The Black Rose Chronicles

by Linda Lael Miller

  She would be reasonably safe in the interim, she supposed, for if Valerian was incapacitated during the daylight hours, then Krispin, being a vampire himself, was surely curled up in a coffin somewhere, motionless as a corpse and temporarily harmless.

  She hoped.

  Daisy kept her vigil until her knees went numb, then made herself get up and walk around. There wasn’t a scrap of food in the house, and she was violently hungry. To keep her mind off the problem for a little while, she went out to the pool, which, like everything else, was underground. Building that place had been a real feat of engineering, and yet Daisy, living all her life in Las Vegas, had never heard so much as a rumor of its existence.

  She removed the tie belt and the shirt purloined from Valerian’s vast wardrobe and slipped into the warm, sapphire-colored water. The chamber housing the pool and hot tub had a cavern-like ambience, and reflections danced across the dark ceiling, but the air was humid rather than dank and cool.

  The water seemed to cradle Daisy as she turned, naked, onto her back, to float. Her hair spilled out around her, and the tips of her breasts hardened, reminding her of how desperately she had wanted—and still wanted—Valerian’s lovemaking. The desire was deep-rooted and instinctive, a consuming need beyond explanation or understanding, something so powerful that it frightened her and so compelling that she could not resist.

  It was as though some ancient vow would be fulfilled in the act, some promise made before the stars were shaped. For good or ill, they would be joined, if only for a night.

  Daisy permitted herself to remember the scene she’d witnessed on the television screen earlier. She’d felt the throbbing heat of the great fire, the rough ground beneath her feet, and with them the terror, somehow her own as well as Maddie Goodtree’s. She had known relief at the sight of Krispin—or Maddie had—and experienced every nuance of their tempestuous lovemaking as well.

  She blushed, floating there in Valerian’s pool, to recall the sheer physical intensity of her satisfaction. And yes, she must claim that glorious, forbidden release as her own, because she had been Maddie Goodtree. As well as Brenna Afton-St. Claire and Elisabeth Saxon. She had vague, gauzy memories of those lifetimes, and she knew they had often touched her dreams.

  Daisy sighed, lying still upon the water. As pleasurable as Krispin’s intimate attentions had been, in that other life so recently recalled, they paled by comparison to the psychic sex she’d had with Valerian. He had driven her out of herself, the magician had, without even being in the same room.

  She kicked her feet and tossed back her wet hair. If Valerian made love to her in person, the pleasure would probably kill her.

  It would almost be worth dying young, she decided with a smile, making her way toward the tiled edge of the pool, if the last experience was anything to go by.

  Daisy climbed out of the water and found a stack of fragrant white towels on a glistening brass stand next to the wall. Only then did it occur to her to wonder who cleaned this strange, hidden house—surely Valerian, vampire of legend, star of stage if not screen, did not scrub toilets and mop floors.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Daisy muttered, wrapping the towel around herself like a sarong and leaving the borrowed shirt and tie where she’d left them, flung across the back of a lounge chair.

  There was a strange freedom in her confinement, though by rights the place was nothing more than a luxurious grave. She could walk about stark naked if she wanted to, and know that no one, including Valerian, would see her.

  She dropped the towel at the doorway to the living room and went to stand over the exquisitely handsome vampire sleeping on the sofa. He was beyond a doubt the most beautiful creature, man or woman, she had ever seen, a subject worthy of Michelangelo or any of the masters.

  How long, she wondered, had she loved him? A thousand years? Ten thousand?

  Daisy turned away, the question heavy in her heart, and wandered into the kitchen, still starved. Maybe she’d overlooked a box of crackers or a can of sardines, kept on hand for that rare visit by a mortal.

  The telephone caught her eye as soon as she flipped on the lights, and Daisy went to it and lifted the receiver with a slight smile playing at one corner of her mouth. She dialed O’Halloran’s cellular number, knowing he was going to give her a ration for disappearing the way she had. He wouldn’t be able to handle the truth—that she was standing naked in a vampire’s kitchen. In fact, he’d probably go straight to the chief and have her badge pulled—permanently.

