“Without meaning to?” Valerian echoed, somewhat skeptically. “Come now, Kristina—you may have let your powers go to an alarming degree, but you are not stupid. You must have known, from the moment you met this man, that he was only a mortal, and thus prey to all manner of fiends, human and otherwise.”
Kristina could not refute Valerian’s claim. She had been selfish, wanting Max and the girls to be part of her life, however briefly, but she had not admitted them unwittingly. “All right!” she snapped, panicked. “I knew! I was lonely—Max is so gentle and kind and intelligent and—”
“Shhh,” Valerian said, taking her shoulders in his hands, as her father had done earlier in London. “You needn’t justify what you feel, my sweet.”
“But what about the dangers? It will be my fault if—”
“It is your task to protect those you love, Kristina. And you have the means to do so—you were born with a great deal of your mother’s magic.”
Before Kristina could argue that she was no match for ancient vampires like the Havermails, Daisy entered the room, clad in a blue and white flannel nightshirt and fuzzy slippers. Her gaze went straight to Esteban, as though drawn there by a magnet, and Kristina marveled that she had not seen how much her friend wanted a child until now.
“Who is this?” Daisy asked in the softest of voices, kneeling by the couch and smoothing the boy’s hair back from his forehead with feather-light fingers. He stirred and made a fearful, whimpering sound, but did not awaken.
Valerian was watching Daisy with a tenderness so poignant that it wrenched Kristina’s heart. She knew she could not stay another moment; to do so would be an inexcusable intrusion.
She did not feel like blinking herself back to London, however. She’d done enough traveling for one day, and wanted only to return to her own house.
She used no magic to do so, but simply let herself out and walked the short distance. Once there, she gathered all the letters she’d written to her aged governess over the years, settled herself in the big, cozy chair in the family room, and began to read.
Max entered the shop at four-twenty the following afternoon, carrying a bouquet of snow-white peonies in one hand.
“For you,” he said, laying the perfect flowers in front of Kristina. The glass counter was a barrier between them. He spoke shyly, though there was something in his brown eyes—an invitation, or perhaps a promise—that roused desires in her that she’d thought she’d forgotten how to feel.
Kristina could not resist the peonies. She gathered them up, held them to her nose for a moment, enjoying their scent. “Thank you,” she said, and went to fetch a small crystal vase to put them in.
Max followed her into the back room, watched as she filled the vase with water at the sink, then arranged the flowers. They were breathtakingly beautiful, in their simplicity and purity, and Kristina felt another surge of emotion as she admired them.
“I thought all the peonies were gone for the season,” she said. The comment was the least of what was in her heart, but all she could manage at the moment.
“My sister has a greenhouse,” Max answered, standing in the doorway with his hands braced on either side of the frame. As big as he was, he did not look intimidating, only solid and strong. “I stole them from her.”
“Great,” Kristina replied with a smile, carrying the vase in both hands as she approached, meaning to go back to the main part of the shop.
Max did not step aside, as she had expected him to do. Instead he took the flowers from her and set them on a shelf next to the door. “Kristina, there’s something I need to say,” he told her. “The problem is. I’m not sure you want to hear it.”
Kristina’s heart missed one beat, then careened into the next. She couldn’t speak, so she nodded, looking up into Max’s eyes.
“I care about you, Kristina,” he said quietly, returning her gaze unflinchingly. “I don’t know if what I feel is love, or if it will ever turn into that, but it’s there, and I can’t ignore it, even though I’ve tried.” He paused, as if gathering his courage, and then went on. “I’m a high school football coach and I like what I do, but I’m never going to make a lot of money. I have two kids, one of whom still misses her mother very much. I guess what I need to know is, do I have a chance with you?”
Here was her chance to do the noble thing, to end a potentially disastrous romance with Max Kilcarragh before it got started. Kristina took a step closer, when she knew she should retreat, and put her arms around Max’s neck.
“Oh, yes,” she answered. “You’ve got a chance. In fact, I’d say you’re a sure thing.”
