The Black Rose Chronicles

by Linda Lael Miller

  Michael was a bit drunk by then, for he and his friends had been offering toasts to marital bliss ever since the ceremony ended, but I didn’t think much of it until later. I had only one concern, as I have told you, and that was the marked absence of my own, true family.

  The fireworks ended, and Michael staggered off somewhere, leaving me quite alone. Before I knew what to make of that—it was our wedding night, after all, and I had been looking forward to being deflowered, though I admit I was fearful, too—an argument erupted between my bridegroom and one of his guests.

  I could not have guessed then how serious the repercussions of what seemed like a simple disagreement would turn out to be. Gilbert broke up the shouting match before it could become a brawl, and gave his younger brother a subtle push in my direction.

  I suppose it is indelicate to speak of what happened next, but I must if I am to tell the story in an accurate fashion. Michael put his arm around my waist and guided me toward the darkened house, with only a candle, plucked from one of the Chinese lanterns, to guide our steps.

  I was shivering with excitement and the peculiar sort of dread all innocent brides must feel, and by the time we had entered the castle and gained Michael’s room on the second floor, my husband had sobered considerably.

  In light of future events, I suppose it would make more sense if the evening had brought disillusion, even pain, but it did not. I loved Michael thoroughly, and I believe he felt the same toward me, insofar as he was capable of tender sentiments. He was uncommonly gentle as he removed my wedding gown and all the many troublesome garments beneath, each in its turn and its own good time. He caressed me, and whispered pretty words, and though there was some hurt when, at last, he took me as a husband takes a wife, pleasure soon followed. Am I wanton, Phillie? I enjoyed the things Michael did to me in his bed that night—I thrashed upon the mattress. I moaned when he promised that strange, sweet satisfaction I craved without understanding, cried out when at long last he gave it.

  I understood, after that introduction to marriage, the tremendous passion my parents felt for each other, a caring that transcended time and space, existing in a dimension of its own creation. I actually believed, in my naiveté, that Michael and I shared such a love.

  When I awakened, my bridegroom was gone, though it was not yet dawn. I had sublimated my powers in my desire to be human, but that morning my intuition would not be ignored. I threw back the covers, full of a sick and sudden terror, and pulled on my silk wrapper. I might have gone to him then, disregarding all the care I had taken to hide my magic, but for the sound of a single shot echoing through the air.

  I froze, there in the bedroom I was to share with my husband, while the whole terrible scene unfolded before my eyes, as clearly as if I’d been on that fog-shrouded hillside to witness the tragedy….

  “And still the rascal wasn’t dead,” said an imperious male voice, startling Kristina out of the lost world of the letter. “More’s the pity.”

  Kristina folded the fragile vellum pages carefully and put them aside on the lamp table. Her father, Calder Holbrook, stood at the foot of the chaise, looking both spectacular and miserable in his formal evening clothes. He fiddled with one of his diamond cufflinks—a gift from her mother, of course, since he would never have purchased or conjured such a frippery for himself—and glowered down at his daughter.

  “Mother often appears unannounced,” Kristina said, with a wry, affectionate smile, while he took off his top hat and laid aside his heavy silk cape. “Valerian, too. But this isn’t like you, Papa. Is something wrong?”

  He was beside her in much less than an instant, bending to kiss the top of her head in greeting. “I simply wanted to look in on you, that’s all,” he said, drawing up another chair to sit down. Calder glanced uneasily at the letter Kristina had been immersed in when he arrived. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but your thoughts were so plain that you might as well have been reading those words into a bullhorn.” Kristina smiled. She did not want to discuss the letter. “How is Mama? Or should I ask where is Mama?” Calder sighed, looking exasperated. “There is a ball tonight, to honor Dimity. I have promised to meet your mother there, though I dislike the prospect heartily.”

  She laughed. “If it weren’t for Mama,” she pointed out, “you would never leave that laboratory of yours, except to feed. Tell me, Papa—have you found what you’ve been looking for all these years?”

