The Black Rose Chronicles

by Linda Lael Miller

  Joe went pale as he took in Daisy’s words. “Oh, my God,” he whispered when she’d finished, clasping the clothes rack with both hands to steady himself.

  Daisy put a hand on his arm. “Would you like to sit down?” she asked.

  “I’m okay, really,” Joe said, but he fell into a folding chair next to the wall all the same. “Oh, God,” he murmured again. “Oh, God—I don’t believe it.” Dragging up another chair, Daisy sat down facing Joe. Between the two of them and the clothes rack, they blocked the hallway. “Did you know Ms. Fairfield well?” Daisy asked.

  To Daisy’s disappointment, Joe shook his head. He looked sick, and he was trembling. “Not really. Neither of us have been here very long. You know how Vegas is—people move around.”

  Daisy nodded. There was a watercooler a few feet away, with a stack of paper cups on top. She rose to fill one and bring it to Joe. “How about Valerian? What’s he like?”

  Joe took the cup in both hands and drained it before answering. “He keeps to himself.”

  “How about the other women in the show? Were any of them friendly with Ms. Fairfield?”

  “I think I’m going to puke,” Joe confided. Then he bolted, overturning his chair with a metallic clatter, one hand clasped over his mouth.

  Daisy followed him to the door of the men’s rest room and waited, leaning against the wall until he came out. His skin, starkly white before, had turned to a greenish shade of gray.

  She let her folded arms fall back to her sides and straightened, then reached into her purse for a dog-eared business card. “Here,” she said. “Give me a call if something comes to you.”

  Joe took the card and stared at it like a foreigner trying to read a strange language. “Okay,” he agreed. Then he turned and fled back into the men’s room.

  Daisy heard him retching as she turned away. It was a good thing Joe had gotten the bad news secondhand, she reflected. If he’d actually seen the body, he would have hocked up his socks.

  She rapped at Valerian’s dressing room door and, when there was no answer, tried the knob. To her surprise, the lock wasn’t engaged. She stepped over the threshold and turned on the lights, frowning.

  What did you expect, Chandler? she chided herself. An open casket? Maybe some cobwebs and a pair of six-foot candelabras?

  “Vampires, indeed,” she scoffed aloud, recalling Grover’s smart-ass remark and what O’Halloran had said that morning at the crime scene. She backed into the hallway, even though she didn’t believe in monsters, and her pace was a little faster than usual as she made her way toward a rear exit.

  Valerian

  Las Vegas, 1995

  I awakened promptly at sunset, as usual, after a troubled sleep. I’d been tormented by dreams of Brenna—now called Daisy Chandler—throughout the daylight hours, and the terrible images followed me into full consciousness.

  I sat up and took in my immediate surroundings, and I was oddly surprised to find myself in my desert lair, even though I distinctly remembered retreating to it just before dawn.

  My subterranean palace had been built by a paranoid billionaire with a bizarre imagination and a taste for luxury. I had always found it ironic that the survivalist had not survived, but had succumbed to some relatively minor ailment. I had purchased the place from his widow, who evidenced no desire to live in a rabbit’s burrow, however splendid.

  The soft strains of Mozart poured into the master suite as I rose from my silk-covered bed. My beloved had returned to me, and I could not help rejoicing in the knowledge, but I felt terror, too. Through the centuries since Brenna’s drowning in the treacherous waters off the coast of Cornwall, we had found each other no fewer than five times.

  On each occasion, in each new incarnation, Brenna had succeeded in winning my heart, no matter how I resisted. Oh, and I did resist, with all the might I possessed, for there was a curse upon milady and me, and it followed us mercilessly, relentlessly, down through the years.

  Always, in every lifetime, Brenna’s soul remembered our bond, but consciously I was always a stranger to her, a wayfarer who could only come to her in the night. I invariably fell in love with her all over again, and more deeply than ever before, and she returned my affections—for the most part. What bliss it was to hold her, to look upon her face, and what hell to know that she would soon be gone.

