The Black Rose Chronicles

by Linda Lael Miller

The curious, electrical mist dissipated as Max watched, and a small monkey wearing a red velvet fez and a matching vest perched where the vase had been.

  The kids shrieked and clapped with joy, believing. Accepting it all at face value.

  Max frowned, stumped. No trapdoor, no table, no box on wheels. How the hell had he done that?

  “It’s a night for magic,” commented a feminine voice, and he saw Kristina standing beside him.

  “Who is that?” Max demanded in a whisper as the fog of light returned and the vase reappeared. There was, of course, no sign of the monkey.

  “His name is Valerian,” Kristina said, watching the magician with pride and affection shimmering in her eyes.

  “He’s damn good,” Max allowed, but he felt grumpy all of a sudden. Especially when all the kids, including his own, turned as one to shush him.

  Kristina took his arm and pulled him away, into the hall. Her cauldron was there, doubling and bubbling, toiling and troubling. “I didn’t realize you lived in this neighborhood,” she said.

  Max felt a surge of crazy, drunken joy. God, it was pathetic when a thirty-five-year-old man could be this grateful just because an attractive woman made small talk with him. He needed to get out more.

  “Our house isn’t quite this fancy,” he replied. “It’s just an ordinary colonial with green shutters and a fanlight over the door.”

  “Your wife must have loved it,” she said dreamily. Then she put a hand to her shapely chest, plainly embarrassed, and gave a sigh. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.” Max wanted to put her at ease, and more. He wanted to ford rivers and scale peaks for her, to slay dragons and build cities of gold that she could rule over.

  Get a grip, he told himself. “It’s okay,” he said aloud. “Sandy never saw the house—we lived in a condo on Queen Anne Hill when she was killed. After—afterward, well, Eliette and I seemed to stumble over a memory every time we turned around, and we weren’t making much progress with the grief, so I bought this place—” He stopped, flustered, wishing he could refill his cup. He hadn’t said that much about the move to his parents, his closest friends, or even Gweneth. “I guess I told you more than you wanted to know.”

  She touched his arm with gentle albeit green fingers and smiled. “No,” she said softly. There was a brief, tender pause, then she went on. “Eliette is a beautiful name—I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before.”

  “My wife’s father was with the diplomatic corps, and the family spent a lot of time in France. Sandy spoke the language fluently and loved everything about the place—the people, the food, the music, the art. We were going to take a trip to Paris the next summer—”

  Damn it, he’d done it again.

  “It’s all right,” Kristina insisted. “What about your other daughter—the little one?”

  Max smiled. “That’s Sabrina—we call her Bree,” he said. “She thinks you can do magic.”

  “Maybe I can,” Kristina replied with a smile and the slightest of shrugs. “Unlike most adults, children know enchantment when they see it. The lucky ones have yet to be blinded by disbelief—they still trust themselves.”

  Max cleared his throat, went to take a sip of his wine, remembered that the cup was empty, and blurted out, “I like you.” He was wondering if there was such a thing as classes for the dating-impaired. “I mean—”

  She laughed that wonderful, chiming laugh. “I like you, too, Max,” she said, and waited, her eyes dancing, her makeup beginning to run. Beneath the green grease-paint, her skin was very fair and cameo-perfect.

  “I thought maybe we could go out to dinner somewhere. Tomorrow night, I mean.” He held his breath.

  “I’d enjoy that,” she said. “I keep the shop open until seven on Friday nights. Would you like to pick me up there, or should I meet you at the restaurant?”

  Max was wildly pleased and wanted to run outside and dance on the lawn like a kid celebrating the first snowfall. Fortunately he managed to subdue those urges. “I’m an old-fashioned guy,” he answered. “I’ll pick you up at the shop.”

  “I knew that.”

  “That I’d pick you up at the shop?”

  “No,” she said with a twinkle. “That you were an old-fashioned guy.”

  It sounded like a compliment, so Max took it as such.

  Kristina waved stained fingers as Max left the party sometime later, carrying a sleepy Bree in the curve of one strong arm. His free hand rested lightly, affectionately, on Eliette’s small head. He nodded to Kristina, and she felt a sweet pull, deep down, that was both physical and emotional.

