Immortal Muse

by Stephen Leigh

  She could feel the passion in his voice, and couldn’t deny that some of it spoke to her as well. Why else did you labor so hard to recreate the elixir, if not to be able to share it with others, to have companions whom you wouldn’t have to watch age and die so fast? Yes, she shared a portion of that desire with him, but she shook her head, denying it. “Napoleon is in exile now, and the British haven’t yet given up on their American war. There are still kings and queens all over Europe and the East. No. That’s the only answer I can possibly give you.”

  A scowl replaced Polidori’s terse smile. His voice became louder, enough that Emily noticed the other couples in the room staring at them. “You’re making a mistake, Miss Pauls. You’re making a very bad mistake.”

  “It’s my mistake to make. Not yours,” she retorted, nearly at the same volume. The room became very still.

  “This is why I hated you. You always thought that you were better than everyone else.”

  “If I was arrogant, you easily matched me in that.”

  Emily pushed her chair back from the table, the legs scraping against the parquet floor. She stood, taking up her reticule.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Polidori insisted. “I’ve offered to make peace with you; what happens if you don’t will be your fault.”

  “Don’t threaten me.” She leaned forward, pitching her voice low once more. “I know how to kill you, if it comes to that. Don’t think that I won’t do it. I will.” With that, she straightened and began walking away from him.

  His laugh was boisterous and mocking at her back. “Leave, then. Anything that happens now is on your head.”

  She continued walking, reaching the door before the waiter that scurried to open it for her. She turned the handle and left the room.

  *

  When Emily arrived, Blake was nearly frantic.

  “I don’t know where she is,” he began as soon as he opened the door for Emily. Their rooms were in a mess; papers were scattered everywhere and food was cooling on the table, with a few desultory flies picking at the stew. “A message came while I was sketching, and Catherine said she had to go out, that you wanted to see her and she’d be back soon. I waited but she never returned. Then at dinnertime, another message came.” He handed Emily a leaf of fine cream paper, his liver-spotted hand trembling as he gave it to her. The message had been written in a fine, though somewhat cramped and small hand—one she’d seen before.

  Tell Ms. Pauls that I have her where horses make beer. At sundown, I’ll give her my own elixir if I don’t have hers.

  “What does that mean?” Blake was asking before she had even finished reading the message. “ ‘Where horses make beer?’ What elixir? Who sent this? Is it that Polidori man? The angels have been shouting his name all afternoon and I can’t get them to be quiet.”

  “Just be calm,” Emily told Blake. “I’ll find her; I promise you. Don’t worry yourself. Just stay here and do your work, and I’ll bring her back. There’s been some confusion, that’s all.”

  It took several more minutes for her to calm down Blake enough that she felt safe leaving him, precious minutes where the questions that he’d asked burned in her own mind. Polidori’s version of the elixir was deadly; it would kill Catherine—not immediately, but inevitably and painfully. Emily had no doubt that Polidori would hold to his threat, but she also was fairly certain that his apparent kidnapping of Catherine was intended to draw her to him; that she was the quarry, not Catherine.

  She left the Blakes’ rooms in a rush. There wasn’t much time—a few scant hours until the sun set over London. She hurried to the nearest tavern. There were only a few patrons there; they stared at the intrusion of daylight as she opened the door. She went to the bar, placing a silver crown loudly on the scratched wood to get the barkeep’s attention. The man strolled leisurely over to her: balding hair, jowls the consistency and color of bread dough, and a dirty apron draped over a large paunch. The ruddiness high on his cheeks and the redness in his eyes suggested that he sampled his own wares rather profusely. “Miss?” he said, in a voice that suggested that he rarely had female clientele who looked respectable. “How can I help you?”

  “I was given a riddle to solve,” she told the man, holding down the crown with her forefinger, “and I was hoping that you might know the answer.”

  He scratched at his paunch with fingers that looked like plump, pale sausages. “Well now, I can’t say that I’m good at riddles, Missy.” He glanced at the silver visage of King George III under her finger. “But I suppose I could give yours a listen.”

