The Black Rose Chronicles

by Linda Lael Miller

  Daisy rested her forehead against his chin. “Okay. But how exactly are we going to work this? I like it here, and you like Las Vegas—”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I find it easy enough to commute.”

  This time it was Daisy who laughed, but there were tears blurring her vision when she looked up at him again. “What about that guy the Las Vegas police department arrested for the murders Krispin committed? Isn’t he a scapegoat, of sorts?”

  Valerian shrugged elegantly. “I guess that depends on your perspective. The fellow has killed eight people, three of them children, and he’s always prided himself on pulling off the perfect crimes. Some might say that justice was done here, however indirectly.”

  Daisy accepted that reply, although she knew it could have been debated for a long time to come, and returned to the original subject. “I don’t see how we’re going to manage a relationship,” she fretted. “Do vampires even marry?”

  “They mate, though to a much more profound degree than you probably think. Ours would be an eternal pledge, understand.

  Yes, you will grow old and eventually die. Then you will be born again, and I will be nearby, waiting for you to grow up and rejoin me.”

  The idea was bittersweet. “What about kids? What about a house and a dog and all that?”

  Valerian feigned a sigh. “Any natural child of mine, Daisy love, would be a monster in both the subjective and literal senses of the word. Still, there are plenty of children alone in the world who would be happy enough to join our unconventional little family. As for a house, you have only to tell me what you want, and I will provide it.” He paused. “The pet can be managed, too. It just so happens that an old friend has recently given me a splendid animal as a gift. You’ll like him—his name is Barabbas.”

  Daisy considered her beloved’s checkered past and the multitude of romantic involvements he readily admitted he’d enjoyed. “You won’t get—restless? I should think a mortal might be pretty dull, over the long haul, when a guy’s used to lady vampires.”

  He brushed her lips with his own. “If you knew what I have been through, just to be with you, you would never doubt my fidelity,” he answered at his leisure. “One day—or one night, rather—I shall tell you all about it. Furthermore, while usually beautiful and always fascinating, ‘lady vampires,’ as you so generously describe them, can be the coldest and most heartless beings in all creation.”

  Daisy didn’t reply, but simply slid her arms around his neck and raised her face in the shimmering moonlight to invite the vampire’s kiss.

  “Remember this night,” she whispered.

  “Because we can be together at long last?”

  She smiled. “And because it’s the beginning of always.”

  IV

  Tonight And Always

  Contents

  Dear Readers:

  Untitled

  Prologue

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Epilogue

  Dear Readers:

  I am delighted to present the fourth and final book in my vampire series, Tonight and Always, in this new format. It was a joy to write these books back in the ’90s, before the paranormal craze took off. They came from the heart and from a deep desire to tell richly detailed and emotional stories—long before vampires became the fashion.

  Kristina is the daughter of Maeve and Calder, the couple featured in For All Eternity. She has immortality, but her powers are limited. The last thing she needs is the complication of falling in love with a mortal man, but of course, that’s exactly what happens. My challenge for this book was how to reconcile Kristina’s destiny with the direction of her heart.

  If you enjoy Kristina’s story as much as I loved writing it, you are in for a great ride. There are, alas, no more vampire books from me, so take your time to savor this one!

  Warmly,

  Linda Lael Miller

  FOR JUDITH STERN PALAIS,

  THE CONSUMMATE PRO AND A LOYAL FRIEND, WITH LOVE, APPRECIATION, AND GREAT ADMIRATION.

  THANK YOU.

  For love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; Being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears: What is it else? A madness most discreet,

  A choking gall and a preserving sweet.

  Romeo and Juliet

  Prologue

  LONDON

  WINTER, 1872

  The new governess leaned down from what seemed to the child a great height, smiling her brash American smile. The woman was pretty enough, with her auburn hair and shining green eyes, and smart, too, or Mummy wouldn’t have engaged her in the first place. Still, a stranger was a stranger.

  “Kristina Tremayne Holbrook, is it?” Miss Phillips inquired in a non-objectionable tone of voice. “Such a big name for so small a girl.”

  Kristina came out of the voluminous folds of her nanny’s skirts to correct an apparent misconception on the part of the newcomer. “I am not so very little,” she said. “I’m five—six next April—and I can already read and count to a hundred. You may be on your way now—we won’t be needing you because I shall learn all I need to know from Mama and Papa and Valerian.”

  Mrs. Eldridge, the plump nurse with whom Kristina spent the majority of her time, laid a fond and encouraging hand atop her charge’s head. “Hush now, child,” she scolded benignly. Then, to the governess she confided, “You mustn’t mind our Kristina. She’s too bright by half, she is, and sometimes it makes her a mite saucy, but she’s good through and through.” She paused to emit a heartfelt sigh. “Now, come right in and settle yourself next to the drawing room fire, Miss Phillips, and welcome to you. It’s a blustery day out, isn’t it, and I daresay a nice cup of tea would go well with you just now.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Eldridge,” Miss Phillips said, removing her dowdy bonnet and cloak, both of which were dappled with snow, and handing them off to Delia, the handsome downstairs maid, whose duty it was to greet and announce guests and look after their belongings while they were being entertained. Delia collected Miss Phillips’s battered carpet satchel—it was dripping on the Persian rug—and bore that away as well.

