workbench, which was alive with flames that engulfed the back wall. Camille's body felt like it had been pounded, sliced, then broiled. She forced herself to sit up, and Mercedes hissed at the movement. “You shouldn't . . .”

“I'll be fine,” she told her. “Just help me stand, then take care of David. I can make it . . .” She felt Mercedes' arm underneath her, and she nearly screamed with the pain as the sword's wound ripped open again as Mercedes pulled her to her feet. The room threatened to go away, and she forced herself to remain standing, to breathe, to let the world settle again. She fought not to cough with the smoke, afraid of what would happen if she did. “Help with David,” she repeated to Mercedes, and she started toward the stairs, glancing first to where Nicolas lay. His head was a hand's breadth from the blackened, charred body, the katana snagged in the floorboards between them. He seemed to stare at her in eternal surprise.

Grunting with the pain of the movement, she kicked the head even farther away.

She thought she should be feeling triumph, but instead felt nothing but blinding pain. She took a limping step, then another, then yet another, willing her body to move, holding the edges of the terrible wound together with a hand. Behind her, she heard Palento and Mercedes taking David between them.

She would not remember the descent, only the bite of the night air outside and the blessed purity of the breath she took then. She leaned against the wall of the building opposite. Kevin's body was still there in the alley, another accusation. She saw Palento and Mercedes exit the building with David, smoke billowing out from the top of the open doorway. Through the boarded windows above, yellow-and-orange flames were visible. She could hear the crackle of the fire now, almost as loud as the sound of approaching sirens. Palento and Mercedes laid David down on the alley's pavement near Kevin's body. Camille looked at Palento in mute question.

“He's still breathing,” she said, and coughed. “I don't know about the gunshot or how much blood he's lost. He needs that ambulance, fast. And so do you.”

Camille shook her head. The blood from the long, deep cut had already stopped, and the cool air soothed her burns. “No,” she said. “I'll be fine on my own. It'll just take time.”

Palento was shaking her head, but Mercedes put her hand on the detective's shoulder. “She's right,” Mercedes said. “She'll heal on her own. The hospital's not the place for her.”

Palento stared at both of them, at Kevin's body, at the flames beginning to appear between the boards of the windows. The sirens grew louder, echoing from the street's buildings. “Can you get her home?” she asked Mercedes, who nodded. Palento shook her head, as if arguing with herself. “I shouldn't, but no one's going to believe much of this anyway. Okay, get her out of here—now, while I get the ambulance crew and talk to my people. And neither of you two were ever here. Do you understand?”

They both nodded this time. Mercedes put her arm around Camille. Together, they limped away as Palento pressed the button of her radio. “Around the back,” she said into the mic. “In the alley. Make it fast—I've a GSV who's bleeding out bad . . .”

 * * * 

Camille tried to smile at Mercedes. They were in David's apartment. Verdette was curled up on Camille's lap as she sat on the couch. Mercedes sat near her, wearing a set of Camille's pajamas and sipping coffee—Mercedes had cleaned up the worst of the blood, bandaged her wounds, and gently draped a soft nightgown over Camille's burnt skin, sighing in distress the entire time and wiping back tears at the sight of Camille's injuries. “I'll be fine,” Camille kept telling her. “I need to know what's happening with David . . .”

Palento knocked on the door several hours after they'd left the scene, arriving as the sun was starting to rise. “David?” Camille asked her immediately, and Palento shrugged.

“He's alive, and out of surgery. Seems he was shot with a .38, same caliber as your Ladysmith, but whoever shot him had either really lousy or really good aim. He lost some of his liver and his spleen, his intestines were perforated, but they've patched him up, removed the bullet fragments they could find, and given him a transfusion. They think he'll probably make it.”

Camille closed her eyes. The tears were hot on her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said.

“Don't thank me; thank the docs.” Palento sat on the chair across from the two women. She looked at Mercedes. “Would you mind giving us some time alone?” she said, and stared hard at Camille as Mercedes gathered herself and left the room. They heard her begin to wash dishes in the kitchen. “You were dead,” Palento said at last. “I felt for your pulse, and there wasn't one. You weren't breathing. You were halfway sliced open with a fatal wound, and there was more blood than I've ever seen anyone lose before and live—and I've seen dozens and dozens of dead people. You were one of them . . . but you're not now. How is that possible?”

Camille remained silent, stroking Verdette. After a moment, Palento continued, leaning forward in the chair.

“You don't exist, either. There really isn't a Camille Kenny, any more than there was a real Timothy Pierce. You killed two people—in evident self-defense, I know—but then you took the time to decapitate them afterward. I saw things last night that defy explanation. You got one for me?”

