The Collector of Dying Breaths (30 page)

Because of Isabeau. She had softened my hard shell. I couldn’t help but see people now as creatures beloved by someone. Each of Catherine’s victims—no, to be honest,
our
victims—had left behind a husband or wife, a child or mother or father. There was mourning and grief, the gnashing of teeth and falling of tears because of what I did.

That night Isabeau came to my store, and the darkness in my heart lifted when I took her in my arms and smelled the roses blooming behind her ears and the lilacs on her breath. I remember she was playful, and that her mood was lighter than air.

“What is so wonderful?” I asked her as I poured her wine.

“The queen has given us a date in December upon which she will host our marriage ceremony.”

A sense of well-being suffused me. I had never yearned to be married before I met Isabeau and was a bit surprised by how much it appealed to me and how I longed for the months to pass so we might be wed.

The ceremony was to take place at Sainte-Chapelle. God would find that ironic, I told Isabeau as I took her to bed. “We are sanctifying, in that church, the sins we committed there.”

“Oh yes, our sins,” she teased. “With all that we see around us there is no question that us coming together and finding pleasure with each other should be considered a transgression.”

“This kind of pleasure?” I asked as I rolled her onto her stomach and traced the line of her spine with my tongue and felt her shiver beneath me.

Of all the lovers I had taken, no one had enjoyed the act as Isabeau did. She reveled in my touch. Preened like a peacock. Our sexual union was not a dark secret but a honeyed one, rarely conducted in the pitch-black of night but rather in the golden tones of late afternoons or by candlelight. I can close my eyes and see her now, laughing with a joy that was in itself the most erotic sound, her arms open to me, her nipples hardened, her skin blushing rose and that smell emanating from her and coming up and surrounding me.

It took two days for the gloves to dry. When Bernadette de La Longe returned to my store, I handed her a wooden box and gave her instructions.

“The gloves are wrapped in leather, like a gift. Neither you nor your lady should unwrap them. She is to give them to her intended victim without touching them. And when she gives the gift, your lady should suggest that the woman try them on. That way she will ensure that the gloves will be used by the person they are intended for—rather than a manservant or lady’s maid who might accidentally be injured. And then your lady should entertain her guest and ply her with wine and cakes so that she doesn’t take off the gloves too quickly. The skin needs to start to absorb the potion.”

Bernadette reached for the box.

“Do you understand? It’s very important that no one else touch the gloves for any length of time.”

“Yes, I understand. You were very clear, Maître René.”

And then Bernadette de La Longe opened a silver mesh purse and counted out my payment. Each piece made a hollow sound when she placed it on my desk. And after she left I couldn’t pick them up to put them away. Not for many hours. I kept staring at the tower of coins and thinking how cheap it was to buy a murder.

Chapter 37

THE PRESENT

TUESDAY, MARCH 25

BARBIZON, FRANCE

After a few hours of restless, nervous sleep Jac had woken, showered, poured herself a cup of black coffee, and by ten
AM
was back in René’s lair, curious to see how the concoction was coming along. She wanted Griffin to arrive. To learn what the next steps were. To find out if this magician’s potion held any promise. And then to leave here for good.

Jac sniffed the brew. It was heady and very different. It was truly another century’s smell. The aroma of another era. She wanted to call Robbie and tell him what she’d done—and for a moment forgot that she couldn’t. She was caught up short. How could she have actually failed to remember that he was gone?

Because I’m not.

Was she hearing Robbie’s ghost? Or was she just starting another imaginary conversation in her head?

No. You’re talking to me, Jac. To me. To Robbie.

“Why now?”

You need me now.

“I need you all the time.”

And you have me all the time. You always will, in one way or another.

She heard the smile in his voice.

“What do you mean?”

You’ll find out.

“Tell me.”

You have to find your own way into understanding. But I’ll stay with you until you do. Help you.

“Griffin wants to protect me. You want to help me.”

You need both of us right now.

“But you’re not real.”

I’m as real as every feeling you’ve ever had for me. All of who we were and are to each other—you think that dies? That energy? That love? Oh, Jac, you still have a long way to go.