  Daisy, aka Marie Antoinette, stood next to her, holding her head in the curve of one elbow. Her green eyes peered at Kristina from inside the French queen’s latex bosom, above which rose a stump of a neck.

  “Good looking guy,” said Marie’s cleavage.

  Kristina sighed. She didn’t know why she was letting herself dream about dating Max Kilcarragh, let alone marrying him and having children by him. He was mortal, and she was God-only-knew-what. Things could never work, out between them.

  “Yeah,” she said sadly. “He’s good-looking all right. Even better, he’s decent, and funny, and kind.”

  Daisy shifted the plastic head from one arm to the other and shifted uncomfortably. Evidently Marie’s dainty satin slippers were beginning to pinch. “Shall I run a check on him for you? You know, find out if he’s got any bad habits—more than one wife—stuff like that?”

  “Don’t you dare,” Kristina said, prodding at the bloody stump of Her Highness’s neck with one finger and frowning. “Max and I are having dinner together, not getting married. If he’s got any bad habits—and I doubt it—I don’t want to know about them.”

  Daisy pulled off the top part of her costume, to Kristina’s relief, so that her own unsevered head was revealed, and tossed the debris onto the hall table. “Don’t you read pop psychology or watch talk shows?” she demanded. Her copper hair was wildly disarrayed, and the look in her green eyes said she was serious. “You can’t go around ignoring bad habits in a man. That’s denial!”

  The house was empty except for the two of them and Barabbas, who was upstairs somewhere, sleeping under a bed. Valerian had already done his vanishing act; he would want to feed before materializing in his dressing room at the Venetian Hotel, in Las Vegas, to prepare for that night’s performance. So Kristina spoke freely. “Don’t talk to me about denial, my friend,” she said cheerfully, taking her coat and purse from the hall closet. “The love of your life is a real, live, card-carrying, neck-munching vampire, remember? Talk about bad habits!”

  Daisy shoved fingers stained with novelty-store blood through her hair and grinned. It had been hot inside that costume, apparently, for her face glistened with perspiration. “I never said I wasn’t kinky,” she said, and they both laughed.

  “Good night,” Kristina said moments later, pulling on her coat and rummaging through her drawstring bag for her car keys. “And thanks for a sensational party.”

  “Thank you,” Daisy countered. “You made a really great witch. But, uh—” she glanced back at the cauldron. “What am I supposed to do with the brew? Is it toxic, or can I pore it down the storm drain?”

  “Not to worry.” Kristina looked at the pot and snapped her fingers, and it obediently disappeared.

  Daisy smiled. “You’ve got a future with the Environmental Protection Agency,” she said, following Kristina out onto the porch, where the jack-o’-lanterns still projected gleaming grins into the darkness. “Could you just make the stuff in the landfills disappear, for a start?”

  Kristina waggled a finger at her friend, walking backward while she spoke. “You know the rules, Dase. No interfering with the course of history.”

  Daisy leaned against one of the pillars supporting the porch roof. “At least your attitude is better than Valerian’s—when I ask him questions like that, he says something like, ‘You mortals made your bed, you can lie in it.’ Who makes these
rules, anyway?”

  Standing beside her car, a white Mercedes 450SL, Kristina shrugged and pushed a key into the lock on the driver’s side. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” she called back. “All I can tell you is, I was born knowing I’d better obey them. Good night again, Daisy. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Let me know how the date goes,” Daisy replied with a nod and a wave.

  When Kristina looked into her rearview mirror, as she drove down the driveway, she saw the white wolf join Daisy on the porch, its coat gleaming in the moonlight. One by one, the faces of the jack-o’-lanterns winked out.

  The girls had both washed their faces, brushed their teeth, said their prayers, and gone to sleep. No doubt they were already dreaming magic dreams, Max thought as he closed the door of the room they shared, and turned to go back down the hall to the head of the stairs.

  Elaine, Sandy’s sister, was standing by the front door, wearing her coat. She was wrapping a muffler around her neck when Max reached the bottom step.

  “Thanks,” he said. “For holding down the fort while we were visiting the neighbors tonight, I mean. Did you get a lot of trick-or-treaters?”