He smiled and bent his head to kiss her, tentatively at first, then in earnest. And all that had slept within Kristina awakened, full of yearning.
68
To Kristina, Max’s kiss seemed like a miniature eternity, during which she was born as a new creature, to live, to die, and then to begin the magical cycle all over again. She was breathless when the intimate contact ended at last, and clutched Max’s upper arms with both hands to steady herself. Her heart was thundering, as if to escape her chest and take wing, and there was a vibrant quickening in all her nerve endings and pulse points, accompanied by a warm, tightening sensation deep between her pelvic bones.
She had never felt so much before, even in her wildest, most abandoned moments with Michael, and did not know what to make of this new capacity, this new depth of response. If a simple kiss could stir her so profoundly, what would happen when—if—she and Max made love? The thought was both worrisome and alluring, for while Kristina yearned for the sort of soul fusion she knew Daisy and Valerian shared, she was also afraid of baring not just her body, but her very being, to another person.
Max sighed, his brown eyes dancing with mischief and undisguised pleasure. “Wow,” he said, and wrapped his arms loosely around her waist, keeping her close but not crushing her.
Kristina let her forehead rest against his rock-hard shoulder. He was wearing a corduroy sports jacket, and the fabric smelled pleasantly of cologne, misty rain, and man. She was moved, almost overwhelmed, by the realization that Max had found the kiss special, too.
He rested the fingertips of one large but incredibly gentle hand at her nape, sending a tremor through her entire system. “Kristina,” he murmured. That was all, just her name, and yet she was stricken with joy, as though some part of herself, long missing, had been restored.
She struggled not to weep from happiness and wonder, and with effort looked up at Max, her eyes shimmering. “Oh, Max,” she said softly, “it is dangerous to care for me—I’m not what you think—”
Max cupped her chin firmly in one hand, ran a calloused thumb over her mouth in a way that sent sharp quivers of sensation into every part of her body. He spoke tenderly, but his eyes were dark with passion—Kristina knew that, like her, he wanted very much to make love, then and there.
“What are you, Kristina Holbrook, if not a beautiful, intelligent, fascinating woman?”
She did not want to tell him, could not bear the prospect of his horror, his rejection, but she had already let things go too far. “You’ll think I’m mad when I tell you,” she said fearfully. She had known Max for such a short time, but already he had a place in her life, and when he left, she would be devastated.
The shop bell tinkled before Max could reply; he looked exasperated and amused at the same time.
“I’ll—I’ll take care of this customer and then close up,” Kristina promised. “We have to talk.”
Max didn’t reply verbally, but the sparkle in his eyes indicated that he had more than conversation in mind. Clearly he did not expect Kristina’s impending confession to be anything too dire.
Still feeling aftershocks from the kiss and at the same time dreading the task that lay ahead, Kristina left Max in the back room and proceeded into the main part of the shop.
She stopped in her tracks when she found the warlock, Dathan, standing next to the counter. He looked quite ordinary,
despite his suave good looks, like a lawyer or an accountant or perhaps a professor. He wore a beautifully tailored camel-hair coat over a dark suit, and carried an umbrella and a briefcase. His guileless eyes twinkled as he met Kristina’s startled gaze; he knew he had taken her unaware, and he was enjoying that small triumph.
Kristina stifled an impulse to turn him into a piece of bric-a-brac—he would surely resist, and his magic, unlike her own, was state-of-the-art.
“May I help you?” she asked, for Max’s benefit rather than Dathan’s or her own. With her thoughts, she warned the warlock not to make a scene, unless he wanted yet another eternal enemy. “We were just about to close, but if you have something particular in mind—”
Dathan’s gaze slipped past Kristina, went unerringly to the door of the back room. He smiled impishly and had probably known Max was with her even before his badly timed arrival.
“My card,” he said, extending one expensively gloved hand. “I was hoping to find a silver snuffbox, like one I’d seen in London. It was inlaid with ground malachite and the interior of conch shells, in the fashion of Italian marble.”