It would have sounded like he was chastising her, but his tone was so warm, so caring. She felt cosseted. Didn’t want him to go.

Don’t worry. I’m not going. Where you are is where I am. It’s part of my job.

“What job?”

No more answers. Not yet. You are too impatient, ma soeur, ma belle soeur.

His endearment, calling her his “beautiful sister,” brought on the sting of tears.

“I miss you.”

Silly goose, you don’t need to. I’m here.

And then she felt the most amazing thing: his arms around her. And she was smelling him too. Not the sixteenth-century concoction that permeated the lab, but Robbie, her brother, wearing the Scent of Us Forever.

You have to learn trust. You don’t want to believe that because then you’d have to risk pain. But I promise. No pain is as terrible as wonder is amazing. As love is astonishing. Try, Jac, all right? Try to trust. Tell me you will.

She hesitated.

Tell me you will.

“Yes, I will try.”

And then she was smelling only René’s elixir, and a powerful wave of fear crashed over her. Jac tried to sense Robbie’s presence, but he wasn’t there anymore. She sat and waited, but no matter how hard she tried to conjure him, he didn’t return.

Chapter 38

With nothing to do in the lab, Jac was uneasy in the house. Griffin had expected to get there late that afternoon, but that left hours. Pulling on a sweater, she decided she’d get out and take a walk, maybe return to the folly, with its lovely broken stone arches and moss-covered statuary.

Jac was circling the ruin for the second time when her cell phone rang. Looking down at the LED, she saw it was Griffin and answered quickly. But the connection was bad, and she couldn’t hear most of what he said. Frustrated, she disconnected the call, then punched in his number. This connection wasn’t much better. She could only hear occasional bursts of words.

“Meeting . . . not conclusive. Bizarre . . .”

“What are you talking about?”

His answer was all the more confusing and frustrating: “And that Robbie was . . .”

“I can’t understand. What about Robbie?”

She only got two words back. “Tests showed . . .” Then more of the crackling, and the connection went dead.

Twice she tried to call back but failed. Where was he? Why couldn’t he get a signal? But more importantly, what had he been trying to tell her? Griffin had sounded concerned. Why had he mentioned Robbie?

Jac walked up the uneven steps and sat on a cracked stone bench. There were clouds in the sky, but every few seconds the sun peeked through and shone down on her, warming her. She’d thought escaping the château and the laboratory might relieve some of her free-floating anxiety, but the opposite was happening.

Jac closed her eyes and tipped her face up to the sky. She took several deep breaths. Let them out slowly. Forced herself to use the relaxation technique Malachai had taught her.

The wind blew through the trees. She still had her eyes closed, and the wind sounded like weeping. It was unnerving. Jac had known heartache, but had never known what sound someone’s heart makes when it breaks. She knew it now. She was hearing it. And it reached inside of her and pulled her out of her time and place.

Chapter 39

MARCH 25, 1573

BARBIZON, FRANCE

I did not see Isabeau for the next week. Soon she would be released from her duties as a member of the squadron, but not until the queen devised a plan for shifting the duke’s attention away from Isabeau.

Whenever she was with him, I lived a kind of half life. My thoughts would wander from my work as I pictured them together. Wondered what she was saying to him. How he was responding. What he asked of her. Torturing myself, I imagined him touching her, kissing her, smelling her.

When I had first met Isabeau and we had begun to spend time together, she had been more open with me about her spying and how she conducted her affairs. In time, she had become reticent to discuss the details. Isabeau claimed she couldn’t bear to watch my face while I listened or tolerate the barrage of questions I asked.

“Why do you punish yourself, wanting to know these things? This is what I have to do for Catherine. Soon it will be over, but until it is, be kind to me and to yourself, René. Let us talk of other things.”

But I would insist.

“Did you entertain him with stories and dine with him last night?”

“Yes, and I made him laugh and flattered him.”

“And did he become aroused?”

“Yes.”

“Easily?”

“Yes.”

“And did you look at him when he was in that state? Does he like you to see him undressed, the way I do?”

