Calder had escaped his keeper easily, for he’d been full of strength when he awakened, half wild with curiosity and excitement.
Five minutes after bolting from Maeve’s cellar, he stood on a busy street corner in twentieth-century London, watching in amazement as magnificent horseless carriages rushed past, displacing the night air, making an extraordinary din. There were plenty of people about, too, streaming out of clubs and theaters, strangely dressed and chattering about unfamiliar things.
He was delighted, confounded, awed by his own powers and by the wonderful new world that surrounded him.
A place, he admitted to himself, grimly amused, that he knew absolutely nothing about.
He began to walk, following a high, wrought-iron fence. Beyond it lay a graveyard, the marble stones pristine in the moonlight, the grass well kept. He remembered the sensation of William’s bullet entering his chest, and a silent celebration stirred inside him because he was still alive.
Calder smiled as he strode along, reflecting now on the fact that Maeve had evidently come to the house in Philadelphia and collected him, prior to his transfiguration. He wondered what poor Prudence and the others had made of his mysterious disappearance.
Presently Calder began to feel a tightening inside himself, a need for sustenance, but he had no idea how to stalk prey. He knew very little, as it happened, except that he could not survive even the briefest encounter with sunlight.
Calder walked for hours, just looking in wonderment at the strange mix of new and old that was London. He was in the vicinity of Maeve’s grand house, which he presumed was still in her possession, when a glance at the sky warned him that it was time to find shelter.
He let himself onto Maeve’s property by a side gate, begrudging every moment of awareness he would miss by lapsing into the comalike slumber he could not hope to escape.
He found a narrow cellar window, dislodged the grillwork that covered it with a single wrench of his arm, and crawled through the space, whistling softly under his breath. Perhaps once he got the knack of being a vampire, he would discover a way for blood-drinkers to remain awake in the daytime, or even a means by which they could endure the full glare of the sun.
After all, he speculated, reaching out and pulling the iron grillwork back into place, he was a scientist. He might dissect one of those bumbling creatures Maeve and Valerian were so concerned about, after it was dead, of course, and learn a great deal about the inner workings of all vampires.
The prospect filled him with excitement.
Humming softly to himself, Calder found the very chamber he’d left earlier, and he could see immediately that it had not been in use for some time. Odd, he thought, loosening the collar of the shirt he’d awakened in, well over a hundred years in the past, that Maeve didn’t seem to favor this bustling, energetic century. It was like a carnival, rife with noise and color; he wanted to see and do everything, to take it all inside him somehow and possess it.
He stretched out on his slab, the same one he’d abandoned only hours before, and yet decades before, to go exploring, and considered the paradox of time. How deliciously ironic to be lying there in the cellar, in the very place he was missing from in the nineteenth century.
Sleep overtook him before he could make sense of the enigma.
The day must have passed quickly, for when Calder opened his eyes, it was as if he had just closed them. He felt a violent thirst, a growing weakness, and an unrelenting desire to continue his explorations.
He let himself out of Maeve’s house by the same method he’d used to enter it—he crawled through the cellar window—and was nonplussed to find Valerian waiting for him, arms folded, his expression dour.
“Do you know,” that august vampire began in a deceptively smooth, even voice, “how foolhardy it was to go rushing off into the world on your own like that?”
Calder felt only mild chagrin, and that was because of the worry his abrupt departure might have caused Maeve. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, and yet the drive to try out his new being had been irresistible.
He began to walk away and would have opened the gate and passed through if Valerian hadn’t caught him by the back of his coat and brought him up short.
Calder’s temper flared; he bristled and opened his mouth to tell Valerian to go to hell, but thought better of it when he looked into those fathomless violet eyes.
“You have much to learn,” Valerian said quietly. “We’ll start with passing through solid objects, and then you’d better take your first feeding.”