  “Yeah!” he barked over the roar of air rushing past an open car window, plainly annoyed at the interruption. O’Halloran carried a cell phone, but not for status. He hated the things and tolerated them only because they helped him stay in touch with his contacts.

  “O’Halloran?” Daisy asked sweetly, although she would have known that voice anywhere.

  The howl diminished into nothing as O’Halloran rolled up his window. “Chandler? Is that you?” He sounded anxious. “Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m staying out of sight for a few days, that’s all.” She thought of the layers of earth between the cool tiles beneath her feet and the surface of the Nevada desert. “Laying low, you might say. If you’ve been worrying about me, stop. I’m okay.”

  “Is somebody forcing you to say that?”

  “No, O’Halloran. Nobody is forcing me to do anything. I just need a little time to get my head together, that’s all. You were the one who suggested that in the first place, remember?”

  “You’re really all right?”

  Daisy felt a surge of affection for O’Halloran; he and his wife, Eleanor, were like family to her. All she had, except for Nadine. “Yes,” she said, blinking back tears because there was so much she couldn’t share. “How’s the investigation going?”

  “No progress,” O’Halloran said with a raspy sigh. “We can’t find this Valerian character, for one thing. He’s let his personal staff and the surviving performers go and closed down the show at the Venetian, but the management says he plans to return soon, so they haven’t booked anybody else. His name is still on the marquee, and the press is clamoring for him. If I was a cynical guy, I might just figure it was all a publicity stunt.”

  “You think he’d murder those women just to get attention?” Daisy demanded, feeling cold all of a sudden in her birthday suit. “You can’t be serious, O’Halloran. He has to know he’d be number one on the suspect list.” She glanced toward the living room where Valerian was sleeping. “Nobody in his right mind would expect to commit a crime like that and then just go merrily on with his career!”

  “That’s just it, Chandler. You saw the bodies. We ain’t dealing with somebody who’s in his right mind.”

  Daisy wanted to tell him that it was Krispin, not Valerian, who had done the killings, but there was simply no way to explain the realities of the situation. “That’s right,” she agreed somewhat testily, “we’re not. Look beyond the obvious, O’Halloran. Dig deeper. You’re missing something.”

  “I wish you were here to help out,” the older cop confessed. “You got good instincts, Chandler.”

  “I take it I’m still suspended, then?” Daisy asked, unable to hide the sadness and frustration she felt. Her work was such a large part of her identity that she wasn’t sure who she was without it. “The chief hasn’t blown a brass trumpet and shouted, ‘Bring me Chandler, she of the good instincts and negative drug test’?”

  O’Halloran was quiet. Too quiet.

  “Talk to me,” Daisy ordered when she could stand his silence no longer.

  “The brass wants you to talk things over with a shrink.”

  “They think I’m crazy.”

  “They think you’re under a lot of stress, like every other cop in the country.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re not making ‘every other cop’ see a head doctor, are they?”

  “Chandler? Do yourself a favor, take some advice from an old veteran. Don’t fight this one. Just do what t
hey ask. It ain’t so much, you know—the doc will probably want you to look at a few ink blots and play some word association games, that’s all.”

  Daisy swore.

  “More advice,” O’Halloran said crisply. “Don’t use that word in front of anybody above the rank of lieutenant.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Daisy allowed. It was hard, she discovered, to be naked and angry at the same time.

  “Okay, Chandler, give me a number where I can reach you, and we’ll wrap this conversation up. I’m on my way over to the Venetian—again—to see if I can track down this magician of theirs. I’ll say one thing for this Valerian fella—he’s got the disappearing act down pat.”

  Daisy smiled and dashed at her cheek with the back of one hand. All of the sudden she felt vulnerable, rather than free, and she was anxious to put Valerian’s shirt back on. In the meantime, though, O’Halloran wanted a number.

  She thought quickly. “I’m staying in a lake cabin,” she lied, “and I have to use a pay phone whenever I want to make a call. I’ll be in touch within a day or two.”

  “Just give me the name of the resort, then.”

