Maeve gathered all her formidable forces, as she sometimes did when she wanted to intimidate a particularly brazen human. “I went to see Neely Wallace,” she said.
Aidan didn’t move, and yet every fiber of his being seemed to exude challenge. “What?”
Maeve began to pace, folding and unfolding her silk and ivory fan as she moved. “So it’s true, then. You’re actually smitten with a human being.” She stopped and gazed at her brother with tears glittering in her stricken blue eyes. “Oh, Aidan, how could you do something so foolish?”
She saw conflict in her brother’s remarkable face, as well as pain. “Smitten is hardly the word for what I’m feeling,” he confessed. “Maeve, I’ve encountered the woman exactly twice, and it’s as if she owns my soul. I keep recalling what the gypsy woman said that day Mother took us to have our fortunes told. Do you remember?”
Maeve flinched inwardly, wanting to recoil from the memory and all it might mean, even after so many years, but unable to do so. “Yes,” she said grimly, “I remember it perfectly well. We visited a flea-infested camp, and Mama, bless her simple heart, paid an old, ignorant crone to predict our futures.”
Aidan gazed at her in quiet reflection for a long moment, and Maeve saw something uncomfortably like compassion move in his eyes.
She was indignant. “All right,” she conceded, even though her brother had not actually challenged her, “the witch was right about some things—our being cursed, if you want to think of it as that—but there is no reason to believe—”
“That Neely is the woman the sorceress mentioned?” Aidan finished gently. “The one who would mean either my salvation or my destruction?” He paused, evidently gathering his thoughts, and frowned pensively when he spoke again. “Oh, to the contrary, my dear, there is every reason to believe it. I know almost nothing about Neely, and as you’ve so often pointed out, she is a mortal. And for all of that, when I saw her, it was as though my very soul leapt out of me and ran to her, desperate to lose itself in her.” Aidan looked so haunted, so beleaguered, that Maeve wanted to weep. She began in that moment to fear the Wallace woman, and to hate her, for if Aidan’s theory was fact and not fancy, then the situation was grave, indeed.
“What are you going to do?” Maeve whispered, struggling to restrain all the wild, violent emotions that suddenly possessed her.
“Do?” Aidan countered softly. “My dear sister, there is nothing to ‘do.’ It is something that must unfold.”
“No,” Maeve protested, shaken, remembering that long-ago day in the gypsy camp as if it were a part of last week instead of a remnant from a distant century. “The crone said it depended on your choices, yours and hers, whether you would be saved or destroyed!”
Aidan came to her then and laid his hands gently to either side of her face. “But I can only control my own choices,” he pointed out with infinite tenderness. “What Neely decides is quite beyond me—” He must have seen the rebellion brewing in Maeve’s eyes, for he smiled sadly and clarified, “Beyond both of us.”
Maeve was full of fury and fear. “You want to perish!” she accused. “Damn you, Aidan, I followed you into eternity, and now you would leave me to take refuge in death!” He released her, stepped away, turned his back to stand at one of the tall windows, gazing out upon the snowy night. ‘To be parted from you would be exceedingly painful,” he admitted, almost grudgingly. “Still, we are brother and sister, Maeve, not lovers. Perhaps we simply were not meant to travel the same path.”
Maeve steadied herself, called on all her vampire powers to sustain her, as the agonizing truth of Aidan’s words settled over her spirit. “You’ve decided, then, that you will pursue this madness?”
“Yes,” he replied wearily, without turning to face his sister. For the first time in all the winding length of Maeve’s memory, he seemed unaware of her feelings. “Yes,” he repeated. “For good or ill, I will see it through and find my fate at the end.”
At last Aidan abandoned that wretched window to look at Maeve again, though he kept his distance. She knew the span was not merely physical, but emotional, too, and she was further wounded by this realization.