Calder swallowed his formidable pride and nodded. He had trained a number of younger doctors during his career, but there were a great many vital things he didn’t understand about this new existence. For the first time in years he would have to play the part of the apprentice rather than the master.
Valerian affected a sigh, then began his instruction.
Calder was so taken with the mechanics of dissolving himself and passing through gates and walls and trees that his mentor finally had to remind him that there were other tasks that must be accomplished in the space of that night.
The finer points of stalking and feeding came next, and a lesson on the proper method of time travel as well. Valerian took Calder to a place he couldn’t help recognizing—a field hospital—but this was clearly a later conflict than the one he remembered so vividly.
“World War II,” Valerian explained as Calder tried to adjust himself to the sights and sounds of suffering so intense, so terrible that he could barely take it in, even after all the practice he’d had in his own century. “These are German soldiers, technically the enemy, since you were an American, but the pain is the same.”
They moved, unseen except by those nearest to death, among the rows of canvas cots.
Calder whispered a horrified exclamation as he looked upon some of the wounds. “What happened to these men?”
“I’m afraid warfare has advanced significantly since your time, Doctor—in this particular period, they used a lot of poisonous gasses and, of course, they were capable of dropping bombs from airplanes.”
“Airplanes?” Calder hadn’t come across the word in his brief exploration of modern London.
“Flying machines,” Valerian answered in a distracted tone. “I’ll show you later. In the meantime, you must choose one of these poor, suffering louts and draw from him the blood you need to survive.”
Calder had been awash in blood since his first day of medical college and he had gotten past the stage of revulsion long ago. It was medical stuff, blood, full of mystery and power—he believed that with his whole heart. Still, the prospect of drawing on a patient in such an intimate way was abhorrent.
Valerian spoke quietly, standing close behind him. “Trust me,” he said. “Your—victim, if that is indeed the correct word, will feel no pain. On the contrary, his agonies will cease, if you choose for it to be so, replaced by that same sense of ecstasy you felt when you underwent your own metamorphosis.”
Calder glanced back at the other vampire uncomfortably. He didn’t like being reminded of the joy his conversion had brought him, because he had yet to sort out its meaning. He certainly felt no physical attraction to this enigmatic creature who had given him everlasting life, but neither could he deny that he had known indescribable bliss during their unholy communion.
The elder vampire smiled—he’d probably discerned Calder’s thoughts—and moved past him to stroke the pale forehead of one of the fallen soldiers. The boy opened his eyes, stared up at Valerian in baffled adoration, and murmured something in German.
Calder recognized the word for angel, since he’d had some training in the language while studying to become a physician. He recalled, of course, how Maeve had moved among the wounded at Gettysburg, bestowing her strange mercies, and how the dying soldiers had seen her as a creature of heaven.
“Like this,” Valerian said gently, his gaze locked with the rapt, too-bright stare of the lad lying on the rickety cot. Then,
to demonstrate, he bent over his welcoming prey, punctured the artery with his fangs, and fed.
When he straightened, Calder was stricken by the singular beauty of his tutor’s expression; his countenance seemed to glow, his skin appeared translucent. Tenderness shimmered in his eyes, along with the most brazen glint of satisfaction.
The “victim” lay still, plainly dead, his slender young body slightly arched, as if frozen in the first throes of some sweet passion. He stared, peering straight into the very heart of heaven, it seemed, and his flesh was like ivory, backlit by the flame of an inner candle. His smile was beatific and so tranquil that Calder averted his gaze, feeling that he was intruding on some very private moment.
Calder felt a variety of emotions, as well—anger, frustration, pity, awe, and strangely joy. Still, he had never gotten used to death, its peculiar loveliness be damned, and his most basic instincts urged him to fight against it until the last.
Valerian gestured silently toward another cot, where yet another man-child lay, his once splendid body ruined, his mind fogged with the horror of seeing behind the glorious facade to the true nature of war.
