“And the ghouls?” Ninon asked.
“They are down but not out. One will be pretty useless with a broken neck, though.” Alex’s voice was calm, but Harmony knew he wasn’t. For the first time ever, Harmony had felt his fear. He hadn’t had any concern for his own safety—he had in fact been willing to die—but he had been terrified for her.
Harmony vowed that he would never have cause to feel that way again. If she was to stay with Alex, she would have to change.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Night Train to Casablanca
Chapter Sixteen
A New Beginning
Remus caught Thomasina up in his arms, uncaring that her sopping gown would ruin yet another suit. He kissed her passionately, but briefly since both of them were having trouble breathing.
“Is he…dead?” she asked, her voice rough from the mistreatment she had suffered at El Grande’s cruel white hands.
Remus glanced at the cliff’s edge where he had just disposed of the wickedest man he had ever known.
“As dead as I can make him.”
“And we’ll be all right now?” she asked, every breath pressing her breasts against him.
Remus felt light-headed. “I don’t think we’ll be haunted by this night’s work,” he said. “We have done the world a great service getting rid of this villain.”
Thomasina began to shiver. The night was balmy, but the sea had been cold and she had had a terrible shock. Unused to the protective feelings she inspired in him, Remus found himself stroking her hair and feeling bemused at his role of white knight.
“We need to get you into a warm bed,” Remus said at last. “And mine is closest.”
Thomasina looked up and smiled, a thing so radiant that it should have driven back the night. Certainly it banished the cold at the edges of his heart.
“But I don’t know you very well,” she demurred. “I’m sure you have a lot of deep, dark secrets.”
Remus kept his arm around her but began urging her toward his hotel. Behind them, the moon began to set.
“That is quite true, but being a woman worth her salt, I have no doubt that in time you shall learn them all.” His smile was not radiant; in fact it was rather amused and sly. Thomasina loved it anyway.
The End
“Alex?” Harmony asked softly. “You’re done?” Alex looked up from the happy ending he wished his old life had had, and smiled at the doorway where his new life stood. Her shoulder was almost healed, but there was still a certain wariness around her eyes.
“Yes. I am done. The lie was a hard one to write, but it is the way my readers will want the tale to end and it will make my editor happy.”
“I’m sorry. Is there no way to tell the truth?”
Alex thought for a painful moment about Thomasina’s broken body and could only shake his head.
“No—and I am used to it. History seized me—Alexandre Dumas, the writer—and everything I did or said or wrote became larger than life and was owned by more than just me or even my family or friends. I became an institution. The reader’s appetites must be appeased: that is the rule.” He shook his head. “And, frankly, once I knew I was not going to die—not for a long time—it became easy to write these literary promissory notes of a better future, one where I mended all failed relationships, became wiser and more saintly, and even saved the world.” His smile was fleeting but real. “I did it because I never thought the bill would actually come due in real life. But of course it did. In Tangier. And it was, as the British say, a right pig’s dinner.”
“A pig’s what?” Harmony asked.
“Dinner. Slop. A mess,” Alex explained.
“Ah.”
“So I have put events in tasteful order in this collection of lies that is my latest novel. I hate to fictionalize Thomasina into a normal heroine, but I’m out of time—and the book has served its purpose. I have confronted my ghosts and laid them to rest. The past will trouble me no more.”
“Alex—don’t do it. Take my story and use it instead,” Harmony said. “Please. I’ll never be able to publish under my own name. And since that’s the case, why shouldn’t it have your nom de plume on it—it’s half yours anyway.”
Alex blinked at her and began to grin. The last of the weariness disappeared from his face.
“An excellent idea. I shall do that! But I shall also give them mine.”
“But—”
“This is tidy, my dear, an act of divine intervention. I owe my publisher two books on this contract, you see. This way he shall have them—and early for once—and you shall have the pleasure of knowing that The Spider will be published without your ever having to worry about your identity being exposed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes—very. Now let’s open some champagne. Tomorrow we’ll go see Christopher.”
