The Black Rose Chronicles

by Linda Lael Miller

  Although Valerian was ambulatory, he was still too weak to hunt in his usual flamboyant fashion. For exactly that reason—and because Aidan did feel a degree of compassion for the older vampire—he wasn’t about to leave his charge alone with Neely.

  Instead, at Valerian’s suggestion, they visited a bar on a back street in a modern American city, where the local deviants gathered. Here, in the Last Ditch Tavern, drug dealers congregated, along with pornographers of every description, and others who preyed upon the uncertain, the weak, and the naive.

  It was a crowded dive, too warm and too dark, filled with shrillness and smoke, harsh music with indecipherable lyrics, and the intangible specters of lust and hatred and fear.

  Aidan despised the Last Ditch instantly, but Valerian surveyed the place as though it were a superb gourmet restaurant. The elder vampire nudged Aidan and pointed to a lonely figure seated at a corner table. He spoke mentally, since it would have been futile to address anyone in the ordinary way in the midst of such chaos.

  That pale, skinny creature, there in the shadows, Valerian said. He’s a serial killer, specializing in teenage prostitutes. Likes to make them suffer a little before he finally snuffs them out.

  Aidan regarded the quarry with revulsion. Scum, he replied.

  Precisely, Valerian answered, beginning to weave his way through the howling, oblivious crowd toward his prey—who undoubtedly, and quite mistakenly, considered himself to be the predator.

  Aidan followed, albeit reluctantly, reflecting as he went that there were indeed many kinds of monsters abroad, and relatively few of them were supernatural. Are there other vampires here? he inquired of Valerian’s broad back.

  No, came the sharp retort, rapid-fire, and you’d damn well better learn to sense their presence on your own.

  We’re the only immortals, then? Aidan asked, feeling only mild chagrin. He hated being a vampire and saw no reason to polish the attendant skills.

  Valerian turned his head and pinioned Aidan with a brief glare. There are two warlocks at the bar. Go ahead and look at them. They’ve been watching us since we came in.

  Aidan tried to resist, but he could not. He glanced toward the long bar, with its brass rails and milling crowd, and immediately spotted the male witches. They stood out in a subtle way, being taller and handsomer and of brighter countenance than most humans. One lifted his glass to Aidan in an elegant salute and smiled benignly.

  Valerian was already closing in on his quarry, the sullen killer sitting alone and feeling sorry for himself. Don’t be fooled by their friendliness, he warned as a hasty aside, already concentrating palpably on his imminent feeding. The warlock’s blood is poison to us, as I’ve told you many times before. They envy our powers and use their own to thwart us whenever they can.

  Aidan shifted his attention to the measly specimen Valerian had chosen to feed upon. The elegant vampire smiled his most charming smile, pulled back a chair, and sat down at the table.

  “Hello, Udell,” he said to the pockmarked boy.

  Aidan sat, too, although he could hardly tolerate the psychic stench that rose from the lad’s diseased soul. To his amazement, Udell smiled at the beast who would consume and perhaps kill him.

  “How’d you know my name?” he shouted over the perverse celebrations and the grating music.

  Valerian looked as handsome as an archangel as he settled back in his chair and regarded the monster with apparent fondness. “By magic,” he said.

  Watching the interchange, Aidan felt sickened, even though he had no pity at all for the hapless Udell. He’d already glanced into the little worm’s mind and seen his favorite forms of amusement firsthand. No, it was Valerian’s blithe amorality that troubled Aidan now, that hardened hazy suspicions into fact. Here was a creature who, in the final analysis, would indulge his own dark appetites, wherever the opportunity arose. Whether the victim was good or evil, male or female, old or young, might not matter at all.

  Suddenly Valerian’s gaze sliced to Aidan’s face. It isn’t true, what you’re thinking, he told him, in the same silent way they’d communicated before. I am capable of love and the purest devotion, just as you are.

  Aidan looked away, uncomfortable. Just get on with it, he replied. One of the warlocks was moving through the throng toward them, smiling. I don’t want to stay here any longer than I must.

