The Black Rose Chronicles

by Linda Lael Miller

  Neely suppressed a chill. She was well aware that Maeve Tremayne could turn vicious at any moment, like a once-wild wolf thought to be a pet, and tear her apart. “Is there anything you’d like me to say to Aidan if I see him before you do?”

  The beautiful creature stiffened, her face glowing pale as alabaster inside the graceful hood of her cloak.

  A heartbeat too late, Neely realized her mistake.

  Maeve leaned close, so close that Neely squirmed, and whispered, “Aidan and I took root in the same womb. We grew together, each of our hearts beating in perfect unison with that of the other. No one will ever, ever displace me in his affections.”

  “I don’t want to be his sister,” Neely pointed out, wincing inwardly at her own bravado, especially since it came on the heels of a blunder. Some instinct told her, however, that since she was in for a penny, she might as well be in for a pound. Maeve wasn’t the sort to respect any person less forceful than herself.

  “No? And what would you be to him, if you are not willing to become a vampire?”

  Neely was defiant, angry that the most basic, the most cherished, of her emotions should be questioned. “I love Aidan. He is a part of me, and I am a part of him. And if he succeeds in making the change, I will be his wife—more than that, his mate, for all of eternity if I have anything to say about it—and I will bear his children.”

  Maeve was silent for an uncomfortably long time. ‘Tell Aidan not to forget the white roses,” she said in a very sad tone, and then she vanished again.

  Neely gave up trying to watch the second feature, tossed her popcorn into a trash bin in the lobby, and walked out into the snowy street. Even at that late hour the traffic was still tangled and angry. Accompanied by the sound of honking horns and insults shouted between cars, she hurried back to the hotel.

  It was something of a disappointment to find that Aidan had not returned, a conclusion Neely didn’t fully accept until she’d looked under the bed as well as behind the shower curtain and inside the closet.

  Unable to sleep, too proud to keep a vigil, Neely opened her romance novel and began to read. She visualized the hero as Aidan and the heroine as herself, and for a brief, tenuous time the story kept her distracted from her own problems.

  The return of Aidan’s vision was gradual—the patrons of the Last Ditch Tavern were mere shadows, shifting and swaying—but his other senses compensated quite nicely. He circulated, catching a scent here, picking up a snatch of conversation there.

  That night, feeding, and feeding well, was a matter of survival.

  Finally he selected his prey, a young thug named Tommy Cook, who made his living snatching purses and holding up the occasional convenience store. Tommy’s mind was a greasy, unpleasant place, but Aidan planted an idea there, and it soon bore fruit.

  Cook wandered into the gloomy hallway leading to the rest rooms, stopped in front of the cigarette machine, and fumbled in the pockets of his jeans for change.

  Aidan closed in, rendered Tommy unconscious with a strategic tap at his nape, and caught him before he slumped to the floor. Though several people passed while Aidan was taking the pint or so of nourishment he needed, no one looked twice, let alone interfered.

  Tommy’s blood was powerful stuff, like potent wine. Although Aidan hated it, just as he always had, he felt a sweet, dizzying ecstasy, unlike anything he’d experienced before. A moment after he’d hauled Tommy to a chair at a corner table and left him there to sleep it off, however, it was as though someone had just injected him with a syringe full of raw sunlight. He was on fire, but this time his insides burned, not his flesh.

  Aidan’s knees buckled; he fought to remain upright.

  Tommy, stuporous before, was now smiling up at him, his dark, impudent eyes flashing with triumph. Aidan’s vision sharpened, dulled, and sharpened again, in sickeningly rapid sequence, and he gripped the table edge to keep from falling.

  “What is it, Vampire?” Tommy drawled. “Are you ill?”

  Warlock, Aidan thought. Too late, he remembered Valerian’s injunction to beware of other supernatural creatures when he ventured into such cesspools of consciousness as the Last Ditch Tavern.

  Tommy laughed. “Yes,” he said.

  The pain rose up around Aidan now, as well as within him, like a smothering vapor. He turned, staggered, fell.

