Immortal Muse (43 page)

“You may thank Lord Byron,” she told him. “And as to being glad . . . well, that remains to be seen. I still don't have my notebooks.”

“Ah.” Polidori's lips tightened into a compressed smile, “as cautious as ever, but I can assure that the notebooks are now on their way to London. But we have time tonight, and don't need to immediately discuss business. Was your journey here comfortable? I love the evening air this time of year—I find it bracing . . .”

The waiter brought the soup course as they discussed the weather and how long they'd each been in London. Polidori seemed to be familiar with Shelley's latest scandal as well, and mentioned that he bought one of Blake's illustrated works from a bookseller on Pall Mall. It wasn't until the second course, with the bottle of wine between them half-emptied, that Polidori put his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

“We should work together,” he said softly, pitching his voice so that the other diners in the small room could not hear his words. “I have ability with magic that you don't possess, and you . . . well, you have the better aptitude for the science of our twinned goals. We could work together as we did before.”

She nearly laughed at the audacity of the remark, the wine fumes in her head clearing as if they'd never been there. “
We
never worked together. Antoine and I worked together. With you, I worked on my part alone, when you weren't forcing me to translate scrolls and work for you. I worked
for
you. Never
with
you.”

He leaned back again, and there seemed to be confusion in his gaze. “Was it truly that bad?”

“It was worse. You just never saw it because things were exactly as you wanted them to be.”

His cheeks had the grace to color slightly under the stubble. “I didn't understand, back then. It was a different time, with different mores and different attitudes. That was
centuries
ago.”

“I assure you that you still don't understand.” The waiter arrived again, placing a slice of lamb with carrots and a mint sauce before them. Any appetite that Emily had had vanished. Polidori leaned forward again.

“You have to admit that we two have abilities that none of the sheep around us possess.”

“I don't think of them as sheep.” Emily stared at the plate in front of her; her fork scraped at the pattern around the rim of the china as she set it down.

“Not all of them, but many of them are little better than that, and about as intelligent. Think, Perenelle . . .”

“Mr. Polidori, I'm sorry, but that's not my name, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't use it. As I've already told you, I'm no longer the woman who once possessed that name and I've tried very hard to forget that time.”

“Miss Pauls, then, if you want to use the niceties of
this
time.” His knife sawed at the lamb; he placed a bite in his mouth; she watched him chew and swallow, closing his eyes momentarily. “I truly don't care,” he continued. “If you want to know why I wanted to meet with you, this is it. Think of what we could do together: we could create a group of immortals like us—people who would understand us because they would share the same qualities. We could lead them. The possibilities are staggering: why, once in place, we would never die, never lose our youth, never have to be replaced. I ask you to consider this: what if the great leaders of history could have remained in power forever: Alexander, Julius Caesar, Queen Elizabeth, Napoleon. Can you imagine the grandeur they could have achieved, the empires they could have built? That could be
us
. That could be forever us.”

“Nothing lasts forever. Not even us. Not any longer. We both know that: Antoine taught us that we, too, can die.”

He smiled as he cut another slice of the lamb, his knife grating against the plate. He speared the piece on his fork, lifting it to his mouth. “Which means that we can control the immortals we create. We can end their long lives as easily as we create them.” He placed the lamb delicately in his mouth.

“You want to establish a Reign of Terror, only one that lasts forever—because that will feed the part of you that was affected by the elixir. You see
yourself
as this great leader. You want to be the elite of the elite.”

He shrugged and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “We both need to feed. Any immortals we create will also have their own peculiar needs. You and I, we are the true vampyres, feeding not on blood but on emotions and passions. Your Antoine, had he survived the guillotine, would have had his own requirements; we'll just never know what they might have been.” Polidori's words made Emily think of Verdette, back in her rooms. “For that matter,” Polidori added, “think of what
you
could do: all the artists and writers and scientists would come to beg at your feet for your help, and the creative arts would flourish as they never have. You could gorge on the Arts as never before. You could have all the resources and all the time you needed for your own research and interests; you could become the equal of any artist or scientist who ever lived. Yourself. Imagine that world. All we need to achieve it is the true formula. Give me that, and the world is ours. Ours alone.”

She sniffed. “Now we come to it. You want the formula. What if I tell you that I've not yet discovered it?”

Polidori took another bite of the lamb. “I wouldn't believe you. I know you. You have it; you wouldn't have given Antoine the flawed version.”

She forced herself to continue to stare into his eyes. “Even if that were true,” Emily told him, “and I'm not saying that it is, I wouldn't give it to you.”

He put down his utensils on the tablecloth, leaning back until his chair creaked in protest. His handsome, dark eyes regarded her from their deep-set sockets. “Of course not—in your position, I would say the same, because if you give me the formula, then I have no reason to leave you alive except for the pleasure I receive from your anguish. I'm assuming that you won't divulge the formula to me.” His forefinger stabbed at the tablecloth, so hard that his plate rattled. “However, I don't need the
formula
, only the elixir itself. Keep your secret, if you must, as your protection. All you need do is produce the elixir for us to use together. Examine yourself, honestly. Tell me you're not tempted, even just the slightest bit. Tell me that you don't want to stop hiding from the world because it won't accept you. Tell me that you haven't felt lonely and alone. The world is changing, more than it has at any time since our beginnings. The time of royalty and kings is gone—what happened in France has proven that, as does the defeats Britain is suffering in their new American war. The world revels in its Napoleons now and desires rulers and emperors who don't come from royal stock. That's us: you and me. This is our time—we should grasp it.”

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.

 * * * 

W
hen 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.”

 * * * 

S
he 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.