Immortal Muse

by Stephen Leigh

  “You have a stalker?” he repeated. “Why haven’t you called the cops? Who is he? Do you have a restraining order on him? And why am I just hearing about this?”

  “It’s not a subject that comes up in many conversations. ‘Hi, I’m Camille and I have a stalker’ is not exactly a great way to start out a relationship. But, yes, I have a stalker.” She looked at him, still holding his hand. “David, is this a problem?”

  “Well, no,” he answered. He didn’t sound entirely certain. “It’s just … Who is this guy? How long has this been going on?”

  It was easy enough to make up a believable mixture of truth and lies that made him subside into concerned empathy: she told David it had been going on for a few years, that he used various names and moved around a lot, that the police were aware of it but weren’t able to do much about it and didn’t consider it a priority. Yes, he’d threatened violence. No, she hadn’t had contact with him in a long time, and maybe, maybe he’d given up stalking her. “Then why this?” he asked, pointing at the bag.

  “Because I don’t know,” she told him. “Because if he is out there, I want to have a defense.”

  “Ever had to use it?”

  Have I shot Nicolas? Yes. More than once. But never with this gun. Could she use the weapon? She had no doubt of that. But it seemed best to leave that unsaid. “No,” she said, “but I wouldn’t want to not have it if I did need it. Can you understand that?”

  “I suppose. You’re scared. I get that.”

  “But … ?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Camille,” he told her. “I gotta be honest. Having a gun around … I’m bothered by that. I’m not a gun person. I’ve never owned a gun, never fired one, don’t intend to ever own one. I really don’t like the idea of having one in the apartment or in your purse.”

  She could feel the certainty in his voice. The green hue that had connected her to him was drawn tight inside him, closed off. You could lose him over this. The realization was a cold fist in her chest, but she hesitated. Losing David would free her and protect David at the same time—she could go somewhere else, take on a new name, lose herself again. She could do what she’d been tempted to do a few hours ago. She’d allowed her desire for someone and her obsessions and needs to overrule her judgment in the past. Yet having found another possibility like David and feeling again what he could give her made her want to hold it even more tightly.

  You’re still hunting Nicolas. That’s the most important task right now. He hasn’t found you. If you find him or if Walters does, then you have to be able to do whatever you need to do. As long as Nicolas is around, David is in danger. You know that.

  If she wanted David, if she still believed that the decision to bond with him was the right one, she had to make a decision. “I understand the way you feel,” she said. “But I made the decision to carry the gun for my own safety, and I did the work necessary to do that. It wasn’t a decision I made lightly, and I’m very careful about it. Is it a deal breaker, David? Because I have to be honest here: I’m keeping the gun.”

  She watched his face, watched the emotions that flitted past his eyes and touched the muscles of his jawline that pressed his mouth into a thin line.

  “Okay,” he said finally, and she began to breathe again. “I don’t like it. I’ll never like it. But … okay, if that’s the way it has to be, then I’ll trust you.”

  She smiled. “That’s all I ask,” she told him. “That’s all I’ll ever ask of you. Thank you, David. You have no idea how much that means.” She went to him, embracing him tightly. “You have no idea,” she repeated.

  *

  She encouraged David to return to his studio the next day. After the confrontation over the handgun, she wanted—no, she needed—the connection with his green heart. Being with David while he worked on his photography would provide that. “I’ll cook up the salmon I bought and we can eat there. I just have to feed Verdette before we go. You can work; besides, I’d like to see those prints of me you took the other day on something other than my laptop, all cleaned up and photoshopped.”

  He shrugged, though without the enthusiasm she might have wanted. “Sounds okay. I don’t know how much longer I can keep the place, anyway.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” she answered. “I told you; I have a trust fund. I can pull money from it if you’re short. The studio’s yours; it’ll stay yours.”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “You don’t want to be a kept man?” The joke fell flat; she saw the flash of embarrassment in his face. “David, if we’re going to be together, then part of the deal is that you have to let me help you. There’s not really room in my place for you to set up your cameras, lights, and backdrops, or to arrange your computers, monitors, printers, and all the framing stuff. You need to keep your studio.”

