Dathan muttered an exclamation and tensed beside Maeve, and she knew that if he’d had a sword, he would have drawn it.
“Great Zeus,” he rasped, “there are hundreds of them!”
Maeve nodded, a half-smile forming on her lips at the prospect of challenge. “It would be my guess,” she said, “that we have found more than this army of blathering creatures.”
“What?” Dathan demanded, bracing himself as the creatures scrambled out of the pit and began lumbering toward them.
“Lisette is here,” Maeve said calmly.
In the next instant a geyser of blue-gold light exploded in the center of the pit full of statues, and as the glow solidified into a female shape, looming some twenty feet off the ground, even the mindless army stopped and stared.
Maeve applauded. “Very impressive,” she called as the shape became Lisette, dramatic and horrible in a gauzy gown that caught the night wind.
“Are you insane?” Dathan hissed, as the bluish light of Lisette’s countenance played over both their faces.
“Perhaps,” Maeve said, taking a step forward to stand at the precipice of the pit. “If you can summon your warlocks, you’d better do it now. Otherwise, you and I are doomed to a terrible end that might well have a beginning but no finish.”
Dathan shuddered, the way a mortal would have, and whispered back, “Don’t be naive. I don’t have to send for my armies—I brought them with me.”
Maeve did not look over her shoulder; indeed, she did not shift her gaze from Lisette’s shimmering form. Still, she could feel the warlocks now, gathering in the darkness behind her and Dathan.
Their presence, while reassuring, was by no means a reprieve from Lisette’s vengeance, however. She was possessed of spectacular powers—that much was obvious—and her army of brainless marvels would fight tirelessly at her command, not out of any such unvampirelike trait as loyalty, of course, but because she controlled them so completely.
“You are bold, Maeve Tremayne,” Lisette said in an earsplitting and yet strangely sweet voice, looming there in the darkness like the angel of death.
Oddly, Maeve thought of a movie she had seen once, during one of her reluctant visits to the twentieth century—a tale containing an alleged wizard, who had projected a terrifying image to frighten visitors away. All the time he’d been hiding behind a curtain, pulling levers and twisting dials, a nervous, fretful little man with no magical powers at all.
“Yes,” Maeve agreed. “Some would even say brazen. Show me your true self, Vampire. I am not misled by this theatrical trick of yours, though I must say it’s memorable.”
The creature that Lisette wanted them to believe was herself undulated with furious, beautiful light, and a continuous shriek of rage filled the night, loud enough, piercing enough, to shatter the very stars themselves.
Suddenly the banshee-like cry shaped itself into words. “Kill them!” Lisette screamed, and her troops, mesmerized only a moment before, began their stumbling, awkward advance again.
Battle erupted all around Maeve and Dathan, but they were in the eye of the storm, at least temporarily, for the warlocks came out of the night to meet the vampires and engage them in bitter combat.
Unearthly shrieks rent the air as warlocks were cut down by the vampires’ superior strength and, conversely, blood-drinkers were infused with the poisonous blood of their enemies.
Maeve concentrated on Lisette, whose image still hovered above them, shining and huge, and her thoughts transported her to a niche in a sheer cliff overlooking the battleground.
There Maeve found the vampire queen, no bigger or more daunting than she was herself. Lisette looked disconcerted for a moment, but then, with a scream of madness and outrage, she flung herself at Maeve.
They fought, the two vampires, snarling like panthers battling over a kill on some African steppe, tearing at each other. Maeve felt herself weakening, felt the vampire sleep threatening her, and redoubled her efforts, knowing that if she did not win this battle she would be left in the open to face the ravages of the morning sun.
Just when Maeve believed she could not continue, that the disastrous sleep would swallow her, however, Lisette turned to vapor and vanished.
Maeve collapsed against a wall of the shallow cave. She was alone, and gravely weakened, and if she did not feed and rest in a dark, safe place, she would be lost. She tried to transport herself back to her lair in England, but the effort failed. She clutched her middle and slid helplessly down the side of the cave to the ground.
