Divine Fire

by Melanie Jackson

  “Enough. It seems highly unlikely that these creatures will have recent dental records, even if the teeth survive.”

  “We don’t know that for sure, though.” Brice pulled a sweater on over her head. She picked up her pistol. Damien did the same.

  “No, but the ones I killed didn’t have any obvious dental work—no dentures or fillings.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t want to have to rake through the ashes collecting bits and pieces.”

  Damien smiled a little and handed Brice her boots. Damn! She really did not understand what amused him.

  Thinking about another way they’d get caught: “There must be some sort of scrubbers on the ventilation system, but there may still be some odor. Those bodies smell hideous. Burning them…no one will mistake that for roasting goose,” Brice remarked severely. She was proud of herself for thinking of this. Usually her mind was quite flexible and quick, but she still felt as if her brain had grown a layer of rust that she would need to scrape away before resuming normal life—whatever normal life might be now.

  She had thought a bit about what it would mean if she had to give up her present existence. It had been cloistered and she had no dependents—not even house plants. She did have a few friends, the odd distant cousin, but when she weighed them against a lifetime with Damien, her path was clear.

  “Yes, the police may come calling—looking for a methamphetamine lab probably. But they won’t find anything in the way of drug paraphernalia in this building. And it may not occur to them to check the old furnace. They will likely assume it was disconnected years ago.”

  “But we’ll have to get the place cleaned up by the time they get here—just in case they do look.”

  Damien nodded, then frowned. He started toward the bedroom window.

  “What is it?” Brice asked as Damien reached for the latch. She hurried to his side. “What the devil…?”

  Could she really hear someone singing “God rest ye merry, gentlemen?” Brice peered down into the city. At the margins of the darkened block there stood a contingent of the Salvation Army. The cavalry had finally come with the sunrise, but they were too late, and much too far away. And promising salvation or not, this army was illequipped to handle the kind of evil that had visited New York last night.

  Brice jumped at the sound of a horn in a distant street. Firecrackers followed. She knew what they were, but the sound still made her cringe. A few hours before, she had desperately wanted to escape into the world. Now it was too close.

  “Easy, it’s just the Christmas throng,” Damien said, and Brice wondered if she was going to be nervous for very long. If she would always be somewhat wary of strangers now. Her experience certainly hadn’t improved her feeling about the Yuletide season.

  Damien hugged her briefly and then closed the window against the winter. It wasn’t bothering her the way it had, because her body temperature had shot up and she seemed able to ward off the cold, but psychologically Brice still found the snow intimidating.

  “Next year’s holidays will be better,” he promised.

  “They certainly couldn’t be worse.”

  “Hm—best not tempt Fate with statements like that.”

  Brice sighed. “She’s a real bitch sometimes.”

  “Often even,” he agreed. Absently he added, “It’s a loss, you know. Surgeons the world over could help their patients if they knew how to reattach limbs or graft donor digits.” He led the way back to the library.

  “Maybe. But I don’t think the public is ready for this kind of cadaver-donation program. Think how freaky it would be to find yourself confronting a stranger wearing your grandpa’s arm. Or head. Anyway, you saw what happened to Dippel. There could be other psychopaths out there who would abuse the power. Think what would happen if his journal was posted on the Internet.”

  “The mind boggles,” Damien admitted. “We may have to destroy it.”

  “Destroy it or lock it up somewhere really safe. And speaking of mind-boggling…” Brice looked at the mess around them and sighed. Her shredded manuscript was replaceable, and the one Damien had been reading for review surely wasn’t the only copy in existence. “I’m glad your place is mostly granite and marble. It will be easier to clean up.”

  “Yes. By the way, have you seen Dippel’s hand? It should be around here someplace,” Damien said. “I’m afraid I rather lost track of it while I was taking the body outside.”

  Brice swallowed hard. And just when she’d thought things couldn’t get any weirder. “Have you looked under the desk? We really have to get the bodies cleared away.”

  They stared down at the zombie. If anything, it looked worse without its head. “Are you sure you want to help with this?” Damien asked doubtfully.

  “No, but I think I’d better. We don’t know how much time we have to get this done. The next shift of security guards might show up at any time.”

  “I hope this tarp doesn’t leak,” Damien complained, grasping the zombie by arm and leg and heaving it onto the green oilcloth. He quickly folded the flaps over the corpse. “Hand me the string.”

  Brice gave him the ball of twine and the scissors she’d been holding. She helped hold the flaps down, trying to ignore that the corpse was still occasionally twitching. Her stomach held firm until Damien was done, but then she bolted for the bathroom.

  She didn’t linger long, and when she returned, she found Damien at the window.

  “I wonder if we could drop him down to the sidewalk and then bring him in through the lobby.”

  Brice joined him. They carefully scanned the windows of the adjacent buildings. So far they all remained dark. No eager beavers bucking for promotion had come in for the holiday.

  “It’s a long drop. Do you think the tarp will hold?” Brice asked, her voice hesitant. She really, really didn’t want to have to shovel the body up again, along with a lot of bloody snow.

  “The snowbank would cushion the fall,” Damien said.

