Kristina sighed. “Please do not add bad acting to your other crimes,” she said. “Just tell me what you want and get out.”
He executed a sweeping bow, eyes twinkling, and began to pace the length of the room in long, aristocratic strides, showing off his cape to excellent advantage and putting away more candy com with every step. “You may know that I seek a vampire bride,” he said. “Imagine the possibilities, the powers that might result, if a warlock and a blood-drinker were to mate!”
Kristina rubbed her temple. “Well, you’re barking up the wrong tombstone this time,” she said wearily. “Despite my illustrious heritage, I’m definitely not a vampire. And even if I were—”
“Stop,” Dathan warned, halting, with a majestic, rustling swirl of silk in the center of the room. “You’ve made your disinterest in my romantic attentions plain enough already. I wasn’t suggesting that we get together, I merely hoped that you might have a friend—”
“Ah,” Kristina said, her headache intensifying. “You want me to fix you up. I thought you and Roxanne Havermail were an item. How’s the family, by the way?” Color surged into Dathan’s face. “Kindly do not mention that creature, or her horrible children, again!”
Kristina smiled, recalling Benecia and Canaan Havermail, Roxanne’s five-hundred-year-old babies, who were vampires in their own right and all the more savage for their doll-like, little-girl beauty. “Valerian will be disappointed that his matchmaking didn’t work out,” she said. “And since Avery Havermail ran off with that fledgling a few years ago, Roxanne and the girls have been—lost.” Dathan seethed in silence for a few moments, then, with admirable resolve, regained control of his temper and spoke in a moderate, even cordial, tone. “Kristina,” he began again, in slow, measured tones. “Do you know any unattached vampires?”
She couldn’t help it—she laughed. His phrasing had been unfortunate but highly visual. “No,” she said when she’d recovered. “Except for my mother—who is madly in love with my father and will be for all eternity—and the Havermails, I am not acquainted with any female nightwalkers.” Her tea had turned cold, but she took a sip anyway. “Now, before you go, please explain that comment you made earlier, about saving me from making a terrible mistake.”
The warlock looked so defeated and so forlorn that Kristina almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but not quite. She’d been around long enough to know a first-class flimflam artist when she saw one. “You shouldn’t become involved with the mortal,” he said. “Max Kilcarragh, I mean.”
Kristina stiffened. Valerian, her parents, the Havermails—all of them could defend themselves against the warlock if the need arose—but Max was different, of course. He had no magical powers and would thus be no match for the likes of Dathan. “What do you know about Max?”
The magnificent warlock toyed with one of the emerald cufflinks glittering at his wrists. “Enough,” he replied gruffly, “and stop worrying. I’m no threat to him or to his children. It’s just that he can’t give you his heart, my dear—it’s buried with his dead wife. He adored her, you see.
Kristina’s eyes stung, and she blinked a couple of times in an effort to hold back tears. “Stay away from Max Kilcarragh,” she said evenly and quietly. “If you dare to bother him in any way—”
Dathan held up both hands, immaculately gloved, in a bid for peace. “I give you my word, Kristina. I mean him no harm.”
“Valerian has told me about the word of warlocks.”
The splendid, graceful creature sighed. “Your friend the vampire is hardly objective where we are concerned, is he? Be fair, Kristina—what have I ever done to deserve your rancor, except admire you and make a fool of myself over you?”
Kristina was not good at holding grudges, especially against beings, human or otherwise, who had never hurt her in any way. She let Dathan’s plaintive question pass unanswered, however, and countered, “How would you know anything about the state of Max Kilcarragh’s heart?”
He shrugged. “I saw you with him earlier, and flipped through a few mental files, that’s all. Poor Max. He’d give up his own life, even after two years, if it would bring his Sandy back.”
Kristina ached inside, because she understood Max’s pain, had felt something similar herself, once upon a time. Far from putting her off, Max’s devotion to his lost wife increased his appeal. Along with all his other fine characteristics, he was loyal.