She heard the battle going on and on outside. Evidently, when Lisette had fled—if indeed that had been her intent—she had not chosen to take her horrid soldiers with her.
Maeve’s head lolled, and she thought of Calder, and then of Aidan and Valerian. This was the ironic end of it all, then, she reflected, with a strangled sound that might have been either a laugh or a sob. She was wounded, the dawn was inching slowly, inexorably, toward her, and her only hope of rescue was a band of warlocks—warlocks, who six months ago, even six days ago, had been her implacable enemies.
She had almost lost consciousness by the time the din ceased, and she could feel the first light of dawn creeping into the cave, finding her with its acid fingers, tearing at her injured flesh.
Then—surely it was only a dream—strong arms lifted her, and she felt a rushing sensation, and the burning stopped.
Maeve opened her eyes slowly, fearing to find that Lisette had come back for her, and brought her as a captive to some place of temporary safety. She found, instead, that she was inside an old crypt—there was no telling what country she was in—and Dathan was with her.
He smiled, though his blue eyes were as cold as ever, and held a golden goblet to her lips. “Drink,” he said.
Maeve knew the chalice contained blood, the substance she most needed and that, at the same time, most repulsed her. She hesitated, quite sensibly, for this supposed gesture of mercy might well be a ruse. Dathan might be offering her the poison that flowed through his own veins, or those of one of his multitude of followers.
“Take it,” he ordered gently, reading her mind. “It’s low-grade stuff—we stole it from a refrigerator in a nearby hospital—but there’s no warlock taint to fret about.”
Maeve’s choices were limited, since she could not regain her strength, or indeed even survive, without ingesting blood. She decided to take the risk and let the stuff flow in through her fangs, completely bypassing her tongue.
When the chalice was empty, she sank back onto silken pillows and regarded Dathan with questioning eyes. Her wounds had already begun to mend, closed by the cool, healing darkness and her own mystical powers, but she was frightfully weak.
“You saved me,” she said with emotion. “Why?”
Dathan narrowed his eyes at her and sighed again. He would have made an excellent martyr, it seemed to Maeve.
“Not out of anything so misguided as mercy,” he finally replied with a shrug. “We cannot achieve our objectives without you.”
Maeve tried to rise, but Dathan pushed her back down again.
“Wait,” he said. “You must have more rest and more blood. You will be no use to us without your strength and your powers.”
“None of that will matter,” Maeve argued, “if our time runs out and Nemesis is unleashed with his sword of vengeance.”
Dathan did not look quite so desperate or despairing as he had in times past. He shoved a hand through his thick, maple-brown hair. “We can conclude by the events of last night, I think, that Lisette’s new lair is somewhere in the region of that excavation.”
Maeve nodded in full, if reluctant, agreement. “How did your warlocks fare against those monsters of hers?”
“Like your encounter with the queen,” Dathan answered, “it ended in something of a draw. We fought until dawn was imminent, and then the opposing forces fled, of course, to escape the light. That was when I found you on the floor of that cave—until that moment I thought you’d
deserted us.”
Had Maeve been mortal, she would have flushed with annoyance and outrage. “Do you believe me to be such a coward? Think again, Warlock—I have as much courage as ten witches!”
Dathan laughed and handed her the chalice again; it had been refilled and brought back by a cloaked creature Maeve had glimpsed out of the corner of her eye. “And as much pride, I vow,” he said. “Drink up, Mistress Tremayne. I fear we have many frightful adventures still ahead of us.”
33
Somehow Calder passed the night without awakening William and throttling him, and with the morning came a drizzling rain and a steady stream of visitors. Like crows in their black garb, the mourners passed by the casket single file, peering inside to see how death suited Bernard Holbrook.