  Kristina lagged behind as Mrs. Eldridge and Miss Phillips hurried into the drawing room, arms linked, whispering to each other. She lingered just inside the double doors, half hidden behind the marble pedestal that supported a bust of Socrates, while Miss Phillips was made comfortable beside the coal fire.

  When Mrs. Eldridge went out to arrange for tea to be served, Miss Phillips put her small feet in their scuffed black boots on the chrome rail edging the hearth, and sighed contentedly.

  “I do like to toast my toes on a winter’s day,” she said cheerfully. “Don’t you, Kristina?”

  Kristina had believed herself invisible, dwarfed as she was by Socrates and his pillar, and was both disgruntled and pleased that her new teacher had taken notice of her. Mama and Papa were loving and attentive, but they were never about during the daylight hours, and both of them were very busy—Papa worked in his laboratory belowstairs, and Mama was the queen of something, though Kristina didn’t know exactly what.

  “Yes,” she said tentatively, drawn to the young woman with bright hair and shabby clothes and a gentle voice.

  “Won’t you join me by the fire? I feel a little lonely, sitting here all by myself.”

  Kristina understood loneliness well, though she was but five. It was a mysterious ache in one small corner of her heart, and always with her, even when Mama or Papa or Valerian
or Mrs. Eldridge was nearby. Most of the time she felt as though she were lost from someone she did not yet know, and must find that person to be truly happy. Given her age and size, and the fact that she was not allowed to go farther than the wall at the rear of the garden by herself, the objective seemed very daunting indeed.

  She stepped nearer to the hearth, leaning on the arm of Papa’s wing-back chair. Miss Phillips sat smiling in the matching seat, which was Mama’s. The approach was concession enough, for the moment—Kristina did not speak.

  Miss Phillips smoothed her skirts, which were clean but frayed at the hem and mended in at least two places. “I do not think you are really so shy as you pretend to be,” she said. “Are you afraid of me, Kristina?”

  “No,” Kristina said in a sturdy voice. “Not now. I was for a few moments, though.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t know you,” Kristina responded reasonably. “I’ve been told never to speak to strangers.”

  “Good advice,” Miss Phillips agreed. “We shall be fast friends, you and I, as well as student and tutor. I think you like to learn, and there is much I can teach you. I would like to begin our association by taking you to St. Regent’s Lecture Hall tomorrow afternoon. The topic is the mythology of ancient Greece.”

  Kristina felt her eyes widen. She rarely left the house, except with Mrs. Eldridge for carriage rides through the park in good weather, and she loved the sights and sounds and smells and people—so many people—that made up the great city of London.

  “I don’t know anything at all about Greece,” she confessed solemnly. “Or mythology, either.”

  “All the more reason to attend a lecture,” replied Miss Phillips, tucking away a smile.

  That night, after Mrs. Eldridge and Miss Phillips and Kristina had taken their supper by the nursery fire, the nanny and the governess went off to their own quarters, and Mama came to help Kristina get ready for bed.

  It was her favorite time of the day, for Mama was beautiful, and full of stories, and she could do all sorts of marvelous tricks, like making dolls dance with each other, or causing real snow to drift down from the ceiling. She never entered or left the room in the customary fashion, either, but simply appeared and disappeared. Kristina wondered, when she took the time to ponder such questions, why Mrs. Eldridge and the maids didn’t move from place to place the way Mama did, instead of bothering with stairs and doors and other such ordinary things.

  “I’m going to hear a lecture on ancient Greece tomorrow with Miss Phillips!” Kristina blurted, so excited that she bounced on her feather bed and wheeled her arms.

  Mama laughed as she wrestled Kristina’s warm flannel nightgown over her small head, which was dark like her own. “Well, now,” she said. “I shall want to hear all about that adventure.” She paused to smooth Kristina’s silken hair. “Do you like Miss Phillips, darling?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s wonderful.” Kristina’s happiness faded a little as she considered a possibility that had not occurred to her before. “Will Mrs. Eldridge be going away, now that I’m big enough to have a governess?”

  Mama kissed her forehead, her blue eyes shining with love, and embraced her daughter tightly. “No, sweetheart—she’ll stay. Since Papa and I can’t be with you in the daytime, it’s important that Mrs. Eldridge be here.”

  Kristina was relieved, for the nanny had been her constant companion for as long as she could remember, and it would be terrible indeed if she ever went away. “Why is that, Mama?” she ventured to ask. “Why are you and Papa never at home before dark?”

  Mama hesitated, then answered in a soft and somewhat wistful voice, “I’ll explain that soon, when you’re just a little older. In the meantime, you must be patient.”