  “Sorry, partner—that’s a secret. I’ll call again soon.” With that, her stomach twisted into a knot of guilt, Daisy hung up the telephone.

  Next she called her apartment. She listened patiently to her own voice, droning the usual spiel about leaving a name and number, and punched the pound sign when it was over. At the other end of the line the tape rewound with a high-pitched squeaking sound, and then the accumulated messages began to play.

  The first was from Nadine, saying she was in labor and had checked into the hospital.

  The second was from Freddy. Nadine was yelling a lot, he said frantically, and he wished he’d never gotten her into this mess. Could Daisy please come to Telluride as soon as possible?

  Fresh tears brimmed in Daisy’s eyes. She wanted desperately to be with her sister and lend what support she could, more now than ever, but it was too dangerous for Nadine and Freddy and the baby. She couldn’t bear even the thought of what Krispin might do to them, for whatever insane reason of his own.

  The next voice was the same painfully slow, inhuman drone she’d heard before, and she knew now that it was some trick of Krispin’s—a robot, maybe, or a computer, or his own private brand of magic. “Come out, Daisy. You cannot hide from me forever. If you don’t show yourself, I will kill again.”

  Bile surged into the back of Daisy’s throat; she squeezed her eyes shut and struggled to keep her empty stomach from convulsing. “Dear God,” she whispered. “Help me.”

  The line went dead, and then she heard Nadine’s voice again. Daisy’s sister sounded weary but full of joy. “Daze? The baby came this morning, and mother and daughter are doing great. Freddy suffered so much angst over all the pain I went through that he gave a little ground on the name business. We’re calling our daughter Whitney Miranda. Fruit not included. What do you think, Auntie? Call me soon—I’m going to tell you more about childbirth than any sensible woman would want to know.”

  That was the end of the tape, and Daisy was weeping softly as she hung up the receiver. She had a niece—her only flesh-and-blood relative besides Nadine and the long-lost Jeanine—and she couldn’t even make a pilgrimage to Telluride to admire her.

  It wasn’t fair.

  “Not much is fair in this life,” a female voice observed.

  Daisy was so startled that she whirled and pressed herself to the wall. She had expected some stray fiend; instead, she was faced with an attractive woman of about her own age. The visitor had short dark hair, stylishly cut, and enormous gray eyes. She was sleekly trim and clad in black corduroy slacks, a white poet’s shirt, and a vest of charcoal velvet.

  “Who are you?” the pixie demanded, taking in Daisy’s bare body with a frown of disapproval.

  Daisy swallowed. “I was going to ask the same question of you,” she said, just resisting a futile urge to cover herself with both arms. “Are you a vampire?”

  “Of course not,” was the brisk answer. “I couldn’t be abroad in the daylight if I were. But I’ll give you my name in trade for yours—it’s Kristina Holbrook.”

  The surname was faintly familiar; Daisy thought Valerian might have mentioned it in passing. “Daisy Chandler,” she said. “I’m a detective with the Las Vegas Police Department.” She regretted that last part the moment the words had tumbled from her mouth—in her present unclothed state, she wasn’t exactly a credit to hard-working law enforcement officers everywhere.

  Ms. Holbrook’s lips twitched. “Perhaps you’d better call for backup, Detective Chandler. It would appear that someone has stolen your clothes.”

  Daisy flushed with embarrassment. “I was wearing pajamas when I came here,” she blurted out. “And then I went swimming, and it just seemed, with Valerian asleep and no one else around or anything—”

  “It’s okay,” Kristina said quickly with a full-fledged and quite dazzling smile. “I’ll get you something to wear.” She pondered Daisy thoughtfully again, then said with conviction, “I think blue is your color.”

  With that she closed her eyes, and within the instant Daisy felt cloth against her skin. She looked down, speechless with amazement, to see that she was wearing an indigo silk jumpsuit with a hammered gold belt.

  “I was right,” Kristina boasted with a good-natured grin. “You look fantastic.”

  “Who—” Daisy lapsed into incoherence for a few moments, then made another attempt. “Who are you?”

  “I told you. I’m Kristina Holbrook.”

  “And y-you’re not a vampire.”