“You are not to interfere, no matter how consuming the temptation may be,” he warned quietly but with the utmost strength of purpose. “I mean what I say, Maeve—if you value my wishes, if you care for me at all, you will avoid Neely Wallace at all costs.”
Maeve was stricken, for she could not doubt that Aidan was grimly sincere. If she meddled in this threatening affair, he might never forgive her, and the thought of his scorn was beyond endurance.
Still, she was angry as well, and suspicious. “Can you possibly believe there is a need for you to defend her against me?”
Aidan did not relent. “I don’t know,” he answered bluntly, “but aside from wanting to let this thing run its course, be it curse or blessing, I am concerned for Neely’s safety. As you well understand, your presence could draw the attention of the others to Neely. Suppose, for instance, that Lisette should learn of her?”
Maeve had heard the rumors that Lisette, the most vicious and unfortunately the most powerful of all vampires, had come forth from her tomb, but she had disregarded them as alarmist drivel. “Don’t be an idiot,” she replied. “Even if Lisette is stirring abroad now and again, she surely has no interest in the likes of your pitiful mortal.”
“She is not pitiful in any way, shape, or form,” Aidan retorted tersely. “Neely is a magical creature, like most humans, and part of her splendor lies in the fact that she is quite unaware of her own majesty.”
Maeve examined her ivory-colored fingernails, which were perfectly shaped and buffed to a soft glow. She was still in turmoil, and her outward calm was all pretense. “You’re right to be afraid of Lisette,” she said with a lightness she did not feel. She was injured, and in her pain she needed to be cruel. “If your enemies suspect you are fond of the woman, they may use her to make you suffer.” She paused a moment for effect, then went boldly on, aware that the attempt was futile even as she made it. “There is one way to solve the problem forever, Aidan. ‘If thy right eye offends thee His rage was sudden and palpable; it filled the room with coldness. And it confirmed Maeve’s worst suspicions.
“No.” He whispered the word, but it had all the strength of an earthquake. “Neely is not to be touched, do you understand me? Her only sin is that she brought a child to my door one night, on an innocent errand—”
Maeve lifted one hand and laid an index finger to Aidan’s lips to silence him. “You needn’t raise your voice, darling,” she said, again with a levity that was wholly feigned. “I will respect your wishes, you know that. Know also, however, that I love you and that I will do whatever I must to keep you safe.”
They studied each other in silence for a long interval, equally determined, equally powerful.
“Please,” Maeve cajoled finally. “Come to the ball with me. What better way to draw the attention of the others away from Neely Wallace?”
Aidan hesitated, then gave a grim nod.
He went upstairs to change into suitable clothing and quickly rejoined Maeve in the study. He was breathtakingly handsome in a top hat and tails, and for added affect he wore his silk cape.
Five minutes later, distracted and silent, he was entering the Spencer’s antebellum ballroom with Maeve on his arm.
Once her shift was over, Neely lingered at one of the Formica-topped tables in the cafe, sipping herbal tea and poring over the information she’d collected earlier at the library. She became, by an act of will, the detached professional, putting her personal feelings about Aidan temporarily on hold.
She’d found a number of articles regarding the Tremayne family on microfilm and made photocopies of each one. According to the newspaper pieces, there had been an Aidan Tremayne living in the colonial mansion for well over a century. Each generation was as reclusive as the last, apparently marrying and raising their families elsewhere. There were no wedding or engagement a
nnouncements, no records of local births, no obituaries. The articles yielded only the most general information—in the summer of 1816, part of the house had been destroyed by fire. During the War Between the States, Union troops had moved into the downstairs rooms. In 1903 a young woman had disappeared after leaving a calling card at the Tremayne residence, and there had been a brief flurry of scandal, an earnest but fruitless police investigation. One of the earlier ancestors had been a painter of some renown, and several of his pieces had brought a fortune at auction in 1956.
Only when one of the chairs on the opposite side of the table scraped back did Neely bring herself out of her revelry. Lifting her eyes, she saw her brother sitting across from her.