  Valerian held out a hand to Udell, who took it, smiling foolishly, like an old maid who has finally been asked to dance. Together, vampire and witless victim disappeared, blending into the grinding, sweating mass of humanity choking the dance floor.

  Great, Aidan thought, watching the warlock. Now I get to make small talk with somebody who wants to turn me into a toad.

  The warlock laughed. He was attractive, with soft brown hair, impish hazel eyes, and a quick grin. “I want to do nothing of the sort,” he said, holding out his hand. “My name is Cain.”

  “Figures,” Aidan replied, ignoring the gesture. He looked toward the other ghoul, still standing at the bar, and arched one eyebrow. “Is that your brother, Abel?”

  All the mirth had drained from Cain’s manner. “Not funny.” He grabbed a wooden chair, wrenched it around, and straddled the seat, his sinewy arms folded across the back. “You cannot possibly be so naive as you seem,” he declared. “Do you know what goes on in this bar?”

  “Every sort of depravity, I would imagine,” Aidan answered coolly. “Look, I’m not out to make friends or bridge any philosophical gaps between your kind and mine, all right? I’m here to feed, and for no other purpose.” Cain’s smile returned. He turned his head slowly and pulled down on the collar of his expensive sweater with one hand to bare his throat in invitation.

  Aidan wondered if it was possible for a vampire to vomit. “Thanks, anyway,” he said, rising from his chair. He scanned the crowd, looking for Valerian, enjoying a brief fantasy in which he drove a spike through that particular vampire’s heart with a croquet mallet.

  That night Aidan made a point of selecting a female victim, a very disturbed creature who had left her children with an abusive biker boyfriend to come to the Last Ditch for an evening’s diversion. Minutes before Aidan approached her, she had sucked the week’s grocery money up her nose through a rolled-up dollar bill. Her name was Fay, and she was more than neglectful, she was a sociopath, untroubled by the dimmest flicker of conscience.

  They danced for a while, moving against each other, and then he led her through the hallway at the rear, past the rest rooms, and into the alley.

  It certainly wasn’t a sexual encounter, but when Aidan bit into Fay’s narrow throat to drink, he felt the usual jubilation—and an almost paralyzing rush of guilt.

  He left the woman half-conscious, but very much alive, huddled beside an overflowing trash bin, and went in search of Valerian. At first, seeing no sign of the other vampire only annoyed Aidan, but then, when a single, grim possibility struck him, he was alarmed.

  Neely was alone, unguarded. And Valerian surely saw her not only as a tempting delicacy, but as a rival.

  There, on a snowy street corner, Aidan raised his arms over his head, clasped his hands together as if to pray, and vanished.

  Neely had found Aidan’s car keys after an impulsive search. She was bending over his desk, hastily penning a note, when there was a rippling stir in the air. Catching her breath, she looked up to see Valerian standing only a few feet away.

  She laid one hand to her heart, willing it to slow down to its regular pace, and managed a shaky smile. “I was just going to the market,” she said, feeling foolish even as she uttered the words.

  Valerian folded his arms and tilted his magnificent head to one side. He had a mane of chestnut-colored hair and mischievous violet eyes, and he grinned as he regarded her, as if he were mildly puzzled.

  Neely reminded herself that this was a vampire she was dealing with—an ancient and very accomplished one, according to Aidan’s journals. She took a step backward. “Where is Aidan?”


  Valerian sighed. “He’s occupied with other matters just now. You shouldn’t go out. It’s very dangerous.”

  She put her hands on her hips, figuring bravado was a better bet than sniveling cowardice, though it was the latter she was inclined toward. “Don’t look now,” she said tartly, “but I’m not exactly safe and sound as it is.”

  He chuckled, his arms still folded and his expression still curious. “It’s hopeless—loving Aidan Tremayne the way you do, I mean. He can never be a husband to you in any fashion you would even begin to understand.”

  Neely’s temper, an unwary and impulsive force in its own right, flared with all the fury of the fires that burned at the center of the earth. She forgot all about Valerian’s supernatural talents and went to stand directly in front of him, looking straight into his eyes. “You want him for yourself,” she accused quietly. “You want him for a lover.”

