Immortal Muse (7 page)

In his hands, the knob of the oaken staff swelled and burst, a split running suddenly down the length of the wood, the staff shattering to splinters above his hand. At the same moment, the Provost collapsed, falling onto the marzipan replica of the gates and crushing it underneath him.

Nicolas' face had split into a grin. He released the broken staff, letting the pieces of it clatter to the floor. Perenelle saw Picot nod to Nicolas and clap him on the back. At the head of the table, Marguerite broke into sobs. “. . . Dead,” someone proclaimed loudly. “The Provost is dead.”

There were scattered cheers around the table at the news, mingled with shouts of alarm and anger.

Perenelle, frozen in shock, started when she felt Nicolas take her arm. “Come, Perenelle,” he said. “We should leave.”

She stared at him, at the placid satisfaction in his face. “You did this.”

“I did,” he answered calmly. “And so did you. After all, it's you who translated the scrolls from which I took the spell. I'm sure that in the eyes of the law, you'd be as guilty of this murder as I.” His finger reached out toward her; it stroked the face on the cameo at her breast. “So you'll be silent about this, won't you, my dear wife? Be silent,” he repeated, and his finger came up to lift her chin. His dark eyes held hers, unblinking, and his smile was chilling. “Or you'll pay far worse than the Provost. I promise you that.”

Perenelle took in a shuddering breath. The pounding of her heart was louder in her ears than the shouting in the hall. The servants had fled the hall; the Provost's men had fled with them, leaving the bourgeoisie who had opposed the Provost triumphant. Only Marguerite was left, clutching at her husband's body.

“Come!” Nicolas commanded, and he pulled at her arm. Numb, she followed him from the hall.

“M
ay your daughter's marriage be as perfect as your own.”

“You're such a blessed couple; you must be so proud of all you've done.”

“The Lord has rewarded you for all that you've done with this wonderful day. You and Nicolas are indeed high in His favor.”

Perenelle smiled and nodded to all the remarks as she moved through the crowd at the chapel of the Saint-Germain-des-Auxerrois church. Nicolas, his beard now completely gray, his body beginning to stoop, was shaking hands with the invited guests on the other side of the central aisle, along with the Dubois family. Alaine Dubois, Verdette's soon-to-be-husband, was there with Nicolas, looking handsome and far too young to Perenelle's eyes. The Dubois family were bankers, with holdings in Auvergne and purse strings that led directly to the court of Charles V. It was Nicolas' rising influence in Parisian circles, and the amounts of money that he had donated to charitable works around the city, that had brought the Flamels and thus Verdette to the attention of the Dubois family. Alaine was the youngest of the four male children Madame Dubois had produced. The oldest son was married to the daughter of a courtier within the king's inner circle; the other two had been married into wealthy guild families. The Dubois were willing to gamble the least of their male offspring on the hope that a relationship with the Flamels might be a profitable match.

“He's a handsome one; Verdette must be pleased.”

“You must be praying that Alaine is as good and gentle and kind a man as your Nicolas.”

Verdette and her attendants were in a small room off the chapel; Perenelle, still nodding and smiling like a marionette responding to the strings of its handler, knocked on the door. “Verdette,” she said softly. “It's your Maman.”

The door opened to a cascade of giggles and whispers, and Perenelle was ushered inside. Verdette was standing in the center of the room as her attendants made last-minute adjustments to her dress. Perenelle smiled at the scene, her eyes filling unbidden with tears. “You look beautiful,” she told Verdette, sniffing and wiping at her eyes. “A perfect angel.”

“Maman . . .” Verdette opened her arms, and Perenelle went to her, hugging her hard, as if to keep the memory of her forever. Verdette's arms wrapped her, and she felt Verdette waving at the attendants.

“Would you leave us for a bit?” Verdette asked, and the attendants, chattering and laughing, left the room, closing the door behind them. Verdette held Perenelle at arm's length. “Maman, I can still smell that laboratory about you even when you scrub and wear perfume. You stay too much in there—who's going to stop you from working yourself to death once I'm gone?”

That brought the tears to Perenelle's eyes again, and she saw moisture gathering in Verdette's eyes as well. “You're happy, Verdette? I know how frightening it is, to marry a man you don't really know well . . .”

“It's what Father wants,” Verdette answered. “I couldn't do better with anyone else here in Paris. He's told me that many times.”

“Yes. He's said that to me, as well.”
And he'd made it clear that Verdette
would
marry the Dubois boy, whether Perenelle or Verdette objected or not.
“But it should be what you want as well.”

“Alaine is a good man, and the Dubois family is a good one. I like him, Maman. He's gentle with me, and kind.”