Ben resembled nothing so much as a renegade biker, with his long hair, battered jeans, and black T-shirt, but in truth he was a solid citizen. He worked hard managing the motel, cafe, and trailer court, and he was a conscientious father to Danny.
“Digging up more dirt on Senator Hargrove?” he asked. The café was closed now, and the night cook and the other waitress had gone home for the night. They could talk freely.
Of course, Ben knew all about the discoveries she’d made while working in the senator’s office as his assistant. She’d told him everything, from the very beginning, when she’d only suspected that her employer was consorting with criminals in general and drug dealers in particular, and he’d known about the documented proof she’d collected, too.
Neely shook her head in answer to his question; there was probably a lot more “dirt” to be dug up where Dallas Hargrove was concerned, but she was through playing detective. She’d given the FBI numerous papers and even photographs outlining the senator’s exploits, and now she could do nothing but wait. And hope the Feds would bring Hargrove down for good before he decided to avenge himself.
“Not this time,” she said, somewhat wearily. “I’m curious about the Tremayne family, but I haven’t been able to come up with much. I’ll try the courthouse tomorrow.”
Ben looked puzzled and not a little uncomfortable. “Why, Neely? What interest could you possibly have in that place or those people? Hell, I’ve always thought it was a little spooky, the way that guy keeps to himself.”
Neely propped one elbow on the table and cupped her chin in her hand. “I can’t explain it,” she answered, because honesty had always come easily with Ben. “It’s almost like a compulsion. I’ve met Mr. Tremayne twice, and both times I felt some kind of paradigm shift—something I never even guessed it was possible to feel. Unless I watch myself, I think I could actually love him.”
Ben shook his head and grinned, then got up to go to the pie keeper on the counter. He took out two slices of lemon meringue and returned to the table. Usually he wouldn’t have stuck around, but Danny was spending the night in town with a friend from school, and there was no need to hurry home.
“Would that be so awful?” he asked. “If you fell in love, I mean?”
She picked up a fork and cut off a bite-size piece of pie. “When are you going to get married again, Ben?” she countered, purposely stalling. “Shannon’s been gone for five years now. Isn’t it time you had a romance?”
Ben chuckled, but there was sadness in the sound. “It isn’t quite that easy,” he said. “Nobody’s likely to mistake me for Kevin Costner, for one thing, and for another, well, my job isn’t exactly impressive. I have a young son who still looks for his mother to come home, a beat-up old truck that needs an overhaul, a small savings account, and medical bills roughly equal to the national debt. What woman in her right mind would tie up with me?”
Neely reached across the table and touched her brother’s tattooed forearm affectionately. “None, if you’re going to take that attitude,” she scolded with a smile. “What about the fact that you’re loyal—you stuck by Shannon through one of the worst ordeals a human being can experience, and you were there for her the whole time, even though you must have been reeling with pain yourself. You’ve raised Danny ever since, with love and gentleness, and you’re resilient, Ben. A lot of other people would have given up, being widowed and laid off in the same year, but you kept going. You’re a special guy, and there must be plenty of good women out there looking for somebody like you. All you’ve got to do is stop hiding behind that gruff exterior of yours.”
A slight blush told Neely that her compliments had struck their mark. Ben concentrated on his pie for a time, chewing and swallowing several bites before he met his sister’s eye and tried again. “How about you, Neely? Is it serious, what’s happening between you and this Tremayne character?”
She looked away. “It could be,” she admitted softly, after staring out at the snowy night for a long time. “At least on my side. For all I know, Aidan has never given me a second thought.” It was time to steer the subject in another direction, however briefly. “The people Hargrove is involved with may wait years to strike, Ben, but sooner or later they’ll see that I meet with an accident. It’s bad enough that I’m hanging around here, in such an obvious place, endangering you and Danny. I can’t drag some unsuspecting man into the situation, too.”