  Valerian’s eyes flashed, and he seemed to grow taller, fiercer, and much more dangerous. “You cannot possibly comprehend my feelings for Aidan, with your pitiful mortal brain,” he growled. “I am a vampire, and my affections transcend such trivial concepts as sexuality! Do you think you can categorize me into your narrow human view of what a lover should be? Well, you are wrong!” He paused and, to Neely’s enormous relief, made a visible effort to restrain his temper. “Once Aidan comes to terms with who and what he is—”

  “No,” Neely interrupted quietly, almost gently, shaking her head. “You’re the one who needs to get in touch with reality, Valerian. Be careful, or your delusions will destroy you.”

  The legendary vampire actually looked crestfallen, as well as enraged, just for the merest flicker of a moment. He turned aside and shoved a hand through his thick hair. ‘To be a creature of the night,” he said in a hoarse voice, “is to feel every emotion that mortals feel, a hundredfold, a thousandfold, be it an admirable one or not. In the immortal world, gender has no real bearing on matters of the heart—it is the individual, the object of one’s love, who matters.”

  Neely hugged herself and turned away, hoping Valerian would not sense what she was feeling just then—pity. She reached into the pocket of her coat and jingled Aidan’s car keys with her fingers, in a nervous and singularly impotent gesture. She wasn’t going anywhere now, that much was clear.

  “Perhaps we’re both fooling ourselves,” she reflected miserably. “I’m as guilty of it as you are.”

  Before Valerian could offer a response—maybe he had never meant to anyway—Aidan arrived. His appearance wasn’t subtle, but violent, and the very force of his rage seemed to shake the room like an earthquake.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded, seeming to tower over the gigantic Valerian, like a mountain about to spew lava.

  Neely shrank back, taking refuge behind Aidan’s desk.

  “Calm yourself,” Valerian said good-naturedly, laying his hands on Aidan’s shoulders. “I was finished before you left the woman.”

  Aidan flung Valerian’s arms aside while Neely sagged into the desk chair, stricken. She had no claim to Aidan’s fidelity—and certainly no sane person would expect loyalty—but she was wounded all the same.

  “Damn you,” Aidan spat at Valerian, as fierce and ferocious as an angry panther, “get out—leave us!”

  Even though she’d witnessed the phenomenon before, it still left Neely shaken, the way Valerian just dissipated into the air like so much smoke. Unconsciously she had raised both hands to her face, and now she gazed at Aidan through splayed fingers, unable to speak.

  He crossed the room, then stood just on the other side of the desk, looking down at her with an unreadable expression. His words startled Neely further, for she had expected, hoped for, some explanation. Some impassioned defense.

  “Well?” he asked impatiently. “Have you thought of a place to hide?”

  Neely felt shattering despair at the idea of leaving him, even though she’d been telling herself earlier in the evening she must do just that. Like Valerian, she had been whistling in the dark, making-believe that she and Aidan could ever have any sort of sane relationship. “I really have to go, then?”

  Aidan nodded, looked away. She saw her own anguish reflected in his countenance, mirror-perfect. “Yes,” he said raggedly. “Involving you in my life was an unconscionable thing to do, Neely. My enemies—good God, even my friends—are infinitely more dangerous to you than any human criminal could ever be.”

  She wanted to go to him, to clasp his arm and rest her head against the outer length of his shoulder, but she held herself back. “Valerian, Lisette, the others—yes, I can believe they might do me harm. But you, Aidan?”

  He whirled on her, imperious in his pain, taller and fiercer for it. “No,” he said in a bitter hiss. “But I am not a man—I have no literal, physical heart, no lungs to breathe with, no stomach to fill. I cannot give you children or walk with you in the light of the sun. My passion for you is an unholy thing—” Here he held his hands up, white and strong and elegant, as if offering some monstrous display. “Don’t you understand that I am, first and foremost, a beast, cursed by man and by God?”

  Neely felt herself go pale, and she wanted to faint from sheer grief, but she would not let it happen. “It’s impossible, isn’t it?” she mourned with quiet dignity.