  At the mention of his singular quest—to find a means of curing vampirism, while retaining the best of that creature’s powers—Calder Holbrook beamed, and Kristina was struck by how handsome he was, with his dark hair and patrician features. He had been a doctor in mortal life, and a good one, serving in the American Civil War. He’d become a vampire, according to her mother, because he wanted to explore a blood-drinker’s singular gifts and use them, if possible, for the good of his beloved humans. Kristina knew that had only been part of the reason; Calder adored Maeve and could not have borne being parted from her.

  “I am making progress,” he said.

  Kristina thought of Max and his children, and the babies she wanted so much but would probably never have. “If you come across a way to make me normal, let me know, will you?”

  Calder’s smile faded to an expression of intense concern. “‘Normal’?” he echoed. “You of all people, Kristina, should know that no such blissful state exists.” He regarded her even more closely. “You’ve met someone. A mortal.” There was no sense in denying it. Vampires were perceptive creatures, and they read the secrets of those with lesser powers easily. “Yes,” Kristina admitted, bracing herself for the same sort of censure she’d gotten when she fell in love with Michael, over a century before. “His name is Max Kilcarragh,” she said almost defiantly, “and he’s a high school football coach.”

  To her surprise, Calder looked excited, even happy. “That’s wonderful!” he enthused. “Just wait until I tell your mother.”

  “Tell her mother what?” demanded Maeve Tremayne Holbrook, appearing out of nowhere in typical fashion. She too was dressed for Dimity’s ball, in a white gown shimmering with thousands of tiny diamonds. Her black hair, showing not a strand of gray, flowed down her back in a gleaming fall of curls, and she stood imperially erect, as always, with her hands resting on her hips.

  “Kristina has fallen in love,” Calder announced before his daughter could move, let alone offer a greeting. He was already on his feet, in that quicker-than-a-wink way vampires had, gazing with fond triumph upon his wife.

  The Queen of all Vampires turned slightly, to regard her daughter with thoughtful, ink-blue eyes. In a trice she’d read the complete story from Kristina’s mind, just as Calder had moments before.

  Kristina loved both her parents beyond measure, but she resented the lack of privacy their tremendous powers afforded her. Rising at last from the chaise, she faced her mother, her stance as regal, in its way, as Maeve’s own. “I hope neither of you will take it upon yourselves to interfere,” she said.

  As if she had any recourse should these two magnificently beautiful monsters decide to turn her entire life inside out and upside down! Her magic, though formidable by mortal standards, was nothing in comparison to theirs. They could travel back in time, for one thing, which meant they could change the present significantly, and that was only the beginning of their abilities.

  Maeve drew herself up, looking more queenlike than ever. “If we didn’t step in when you married that wretch Michael,” she pointed out, “what makes you think we would involve ourselves in this new romance?”

  “It isn’t a romance,” Kristina said wearily.

  Calder cleared his throat to get his wife’s attention and offered his arm in that elegant, old-fashioned way so rare in modern times. “We are late for the ball, are we not?” he inquired.

  The tension was broken, for both Maeve and Kristina knew he had no wish to attend the event, and they laughed.

  Maeve linked her arm with Calder’s. “So we are,”
she said, smiling up at him in plain adoration. A moment later her gaze shifted to Kristina. “We are not through discussing this situation,” she warned. Then, in the merest shadow of a moment, the two vampires vanished.

  Kristina felt more alone than ever. She was neither vampire nor mortal, and in certain ways both worlds were closed to her because of that.

  She glanced back at the letter she had been reading before her father’s arrival, but she suddenly felt too downhearted to go back to it. She’d been kidding herself, inviting Max and his daughters to dinner, letting her heart go wandering where it would, dreaming dreams that could never come true.

  What had she been thinking of? Her attraction to Max Kilcarragh meant trouble at best and, at worst, absolute calamity for all of them.

  Tomorrow, Kristina promised herself, she would telephone Max, make up some excuse, call the whole thing off before any harm had been done.