  It mattered not what efforts I made to protect my darling; my powers were useless against this hex, whatever it was. We were doomed, Brenna and I, to relive the torment of parting, over and over. I could only conclude that it was divine punishment, meted out to me because I had accepted Challes’s evil gift all those years before, and used it to the fullest, without the slightest hesitation.

  But what sin had Brenna committed, to deserve such a fate? The question angered me, as it had always done.

  I went into my glittering bathroom and groomed myself, then selected a starched shirt and a perfectly tailored suit from my wardrobe. A smile, faint and fleeting, touched my mouth. It puzzled the mortals of my acquaintance that I never suffered from the desert heat, no matter how formally I dressed, and I enjoyed their consternation.

  Usually.

  I affixed my cufflinks and wandered into the vast living room, where the stereo system spilled soft, vibrant notes of music into the air. I silenced the machine with a sort of mental nod and by the same means caused another contraption, an enormous television screen, to fold down from its hiding place in the ceiling.

  The set flared with light, and a scene took shape. The images I saw were not being broadcast by any station or network, however. I knew well enough that they sprang from the secret realms of my own mind.

  I saw a corpse lying on a matted carpet. The body was that of a woman, and I knew what had killed her even before I focused on the tiny puncture marks on her throat, knew there wasn’t a drop of blood left in her veins.

  Jillie Fairfield. One of the delectable young creatures who had added so much to my act.

  Suddenly weak, I sat down in a soft chair and stared at the horrific vision. This was no ordinary murder, no crime of vengeance or passion. It had been committed by one of my own kind—a vampire. And because of Jillie’s connection with me, I could be certain the gesture had been meant as a challenge.

  I closed my eyes and willed myself to the scene, materializing in Jillie’s small apartment only moments later. The place was dark, a fact that was of no consequence whatever to me, and the body, of course, had been removed.

  The corpse had been emptied of blood, but there were traces of that precious stuff everywhere, glittering in the gloom like tiny points of blue light. The scent of it, stale now, and wasted, filled my nostrils.

  “Who are you?” I demanded aloud. “Show yourself!”

  There was no sound besides the ordinary doings of nearby mortals, which came to me through the walls and the floor as a low murmuring. And yet there was something beneath it, a deeper silence, and not an empty one.

  I tried to go back to the moment of the murder—vampires travel through time as easily as men and women pass from one room to another—but my way was blocked. I heard poor little Jillie’s muted scream, I felt her terror and then the unholy ecstasy that is a hallmark of a blood-drinker’s fatal kiss, but I could not see her killer, and I was unable to help her.

  I was swamped by despair, then fury.

  The woman’s death was the work of another night-walker, a powerful fiend. But who was this monster? I knew of many other vampires, of course, but of all those, only Maeve was stronger than I. She was a regal creature and did not feed on harmless chorus girls—her prey fell into two distinct categories: those who took pleasure in evil, and those who were already on the brink of death.

  Lisette, the former queen, would have done just such a murder, sparing no thought for the victim’s youth and relative innocence, but she had been destroyed long ago. Dingdong, the witch was dead—but something else, something equally pitiless, was very much alive.

  45

>   Valerian

  England, 1363

  Forceful hands gripped the front of my tunic, and I was wrenched, half insensible, out of the stinking straw where I’d collapsed earlier, and onto my feet. I recognized Challes, my former tutor, in spite of my wine- sodden state.

  “By the gods, it is you!” he rasped. “What in the name of heaven—?”

  I swayed, and he steadied me. I felt a rush of drunken sentimentality, followed by an emotion I had not acknowledged in a long while—hot, searing humiliation. I had liked my teacher and sought his approval, and I found that I wanted it still. My normally quick tongue failed me, and I could say nothing at all.

  Challes cursed and released me with such force that I struck the stable wall behind me. The shock cleared my head a little.

  “You were the brightest pupil I’ve ever had,” he said furiously, waving with both hands, so that somehow the gesture took in both my disheveled person and my disordered soul. “Now look at you—dissolute, filthy, wasted! Why have you allowed yourself to fall into this shameful state?”

