The Black Rose Chronicles

by Linda Lael Miller

  “How did you come to be acquainted with the Madam?” Mrs. F. inquired, catching Neely off guard.

  No longer pretending to an appetite, she set the tray aside. “I’m a Mend of her brother’s,” she said.

  Mrs. F. looked disapprovingly at Neely’s untouched breakfast but refrained from comment. In the next instant her face was alight. “Oh, you’re one of Mr. Aidan’s lot. Now, there’s a lovely gentleman for you. As handsome a rascal as the Lord ever turned from His hand, he is. Makes me blush with his teasing, and me twice his age.”

  Neely thought of Aidan’s birthdate—the spring of 1760—and sighed wistfully. She didn’t know if she’d ever come to understand the mystery that was Aidan Tremayne; she just hoped she’d get the chance to try. “You’re younger than you think, Mrs. F.,” she told the other woman.

  The housekeeper took the tray and left, and Neely immediately reached for her newspapers. At that point she was in dire need of a distraction, a way to avoid further thoughts of the dangers Aidan faced.

  USA Today said nothing about the Hargroves—Elaine’s funeral and the senator’s subsequent “nervous breakdown,” which had rendered him temporarily unfit to stand trial, were old news. The London Times, however, contained an update on Dallas Hargrove’s condition, tucked away in a corner of page 14.

  The senator had contracted pneumonia, and while everything possible was being done for him in the way of medical treatment, he did not seem to be responding. Neely suspected that he’d simply decided to die; without Elaine, without his freedom and his reputation, he might well feel that he had nothing left to live for.

  Feeling even sadder than before, Neely refolded both papers, set them on the bedside table, and tossed back the covers. A yellow-gray fog was curling at the mullioned windows, and there was a distinct chill in the air, even with the fire popping in the grate.

  “Vampire weather,” Neely mused fancifully.

  Soon enough she realized that even though she was weary to the point of collapse, inactivity would be the worst thing for her. Perhaps if she just kept moving, she reasoned whimsically, then disaster would not be able to overtake her.

  Half an hour later, bathed and clad in a gray cashmere pants and sweater set that probably belonged to Maeve, she ventured out of her room. She would explore the house first, then call her friend, Wendy Browning, who was in London studying theater arts, and make arrangements to meet. Maybe that afternoon, if she felt up to it, Neely would go shopping for clothes. As it was, she had only the outfit she’d worn on the plane, and she couldn’t go raiding closets and bureaus for more of Maeve’s things.

  Neely found the stairway leading to the third floor and climbed it. Here, instead of a nursery or servants’ quarters, as many such houses would have had, there was one great, drafty room.

  Neely’s footsteps echoed off the walls of that lonely chamber as she approached the object that dominated it—a huge old-fashioned loom. Someone, Maeve surely, had been weaving a tapestry in delicate pastels and deep earth colors, though all that was visible was the hem of a pale, gauzy dress, a carpet of brown and crimson maple leaves, and a fallen rose, shedding its ivory petals.

  A chill tickled Neely’s spine, and she hugged herself.

  Aidan, she mourned silently. Where are you?

  Tilting her head back, she saw that huge skylights had been cut into the roof, and the fog brushed against the glass like an affectionate cat.

  There was a stack of completed tapestries on a table next to a far wall, but Neely didn’t approach. She felt as if she’d seen a private part of Maeve’s life as it was, and besides, this was a place of sorrow. Suddenly that huge room seemed as barren of life and hope as a cemetery.

  She turned and hurried out of the attic studio.

  On the second floor were a number of bedrooms and baths, along with a sitting room that overlooked the sumptuous garden at the rear of the house. Neely proceeded to the first floor, where she found an old-fashioned and purely elegant drawing room, a combination library and study, a formal dining area, the kitchen, of course, and a gallery.

  Neely was even more drawn by the paintings on the walls of the gallery than she had been by the curious tapestry in Maeve’s attic room. These works, at least, had purposely been put on display, and because of that, Neely could look without feeling that she was prying.