  Aidan’s eyes were bleak indeed as he regarded her. “I made love to you with my mind, Neely,” he said despondently, “not my hands, my mouth, my body. I am a monster, and I beg you not to forget that, even if I should. Although I would not hurt you, ever, I endanger you simply by the fact of loving you. Now, is there a place you can go to hide?” Glumly Neely nodded. “Yes,” she said. “There’s a cottage on the coast, up in Maine. It belongs to a college friend of mine, Wendy Browning. She’s in London now, studying drama.”

  “Very well,” Aidan agreed reluctantly. “I will take you there.”

  Neely shook her head. “I don’t want to be beamed anywhere,” she replied. “It’s too hard on my nerves. If you would just lend me your car, or I could rent one under another name—”

  Aidan stood still, visibly debating the idea in his mind. “You will take mine,” he finally conceded. He arched one dark eyebrow and smiled slightly, his gaze fixed on the pocket of Neely’s coat, which she’d forgotten she was wearing. “You were going to, anyway, weren’t you?”

  “I didn’t know what I was going to do.” The words were fragile, and several splintered and broke as Neely uttered them.

  He moved, as if to approach her, then visibly held himself in check. He went the long way around to reach the desk, giving Neely a wide berth, and took a handful of cash from the one drawer. “Here,” he said. ‘Take this.”

  “Will—will I see you again?” Neely hated herself for asking, but she had to know. She had enough on her mind without wondering about that, too.

  “Yes,” Aidan answered, albeit reluctantly. “I have certain hopes for myself, for us, though I can’t discuss them with you now. And wonderfully independent Yankee that you are, I think you’ll need my help to completely resolve your problem with the senator and his buddies.”

  It was incredible, Neely thought, the exultation she felt at being told she wasn’t seeing Aidan Tremayne for the last time. She was, logically speaking, in no position to be exulted about anything. “I’ll make a map—so you can find the cottage,” she offered, perhaps too eagerly, and with a sniffle.

  Aidan smiled, very sadly. “No need, my love. There is no place, time, or dimension where you could hide from me. Your beautiful, brave spirit shines as brightly as if it were the last star in the universe.”

  Neely sniffled again and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand. “You know, if you ever get tired of the plasma business, I think you could make it big as a poet.”

  He chuckled, but the sound was hollow and desolate. “Go,” he said.

  Neely went, taking his car, the money he’d given her, and her toothbrush.

  When Neely had gone, Valerian reappeared. Undo
ubtedly he’d folded himself into some nook or corner and watched the whole melodrama with acute interest.

  “If you know what’s good for you,” he told Aidan, going to the liquor cabinet to pour a brandy he could not drink, “and for that fetching little creature who just left, you’ll never go near her again.”

  Aidan was standing at the parlor window. He’d seen the sleek white car move into the driveway, watched until its foggy-red taillights had disappeared into the snowy gloom. “I have never known what was good for me,” he answered.

  “That’s why I ended up in this fix.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  Aidan sighed, but he did not turn around to face the other vampire. ‘Two things: make myself available to the Brotherhood, should they decide to pay me a call—and find Lisette.”

  The brandy glass clattered to the floor and broke, and Aidan felt a certain triumph in the knowledge that he’d startled the great Valerian. That wasn’t an easy thing to do. “Are you mad?” Valerian demanded.

  “You know I am,” Aidan answered.

  “How will you find her?”

  “Easily. I mean to put myself directly in her path.” Valerian’s voice trembled with rage. He gripped Aidan’s arm and wrenched him about so that they faced each other. “She will destroy you!”

  “Maybe,” Aidan agreed, lifting his shoulders in a distracted shrug. “I mean to find out, as soon as possible.”

  “It’s this girl,” Valerian cried, waving his arms wide in a gesture of fury, “this Neely Wallace, who has brought all this grief and trouble down on our heads! I should have destroyed her long ago!”

  Aidan narrowed his eyes as he looked into Valerian’s strained features. “You have that power,” he agreed. “No one can dispute that. But if you harm Neely, my friend, you will have to destroy me as well. For if you do not, I will plague you with every step you take, until the last trumpet sounds!”

  Valerian’s expression was one of grief and subsiding fury. “Doesn’t it matter, that I care for you?”