  I swallowed, clinging to the last rotted shreds of my pride. “I want nothing but to die,” I said in an undertone that was both truthful and defiant.

  He stunned me again by slapping me hard across the face. “Weakling!” he whispered vehemently, and when I tried to sidestep him, he grasped my shoulders and thrust me back against the wall once more. “Every day and every night brave men and women beg whatever gods are listening to let them live. And you, you sniveling, pettish little whelp, dare to throw away your powers and your gifts like so much rubbish! Well, I won’t have it, do you hear me? By God, I will not allow you to destroy yourself!”

  Tears burned in my eyes, shaming me anew, and I looked away in a vain effort to hide them. “It is too late,” I said in a bare whisper. “Too late.”

  For a moment I thought Challes would strike me again. Instead he tightened his grasp on my shoulders just briefly, then spoke in a gentle, broken voice. “When was the last time you had a decent meal or a real bed to sleep in?”

  I had been stealing food, sleeping in ditches and horse stalls, and begging coin for wine for so long that I could barely recall any other life. My childhood in the village of Dunnett’s Head seemed unreal, and my brief happiness with Brenna was naught but a pretty tale.

  I spread my filthy hands. “When I was with the brothers, I suppose. They took me in after milady died.” I didn’t remember the old woman and her rough ministrations until much later, and therefore failed to mention her in my hazy account of those wretched days.

  “And you’ve wandered ever since, like some savage lost from his tribe?”

  The answer came hoarse from my throat. “Yes.” Only then did I notice that Challes was finely dressed—much too finely for a poor tutor. His tailored garments and exquisite opera cape would have been more suited to a London theater or a gentleman’s club; to say he looked out of place in the stable of a disreputable country inn would constitute an understatement of gross proportions. Odder still, he had not aged in the years since I had seen him last; there was a subtle vitality about him, and yes, he’d acquired an attractive air of quiet menace that made me think of wolves prowling stark and snowy downs.

  Challes laid a hand to my shoulder. “Come,” he said. “I have a splendid gift to offer you, my misguided friend, but first you must be made ready to receive it.”

  The strangeness of the remark did not penetrate the dense muddle drunkenness had made of my mind. I believed he was offering food and shelter, perhaps wine, too, and I wanted all of those things. Especially, I am ashamed to admit, the latter.

  Challes led me to a carriage, waiting axle-deep in mud on the road. The moon rose around it like a huge and silvery halo, and I felt a shiver at the sight, one more akin to excitement than to fear. A footman opened the door for us, and I sensed the look that passed between him and my tutor rather than saw it.

  “How did you know where to find me?” I asked, once settled in the sumptuous leather seat across from Challes. He sighed. “I will explain that at a later time. For now, it is enough to see that you are fed, scrubbed clean, and rested.”

  I was already beginning to feel thirsty, and hoped the impressive improvement of Challes’s circumstances meant he kept a good stock of wine. Even though I was not particularly alert at that point, I know I didn’t give voice to the thought, for I’d guessed that it would not be well received.

  Challes heard it all the same, for he responded as if I’d spoken aloud. “Foolish knave. You will crave another nectar soon, but the questionable pleasure of drunkenness is behind you.”

  I folded my arms, still too fuddled to sort out the fact that Challes had just read my mind. What was clear to me was the absolute conviction that I could not bear a lifetime without wine. Such a sacrifice would lay bare my every nerve, physical and spiritual, to agonies beyond my ability to endure.

  “Nonsense,” Challes said, though again I had not spoken. “You are not about to die, Valerian. You are on the verge of a glorious rebirth.”

  I frowned. “You sound like my father now, God rest his soul. If it’s religion you’re peddling, I’ll go back to the stable. And how did you do that?”

  “I assume you’re asking how I interpreted your thoughts. Alas, the divination of mortal minds is the least of my powers. Hardly a challenge at all.”