Perenelle nodded. “Then I'll be happy with you,” she said.

“And you, Maman? Will you be happy afterward, with Father?”

“I will be fine,” she told Verdette, but her daughter shook her head.

“That's not what I asked, Maman. I asked if you'll be happy.”

“I'm happy with my work. It keeps me interested.” She touched the pendant around her neck. “And Nicolas can be a good man.”

Verdette nodded. “I always wondered if it was the work you liked so much, or the fact that when you were in the laboratory with your chemicals and those dusty manuscripts,
he
left you alone.”

Perenelle shook her head. “No, that's not the only reason. I
do
enjoy the work—I have since I was younger than you and I was working with my own father. You and your father . . . well, whether he admits it or not, I help him with his work, and that also gives me pleasure. When I'm in the laboratory, I feel as if the entire universe is there before me, with all its secrets waiting to be discovered . . .” She laughed. “Listen to me, going on about this, when you're about to discover your own life. This is your day, Verdette. Let's not talk about me.”

She kissed her daughter's forehead, her hands clasping her head under the lace of her ceremonial headdress. Perenelle's hands . . . sometimes it surprised her, seeing the wrinkles and the dry skin that were beginning to show her age. And Verdette—she was taller than Perenelle now. When had that happened?

Verdette's fingers had gone to Perenelle's breast, running down the gold chain she wore around her neck. Verdette fondled the sardonyx cameo there, her fingers caressing it lovingly. “I know that I'm one reason you stayed with him, Mamam, but I'll be gone now. Your reason to stay is gone after today. You can leave him now. You'll always have a place you can stay—in my new household.”

“I know,” Perenelle said. She smiled against the tears that threatened once more. “I know that, and I thank you for it. I'll never stop loving you, Verdette; you will always have my heart. Now—let's stop talking and get you married.”

You can leave him now . . .
The words touched emotions inside Perenelle, feelings she thought she'd forgotten over the years. She felt a yearning for that freedom, and she felt sudden disgust that she'd remained with Nicolas all these years. But her hand sought the pendant, and as she stroked the sculpted miniature of her own face, the thoughts receded like distant storm clouds, and she felt only the ancient pull toward Nicolas.

She smiled at Verdette and took her daughter's hand. “Come,” she said. “It's time . . .”

T
HE
B
ENT
C
ALLIOPE
BUSTLED on Friday nights. The Lower East Side was the current “hot” neighborhood for the arts in general, and live music beckoned from several venues every night:
C-Squat
, the
Bowery Ballroom
, or the
Mercury Lounge
. The music scene dragged in outsiders and hangers-on who filled the streets most nights; the bars on Rivington, Delancey, and the nearby streets took in the overflow and the regulars: those who lived here and who wanted a quieter refuge.

Not that the
Bent Calliope
was ever quiet. On Friday nights, the
Bent Calliope
brought in a DJ, who set up in the front corner of the bar. Dance music pounded through his PA system. Camille's crowd generally avoided that area, taking over the opposite rear corner of the bar, where the bass throbbed mostly through the floorboards and where people might still talk without straining their throats.

The group commandeered the large table there; usually a half dozen or more people would have shown up by 8:00, with the group fluctuating in size as the evening progressed. Camille arrived, as she usually did, around 8:30—wanting to be certain she was there before David arrived, if he
did
arrive. He hadn't called her to say otherwise, but she wasn't certain he would show, and she wasn't certain whether or not it would be better that way.

“Hey, Camille!” Morris spotted her as she made her way through the dance floor crowd after stopping at the bar to snag a Guinness. He waved to her over the intervening heads. “What happened the other day? I swear I saw you in the crowd, then all of a sudden you vanished and never showed up at all.” He opened his arms, and she slid into his fierce hug. As he bent down, she kissed him.

“Sorry, I wasn't feeling well,” she said when they broke apart.

“Feeling better now?” That was Mercedes, pulling out the empty chair next to her and gesturing to it. Camille nodded and sat; Mercedes' arm remained around the back of the chair, her fingers caressing Camille's shoulder. Kevin sat across from them, drumming on the table to the beat from the DJ's mix—he and Morris were laughing about something. Emily was talking energetically with Rashawn, her hands sweeping wide as if she were painting the air with invisible brushes. Joe and James were missing, but would probably turn up later, together. A few other members of the group might or might not stop in. All in all, a fairly typical Friday for the
Bent Calliope
Group, as they were already calling themselves. “After you were over the other night, I wrote the most incredible scene,” Mercedes said, leaning close to Camille's ear. Her voice was tinged with a Puerto Rican accent, and her long, black hair frothed around her face. “I swear, it was just flowing out, but I'm so close to it that I can't really tell how good it is. Would you be willing to read it and give me your opinion? I know you'll give me an honest critique . . .”

