The Collector of Dying Breaths (33 page)

Chapter 45

“Dinner will be in a half hour,” Melinoe told her when they were back upstairs. “We never finished our drinks, did we? Shall we now?” she asked as if it were just another night.

“I need to go to my room first. I’ll be down shortly,” Jac responded, trying for the same tone, saying it as if she meant it.

Drink with them? Have dinner with them? Finish the formula now that she knew the breaths were poison?
Jac felt as if she’d landed inside a surrealistic dream.

There had to be a way to get Griffin out of the antiquated dungeon where Melinoe was holding him hostage. Jac walked down the hallway to her room and stepped inside. She’d just do the most obvious thing and call Detective Marcher in Paris. Or was it better to start with the local police? Barbizon was a small town—the police were only a kilometer away.

Her bag was on her bed where she’d left it. She reached inside for her phone. It wasn’t there. Of course not—she’d plugged it in to charge it before she’d gone downstairs.

She ran to the desk. The cord was there and at the end of it—nothing. After searching frantically for a few minutes, Jac had to accept the obvious. Melinoe had taken Jac’s phone.

Panic sent surges of adrenaline through her like shocks. What to do?

There were other phones in the house, of course. In the library there was a telephone on the desk. Another in the kitchen. She’d just need to get to one of them. Just go downstairs as if she were planning on having drinks but detour to the kitchen. First, she needed to brush her hair, straighten her clothes, wash the dust off her hands and face. Present a less agitated exterior.

In the bathroom, looking at herself in the mirror, Jac saw a version of herself she hadn’t seen since Robbie had gone missing in Paris almost two years before. Her eyes were bright with fear, and her face was pale. She looked petrified. And she was. Melinoe was insane. She’d stolen from a museum and killed one person so far to achieve her goal.

Practicing Malachai’s breathing exercises for a full minute, Jac tried to calm down. She wasn’t going to accomplish what she had to if she was in free fall.

She needed to get to the telephone. Steal one minute and summon the police. Just one minute. If she could visualize her next moves, it would help. In her mind she watched herself head downstairs and then, instead of walking right—toward the living room, where she was expected—she hugged the wall and slunk to the left. Moving quickly but avoiding any rash movements, she got to the kitchen. Looked for the phone. Then pictured herself walking over to the phone—on the wall by the window.

The last of the evening sun was fading. Twilight was pushing it away. In Paris and New York the night was full of promise. But here in the château, isolated from other houses, from the town, this encroaching darkness was full of anxiety.

Jac opened the door to her room and walked out into the hallway. It was dark, and she wondered why the housekeeper hadn’t come around to turn on the lights yet. No matter, it was better this way. Shadows were perfect hiding places.

She reached the stairs and began her descent, praying Melinoe wasn’t going to come out and head up to her room at that moment.

Each step was a challenge. Jac’s heart was pounding. The simple trip down one flight of stairs was taking too long. But the fear was stretching out every minute.

This is how you live forever,
Jac thought. You torture the seconds with worry, you anticipate everything that awaits you, you trouble time, and it becomes an agony of isolated, unconnected moments.

At the bottom of the steps, Jac repeated what she’d pictured herself doing. Instead of heading toward the library, she went left and then down another darkened hallway and found her way to the kitchen without incident.

The smells here were a reminder of normal. There was a chicken roasting in the oven. The aroma of chocolate wafted in the air. A hint of vinegar. Rosemary. Bread baking.

But there was something wrong. It was dark here and empty. There was food cooking, but where was the cook?

The door to the pantry was open, and Jac began to shake, thinking of Griffin down below where she stood now.

Stop, she told herself. Just stop thinking. Use the phone first, then you can go to him. Once the police are on their way.

Jac walked across the room toward the phone, plucked the handle out of the cradle, punched in the emergency code that was the same all over France. This nightmare would be over in minutes now. There was nothing Melinoe would be able to do—

Holding the phone to her ear, Jac waited to hear the ringing.

There was nothing but dead silence. Hadn’t the call gone through? She depressed the connector button. Let it go. Listened for the dial tone. Depressed the button again. No dial tone. What was going on?

The cook stepped out of the pantry. When she saw Jac, she looked startled.

“Can I help you, mademoiselle?”

Jac explained she needed to use the phone.

“Mais oui,” she said, nodding sympathetically, “but it isn’t working because of the power outage.”

“But the stove?” Jac asked.

“The stove is still going because it is gas.”

“How long ago did the power go out?” Jac asked.

“About a half hour ago.”

“Do you have a cell phone?” Jac didn’t have any time to waste now. The power outage couldn’t be a coincidence.