By this time Calder was ravenous, and he knew he could put off the sacrilege no longer. He spoke softly to the soldier, smoothing his hair as he had seen Valerian do, as he himself had done with other dying children, in another war, another time, another life.
He wept inwardly as he bent over the bruised throat, found the pulse point, and plunged his fangs through the thin but stubbornly resistant flesh.
Calder tensed, bracing himself for utter revulsion, but to his surprise the nourishing blood did not flow over his tongue, but through the short, needle-sharp teeth that had once been ordinary incisors. As the stuff raced into him, he was electrified with a pleasure so brutally intense that for several moments he feared it would destroy him. He started to withdraw, in fact, then felt Valerian’s hand come to rest lightly on his back, urging him to continue.
When it was over, when he’d felt the life force as well as the pain and terror leave the boy, Calder rose and turned away, ashamed. Paradoxically, for he was well aware that he could hide little or nothing from Valerian, he did not want the other vampire to witness his disgust.
Or his rapture.
Graciously Valerian said nothing, but only went on to another cot and fed again.
Calder could not bring himself to follow suit, even though he yearned to experience once more the inexpressible jubilation that was only then receding, a tide of sweet fire raking his soul as it ebbed away. He left the hospital tent by ordinary means and stood gazing up at the stars for a long interval.
Presently Valerian joined him, and by tacit agreement they returned to twentieth-century London and Maeve’s grand house.
Much to Calder’s delight, she was waiting there in the formal parlor, pacing back and forth along the edge of the marble hearth. Her hair fell free in wild curls, and she wore tight-fitting denim trousers and a black blouse of some stretchy fabric that clung to her curves.
“Where have you been?” she cried furiously when she realized that Calder and Valerian were there.
Wisely Valerian faded into mist and took himself off to some safer and no doubt more cordial place.
Calder made no attempt to hide his admiration or his curiosity. “I’m sorry you were worried,” he said in all sincerity, for he truly loved this glorious being, and even the bliss of feeding for the first time could not compare to the splendors he’d known in her arms. “I was impatient to see what it was like to move about as a vampire.”
Maeve’s temper seemed to subside a little, though her eyes still flashed with sapphire fury. “There are so many dangers,” she sputtered, running the fingers of one hand through her lovely tangle of hair. “Warlocks, angels—the sunlight. And sometimes time travel can go wrong, and it’s impossible to return—”
He gripped her shoulders. “I’m safe,” he said pointedly, touched by her concern. If anything, the transformation had deepened his love for Maeve, and the emotions she stirred in him were almost too splendid to be endured.
She flung herself at him then, wrapping her arms around his neck and murmuring, “I was so afraid—” Calder stroked her back, warmed by her love, nourished by it. He laughed hoarsely and held her a little away from him. “What about these scandalous clothes of yours, Maeve Tremayne? What manner of devilment is this?”
Her smile was tentative but genuine. “This is how twentieth-century women dress,” she said. “If they choose to, that is. They have a lot more to say about a great many things than their ancestors had.”
He took her hand, lifted it over her head, and twirled her about as he had seen dancers do. “Trousers,” he marveled. Then he held her close again and kissed her. “I must say, I like the way they look on you.”
Calder felt Maeve tremble in his arms, and he kissed her again before saying, “I love you.”
Her blue eyes glistened with a sentiment equal to his own. “You taught me to mate as humans do,” she said softly. “Now let me show you how vampires give each other pleasure.”
Calder pretended to be shocked. “What? Do twentieth-century women seduce their men so boldly as that?” Maeve touched his mouth with one finger, and with that single gesture effectively set him ablaze with the need of her. “Who cares what they do?” Her eyes, tender before, were smoldering with forbidden knowledge now. “I am a vampire, not a mere woman, twentieth century or otherwise. Come with me, and I will show you passion you have not even imagined.”