  After a grave nod, Kristina sat down on the bed and pulled the warm covers up to her chest. “All right,” she said. “But I want to know the instant I’m old enough.” Her mother laughed again, and Kristina was struck anew by her loveliness; she was a magical creature, with her pale, flawless skin, her flowing ebony hair, her exquisitely fitted white gown. “I promise to tell you all the family secrets as soon as I think you’re ready to hear them,” she said.

  Kristina snuggled deeper into the bedclothes, already fighting sleep but determined to make the time with Mama last. “Make the puppets tell a story,” she whispered. “Please?”

  Mama drew a chair up beside Kristina’s bed, sat down, and gestured grandly toward the ornate toy puppet theater, a gift from Kristina’s Uncle Valerian, which stood on the window seat. Instantly the tiny stage was flooded with light, and the small, colorful figures rattled to loose-jointed life and began to perform.

  Kristina was asleep before the end of the first act.

  The lecture was fascinating, full of gods and goddesses, minotaurs and mazes. Kristina perched on the edge of her chair throughout, and even though she did not understand much of what was said, she left the public hall with a storm of bright, strange images raging in her mind.

  She and Miss Phillips rode home together in the carriage, with a heavy quilt over their laps and warm bricks tucked beneath their feet, chattering excitedly about all they’d heard.

  It was that night after supper, and after Papa had come to the nursery to read a chapter from a novel by Mr. Mark Twain in his deep and somehow reassuring voice, that Kristina first realized that she was different from other children.

  She’d been sleeping, and dreaming of Athens, the city that had figured so prominently in the lecture, when the warmth of her bed was suddenly gone, replaced by a chill that seemed to wrap itself around her very bones. She opened her eyes and found herself standing in the middle of a vast marble pavilion, an eerie place, splashed with cold silver moonlight and utterly silent.

  This, Kristina knew, was no dream. The cool stone beneath her bare feet was solid and real, and so were the chipped columns and fractured statues looming all around her. This was certainly not London, and she did not know how to get home.

  She cried out in fear.

  Instantly Mama appeared and knelt to draw a trembling Kristina into her arms. “It’s all right, darling,” she whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Kristina clung tightly to her mother. “How did I get here?” she pleaded. “What is this place?”

  Mama cupped Kristina’s face in her cool, soft fingers and looked into her eyes. “This is Greece, my love. You were dreaming about it, weren’t you? And your thoughts brought you here.”

  “My thoughts?”

  Mama smiled and gave Kristina a tight hug before rising to her full height again and taking her daughter’s hand. “Yes. Come, let’s go home—think hard about your room and your toys, sweetheart, and we’ll be there in a trice.” It happened just as Mama said; in a twinkling the two of them were safe in the nursery, and Greece was far away, where it belonged.

  “The time to speak of magic and mysteries came sooner than I expected,” Mama began, sitting down by the dying fire and lifting Kristina onto her lap. They rocked together, Kristina’s head resting against her mother’s shoulder. “A long time ago there were two small children, your uncle Aidan and me. One day our mother took us to see a gypsy, and we had our fortunes told….”

  62

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  PRESENT DAY

  Kristina found the packet of letters tucked inside a small cedar box, in a far corner of her attic, while searching for a ceramic jack-o’-lantern to set out on the front porch in honor of Halloween. In an instant the witches’ holiday was forgotten; the mere sight of those heavy vellum envelopes, with their faded, curling stamps, struck her a bittersweet blow to the heart. She had not thought of her beloved governess, Miss Eudocia Phillips, in at least fifty years.

  Now, in that cramped and dusty chamber where bits and fragments of the past were stored, memories nearly overwhelmed Kristina. She sat down on the arched lid of an old steamer trunk, heedless of potential damage to her white silk slacks, and was only mildly surprised to find the ribbon-bou
nd stack of letters clasped with fevered gentleness in her hands. She did not recall reaching for it.

  For a long time she simply sat there, holding the letters, remembering. There was no real need to read the words, some penned in her own handwriting, some in Miss Phillips’s ornate Victorian script. Just touching the paper evoked those vibrant, colorful, and often painful days with breathtaking clarity, bringing tears to Kristina’s eyes and stealing her breath.

  Presently Kristina looked up, blinked several times, and saw her reflection in the murky surface of the large antique mirror she’d purchased in Hong Kong. She looked just as she had for upwards of a hundred years, except that she’d worn her dark hair long before the nineteen-twenties, like everyone else. Her skin was still unwrinkled, and her figure remained slender and supple.

  Pretty good, she thought, with a slight and rueful smile, for a woman of my maturity.

  Kristina shifted her attention from her image to the ornately ugly contours of the mirror itself, pressing the back of one hand to her face. She’d gone traveling after her husband Michael’s death in the 1890s, roaming the world like a restless wind, never staying in one place for long. One bleak and rainy afternoon she’d found the piece in a seedy back-street shop and bought it.

  To this day Kristina had no idea why she’d wanted the monstrosity. She’d done a number of strange things after Michael was killed—and many of her experiences and emotions were recorded, in great detail, in the letters she held. Miss Phillips’s private nurse, engaged by Kristina, had returned her letters after the old woman succumbed to pneumonia in 1934.