Immortal Muse

by Stephen Leigh

  David had told her that the penthouse suite was a triplex, taking up the top two floors of the hotel as well as a roof deck. The party was already well underway when they arrived, the bottom floor of the penthouse swirling with people, while wait staff in dress whites circulated among them. “David!” Jacob, his paunch well disguised in an expensive, fitted tuxedo, came forward out of the crowd as they stepped off the elevator (causing the two couples who arrived with them to narrow their eyes speculatively). He clasped David’s hands. “So glad you’ve finally arrived. I have a dozen people here who are anxious to meet you. I have a temporary display with a few of your pictures up on the next floor, and they just love the shots. Charm them, and I think someone just might buy the entire set.”

  He patted David on the cheek and glanced at Camille, smiling. “In fact, introduce them to the subject of your photos, and I’m sure they will. Camille, my dear, you look fetching tonight. Is that sardonyx? It’s a lovely piece; you must let me look at it more closely later—the style’s very old. In the meantime, you two enjoy yourselves. If nothing else, it’s a fabulous view.” With that, he was off to greet someone else.

  It was a fabulous view, Camille had to admit. Floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides revealed a glittering view of the nighttime Manhattan skyline, though few in the crowd were gazing at it. A glass-encased stair led up to the next level, from which they could hear the sound of a salsa band and people dancing. Everywhere, people had clustered in small groups, wineglasses in hand. Occasional loud chuckles or high laughter punctuated the general white noise.

  Not surprisingly, Camille could sense several people with green soul-hearts in the throng: artists, musicians, intellectuals—their presence lent a faint glow in her mind. She opened herself to them and took in a long breath. She could nearly drown in the creative energy here, and it made her feel half-drunk already.

  Camille snagged a glass of Merlot from a passing waiter. “Is that the mayor over there?” she asked David, tipping her glass in the direction of one of the groups.

  “Yep,” David answered. “Along with Senator Evans. There’s at least a dozen other faces you should recognize scattered around: politicians, actors, society people, the whole gamut.”

  “Jacob runs in high circles.”

  “He says everyone has walls that need art, and the richer they are, the bigger their walls.”

  Camille laughed. “A wise man,” she said. “Should we go up and see your exhibit on the second floor? I want to know just how embarrassed I should be.”

  “Didn’t I tell you that you should have come naked? Then they would recognize you.”

  She bumped him with her hip and drifted through the crowd toward the stairs.

  The salsa band was loud and exuberant, and the insistent beat made her sway helplessly in time as she and David walked between the portable walls of the exhibit. Jacob’s tastes were wide and varied. There were paintings: oils, acrylics, and watercolors, both realistic and abstract; lithographs, etchings, ink and pencil drawings; a few small sculptures on stands—and, pinned in the light of small Fresnels, David’s photographs of her in black and white.

  Her face stared back at her. Her body filled the frames, sensuous and languid, light painting the curves and valleys. “You certainly do have a lovely body,” a woman commented from behind them, and Camille and David turned to see Helen. Camille found herself protectively clutching her purse with its vials of carefully mixed chemicals and gun, the delight she’d felt at being here at the party vanishing in that instant.

  The smile on Helen’s face appeared to have been applied with her lipstick, and she was looking more at David than Camille. “You always had a great eye for models.” Then, with a moue of disgust, she waved her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said to both of them. “I told myself I wasn’t going to be catty or mean, and …” Her gaze went to Camille, and for the first time, Camille felt sympathy for the woman. “I’m truly sorry, Camille. You didn’t deserve that.”

  “You don’t need to apologize,” Camille told her. Is he with her? Is he here? She ached to cast a Finding spell, but couldn’t, not with both of them watching. “I understand. Let’s forget it and start over.”

  Helen gave her a small smile. “I’d like that.”

  “Helen,” David said. He didn’t move to hug or embrace her. “Good to see you. I didn’t expect Jacob to invite you, actually.”