  The warlock’s taunting laughter echoing in his brain, Aidan struggled back to his feet. Mostly by groping, for the vivid world of the night was branded into his injured eyes one moment, hopelessly black the next, he found a side door and thrust himself over the threshold.

  He gasped, then fell unconscious into a new, powdery snow.

  “Look,” said Canaan Havermail, giggling as she pointed a small, chubby finger. “He’s a snow angel.”

  “Do hush!” Benecia hissed as she knelt beside Aidan Tremayne’s inert frame and turned him over onto his back. It always made her impatient when Canaan behaved childishly, for she had lived quite four centuries as a vampire, and that was enough to mature anyone. She brushed the soft snow from his scarred but still handsome face and felt a broken yearning in her heart, long since withered and atrophied though it was. She was fond of Aidan, though she hadn’t admitted the fact to anyone else, but she could never have him for a lover. In his eyes she was not an adult female with powers equal to and even exceeding his own. Instead he saw her as a monstrous mockery of a child. “We’ve got to take him to Mother or Aunt Maeve. I believe he’s been poisoned.”

  Canaan sighed, irritated to have the night’s adventures interrupted by duty, especially when it was still early. “Oh, bother. What do you suppose it was that got him—a warlock?”

  “Probably,” Benecia said, speaking tenderly as she lifted Aidan’s upper body into her plump, dimpled little arms. “Are you coming with me, or must I do this alone?” Canaan tapped one delicately shod foot, her head tilted to one side. “If I help you, might we have a tea party?”

  “Yes,” Benecia agreed wearily.

  “With our dolls?”

  “With our dolls!” the elder sister snapped. In the next instant she turned herself and Aidan into a wafting mist.

  The trio arrived at Havermail Castle seconds later, only to find that both Aubrey and Roxanne were still out hunting.

  Canaan wanted to dump Aidan in the dungeon and indulge in the promised tea party, but Benecia wasn’t about to let him out of her sight. Thus it happened that the three of them gathered around a low, square monument to a long-dead contemporary, in the oldest part of the castle’s cemetery. Aidan slumped in his chair, still unconscious, while Canaan arranged her dolls in little chairs around the improvised table. Her china tea set, complete with miniature silver spoons, was carefully arranged.

  “Have some tea, Benecia dear,” Canaan urged, her voice chiming with delicate malice. “Don’t you think your friend would like a cup?”

  Benecia rolled her eyes. “Does he look thirsty to you?” Canaan pretended to pour, then handed her sister a fragile cup filled with nothing. “You needn’t be so tiresome,” she scolded. She might have had the body of a little girl.

  but there was something of the fussbudget spinster in her as well. “It’s not as if I’m asking you to do anything terrible.”

  The elder sister suppressed a sigh and pretended to sip from the cup. Their mother, Roxanne, liked to play the same silly game with plates and glasses and silverware, as if they were all still human and required the sustenance of food and drink.

  Aidan moaned and moved his head slightly.

  “There, see!” Canaan cried. “He does want tea!”

  Benecia set her cup and saucer down with a clink and rushed to his side. “Good heavens, Canaan, get a hobby. He doesn’t want tea, you ninny—he’s dying!”

  “Poppycock,” said Canaan in a crisp tone. “Vampires don’t die.”

  Before Benecia could respond to the contrary, they were surrounded by dark, shifting forms. She and Canaan huddled close together, trembling slightly, for t
hey did not recognize these creatures.

  “Look,” Canaan whispered. “We have guests for our party.”

  “Who are you?” Benecia demanded of the robed figures, pretending to possess courage that had long since deserted her. “What do you want?”

  A fierce-looking vampire stepped forward, his hair and beard as red as fire. He resembled a Viking, with his hard features and strong build.

  He did not trouble to answer Benecia’s questions but instead bent and draped Aidan’s lifeless arm over his massive shoulders, then lifted him to his feet.

  “Wait!” Benecia cried, rushing forward, grabbing at the sleeve of the vampire’s tunic. “Where are you taking him?”

  Still, the Viking offered no reply. Supporting Aidan against his side, he disappeared into the darkness, and the others filed after him.