  He paused, and she felt the wall within him open, the lush radiance tentatively embracing her again. “That logic works both ways, Camille. In my studio, there’s more than enough room for your stuff—your paintings and easels, your keyboard and amp, your computer. Even that damn chemistry set of yours. I’ll bet Verdette would love the extra space to roam around in. That’d exorcise Helen’s ghost, if nothing else—she absolutely hates cats.”

  “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

  He shrugged. “One place would be cheaper than two, especially in this city. And I like cats—even if the cat doesn’t seem to like me.”

  “I’d have to think about it,” she told him, and wasn’t certain whether it was disappointment or relief that crossed his face. “We’ve known each other, what, a few weeks now? We don’t have to make a decision this quickly. In fact, we shouldn’t. We can take our time. For right now, let’s keep both places—until we’re sure.”

  We have all the time in the world. But that wasn’t true. Not for David, at least.

  He seemed satisfied with that answer.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon and the evening at the studio. She watched David work, satisfied to sit behind him as he brought up images on his display and manipulated them, content to bask in the radiance that emanated from him as he worked, to enhance it even as she revived herself with the energy, to open the soul-heart within him even more so that he could pull deeper from the pool. “Yes,” she heard him say to himself more than once with satisfaction: as he cropped a picture or adjusted the levels so that the image seemed to pop and sizzle on the screen. “That’s nice …”

  He printed out the best of the photos to mount and mat later; she made dinner. After they ate, they made leisurely love on his bed—not, Camille was happy to notice, the bed that he and Helen had shared; Helen had taken that. Afterward, he sat up and stretched. “How about the Bent Calliope?” he asked. “It’s still early.”

  “You’re sure?” she asked. Morris seemed to swim up before her, the lines of his face as hard as if he’d carved them into himself. “You always do what most pleases you, Camille. Isn’t that the definition of someone who’s self-absorbed?” “If you’re suggesting that for my sake, you don’t have to.”

  “No,” he said. “Let’s do it. Throw on your clothes. I had a good day of work; let’s go celebrate.”

  *

  They walked to the Bent Calliope, six blocks from David’s apartment. For the last block, the street was nearly empty of other pedestrians, and Camille found herself suddenly apprehensive, the half-sinister conversation with Walters returning to her again. Nicolas is out there somewhere. He’s here in this city, here close by … She remembered other times, walking through dangerous and dark urban streets, and she shivered. David must have felt the apprehension, or perhaps he only thought she was cold; he put an arm around her.

  As they passed an alleyway half a block from the Bent Calliope, she heard running footsteps in the darkness and glimpsed a darker shape moving toward them in the twilight.

  “Arrêt!” she shouted, spinning away from David and plunging a hand into her purse. The
Ladysmith was buried; instead, she pulled out a vial of dark, metallic powder, holding it back and high and ready to throw. Latin and Arabic words roiled in her head, as if inked on a mental scroll.

  “Jesus, Camille,” someone in the darkness laughed, the voice familiar: Rashawn. “A little jumpy tonight, are we?”

  Adrenaline still buzzed in her head, but she brought her hand down and put the vial back in the purse. David was looking at her, eyebrows high on his forehead. “Damn it, Rashawn, you gave me a start,” Camille said. “What are you doing sneaking up on us like that?”

  “I saw you two and thought I’d catch up. Never saw you move quite so fast before. You’d think you’d been watching the movie with us.” She laughed again.

  “What movie?” David asked.

  “Nosferatu. The Regal had their silent movie night tonight and we all went—everyone but Morris and you two, anyway. The others are already inside; I had to go back to the apartment for a few minutes.” She grinned at Camille. “Did you just shout at me in French?”