  Elaine resembled her late sister, but only physically. She was shy and uncertain, while Sandy had been a dynamo, full of opinions and ideas and eager to express them. “Not so many,” she said, pulling the muffler up over her head like a shawl. “I guess most of the kids were at the party.”

  Max nodded. He always felt vaguely guilty around Elaine, as though there was something he was supposed to do or say or notice—something that eluded him completely. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said.

  Elaine smiled, and for a moment she was almost pretty. “It’s in the driveway. Just watch me from the porch, if you would—”

  Max opened the door and took her elbow lightly in one hand. He saw Elaine to the late-model Toyota parked behind his red Blazer, despite her earlier suggestion, and waited until she’d locked the doors, started the engine, and driven away. The neighborhood was a peaceful one, but crime was on the rise in Seattle like everywhere else.

  Turning to go back inside. Max saw the sleek, silvery-white form of a dog streak across the lawn next door. In mere moments the animal leaped the fence, trotted over, and sat on its haunches on Max’s front walk.

  Standing still, more fascinated than afraid, Max saw that this was no dog, after all, but a wolf. The creature’s eyes were an uncanny blue, and they glinted with an unnerving intelligence.

  “If you aren’t the infamous Barabbas,” Max said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his brown corduroy slacks, “you’re certainly a candidate for the all-around best costume.”

  A shrill whistle pierced the night, and Barabbas perked up his ears in response.

  “Damn it, Barabbas,” a female voice called, “do you want to end up in the pound?”

  Barabbas made a whimpering sound and then uttered a dutiful yelp, and an attractive woman in jeans and a plaid flannel jacket appeared on the sidewalk in front of Max’s house. He recognized her immediately as his neighbor, the party-giver, and he was happy to see her. Relieved, too.

  The wolf trotted over, took the fence in another graceful bound, and proceeded to lick one of the woman’s hands.

  “I’m Daisy Chandler,” she said, holding out the other hand over the fence. “I saw you at the party tonight, but we didn’t get a chance to talk.”

  Max walked to the gate and shook her hand. “Max Kilcarragh,” he said. “It was a terrific setup—especially the witch.” He was embarrassed all of a sudden, fearing he’d revealed too much about his attraction to Kristina. “The magician wasn’t bad, either.”

  She laughed. “I guess that’s a matter of viewpoint,” she said. “Sorry about Barabbas, here. I hope he didn’t scare you.”

  Max saw the humor of the situation, now that White Fang was on the other side of the fence and completely enthralled by his mistress. “It was the first time I ever had an aerobic experience without moving anything on the outside of my body,” he said. Mindful of recent chilling headlines concerning wolves kept as pets, and of Bree’s fear of the animal, Max turned serious. “Maybe it isn’t—well, maybe it’s dangerous, keeping a wild animal in a residential area.”

  “Oh, Barabbas isn’t wild,” Ms. Chandler said with supreme confidence. “He wouldn’t hurt anybody unless they deserved it.”

  Eliette had said a similar thing earlier, Max recalled. He wondered what made his daughter—and Ms. Chandler—so sure the wolf was tame. “All the same, I wonder—”

  “Trust me, it’s okay,” Ms. Chandler broke in, speaking as cheerfully as before, and Max found that he wanted very much to believe her. Some instinct, born long, long ago in the mind of some distant ancestor and passed down to him through uncountable generations, told him that this woman was a friend. “Barabbas loves children.”

  Max felt his mouth slant into a grin. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said. But in truth he really wasn’t worried about the wolf any longer. Maybe some passing witch had cast a spell over him. “My daughters enjoyed the party, and so did I. Thanks for inviting us.”

  “Thanks for coming,” she said. “It was a nice turnout, wasn’t it? I would have been disappointed if nobody had showed up.” She flashed him another smile. “Well, Barabbas and I had better be getting back now. See you around, Mr. Kilcarragh.”

  “Max,” he corrected, starting toward the house. No need to fear for Ms. Chandler’s safe passage home, with a wolf to escort her.

  “Daisy,” she answered and went her way, with the Hound of the Baskervilles trotting along behind her like a puppy.