Camille pressed her lips together. Verdette growled softly, glaring at Palento.

Palento sighed. “You're not making this easy. At least tell me this much. Is Pierce the guy who killed Bob?”

“Yes,” Camille said. “He did. And he's the Black Fire murderer, too. He admitted it to me. Hell, he bragged about killing Mr. Walters.”

At the last words, a look of pain briefly touched Palento's eyes. “How?”

“You saw what he did to me,” Camille answered, lowering the shoulder of her robe to expose the blackened, crisp skin, already flaking away to show pink underneath. “That's what he did to Mr. Walters and the other victims.”

“You're telling me that it's magic.” Palento sat back in the chair again. She ran her fingers through her short-cut hair. There were dark circles under her eyes; she looked exhausted. “You're saying it was
magic
that Pierce used, and magic that you're still alive and looking far healthier than you have any right to look. I don't believe in that crap.”

“Then don't,” Camille told her. “Would you like some coffee? Mercedes could bring some in.”

Palento's gaze flicked toward the kitchen and the sound of dishes. “No, I'm going home and I'm going to collapse. It's been a long night. Pierce killed Helen Treadway also?”

“Yes,” Camille answered. “Or rather, he had people do it for him.” It was hard to keep her eyes open; she was also exhausted, and Mercedes' soul-heart could only nourish her so far. “What happens now?” Camille asked Palento. “Am I going to be charged?”
And if I am, then it's time to leave again . . .
She suspected Palento knew that as well.

But the detective shook her head. “You weren't there, remember?” she said. “Neither was your girlfriend. I got your call about David being kidnapped, and you gave me the address. I was almost too late getting there. David had been shot and the place was going up in flames when I dragged him out.” She shrugged. “Lots of chemicals there that didn't help. There were a couple explosions about the time the squad cars got there. The place is pretty much gone; there isn't much left for Forensics to dig through.”

“And the decapitations?”

“There was obviously another person there we didn't catch. We're looking for him—because I have a witness who saw a man running away from the building. I've already taken David's statement; the whole evening is hazy to him, understandably.” Palento rose from the chair, looking down at Camille. Verdette cowered back against Camille's stomach, her back arched as she hissed up at the detective. “She's gray, not black,” Palento said.

“I'm not a witch,” Camille answered. “I'm more a scientist.”

Palento grunted. “After this,” she said, “I don't ever expect to hear from you again. If that turns out not to be the case, then I'll do what I'm paid to do. I'll look into everything about you, and I will follow what the law tells me to do. I promise you that.”

“I understand.”

Palento straightened her jacket and brushed imaginary dandruff from her blouse. She moved toward the door without looking back.

“Detective Palento,” Camille called out, and the woman turned, her hand on the knob. “Thank you for what you've done for me.”

Palento shrugged. “I didn't do it for you. I did it for Bob and what he meant to me. You can thank him.”

She lifted her chin as if in salute, then opened the door.

 * * * 

“
You look like hell.”

“Oh, yeah? Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

Camille could feel the hesitation in David even as she stared at him in the hospital bed. His face was still pale, though both eyes were circled in dark, ugly bruises. The stand next to his bed held a quart of saline, plasma, and a morphine demand-drip; alongside, a monitor graphed his pulse, heartbeat, and BP readings. A catheter tube ran out from under the bedsheets to a plastic bag. His body was wrapped in bandages, and he grimaced as he moved his arm to raise the head of the bed slightly. She reached for his soul-heart, but he kept it inside himself, wrapped tightly around a ball of ugly scarlet that might have been his pain. She plucked at it, but she couldn't get the energy to release.

“What happened there?” David asked. “I don't remember much of it after . . .” He stopped.

“After I shot you?” Camille ventured. “You know why that happened, don't you? I didn't
intend
to shoot you.”

He closed his eyes as he took a breath, grimacing. “Yeah,” he said. “I figured that. Speaking of mirrors . . . Pierce . . . he showed me my face, how I looked like him and he . . .” Another pained breath. “. . . looked like me,” he finished. “Bastard.”

Camille ventured a smile. She sat on the chair next to his bed. She put her hand on his. “How are you?”

“Pretty lousy, if you must know. The docs say that I'll be here awhile, and there's still some worry.” His eyes closed again, and he took another few breaths before opening cracked lips to speak again. “I'm looking at another surgery or two to get stuff they couldn't take care of in the emergency operation. They said it'll be a long recovery.”