  The morning dawdled by, it seemed, and promptly at one o’clock Mrs. F. served a luncheon of deviled eggs, fruit compote, and salad in the kitchen. Neely forced herself to eat a little, then went off to the study to call Wendy Browning.

  An answering machine clicked on. “Hi, this is Wendy. Jason and I are probably in class, acting our brains out. Leave a message, and one of us will call you back at the first opportunity. In the meantime, break a leg. Bye.”

  Neely grinned as she left her name and the number where she could be reached. The thought of seeing Wendy again lifted her spirits, though she wasn’t looking forward to explaining why her friend’s seaside cottage in Maine had been blown to splinters. This might just be one of those rare incidences where it truly was better to lie, or at least go on pretending she didn’t know what had happened.

  Feeling restless as the gloomy day wore on and twilight approached—Neely realized that she was both dreading the coming of darkness and looking forward to it because it might bring Aidan to her side—she called for a cab. While she waited for the car to arrive, she reflected on her own mixed emotions.

  True enough, Aidan could appear. On the other hand, so could Maeve or Valerian or other vampires she wouldn’t even recognize. The cab appeared before she’d worked out the problem in her mind, and Neely put on her coat and rushed down the walk and through the gate to meet it.

  It was time for a little therapeutic shopping.

  She avoided the posh places, like Harrod’s, the designer shops, and the trendy boutiques, and spent the remainder of the afternoon in a fascinating establishment called Tea and Sympathy, which dealt in secondhand clothing. It was upscale stuff but definitely used.

  In that hectic, cheerful, crowded atmosphere, Neely felt wonderfully safe and ordinary; she was even able to forget, at least during that brief, shining interval, that vampires were real creatures and that she’d fallen hopelessly in love with one.

  She bought a black skirt that had supposedly once belonged to the princess, along with several pairs of equally royal-looking woolen slacks, some sweaters in soft colors, and a black, sparkly dancing dress. On the way home she had the cabdriver stop at a neighborhood shop, where she purchased a supply of underwear, some pantyhose, and three soft cotton nightgowns.

  Later, Neely settled into the guest suite, back at Maeve’s house. Mrs. F. brought tea and “biscuits,” which were really cookies, and built up the fire. Neely couldn’t ignore her hunger any longer, so she sipped from a bone china cup, ate exactly one biscuit, and reviewed the day’s loot. Briefly she entertained a wry, bereft hope that someday she would have steady access to her own wardrobe again, instead of having to rush out and buy things everywhere she went.

  Wendy called just before dinner, and she and Neely made plans to meet for lunch the next day, near the theater academy.

  “Anything exciting going on?” Neely inquired, winding an index finger nervously in the telephone cord. She imagined herself blurting out the gist of her own situation. Guess what? I’m in love with a vampire.

  Wendy’s voice was bubbly and cheerful, like always. “Well, the police in Timber Cove did call to say my cabin in Maine had been reduced to ashes. I’ll have it rebuilt with the insurance check. What are you doing in London, anyway?” Neely suppressed an urge to tell all.

  Of course, she didn’t talk about Aidan, or his mysterious mission, or the other vampires who threatened to demolish any whisper of a chance that they could ever be happy together. “You’ve read about the big scandal stateside, involving Senator Hargrove and the drug cartel, haven’t you?”

  Wendy laughed. “All I read is Variety these days, and Shakespe
are.” She paused, and there was a worried note in her voice when she went on. “Sounds like pretty dangerous stuff. Are you okay, Neely?”

  Her friend’s concern warmed Neely, reassured her that there were still regular people in the world, affectionate, funny people who didn’t believe in the Undead.

  “I’m terrific,” Neely lied, feeling her hard-won facade starting to slip. “I’ll explain it all tomorrow.”

  “Great,” Wendy responded. “Now remember, twelve-thirty at Willy-Nilly’s.”