Kristina accepted the bit of heavy card stock, frowning. Reading it, she realized that, of course, Dathan had conjured it for the occasion. I must speak to you in private, it read. I will visit you this evening.
Kristina shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said in the most ordinary tone she could manage. “I don’t have anything like that in stock.” She had several similar items, but that was beside the point. “I’ll get in touch with you if I ever have reason.”
She hoped the message was clear. Don’t call me. I’ll call you.
Dathan merely smiled and inclined his head slightly, indicating the card Kristina still held. The print had been changed. This is serious, Kristina. I will arrive at midnight.
Kristina let out a long breath in frustration. If Dathan wanted to pop in on her at the witching hour, there wasn’t a great deal she could do to prevent him. Here was yet another obstacle between herself and any reasonable life she might have shared with Max or any other mortal man—gregarious warlocks who couldn’t take a hint.
“You arrived just at closing time,” she said sweetly, ushering Dathan toward the door.
His eyes twinkled merrily. “What a pity,” he replied, and went out.
Kristina promptly locked the door behind him—a useless gesture if ever there was one—and glanced once again at the card. Be there, it said.
She crumpled the bit of paper and tossed it into the trash, where it dissolved with a chiming sound, like the thinnest crystal.
Show-off, Kristina thought, and made another vow to practice her magic.
Max was sipping herbal tea from a mug as he came out of the storeroom. Just looking at him reawakened all the physical hungers Kristina had felt before when they kissed. Obviously their relationship—if indeed it was a relationship—had undergone some subtle but very important change.
The knowledge filled her with a strange mingling of joy and guilt. There was no question that she loved Max Kilcarragh, but it was a selfish love, promising fulfillment and even rapture for Kristina, and terrible danger for Max and his daughters.
She had no choice but to give him up, she knew, and she was swamped with sorrow at the thought. Once he knew the truth, he would no longer want her—in fact, he might well recoil in disgust and horror.
Kristina gazed up at Max with tears of grief welling in her eyes. She could not help thinking of her uncle Aidan, her mother’s twin, who had been made a vampire against his will, and so hated what he was that he had undergone a truly torturous process in the hope of becoming human again. He had succeeded, though barely, and made a life for himself with the mortal woman he loved, but he was forever separated from Maeve, from Valerian, from Kristina herself. All memory of his existence as a vampire had been eradicated from his mind for all time.
She thought she understood now, longing for complete union with Max, why Aidan Tremayne had been willing, even eager, to make such a sacrifice.
She took his hand, led him to a comer of the shop and the lovely Victorian settee that was part of a nineteenth-century parlor display. It was a private place; they could not be seen from the shop windows.
When Kristina would have withdrawn her hand from Max’s, out of a nervous need to smooth her lightweight woolen skirt, he did not let her go. His patient expression nearly broke her heart.
She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, and began. “You remember the first time we went out—I started to tell you how I was different—”
Max merely nodded. The shop telephone rang, but neither of them paid any attention; they were, for that brief interval at least, in a world of their own.
Kristina forced herself to go on, dreading the inevitable reaction with her whole soul. Michael, she recalled, had laughed at her when she finally confessed her secret, and accused her of taking too much laudanum.
“I have never been as attracted to another man as I am to you,” she said.
“That’s good news,” Max interjected quietly.
Kristina shook her head. “No. No, it isn’t,” she replied. “I’m not human. Max—not exactly.”
Now he looked worried. It would be a short leap from there to outright abhorrence—or mockery—or, worst of all, pity. His grasp on her hand tightened ever so slightly, and he waited in silence for her to go on.