  “Actually, he didn’t,” Helen said. “You were always his star, not me. I’m here because Timothy’s bought some pieces from Jacob.”

  Timothy. The name was a blow that nearly staggered Camille. Him … She could feel her face going pale, and sweat beading at her hairline. Not here. I’m not ready for him here.

  “Oh,” David said. He glanced at Camille, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her face. “I didn’t tell you about that. Helen has a … friend she’s been seeing.” He turned back to Helen. “So that’s still going well?”

  “Yes,” Helen said, and her smile was genuine and enthusiastic. “It is. Come on, I’ll introduce the two of you. He’s up on the roof terrace.”

  David looked at Camille again. “Sure,” he said. “We’d like to meet him.”

  He started to follow Helen up the staircase to the roof level. Camille stopped at the foot of the stair. “He works at Beth Israel,” Camille heard Helen say to David.

  “Beth Israel?” David answered. “So he’s a doctor?”

  Helen laughed. “I told you that the other day. Weren’t you listening?”

  Camille clutched at the handrail. David glanced back, his face quizzical. “Camille? You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I’m coming.” She opened the snap of her purse as they emerged onto the roof. The cedar hot tub was filled with a half-dozen guests who appeared to be wearing nothing at all. Others, mostly couples, were standing around the terrace or sitting at the tables. Camille approached a man standing near the railing.

  He was short, with longish brown hair, and Camille was feeling the beginning of panic even before he turned, before Helen spoke. “Dr. Timothy Pierce. Timothy, this is David Treadway, my soon-to-be former husband. And Camille Kenny, his … current muse.”

  The eyes, the mouth, the way he stood … The shock hit Camille so hard that she took a step backward, the instinct to flight almost too strong. But she resisted. Her hand slipped into her purse, her fingers searching out the handle of the Ladysmith and flicking off the safety. She didn’t believe he’d be blatant enough to attack her here. Not in public; it wasn’t his way. But if he did, she’d respond. You can shoot through the purse. If you see him start to cast one of his spells …

  If he was equally startled at seeing her, he gave no sign. “Hello,” Pierce/Nicolas said, holding out his hand to David. “Good to meet you, and to finally see your work. Jacob knows that I was looking for good pieces for my office; now I’ve found some.” He extended his hand to Camille. “And you’ve found a most beautiful model,” he said. “Worthy of Bernini, I have to say. Such a lovely, exquisite face and body.”

  His hand hung in the air between them. With a twitch of her lips, Camille removed her hand from her purse and took it. He pressed slightly too hard and slightly too long. “Dr. Pierce,” she said, as if tasting the name. Her hand went back into the purse, her fingers sliding around the wooden handle of the Ladysmith, her index finger curling around the trigger. “Cosmetic surgeon? Fixing those faces you find so attractive?”

  His returning smile was cold. “I’m afraid not. Research Oncologist. I’m studying experimental ingredients for chemotherapy.” His eyes held Camille’s “Chemistry is my passion. That, and amateur magic.”

  “You know my friend Morris Johnson, I believe. The sculptor.”

  He chuckled. “Ah, yes. Him. Now I remember where I’ve heard your name before. Morris is a talented fellow, though he seemed distraught that you’d abandon him for David here. I’ve commissioned a work from him.”

  “I’m sure you’ll like it,” Camille told him. “
‘Vengeance.’ That’s a sinister title, I have to say.”

  “Yet that particular emotion drives many people through hard times when they might otherwise give up, don’t you think? Vengeance is a passion with incredible power, as I’m sure you realize.”

  “And you do as well, Dr. Piece.”

  “I believe many of us have something they desire to achieve more than anything else,” he answered. “In fact, I’m willing to bet you’re one of those people yourself. What is it that drives you, Ms. Kenny? Is it also vengeance?”

  “Well, you two are certainly the conversationalists,” Helen interjected quickly before Camille could answer. She laced her arm protectively with Pierce’s, smiling tightly; she stood half a head taller than the man, just as David towered over Camille. “Isn’t this a perfectly gorgeous view? David, wouldn’t this make a lovely photograph?”