  “It will leave tracks when we drag it,” she argued. “Maybe bloody ones.”

  “I suppose you’re right. And speaking of bloody tracks, I think we better avoid the main elevators as much as possible. We’ll take the service elevator instead—after I test it. It goes directly to the basement,” Damien added, stooping down. He stood rapidly, heaving the smelly bundle over his shoulder. He walked toward the elevators.

  Brice wondered if she was stronger than she used to be, but decided she didn’t want to test her new muscles by lifting corpses.

  “Why go that way? You said we should avoid the main elevators,” she pointed out as Damien headed in that direction. “The stairs are closer. Just one floor and we’ll be right by the service elevator.”

  “Trust me. You don’t want to take the stairs. We’ll use the service elevator after this floor. I really need to test it.” After a pause, he explained, “There was a slight explosion in the stairwell.”

  Brice glanced over at the fire door. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if maybe something was leaking underneath. Gore?

  “Okay. I believe you.” Brice followed Damien. Her nose wrinkled. “Geez—he stinks!”

  “I’m aware of that. I’d grab some room freshener, but I don’t think it would help.”

  “Are they all this bad?” Brice asked, doing her best to not sound like she was complaining.

  “Pretty much. Listen, you don’t need to help with this. Why don’t you find the janitor’s closet and get a mop and pail?”

  “Oh, sure—leave the cleanup to the woman,” Brice joked. But she was happy enough to turn away. Watching the bundle on Damien’s back twitch and wriggle was getting to what was left of her nerves.

  Two hours later, Brice and Damien stood before their impromptu crematorium, reeking of disinfectant cleansers. They’d been feeding it zombie bodies for the last hour. As impossible as it would have seemed, Brice had lost much of her horror at what they were doing. The only difficult thing for her now was picking up the tarps while th
ey were still moving, because that brought to mind her persistent childhood terror of the witch from Hansel and Gretel trying to stuff children in the oven.

  “Are things clean enough upstairs, do you think?” she asked. It was now after noon, but they couldn’t tell it, standing in the windowless basement. She was mainly concerned about the mess in the stairwell, which she had insisted on helping to clean up. She’d never seen anything like that in her life, and prayed she never would again.

  “If no one starts looking for bullet holes outside the security office, we should be fine.”

  They had decided not to destroy the guards’ bodies, partly because it would have been cruel for the families of the missing men. And partly because a missingpersons investigation would bring more attention than a plain old double homicide and theft.

  Brice and Damien had argued for a bit about whether the guards should be thought to have walked in on a drug deal gone wrong, or to have interrupted a robbery. Robbery was chosen—it was easy to take stuff and hide it; providing bits of illegal drugs for the police to find would have been harder.

  “And if they do start looking?” Brice asked, thinking of the hole blown in the wall where Damien had used the grenade. “That would make things difficult for you. Are you…prepared?”

  “You mustn’t worry. All appearances aside, I’m as much an ant as a grasshopper. I have been meticulous about arranging an emergency escape for the day the unthinkable happened. If the truth is discovered here, I have the means to disappear.” Damien paused, then added, “I can arrange for Brice Ashton to disappear too. If that’s what you want.”

  “I would have to?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  “If it comes down to a large investigation, I fear so. Too many people know you’re here. And if you didn’t come with me, I could probably never come near you again.”

  A thin thread of smoke escaped the furnace door and coiled toward the ceiling. The fire inside spread a bloodred glow across the marble floor, which was lightly spattered with droplets of the zombies’ clotted blood. The droplets glittered brighter than any ruby ever cut and polished. The view was almost beautiful, but all Brice felt was disgust and a small degree of hope that the gasolinesoaked monster would burn thoroughly.

  She sighed aloud and reached again for the mop. They were almost out of cleaner.

  “Will I be able to finish my book on Ninon?” Brice asked.

  “Yes. But not for this publisher.” He meant that they’d have to fake Brice’s death, and publishing a book from beyond the grave might be tricky. L. Ron Hubbard had managed it, but things were different for him.

  Damien continued, “It might have to be under another name and for another publishing house, but you would be able to bring out that biography eventually.”

  Brice sighed. “I’d really hate breaking my contract. I like my editor. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Yes.” Damien studied her. This time he didn’t smile. “Right now I am thinking that it would be best if we were away from here while the investigation is going on. They might believe that we didn’t hear any shooting since it happened several floors below us, but we were bound to notice that the power was out. We would be well advised to have some alibi that places us outside the city, in case anyone asks.”

  “We have to take Ninon’s letters with us,” Brice said swiftly. That made Damien laugh, though he sobered almost instantly.

  “We’ll take everything of value—just in case.”

  “What? All the paintings and art?” Brice asked, startled and dismayed.

  “No,” Damien answered. “I wasn’t speaking of things with monetary value. Though I suppose the thieves could have robbed me, too, if you have any favorites.”

  “Oh.” Brice nodded approvingly. “That might work. Though you’d have to report stuff stolen and deal with the police then.”