“Yes,” she said softly, “I’m sure he would do that. That’s part of what makes him Max. Now, if you don’t mind—”
Dathan uttered another sigh, gave his cape a dashing swirl, and vanished.
Kristina carried her teacup into the kitchen and set it on the drain board. Then she climbed the rear stairway and moved along the hall toward her bedroom. On the way she passed one of her favorite pieces of furniture, a small lacquered chest purchased long ago in Florence, and ran her fingers lightly over its smooth surface.
The thick packet of letters from the attic waited on the nightstand in Kristina’s bedroom, in the cedar box, and she did not need to open them, or even touch the dried, crumbling paper, to bring their contents flooding into her mind, word for word….
…and you can probably imagine, Phillie dear, how my beloved parents reacted to the news that I was in love with Michael Bradford. Why, they hardly took it better than Valerian did—he was in a terrible rage for weeks, and when that finally passed, he remained inconsolable for some time.
But I’m getting ahead of myself again. I’m afraid I’ve never quite broken that habit, despite all my efforts to slow down and take matters one by one.
It began to rain again, that afternoon when Michael brought me home to Refuge after my tumble from Pan’s back, and we were quite drenched by the time we reached the stables. Naturally I offered the hospitality of our cozy drawing room, where there would be a warm fire burning, with hot tea and biscuits close at hand, and Michael accepted graciously.
I still recall the mingled and not unpleasant scents of damp wool, brandy, horseflesh, and some manly cologne as my childhood enemy stood before the hearth, smiling down at me while he waited for his clothes and hair to dry.
“You’ve grown up to be a very lovely woman, Kristina,” he said.
My heart rate quickened at his words and so, however imperceptibly, did my breathing. I wondered how lovely I could be, sitting there on Papa’s leather hassock with my garments tom and wet and covered in mud, and my tresses straggling untidily from their pins. Only then did it occur to me that I might have gone to my room to wash and change and do something with my hair before sitting down to tea with a gentleman.
I fear the social graces were not emphasized in our home after your time with us came to an end. Mama would have thought it demeaning for a woman to prink and preen for a man, and Papa was only interested in Mama, then as now, and in his endless scientific experiments. Manners and conventions seem silly to him, I’m sure.
But Michael had paid me a compliment, and I was charmed and quite smitten even then. I had to set my tea aside, for fear of spillage, and my face felt much too warm, considering the distance between myself and the fire.
“Thank you,” I said, as you taught me, keeping my eyes down.
“You’re here all alone, in this vast house?”
I made myself look at Michael and replied, “Not really. The servants are here, and it’s not a large place, really. Not like Cheltingham.”
“That haunted ruin,” Michael scoffed, dismissing several centuries of very distinctive history with the wave of a hand. “It’s a cold dungeon of a place, filled with drafts and dust motes and wailing specters, and I abhor it.” The word haunted did not intrigue me, as it might have done another girl, for I knew a thing or two about such phenomena, of course, and in fact found them so commonplace as to be boring. “But Cheltingham is your home,” I protested. “Your family lives there, after all.” Too late I recalled Michael’s antipathy toward his elder brother, Gilbert, the future Duke of Cheltingham. He turned awa
y quickly, ostensibly fascinated by a small figurine on the mantelpiece, but not before I saw the look of wretched misery flickering like dark flames in his eyes.
“So they do,” he said, trying to sound disinterested and failing utterly.
I rose from my hassock and went to lay a bold hand on his arm, whispering his name, wanting to offer him some small comfort, some reassurance.
He turned suddenly and took me into his arms and held me close, out of some secret desperation rather than passion. I felt him tremble against me as he struggled to contain his emotions, and although I am ashamed to admit it, I wanted him to go on holding me like that forever.
Alas, Michael remembered himself and released me within a few moments, and I stood tottering on the hearth, speechless and flushed, while he stepped away, shoving a hand through his rain-dampened hair. “I’m sorry, Kristina,” he said. “I had no right to take such a liberty.”