  David glanced at the landscape before them: the dancing swirl of red taillights and blue-white headlights, the sound of the streets muted and distant, the buildings defined by fluorescent-illuminated office windows and the city-glow behind them through which a few stars managed to glitter. “Not really, just a postcard like a thousand others,” he commented, then glanced down toward the deep canyon of the street. “That’d be a hell of a nasty fall, though.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised what kind of a fall someone can survive,” Pierce said, glancing down the flank of the building, then over to Camille. “I’ve seen people manage to live when I was convinced they’d die.” He smiled. “When they should have died,” he added. “Some people are stubborn that way. They think they’re supposed to live forever.”

  David and Helen laughed. “Yeah, I was afraid I was going to see something like that myself recently,” David said, and Camille knew that he was remembering her dancing on the ledge of his studio rooftop.

  “Well,” Pierce said, “it’s a genuine pleasure to meet the two of you. I should go downstairs and talk to Jacob about buying a few of your photographs. Helen, shall we?” He nodded to them as he and Helen walked off, his gaze lingering on Camille.

  Shoot him. Shoot him now. But that wouldn’t kill him and she had nothing with which she could finish the job. It would only end with her arrested and in jail for assault, and Nicolas would slip away from her once more.

  Or worse. Much worse.

  David put his arm around Camille. “Well, that wasn’t so bad, I guess …” he started to say, then stopped. “You’re trembling. What’s wrong?”

  She took a long, slow breath. She slid the safety of the Ladysmith back on. “Nothing,” she told him. “It’s just a little chilly up here.”

  *

  “What are you doing here?”

  Helen was holding the door open only a crack, with the chain still significantly attached to the frame. She peered at Camille through the opening. It was not a friendly stare.

  Now that she was here, Camille wasn’t quite certain how to proceed. She’d played the scenario over and over in her head in the last few days. She’d watched Helen’s apartment from the park across the street, hoping to see Nicolas: the Ladysmith in her purse, her katana in its nylon bag strapped to her back, her dogi bag as camouflage at her side as if she were going to aikido class. Girded for war, she thought.

  But Nicolas had never appeared. That didn’t surprise her; he’d know that she might try to find him through Helen, so it made sense he’d make excuses to stay away. She’d watched Beth Israel as well; Nicolas never showed himself there, either.

  He’d gone to ground somewhere.

  And now she was here to warn Helen, to try to save her.

  Camille had consulted her Tarot for guidance in contacting Helen, but none of the readings helped against the reality of the woman’s glare over the chain. Yet she couldn’t in good conscience say nothing to Helen about Nicolas—she knew him far too well. Helen was an innocent in this and deserved a chance.

  “I need to talk to you, Helen,” Camille told her. “It’s important.”

  She waited, watching Helen’s face, twisted in a moue of mingled irritation and uncertainty. Finally, Helen pressed her lips together and closed the door. Camille heard the rattle of the chain, and the door opened again. “I have to leave in a few minutes for an appointment,” Helen said, her arm still blocking the door.

  “That’s fine. I won’t be long.”

  Helen’s arm dropped and she stepped back into the room. Camille entered.

  The room—unsurprisingly after seeing how Camille and David’s apartment had looked—was uncluttered and modern, with glossy hardwood floors covered here and there with expensive-looking area rugs. The Impressionist prints were up on the walls. There were magazines arranged tastefully on the coffee table in front of the couch; none of the titles looked particularly like something a male might have chosen to read. This was distinctly Helen’s place. Not Pierce’s. There was nothing of him in any of this. He wasn’t staying here.

  That didn’t surprise Camille. She didn’t expect that Pierce intended Helen to be a long relationship. He undoubtedly already had obtained most, if not all, of what he wanted from her.

  Helen didn’t sit. She stood, hands crossed protectively across her stomach, in the foyer without moving into the living room area, forcing Camille to also stand. “Well?” she asked. “What is it that’s so important?”