  Emily lifted her finger, and a sausaged hand made the crown vanish. “Where do horses make beer?”

  “Where do horses make beer?” the man repeated. He lifted rheumy eyes to the tin-stamped ceiling, as if the answer might be written there. “Where do horses make beer? I must admit that I’m completely graveled. Charlie!” he called out suddenly to one of the patrons a little down the bar. “A riddle for ye. Where would horses make beer?”

  “Is there a brewery at the track, Sammy?” the man answered, looking up from his porter and cackling. “I imagine any mare could do a better job a-pouring a full pint than you.”

  Sammy waved a fat hand at the man. “Ah, you’re daft and drunk besides.” He scratched again at his apron as Emily started to turn away. “Wait a moment, Miss. For aught I know, ol’ Charlie might have sparked a thought despite hisself. There’s that brewery near Tottenham Court and Oxford; the Horse Shoe Brewery, it’s called. They make our porter, in fact. Could that be your answer?”

  It was an answer at least, and a better one than she’d expected. Emily felt her heart racing, and she nodded to the two men, putting another crown on the bar. “Thank you both,” she said, “and the next round’s on me.”

  *

  She prepared as best she could in the time she had. She had no illusions about her ability against Polidori’s magical skills. Her only hope was that he underestimated her own ability as a chemist, as he had her skill at alchemy, and she could only pray that he hadn’t already harmed Catherine. There were warding spells that she remembered from her studies; she set them in her mind as well as she could. From her chemicals, she put together an explosive mixture, sifting the resultant orange powder into three ceramic flasks that she placed in the inside pocket of her over cloak. She loaded the two barrels of her pistol and prepared extra packets of balls and powder.

  The sunlight was climbing the wall of her rooms as she worked, the sun setting faster than she thought possible. She had no more time; what she had would have to do. Rushing outside, she hailed a hansom on the street and gave him the address.

  The Horse Shoe Brewery was in St. Giles, a slum district sitting uncomfortably near the more respectable houses around King’s Square. The brewery was located near the southern end of Tottenham Court Road where it caressed the northern part of St. Giles, the building nestled amongst the hovels and shanties close to the corner of Great Russell Street and Tottenham Court Road. The area was overcrowded, filthy, and noisome, though the street near the brewery wasn’t particularly busy. A clot of barefooted and raggedly-clothed urchins chased each other through the trash and black filth on the cobbles; a trio of shawled women hurried toward the end of the street where a butcher’s sign beckoned, the hems of their dresses dirty and frayed; a few workingmen in stained clothing sat on the stoop of a boarding house.

  Emily found that she wanted to put a perfumed handkerchief over her nose against the stench of the place, but her dress and bearing, and the fact that she’d arrived in a hansom (which had taken off as hurriedly as it had come) were already attracting too much attention. There was evidently a wake underway in a building across the street from the brewery, with people in mourning dress descending a stairway liberally draped with cheap black crepe.

  There were two men leaning against the supports of the open brewery door with their arms crossed over their chests. They pushed off with their shoulders and started purposeful
ly toward Emily at the same moment that she noticed them. They, like Emily, were dressed too well for the area, both of them wearing worsted suits with collars and ties, and fashionable bowler hats. Their shoes were polished. The eagerness in their eyes as they approached made her stop. She reached into her reticule and pulled out her pistol. She deliberately and showily cocked the weapon, pointing it at the nearest of the two.

  At the sight of her brandishing the weapon, the men on the stoop stood up and hurried up the steps; the children stopped their play and pointed. But the two men both laughed. “Are we supposed to be afraid, Miss Pauls?” the closest one asked. He spread his hands, exposing the starched white shirt with a waxed collar under his coat. “Don’t you know you can’t kill me with that.”