“I do, mademoiselle, but Madame borrowed it. Perhaps you might ask her?”

Jac nodded. Felt a wave of exhaustion. Melinoe had made it impossible for Jac to call for help. There had to be another way. Of course—it was so simple. Almost absurdly easy. Jac would just leave. Walk out the front door, take one of the horses, and ride into town to alert the police.

There were doors and windows everywhere.

“Other than the front door,” Jac said to the cook, “is there a back entrance to the château?”

“Of course, it’s through there.” She pointed to a hallway.

Jac ran. She reached the door in seconds, but the handle didn’t turn. She looked at the lock—it needed a key. Back to the kitchen.

“Do you have the key?”

“How stupid I am, of course it is locked. When the power goes out, the house is locked. Madame fears that with all the valuables here, an electric crisis could be manufactured and then the thieves would take advantage of the dark to take what they want.”

“How does it work—if there is no electricity—how does the house stay in lockdown?”

“I do not know,” the cook said. She was a thin, older woman with a heavily lined face.

“Can I get out through a window?” she asked the cook even though she was sure of the answer she was going to hear.

The woman shook her head. “Not without Madame unlocking it by hand. I’m not sure how it works, but when I came here she told me about it, and once a month she tests the system to make sure it is in good order.”

Chapter 46

“I was looking for you, dear,” Melinoe said as she entered the kitchen. She was wearing a white tunic and white leggings and had pearls in her ears, on her fingers and twisted around her wrists and throat. Iridescent and gleaming, the jewels made her seem to glow in the dark.

Carrying a lit candelabra, she cast a long, twisted shadow on the wall. Her eyes had an almost unearthly glint.

A she-devil, Jac thought, with those white wings on either temple and her wild Medusa hair fanning out and falling below her shoulders.

“Serge and I are waiting for you in the living room for cocktails. It’s a shame about the electricity, but we can dine by candlelight.”

With the most gracious of gestures, Melinoe hooked her arm through Jac’s and led her from the kitchen. At the door she looked back at the cook. “Lisette, we will dine at seven thirty as planned.”

“Oui, madame.”

Melinoe didn’t say anything to Jac as she escorted her out of the kitchen, down the hallway and into the living room, where a crackling fire and several wall sconces fitted with candles served to enliven the room. It was as if nothing were wrong here at all. The scene was no different than when Jac had first come to the château except for all the knowledge she now possessed.

Serge was standing at the bar, mixing a pitcher of what Jac knew were martinis, and the stirrer tinkled against the shaker with the same tiddlywink noise it had every night. So normal except . . . except . . . nothing was the same.

He turned, pitcher in one hand, glass in another, and poured. Then he offered the glass to Melinoe. As he did, Jac noticed that his hand shook just a little. He was worried. Stealing a hunk of ambergris was one thing. But now they were involved in a murder and kidnapping. He poured another glass for Jac and handed it to her.

She met his eyes and noticed they were slightly glassy.

“Do you feel all right, Serge?” Jac asked.

“I think it’s just a head cold coming on. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? You look like you feel worse than that.”

“He’ll be fine,” Melinoe said with slightly too much emphasis on the last word.

“Of course I will,” Serge said as he poured himself one of the cold drinks and then sat down beside his stepsister on the couch. Melinoe reached out and stroked his hand. Soothing him as Jac had seen her do before. Then Melinoe leaned over and kissed him on the lips. She was a monster of seduction calming her pet. Jac could smell the sultry perfume she was wearing even halfway across the room. Serge’s eyes half closed. His hand faltered. A tiny bit of the liquor sloshed out of the glass and soaked into his slacks. Melinoe whispered in his ear. He straightened. Took a sip of his drink.

“Aren’t you going to taste it?” Melinoe asked Jac.

She took a sip.

“Is something wrong?” Serge asked Jac.

It was crazy. How could he ask? Didn’t he know?
Everything
was wrong. How could she sit here and drink this drink and pretend that things were normal? That her lover wasn’t being held hostage two stories below them? She wanted to scream. To take a chair and try to break one of the windows. She stood up. The glass fell on the antique Aubusson rug.

“Oh dear,” Melinoe said, looking down.

The glass hadn’t shattered. The rug had prevented that. But the stem had broken off.

Jac reached for it, but Melinoe got to it before her. She gave her an odd look—as if trying to gauge whether Jac had been planning to use it as a weapon.

“What a shame,” Melinoe said as she carefully picked up the other half of the glass. “These are Baccarat from the 1920s and very hard to find. I only have a dozen . . . only had a dozen . . . now I only have eleven. There’s really no reason to be nervous, dear. After dinner you’ll put the final touches on the formula and all will be well.”

