Maeve put her palms to her temples and closed her eyes, trying to stop the onslaught of images and emotions, wanting to know nothing more about Dr. Calder Holbrook. All the same, she was well aware that she would see him again, whether she wished it so or not.
Exasperated, Maeve formed a picture of her grand house in London, with myriad comforts of the twentieth century, and centered all her inner forces on the desire to be there. In an instant she found herself standing in her own lush suite of rooms.
Moving rapidly, as if to shake persistent images of a doctor from her mind, thoughts of a man as sorely wounded as any of his patients, Maeve exchanged her white dress for a comfortable gown of red velvet. It was a simple creation, really, loosely fitted at the waist, with wide sleeves tapering into cuffs that buttoned with jet. After brushing her hair, she left her private apartments, walked along the wide hallway, and climbed the attic stairs to her studio.
She must feed soon. Maeve was not one for starving herself, knowing as she did that her powers, rare even among vampires, as well as her unflagging strength, came from the blood she took each night. Besides, she looked forward to the sweeping, thunderous joy that always overtook her during that intimate communion.
When she opened the door to the studio, however, and saw her loom awaiting her there, Maeve was drawn to it During those early, wildly painful nights when she’d first known that her brother had either ceased to exist or somehow been restored to all the faults and frailties of humanity, weaving had been her only solace. She had not seen Valerian during that time—for all she knew or cared, her former lover and mentor was rotting in some crypt with a stake through his heart—nor had she encountered her acquaintances, the Havermails, or any of the members of the Brotherhood. Indeed, Maeve had taken care to avoid all other vampires, fearing they would sense her unusual vulnerability and close in on her like so many frenzied sharks.
Maeve had no illusions about blood-drinkers; except for Valerian’s odd fascination with Aidan, and the deep bond that had once existed between her brother and herself, she had never known one to harbor true affection for another.
The pull of the loom was strong, stronger even than the unholy thirst.
She found the long box that contained her many spools of colored floss, then seated herself on the stool facing the primitive mechanism. Soon the shuttle was making its comfortingly familiar, rhythmic sound, and Maeve lost track of time, sublimating even the ravenous hunger she felt.
When a form suddenly towered opposite her, she cried out, startled. In the next instant, she was furious, for Maeve had not been caught off guard in such a fashion in nearly two centuries.
Valerian was examining the growing tapestry, a frown creasing his handsome brow. The scars from his graveyard encounter with Lisette, the one from which Aidan had so nobly attempted to save him, were now almost fully healed. His lush mane of chestnut hair had grown back, thicker than ever. The old mischief flashed in his blue eyes, though this was tempered by a certain quiet sorrow.
“You really ought to be more vigilant, my dear,” the seasoned vampire said, leaving off his former thoughtful inspection of the half-finished tapestry to round the loom and stand at Maeve’s side. “Suppose I had been Lisette, or some wandering warlock?”
Maeve was embarrassed, and that made her angry, for her besetting sin had always been pride. “Had you been Lisette,” she said, seething, “or ‘some wandering warlock,’ instead of your pompous and arrogant self, you probably would have had the decency to knock at the door.”
Valerian arched one eyebrow and studied her with a wry expression, though the sadness in his gaze did not lessen. He had suffered, and in spite of herself, Maeve felt a twinge of pity for him.
“I see no reason to continue this nonsensical debate,” he said. “The point is, I am here.”
“You’ll pardon me if I don’t touch my forehead to the floor three times or kill the fatted calf,” Maeve retorted with slightly more charity in her tone.
Valerian laughed, but despair rang in the sound, as well as mirth. “What a relief to find that you haven’t changed—you’re still the same saucy, peevish chit I transformed these many years ago.”
Maeve narrowed her dark blue eyes. When Valerian reminded her of her making, it was usually an indication that he wanted something. “Next you’ll be pointing out that you taught me everything I know,” she accused.
“Didn’t I?” he asked lightly.