  Her answer was to press the trigger. The pistol bucked in her hand with a puff of noxious smoke and the smell of gunpowder assaulted her nostrils. The man clutched at his chest as blood bloomed on the white shirt. He looked at her startled, and went down. She cocked the second barrel, sliding her finger down to its trigger. “Your turn,” she said to the other man as he hesitated, looking at his companion; she fired again. He crumpled to join his companion on the street. She reloaded the pistol as she walked over the bodies toward the open door. There, she hesitated. The smell of hops, yeast, and alcohol was nearly overpowering in the dim room beyond, crowded with tall vats and teetering racks stacked with bags of barley, various malts, and hops. After the gunfire, there was no need for stealth. “Polidori!” she called into the brewery. “Nicolas!”

  She heard movement behind her and laughter above. A shoe scraped wood at the doorway and she turned. Both of the men she’d just shot were standing there, their shirts bloodied, their jackets and pants filthy from the muck in the street, but very much alive. Again.

  She knew why: Nicolas had given these men the version of the elixir written down in her ancient notebook. As it had for her mice, it rejuvenated them if injured—at least for a time.

  Which was one of the reasons she’d reloaded her pistol. She cocked it again even as she turned, firing once, then recocking and firing again, her wrist sore from the savage recoils. Both men staggered and dropped once more, and she looked around the brewery quickly, not certain what she was looking for but knowing when she saw it: an ax, leaning against the wall near one of the racks, the blade gleaming from having been recently sharpened. She lifted the ax, grunting at the weight of the steel, and went over to where the two men lay. One’s eyes were still closed and he didn’t yet appear to be breathing; the other was groaning and glaring at her. He spat at her as she approached. “You’re a fool,” he told her. “You can’t kill us.”

  She shook her head at him, sadly. “If that were true, there’d be no hope at all,” she answered. “Forgive me.”

  He tried to rise up, but she swung the ax at the same moment, the massive weight of steel driving into his neck even as he tried to turn. Blood spattered out as the head lolled on the shoulder, half-shorn from the neck. She could see the white of the spine in the deep wound. She raised the ax again and brought it down with all the strength she could muster. The blade bit into the wooden floor as the head rolled clear. The amount of blood surprised and horrified Emily, much of it flying back to spatter on her clothing. She could smell it: an iron tang in the air. The severed head gaped at her, the mouth open in a silent scream. Most horrifyingly, the eyes blinked once at her before closing forever.

  Emily felt the gorge rising in her throat, burning. Her stomach turned and she had to hold back the vomit that threatened to spill. She retched, spitting. The head lay at her feet like an accusation.

  Emily sobbed as she lifted the ax again in arms that now seemed leaden and uncooperative. She stood over the other man, wondering if she could really do this again. She brought the ax down hard. This time, one stroke accomplished the feat: the head rolled away a few feet as blood fountained and spilled in a great, dark mass on the floor, dripping through the gaps in the floorboards. She left the ax there, the handle at an angle and the blade stuck in the planks of the floor.

  She could come back for it later. For Nicolas.

  Deeper within the brewery, someone applauded, the sound echoing down the open staircase at the rear of the building. Emily moved that way, her hand now on the small flasks in the pocket of her cloak. “Nicely done …” Nicolas’ voice seemed to shimmer in air as she reached the bottom of the stair. She looked up to a large, high-ceilinged room crowded with massive wooden-slatted vats and piping, and the huge casks upwards of twenty feet in height. “They were such exquisitely nourishing deaths, too,” he added as she began to climb, the stairs creaking under her weight. “I didn’t think you were capable of such savagery, my dear.” As she approached the top of the stairs, Emily prepared the simple warding spell in her mind—certain that Nicolas would attack her quickly as soon as she was in sight, before she could do anything with her own preparations. She hoped it would be enough to turn whatever spell he cast; the preparation had been exhausting enough for her. She reached the top stair. She caught a glimpse of a chair and a woman tied there: Catherine, though there was something wrong with her appearance that Emily couldn’t quite place. Catherine inclined with her head toward the nearest vat.