I did not speak; I could not have done so for anything, for my foolish heart was wedged into my throat, and my eyes were filled with the tears of a besotted virgin. Which, of course, is exactly what I was.
He apologized again and promptly took his leave, and I was left behind to adore him in hopeless solitude, as I would be many times in the future. But I knew nothing of heartache then, nothing of suffering.
I was so very innocent.
The following day, Phillie, he was back—Michael, I mean—to bring me a blue hair ribbon and invite me to go riding with him. I accepted happily and sent a maid to the stables to speak to one of the grooms. I would not ride Pan again, I had decided. The fractious beast could just stay in his stall until he’d learned to behave himself, as far as I was concerned. If he toppled over from old age first, so be it.
A fine palomino mare was brought around for my inspection—Mama had probably acquired it for one of her adventures—and I was more than pleased Here was a mount that would not embarrass me.
I allowed Michael to assist me onto the saddle—being in the company of a gentleman, I did not sit astride as I normally would have done but perched demurely on the animal’s back, hoping I looked pretty.
I was such a fool in those days, but I don’t mind it so much now—looking back on that time, I mean. I was absurdly happy, you see, and the dazzling sunshine of that day will surely warm my heart whenever I remember how it was.
Michael came to call often in the weeks and months that followed, and on those occasions when he was occupied with other things, I missed him so badly that I could not eat or sleep. I might have gone to him, by means of my powers, but even then I was determined not to take unfair advantage of those around me.
Since then, as you might imagine when you’ve heard the whole account, I have often wished I had not been so noble.
Michael proposed marriage exactly eight weeks after our first rainy encounter on the road between Refuge and Cheltingham, and I accepted eagerly.
I did not need to go searching for Mama and Papa to tell them my news; they appeared that very night in the drawing room, where I was sipping tea and sketching wedding gowns for the dressmaker in the village.
“Kristina Holbrook!” Mama said, so sternly that I started in my chair. I had not noticed my parents’ arrival until she spoke, for they had long since foresworn the flamboyant entrances and exits Valerian generally employed.
“What is this nonsense about your marrying Cheltingham’s younger son?” Papa demanded.
I held out my hand to show the promise ring—a sizable sapphire brought from some far-off country many years before, for Michael’s great-grandmother to wear—and smiled. I was pleased to see my mother and father, and not even faintly intimidated by their obvious displeasure. “His name is Michael,” I said, well aware that a certain stubborn light had come into my eyes. “And I love him very much.”
“This will not do!” my father informed me. “The boy is a waste of skin—Cheltingham’s been threatening to make a remittance man of him for years!”
“I shall be his salvation,” I said.
I recall that my beautiful mother rolled her indigo-blue eyes at this pronouncement. “All he needs is the love of a good woman,” she muttered in clear disdain. “Well, it’s true!” I cried, leaping to my feet.
Papa folded his arms. “Kristina, I forbid you to see this young man again. Do you understand? I forbid it.”
“Don’t be a fool, Calder,” Mama said, nudging him lightly with one elbow. “Kristina is an adult. You cannot forbid her to do anything.” She drew close to me and laid cool, calming white hands on my cheeks. “You are infatuated with the lad, darling,” she reasoned. “But that will pass in time, I promise. In the meanwhile, you mustn’t do anything rash.”
I was to think of my mother’s wise counsel often in the years to come, but at the time I thought she only wanted to spoil my fun and keep me a spinster forever.
“I’m tired of being alone,” I said with some bitterness, pulling away and establishing a little distance between myself and the splendid vampires who had raised me with love. “Good heavens. I’m already older than most girls are when they marry.”
“We’re not saying you shouldn’t take a mate, my dear,” Mama said cautiously. Papa was glowering at me in silence, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, his sleeves rolled up for laboratory work, as always. “It’s simply that Michael is—”
“A mortal?” I demanded rudely. “May I remind you, Mama, that Papa was human, too, when I was conceived?”