“No!” Maeve cried. “I can’t count the number of times you nearly got me burned, beheaded, or staked through the heart in my sleep.” She paused, calming herself slightly. “Come, Valerian—no more hedging. What do you want?”
He sighed dramatically—pure affectation, since vampires do not breathe. “I’m surprised you haven’t asked about Aidan,” he said softly.
Maeve felt dizzy, as if she’d taken a blow. “I know he gave up his immortality,” she replied. “Nothing matters beyond that.”
“Oh, no?”
Maeve lifted her eyes, met Valerian’s penetrating and somewhat hypnotic gaze. “He is well?” she asked, quickly and in a low voice. At the other vampire’s slight hesitation, she whispered in a furious rush, “Damn you, Valerian, is he well?”
Valerian engaged in a slow scowl. “He and that Neely creature are married now, and they’re expecting a child.” He stopped for a moment, bristling with distaste. “They’re actually living in a motorhome,” he went on, “like a pair of latter-day gypsies!”
Maeve laughed, amused at Valerian’s snobbery, but the sound was a bitter one because she had realized the danger. Her expression turned deadly serious. “You’ve been following Aidan about, haven’t you? You idiot—you’ve probably set half the ghouls in creation on his trail!”
The accusation made Valerian draw himself up in an imperial swell of annoyance. As usual, he wore tailored evening clothes and a cape, and in one hand he held a very expensive top hat. The attire served to accentuate his natural majesty of countenance.
“I veiled myself,” Valerian said scathingly, glowering down his nose at a thoroughly undaunted Maeve. “No other vampire, not you or even Lisette herself, would have sensed my presence.” He seemed to deflate a little then, though the change was nearly imperceptible, and Maeve could not be certain whether she’d seen or just imagined it. He examined his perfectly manicured and buffed fingernails. “The truth is, I was bored to distraction within a week,” he finally allowed in a moderate tone of voice. “I’d forgotten what mundane lives humans lead.”
Maeve was frowning and, being unusually adept at such things, even for a vampire, Valerian read her thoughts. He smiled gently and reached out to raise her chin with an index finger.
“There, now,” he said. “Don’t be worrying about your foolish brother, my sweet. Only Lisette has reason to quarrel with our Aidan, and I’ve stolen all memory of him from her mind.”
“However did you manage?” Maeve asked, surprised. “Don’t tell me you actually approached her again, after she staked you out in that graveyard to be destroyed by the sun!”
“It was easy,” Valerian scoffed. “When her plan backfired and she herself was nearly caught by the light of day, she was badly disfigured. Being a vain creature, Lisette has secreted herself away. Most nights she does not even rise to feed.”
Maeve left the stool and went to the tall leaded windows that looked out over London. “Lisette is dormant?” she asked casually, knowing all the while that she wasn’t deceiving Valerian; that was virtually impossible.
“For the most part,” Valerian replied, moving silently and swiftly to her side and pretending an interest in the lights of the city.
“So that’s why you’ve come,” Maeve said. “You hope to destroy her, and you want my help.”
Valerian didn’t reply immediately. When he did speak some moments later, his voice was oddly hoarse and grim with determination. “Lisette is a scourge on mortals and immortals alike,” he said. “When she rallies—and believe me, Maeve, she
will find her old strength—she will be more dangerous, more unreasoningly greedy, than ever before. I have seen her return from one of her monumental sulks innumerable times. She goes on rampages, feeding on innocents, changing most of her victims into vampires, and killing those who are too weak to make the transition. It must not be permitted to happen again.”
“Why do you want me to help? There are others who are older and more powerful.”
“You know very well why I want you,” Valerian replied tersely. “Lisette is the undisputed queen of all vampires, and you, my difficult darling, are her logical successor.”
22
Maeve was particularly hungry and rather weak, having missed her feeding that night, and she was impatient with Valerian and his penchant for high drama. She turned to look up at him, there by the towering windows in the studio of her London house, and folded her arms. “Suppose I tell you I have no desire to be the vampire queen? What if I simply want to go on living strictly for myself, the way I always have?”