The group of various creative artists had coalesced around Camille over the past few years, since she'd begun frequenting the
Bent Calliope
. It was the hope of her presence that brought them together, though none of them would have acknowledged the fact. Camille was their catalyst, the gravitational force around which each of them revolved. They pretended that each of them was the true center, but it was Camille who held them together, the dark sun to their glowing planets, each of them tethered by the green strands of their creativity.

For Camille, it was like being enveloped in a bath of energy, luxuriating in a vibrant spirit that flashed and sparked around them from the glowing emerald of their soul-hearts. She consumed it, taking the radiance into herself. She could already feel the tingling deep within her, as if she'd spent the last hour downing shots of espresso. But as much as this sustained her, the collective energy of the group still wasn't truly satisfying. She kept herself at a distance from them, spreading herself out among the group rather than choosing a single one of them. From each of them, she took what she could, but it wasn't the same as being
with
someone. They nourished her, but she was left with an eternal sense of hunger and not-quite-emptiness. It was enough to keep her from falling into depression and ill health, but the group couldn't give her all that she wanted.

They couldn't give her what she needed, but what she needed would also, inevitably, bring
him
back to destroy it.

She hugged Mercedes. She could nearly taste the pleasure in Mercedes' mind, the tendrils of her green heart embracing Camille. “I'm so happy to hear that,” she said. “Of
course
I'll read it, dear. E-mail a PDF to me, why don't you, or send me an epub file, and I'll take a look at it over the next few days . . .”

She felt David's presence in the
Bent Calliope
as Mercedes gave her a hug and a soft kiss, and saw him a moment later. He altered the flow of energy around her, tugging at her even as his presence caused the other tendrils to slide away. David evidently saw her as well, hesitating at the edge of the crowd as if uncertain of his welcome. “David!” she said. “Come on, sit down. You wanted to meet the
Bent Calliope
Group? Well, let me introduce you around.”

She went around the table, giving David their names. “Hey,” David said to Morris. “I caught your show at the gallery over on Delancey last month. Nice stuff.”

Morris grinned. “Thank you. Trust Camille to grab someone with excellent taste. A photographer, eh? Did you notice the litho prints I had mounted in the little room in the back—the subject look familiar?” He nodded his head toward Camille. “She's a lovely model.”

David glanced at Camille, at Mercedes' arm still draped possessively around her. “That's something I'd like to know for myself,” he said.

“Ah, so you've noticed too. A wonderful face, and her body's not half bad, either.” Morris blew Camille a kiss across the table; Camille gave him the finger in return.

Camille saw David's eyes widen with the remark, and widen further with her response. Kevin laughed—whether at David's discomfiture or at her gesture, Camille couldn't tell. “Morris, you're hopeless,” Kevin said. “Camille, tell him—you're actually a musician at heart.”

“Nah,” Rashawn interjected. “It's dance—now there's the perfect expression of all of the arts. In dance, you have everything: music, a moving sculpture with the dancers, an animated painting, and the beauty of the figure.”

Then they were all talking at once, each defending their own medium: a laughing, furious babble. Camille glanced up at David and smiled. “Artists,” she said, leaning close to him. “Once they start talking about their work, you can't shut them up.”

 * * * 

Sh
e'd expected David to plead that he had to be elsewhere and leave early, but he remained deep into the night. He said very little during the evening—he answered when spoken to, laughed at the jokes, bought a round for the group, but otherwise mostly watched and listened. At one point in the evening, he pulled a small digital camera from his pocket and asked if they'd mind him taking a few candid shots; no one objected, and he would lift the camera at times to snap a shot: no flash, always using only the ambient light.

Camille felt him staring at her much of the time; whenever she glanced his way, their gazes seemed to meet and hold for a breath or two. She drank much more than usual: because she was nervous and uncertain; because she was, she would admit later, stupid.

She wondered if he could feel what she felt, if he noticed how—inside—she responded to his presence so much more than the others, if he saw how she was nearly always within an arm's reach of him. The others had realized the dynamic, she was afraid. She could see it in the group, in the way they chattered and their body language: they all wondered whether David was going to become another one of her confidants. Perhaps they worried he might become more—because each of them, to some degree, considered Camille to be their own special friend, who was interested more in them than in any of the others.

For some, a potential rival could color their soul-hearts with dark, bitter jealousy.