Ben finished his pie and ate what was left of Neely’s, since she’d pushed her plate away. “We’re a pair, you and I,” he said. “Still, the senator and his bunch are bound to go to prison, once the full extent of their sins comes to light.
Then none of them will be a danger to you anymore.”
Neely gave her brother a wry look, carried their plates into the café’s small kitchen, and returned to gather up her photocopies before answering. “We’ve had this conversation before,” she pointed out. “We keep going over the same ground, again and again, as if we believe on some level that the situation will change if we just discuss things enough.”
With a sheepish shrug Ben stood, taking his lined denim jacket from the brass coat tree next to the door and putting it on. “Who knows?” He waited while Neely donned her pea coat and fetched her purse from behind the counter. “It seems to me that it’s taking the FBI a long time to pull the investigation together and make a move. Maybe you ought to give the material you gathered to the producer of one of those tabloid TV shows. I’ll bet that would bring some action.”
Neely passed through the open café doorway ahead of her brother, raising her collar against the cold wind while she waited for him to turn out the lights and lock the door. There were several big rigs in the parking lot, their drivers either staying at the motel or sacked out in sleepers in the backs of their truck cabs.
“I may approach a journalist or a reporter,” she said, “if the FBI doesn’t do something soon.” Neely had another set of copies of the incriminating documents stashed away in a safe place, but she’d never told Ben or anyone else where they were. It was something too dangerous to know.
A hard crust had formed on the snowy ground, and the sky was clear, full of icy stars. Misty clouds passing over the moon made it look blurry and slightly out of focus. Neely’s clunky waitress shoes made a satisfying crunching sound as she and Ben walked toward home.
Ben escorted her to her trailer and waited while she worked the lock, opened the door, and turned on the lights.
“Tomorrow’s your day off,” her brother reminded her, hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Do something constructive with it, why don’t you, instead of rooting around in the courthouse files or straining your eyes at one of those microfilm machines.”
Neely smiled. “Good night, Ben,” she said.
He chuckled, shook his head, and walked away toward his own nearby trailer.
After locking up and performing her usual nighttime ablutions, Neely folded out her sofa bed and collapsed. She’d meant to go over the newspaper articles she’d copied at the library once more, just in case she’d missed something. Instead she barely managed to switch out the lamp on the wall above the couch before she tumbled into an unusually deep slumber.
Almost immediately she began to dream.
Aidan Tremayne appeared at the
foot of her bed, even more handsome than before in the kind of beautifully tailored dancing clothes leading men sometimes wore in movies made in the thirties and forties. He even had on a top hat, set at a rakish angle, and his dark cape rustled in the draft.
As the dreaming Neely raised herself on one elbow to stare at him, he winked.
Neely laughed. “See if I ever have a chili dog with onions for dinner again,” she said.
Aidan smiled and tipped his hat, tumbling it down his arm and catching it in one gloved hand.
Neely clapped, and he bowed deeply. She hoped the dream wasn’t over, that the lemon meringue pie would pick up where the chili dog had left off.
“Is this dream a talkie?” she asked. “Or are we going to use subtitles?”
He held out one hand, and she felt herself rising effortlessly from the bed, floating toward him. “It’s wired for sound,” he answered. He caught her in his arms, and she felt tremendous energy in him, as well as danger, and, within herself, a tumultuous need. “I’m afraid I’m quite bewitched.”
Neely reminded herself that she was asleep and decided to enjoy the night fancy as much as possible before real life intruded. She allowed herself to revel in being held close against him, to savor the melting warmth in her most feminine parts and the bittersweet ache that had taken root in her heart.
“You’re dressed for dancing,” she observed.
The walls of the trailer seemed to disintegrate; there was only Neely herself, and Aidan Tremayne, holding her, with all the universe silent and still around them. Stars fell in glittering arches and formed a twinkling pool beneath their feet.
The Black Rose Chronicles Page 5