  Canaan gripped Benecia’s arm when she would have followed. “Let them go,” she said quietly. “We’ll find another plaything.”

  Benecia was trembling. “I wanted him.”

  “Don’t fuss,” said Canaan, shaking a finger in her sister’s face. “He’s gone, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s good riddance.” Purposefully she refilled Benecia’s cup with emptiness, and there was nothing to do but drink of it.

  Lisette crouched in a corner of her lair, deep in the bowels of the villa on the coast of Spain, whimpering. Her hands and arms were piteously scarred, and her face misshapen, disfigured. Her once beautiful hair now hung in hanks and wisps, and her scalp was black and crumbling.

  She tossed her head from side to side, wailing in her grief. She had been such a fool to dally with Aidan those extra minutes, caught up in the old fascination, forgetting her own vulnerability to the glaring sun. Now he’d escaped her vengeance, as had that miserable specimen, Valerian, and she found the knowledge virtually unbearable.

  Lisette collapsed onto her side, too aggrieved to stand, and curled herself into a tight little ball. Inside she was shrieking, but all that came from her parched throat now were soft, squeaking mewls.

  Her body was an unbearable place to be, and she left it to wander in happier places, knowing all the while that she would return, stronger and more beautiful than ever. And when she did, both Valerian and Aidan would know the depth and breadth of her wrath.

  Neely awakened with a start, sending her book tumbling to the floor. “Aidan?” she whispered, even though she knew he wasn’t with her in the hotel room. In fact, she had a feeling that he was in terrible trouble.

  She rushed to the window and pushed aside the curtain. Dawn was still several hours away, but the snow had stopped, and there were cabs and buses moving along the streets.

  Neely gathered up her belongings, put on her coat, and took the elevator to the lobby, where she settled her bill in cash. Flagging down a cab took longer than she would have liked, and she was numb with cold by the time one stopped for her. She sat shivering in the back seat, her teeth chattering as she gave the driver Maeve’s address.

  The going was slow, given the state of the roads, but roughly forty-five minutes later, Neely found herself standing outside the high iron gates in front of the mansion. The cab scooted away, and she pressed anxiously at the button that would alert Mrs. F. to her presence.

  A considerable interval went by before the housekeeper came bustling out, wearing galoshes, her nightdress, and a huge woolen overcoat. “You might have telephoned ahead,” she scolded, fumbling with the lock and key on the other side. “At least that way you wouldn’t have had to stand out here like a lost soul!”

  “I’m sorry for waking you,” Neely said, hugging herself, feeling very much a lost soul. Mrs. F opened the gate, and she slipped through. “I came on an impulse, and I didn’t think to call first. Is Miss Tremayne around?”

  “Well, now, that she is, miss,” said Mrs. F., hustling Neely up the walk and through the gaping front door. In the entry hall she set about brushing the snow from Neely’s coat. “It happens that she’s up in the studio, on the third floor, hard at her weaving. Why, she’s working that loom as if all that mattered in this universe hung in the balance.”

  17

  Although Valerian’s body was all but ruined, some essential part of him crouched inside the husk, a small spark of consciousness able to recognize itself and, however laboriously, to reason.

  Fact by fact, Valerian pieced together what had happened to him. It had all begun with his love for Aidan, an emotion born long before, on that night when they’d met for the first time, in an eighteenth-century inn. Aidan had been new to blood-drinking then, bitter and afraid, wanting only to say farewell to his sister before seeking a way to destroy himself—actually believing it would be so easy to find peace and oblivion.

  Soon after, Valerian had met the beautiful Maeve, still warmly human then, and been tempted to his limits. Maeve, after all, had been a female version of Aidan, and for that Valerian had adored her. When she learned what had happened to her beloved twin—convincing her of the truth had been no small task—Maeve had demanded a transformation of her own.

  She and Aidan had argued violently, because Aidan despised what he was from the first and could not fathom why his sister would willingly choose such a fate. Maeve had wanted to be close to her brother for eternity, but there were other reasons for her aspirations as well.