Valerian’s smile was almost—but not quite—a smirk. Even he would not have dared that, for he knew better than anyone that she was his equal, in power and in skill. “I would not believe a word of it—there is something of your heroic brother in you. Besides, you have no choice in the matter, darling. It seems to be fated.”
“Fated,” Maeve scoffed quietly, but she felt troubled on some deep level of her being. “Nothing is fated for vampires—we are not a natural creation, remember. We have no place in the grand scheme of things.”
“Alas,” Valerian said, with another of his theatrical sighs, “you are right, my darling, but you are wrong, as well. Some thousand years after the first vampires came into being on Atlantis, other supernatural creatures waged war against our kind. Blood-drinkers were forced into hiding, and still we were nearly destroyed. Then, in meditation, one of the elders saw a vision—a battle between Lisette and a new queen, blessed—if that’s the proper word—with powers more formidable than any vampire has ever possessed.”
“What does that have to do with me?” Maeve snapped, fearing sorely that greatness would be thrust upon her, whether she desired it or not. She liked her existence just the way it was, though she would have preferred to be spared the grief Aidan had caused her, of course. “There are other strong female vampires, you know. Your friend Pamela, for instance. And then there is Dimity—”
“Do not waste my time,” Valerian snapped, interrupting Maeve with an imperious wave of one hand. “Pamela loves her own pleasure too much, and it is rumored that Dimity consorts with angels. There is no one but you, Maeve. You must help me destroy Lisette before she regains her former strength and wreaks havoc on the natural and supernatural worlds alike.”
Maeve was honestly baffled. “Why do you care?” she asked. “Pardon my saying so, Valerian, but you aren’t known for your generosity and self-sacrifice—especially on behalf of human beings.”
Valerian turned his head for a moment, but Maeve saw nearly fathomless grief in his magnificent profile all the same. Saints in heaven, she thought, he misses Aidan even more than I do.
“I’ve changed,” he said finally. He looked at her again then, with a mischievous, slanted, and slightly haunted grin. “Somewhat.”
Maeve felt a small rush of affection for her old friend and erstwhile adversary but offered no response to his statement. Instead, after a few poignant moments had passed, she sighed and said, “I must feed—the sun will be up soon.”
“You’ll think about what I’ve said?” Valerian asked.
Maeve gave a reluctant nod and watched with grudging admiration as the other vampire drew back, swirled his expensive cape, and vanished into a shifting vapor. She’d never known another nightwalker with Valerian’s flair for showmanship.
Maeve’s temptation to return to the American Civil War, and thus to Dr. Calder Holbrook, was monumental. As an exercise in self-discipline, and because she would be damned and double-damned before stooping to consort with a mortal the way Aidan had, Maeve turned her thoughts in another direction.
She blinked and found herself in her suite, on the floor below. The housekeeper, Mrs. Fullywub, a chronic insomniac, was there, neatly folding the jumble of silky lingerie in one of the bureau drawers.
The pleasant woman started at Maeve’s appearance. “Dear me,” she fussed, “I wish you wouldn’t do that. I don’t believe I’ll ever get used to it.”
Maeve smiled, went into her walk-in closet, which had been a dressing room in earlier times, and selected a pair of tight blue jeans, a black leather jacket with studs, and a tank top that resembled a man’s undershirt. Scuffed boots completed the ensemble.
Mrs. Fullywub shook her gray head. “Don’t tell me you’re going about with one of those American motorcycle gangs now,” she said. “They’re mostly bad company, those people.”
Maeve changed hastily. “For my purposes,” she answered, “bad company suits best.”
“I suppose you’re right.” The housekeeper sighed with motherly regret. “Still, I hope you’ll pay close attention to whatever is going on around you. You remember what happened to your brother, when he mistook a warlock for one of us poor, hapless mortals.”
Maeve sprayed mousse on her hair and combed it through with splayed fingers, giving the formerly smooth tresses a wild, spiky look. She ignored the mirror above the dressing table, since it would not reflect her image anyway. “I’m nothing like Aidan,” she said, somewhat testily. “And you needn’t worry about me.”