She drank because then she could pretend to be enjoying herself, could pretend that this was just another evening with the Calliope Group, could pretend not to be worried. And if this turned out to be a mistake, then she could blame it on the alcohol.

By one in the morning, most of the group was beginning to make excuses to leave. David watched as she embraced and kissed each one in turn as they left. Mercedes was the last to go—they talked for a long time with David between them, the two women's arms around the back of his chair and their fingers occasionally intertwined. Mercedes finally yawned dramatically and pushed herself away from the table. Camille could feel David's regard on her as they said good-bye, as Mercedes gave her a long and lingering kiss, as Camille—her arms around Mercedes— reminded her to send the chapter she'd written. Mercedes whispered in Camille's ear, her voice hot and breathy. “Have fun,
mi amor
.” She glanced meaningfully at David's left hand. “Even if he
is
married.”

Mercedes released Camille, then touched David's arm. “Good to meet you,” she said. “Be nice to her.”

David smiled as if he understood, though he said nothing.

Camille sat down next to David as Mercedes walked toward the door through the now-thin crowd. The movement made her a little dizzy. Their table was ringed with the ghosts of their drinks; too many of them had been Camille's. How many Guinnesses had she had? Four? And the shots of Jameson that Kevin had bought them . . . “So what did you think?” she asked him.

“Of the group? They're a talented bunch. But I already knew that.”

“That's it?” She wondered if she slurred the words slightly. The room seemed to tilt; she caught herself swaying on her stool.

He shrugged.

“I think I know what you want to ask, David,” she told him. Without the drinks, she probably would have stopped there or never said anything at all. But the words continued to bubble out from her. “I saw you watching. You're wondering if I'm Mercedes' lover. Or Morris'. Or maybe we're just terribly incestuous with everyone.” She spread her arms wide, nearly hitting him.

“Are you?”

“That's my business,” Camille said. She could hear her voice slurring the words:
Thass my biznuss . . .
She rubbed her head, trying to clear away the fumes.
This isn't the way you wanted it to go
, she thought.
Just shut up.
But she couldn't stop the words from continuing to tumble out. “Let me tell you about the Calliope Group, David. Their creativity, their energy: it's like
food
to me,” she said. “Didn't you feel my hunger when we met? Couldn't you feel the pull?”

He gave a snort of laughter through his nose at that. Had he had too much to drink himself?—she couldn't remember. “Oh, so you're, what? An art vampire?” he asked. “Strange, you don't really have the faux-Goth look.”

She leaned in toward him. “Would you like it if that were true?” She snapped her teeth together and put her lips next to his ear, whispering. “Would you enjoy it if I sucked the creative energy from you? I'd do it ever so slowly, so you could feel every drop oozing from your body . . .”

“Stop it, Camille,” he told her, and for the first time she heard irritation in his voice. “You're drunk.” The rebuke cut through the buzz of the alcohol, and she answered heatedly before she could think.

“Maybe. And you're married.” She said the last word heavily, stretching out the syllables as if tasting them. Then contrition welled up inside her. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have said
anything
that I just said. I didn't mean . . .” She sucked in a slow breath and let it out again. “David, I'm sorry. I didn't want to make a wreck of the night. I had a good time. I'm glad you came, glad you got to meet the group. I had a good time
because
you came.” He was staring at her. “I should shut up now, I think.” She closed her mouth dramatically.

He stared for several seconds before saying anything else. “I really have to be going.” He stood up, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. “I'll get a cab. We can share it.”

“I'll walk home. It's only a block and a half.”

He shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “It's too late, and you've had too much. You stay here and I'll get that cab for us.”

She was too tired to argue. In the cab, she leaned her head on his shoulder, and—cautiously—his arm went around her. Neither of them spoke. The closeness relaxed her. She snuggled against his side for the brief ride, luxuriating in the feel of his warmth. She felt his fingertips sliding down her arm, stroking her skin softly until the cab came to a stop at the curb in front of her apartment. David told the cabbie to wait, and walked her up to the door of the brownstone. She plucked the key from its pocket in her purse and turned it in the lock. With the door halfway open, she turned to him.

“I'm not going to ask you in,” she said.

“I wouldn't come in if you did.”

She nodded. He was very close to her. She could have reached up and pulled his face down to hers. She yearned to do exactly that. She shivered, as if the night had suddenly turned cold, but the heat of his soul-heart drew her, and made her want to lean into him.
You shouldn't. You can't.
“Your cab's waiting, David,” she told him. “I'll call you?” At the last moment, the sentence lifted upward into a question.

He nodded. “Do that,” he said.

She stepped inside and closed the door. It was very nearly the hardest thing she'd done in ages.