“Christopher?”
“My editor. A nervous man, but likable. I would regret it if I did not say good-bye to him.” Alex held out his hand to her.
“It’s good-bye, then?” Harmony asked, coming to the desk and taking Alex’s outstretched fingers. They had also healed.
“Sadly, yes. Alexandre Dumas must again disappear. And we will be very busy cleaning up the remains of Saint Germain’s clinics for the next little while.” Alex tugged her into his lap.
“You’ve heard from Ninon?” Harmony asked, making herself comfortable.
“Yes. She and Miguel are in Brazil. Byron and Brice have gone to Thailand. Your files have revealed much to us. This time we may defeat him.”
Harmony sighed.
“They probably reveal too much. We’ll never be done cleaning up the damage he’s caused.” She shook her head and asked Alex: “Do you think I’ll ever hear your French accent again?” She leaned her head against his shoulder and then snuggled into the crook of his neck.
“Oui. Tomorrow. Christopher expects it.”
“Good. I miss it sometimes.”
“Chérie, why did you not say so?” Alex asked, turning his head to kiss her. His touch was gentle but his skin began to glow. “Qu’en pensex-vous?”
“Veuillez repeater la question?” Harmony answered when he lifted his head.
So Alex kissed her again.
“Mon ami, as promised, here is the manuscript,” Alex announced as he swept into the room. It was rather small to hold both a large desk, two bookcases, an editor, and Alex. Harmony remained in the doorway and was hard pressed not to giggle when Alex added dramatically: “And another to spare.”
“Thank God!” The words were fervent. The thin man behind the desk jumped to his feet and hurried around the overloaded desk. He accepted both manuscripts without examination.
Alex grabbed Christopher and kissed him on both cheeks. Harmony had to turn away for a moment and pretend to cough.
“Oh, certainly, let us give thanks to the Divine One. But I fear that this may be the end of divine intervention in my literary endeavors. I may be going south for a while. On my honeymoon. And for research.” Alex released his editor. “I do not know when I shall return.”
“Honeymoon?” A pause, and then with more interest, “Research?”
“Yes. This is my wife, Harmony. And I have decided that I wish to know more about Aztecan vampires.”
“Vampires are very popular right now,” Christopher said enthusiastically. Then, recalling his manners, “And congratulations to you both.”
Harmony turned back around. She had gotten her face back under control.
“Thank you. I’m sure we’ll be very happy.”
“But of course we shall be happy,” Alex proclaimed. “Good fortune shall attend me in whatever I do.”
“God grant that it is so,” Harmony said, thinking that would be an excellent epitaph for Alex’s latest grave.
She had watched on the fall day of November 30, 2002, when under orders of the French president, Jacques Chirac, Alexandre’s body was exhumed from the cemetery at Villers-Cotterets. In a televised ceremony, t
he body—decanted into a new coffin and draped in a blue velvet cloth and flanked by four men costumed as the Musketeers: Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan—was transported in a somber procession to the Pantheon of Paris, the great mausoleum where other French luminaries were interred. Dumas supposedly joined his friend Victor Hugo and the great Voltaire.
In his speech, President Chirac said: “With you, we were D’Artagnan, Monte Cristo, or Balsamo, riding along the roads of France, touring battlefields, visiting palaces and castles—with you, we dream.” That was true enough, but now it made Harmony uneasy to think of who might be resting in that shrine, since it clearly was not Alexandre Dumas. Who had died in his place and been buried in Villers-Cotterets? Was it one of Saint Germain’s creatures? Or just some innocent who had chosen the wrong time and place to shuffle off the mortal coil?
It was a question for some other day. More to the point, who would be in his grave this time? And in hers? Or perhaps their bodies would never be recovered. That would be best.
“Alex? We have a flight in just two hours,” she reminded him gently.
“Oui. We must be off. Adieu, mon cher.” He shook his editor’s hand. “Contact Millie if you have any questions.”