  “I’ll remember,” Neely promised. But a nervous tremor struck her as she hung up the receiver, there in Maeve’s august study, a new and very frightening feeling came over her—the absolute conviction that someone was watching her.

  Now, she thought with bravado, if I can just make it to tomorrow.

  This time the Brotherhood did not mistreat Aidan physically, though his mental powers and his emotional strength were both severely tested.

  He was given an austere chamber in the cellar of a remote hunting lodge in Scotland and allowed to come and go as he pleased, feed in his own way, and wear his own clothes.

  Each night, however, as soon as he’d fed, Aidan was expected to present himself in the lodge’s main hall, where he sat in a great carved chair of medieval oak, facing the five members of the tribunal.

  The elders lined a long wooden table, sometimes just staring at Aidan, but mostly they interrogated him. They asked seemingly limitless questions about every corner and facet of his life, explored his most private thoughts and beliefs with their probing minds. Since there was nothing Aidan could do to stop them, for his puny powers were laughable beside theirs, he endured the inspection as patiently as he was able.

  The experience was intensely painful on a psychic level, and the Brotherhood made no particular effort to be merciful. They saw Aidan as a potential threat to themselves and all other vampires, and half of them argued openly and heatedly for an immediate execution. That, the angry ones claimed, would settle the problem once and for all.

  Others, however—Tobias among them—spoke for simple justice. Tremayne had not, after all, committed any crime, and surely he should not be destroyed on the mere speculation that he might betray the others. Besides, if he passed through the ancient purging process—even in his suffering, Aidan was jubilant to learn that such a process existed at all—his memory of life among blood-drinkers would vanish, along with all the powers and demands of vampirism.

  The group seemed to be deadlocked, and there came a time when Aidan’s impatience and fear and unceasing mental pain made him reckless. He finally demanded some answers of his own.

  “Tell me,” he dared, believing he had nothing to lose, on the twelfth night of the inquisition, “which of you would make a vampire of a mortal man, if that man did not ask you to do so?”

  The five members of the court turned to each other and communicated for several minutes. He did not hear what they were saying because they veiled their words by some mysterious means of their own. There was much Aidan didn’t know about vampires, for all his two hundred years among them, because he’d spent most of that time rebelling against his fate.

  Finally the archaic creature on the far right stroked his white beard and muttered, “There is no ordinance among us forbidding the making of new vampires, be the mortals involved willing or unwilling. I personally would like to witness the results of such an experiment as we speak of here, however, and for that reason I vote that we allow it.”

  Aidan started to speak, but the elder cut him off with a look and a warning. “The process is extremely painful, and most dangerous. It is possible, for example, that the silver cord connecting your spirit to your physical being will be severed during the transformation. If this happens, you will be neither vampire nor mortal, and it may be that such a fate is even worse than the Judgment of Heaven.”

  There was a hush in the great chamber, for this was an eventuality inherently feared by every vampire, warlock, shade, and specter.

  Aidan rose slowly from his chair, gripping the armrests, weakened by the ordeal and all that had gone before it. He did not dare to think of Neely, though her image was safely hidden in his heart, sustaining him, giving him courage, making it possible to bear the pain of the Brotherhood’s unmerciful poking and prodding.

  “How?” he whispered. “How is it done?”

  “Be seated,” ordered one of the elders, obviously stunned by such audacity on the part of a mere fledgling.

  “I will not,” Aidan answered, standing squarely now. He was trembling inwardly, and there was an echo in his brain—difficult… painful… dangerous. He didn’t care about those things; what was important was that the transformation was possible. Besides, the name nestled in his heart made him bold. “I have cooperated with you. I have answered your questions and opened my mind, my very spirit, for your inspection. Now you must tell me how to become a man again!”

  More murmuring ensued, then another member of the vampire court stood and rounded the table. He wore coarse, monklike robes that rustled when he walked, and had long, flowing red hair and fierce features.