  “As I told you, we’re quite alike.” With the words, Nicolas stepped into view from behind the vat. She heard him speak a quick phrase in Arabic and lift his hands. Emily spoke the warding spell in the same moment and raised one of the flasks to throw toward him, but her barrier couldn’t hold against the rumbling darkness that slammed into her and bore her down.

  *

  “No, she’s not dead, Mrs. Blake,” she heard Nicolas’ voice saying as she returned to consciousness. “You needn’t worry yourself. It will take more than that to kill her.”

  Emily opened her eyes enough to look through her lashes but remained still. Nicolas was standing next to the chair to which Catherine had been tied. Emily saw now what had made her wonder at Catherine’s appearance: her graying hair was now a rich, dark brown, and the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth had vanished. Emily felt despair at the implications: Nicolas had already given Catherine the elixir—his elixir. He had given her youth, but he had also guaranteed her an agonizing death.

  The black lightning had burned and scorched Emily’s clothing; she could feel that her skin was blistered and raw, and the stench of brimstone and smoke filled her nostrils. Now that she was fully conscious again, it was difficult not to scream from the pain that she felt. Her hand was trapped underneath her body, near the flasks. She tried to unclench her fingers, to lift herself enough to put her hand in the pocket without Nicolas noticing.

  The pain of movement was a new fire. She couldn’t keep inside the shriek that tore from her throat, echoing among the huge vats.

  “There, you see, Mrs. Blake?” Nicolas said casually. “She’s returned to us already. Miss Pauls, you seem somewhat charred, my dear. I do apologize, but I had to make my point.”

  The cloth against her skin felt like she was dragging her hand over a steel file as she reached into her pocket, still trying to hide the motion from Nicolas. She could barely feel the smooth ceramic of the flasks or the cork that stoppered them. She wondered whether she could summon the flame spell that would also be necessary, whether she could drag the words from a mind overwhelmed with just trying to deal with the pain.

  “What have you done, Nicolas?” she managed to grate out. Her throat was raw, as if she’d swallowed fire. “You promised me that you wouldn’t harm Catherine if I came here.”

  “Harm her?” Nicolas answered. “Why, I’ve given her back her youth, haven’t I? She’ll have that for the rest of her life, even if that’s unlikely to be all that long.” He laughed again. “We’re the same, after all. We’re both beyond promises, Perenelle. We’re beyond any morality and any laws. We needn’t bow to any mere mortal’s concept of right or wrong.”

  “You’re mortal, Nicolas,” Emily spat. “I know how to kill you.” She
forced her hand to close around one of the flasks. She wondered whether she could throw it hard enough to break it.

  “As you’ve just demonstrated with my friends downstairs,” Nicolas acknowledged. “But we are decidedly not ‘mere,’ my dear. We are extraordinary.” He moved to stand alongside the chair to which Catherine was bound. “What’s also extraordinary is the amount of torment someone can withstand before they simply go mad from the experience. Perhaps your friend would care to demonstrate for you.” Nicolas produced a folding razor from underneath his jacket. “Why, now that she’s tasted the elixir herself, I could flay Mrs. Blake alive, ever so slowly, timing each cut so that the first is starting to heal even as I start the next. Can you imagine how that might feel, Perenelle, knowing that the torture could conceivably last for as long as I wish it to last?”

  She saw Catherine’s eyes widen. “No,” the woman breathed, the word nearly a sob. “Please, in God’s name, don’t.”

  Nicolas smiled down at Catherine as Emily watched. “I love it when they beg. It only makes the pain sweeter.” Then he looked at Emily. At Perenelle. “I asked you to give me the true elixir,” he said. “Have you changed your mind, my dear?”

  Emily shook her head. “I can’t.” She looked more at Catherine than Nicolas, desperate.

  “Can’t? Oh, I’m afraid that’s the wrong word. You mean you won’t—because it is a choice you’re capable of making. Very well, then; I’ll see if I can change your mind.” He lifted the razor and placed it against Catherine’s neck. He slid it slowly downward, a thick line of red following, her skin parting and gaping in the wake.