“Will you be available for rewrites?” Christopher asked, his face falling.
“Rewrites?” Alex said the word with a great deal of reproach. They began moving for the door.
“Not that the books will need any,” Christopher assured him. “But what if I have questions?”
“Millie will assist you.” Alex dropped his mask for a moment and said sincerely: “Good-bye, Christopher—it’s been a pleasure.”
Christopher must have read something in Alex’s face because he said sadly: “Good-bye, then.”
Harmony took Alex’s hand and they walked out of the editor’s office and into their new life. The sun was shining, commerce thrived; it was a great day for a new beginning.
“We’re going to Mexico?” Harmony asked. She touched a hand to her chest. It was still tender.
“No, Greece. I was serious about having a honeymoon.” Alex put on his sunglasses. Contacts hid his eyes in lowlight situations, but full sun revealed their oddness.
“But then?” she asked. Harmony put on sunglasses as well. She was also wearing colored contacts to hide her newly changed eyes. Alex hadn’t wanted to transform her, but had relented when she pointed out how vulnerable she was as long as she was mortal and Saint Germain lived.
“Haiti.”
“And whom will I have the pleasure of sleeping with this time?” she asked as Alex flagged down a taxi.
“Edmond Dantes, of course.”
“Of course.” She smiled. “And I am?”
“Mercedes Dantes.” Alex opened the door to the cab.
“That’s a nice name.” Harmony ducked inside, relieved that it didn’t smell too awful. Her new sense of smell was unbearably keen.
“I’ve always thought so.” Alex climbed in after her. “JFK,” he told the driver. “By way of the park.”
“Have we time for that?” she asked.
Alex took her hand and smiled.
“All the time in the world.”
AUTHOR NOTE
Welcome, dear reader.
I hope you are not lost amid the redundancy of Alexandres. I can’t urge you enough to read at least one of the books on the resource list. The lives of the three Dumas men are stranger than any work of fiction. They are the Count of Monte Cristo and all three of the Musketeers—and still more. My little story can never do them justice.
Alex’s fictional home in Cornwall, Chillicott’s Folly, is based loosely on an actual home located on the Island of Newquay. It’s a B&B now. Give it a Google if you’re curious. It’s quite a sight, even without the graveyard I added for this story. And while you’re online, have a peek at Monte Cristo (the home that Alexandre Dumas built—and then lost—at the height of his career). Let me also say a word of thanks to Polly and Holland and Holland for information on what types of guns would have been reasonable to find in a gentleman’s home. The other nastier ghoulfighting tools were recommended by my cousin, Richard. Lastly, I have to thank my husband for explaining to me just how to break into a computer network. Without him I’d have been up the cyber creek without a paddle.
Some of you will be sorry to learn that there is no La Cuore del Strega Sicilian. The French occupation of Sicily did happen, though, and I think I describe the situation fairly accurately, except for the priest turning into a flesh-eating ghoul.
As ever, this is a fictional story and I have taken liberties with history, geography, etc., to make the plot more exciting. I think Alexandre will forgive me for this, since I was kind to him, but if you want a more accurate portrait of Dumas, I again suggest the non-fiction books mentioned in the resource list below.
Happy reading—and as always, it is wonderful to hear from you at either [email protected] or PO Box 574 Sonora, CA 95370-0574.
Resource list:
The Titans by André Mautois
Alexandre Dumas: Genius of Life by Claude Schopp
Dumas on Food (translations from Le Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine by Alexandre Dumas) by Alan and Jane Davidson
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STILL LIFE
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Other books by Melanie Jackson
WRIT ON WATER
DIVINE MADNESS
THE SAINT
THE MASTER
DIVINE FIRE
ST
ILL LIFE
THE COURIER
OUTSIDERS
TRAVELER
THE SELKIE
DOMINION
BELLE
AMARANTHA
NIGHT VISITOR
MANON
IONA
Copyright
LOVE SPELL®
December 2007
Published by
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Copyright © 2007 by Melanie Jackson
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