  “Pierce,” Camille said without preamble.

  Helen’s eyes narrowed with the name. “What about Timothy?”

  “You heard us talking at Prudhomme’s party. I saw the look of suspicion you gave us, and the way you interrupted us as we were talking to hurry him off. Did we sound to you like two people who had just met? Did you ask him about that after we parted? Did you ask him if he knew me?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. Her arms tightened around her. “He said he knew about you through Prudhomme because he’s been interested in David’s photos of you, and that he’d bought a litho portrait of you from some other artist without knowing it was you, but that the artist had also told him a little about you.” Helen scowled. “Nothing the artist had to say about you was particularly complimentary, either, from what Timothy suggested.”

  “That last bit might be the truth,” Camille told her, “given the source. But not the rest of his story. The truth is that your Timothy and I have known each other for a long time. That’s why I came here, Helen.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said defiantly, though she wouldn’t meet Camille’s eyes.

  “I know you don’t. But it’s the truth, nonetheless.”

  Helen looked away into the living room, as if searching for something there. “Are you saying you’ve slept with him?”

  “We were married once,” Camille told her. “He probably left that out when he was talking about me.”

  That garnered Camille another bark of disbelief. Helen’s eyes were shimmering with tears. “I think you need to leave.”

  “What I’m telling you is true,” Camille said desperately. “I’m sorry, Helen, but it’s true. Pierce … he’s a danger to you. I mean it. He’ll hurt you, or worse. He can pretend to be charming, but he’s a psychopath.”

  She wouldn’t look at Camille. Her hands unfolded from her waist and wiped at her eyes, almost as if she were angry with them for betraying her. “Get out,” she said. “Get out of here or I’ll call the police.”

  “Helen, you have to listen to me. Pierce isn’t who he says he is. He wants me, and now that he’s found me …”

  “My God!” Helen exclaimed. Her hands fluttered in the air. “You think he wants you? It’s not enough that you took David away from me; now you have to destroy my relationship with Tim just as it’s starting? Get out! Now!” This time she pushed at Camille, who had to take a step backward to regain her balance.

  “Helen, I’m serious. You’re in terrible danger, you really are …”

  “Out!” She pushed again, and Camille felt the back of the doorframe hit her spine. Helen reached past her and yanked the door open
. “If you ever bother me again, I swear I’ll call the police. Out!”

  Camille was still shaking her head, but she slid through the doorway into the hall. The door slammed shut almost before she was through. From the other side, she heard a sob, then the sound of the chain being set again.

  “Well, that went well,” she muttered to herself. “You tried.” The excuse did nothing to settle the sour burning in her stomach and the atmosphere of dread that surrounded her as she stared at the door.

  *

  She did what little she could, driven partially by her own fear, partially by guilt at what this might mean for Helen. She went to Beth Israel after talking to Helen. The Ladysmith was heavy in her purse and the katana dragged at her back; Nicolas’ magical skills might be impressive, but for her, a modern gun was far more effective. Nicolas would talk to her first before attacking, mocking her: that was his way. She should be able to get off the first shot and disable him, take him down for long enough to do more. He was pretending to be a surgeon; even without the katana, there might be medical instruments within easy grasp. In the right situation, in the right place, she might be able to do what she needed to do before someone stopped her. If she could kill Nicolas—finally, completely this time—then she’d accept whatever happened to her afterward.

  It would be worth it.

  But she wouldn’t do anything unless she was confident of success. Just disabling him, letting him escape, being captured herself before she could finish the execution: none of that was acceptable.

  The front desk gave his office location as in the building next to the hospital itself. She went to the office and stood outside for several minutes, looking in at a harried-looking female receptionist at the front desk. There were no patients in the waiting room, no indication that Nicolas might be there. After waiting ten minutes in the corridor, she opened the door and went in. The receptionist glanced up at her, looking suspiciously at the katana bag.