“You’re more like him than you think,” Mrs. Fullywub insisted, “and not a moment goes by that I don’t fret for your safety. You have powerful enemies, don’t forget.” Maeve raised her hands over her head, palms touching, fingers interlocked. “Good night,” she said, and disappeared.
Moments later Maeve reassembled in a place Valerian had introduced her to long before, a bar called the Last Ditch. The term suited the filthy dive; “hell” would have been a more apt name, but that one was taken.
Smoke filled the crowded bar, tinting the air a greasy blue, and the singular smells of unwashed humanity were more pungent than ever. Maeve twitched her nose, revolted, engaging in a brief and wholly idle wish that vampire senses were not quite so keen.
She noted a warlock near the jukebox and nodded to let him know she was aware of his presence. He returned the courtesy and added a smile and a jaunty salute.
Go to hell, Maeve told him. It was easier, with all the noise of the bar, to speak mentally.
The warlock’s smile enlarged a little. If I get there before you, he replied, I’ll save you a seat.
Maeve shuddered slightly in spite of herself. Long ago, in the eighteenth-century nunnery where she’d spent most of her childhood, the good sisters had taught her to fear the devil’s hearth to the very center of her being. It was a fixation that she, like Valerian, who had been human in medieval times, had never quite been able to shake.
She said nothing more to the warlock, but instead scanned the crowd for a deserving victim.
She passed over the ones who were merely misguided, and those who suffered from some hidden wound of the mind or spirit, looking for someone who relished evil and practiced it willingly.
She was in luck, for there was a noted politician present, though he’d taken care to keep a low profile. He sat at a corner table, pawing a vacuous young girl who wore too much makeup and too few clothes.
Maeve made a low, purring sound in her throat and sashayed toward the senator’s table, slim, rounded hips swaying, thumbs hooked saucily in the pockets of her leather jacket. “Dance?” she said.
The girl stuck out her lower lip, and tears brimmed in her eyes as the politician clambered to his feet, upsetting his chair in his eagerness to accept Maeve’s invitation. Seconds later he was in her arms, and they were moving slowly to the music, swirls of smoke eddying around them, drifting even closer to the deep shadows next to the bandstand.
The senator never stood a chance.
“What are you doing here?” Maeve countered, pulling off her jacket and tossing it aside. “Don’t you have a satin-lined coffin waiting for you someplace?”
Tobias shook his head. He looked young, with his slender frame and eternally boyish features, but in fact he was a founding member of the Brotherhood of the Vampyre. He had been among the first blood-drinkers created, long ago on the lost continent, during a series of medical experiments.
“Such a bold creature,” he said. “You remind me of your brother, Maeve—you seem to have no sense of what is appropriate, and that fact may well be your undoing.”
Maeve tossed her hair, wishing she could brush out the sticky mousse, but there was no time. Soon the consuming need to sleep would drag her down into the darkest depths of her own mind. “It’s beginning to get on my nerves,” she confided, sitting down on the row of crates to kick off her motorcycle boots, “the way everybody keeps comparing me to Aidan.”
Tobias, apparently in no hurry to return to his own lair, wherever it was, leaned against the dank brick walls and folded his arms. He was clad in a plain tunic, colorless leggings, and soft leather shoes. “It’s natural, I think—you are his twin, after all.”
Maeve tried to be polite to her uninvited guest, though she could not quite bring herself to smile. She’d just dumped a state senator in a crumpled heap behind the Last Ditch, seriously anemic but alive, and his blood had left her feeling a little ill.
“I was his twin,” she corrected her elder. After that she paused and then made an effort to be polite. “Please forgive my tart manner, Tobias—it must be the costume.”
Tobias took in her tough-chick getup with quiet amusement. “Indeed,” he agreed. His expression turned serious in the next instant, however, and he went on. “Word has reached the Brotherhood that Valerian has been attempting to incite some kind of rebellion against Lisette. Is this true?”
The Black Rose Chronicles Page 33