He did not resist her; indeed, Calder doubted that he could have done that, even if he’d wished to do so. He gave her his hand and then felt himself dissolve, felt his very soul plunging through space. Then, just as abruptly, he was whole again, and they were alone in an upstairs chamber, a vast room that he remembered as Maeve’s studio.
She’d brought him there after the shooting, and sometimes when she was working at her loom, unaware that he was conscious, he had watched her for a moment or two before slipping under again.
He moved to draw her close and kiss her once more, but she drew back, smiling and shaking her lovely head, like a mischievous nymph bent on luring him into some enchanted place.
“You’re thinking of the human way of lovemaking,” she scolded softly. “I want to show you how vampires mate.”
Had he still had need of his lungs, or of air, Calder would have drawn a deep breath at that moment. As it was, he simply watched Maeve, struck dumb by her terrifying beauty, and by the depth of his love for her.
She kept her distance, watching him with those magical eyes, too far away to touch him, and yet he began to feel the lightest of caresses. It seemed to him that fingertips brushed the sensitive place beneath one of his ears, made circles around his nipples, whisked ever so slightly across his mouth.
He moaned and moved to reach for Maeve, but she kept herself just out of reach. In the next instant he began to feel her touch in more intimate places, across his belly, the small of his back, along the insides of his thighs.
Calder gasped with pleasure, but Maeve silenced him with a soft “Shhh” and proceeded to tease the length of his staff. He was completely in her power then, as effectively restrained by his own desire as he might have been by iron manacles.
His clothes were not physically removed—they seemed to melt away like thin ice under a spring sun—and not only was Calder’s body bared to Maeve’s attentions, but his soul as well.
He whispered an exclamation, a plea, and then felt her touching him everywhere, inside and out, even though physically she was still well beyond his reach. Her mouth drew at his nipples, not one, but both, warm and wet and greedy. At the same time, impossible though it was, her tongue traveled the length of his shaft and teased the tip until he cried out in a ragged, glorious, despairing voice.
Maeve showed Calder no quarter that magical night, as she initiated him into yet another vampire mystery. She was a gentle but relentless conqueror, having him thoroughly, aga
in and again, until it all culminated in one cataclysmic, soul-rendering release.
He lay trembling on the cool, hard floor when she’d finished with him, depleted and yet more fantastically alive than ever before. When his emotions would allow him to speak, he whispered, “It’s a good thing you didn’t do that when I was mortal, love. I might have died of the pleasure.”
She laughed softly and came to lie with him, her own body naked and sleek and glowing in the moonlight pouring in through the tall windows. She took him into her arms and kissed the hollow at the base of his throat. “There are more terrible ways to die,” she observed, nestling close.
He stroked her breast, in the human way, and draped one of his legs across hers in a possessive gesture. “Why are you tarrying here with me, Maeve?” he asked, his tone gruff with his love for her, and the sudden knowledge that even eternity can be a fleeting thing. “Has the war been won already?”
Maeve raised herself onto one elbow, her hair a silken mantle in the moonlight, and gazed sadly into his face, as if to memorize every feature. “No, my darling,” she said, tracing his mouth with the tip of one index finger. “The war hasn’t been won.”
Calder asked no more questions, sensing that, for Maeve, this was a time out of time, a place of refuge and restoration. “I think I like the human way better,” he said. She looked puzzled. “Of making war?”
He gave a raspy chuckle and held her close against him, his chin resting on the top of her head. “No, sweet—of making love.”
Maeve drew back to study his face. “Why?” she asked, sounding stricken. “Don’t tell me you didn’t feel pleasure, Calder Holbrook, because I know—”
Calder smoothed her tousled hair. “I felt more than pleasure,” he assured her gruffly, “more than ecstasy. But when mortals make love, they touch, they become one being, if only for a little while. I want that for us.”
Her bewildered expression gave way to one of mischievous delight. “Before I decide that one is better than the other,” she purred, “I would want you to take me the way you would take a human woman.”
The Black Rose Chronicles Page 54