  The trouble was, she suspected that it was already too late.

  “Daddy?”

  Max was standing in front of the living room fireplace, staring at a framed photograph of Sandy, the children, and himself, and he turned at the sound of his youngest daughter’s voice.

  Bree was in the doorway, clad in pink footed pajamas, her dark hair a-tumble, clasping her beloved teddy bear in one arm.

  “What is it, sweetheart?” he asked. “Bad dream?”

  Bree shook her head. “How long till Christmas?” she asked.

  Max shoved a hand through his hair, feeling mildly exasperated. Halloween was barely over, and Thanksgiving was almost a month off, but the commercials on TV were already pushing toys at every opportunity. “It’s quite a while,” he answered, crossing the room to lift the child into his arms, teddy bear and all. “Why?”

  “I have to get in touch with Santa Claus,” Bree said with the special urgency of a four-year-old. “Do you think we could send him a fax?”

  Max grinned, already mounting the stairs, Bree solid in his arms. “When I was a kid,” he said, “we just wrote the old boy a letter.”

  “A fax is quicker,” Bree reasoned. “Besides, this is an emergency.”

  He wondered where she’d picked up a fancy word like emergency, but only for a moment. Bree was smart, like her sister, and she spent most of her time with adults. “Okay,” he said. “You tell me what you want to say, and I’ll get a message to the North Pole first thing in the morning. There’s a fax machine in the office at school.”

  They had reached the upstairs hallway. Bree yawned in spite of herself, then rested her head on Max’s shoulder. “Ask Santa to please bring back Mommy,” she said. She yawned again, more broadly. “Do you know his number?” Max could barely speak. He’d been ambushed by his emotions again; his throat was thick with tears he dared not shed, and his eyes burned. Where had Bree gotten the idea of asking for something like that? She’d been barely two when the accident happened and couldn’t possibly remember Sandy the way Eliette did. “Sure,” he said gruffly. “I know his number. But there’s a problem here, Button.” Bree raised her head and looked at him with Sandy’s eyes. “What?”

  Max swallowed hard and blinked. “Nobody can bring Mommy back, honey. Not even Santa.”

  “Oh,” Bree said.

  “Shhh,” he whispered, carrying the child into the room she shared with Eliette, putting her gently back into bed, tucking the covers under her chin and kissing her forehead. “You don’t want to wake your sister, do you?”

  Bree shook her head. “What do you want Santa to bring you, Daddy?” she asked, barely breathing the words.

  Max thought of Kristina Holbrook. Try as he might, he couldn’t imagine her living in this spacious but essentially ordinary house, sharing his life, helping to raise two little girls. Nor could he picture her accompanying him to high school football games and social gatherings for the faculty members.

  “I’ve got everything I want,” he answered. “Now go back to sleep.”

  Obediently Bree closed her eyes and snuggled down into her pillow with a soft sigh. Max checked Eliette, who was sleeping soundly, and then slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  In the hallway he stood still, collecting himself. He’d told Bree he had everything he wanted—two fantastic kids called him Daddy, his health was good, his extended family really cared, and he worked at a job he loved—but he had to admit, at least to himself, that he’d stretched the truth a little. For a year after the accident he’d concentrated on just getting through the days and nights without cracking up from grief. Then, at his friends’ insistence, he’d started to date again.

  God, that had been terrible at first. He’d felt awkward and somehow guilty, as though he were cheating on Sandy. Dating had become tolerable, though, little by little, and then he’d actually begun to enjoy it. He hadn’t expected to care deeply about any woman, ever again, however. He’d thought he’d lost the capacity for the kind of passionate, romantic love he and Sandy had shared.

  Now, after one evening with Kristina, he wondered.

  He made his way down the hall to his own room. They’d moved to this house after Sandy’s funeral, when the memories at the condo had become too much for him and for Eliette, and no one had ever slept in his new bed except him. He was grateful now that there were no memories lurking there, because that night it wasn’t Sandy he was thinking about, it was Kristina.