  If I’d been sober, I believe I would have been insulted. I started to ask Challes what he was talking about, but he extended an imperious hand in a demand for silence, and I obeyed. My dedicated debauchery had reduced me to less than nothing: I had all the dignity and self-possession of a slat-ribbed hound snuffling through garbage.

  “I live near here,” Challes told me after a brief silence, during which he gazed pensively through the carriage window, his oddly beautiful face drenched in moonlight. “Our journey will not be a long one.”

  I studied him, struck by the differences he evidenced and yet unable to define them. “What’s happened?” I said. “You’ve changed.”

  For the first time my tutor smiled. “So have you,” he answered. “Do not trouble me with questions tonight, Valerian. It is enough for now that I have found you.” We traveled the rest of the way without speaking. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep, and although I was still thoroughly inebriated, I was well aware of Challes’s gaze upon me. I knew, somehow, that his regard was pensive, and that there was a certain strange hunger in it.

  His home was grand, for that desolate part of England, a small, square keep, made of gray stone and lighted from within. Surely there would be wine in such a place.

  I had recovered some of my spirit, so buoyed was I by the mere prospect of a bath and the knowledge that I would not be required to share my bed with vermin. I glanced warily at Challes as a new and disturbing possibility struck me.

  My tutor was just alighting from the carriage, tugging at one immaculate white glove as he did so. “Pray do not pursue that ridiculous and insulting thought any further,” he said dryly. “I have no designs on your virtue—such as it may be. In point of fact, I shall ask nothing of you behind the joy of seeing you find and exercise your own magnificent powers.”

  That was all Challes would say, and I had neither the energy nor the will to press him for more. I simply followed him up to the arched wooden door, which was promptly opened for us by a servant bearing a flickering tallow.

  He nodded deferentially to Challes, but gave me an oblique look as he stepped back to admit us.

  My wits were not about me, so to speak, but I did take note that the place was very clean, and not in the least gloomy. Indeed, moonlight streamed through the high windows in one wall, illuminating the foyer with a glow that was no less beautiful for being eerie.

  It seemed that I had been expected. A spacious chamber awaited me abovestairs; there was a cozy blaze snapping on the hearth, and a table had been laid for a meal. A large metal tub steamed in the firelight, and the counterpane on the featherbed had been tur
ned back to reveal linen sheets of the purest white.

  I went to the table and checked its contents. There was bread, cold meat, boiled turnips, and even fruit, but alas, no wine.

  I sighed.

  Challes laughed. “Reprobate,” he said, tossing me a bar of hard soap. “You’ll find nothing there to fog and foul that splendid mind of yours. I’ve told you—no more wine.”

  Not troubling to answer, I raised the soap to my nose; the scent reminded me of my beautiful mother, Seraphina, and for a moment I missed her keenly. I turned from Challes, seeking to disguise my emotions—I had not yet learned that I could hide nothing from him.

  “I shall not stay long, then,” I answered.

  “We’ll see,” Challes replied. And then he left me.

  I bolted the door—in my sorry travels I had learned that what seems like good fortune is often a trap instead—and then stripped off my pitiful clothes and stepped into the tub. I gave a low groan of pleasure as the warm, clean water lapped against my flesh.

  I soaked for a long time, then scrubbed my shaggy, red-brown hair and every dirty inch of my hide. When I was clean at last, I rose and stood naked on the hearth, letting the heat of the crackling fire dry the little glittering beads of water that trembled like jewels upon my skin.

  A nightshirt of some fine, shimmering fabric—I know now that it was rare and priceless silk—lay spread upon the bed. After I had enjoyed the fire for a time, I pulled the garment over my head and took myself to the table. I ate with remarkable appetite, given the shrunken state of my oft-abused stomach, and no semblance of grace. When I’d finished, I was dizzy with fatigue.

  Sated, and able to tolerate my own company for the first time in recent memory, I fell into the lush depths of the bed and gave myself up to sleep. My rest was absolute; I kept no vigil and dreamed no dreams.

  It makes me smile to remember that I felt safe.

  Daisy