  Valerian had recognized in her a fierce hunger for immortality, for the singular powers Aidan so reluctantly demonstrated, and from the very first he had taken note of her wild and adventurous nature. She was greedy for life, like Valerian himself, wanting to test every sense, explore every emotion.

  After the shouting match, which took place in the moonlit orchard of the convent where Maeve had been raised since the age of seven, Aidan had vanished in a rage. Some things never changed; Aidan was forever acting on impulse and then living to regret whatever he’d done.

  Maeve had turned to Valerian and begged him to make her into an immortal, and heaven forgive him, he’d done it. He’d taken her blood and then restored it to her, changed.

  It still bruised him to remember how Aidan had hated him for that.

  For a time Valerian and Maeve had traveled together. He’d taught her to hunt, to sense the presence of other vampires or such enemies as angels and warlocks, and to hide herself from the sun. They had been lovers, as well, in that unique mental way of nightwalkers that was so much more profound than the frantic, messy couplings of humans.

  Eventually, however, Maeve had caught Valerian playing similar games with a fledgling vampire named Pamela. After that, they had not been truly intimate again, though they had finally established a bristly truce. For the most part, Maeve and Valerian had avoided each other, but their common weakness for Aidan often caused their paths to cross.

  The glow of awareness inside Valerian’s devastated hulk began to gather strength, though the process was torturous and awkward, rather like trying to gather scattered buttons with bandages swelling one’s fingers.

  His fundamental fascination with Aidan Tremayne had never truly left him. Perhaps, he reflected, Maeve had known that all the while, known the real reason for her appeal to Valerian.

  Of course, Valerian had not been the only one obsessed with Tremayne; Lisette, Aidan’s creator, had regarded the lad as her own plaything. Had Aidan’s angry spuming not wounded the vampire queen to the point that she’d sought dormancy, open warfare between Lisette and Valerian would probably have erupted immediately.

  He’d been such a self-pitying fool, he thought now, to curl up in a hole like a wounded rat and let his strength seep away into the rubble around and beneath him. If it hadn’t been for that very embarrassing mistake, he would still be a powerful vampire, and not this little flash of sensibility trapped inside a drying corpse.

  It came to him then that perhaps, just perhaps, he wasn’t imprisoned after all. Suppose he could transmit himself to other places and times, as he’d done so often in dreams?

  Valerian gathered his being together into a small, w
hirling nebula of light and remembered Aidan fiercely. If any bond still linked them, he wanted to travel along it, hand over hand, until he found his friend.

  His friend.

  That was all that would ever be between him and Aidan, and Valerian found surprising peace in accepting the bittersweet truth. In the next instant he felt himself spinning through space, through dark, mindless oblivion, and then crashing against something hard.

  That something was the stone wall of a crypt or cellar.

  For a few moments Valerian was disoriented. He collected and calmed himself. There was a creature huddled before him, and he recognized it, though just barely.

  Lisette raised her head, aware of Valerian even though his presence was purely mental. She was a hag, charred and almost hairless, incomprehensibly ugly, and she shrieked and raised her hands, as if to hide herself from his view.

  You’ve failed, Valerian told her. Plainly, I am not destroyed.

  If you’ve come for vengeance, then take it! Lisette responded in torment. I have no spirit for battle.

  I will have my revenge, Lisette—you may be assured of that. For now, however, I have more important things to attend to.

  With her thoughts, not her melted, misshapen hands, Lisette clutched at Valerian. Does he live? Does Aidan live? Tell me!

  I don’t know, Valerian answered, but hear this, Queen of the Vampires: If you’ve harmed him—and I swear this by all that is unholy—your suffering will be without end.

  Lisette snarled and batted at the ball of light that was Valerian with one blackened claw. It was the movement of an animal, cornered and vicious. You dare to threaten me? You are an even greater fool than Aidan!

  Valerian offered no reply; he was impatient to move on, to find the vampire he had originally sought. It didn’t trouble him that he’d willed himself to Aidan’s side and ended up facing Lisette instead. That was probably just some sort of psychic short circuit.