  Max went back inside and wandered into the living room, which had been cluttered when he left for the party earlier in the evening. Now, thanks to Elaine, the place was as tidy as an old maid’s parlor—except for the pumpkin.

  The jack-o’-lantern, which he had carved a week before, with close supervision by Eliette and Bree, sat forlornly in the middle of the coffee table, caving in on itself and smelling like what it was—a scorched squash.

  Max took it in both hands, carried it into the kitchen, and dropped it into the trash. “Sorry,” he told the discarded vegetable as he washed his hands at the sink, “but that’s life. Ask last year’s Christmas tree.”

  “Who are you talking to, Daddy?”

  Max turned to see Bree standing in the doorway, clutching her “blankie.” “Myself,” he said, scooping the child into his arms and giving her a quick hug. “What are you doing up, anyway? It’s late.”

  “I was thinking about the witch lady,” Bree answered, rubbing one eye with the back of a dimpled hand. “The pretty one we saw at the white wolf’s house. Do you think she’s green all over?”

  Max started up the rear stairway, still carrying Bree. “No,” he replied, hiding a smile. “She isn’t green anywhere, Poppet. She’s a regular woman, not a witch. Her name is Kristina, and she’s very, very nice.”

  Bree laid her head on Max’s shoulder and sighed sleepily. “Maybe she isn’t green, and maybe she’s nice, too. Maybe she’s even regular, but she is a witch.”

  Max kissed his daughter’s downy temple. “No, honey. She was only pretending. For Halloween.”

  Bree yawned big and gave his cheek a sympathetic pat. “Grown-ups,” she said with another sigh. With that, she promptly fell asleep again.

  64

  After blitzing her costume back into the nothingness from whence it came, and scrubbing off the green greasepaint in the shower, Kristina brewed herself a cup of herbal tea. Bundled in the comfortable cocoon of her favorite robe, a pink terry-cloth number with deep pockets and a zipper in front, she sat in her darkened living room, watching the moon through the huge leaded-glass windows opposite her chair.

  “Here’s to you,” she said, raising her teacup in a friendly salute to all things lunar. The massive translucent disk almost seemed to be hovering just beyond the glass, hoping for an invitation to tea.

  Kristina settled back
in her chair and closed her eyes, haunted by images of Max and his beautiful children. Her yearning to be mortal was, in those moments, so poignant, so deeply rooted in the center of her being, that it threatened to splinter her very soul.

  If indeed she had a soul, Kristina thought as one tear slipped down her cheek.

  “Depressed, my darling?”

  Kristina jumped and opened her eyes wide to see Dathan, the golden-haired warlock, standing next to the fireplace.

  Of late, he had taken to wearing capes and tuxedos, á la Valerian, though the two politely despised each other.

  “Don’t call me ‘darling,’” Kristina snapped, nearly upsetting her tea as angry adrenaline surged through her system. “And I won’t have you just appearing in my house, either. It’s bad enough when my mother and Valerian do it.”

  Dathan’s smile was charmingly rueful and quite heartrending—if one didn’t know him for the scheming wastrel he was. Despite his guileless brown eyes and choir-boy looks, his capacity for devilment rivaled Valerian’s own. “Sorry,” he said. “I was passing by and—”

  “Flying across the moon, you mean,” Kristina scoffed. She remained in her chair and held her teacup in both hands to keep from spilling the contents on her bathrobe.

  He pressed one palm to his chest and splayed his fine, tapered fingers. “You wound me,” he said. “I’m here out of concern for you, Kristina.”

  “Right.”

  “And it is Halloween, after all. Surely I can be forgiven for popping in on a friend.” He crossed to a table inlaid with marble, a piece Kristina had acquired at Sotheby’s in 1921, and helped himself to a handful of brightly colored candies.

  “You are not a friend,” Kristina pointed out coolly. “I hope the candy com will suit. We’re fresh out of dead rats and flies’ wings.”

  “A second blow,” Dathan cried around a mouthful of treats, clutching his chest again. “More crippling even than the first!” He swallowed with a tragic gulp. “I’ve come here expressly to save you from making a dreadful error, and how do you repay me? With insults!”