  Rashawn didn’t wait for an answer. She stepped between them and linked arms with David and Camille; in the shaft of streetlight, Camille could see strands of bright color splashed on her dark skin as Rashawn pulled them toward the glow of the Bent Calliope, with Ink already craning his balding head curiously in their direction from his usual stool. Ink waved them in as they approached, and a few minutes later, they were sitting around their usual table in the rear.

  As they had the last few times, the group seemed strangely lethargic to Camille. The shared light within their soul-hearts seemed dim and pale and tasteless; she wondered how she had kept herself healthy and active with the thin gruel it offered. She knew that feeling was because of David; even with Morris’ contribution, the sustenance they offered her now seemed unpalatable and insufficient in comparison.

  She tried to ignore the guilt the thought stirred, along with the memory of her conversation with Morris. Maybe she was self-absorbed, but she also had a right to be happy. None of them could understand what she’d experienced in her life. None of them understood everything that had shaped her. She had the right to do whatever she needed to do to survive and thrive. That’s what all of them were doing, after all. She’d given the Calliope Group more than they’d given her, all of them.

  The justifications didn’t quite convince her or assuage the sense of unease.

  The conversation at the table centered mostly on the film they’d just seen. “It’s better than most of the crap that’s out now,” James was contending. “There’s a genuine atmosphere to Nosferatu, and genuine horror, stuff that comes from the mind and not from blood and gore. Nowadays vampires are too goddamn cool and sexualized—they’re nothing but romanticized wet dreams. A real vampire would be raw and visceral and violent, not handsome and sanitized.”

  “I don’t know,” Mercedes said. “I kinda like the sexy vampire genre. And you gotta admit it sells. Heck, I’ve thought of writing one of those myself, if I could find the right angle on it.”

  “I don’t know what it is about vampires,” James responded. “What’s with you women swooning over them? To a vampire, we’re just meat on the hoof. Cheeseburgers with legs. How romantic is that?”

  “It’s the bad boy syndrome,” Rashawn answered. “Y’know, like ‘Beauty and the Beast.’ We think that gorgeous, troubled, edgy guy is going to fall totally and completely in love with us and we’ll be able to tame him. We’ll change everything in his life to make him our ideal mate. Not to mention that having a vampire lover would make for some fine protection. It’d be a hell of a lot better than a gun.”

  Camille felt David glance at her with the comment. She wondered if he remembered the vial she’d nearly tossed at Rashawn. He certainly would have been surprised if she’d actually done that; it might have made him forget the Ladysmith.

  “Bullshit,” James answered. “Look, if there really were vampires and not just a bunch of Goth wannabes play-acting like them, you’d just end up as lunch. A dead lunch. Or worse, you’d become a vampire just like them. Vampires feed on you; that’s all they want.”

  “Now who’s spouting bullshit?” Rashawn said. “You can’t understand. You’re a guy.”

  “Hey, I like guys.” He put his arm around Joe. “I just know which ones are worth having, and it ain’t the bad boys. Bad boys just stay bad boys; you can’t change them, and they only cause you pain and heartache, or worse.”

  “Sounds like experience talking,” Mercedes interjected, and the group laughed as James held his hands up in surrender. “Personally, I don’t think becoming a vampire would be such a bad tradeoff. You gotta give up daylight, and you have to feed on people and drink their blood, but in return you get to live forever. That’s not a bad bargain, to me. I could deal with that.”

  Joe, leaning into James with his arm around him, shook his head. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Mercedes laughed. “Not at all. I’m serious. If a vampire showed up and offered to turn me, I’d have to seriously consider it. What about you, David? Would you accept the offer? Eternal life for a few minor quirks like needing to drink blood and really slather on the sunscreen? Would you make the trade?”

  David’s shoulders lifted. “Maybe. Depends on which vampire rules you’re playing by. If I could just keep plasma in my fridge and not have to go hunting for victims every night and killing people, and not have the peasants storming my castle with pitchforks and torches, well, then I can see the temptation. I guess I could give up seeing the sun.”