“It’s all too incredible for any sensible person to believe—I know that—but it’s very important that I tell you because—because being closely associated with me could be deadly.” She paused and closed her eyes for a moment while she gathered her courage. When she looked at Max she saw only compassion in his rugged face, and incredible tenderness. “My father was mortal when I was conceived, but now, like my mother, he’s—he’s—” Max squeezed her hand again, lending encouragement. “He’s a vampire.” Max stared at her; his expression revealed amazement, but no other emotion. No revulsion, no judgment—yet. “A vampire?”
“I know how it sounds,” she said miserably, feeling as though she would shatter, fall apart into a thousand irretrievable pieces. “Ridiculous, impossible, even ludicrous. But nevertheless, Max, it’s true. I’m a sort of half-breed—I have powers, but I’m not a—I’m not like my parents—”
He let out a long sigh and shoved a hand through his hair. “You’re right, Kristina. It’s hard to comprehend. I mean, vampires?”
“Yes.” She waited a beat, struggling to hold on to her composure. “I know that most people don’t even believe in such creatures, and in most cases the vampires prefer that. But they are real, Max—as real, maybe more so, than you or I.”
Max didn’t bolt and run, or jump to his feet and form a protective cross with his index fingers, but he was plainly confounded all the same. He had surely decided that Kristina was deluded, and therefore to be avoided from then on. He was right on one count, anyway.
“My God,” he said.
“You don’t believe me,” Kristina replied with resignation. “You must think I’m insane. Sometimes, Max, I truly wish I were.”
Slowly, Max Kilcarragh shook his head. “No,” he insisted calmly, still making no effort to flee or even to release Kristina’s hand. “No, you’re no more insane than I am. Still—”
She was going to have to prove that she was telling the truth; it was, after all, the least she could do under the circumstances. Focusing her attention on a small Dresden figurine, standing on an intricately crocheted doily in the center of the coffee table before them, she raised it several inches off the green marble surface, let it hover in midair for a few moments, then carefully lowered it.
Max frowned and raised his eyes toward the ceiling, clearly looking for a string of fishing line or some other form of trickery. Kristina knew, without invading the privacy of his mind, that he was thinking of Valerian’s magic act at the party on Halloween night, no doubt concluding that hers was a family of necromancers.
“Impressive,” he sa
id.
“But obviously not enough to convince you,” Kristina said with another sigh.
He laced his fingers through hers. “I’m a skeptic,” he conceded mildly.
“Brace yourself,” she murmured. Then, by mental means alone, she raised Max himself some six inches off the settee.
To say he was surprised would be a supreme understatement, but, to his credit, Max did not flail or cry out as another man might have done. He had to know Kristina would never hurt him—not intentionally, at least.
Gently she lowered him back to the cushioned seat of the small sofa.
He was pale and understandably somewhat ruffled. “I know this is a mundane question, but I have to ask it. How in hell did you do that?”
“By what you would call magic,” Kristina answered with great reluctance.
“And what would you call it?”
Kristina shrugged slightly. “Actually, such things are natural functions of the human brain. It’s just that most mortals haven’t evolved the ability to utilize all their faculties.”
Max’s dark brows came together in a thoughtful frown. “Are you saying that we all have the potential to do things like that?”
She nodded. “Some mortals naturally use more of their mental capacities than others, of course—and can do things that would appear magical to the average person. The Russians, in fact, were making significant strides in opening new frontiers of the mind until their political structure finally collapsed under its own weight.”
Max narrowed his eyes. “This is truly fantastic.”
“You do believe me, then?” A brief, shining hope lighted Kristina’s spirit before logic snuffed it out. “By your association with me, Max,” she forced herself to say, “you and your children would be in peril from other supernatural beings. I would of course do everything I possibly could to protect you, but—”
He laid an index finger to her mouth to quiet her. “It isn’t your job to protect me, Kristina, or my daughters. I have no idea what I’m dealing with here, but I do know from personal experience that life can be very fragile, and that all human beings are in constant jeopardy. But evil isn’t the only force in the world—there is good as well.” Kristina didn’t know what to say, so she just sat back against the settee and looked at Max, waiting for him to go on.
The Black Rose Chronicles Page 103