  “In early times on Atlantis,” he said ponderously, “great medical experiments were carried out. Scientists discovered a means of immortality, through a change in the chemistry of the blood, and we, the first vampires, were created by a special system of transfusion. We thought, in the beginning, that our—appetites—could be satisfied intravenously. Soon, however, we learned that it was not so. We had to drink the blood of living beings or perish of a terrible starvation.

  “Some chose this fate, rather than prey upon man creatures, while others allowed the sunlight to burn them to ashes. Most of us, however, chose to go on, for it was eternal life we sought in the first place.”

  Aidan listened, and waited, with all his being.

  “We escaped the Catastrophe because of our unique powers and brought some of the knowledge with us. Alas, much was lost. There is an antidote for what is to you a curse, and to us a blessing. One receives a transfusion, after the blood has been treated with several chemicals and herbs. The experiments were interrupted by the great Disaster that befell our beloved continent, but some things are known. For one, the procedure is an enervating ordeal, probably as painful as being staked out to burn.”

  Aidan did not flinch. No suffering could be worse than what he already felt. He loved a human woman and dared not be close to her, and he drank blood to survive. He clung to life with an involuntary fervor, and yet he called himself monster—abomination—devil.

  “I don’t care,” he said hoarsely after a long and echoing silence. “I will risk anything—suffer any torment—to be a man again!”

  The vampire who had been speaking—none of them, besides Tobias, had deigned to give Aidan their names—uttered a sigh and turned to stare at his comrades for a long moment. Then he looked upon Aidan again.

  “Be aware, fledgling, that should this mad enterprise succeed, you will indeed be wholly human. You will live an undetermined number of years, you will grow old and sick, and you will die. With the transformation you will lose all the special powers you possess now and, gradually, all memory of those abilities as well. In time you won’t even believe in us any longer.”

  Aidan said nothing.

  “You must also remember,” the older vampire went on, seeming stunned and bewildered by Aidan’s determination, “that when you perish, as all men must perish, you will then face eternity—either oblivion or the wrath of a God we all rightly fear.”

  Aidan nodded. Hidden away, in a secret fold of his being, was the hope that with the transformation would come some sort of absolution. All sensible creatures, good and evil, trembled at even the mention of God, but was He not known for forgiveness and mercy, as well as damnation and fiery rage?

  “I’ll take my chances,” Aidan said.

  The elder sighed again, heavily. “Very well. Such a thing cannot be undertaken lightly, however, and we must debate the matter fu
rther among ourselves. We will send Tobias when we have reached a decision.”

  “Thank you,” Aidan replied with cool dignity. He wanted to scream with frustration and impatience, but of course, to give free rein to such emotions would be foolhardy. He rose again from the chair, turned, and walked out of the hall without once looking back.

  Outside, in the rich black-velvet embrace of the night, he allowed Neely’s cherished image to rise from his spirit into his mind.

  He wondered how he had come to love her, while no other woman had touched his heart in all his two centuries of living, and knew that there was no real answer. Why did any man or immortal fall in love with another? It was a timeless mystery that would probably never be solved, and in any case, he didn’t care. All that mattered to him was the shining, eternal reality that his soul was somehow linked with Neely’s, and that as long as he existed as a conscious being, in whatever form, inhabiting whatever part of the vast universe, he would love, adore, worship this one woman.

  He had forgotten that intense thoughts of Neely would either draw her to his side or carry him to hers, and thus he was surprised to find himself in the elegant bathroom adjoining one of Maeve’s guest rooms. Neely sat in the tub up to her chin in soap bubbles.

  She gave a little squawk when she saw him, and for a moment he thought she was going to slide right under the water. “What are you doing here?” she sputtered, sending suds skittering with her breath. For all her shock at seeing him, there was a light in her dark sprite’s eyes that said she was glad of his appearance.

  Aidan shrugged. “I might ask the same thing of you, love,” he answered somewhat gruffly. His adoration of her swelled inside him, like another being trying to burst through his skin. It was a sweet agony, and he wondered that he’d never dreamed, in two hundred years, that it was even possible to cherish one woman so thoroughly, so hopelessly.