“Kristina,” my father warned in a quiet voice I had long since learned to obey. “Have a care what you say.
No one, not even you, is permitted to address your mother without respect.”
I swallowed hard, closer to tears now than tantrums. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I do love Michael and I want my own life. I’ve waited long enough.”
We had the same conversation many times in the following weeks, but I was immovable. Finally, in despair, my parents gave up the cause of dissuading me from marrying Michael Bradford and told me sadly that they loved me, that I had only to summon them if I needed anything.
They did not attend the wedding, nor did Valerian, whom I had adopted as an uncle when I was very small. I wept secret tears, before and after the ceremony, because my cherished family refused to share my joy.
I confess, Phillie, that I went so far as to hire a man and woman from a neighboring village to pose as my parents, lest I be shamed before my bridegroom’s kin. Yes, I know it was a cheap and even reprehensible deception, but what else should I have done, old friend? Should I have told the aging duke and duchess, the heir apparent, and my own proud young husband, before their friends and relations, that my mother and father never went abroad during the daylight hours because they were vampires?
Of course I could not. And I must close this letter now, dear, before it becomes too fat for its envelope. I shall write more soon, and I warn you, Phillie, I mean to leave nothing out. You must brace yourself for some ugly truths.
Love Always, Kristina
Max paused outside the door of Kristina’s shop at exactly seven o’clock the next evening, loosened his tie, which felt like a noose, and asked himself what had made him think he had anything in common with this woman. He was an exceptional father, a good football coach, a loyal American, and an all around regular guy, but Kristina Holbrook was way out of his league. He wasn’t even sure what to say to her.
He forced himself to cross the threshold, and the tinkling of the small brass bell heralding his entrance vibrated in his head like the toll of an enormous gong.
Kristina was standing behind the counter, wrapping an exquisite rosewood music box for an upscale woman with a stylish haircut. The silly thought flashed in Max’s mind that Bree would be glad to hear that Kristina was no longer green.
“Hi, Max,” she called with a friendly wave. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“No hurry,” he said, and turned away to browse while Kristina and the customer finished their business.
He was pondering a grotesque bronze monkey when Kristina joined him a few minutes later.
“This might be perfect for Gweneth,” he mused. “Christmas is coming, after all.”
To Max’s surprise, Kristina snatched up the monstrosity and carried it into the back room. She was pale when she returned, and there was a stubborn set to her jaw.
“That thing is not for sale,” she said.
“Why not?” Max asked, puzzled. He didn’t know Kristina well—there hadn’t been time for that—but he had figured out that she wasn’t given to mood swings.
“Because it’s evil, that’s why,” Kristina replied, and immediately looked as though she regretted explaining.
“Evil?”
“Never mind, Max,” she said, her silver eyes softening with some old sorrow as she linked her arm with his. “It’s late, and I’m hungry and very anxious to lock up and leave.”
He smiled down at her, noting the lingering sadness he saw in her delicate features and wondering what he could do, or say, to drive it away. “I tend to be too curious for my own good sometimes,” he said. “Come on, let’s go get something to eat.”
He took her to his favorite restaurant, just off Pioneer Square, where a jazz band played on weekends and the food was Creole and Cajun. It was a loud jumble of waiters and customers, always jammed to the baseboards. The wooden floors were uneven, and the pipes in the rest rooms were exposed and you had to pass the supply closet to find them.
As they followed the hostess through the throng, Max felt a wild stab of doubt. What had he been thinking, bringing a woman like Kristina to a place like this? She was probably used to quiet, elegant restaurants with sweeping views and parchment menus with no prices.
He glanced down at her face, and his heart hurtled upward on a swell of relief because her smile was brilliant. She liked the noise, the crowds, the rickety tables, and the vinyl-backed chairs.
Glory be.
Max put a hand to the small of Kristina’s back, and his touch was light but undeniably protective. Perhaps even a little possessive.
The Black Rose Chronicles Page 97