  Kristina’s forehead crumpled slightly as she frowned. “Definitely not. But both my parents are. It’s very complicated—my father was still mortal when I was conceived, so I’m human. Mostly.”

  Daisy swallowed hard. “Mostly?”

  Kristina laughed, and the sound was like the peal of distant bells. “I’m mortal, essentially. But I’m not sure when I’ll get old, if ever, and I do have certain powers, as I’ve just illustrated.” She paused for a beat or two, then took the conversation in a whole other direction. “Would you like something to eat?”

  Daisy was breathless—and surprised to discover that she was still hungry. “Yes—please.”

  The other woman pointed dramatically at the island in the center of the kitchen, and a picnic basket appeared, accompanied by the tantalizing aromas of fried chicken and freshly baked apple pie.

  “Come on and join me,” Kristina urged pleasantly, pulling a stool over to the island and sitting down. “You said you were hungry, didn’t you?”

  Daisy hesitated a moment longer, then approached the food. The fine silk of her jumpsuit brushed softly against her skin as she moved.

  “Would you like some jewelry to go with that?” Kristina asked, pulling a drumstick out of the basket and biting into it with relish.

  “No, thanks,” Daisy said, standing on the other side of the island and helping herself to the food. There were plates inside the elegant basket, along with sterling silver, crystal wine flutes, and a very fine Bordeaux. “The outfit’s enough. Is it going to melt at midnight?” Kristina’s grin was puckish. “Are you accusing me of slipshod magic?”

  Daisy didn’t bother to answer. “Why are you here?” she asked between bites of delicious chicken, potato salad, and coleslaw.

  “Mother has been worried about Valerian. She asked me to look in on him.”

  By now Daisy’s head was reeling. Maybe the higher- ups on the force were right, she thought in a brief flurry of hysteria. Perhaps she was losing it, and she needed intensive therapy. But no—deep inside, where it counted, Daisy knew she was all too sane.

  Delusions? Hallucinations?

  She should be so lucky.

  “Is he—family? Valerian, I mean?”

  “He’s like a godfather, I guess,” Kristina answered. “Or a favorite uncle. We’re quite close, he and I. He spoiled me outrageously
when I was a child—take the dollhouse he gave me, for example. It’s a perfect replica of the palace at Versailles, down to the last light fixture.”

  Daisy had been standing up, but now she groped for a stool, dragged it over, and sort of collapsed onto it. Now that she knew it wasn’t romantic, she had no pressing interest in Kristina’s relationship with Valerian. “So you just sort of zapped yourself here from somewhere else?”

  “Seattle,” Kristina said. “I own a small antiques shop there.” She frowned at Daisy over the rim of a carton of mashed potatoes. “I’m sorry. We must be quite overwhelming, Valerian and I. Have you met any of the others?” She paused to shudder. “Canaan and Benecia Havermail, for instance? They’re little girls, beautiful as dolls, and hardly any bigger than they were five hundred years ago, when they became vampires. What vile little creatures they are—but you needn’t worry about them. They wouldn’t dare bother anyone Valerian befriends.”

  Daisy had been left behind, like a piece of luggage tossed from a moving train. “Five hundred years—”

  Kristina shrugged. “That’s not uncommon,” she said. “My mother was born in the eighteenth century, you know, and my father served as a surgeon in the American Civil War when he was mortal. And as for me—” Daisy held her breath, bracing herself to absorb yet another stunning revelation. “Well, just between us, I’ve been around a while myself. How old would you say I am?”

  It was the kind of question Daisy hated, but she’d had a lot of experience at gauging such things as a police officer, and she was fairly confident of her abilities. ‘Twenty-nine or thirty, I’d say.”

  “Bless you.” Kristina beamed. Then she leaned forward to confide in a cheerful whisper, “Lincoln was President when I was born.”

  “No,” Daisy said, but the fall-away sensation in the pit of her stomach told her it was true.

  “Yes,” Kristina insisted. Then she sighed sadly. “It’s hard, when your friends get old and you stay just the same, year after year, decade after decade. Naturally they wonder why.”