  Max hauled his sweater off over his head and tossed it onto a chair. He’d been faithful to Sandy, from the day he met her, and even though he’d dated several women in the last year, he’d never gone to bed with any of them. Now he wanted someone else, and the fact was difficult to face and even harder to square with his personal code.

  He took off the rest of his clothes and stepped into his bathroom, reaching for the shower spigot. After just a moment’s hesitation, Max turned on the cold water, full blast, and stepped under the spray.

  The next morning, despite a restless night, rife with disturbing dreams, things looked brighter to Kristina. She was simply cooking a meal for Max, not marrying him and promising to raise his children, and she’d made too much of the whole matter. Surely there was no danger from the supernatural world, either—the vast majority of mortals lived their whole lives without encountering anything but other human beings.

  Coolly, while she got ready to go to the shop, Kristina considered the menu for that evening’s meal.

  Pasta, she decided, donning a loose dress of rose-colored silk, purchased on a buying trip to the Orient. After studying her reflection in the vanity mirror, she added a long strand of pearls and touched her lips with soft pink lipstick.

  A person had to keep things in perspective, that was all, she thought. Max was an attractive man, and there was no denying that she was drawn to him, but they really didn’t have much in common, and after a few dates they would probably lose interest in each other.

  Half an hour later Kristina entered the shop. The weather was cold, but the day was unusually bright for Seattle in November, and as she was opening the cash register, a stray beam of sunshine struck the brass doorstop.

  Kristina frowned. Valerian had warned her that such flamboyant spells were unpredictable; he’d said that the ugly monkey might turn back into a criminal at an inconvenient moment. Suppose that happened, he’d asked, and her magic failed, as magic sometimes will, just when she needed it most?

  She took a moment to ponder again the foibles of the justice system, which would probably set the man free to hurt other, more defenseless people, and promptly put the whole matter out of her mind.

  Business was brisk that morning, with Christmas just appearing on the far horizon. By noon Kristina had sold a set of sterling silver combs, a lacquered bureau made in China in the eighteenth century, and a painting of two young girls in frilly gowns, weaving flower crowns in a Victorian garden.

  She was just beginning to think about lunch when Daisy came in, wearing her customary jeans, letterman’s jacket, T-shirt, sneakers, and baseball
cap. It amused Kristina that, for all his sophistication and incredible power, Valerian loved this particular woman. Every time she thought about it, in fact, she gave thanks for his good judgment.

  “I hope that contains food,” Kristina said, indicating the large, greasy bag Daisy carried with a nod of her head.

  Daisy smiled. “Fish and chips,” she said. “With extra tartar sauce.”

  “Let me at it,” Kristina answered. She put the Closed sign in the window, locked the door, and led the way to the back room, where a gracious old table stood, surrounded by crates and boxes.

  “I resent the fact that you can eat stuff like this without worrying about the fat content,” Daisy said a few minutes later, holding up a french fry as Exhibit A. “Some of us can actually gain weight from what we eat!”

  Kristina didn’t laugh, as she might have done another time. Her thoughts had taken a serious turn again, because food had reminded her that Max and his daughters were coming to her house for dinner that night. “You and Valerian seem to be making your relationship work,” she mused, swirling a piece of deep-fried fish in the tartar sauce. “Even though he’s immortal and you’re human.” Daisy widened her eyes at Kristina in mock surprise. “Now, there’s a quick change of subject,” she said. Then she sighed in a way that revealed deep contentment and caused a flash of envy in Kristina. Her smile was dreamy and faintly wicked. “Yeah,” she went on after a moment of mysterious reflection. “It works, all right.”

  “How?” Kristina pressed. “You’re so different from each other.”

  “An understatement if I’ve ever heard one. You know the story, Kris,” Daisy replied gently. “It was fate. Valerian and I have been together before, in other lifetimes and all that mystical stuff.” She paused and grinned devilishly. “Of course, it helps that the sex is only terrific.”