  “Ah, so as long you can treat us poor humans like traveling milk bars you can tap when you need a fix, you’d think about it.” Mercedes glanced over at Camille. “Girl, what’s with that face? You look like you found a fly doing the backstroke in your Guinness.”

  Camille had found the conversation more irritating as it went on. She tried to smile and failed. “Why is living forever such a wonderful idea to you people?” she asked.

  “C’mon,” Rashawn answered before Mercedes could speak. “Are you saying that you’d turn down eternal life if you could have it? All that time to read all the books you wanted to read, to experience everything you want to experience, travel every country in the world, see everything you wanted to see …”

  “Do everyone you wanted to do,” Joe interjected to laughter.

  “Watch every last one of the people you love grow old and die while you live on,” Camille retorted. Her hand sought the pendant under her T-shirt, caressing the unseen edges of the woman’s face. “Feeling miserable for a century at a time, or frustrated or threatened most of the time. Experiencing every bit of the horrible nastiness the human race can inflict on itself, up close and personal. Eternally hiding what you are because you’re different and they’d tear you apart if they found out. Having to change identities every few decades just so you’re not found out. Yeah, sounds perfectly wonderful, doesn’t it?”

  “No one said that there wouldn’t be a downside,” Mercedes said. “If you live forever, at least you can have hope that, if you just wait long enough, you’ll be able to find your way out of any misery you experience. When you get old and frail, there isn’t much hope for the future. When you only get one shot at life, it has to be a good one or a lucky one.”

  “Humans aren’t designed to live forever,” Camille persisted. “Not up here.” She tapped her forehead.

  “The only one who would actually know that is someone who has lived forever,” Mercedes answered. “Good luck finding someone like that. You might think all that, Camille, but you can’t say it’s absolutely the case. Unless, of course, you’re a vampire. David, let us see your neck.”

  David, chuckling, dragged down the collar of his shirt. Mercedes made a show of examining the skin closely. “Nothing. No marks at all, not even a good hickey. Shame on you, Camille. You got this big juicy guy and you haven’t taken advantage of him.” She pretended to bite him herself, snapping white teeth together just under his chin, then giving him a la
rge, showy kiss. The others laughed; Camille smiled wanly.

  She sipped at her Guinness, listening as the conversation continued around the table but not really joining in. She leaned against David, enjoying the feel of his body. Mercedes, on her other side, leaned over and whispered into Camille’s ear. “You two look comfortable,” Mercedes commented. “Is it going to last forever?”

  “Forever’s a damn long time,” Camille answered.

  But it might be possible, she wanted to answer. Maybe this time, it could happen, if she dared to risk it. Maybe this time, she might.

  *

  Camille could feel David watching her as they walked back to his apartment. She kept her hand close to her purse, with the vials and the Ladysmith. “You’re watching every shadow,” he said to her. “Your stalker?”

  Camille shrugged. “No,” she told him. She wondered if he could hear the lie. “I’m just a little jumpy, I guess.”

  “What’s his name? You haven’t told me.”

  “He’s had a dozen names or more. I don’t know which one’s the real one anymore, or which one he might be using right now.”

  “Then what does he look like, in case I see someone like that hanging around?”

  “He’s short,” she began, then had to chuckle. “I’m sorry, David, but he’s also had as many looks as names. Short hair, long hair; bearded, clean-shaven; dark hair, light hair; thin, stocky …” He’s used all the dodges I’ve used myself, and I’ve been just as efficient at keeping Nicolas from finding me. “I’ll know him if I see him. I’ll know the face, no matter how much he’s tried to disguise it.”

  “If you do see him, I want you to tell me,” he insisted. “Promise?”

  “Promise,” she told him. “But maybe I’ve managed to lose him. I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

  One lie, one piece of half-truth. She hugged David closer. She wished she felt as confident as she sounded.