“No, I told you, he doesn’t luxuriate in it. He isn’t sensual like you are.”

“Did he touch you?”

“My breasts.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No. I told you. He’s never interested in me, only in himself. What I provide is just a momentary reminder of his own power and prowess.”

Once she had answered my questions I would descend into a dungeon. No torture chamber was worse that the one I concocted for myself. No whip or rack could compare to the pain I felt as I imagined this woman with another man. Imagined his hands on her shoulders, gripping her. Imagined the jolts going through his body as his orgasm gathered and readied. Imagined his face thrown back in ecstasy.

In those moments I wanted to cut off Isabeau’s hair. Smear dirt on her face. Anoint her with a perfume made from rotten eggs. Make her unappealing to other men so that Catherine couldn’t use her anymore.

They were fleeting fantasies that shamed me then and shame me more now. But I am a man. And I didn’t want another man soiling my garden. I feared every time she came back to me that I would smell him on her.

I never did. Never saw a finger mark or scratch on her skin. Sometimes I pretended that she only told me these stories to incite my jealousy. That she really never ventured out of the palace to see anyone but me.

But I knew I was lying to myself.

She was gone for a week, and then on the next Friday she arrived with much fanfare, rushing into the shop, full of excitement and delight. Catherine had just spent the last hour working with Isabeau, explaining the plan for replacing her.

“There is to be a dinner party, and the queen is going to offer the duke a virgin who is much admired,” Isabeau gushed.

So taken was I with her news that I didn’t notice anything unusual at first. Here was Isabeau telling me she was going to be free of the duke!

“No man is going to touch you ever again but me,” I said, my words laced with my lust as I imagined it.

“And that makes you happy?” she teased.

“Oh yes.”

“You look happy, René.”

“I am.”

“Would you like to be even happier?” She laughed.

I knew that tone, and it stirred me. “Yes, yes. Please.”

And so she began to play her games with me. Isabeau turned her back and began to undress for me. First she unbuttoned her dress, dropping the green silk to the floor. Stepping out of it, she took off the chemise beneath it. Her bare shoulders inflamed me.

Then, slowly, she turned around. Her corset fitted right beneath her breasts, pushing them up, showing them off. The entire rest of her body was covered by underskirts, stockings, shoes, gloves.

All that was bare were her neck, her shoulders and her beautiful ripe breasts.

The sight literally took my breath away. I went to her and buried my face between her breasts. They were warm and smelled of the most fragrant apple blossoms I’d ever inhaled.

Teasing, she pushed me away and continued to strip. Taking off one layer and the next until her breasts and her pudenda were bare, but her legs were in their stockings and her arms were still covered by her gloves.

The gloves!

What was it? The way the candlelight fell? The way the sun shone through the windows as it set? What was it that suddenly pulled all the breath out of my lungs and clenched around my heart, squeezing the very life force from me?

It wasn’t possible, but her gloves looked so much like that other pair. I grabbed her wrist and inspected the stitching.

“Where did you get these?” I screamed as I started to rip the right glove off her.

Startled, she fought me.

“They were a gift.”

“From whom?” I continued ripping.

“Not from the duke. Stop it, René. They were given to me by a woman.”

The right glove came apart, and the upper portion fell away, but her fingers were still covered with leather. I began to pull her hand out. “From whom? From whom?”

“One of the other ladies-in-waiting. She said she’d been given them but they didn’t fit her. She asked if I wanted them.”

“Tell me her name.” I had gotten the whole right glove off and now was working on the left. Still Isabeau struggled with me, pushing me off.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Who gave you the gloves? What is her name?”

“Bernadette de La Longe.”

“Oh no, oh good Lord no. Isabeau, how many days have you been wearing them? When did she give them to you? Tell me! Isabeau! Tell me!” I was trying to rip the left glove off, but she fought back, treating me as if I’d gone mad. And I had. I had.

“For the last three days, I’ve worn them, yes.”

“Each day?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. I knew it was already too late, but still I worked at the glove, pulling and ripping until all that was left were the fingers of her left hand, covered still in the fine soft kid that I had soaked in poison.