All morning and all afternoon they came, the grieving, the curious, the indifferent, the relieved, and the secretly pleased. They ate hungrily of the food Prudence and her small staff had prepared, and speculated among themselves about Calder and William and the bruised state of their faces.
Calder hated every moment of that interminable day and dreaded the one to follow, for that would bring the funeral, the eulogies, the grim and final business of burial. To him, the world looked dark, and it was difficult to believe that the sun would ever shine again.
After the last of the sorrowful callers had left, Calder and William accidentally found themselves alone in the large dining room. William took a piece of smoked turkey from a platter and bit into it, regarding Calder through swollen eyes.
“We’ll have the reading of the will tomorrow, after the ceremonies,” the elder brother announced, reaching for another piece of meat.
Calder shrugged. “I don’t give a damn about that,” he said.
“Good,” William replied. “Papa was closeted away for hours one day, just last month, with his lawyers. I recall that he was especially exasperated with you at that time, so don’t be surprised if you find yourself in the street, with nothing to live on but that pitiful stipend the army pays you.”
Although Calder’s stomach rebelled at the very sight of food, he knew only too well that he would not be able to think clearly or function well in an emergency if he did not eat. He went to the long table, against his will, and filled a plate, taking slices of turkey and ham, some potato salad, and a serving of Prudence’s famous fruit compote. Then, by a deft motion of one foot, learned in boyhood, he drew back a chair.
He paused for a few moments, regarding the food he’d taken and envying Maeve because she didn’t have to trouble herself with the stuff at all. As he took up his fork, Calder raised his eyes to William’s face.
“Take it all,” he said, only a little surprised to realize that he meant it. “Take the money, take this goddamned mausoleum of a house, take the illustrious Holbrook name and the power that goes with it.”
William blanched, his fingers tightening over the back of a chair. Plainly he hadn’t been expecting Calder’s acquiescence, but another fight instead. “You can’t be serious,” he said.
Calder ate a few bites of ham, chewing each one thoroughly, before answering. “You murdered my mother,” he said at last. “And that old man lying in there with his eyelids stitched together covered up for you. As far as I’m concerned, if I never see you or this place again, it will be too soon.”
Sweat beaded on William’s upper lip. “I killed Marie? Where did you get such an idea?” he demanded hoarsely, pulling back a chair of his own and collapsing into it. “And why is it that you can’t speak of our father with some semblance of respect, even now?”
“I loved him,” Calder conceded. “But respect is another thing. As for my mother’s death, well, you might say I have a way of looking into the past.”
William’s hand trembled visibly as he reached for a carafe of Madeira and then a wineglass. “I didn’t lay a hand on her,” he said.
“You’re a liar,” Calder replied, still eating. He knew his calm manner was unnerving his brother, and he was pleased by the fact. “She was going to leave this house, and our esteemed father, and you intercepted her. There was an argument, and you gripped her by the shoulders. She struggled, and you wouldn’t release her—until you thrust her away from you in a moment of fury. That was when she tumbled backward over the railing and fell twenty feet to the floor of the foyer.”
William had managed to pour wine, but his subsequent attempts to raise the glass to his white lips failed because he was shaking. “Pure fantasy,” he said.
Calder stared at him for a long, purposely disconcerting interval. “It happened just that way,” he insisted quietly, “and we both know it. Kindly don’t insult me with your denials.”
After casting a yearning look at his wine, William wiped one forearm across his mouth. “If you really believe this—this delusion, then why haven’t you tried to avenge Marie’s death?”
Calder smiled grimly. “There has hardly been time for that,” he said indulgently. “Still, we’re young, you and I,” he added with a shrug. “There’s no rush.”
At last William made a successful grab for his glass and raised it tremulously to his lips. After a few audible gulps, his color began to return, and he was steadier. “Is that a threat?”