  “Maybe. Or Karen can do it. That would be more in character for Damien Ruthven. Ninon’s letters shouldn’t be a problem, though. No one knows I have them. And they may hold important clues,” Damien said, finally slamming the furnace’s iron door shut. He had to use a hammer. The whole machine was glowing hot. The high-rise was going to be very warm for a while. They’d have to hope that it cooled off before anyone investigated and found that the old, non-environmentally-approved furnace had been used. After all, what they were doing was not just frowned upon socially, it was also illegal.

  Damien didn’t dwell on it, but their whole constructed alibi was a house of cards, that relied heavily on the police and insurance investigators being very careless. Brice would soon realize that.

  “Clues? Of course they hold clues!” Brice said enthusiastically. “There may be facts about Ninon’s life outside Paris that no one is aware of. There could be—”

  “No, that isn’t what I meant,” Damien interrupted. “I mean clues to her present whereabouts.”

  “What?” Brice stared at him. She repeated: “What?”

  “I truly believe that Ninon is still alive,” he answered. “And at one time she told her friend, the philosopher Saint-Evremond, that she was thinking of emigrating to the Americas—to one of the plantation islands. It would be the perfect place for her to go after her death. Especially if she wanted to escape the son of her dark man.”

  “Alive? Really?” Brice knew she sounded stupid, but she was having trouble taking in the idea. She shouldn’t be surprised. Damien had hinted at this before. Then she understood the rest of what he’d said. “Saint Germain! She said that in her letters. ‘And I have a son who shall be called Saint Germaine.’ You think he’s alive too!”

  “Perhaps. Certainly it is worth investigating. Not that it will be an easy task to find either of them,” Damien warned. “I’ve already tried a few times. The lady is very wary, very good at covering her tracks. But this time I have something that I didn’t before.”

  “What?” Brice asked.

  “A bloodhound,” Damien answered, smiling. “If anyone can find her, it’s you. As a researcher, you have no peer.”

  “Maybe,” Brice answered, forgetting to be modest. Her mind was already racing, trying to recall who among Ninon’s friends had ever traveled to the Americas.

  Damien watched her, his smile sad. He hoped her passion for the hunt and a chance to meet Ninon would be compensation enough when they had to leave their identities and lives behind.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us; a year impairs; a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory.

  —From Lord Byron’s journal at Ravenna

  “The snow finally has slowed. It’s time to fetch my car.”

  “Your car?” she asked, surprised.

  “It’s garaged nearby.”

  “And it can get through this snow? The streets still haven’t been plowed, you know.”

  “My car can get through anything. It’s been modified—it has high-traction tires, a fortified body and bullet-proof glass. But I think we’ll walk to it instead of driving through this. It’s best not to leave tire tracks near the building. Of course, it will take a couple of trips to move all the stuff. We’ll look a bit odd staggering along with our bags of stolen loot, but, hopefully, if anyone sees us, the bags will be mistaken for Christmas presents.”

  “Are we taking the guns?” Brice asked.

  “Can you doubt it? Though we’ll have to stop somewhere for ammunition,” Damien answered.

  Brice had found her pistol outside the bathroom’s broken door and now kept it close at hand. She noticed Damien did the same.

  “Where are we going? Have you decided?” she asked, pulling her hair back from her face.

  “Your place,” Damien answered. “We decided yesterday afternoon that we wanted to spend a romantic Christmas there.”

  “I see, a romantic Christmas Day. Well, I suppose that’s just possible.” Brice thought about her house. It
was cozy, though no one would think it a love nest.

  “Remind me to call Karen once we’re on the road and casually mention that we did in fact leave for your place yesterday afternoon. I’ll ask her to come by the building and get some papers for me tomorrow.” Brice looked startled by his words. “Don’t worry. The guards’ bodies will have been discovered by then, and the place totally cleaned up. She won’t be the first on the scene.”

  “The police will question her,” Brice said slowly, beginning to piece together his plan.

  “Yes, along with everyone else. And they will eventually discover that we’ve been at your place since the afternoon of the twenty-fourth and couldn’t know anything about this.”

  “You’re using Karen as a shield,” she chided.

  “Yes,” he admitted regretfully. “Not the most gentlemanly of actions.”

  “They might question our story anyway.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Damien said confidently. “They won’t. Why should they? Philanthropist Damien Ruthven—who shall be offering a huge reward for any information about this crime—might be eccentric enough to dash off and spend Christmas with his new love, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with criminal activity. Assuming anything else out of place is discovered.” He waved a hand indicating his apartment and how normal it again appeared. “It really is the best alternative.”

  Brice, catching a glimpse of herself in the window, had to agree. Their twin sets of matching dark eyes—and their presently unseen golden scars—looked very suspicious to her. There was also the fact that she was an absolutely terrible liar.

  She would also feel naked without a gun close at hand. Firearms could be explained away at home, where shooting vermin was quietly encouraged, but in New York? She wondered if Damien had a permit.

  No, facing the police wasn’t an option. Yet it seemed there were a dozen or two holes in this plan. The largest of which was in the wall next to the service elevator.

  “Your driver is loyal?” she asked, trying to think of flaws they would be able to correct.