But how could it? Would Melinoe let them go when Jac suspected Melinoe of stealing, of murdering Bruge? Or did Melinoe have alibis and explanations? What would she say? That locking Griffin in the stocks was a misunderstanding? That Bruge’s death was an accident and she’d only taken the ingredients to protect them? No, Melinoe wasn’t going to just let Jac and Griffin walk out of here. It was up to Jac to figure out a way to save them.

Serge coughed, and Jac glanced over.

“Jac?” Melinoe said her name softly, kindly. “Let’s not wait any longer for dinner. I know you’re impatient to retire to the laboratory.”

Jac tried to stall. “There is no reason to finish mixing the formula. Now that we know about the pathologist’s report from Paris—”

The stubbornness shone in Melinoe’s eyes as she interrupted Jac. “You are drawing conclusions without proof. The formula will work,” she said with unwavering determination in her voice. Melinoe was surveying the room. There was lust in her eyes, and her painted lips had parted slightly. She looked at her collection as if she were gazing on a lover.

Her glance caressed each Renaissance painting and sculpture, the rare jade and cinnabar carvings from Japan, and each piece of fine French Louis XIV furniture. Melinoe picked up a Fabergé frame that held a photograph of her with her father and stroked the smooth turquoise enamel, running her finger up and down one side.

“We can return. I know we can. And with René’s method we can arrange to return when and where we want. I need to come back so I can stay with my beautiful things.”

Serge coughed again. “Jac, what pathologist’s report from Paris? Is this about your brother?”

Melinoe stood up quickly, still holding the frame. For the first time since Jac had arrived at the château, Melinoe seemed flustered.

“Enough conversation about nothing,” she said. “Jac, perhaps it would be better if I had your dinner brought to your room. And then afterward you can go to the laboratory.”

“So I’m a prisoner too? What will you do to me if I don’t agree?”

“Prisoner?” Serge asked. “What the hell is going on here?”

“You don’t know?” Jac turned to Serge. There was no question he was ill. A fine film of perspiration slicked his face. His eyes were glazed.

He shook his head.

“Melinoe has Griffin locked up in the dungeon. It’s my incentive to finish mixing the formula.”

Serge coughed. “And why do you need incentive?”

“Because Griffin got some results back in Paris. It seems Robbie was poisoned. He died from a rare and ancient toxin—a kind that has not been known—”

“No!” Melinoe shouted. “The report is wrong. I can prove it.”

Serge looked at Melinoe. “I want to hear what Jac has to say.”

“No! It’s all a story she’s made up so that she can keep the elixir for herself and not share it with us.”

“That’s ludicrous—why would she do that?” Serge asked.

“For money of course!” Melinoe said.

“The elixir has no value. It turns the breaths to poison.” Jac turned to Melinoe. “Please, release Griffin and let us go.”

“Once you finish what you started.”

“But the breaths in the bottles are lethal,” Jac said. “When René added the elixir to them they became—”

“Enough talk.” Melinoe stood up. “Jac, I need you to come with me now. We’ll go to your room. Lisette will bring up a plate of food. I insist. And Serge, please don’t interfere.” Melinoe’s face was white with rage.

“Jac, don’t go anywhere,” Serge said and turned to Melinoe. “We’ve made terrible mistakes chasing your dreams, and we can’t make any more. I’ve helped you. Been part of it. But this has to stop.”

He coughed again. And again. “Let’s go to the library,” he said and took Jac’s arm. “I want to hear what you have to say.”

“No.” Melinoe ran at them, pushing between Serge and Jac, using her body like a missile. Serge grabbed her and held her at bay. It was the first time Jac realized just how small and fragile Melinoe really was. Her energy and charisma had made her seem so much bigger. But now, even sick as Serge was, she was powerless against him as he pushed her back into a chair.

“What is it that you think happened to your brother?” Serge asked Jac.

“Griffin said the forensic team believes the breath and elixir mixture is somehow active. Trying to use it to reanimate a soul will only result in someone else dying. It’s not a solution—it’s a weapon.”

Serge turned to Melinoe. “You knew this?”

She didn’t respond. He looked back at Jac.

“My stepsister knows about this?”

“She overheard me and Griffin talking about it.”

“When?”

“This afternoon.”

“Are the doctors sure that—”

Before Serge could finish his question, Melinoe was on her feet, shouting
no
and then again
no
.

Jac and Serge turned in time to see Melinoe, the candelabra in her hand, her arm lifting into the air.