Again, Calder shrugged, reaching for a platter and helping himself to some of Prudence’s cold rice salad. “It might be. Then again, it might not. To be quite frank, I haven’t decided how I’ll deal with you.” He chewed thoughtfully for a few moments, swallowed, and then gestured at William with an offhanded motion of his fork. “Rest assured, though, that I will deal with you.” William swallowed the rest of his wine and reached for the carafe while he could. “You don’t scare me,” he said, though his manner and the pallor of his complexion gave the lie to his words.
Calder smiled again and continued to eat.
That night he waited for Maeve to come to him, prayed that she would, and finally she appeared. She was as ethereal as a spirit, and throughout the magical encounter that awaited him, he feared he was only dreaming.
Without a word she slipped into bed beside him, encircling him in her soft, strong arms. She kissed the underside of his jaw and sent shivers of forlorn desire rushing through his system.
“Maeve,” he whispered.
She touched his lips with an index finger to silence him, then trailed kisses down over his chest and his belly. His manhood surged upright in response, and he drew in a harsh breath when she touched the tip with her tongue.
Calder groaned and arched his back, completely in her power. He whispered a plea, and she granted his wish, consuming him, and he writhed in a fever of passion and need. At the last possible moment, she moved astride him, and took him deep inside her, and rode him while his body buckled beneath hers in the throes of triumph. She muffled his ragged shout of release by laying one cool hand over his mouth.
“I love you,” he told her when their encounter was over, and she lay beside him, close and slender and solid. “Please, Maeve—don’t leave me. Don’t work your sorcery and make us forget each other—I can’t bear the prospect of that.”
She leaned over him and kissed his mouth, but lightly, brushing his lips with her own. Still she did not speak, but in truth there was no need of it. Everything she was thinking and feeling was plain in her dark blue eyes.
Calder’s vision blurred as he looked up at her, and he touched her smooth cheek with an index finger. “So incredibly beautiful,” he marveled in a whisper, certain he would perish with the loss of her. He wasn’t sure, in fact, that he himself would exist at all, without the knowledge and memory of Maeve Tremayne.
Maeve smiled at him, the expression full of sweetness and sorrow, and then removed herself from his arms, from the warm tangle of the bedsheets. Once again she was wearing the soft, gauzy gown she had shed earlier to enter Calder’s embrace.
He gave a low, despairing cry and stretched out a hand to her, but between one heartbeat and the next, she vanished.
Calder wept, though he di
d not make a sound, well aware that Maeve had made up her mind to destroy their love, to tear it from the universe by its very roots.
For the first time in his life he wanted to die.
Perhaps, he thought later, when he’d composed himself a little, she had already begun the mysterious process that would erase her from his memory, and him from her own. Perhaps he would awaken the next morning, or the one after that, with no recollection of the beautiful vampire who haunted his soul, as well as his mind and body.
Even though he knew the transition itself would probably be painless, the prospect of it was the purest torture.
Calder tried to reason with himself. Undoubtedly he would simply go on with his life, treating his patients, perhaps meeting another woman, marrying, fathering a houseful of children. The war, God willing, was bound to end soon, and the sundered land would begin to mend itself into some new and better nation.
No, it wouldn’t be a bad existence, and he wouldn’t know the difference anyway, wouldn’t know what he was missing any more than the corpse of his father, still lying in a wash of candlelight in the parlor, could comprehend that life was going on without him.
Still, for all the dangers and all the terrible things he would see and probably do, Calder wanted to be with Maeve. And yes, he wanted to share her fantastic powers, too, but only because they would enable him to help his patients in ways that were impossible then. He could travel into the future, for instance, into the late twentieth century, the era to which the mystery of time had progressed, according to Maeve, and learn even more about the art of medicine than the miraculous textbooks had taught him. He would be able to bring that knowledge back to people who suffered, along with chemicals, pills, and serums that could kill pain without making the heart race the way morphine did. Vaccinations that would protect small children who in his own time were cruelly felled by maladies such as measles, diphtheria, and whooping cough…
The Black Rose Chronicles Page 49